Ripples

Tents are set up around the edge of the Lens, a shanty town housing a handful of scientists, soldiers, and people whose purposes are opaque. There are machines running tests, and debriefings every evening with Jones, the suit who brought him here. His job, he is told, is to think, and that’s all he has time to do.

The huge golden ring frightens him.

He watches it at sunrise and sunset, the light flaring across its surface. They’re told to stay away, but one night, alone, he reaches out a hand. Ripples spread from his fingertips, and then are gone.

Clemens

The terrain and the Jeep’s lack of seatbelts make reading the dossier tough, so Clemens just listens to the suit.

“You’ve heard the official story,” she shouts over the engine and wind.

“The eruption?”

“Yeah.  Only there was no eruption.  The explosion, as far as we can tell, came from something buried under the peak.”

“But there was that town.  The lava wiped it out.”

“Well.  Something did, anyway.”

They bounce over the crest, and the sun blinds him for a second.  Then: a field of glass, smooth, amber, a mile across.

“We’re calling it the Lens,” yowls the suit.