"Hudson—where are you?" I screamed into the white glare.
Sand answered by rubbing against my teeth. My gloves snagged a shard of composite and I cursed it aloud.
"Come on, suit. Do something." My voice sounded small and thin under the sun. A chime tried to reply: SYSTEM: COOLANT CRITICAL. The display flicked, then went blank.
I dug with my bare hands until the raw skin on my palms burned. The smart-suit's traversal module was dead, its storage sealed off like a locked drawer. My fingers found fabric, then a stone cache lid. I ripped it free, half expecting a flask. Nothing but a dented can and a dried smear of old energy gel.
"No cache. Of course." I spat out the sand and checked the horizon. Heat shimmered every direction. The Riverside outpost should be a dark dot, a contrail of dust and metal. It was not there.
I talked to the desert because talking kept panic from clicking into place.
"If I don't find water by dusk, I won't make it," I said plainly. One line, no rehearsal, just fact.
I rummaged through the suit pieces I could salvage. The traversal module smelled of ozone and burnt circuits. I pulled a tiny vial from my pocket—antibiotic mix for wounds, labeled for Rafael—but the vial had one more use. I cracked the seal with my teeth and poured three drops onto a scrap of cloth. The smell was bitter and clinical.
"Test
