The storm hit with the fury of a vengeful god.

The wind shrieked around the low buildings, rattling the windows and tearing rubbish from a bin that someone hadn't properly secured. The freed trash swirled around, delighted that it had been sprung from its prison. The sky was blank white and the blizzard blotted out the horizon, so all you could see was pale pink soil, concrete walls, beetle cages, and the dancing snow.

The settlers had hunkered down into their storm shelter, a concrete bunker dug deep under the farm. There they sat, shivering, waiting for the weather's rage to abate.

'This is the worst storm I've ever seen,' said Harrak, He was chewing a strip of helek bark, and the delicate, citrusy scent hung on his breath. He scratched his stubbled cheek. 'Absolutely the worst.'

Myo nodded and tapped her terminal. 'All our sensors think that, too. The ones that are still working, anyway. There's no way the supply ship can land in this.'

Harrak yawned and stretched. 'It's just typical. What are the supplies like?'

'We have lots of water; we can tap the aquifer so that's basically unlimited. The generator is even deeper than we are and has fuel for a thousand sols. It's food that's the problem. We have maybe thirty sol's worth? More if we ration. How long will this storm last for?'

Harrak shrugged, his weariness showing through his slow movements.

'I don't know. This is completely unprecedented. It could be an hour or it could be years. I can't access the satellites, I have no idea what it looks like from above. But I'll use what I have and get you a better estimate.'

'OK. But get some sleep first, Osy. Who knows, maybe it will all be over when we wake up?'

She knew that was an empty hope, but it felt good saying it.

#

It wasn't over when she woke up. If anything, it was worse.

One of the cages had been torn open; and the tooth beetles, glittering red like winged rubies, had tumbled into the raging twilight, scattered on the roaring winds. The other cages were reporting that they were mostly OK, but although their wide, low sloping shapes were designed for the abuse that this hostile planet could unleash, they were at the edge of their tolerances and it was only a matter of time before they were ruptured.

Myo tapped her tablet absent mindedly, watching the numbers go up and down on the wind sensors.

All four of them were in the main meeting room. Osman Harrak, who had not slept; instead he'd worked through their night cycle to produce the best weather forecast he could. He was hollow eyed and sipping a stim tea. Henri Bochart, who frowned as he scrolled up and down Harrak's report, eyes darting from number to number. Ana Donici, who was eating something smoked and spicy; she had skimmed the data and put her pad down. And Myo Kkot who had read it already and knew how this ended.

Bochart looked up, finally admitting defeat.

'We have to leave, yes?', he said.

Myo nodded. 'The snow is much heavier than we've seen before. It will soon start settling, and drifting, and then we'll be buried. We won't be able to leave the shelter. We'll starve to death in here before we're rescued.'

'If we go, we lose the harvest,' said Donici. 'There are still thirty one cages of beetles.'

'I spoke to the town. They just want us to get out of here alive.'

'The storm is nowhere near as bad on the lowland,' said Harrak. 'It's just up here, on the plateau, that it's a killer. If we can get off, the supply ship can meet us and take us the rest of the way.'

'You look like shit, Osy baby,' said Donici. 'You didn't come to bed at all, did you?'

Harrak just smiled, wanly, and silently toasted her with his tea.

'It's night now. If we prep for half a cycle we can be moving through morning, and we can push as far as we can through daylight,' continued Myo.

'C'est simple comme bonjour,' said Bochart, shrugging.

Donici scowled. 'English, Henri, and don't be sarcastic.'

'This isn't the time to fight, guys. Ana, let's check the runners. Henri, Osy, you need to pack supplies. Let's be ready to go in four hours,' said Myo.

'For her, it's always time to fight,' muttered Bochart, but he did what he was told.