Orion's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Orion twisted the frequency dial one last time and listened to the static fade. The radio center had power, but he needed more than just one broadcast point. He grabbed his pack and headed back into the Wasteland, scanning the horizon for anything useful. His Pipboy beeped twice, showing an old structure two kilometers north. When he reached it, he found a maintenance shed with solar panels still attached to the roof. He dragged them free and carried them back to his station, one at a time, sweat dripping down his face. By sunset, he had them wired to the radio system. The equipment hummed louder now, stronger. He spoke into the microphone again, his message pushing farther across the dead lands. Someone would hear it. Someone would answer. The next morning, Orion pulled a metal case from under his bunk. Inside sat his old training manual, its pages bent and stained. He flipped through the Ranger protocols he'd learned years ago aboard the Megaforce Pirate Ship. That colossal vessel with its bright sails had been their home before the scatter. He traced his finger down the squad roster, counting names. Twelve Rangers had trained together on those wooden decks. Now they were ghosts in the sand. He pulled out a blank map and marked the ship's last known position before it went dark. If he could track backward from there, he might find their trails. The manual showed hand signals, radio codes, and rally points they'd all memorized. These were the tools that would bring them back. He closed the case and stood up. Training had prepared him for this. Now he just had to use it. Orion climbed onto the roof of the radio center and scanned the flat desert. Radio waves only worked if someone was close enough to hear them. He needed something bigger, something visible from kilometers away. His eyes caught a metal rack bolted to the wall below, its polished surface catching the sun. He climbed down and examined it. The rack held six emergency flares, each one thick as his wrist. He carried the rack to the highest point near his station and mounted it on a broken tower frame. When night came, he loaded the first flare and fired it straight up. The red light screamed across the dark sky, bright enough to paint the sand below. Any Ranger watching would know that signal. Any Ranger trained on that ship would remember what it meant. He loaded another flare and waited. This was how he would reach them. This was how they would find their way home. Days passed with no response, but Orion kept working. He cleared space behind the radio center and found a stack of rusted medical supply boxes half-buried in sand. A thin layer of frost covered their metal surfaces in the early morning cold. He pried them open one by one. Inside, bandages and medicine packets sat sealed in plastic, still good. If his Rangers came back hurt, they would need this. He organized the supplies by type and resealed the boxes. The cache sat ready now, waiting like everything else. Each night he fired another flare. Each morning he broadcast his message. The station was complete. The signals were live. All he could do now was wait and keep calling. Someone out there would see his light. Someone out there would hear his voice. And when they did, he would be ready to bring them home.