On Christmas Eve, as the ever-present ice storm battered the windows, the men congregated in the bunker’s dining hall.

It was surprisingly cozy, the ancient heater cranked up full blast, Handel’s Messiah blaring, LEDs hung in festive strings. Thompson refilled his cup from the helmet-turned-punch-bowl. Powdered eggs, dairy substitute, the spice pack from the Brek-Fast Buns™, Wong’s moonshine—it was blasted close to eggnog.

Every mountain and hill made low, and the rough places plain!

“If only,” he snorted, settling into a chair. Abscido V was a nightmare of twisted ridges and chasms that had destroyed four good men already.

The earth, the sea and the dry land…

His mind drifted, warmed by drink, lost in regrets.

Arise, shine, for thy light is come!

“Corporal!”

Thompson jolted back to the present. “What?” He followed the man’s pointing finger. Outside the frozen windows, a dozen pale alien faces stared back at him.

“Lay aside your weapons,” he ordered. “Time to bring tidings of goodwill.”