Escape 1: Escape From Aliens

by T. Jackson King

  “Bet you’re wondering why I don’t use your handy dandy refuse pit. Well, you’ll find out. Eventually.”

  With his free hand he gestured a middle finger Fuck You at the invisible vidcam spyeye in the ceiling. Let the cockroach bastard search the internet for the meaning of that gesture!

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  An hour later Bill finished stuffing everything useful into his waterproof backpack, zipped it shut, hung the hiking boots from his neck by their tied together laces, and began ripping apart the green tent fabric. When a seam resisted, he used his teeth to open a rip, which then grew into full-length tear. Bit by bit he reduced the dome tent to a mound of green fabric squares and a cluster of flexible plastic rods that had stiffened the fabric into its dome shape. He tied the six plastic rods to his backpack using an extra boot lace, then swung the pack onto his back. He grabbed the pile of torn fabric and walked over to the refuse basin. He squatted down, giving thanks his shirt and jeans were tougher than the tent fabric. While he could have torn them into fragments, he preferred their protection for tender spots of his bod. And he had no idea whether the space outside the containment module was heated. Bending down he wadded up a fabric fragment and stuffed the small green ball into the drain hole in the middle of the basin. His aim was to block the drain hole. Then he realized the basin had a line of tiny black holes just below its rim. They had to be water or sanitary fluid dispensers. Something was needed to wash the shit down the hole. And there might be a suction function in the drain hole that would suck stuff down. Which made him stop rolling the second fabric fragment.

  “Damn.” Bill reached over his back and into his backpack, searching with his fingers for the extra pair of underwear. He spread the green shorts over the drain hole, pushed down at the center so part of the fabric entered the hole, and reached over for more fabric pieces. “Diligent Taskmaster, I know you are watching me. Maybe others have tried what I am working on. But no system is perfect. Or foolproof. Let’s see how your containment cell deals with a plugged drain!”

  Minutes later he finished pushing more rolled up fabric into the hole, using one of the plastic rods. The edge of his underwear showed at the edge of the plugged hole. Standing up, Bill stepped onto the edge of his shorts, turned his canteen over and poured water into the basin in which he stood.

  “Now, how long will it take your basin sensors to decide to flush?”

  The canteen had nearly filled the basin when his feet felt a vibration in the metal of the basin. The green underwear went tight against his feet as something in the drain hole sucked and sucked, trying to bring the water down the hole. The vibration stopped after a minute. His plug was still in place, like a rubber stuffed with green hankies. Stepping out of the basin he waited for the automatic drain system to try again.

  Vibration touched his bare feet. The edges of his underpants moved toward the drain hole, then stopped. Apparently several feet of balled up green fabric encased in a tube of underwear had defeated the programmed suction power of the refuse basin. Still, that power could be increased by a living operator. He pulled his backpack around, unzipped it, pulled out the sewing kit, opened it and began sewing the bottom of his parka jacket to the edges of his underwear. When he had the parka half-sewn to the underwear, he stuffed the empty canteen into the inside of the parka and resumed sewing. In a few minutes he had sewn the rest of the parka to the rim of his underwear. Next he sewed shut the arm cuffs and the neck hole. He grinned.

  “Hey, Diligent! Bet you never dealt with a captive who could sew!”

  Looking down he saw the parka lying atop the drain hole, looking like a fat green balloon. Now, if some Alien crewman changed the drain suction software so it sucked harder, that suction would only pull his plug further down the hole until the aluminum of the canteen blocked any further descent. Leaving the drain still plugged. Shouldering his backpack, he turned away from the water-filled basin and walked over to the round mesh hole in the opposite wall. Touching the spot above the mesh, he watched as water flowed out in a small arc. With no canteen to contain it, the water fell onto the smooth metal floor of the cell. He grinned as he watched the skim of water flow slowly toward the refuse basin. The cell floor had a slight incline to it so that any liquid would naturally flow to the drain hole. Which was now plugged. He pulled his finger away from the spot above the mesh and the water flow stopped. With a nod he resumed touching the sensor spot.

  “Diligent, I think I need a bath. A full body bath!”

  Water flowed out. After a minute it did not stop flowing. In fact it was gushing out as if under a lot of pressure. Keeping his finger against the Turn On spot was doing the trick.

  “Hmmm. Wonder how long it will take for this cell to get waist deep in water? And I wonder just where your emergency drain holes might be. Oh, did I tell you that Humans float?”

  Forty minutes later Bill felt his bare feet leave the floor as the cell’s water level hit five feet deep. He turned to float on his side, still keeping his finger against the Turn On sensor in the cell wall. He could feel the continuing inflow of water as a gushing spurt just below the Turn On wall spot. Long minutes later the water level had risen to nearly seven feet. He sucked in air, held his breath and plunged his head and shoulders into the water so he could keep his finger on the Turn On spot. The waterproof backpack kept his midbody suspended while his feet stuck out of water toward the ceiling. He scanned the cell floor below him, confirming the refuse drain hole plug was still blocking any drainage of water. The food slot had not disgorged any new food slab, though it would soon be noon and time for a second meal. Would the slot open while exposed to a flood of water? Bill didn’t know but he assumed there were automatic devices built into the containment cell that would prevent any of its devices from damaging the module. The ending of the upward pull on his body by the rising water confirmed that. While he still felt the inflow of water below his finger, the water level was not rising. Which meant a drain or drain holes had opened somewhere in the cell. Letting go the Turn On spot he surfaced with a gasp.

  “Nice bath, you mother fucker!”

  As before there was no response to his comment. Presumably the Rules of Captivity saw no need to further talk with a captive once the hopelessness of their situation had been explained. Well, he had changed the conditions in his cell. Time to do more damage.

  “Mr. Diligent Taskmaster, I don’t like your fake yellow sun!

  Floating on his back, he looked up at the fake blue sky and yellow orb. With a kick he pushed himself toward the near wall edge. It made sense to him that a second ring of holo emitters had to lie somewhere on the ceiling. The center of the ceiling and the spot where the wall met the ceiling were out as emitter locations just due to the physics of laser projection. He splashed the water surface to right himself. Which put his head just two feet below the ceiling. Though the water level was dropping slowly. He scanned the water surface and saw four v-rivulets. The rivulets became little vortexes leading down into the water. Dunking his head he saw the vortexes led to four thumb-sized holes on the wall that looked to be three feet above the floor. Made sense. You don’t want rising water to link up with the power outlets behind the laser beads. Holding his breath with ease, he noticed that one hole was sucking in water to the left of the oval door outline. The spot where he’d killed the first bead. He decided to call that spot north. Looking to the right and left, he saw similar holes sucking in water. He called those spots east and west. Glancing back to the wall he had bumped into he saw the fourth drain hole. At south spot. With a kick he lifted his head and shoulders above the water level.

  “Damn, but air feels good!” he gasped.

  Bill pulled his boots off his neck, untied them, stuffed one boot into his shirt, then sank his teeth onto the lace of the other boot. Closing his eyes, he lifted both palms up above his head and began feeling backward from the wall-ceiling juncture toward the center of the ceiling. Sliding his hands along the vector from the wall to the ceiling center,
he felt for an emitter bead. Nothing. With a kick of his feet he moved two feet further away from the wall and felt along the same arc. Nothing. Kicking sideways, he kept his palms against the ceiling, feeling for the bead.

  “Yes!”

  Opening his eyes he saw a narrow triangle of gray ceiling that stretched ten feet from the wall to the center of the ceiling. The bead lay in the middle of that line. Which meant a circle of similar laser beads had to form a ten foot wide circle that ran around the center of the ceiling. With a grin he kept one finger covering the bead, lifted the metal boot heel with his other hand and whacked the boot at it.

  “Clang!”

  His aim this time had been perfect. The metal ceiling strip stayed visible while to either side were the holo imagery of blue sky and yellow sun. Nice. He had not had to punch the boot in order to kill the laser emitter bead.

  Five minutes later he had killed fourteen beads and the cell ceiling now was a flat gray metal roof with a yellow glow shining from one spot. He was also a foot further down as the drain holes sucked out the water that he’d flooded his cell with. That would not do. Ducking his head into the water he swam to the mesh spot on the east wall, touched just above it with a finger and felt new water surge into the five foot deep pool.

  He looked up, scanning the now visible ceiling for any sign of the spyeye vidcam that watched him. Nothing. But he’d felt the coolness of fresh air against his skin when he’d been floating at the south end of the cell, well above the food slab slot. That was the source of fresh air for his cell. Which suggested the exit hole for sucking out his CO2 contaminated air might be on the north side of the wall. Somewhere above the oval door outline but below the first laser emitter bead he’d killed. Bill gave the invisible vidcam a Fuck You gesture.

  “You may think you’ve stopped me from drowning myself! Well, that was only Plan One. Plan Two is better. Watch and learn, you cockroach bastard!”

  Still floating above the floor, with one hand holding the Turn On spot active, he reached into his backpack with the other hand and pulled out two ziplock baggies. Both bulged with brown shit. He couldn’t help grinning. He’d spent hours at Coronado cleaning the platoon restrooms with a toothbrush and a bucket of soapy water. That Marine initiation had been copied by his SEAL instructors. A lesson in humility and team spirit. Well, his Plan Two would serve to put those lessons to their acid test.

  When the water level had risen another foot to six feet, Bill reached out and felt for the air inflow hole. He felt a hole that had appeared invisible to his eyes. It was of a size equal to his thumb. The inner metal of the air hole was gray like that of the wall and ceiling. That common grayness had camouflaged its presence. Until now. He looked back to the north side wall above the oval door outline. Squinting, he saw a similar opening there. Like this one there was no mesh on it. For which he gave thanks. His plan would have been harder to achieve if the air hole had been covered by mesh.

  “Mr. Taskmaster, observe how I plan to kill myself.”

  Still floating above the floor even as the water slowly drained, Bill opened the baggy, grabbed a turd and stuffed it into the air hole. He grabbed another handful of cold shit and stuffed it into the hole. When that was done, he opened the First Aid packet he’d stuffed in one pocket, pulled out wound tape, bit off two pieces, and placed them against the blocked air hole in an X-pattern. He turned away and kicked toward the air exhaust hole lying just above the door outline. He opened the second baggy, reached in and grabbed shit. He pushed a turd into the exhaust hole, following it with another turd. He zipped closed the half full baggy, then pulled out the wound tape, bit off two pieces and repeated the X-pattern seal over the exhaust hole. Looking up he saw that the ceiling was now five feet above him.

  “Shit!”

  He kicked back to the Turn On water spout, reached down and put one hand against the water flow control. New water surged in. Time to make his final statement to the Alien who controlled his module.

  “Mr. Diligent Taskmaster of the species Hard Shell, you breathe through spiracle holes in the shell of your exoskeleton. That limits your breathing to what you can take in at any moment. Well, we Humans can suck in plenty of air and hold our breath before breathing again. Unlike most insects!” He looked up and gave a smile to the vidcam spyeye that lay somewhere in the ceiling. “But we cannot survive when the oxygen in the air gets too low. We hyperventilate. We get headaches. Then our heart stops working when there is no fresh oxygen to energize the cells of my heart muscle. So. You may have captured me with your fancy collector pod. Which zapped me with that red laser taser thingie. But now, you will have one less captive to sell at this Market world you are heading for! And since I prefer privacy while I die, I’m covering this cell’s ceiling with shit! Try to look through that, you mother fucker!”

  Moments later he finished smearing the second bag’s shit load across the ceiling. He’d not felt any vidcame bead. Which did not surprise him since on Earth vidcam motion-eyes were usually flat and the size of a lemon seed. Leastwise, that had been the size of the vidcam he and his platoon mates had worn on their BDUs during their last chute drop insert.

  With a sigh he kicked back to the center of the cell and waited for the water to go down to shin level. He might even remove the refuse hole blockage so the cell floor would be dry. Once more. Leaving him with his backpack, his flashlight, his canteen and his leather belt to confront the eventual arrival of an Alien crewman. Who had to come to remove the air inflow and exit blockages. Otherwise he would die. Moving to the right side of the door outline, he squatted, fed his belt strap into the buckle so it formed a loop-type garrote, and waited for the arrival of the Alien crewman.

  Bill had no idea what size or shape the Alien might possess, nor how many arms and eyes it might have. But the Taskmaster’s early statement that all captives breathed oxy-nitro air told him it was very likely both Diligent Taskmaster and his crew also breathed Earth-like air. Which meant the arriving Alien had to have some kind of mouth or nose to suck in air. Which location could be closed off. If you applied enough pressure. Asphyxiation would eventually shut off the Alien’s brain and make it pass out. He’d considered trying to kill the arriving Alien with one of the sewing needles taped to the pencil-type flashlight. But if it had a hard exoskeleton that would not work. However, every creature had to breath, even fishes. So he’d placed his bet. A second bet had been to assume any Alien critter would be right-handled, or right-clawed, like most humans. Being right-handed made a person most attentive to the front and right side, not the left. Which meant Bill had to be on the right side of the door as he viewed it. The handedness assumption was a guess, a gamble that he hoped would gain him an extra few seconds to attack the arriving Alien. Now, he would rest, breath slowly and wait until the atmosphere sensors in his cell told some living crewperson that the Earth captive module was becoming unlivable. Which meant some crewman would be sent to fix it. Likely with some kind of weapon to knock him senseless. Well, he’d been trained in ambush tactics. No doubt the Alien expected him to try an attack. But thanks to the shit-smeared ceiling it would not know just where in the cell he would be waiting. And placing his flashlight atop his backpack at the south end of the cell would serve to draw the Alien’s attention once the entry door opened. Which would give him a few seconds to attack it from the side.

  Bill grinned. His escape from an escape-proof cell on an Alien starship would be a grand tale to share with his drinking buddies at the Deep Six!

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Bill waited for the oxygen in the cell’s air to drop below the normal 21 percent of Earth’s air, he could not help recalling what he’d learned from an Air Force flight doc as he and his platoon buddies prepared for a high altitude free fall chute drop. The doc had explained why they needed a supplemental oxy tank.

  Any air with less than 19.5 percent of oxy is considered deficient air. At levels of 16 to 19.5 percent, a person will begin to experience increased breathing rates, accelerat
ed heart beat and some confused thinking. At levels of 12 to 16 percent you get full onset of tachypnea, or fast breathing, tachycardia or speeded up heart beat, and impaired thinking and coordination even in people at full rest. Below 10 percent he’d experience nausea, vomiting and eventual unconsciousness. If the cell air ever hit six percent he would go into convulsions followed by his heart stopping. The Air Force had called these symptoms anoxic anoxia. Well, he’d learned to concentrate carefully while doing closed and open circuit scuba dives. And he’d gotten used to thin air while hiking up to the top of several peaks in the Rockies. So he crouched to the right side of the door, slowed his breathing, held his belt garrote ready to toss over the head or neck or whatever of some Alien, and worked on slowing his heart rate. He’d learned the basics of meditation while hanging with a Buddhist from the Royal Thai Air Force. The guy had been mellow, competent, efficient and interesting. Not as good as Navy Special Ops folks, let alone his fellow SEALs. Still, the guy was willing to share his knowledge of centered meditation. Which involved breathing exercises. And Bill had been willing to learn.

  He gasped deeply.

  Shit. He’d not intended to do that. Gasping meant the air was already down to 16 percent, while the carbon dioxide levels were higher. His scuba training had taught Bill how a malfunctioning suit regulator could produce too much CO2. Or a too tight scuba suit could do the same. Avoiding the rebreathing of exhaled air had been a part of basic scuba instruction. Now, he had no choice. He had to breath in order to get some oxygen into his lungs. He grimaced. It would become a race between nausea and vomiting caused either by too much carbon dioxide or by too little oxygen.