Gideon stood in the center of the Comm Building's main room. For once, he was away from the bustle of his people, away from The Heads of Colony. Most were outside, finishing the last of their duties. He looked up at the ceiling. A few nicks and marks on the building's exterior told the story of yesterday's storm, but thankfully, they had no large holes to patch.
More importantly, none of his men were injured.
Cherishing a rare, quiet moment, Gideon slicked back his gray hair, clearing the sweat of a busy day from his brow. His bones ached from a long day of standing and thinking. Too many decisions weighed on his mind. Sitting at a chair by the round table, he thought them over.
As his father had taught him, an overlooked detail was better caught early.
He kept an absent eye on the strange, round piece of the satellite dish as he rolled the plans of the day over in his head. Most of the damaged crops had been ferreted out and sorted. The Crop Tenders had brought them to the secured storehouse at the front of the colony, where The Watchers could keep an eye on them. Tomorrow, the Crop Tenders would distribute them to the hungry colonists.
All that was left was to speak his words at the ceremony.
Gideon thought about the speech he'd recited too many times. Those consoling euphemisms, written by his forefathers and spoken at every ceremony, would help the colonists grieve. Gideon didn't believe half of those words—he was too jaded to believe something existed, other than a sky full of stars and a ground that was too easy to be buried in—but the words were necessary.
Having a predictable pattern made some of the simple-minded colonists forget the fact that they were stuck on a world in which things never got better.
Routine deflected chaos.
Once the colonists awoke in the morning and ate their breakfasts, he would lead his people to the graveyard, along with the other Heads of Colony, alleviating the grief from the storm.
Afterward, they would move on.
He hoped.