Petrus: The Giant's Shadow: Petrus, #1

By J.J.Terberger

Kids dream of going to far off worlds in search for adventure. One gets his chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.J.Terberger
• Release date: Jan 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224404674

J.J.Terberger

Sci-Fantasy MAESTRO and History DEVOURER. Goobercoded. I am autism. Christ FANATIC. https://jjterbergerspace.neocities.org/

Book preview

Chapter I

Traveling around a warm yellow star was a gas giant striped in cold shades of blue. This giant was the proud mother of over a dozen moons, one of them being the bearer of life. This dark red moon was covered in fields, hills and mountains of frost, its mother’s shadow plunging the moon in a season of winter. The season was made even colder at night by the almost pitch black sky of night, having none of the moon’s sisters to reflect the sun’s light on the surface and give the selene inhabitants a warm reprieve. However, the long nights do not last forever, as the moon would eventually rotate away from the star-filled sky and towards its mother giant. The gas giant filtered the sun’s light through its swirling clouds, cascading a deep emerald blue across the dark regolith surface, blanketing a respectable colony of humans in the deep blue light. The giant then cast its light upon a metallic sphere, sunken into the moon's soil. The giant then took a peek through the sphere’s front window, cold blue light seeping through the glass and onto a small pile of pillows and blankets. The mound began to shift and tumble away as a small boy, covered head to toe in hair, emerged.

The young boy gave a big yawn, stretching his body out in many ways uncommon to a normal boy. After rubbing eyes and cleaning them of sleep crumbs, the child removed his pair of long johns and dropped them to the floor covered in years of hand-me-down clothes, most of the clothes being too big or too small for the boy to wear. The boy then began rummaging through several baskets hanging on the sphere's walls. Out of the baskets he pulls a green wool cotton long sleeve shirt, denim suspender jeans, a pair of wool socks, leather gloves with fingerprint grips and patch leather scrap metal hobnail boots. All his clothes were the cast offs of the children from the colony nearby, who’ve over the years grown too big for them and just dumped them on Peter. The boy’s shoes, although technically perfect for his size, did not actually fit him properly. He was forced to stuff old socks to fill out the back of his boots, his short stubby feet only able to fit in the boot’s toe cavities. From another basket the boy grabbed a faded orange, hole ridden shawl and from the very last basket he grabbed an oxidizing copper brooch shaped like a creature that is ovular with pinched ends, two large round eyes and two small wings protruding from what looks like its tail, something the boy has never seen or heard of before.

The boy fitted the clothes over his small body, buckling the boots with two straps and buttoning his shirts and jeans with scrap metal buttons. He paused to look at the shawl and pin. The small boy rubbed his hairy face against the scarf and rubbed his fingers over the last shiny specks of the copper pin, the only two things he has left to remember of his mother and father. He wrapped his mother’s orange shawl around his neck and fastened it with his father’s brooch, making sure the star monster, that’s what the boy thinks the pin represents, is presented over his clothes. The boy then braced himself as he opened the sphere’s large circular door, called a hatch that requires several locks to be pulled like levers, releasing the seals that kept the hatch shut. It opened to the frigid outdoors, the wind blowing into the sphere and into the boy's face. The boy pulled the shawl over his mouth and nose, both protruding much farther than any normal boy’s face should. For most the cold would be unbearable, forcing anyone to reconsider an adventure through the frozen wasteland. However, thanks to the hair all over his body, the boy only needed the clothes on his back to stay warm. But on this day the wind blew right through his thick hair and with its teeth bit into his skin. The boy shielded his face against the howling winds sweeping frost across the plains and with the colony in his sight, sealed the sphere behind him and began to run. Across the pink frost swept plain the boy ran, the thought of the wind's strength breaking against the domes kept him on course, daring not to turn back lest he was trapped alone in the dark dome. A walk from his sphere to the most outlying dome would have taken the average man half an hour to walk and barely took the boy under five minutes of running on all fours. Yes, on his hands and feet.

The boy sighed with relief as he reached the closest dome to him, resting against the wall of the dome as he panted to catch his breath. He then heard thumping coming from inside the dome. Hey! Whoever’s out there you better stop that noise or I’ll- I’ll, oh I don’t want to go out there. Just stop making that noise! A voice from inside called out, followed by more thumping. The boy, not wanting to bring the ire of whoever lives inside the dome, caught his breath as he walked into the colony. Most of the colonists were still cocooned in their mud brick domes, wrapped in thick layers of blankets and huddled around their hydrogen furnaces, water vapor smoke billowing from insulated pipes. The only ones who are awake at this time are the baker, the butcher, the engineer and hopefully the plumber. The boy has to wake up early to help them with their tasks or as the Marshal told him he won’t get any food for the day. Ah, Peter! it’s nice to see another living soul on this frostbitten morning. The baker calls to Peter, as the boy enters the bakery and shuts the door behind him.

The bakery was a lot like the other domes, smooth red plaster walls with small insulated glass windows letting in natural light. Unlike many other domes which had a central furnace providing precious heat to the otherwise freezing domes, the bakers oven was more than enough to heat the dome, so much so that the excess heat is vented outside through a pipe in the ceiling. Another facet that separated the bakery from other domes is the simple white clay and black soot paintings of day to day life in the colony, with a remarkably detailed depiction of mixing, kneading and folding dough and then placing the dough balls into the oven to come out as fresh steaming bread. The baker’s bed was right next to the oven, so at night when the oven wasn’t billowing clouds of white smoke the baker could leave a little hydrogen burning, just enough to keep him warm. Right now the baker was hard at work making saucer shaped loaves of bread, pulling them out of the hot regolith brick oven and plopping them on a brick countertop among a large pile of loaves, all for the soon to be awake hungry mouths. Should I start bringing these rolls to the houses? Peter asked as the baker began kneading another batch of dough, rolling the dough out and cutting it into disk shaped pieces for lunch. Yes, but make sure to keep them wrapped in the cloth or they’ll become cold, and be extra careful when you grab the meat from the butcher that no meat touches the bread, or it could get many people sick. Peter nodded his head and began wrapping the loaves in rolls of wool cloth, loaded them in a wire cart sitting inside the baker’s dome, pushed the cart full of bread out the door and into the chilly morning.

He carted the bread over to the butcher’s shop, skirting the large pig enclosure and avoiding the pipe venting horrid smells out of the enclosure. Although he plugged his nose and held his breath whenever he came near them, Peter envied the pigs. All they had to do all day was eat and sleep in a heated enclosure while he had to trudge through thick ice crystals and be whipped by freezing wind. His envy faded when he entered the butchery and he saw the mountain of sausage links. The butchery was filled with butchered pigs in different stages of preparation, either laying flat and untouched on a table or hanging on a hook with barely any skin or bones. A hatch inside the butchery led to the pig enclosure, with the butcher’s mat resting on top of a fizzler trunk, a common feature seen by those traveling or had once traveled on space ships. Like the rest, this dome had a hydrogen furnace, providing more than enough artificial light and ample amounts of heat for the butcher and the occasional visitors.

Like the bakery, the butcher's plastered walls were covered in paintings, however these paintings depicted scenes of black soot pigs dancing and frolicking through fields of cobalt blue grass. Peter, what took you so long? I worried that the wind had finally scooped you into the sky. Peter pushed the cart full of bread into the warm butchery, saving them from the morning’s cold grasp. Ol’ gassy came up much later today, so I didn’t wake up on time. How are you able to wake up so early without the giant rising in the morning? Peter asked as he began packing the sausage links on top of the bread with more rolls of cloth. Not sure, I guess after helping my father with the butchery for all my life it’s natural to wake up at the same time everyday. The real question is how I fall asleep, because boy do those hog’s snore! Peter snickered at the thought of the giant pigs and their piglets snoring, keeping half the colony awake all night long.

It’s a good sign that the giant is rising slower and slower each day, the sun should be coming out any day now and when that comes, it’ll be spring time. Memories of the warm starshine and days of sleeping in the tall grass gave Peter a warm and fuzzy feeling, but made him sad the more he thought about how spring has not come yet. Out of the pig enclosure emerged the butcher’s young sister, carrying several pales of fresh milk. Mawmaw pig might be nursing ten new piglets, but she’s got enough left over to give the colony to drink other than hydroge. Peter’s mouth watered at the thought of drinking something that didn’t taste like it was burnt crumbs, a byproduct of water dripping from the boiling furnaces. The milk maid carefully, with the help of Peter, poured the pales full of milk into dozens of separate quarts. I’ll make sure to set aside a glass for you Peter. The young milk maid whispered to the blushing young boy. Make sure to give the Marshal his share first, or we won’t hear the end of it. The Butcher said as she piped grounded meat into links. Peter bid both her and the milk maid farewell, rolled the loaded cart and another cart filled with quarts of milk out of the butchery and into the growing emerald light of the morning.

The gas giant was growing larger and larger as the morning progressed, the light cast from it turning from an emerald blue to a deep baby blue. The cold black night sky was soon replaced with light pink, mirroring the moon's crimson surface. Peter booked it towards the Marshal’s home, a tall structure called a Broch shaped like an upside down flower pot, not wanting to keep the possibly starving Marshal waiting. He passed by a man wearing a long fur coat, a metallic helmet and the Marshal’s seal on his lapel, who had just left the Broch in a very disgruntled manner. Peter gingerly knocked on the Broch’s ornately carved metal door. The door was covered in depictions of men, pigs, sheep as well as small winged creatures and hoofed beasts with long horns that looked like branches, creatures Peter had never seen before, with the gas giant and its moons in the background casting light down on all the assortment of creatures.

The door cracked open and behind it Peter could see a woman with curlers in her hair, paste on her face and wearing a long wool robe. The woman squinted at Peter, glaring at the hairy child. She then stuck her hand and gestured for Peter to hand her breakfast. Peter handed her three loaves of bread, twelve sausage links and helped her move two quarts of milk inside the Broch. Peter caught a glimpse of the inside of the Broch; the walls were covered in the Sacii’s gifts of colorful tapestries depicting Pretzies, the native brown and tan hopping moths of this world, leaping and flying among the now ice-covered lunar grasslands. Pig bone furniture crafted to look like the moon’s giant mushrooms filled the otherwise cavernous interior. A servant was busy igniting the massive hydrogen furnace while several others were setting plates, bowls, spoons and knives made of an extremely shiny metal called aluminum on top of one of the pig bone tables for their masters’ breakfast. The mistress shooed Peter away from the Broch, slamming the door behind him.

Peter ignored the Marshal’s wife and began bringing all the saucer loaves and sausage links to the colonists, knocking on each dome’s round metal hatch. He handed the groggy colonists their loaves of freshly baked bread, perfectly piped sausage links and a quart of milk as they peaked their heads out, grumbling at the sight of the hairy child. As a thank you, each colonist slammed the door in Peter’s face. After delivering the colonists their loaves, sausages and milk, Peter grabbed the last loaf of bread and a couple sausage links from the bottom of the basket, his food having been crushed under the weight of both their sausage and loaven brethren. He then walked back to the butcher’s hut for the glass of milk the maid promised him. Here ya go Peter, thanks again for delivering all this stuff for us, even if no one appreciates it. The milk maid said as she handed Peter a leather water skin filled with milk, sneaking a kiss on the boy’s cheek as he grabbed it from her. Peter rubbed the kiss from his cheek as he walked over to the engineer's dome on the outskirts of the colony.

Peter could hear the chugging of the hydrogen pump inside, white smoke drifting out of a pipe sticking out of the roof. Peter knew not to knock on the door, the working machinery inside would just drown out his knocks. So Peter popped the hatch inward and shielded his eyes from a burst of steam and his ears from the loud hissing of the hydrogen pump. The hydrogen pump, rust covering its shell and seeping from the bolts, took up most of the space in the dome. The rest of the floor space was taken by scrap metal, collected from an assortment of places ranging from old cans of long decayed food and wheels from extinct moon buggies. Hydrogen pipes snaked through the scrap metal on the floor and along the walls, plaster flaking from the moisture filled dome, cutting through the concrete walls and out to the rest of the colony.

Around the hydrogen pump and the piles of scrap metal, Peter could see that the engineer was busy hammering away on a broken sheet of metal, molding it into the shape of a furnace pipe. Peter could also see that the engineer had not eaten his food yet, leaving it on his cot laying on top of a pile of leather and cloth scraps covering another one of those fizzler trunks. Peter carefully tip-toed over the menagerie of scraps of metal and leather, not wanting a rusted nail to jab right through his boot and ruin his day. He eventually reached the engineer and tapped on the rugged man’s shoulder. The engineer’s head shot up, his hammer clanging against the floor, and swung around to see who tapped his shoulder. The engineer breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that it was only Peter behind him. Ah, it’s only you Peter! Thanks for bringing me the food this morning, even if I haven’t gotten ‘round to eating it. Don’t worry about giving me a scare boy, I was just stuck in deep thought replaying one of those stories I read in a comic book some years ago. You can take a look at some of them in my fizzler trunk over there if you want. I got a couple new issues from one of those hopper merchants last night. Guy popped in to drop off some of the stuff the Marshal’s wife ordered from that catalog of hers. Almost broke my back carrying all those clothes... the Marshal didn’t want to risk upsetting us folks in the colony, so he bought the whole colony new clothes as well. The Engineer shouted over the hydrogen pump as he pointed at crates full