by E. R. Mason
When the eyes finally focused, my chin was down against my chest, my legs and boots front and center. I snapped my head up to find my world was a circular container filled with floating debris. There were flashing red lights here and there. On the left there was an incredibly huge dent pushed into the cabin. I sucked for air, and found plenty of it available. Fingers and toes were responding to commands. No flowing bodily fluids seemed apparent.
I looked around my tiny, messy world and wondered how I had come to be there. Ugly memories began to surface. For a moment, I recalled the feeling of having won, the feeling that nothing much mattered beyond freedom. Then reality reared its ugly head. I was indeed beyond that. This was a tiny bubble of atmosphere in a remote area of space vacuum. As a friend of mine used to say, “Two choices, sit and wait for the end, or try to do something.”
Generally speaking, there are two kinds of escape pods. There are the ones that pop off the wounded ship and just float around aimlessly hoping somebody will come along and pick you up. They usually carry food and water in enough quantity to give you time to think about your slow, impending death. The second kind, much less common, have a limited propulsion system designed to get you to the nearest heavenly body, if there is one. They are generally reserved for ships that fly a repetitive flight plan where the neighboring star systems are well known, and where some class M planets, moons, or asteroids are known to exist along the route. These vehicles have reentry systems which are not for the faint of heart.
There was no choice but to face up to my dire situation and see if any hope existed at all. I unbuckled and quickly discovered I had either broken or bruised ribs, front and back. Probably bruised. It was hard to breathe, but the sharp pangs associated with cracks did not seem to be there. There was some burning on the right lower leg and a tear in the flight suit there where something had cut. It was already scabbed over. On my right forearm, I still had the top of my sock, painted red with dried blood. I pulled it up and peeked under. The self-inflicted cut was healing.
Was this the drifting coffin type of escape pod, or the fall-from-the-sky-in-a-flaming-ball kind? I began pushing away the floating garbage in front of me and something suddenly came to mind. It was the persistent grinding sound of radar scanning.
A panel in the floor had slid back to reveal a display screen, positioned so that passengers in all four seats could see it. I hooked a foot under my seat for stability and swept away more of the floating garbage. The display was packed with star-like objects, forcing me to wonder what the range of the thing was. Near the center of the display, all the tiny spots were painted in a wide variety of colors, some circled. Data I could not read was printed alongside each.
Alarm set in. The centermost object was bright green, enclosed by a flashing green circle, and had a green flight path leading directly to it. Within the extra data displayed alongside, there was some kind of numerical counter rapidly counting down.
I stiffened in weightlessness as realization set in. This was a heavily damaged escape pod, with a very basic reentry system, and it was planning on dropping me in on some unfamiliar rock somewhere. I could either try to figure out how to abort the programming, or take a wild ride down. After careful consideration, I decided it was not a question of which option gave me the best chance of survival. It was a question of which option would be the least excruciating death.
There was no way to judge how long it would take this pod to reach its chosen destination. In space, without the equipment to measure them, size and distance remain absolute unknowns. Every answer in the pod was written in a language I did not understand. I would have to wait until the little blip on the radar screen had traveled enough distance along the little green flight path line so that I could estimate real time against it, and from that maybe judge how much time left before arrival at my destination internment. There would probably be a computer voice warning to buckle up for impending death.
The silence behind the alarm chirps and radar growling reminded me how alone I was. I pushed over to one of the small, round portals and scanned the space outside, thinking maybe there would be another pod. There was not. Nor could any be seen from any of the other windows. I had killed almost everyone on that ship. How long would it take to put a thing like that aside? A lifetime maybe? Mine was that little green line on the pod tracking display.
They had been dealing in the slave labor of innocents, but maybe to a lizard culture that was a perfectly reputable thing to be doing. But the prisoner cells on their ship meant they knew it wasn’t voluntary. Had I destroyed other innocent hostages? Or had I saved them from a slow death in radioactive mines? No matter. A fiery ride down in a bashed-up escape pod was sure to balance the scales.
Totally alone. Where was I? How far away had I been taken? Cigar man had put me aboard a ship. I was unconscious most of that time. He had delivered me to the lizard ship, collected his bounty, and left. The lizard ship hadn’t been underway very long but they had been at light speeds. This area of space was still densely populated with stellar material. That meant this might still be a part of the Mu Arae sector, but that was a long-shot guess. Plus, it was hardly a consolation. The odds of someone finding me out here were nil, unless it was a lizard people rescue ship following a pod beacon. Wouldn’t they be glad to see me.
As distance along the little green flight line was covered, the view out the forward portal began to change. The twinkling light from the pod's destination planet began to dim into shape and detail. Surprisingly, it was a bluish green, even though it was shaped like a malformed potato, making it most likely an orbiting asteroid. I could just make out its sun by pressing my face against the forward window and looking up with one eye. My guess was, there would be no auto-orbit but rather a straight-in, ballistic dive with a roll-of-the-dice landing without regard to terrain. As the pod closed in, the entire ragged circumference of the destination planetoid was visible in the window. Then the voice warning system came on and suggested I buckle up. Peculiar attitude adjustments began to kick the pod around, making it difficult to fasten straps.
It was the braking system that bothered me the most. There just didn’t seem to be any features outside the pod to adequately provide the speed braking necessary to mitigate a severe impact. A parachute system was out of the question. Every atmosphere is different, so even when there is an atmosphere, one chute system does not fit all.
When the braking finally began, I wished I had chosen a different seat. The engine firing was in front of me, which meant my body was trying to leave the seat, burying itself in the harness straps. It was a respectable amount of negative Gs. I had to squint for a few seconds to keep my eyes from popping out of the sockets. The determined little pod shuddered and roared as it hit the edge of the atmosphere. It arrived over the destination, and slowed in anticipation of a gravity dive toward the surface.
Next, the main braking rocket died and a few moments later orange glow began to appear in the windows as air-braking took over. The impetus pushing me into my seat belts eased off, but a few seconds later there was an ominous change in direction. Suddenly I was being lifted out of my seat as the downward plunge began. Those impulsive, familiar thoughts of “wait a second, hold on a minute” reared their ugly head as the orange glow filled all windows. I was about to find out if this bent-up pod with its unexplained soft-landing system was in reality a crater-maker.
To my surprise, braking rockets did fire, making a throaty roar inside the cabin. It was a nice development, although clearly not enough for a soft landing. I was gently pressed down in my seat, expecting something more when the answer came.
Big "wumps" came from all around. All windows became obscured by dark gray material. It took me a moment to accept the idea of airbags. It was yet another reason to worry. Here’s your best chance, buddy, as long as you don’t roll off a cliff, land in a volcano, sink in quicksand, submerge into liquid mercury, impale yourself on a mountain peak, or any of the other countless epilogs available to
air bag landers.
Before I could exclaim, “Oh, shit,” the breaking of branches began. The pod was knocked harshly from side to side, front to back, followed by one big impact that knocked the wind out of me and compressed the already damaged rib cage. I was not able to take in a breath to scream.
The rolling began. I was the ball in a pin ball machine. Having managed to take in some air, I was able to yell with each crashing blow, until the third or fourth finally turned my lights off.
Chapter 16
I do not know how long I lay crumpled up in a heap in that torn-up module. I am certain several days passed. Upon waking, bits of fragmented memory lingered at the fringe of awareness, refusing to organize. One was of a heavy rain imposing dampness within the capsule. Another fragment was of a large snout of some type trying to invade my domain.
The pod’s round hatchway had blown open. My fingers and toes worked. One eye opened just fine. The other was swollen partway closed. I was lying sideways on the seat, still strapped in. The left leg was bent back against my thigh, my foot caught behind the backrest. My right leg was sticking straight up, tangled in torn cables.
There was a brooding indulgence to just lay there for a moment. Why be in a hurry to get bad news? Beyond the open hatch was a blur of green. Gentle, warm rushes of air were drifting in. I was breathing it. Without my consent, sensation began to turn on. There were too many telegraphs of pain and damage to handle at once. Perhaps, if I could free the left leg and straighten it out, I could resolve some of them. The right hand was behind me and wasn’t busy. I wiggled the fingers again and used them to climb up my rump as a preflight test for the arm. The elbow made a cracking sound, but the arm came to life. It hurried down to the captured foot and helped it work free. The leg obeyed and straightened out, coming to rest in a pile of broken pod fare. The left arm was under me. I pushed up into a sitting position and rubbed the back of my neck. Things popped back into place.
There were sounds of life coming from outside, the buzzing of insects, punctuated by calls from other unfamiliar life. It meant I had been here for some time. My pod had become accepted as a non-predatory visitor.
Swamp. That was the smell. It was unmistakable. There was a charred smell along with it. A quick examination of torso, head and limbs came up with too many bruises to count, a few abrasions, and no real lacerations other than the one I had made myself.
There was a meager first aid kit, probably put there by the people who designed the landing system. The only human-useful items: a small signaling mirror and a bar of magnesium with a striker in a small leather case. I went to tuck these things in my ragged flight suit pockets and came across the still-bloody plastic knife along with the dead guard’s passkey badge. Inventory of my resources complete, I maneuvered around to look out the open hatch without exposing myself any more than necessary.
Primitive jungle. Leaves as huge as picture windows. Vines the size of fire hose. Tree canopy sixty feet up, patches of orange sky beyond. Rich black dirt heavily decorated with plants that looked like Jack-In-The-Pulpits except they were as tall as a man. Spots with clumps of grass covering nests of some sort. Fruit hung in places. A charred patch a short distance away where something hot from the pod had started a small fire. It had burned itself out.
The jungle became silent the moment my head emerged. My first instinct was to withdraw into the pod and cower there for a while. Instead, I withdrew the plastic knife, crawled out on my hands and knees, and cautiously stood, rechecking body parts as I went.
There was now a rough-hewn path back in the direction from where the pod had come. The torn and broken trail led up the side of an embankment and disappeared over a sharp rock overhang. There were pieces of airbag all along the way. As uninviting as it looked, I needed to get a vantage point for an overview of this place, and since all four limbs seemed to work reasonably well, up I went.
It was thirty minutes of slipping and sliding, and re-climbing lost ground. The overhang was forbidding. I had to work my way around, pausing after each section to let the rib cage reset. Hoisting up over the edge onto my stomach brought the clenching of teeth to keep from screaming, but the suffering from the climb was worth it. The view was spectacular.
Above the ledge behind me, a rock pile led several thousand feet up to the snow-covered peak of a dormant volcano. Looking out over the landscape, there lay a breathtaking world that went on forever. The horizon was oddly cut, a gradual climb on one side, a sharp drop on the other. This was not an egg-shaped world. The broad forest my pod had chosen to carve a path through went on for miles in both directions, drawing its life from mountain runoff. It led down to a vast open plain of innumerable hills and mounds covered by brown, waist-high grass. Beyond, a haze-covered line of mountains ran the entire width of the alien horizon. Far in the distance, a massive herd of something was moving slowly across a portion of the plain. I did not recognize their vague silhouettes. On my left and right, other mountain peaks in the distance rose up within the forest canopy. The sky was milky-orange with tall cumulonimbus clouds that did not seem to move.
Below me, I began to notice life moving within the forest. Small creatures darting above and below the canopy. Farther in the distance, vines and branches were being disrupted as leaves were harvested. Those creatures were not visible through the dense overhang, but some of the motion around the trees and overhang seemed to be from something of considerable size. As my concern arose, out of the corner of my eye I spotted something flying far off to my left. It was not an aircraft. It was something with a great wingspan. I began to be concerned about standing out in the open, and at that moment there came a roar from somewhere to the right that sounded like the aborted test firing of a rocket engine, except it was primeval. Suddenly, shelter became a priority. Perhaps the metallic pod wreckage was not such a bad place after all. Escape pods do not taste good and are hard to chew.
I skidded my way back down through the forest, knowing that a slip and roll on the busted-up chest and back would probably be fatal. I hung on to vines and earth and sledded down the broken pod path with an agility any professional X-game player would have been proud of. At the pod, I searched quickly for the hatch cover, did not find it, and climbed in, hurriedly stacking pieces of panels for a makeshift door. In the shadowy light, I parted the trash and lowered myself into a seat and sat considering just how much of an indiscretion standing out in the open had been. Almost in answer to the question, there began to be noises in the jungle nearby.
It was an occasional rustling of brush, a branch cracking here and there. Probably my imagination fulfilling my fear. These sounds had not been apparent in the silence before. Was it all in my battered head? I had so many bruises and abrasions it was hard to think straight. When had I last eaten anything? There had been so many periods of unconsciousness, I didn’t even know that.
More cracking of branches. More rustling of brush. If there was to be a fight with a wild animal, I had no chance. I couldn’t even take a deep breath. Tiny gulps of air brought an awareness of something else. An animal smell. I had indeed become prey. He was out there and was searching for me. There was nothing else to pile on the flimsy door covering. My plastic knife was all there was.
Suddenly there was a loud bang overhead on the pod wall. Then another on the side. Then three more followed quickly by more rustling, and again silence.
I could still only take shallow breaths, but managed to push up into a squatting ready-stance, braced for a last stand. Without warning, there was a crashing boom as a heavy tree branch came bashing through my makeshift door. It quickly withdrew. Sunlight again filled the cluttered cabin. An ominous silence followed.
Next something unexpected. A chorus of grunting and moaning. The shaft of the branch was thrust in the door again and poked around wildly. I had to step back and up to stay out of range. It withdrew again, and for a few more moments there was nothing. Then more crackling and crunching of leaves and branches, just outside the door.
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br /> Very slowly, something frightening blocked the light from the door as it crept cautiously in. I positioned myself with the knife and braced for attack. It was one of the strangest creatures I had ever seen, a rat’s nest of brown hair that formed a moving mound. It looked like a giant, dirty tribble. I repositioned in the best possible way, hoping repeated stabbings would find a vulnerable spot. The thing jerked around, tilted up like an animal smelling for its prey, and, then abruptly turned sideways until something else finally came into view. Buried within the mound of hair was a face.
It looked up at me and jerked up in surprise, hitting its well-insulated skull on the top of the hatch. There was a loud, fearful growl as the head frantically backed out.
Much more trampling could be heard outside the pod, complemented by murmuring and animal sounds, followed by more silence. My mind was doing backflips. The face hadn’t been quite human. Neanderthal was the closest I could come. There had only been a glimpse of it. The large protruding forehead stood out the most. Fat lips covering oversized teeth. I took in another shallow breath and tried to contain my fear. There was no place to run.
The big stick made another appearance. It banged around, this time more on my side. Occasionally it would pause and a guttural voice would yell, “Doga, doga, doga yam!” My translators weren’t translating, but "doga" had to be, “Get out here." My best bet was that “yam” meant right now.
When I did not comply, greater exertion was used to rattle the big stick. It pummeled around banging against dead pod equipment, forcing me to move to one side or another. Finally it withdrew again.