by Luke Norris
The military talk they were using was brief. Oliver recognized it instantly, the same language that had been programmed into him just for the purposes of command. It lacked any finesse and was mainly simple verbs and nouns.
Oliver’s programming made him alert, and he kept track of the names of the men around him.
Another spoke, “Command this is Riff! What are the orders?”
Then another voice. “Command orders?” No response,
The men around him started looking at each other, “You, get that helmet off! Get over here!” Suddenly a fight erupted. Oliver narrowly avoided a stocky man as he lunged passed. The fight between the two drivers was instantaneous action with complete disregard to hurt or pain. It was a taller lean driver with skin so dark it was difficult to distinguish the shadow of shaved black hair from his forehead. He was pitted against a shorter pale-skinned man with stocky arms and a broad chest.
This was no normal bar brawl, Oliver had seen a few of those between the drillers at the local Tui pub. No, these were two men that were trained in the art of killing. Every blow was designed to maim and hurt, landing with incredible speed and precision, and every defensive move was designed to prevent that. As blows rounded, the others stood back but didn't interfere. Would nobody attempt to stop them?
There was no sparing, no standing around sizing each other up, no talking. They had one thing in mind. The opponent is about to die. Sweat was already dripping from their faces. This is the most anti-survival tactic I can imagine. Oliver thought. But didn’t he have the same programming and conditioning that made them fighting machines? Yes, he could feel the instincts under the surface.
The two men were not hot-headed, rather relaxed and focused. Every blow had a counter blow, every punch, every kick.
Others gathered around in a wide circle, making comments, judging the technique of the two fighters, “he should use his utility knife on the wrists” or “lack of speed, poor technique.”
Oliver was sickened by the commentary still coming from the onlookers, “good improvisation.”
The shorter man, having dazed his opponent with a rock, leaped to his feet, wheezing from exertion, raced over and grabbed the taller man around the head. He locked his thick right arm around the neck and then squeezing with all his might, twisting, trying to break the neck. He dropped his body down at an impossible angle to his opponent, causing the spine to snap under the bulk of his weight. The dark face went from a contorted strain to a limp, hang-dog expression, as the lifeless body slumped to the ground.
Blood speckled the victors face, a red streak congealed on the front of his white jumpsuit, broad chest heaving up and down, then he looked at the others. “Right any more trouble from you and you will all have the same fate.” Dark blood pooled in his mouth covering his tongue and painting his teeth pink.
“Ha, you will do as you're told.” One of the other drivers scoffed.
“We need Command,” replied the fighter. He touched his helmet at the left ear. “Cass reporting! Command, what are the orders?...Command, orders?”
Oliver could see the body of the dead driver, lying to the side, already forgotten by the others.
8. Setting out
Oliver soon realized that without directives from their headsets the men were lost with no idea what to do. They had no servants that had to follow them. They were drivers, and they were made as fighting machines to use the local populace as pawns, whom they could control and bully. But there were no pawns. They were all chiefs and no Indians.
Oliver backed off as one of them stepped forward, he had a blaster in his hand.
“I’m Cass! You will all do as I say, or you will die right here!”
He looked at the blaster in a steady, firm set of hands. The man was of large build, but not as burly as some of the other drivers.
“You can't kill us all!” The one called Ponsy spoke up. His features slightly too small for his chestnut brown face. His deep voice resonated confidence.
“Of course I can,” Cass said. “I will take you all down before you can get within three feet of me.” His thin eyes swept over Oliver, as he surveyed the group. When nobody moved, he continued. “In the absence of commands we will work together. Command will give us orders shortly, at that point, we will have serfs, and we can carry out the directives. No more fighting each other! We will wait for commands!”
The logic was irrefutable. At least somebody was thinking reasonably. It seemed to make sense to their drugged minds, so they sat down and waited.
“Where are we?” Oliver spoke up. The others all started to look around, as if seeing their environment for the first time. A driver normally wouldn't ask where they had been stationed. “Well, I need water,” Oliver said, standing and making his way down to the river.
Every now and then one of them would still touch the side of the helmet. “Costa reporting! Command orders?” But there were no orders. There was no communication. Had Lego and Toro succeeded? In any case, the driver’s sole existence for survival was lost in the absence of commands and orders.
Oliver noticed the way they behaved was similar in each case. They were looking around for the containers of chemically laced protein drink that they were all familiar with drinking upon deployment. Fits of aggression would erupt at not being able to find it among the containers. Gone down with the ship probably. Not only would this bring sustenance and keep them going, but it would also keep them under control. It was these very chemicals that would lace their diet which was starting to wear off. The presence of it would last for days, but the men had various time periods since their last intake. Oliver knew that craving. Thanks to Lego and Toro, he had long since been weaned off the chemicals on the ship, which was somewhere up there in orbit. He instinctively glanced upwards.
A driver stood up. “I'm going to some higher ground, going to see what I can see!” He made his way toward the steep incline a few hundred meters from the river and was gone for some time. Oliver could see the figure high in a tree. “I can see smoke in the distance.” The driver yelled, making large gesturing motions with his arm in a westerly direction, as he clambered back down.
This is independent thinking, Oliver thought. It’s not typical behavior of a chemically induced driver. But nobody seemed to notice.
Others were making trips to the river. There were a few containers they could use to collect water. Nobody is asking the obvious questions, where did the containers come from? How did we get off the ship? These questions will surely come as they sober.
Eventually, evening came, and then darkness. They lay in the cold of the night. Oliver pulled his jumpsuit around himself to keep warm, and huddled together with the others. This was typical driver behavior when they had lots of serfs to do their bidding. Lie together for safety and warmth, put the weakest on the outside, driver in the middle. Why did Oliver have this knowledge?
It was a long disturbed night, and Oliver was awake long before dawn finally came. He made his way to the river with the driver Ponsy.
“Where the hell are we?” Ponsy asked, looking up at the sky. An enormous moon sat just above the mountains, mountains that disappeared to the edges of space, so the moon appeared to be skewered on their black peaks. “This is not even home! I'm not...I'm not even on my planet! Where are we?” Others looked on, also curious.
His chemicals were wearing off. These were not questions of a drugged driver.
“Command haven't been giving orders. I think we should try and go towards civilization in the direction the smoke was seen yesterday.” A tall driver suggested.
Arguing started. “I give the orders here!”
“No, I do!”
Okay so clearly the chemicals haven’t worn off for everybody. This kind of behavior had been typical since they woke: arguing, trying to give orders as their natural leadership programming had dictated.
Scuffles and fights broke out constantly, it was tiresome. Any consensus was hard to come by. Eventually, though, the
y agreed they just couldn't stay here, there was no food. The ship was now completely submerged, the water was a hump with an edie where the craft lay beneath the surface off the side of the bank of the river.
They started trekking in the direction the smoke that had been spotted the day before.
The terrain was difficult, and Oliver had spent time trekking in Fiordland New Zealand, so that was saying something. The group were forced to scout for game trails along the river that they could follow. But I wonder who the game is on these trails. Oliver thought grimly.
Constantly to their left was the river, fast flowing, deep with foreboding rapids, and in most places uncrossable. The flow wove its way through enormous green canyons where the porous rock had been etched out to leave towering formations.
The canyon walls were covered in foliage and even trees, on the more conceding slopes. Waterfalls cascaded down in silk sheets from the plateaus above feeding the main flow. The colossal black mountain range provided such a tremendous catchment area for rain and snow that the volume of water coming down seemed to find its way through every part of the landscape.
Oliver couldn’t imagine the wildest rain forests of Earth looking like this misting green fantastical world. Even the great fiords of southern New Zealand didn’t have the same grand scale.
Often the game trails would take them high above the river, where they would narrow and force the company to walk single file. Whenever the track led them behind the waterfalls, the green moss became slimy underfoot, and threatened to release its grip on Oliver’s combat issue driver boots, and let him plunge into the icy torrent.
The others wore the same strong footwear issued with the jumpsuits, incredibly sturdy, made of synthetic material that would last the life of the wearer easily, and then some. Their jumpsuits had all the benefits they needed. They had open fronts and vents at the side for cooling if necessary. The suits were designed for the drivers to use in all kinds of planetary conditions they might encounter. The air was perpetually wet from spray in the canyons, but the suits seem to keep him dry for the most part.
Everywhere Oliver looked were small tributary rivers, streams, and falls that were continuously joining the river, the main flow had already grown noticeably.
The company walked single file along the game trails on the canyon wall. The man carrying the blaster gun called himself Cass, he had taken the lead on the track. He had stopped and waited for the next two drivers to come up behind. He had a scar running from the bottom of his nose to his top lip, it gave the impression of a permanent scowl.
“Look at this!” Cass said, pointing to the ground in front of his feet.
Yarn crouched beside Cass to inspect whatever it was. His thin eyes showing interest in the impression in the mud.
Oliver trudged up towards them. Yarn looked up and recognized his dark eyes and long face as he arrived, “Cougar! That's your name right?”
Oliver grimaced. It was hard going. “We are going to have to cross that soon!” Oliver told Yarn, indicating to the river. “It's only getting wider.” They were about 5 meters above the river, and the current cut into the rock below them, leaving the trail to overhang the swirling dark water.
“What do you make of this Cougar?”
Oliver could see the fresh imprint of a hoof, beside the driver’s hand. It was certainly not any fauna he was familiar with. It looked like a herbivore, but who could say on this strange world, and holy crap it was big! “Well we are following a game trail I suppose,” Oliver said, “it’s fresh. I'm guessing whatever made that isn't too far ahead.”
The two women caught up and were resting against the canyon wall. Even in spite of having such good equipment, they obviously weren't used to long treks. Strange. Drivers generally needed extremely good endurance and stamina, among their physical attributes. Oliver shut out memories of the grueling missions he’d been forced to undertake.
Yarn stood up. “Tell the others to wait here!” he told Oliver. “And we'll go on ahead and see what we can find.”
It was obvious the group needed food, their feet were hurting, and they were hungry.
Oliver turned to see the younger woman, Verity, following immediately behind. Her shaved head made her brown eyes seem even larger. She had beads of perspiration on her face. Such a delicate frame. She was selected as a driver? Maybe she had other attributes that made her dangerous.
“Rest up!” Oliver told her. “Tell the others to fill the water containers while we check this out, and wait here until we come back!”
She nodded and then watched as Oliver and the other two men disappeared through the plant growth and large leaves over the trail.
Cass had unclipped the blaster from its holster and had drawn in front of himself as he took the lead. Good. Yarn turned to say something to the women, letting Oliver walk ahead.
Whatever we encounter here I sure as hell don't want to be in front. Oliver thought to himself, eying Cass’s weapon held at the ready.
They had been silently stalking whatever was ahead for about twenty minutes when they heard it. Rustling in the undergrowth ahead. Footfalls reverberated under his feet, he heard the crunch of a small tree being broken, and then slowly consumed. Sweet mother, he thought.
Oliver suddenly felt very naked, what am I doing here? I don't even have a weapon. He glanced around for something, Yarn who had been following behind a few moments ago had ducked back along the trail the way they had come. He had stopped just before the bend and was watching from there. Smart.
He tried to free a rock from the bank, to use as an improvised weapon. Soil and stones crashed down and splashed in the river. He winced at the racket.
Suddenly all was silent. Whatever it was had stopped moving in the undergrowth. Shit. Cass gave him a scolding glance and inched forward two steps. The two men peered into the dark foliage. It couldn’t be more than twenty yards away. Was that a bloodshot eye through a gap in the dark the leaves? A nasally horn-like call rose from the undergrowth, and slowly crescendoed then cut off leaving it to echo around the canyon.
Oliver’s fighting instincts made him scan his surroundings for some sort of advantage, but there was only canyon wall on one side and sheer drop to the river on the other. Silence continued. Maybe it hadn’t seen them or was not interested. He exhaled and began to relax.
Suddenly leaves and vegetation exploded in front of Oliver and Cass. A spiny reptilian head burst through the cover, charging in their direction.
The ancient beast was not as tall as Oliver, but nearly too wide for the trail, and at least five times the mass of a person. The ground shook as it lumbered toward them.
Prehistoric images from Oliver’s childhood school books flashed as he stood in a momentary state of wonder. Evolution had endowed the dinosaur with plated armor and thorn-shaped protrusions on its wide head. Extremely effective against predators, Oliver thought...and probably also people who happened to be standing in its path. He snapped out of his daze.
Cass took a step back in surprise, but the trail was narrow, and the earth gave way under his rear foot, sending him sliding over the side of the bank. He made a grab at the ledge, releasing the blaster. The beast lumbered past where Cass clung to the side of the trail. Small eyes focusing on the next threat. Oliver.
Oliver leaped for a branch above and tried to hoist himself up. He just had to avoid the creature’s head. The earth around the plant was sodden, the soil shallow. The entire root system gave way under his weight, sending him scraping back down.
A strange sensation washed over Oliver. Was he seeing things in slow motion, or was it adrenaline? For a moment the animal’s legs were literally running at half speed. Stones being kicked up, moved through the air as if through water. What was this strange sensation? It vanished as one of the spines sliced through his jumpsuit across his thigh. Stabbing pain shot up the leg. Focus!
The beast rounded for a second charge, maneuvering well in the confined space. It lowered its head, as it rumbled to
ward him. How could such a bulky creature be so nimble? It would run him down this time. Oliver prepared to hurl himself off the bank and take his chances in the swirling current.
Suddenly the sound of the blaster rang out. The animal’s legs wobbled and collapsed, but the momentum kept it skidding toward him. The ridge of spikes slid to a stop inches from Oliver’s eye. Cass clung to the bank, one arm extended out aiming with the blaster, and grin on his face. He winked at Oliver.
9. Trek
The rest of the group had come running at the sound of the blaster and found Oliver and Cass slumped against the trail wall next to a prehistoric creature with the side of its head blown away.
"That explains the sound of the blaster," Riff said, as he rounded the corner. They came up to the beast. Riff knelt, prodding and inspecting the creature. His beady eyes and gaunt cheeks showed surprise when he opened the animals small mouth. "This is a plant eater! Look, herbivore teeth! I'd hate to see a predator on this godforsaken marble. Eh, girls? Haha." He opened and closed the creature’s mouth making his version of predator noises in the direction of Verity and Shira. His fidgety eyes darting to the men for support.
Verity’s eyes were wide. She was obviously trying to hide her alarm. Oliver pulled himself up, favoring his right leg.
A muscular, dark-skinned man pointed to Oliver’s leg. “What happened to you?”
“One of those spines sliced my thigh. Not many places to move on a track two feet wide.”
“Show me the wound, driver!” The man’s face was dark chestnut brown with a small mouth and eyes which were slightly too close together.
Oliver obliged by undoing a vent on the side of the jumpsuit. He pulled the flap aside to reveal a bloody laceration. The driver's expression showed not the least hint of concern at seeing the wound. “Kneel down here!” He poured water from the container to clean it.
