They said winter never came to New Alazth. At least not while the climate control was running.

They also said that no one ever came back. Once you left it, it was said, there was no force, human or otherwise, that could force you back. It was the natural order of things. No one wanted to be on New Alazth. If you got off, you would never come back.

They say a lot of things. Sometimes they are wrong.

Trees. Rows of the bastards. Row upon row upon endless row. Mist swirled around them, a cold mist, wet and liquid ice, as if some god had touched the orchard. There was frost on the ground, a bittersweet coating of white that was both blessing and curse. The air was biting, a chill two centigrade, that made the mist all the worse.

Visibility was down, the clouds were up, and there was nobody to be seen. For miles. The orchard was that big. Immense. Pointlessly large, perhaps, as nothing grows in the snow.

But then, snow never comes to Alazth. That's what they say. Big wigs in their diamond-weave starcraft used the saying as if they lived on the surface.

But they hadn't.

The snow around two trees in particular had a reddish tinge, crimson melting away into white. Blood. It steamed lightly in the air, as fresh blood is wont to do. Scraps of human cloth were littered around the base of the trees, in addition to cylindrical golden shapes: bullet casings. There were a single pair of footprints leading to and from the two trees.

The footprints had an owner, of course. All footprints do. The footprint humanity leaves on everything is as close as one can come to truly anonymous; humanity owns nothing, but keeps everything. There are indeed races of another species in the frigid depths of space, intelligent species, but they have yet to interfere with the rape of the universe.

These footprints, though, belonged to a human. They were about size 10, male, with the standard tread pattern of military boots. The left heel was scuffed in some places, which obscured the edges, making it seem as if his left foot had passed through hours before his right. Perhaps it had. No one else could tell you except the owner himself, as the only other two who might have had a comment were dead.

The footprints led backwards, a trail through time, even if it was mildly obscured. Here, was where the owner had stood, and here was the place of the first intruder, and over there was the third.

And here was the owner.

He was about six feet, not quite there but he looked it. He had a pair of military boots on, yes. They were not his, or, if they were, they had no matching uniform to go along with it. The man wore a pair of jeans. Standard issue. Generic. Easily obtainable on a billion market places from a million stores on a thousand worlds.

He wore a black t-shirt, under a grey jacket. The jacket was…a jacket. Nothing else could describe its outward appearance. It was not as thick as a ski coat, not as thin as a shirt, and looked absolutely unremarkable.

The man was carrying a rifle, as well. This was not standard issue. 7.62 millimeter Dragunov semi-automatic sniper rifle qualified for use in low-light or dark conditions It was a weapon for killing people. Efficiently. Without gloating or hesitation or philosophical questions about the meaning of life.

Kerrick watched the wind blow and the clouds broil and the snow fall.

Winter never came to Alzath. And no one ever came back.