James Wittenbach - Worlds Apart 08

by Hellfire

  “Is she all right?” Atlantic asked him.

  Skinner looked up at him. His usually immaculate mane of silvery hair had gone all wild and wet from the sea. There was something not-quite-right in his eyes. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do for her.” “Then she’s…”

  “Fine,” Skinner interrupted him. “Since none of her injuries are life threatening, there’s nothing else I can do for her. The impact dislocated her shoulder and elbow, but I have put them back in place.” “Where are the others?” Atlantic asked. “Herrald and … Savagewood?”

  “They’re gone,” Skinner told him.

  “Gone?”

  “Gone to see if they can salvage anything from the command module before it sinks,” Skinner answered. “Mr. Savagewood bruised his chin, but Mr. Herrald was miraculously unharmed.” “What about the other crew?” Atlantic demanded

  “They didn’t make it,” Skinner told him.

  “What?”

  “They didn’t make this handsome beach sweater,” Skinner said, indicating the knit garment he was wearing. “My daughter made it. Isn’t it lovely?” “Are they dead or alive?” Atlantic persisted.

  “Who?” Skinner asked.

  “The ones in the Main Deck.”

  “I haven’t got a clue,” Skinner paused. “And this time, I’m not screwing with you, I really don’t know what happened to the rest of the ship. It must have fallen elsewhere. I, myself, took a bump to the head, but nothing serious. In fact, I’ve never felt more Tuesday than I do right now.” “You never felt more…?”

  “Ah, the lady awakens,” Skinner interrupted as Aramburuzabala began coming around. With a howl of pain she grabbed her right arm with her left arm.

  Skinner eased her arms back into a relaxed position. “If it hurts when you do that, my advice as a physician is not to do that.”

  “Where’s my ship?” she asked through the pain.

  “The command module landed offshore,” Skinner told her. “We don’t know where the rest is.”

  Aramburuzabala sat up and looked around, “The main fuselage has emergency crash systems. If they managed a soft landing, they’re probably on this island somewhere.” “Unless they fell into the sea,” Skinner chuckled, but caught himself. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate.”

  “Can we salvage anything out of the command module?” Aramburuzabala asked.

  “Not likely,” Atlantic replied.

  “How did we get to shore?” Aramburuzabala asked.

  “Herrald and Savagewood carried you,” Skinner answered. “They managed to grab some cushions and blankets from the capsule. That would be the limit of our supplies.” Herrald and Savagewood returned around that time, with a couple of the ship’s emergency parafoils. Herrald was stripped to the waist, and a sheen of seawater glistened on the tight muscles of his upper body. Savagewood explained that the material could be used to make shelter, and he had also acquired a piece of crystal from the ship’s canopy that he intended to fashion into a weapon.

  “Is the beacon working?” Aramburuzabala demanded. Skinner shrugged.

  Aramburuzabala checked the piloting gauntlet on her right forearm, but did not detect a signal.

  Although the pain must have been excruciating, Aramburuzabala began fixing her hair, drawing it into a tight, commanding bun at the back of her head. “All right, this is what we have to do. We have to search this island and try and find other survivors.” “Right now, moving may not be our best option,” Savagewood argued. He pointed toward the planet’s sun, which was a third of the way to the horizon already. “This planet’s rotational period is only 16.4 hours, and it looks like it’s getting late. We have, at best, three hours of daylight.” Aramburuzabala tried to assert her authority. “Our first priority has to be locating the other survivors. Without the COM links, we have no choice but to search for them.” “This island is at least 200 square kilometers by my reckoning, and mostly covered with dense jungle vegetation,” Savagewood argued. “Searching for survivors would be a waste of time.” Warfighter Herrald offered an alternative. “We should make a camp, build a signal fire so the other survivors will know to come to us. The rescue ships will find us before morning anyway. In the meantime, we relax on the beach.” Aramburuzabala snarled at them, “I’m responsible for the lives of every other passenger on my ship. I am not going to wait here on the beach for someone else to find them. I’m the captain.” Herrald repeated, “Pegasus will be sending rescue ships, and it will be easier for them to locate the wreckage from the air than we can from the ground. Searching for survivors is a waste of our time.” “And energy,” Savagewood added. “Unless we can find a viable source of food, we’re going to get very hungry. But even more important is water. You can go weeks without food, but in this heat, you’ll suffer heatstroke within a day unless you can secure a water supply.” Savagewood pointed toward the dual mountaintops that were lost in purple-gray mist above the jungle canopy. “See those clouds. Those are rainclouds, and they’re pouring over the top of that mountain. That means there are streams, and also probably plants that will catch the moisture in their leaves. We’re going to need at least three liters per person per day. We’ll also have to boil the water to kill any micro-organisms…” “Nay, we have to locate the others, that is our priority,” Aramburuzabala argued.

  While they argued the merits of camping, versus searching, Atlantic sought out the shade at the edge of the beach, and let their voices recede into the background. It was markedly cooler here than in the open. He even caught a small fresh breeze that cooled the perspiration on the back of his neck.

  Flashback – It had gotten very late, very quickly on the planet of Winter colony. Atlantic had retreated to the courtyard beyond the ballroom where the Parliament Ball was swinging. He had just had an unpleasant encounter with one of the planet’s inhabitants, a man who had told him he was a beautiful boy, and then asked if he could kiss him. Only the memory of thirteen hours in Bodicean detention cell had deterred him from clocking the man with his right fist, but the incident had left him flushed and embarrassed. There was something about the man that Atlantic could not place, like a dark, cold shadow. Despite the alleged immortality of Winter’s inhabitants, Atlantic had a strong, remarkable feeling that the man was about to die.

  In the courtyard of Lord Tyronious’s manor, an array of outdoor lamps created halos of light in the falling snow. The chill air of the planet was bracing, and the act of taking it into his lungs felt like purification; as though the warm air from the ballroom, the shared breath of ancient and debauched people, was filtered out of his system and replaced by something natural and pure.

  As he was watching the snow fall on the cobblestones and statuary of the courtyard, a snowball smashed right into the back of his neck.

  He shook the snow off the back of his head and whirled furiously, preparing to return fire. Then, he heard a woman giggling at him. It was Brainiacsdaughter. “I nailed you!” she cried, and broke into a fit of giggles. She must have been lurking in the shadows close to the mansion, in the dark spaces between the windows.

  “Foul!” another voice admonished. Out of the shadows at the edge of the yard came the tall, athletic figure of Warfighter Johnny Rook. His cheeks were rosy from the chill of the night. Snow was in his hair. “You don’t attack bystanders.” Brainiacsdaughter responded only with additional giggling.

  “I apologize for her,” Rook said to Atlantic.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Brainiacsdaughter insisted. “It’s just a snowball.”

  “The fight’s over. Everyone else went back in. You should get inside, too,” Rook continued.

  “Aww…” she pouted. “That’s not fair.”

  “Once again, I apologize for her.” Rook put his arm around Brainiacsdaughter and led her back into the estate.

  Jerk, thought Atlantic. Then, something began spattering on his head.

  Atlantic snapped out of his reverie, feeling raindrops spattering against his forehead.
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br />   The sudden rain had caught the others by surprise as well, but it had temporarily settled the argument about remaining on the beach or searching for survivors. The imperative now was to find shelter.

  “Our best bet is to move away from the beach and into the jungle,” Savagewood told them, raising his voice above the rain, which was growing heavier. “Some of the rain will be caught in the trees, and if we’re lucky, we might find a cave or a hollow we can shelter in.” As they stepped under the jungle canopy, day became twilight, and the rain lessened at first. Herrald and Savagewood had found a sort of trail leading away from the beach, a thin dirt track about half a meter wide that meandered among the trees, probably from wildlife.

  A quarter hour after they entered the jungle, blue black clouds rolled over them, darkening the jungle, and pouring rain on them like the Armageddon had returned. Rain fell through the leaves in thick gray sheets that made it almost impossible for them to keep their eyes open. It was like walking through a car wash.

  “We need to find some shelter,” Aramburuzabala shouted.

  “Well duh,” Atlantic thought.

  Aramburuzabala gestured up the trail. “This thing I wear on my wrist says there might be some kind of shelter a few hundred meters ahead.”

  The rain fell even harder, and trail quickly became mud, and then a muddy stream that rushed around their ankles. They almost banged into the shelter before they saw it. Above them in the rain something was looming, like a stone silo with a tall metal mast sticking up out of it. There was a rusted metal door on the outside. Herrald pulled it open. Its rusty hinges slowly gave out a crunchy squeal. Inside, rain drizzled through a thousand holes in the roof.

  “What the hell is this place?” Aramburuzabala demanded.

  “Could be an old COM station or something,” Warfighter Herrald guessed. On one side of the room was an array of nine two-dimensional solid-state data display terminals attached to a trio of keyboard-operated processing units. “Glass screens,” he said tapping on the monitors.

  “Pre-holographic technology. Looks like these boxes have ancient electronic transistors in them.”

  “At least we don’t have to worry about fresh water,” Aramburuzabala said, wringing out her hair.

  Food and/or towels would be nice, Atlantic thought. He sought out the spot of the shelter where the least amount of rainwater was sieving through the roof and shook the rain out of his. Savagewood and Herrald went to work on the roof, patching it as best as they could with scraps of wood and plastic from the inside.

  “Didn’t we used to have a doctor?” Atlantic asked.

  Doctor Skinner was gone. No one remembered him following them into the jungle from the beach. Aramburuzabala went back out into the rain to find him, but soon recognized it would be futile and came back inside.

  The rain diminished after an hour or so. The sun descended rapidly and the sky, went from purple to indigo at its zenith and filled with lavender and pink in the east, before it all went dark and black.

  The air cooled in the night, and the insects arose. So, Savagewood and Atlantic set out to search for dry firewood. “Look for wood that was sheltered from the rain. Usually, it will be under other wood or brush,” Savagewood said.

  Atlantic was getting a little tired of his survival lectures. “I did pass survival training,” he reminded him.

  But Savagewood kept on. “The jungle wood on this planet is light and comes apart in shingles when cracked. Since we don’t have any pulse weapons, I’ll have to get a spark on it or ignite through friction.

  Atlantic dropped an armload of wood at the shelter, then returned to the jungle for more while Savagewood attempted to ignite it. The jungle was cleaner and cooler in the aftermath of the storm, although the trail was still slippery.

  A large iron-gray moon rose above the mountain peaks as night came on. Fallon’s nearest moon was only 21,000 kilometers from its surface at closest approach in its highly elliptical orbit. It looked close enough to skim the mountaintop, but gave off not much light.

  When Atlantic returned to the shelter, Savagewood had gotten a small fire going off to the side, and was ringing it with stones. Aramburuzabala had re-dressed, but Herrald remained stripped to his undergear. They had picked up the search-vs-camp argument where they had left off on the beach, and had moved onto a new line of argument without settling it.

  Savagewood had affixed the crystal from the Aves canopy to a long, straight stick. “We are going to need food. I suggest we hunt!”

  “Hunt?” Aramburuzabala exclaimed in astonishment. “You mean kill animals for food.”

  “That’s what hunting is,” Savagewood told her. “We’re going to need to eat. We’re going to need protein. If we starve, we die.”

  “There should be rescue parties here within hours,” Aramburuzabala protested, then recognizing she was contradicting her earlier position added. “And in any case, we can eat jungle fruit. This thing I wear on my wrist will tell me if it’s safe or not.” “I am not going to survive on native fruit,” Savagewood insisted. “It gives me the trots.”

  “I could go for some meat,” Herrald said.

  Savagewood smacked Herrald manfully on the arm. “Join me in the hunt, brother?”

  “Sounds good,” Herrald said.

  “You want to hunt right now?” Aramburuzabala was shocked. “It’s dark out.”

  “That’s when game is most active,” Savagewood stared hard at Atlantic, challenging him, suggesting his manhood would be compromised if he didn’t go into the jungle and kill something with them.

  “Wait!” Aramburuzabala protested. “We have to stay together. We have to cooperate in order to survive.”

  “No we don’t,” Savagewood argued. “The key to survival is finding enough food, water, and shelter to keep your vital signs going. Anything apart from that is a bonus.” “What about the doctor?” Aramburuzabala asked. “He’s still out there, somewhere.”

  “If we find him, we can lead him back to the shelter,” Herrald said. Savagewood issued a sort of snorting grunt, and it was difficult to tell if he agreed or disagreed.

  “Are you with us or not, Kyle?” Herrald challenged him out loud.

  “I’ll stay here,” Atlantic answered.

  “Suit yourself,” said Herrald. Savagewood picked up his spear, and they made for the door of the shelter.

  Aramburuzabala shouted. “I order you to come back here.” In unison, Savagewood and Herrald raised their left hands and made a sign intended to convey that the recipient enjoyed certain depraved reproductive activities. Then, they left, closing the rusty door behind them Which left Aramburuzabala with nothing but a stunned look on her face.

  “What now?” Atlantic asked.

  Aramburuzabala didn’t answer him at first, and when she did, her reply came back angry. “I guess we have to wait here until morning,” she said. “At first light, we’ll go out and find the others, beginning with the doctor.” Aramburuzabala repaired to a corner on the far side of the shelter. Atlantic rested on the floor, with his back against a wall of the shelter, watching the fire dance in its circle of stones. Tired now, and hungry, he activated the music implant in his skull, through the selections, and queued up several Auroran Hardcore tunes.

  He closed his eyes and let the music transport him.

  Back to Aurora

  Flashback – A rooftop music club in the heart of Nettwerk City. The same song had been playing, an insistent, animalistic drumbeat coupled with a throbbing bass rhythm that penetrated to his marrow.

  Sixty, or so, of the ship’s junior personnel were partying with a couple of thousand Aurorans 220

  meters above street level. The city beyond was a geometrically-arranged galaxy of yellow, red, and orange light. The skies above undulated between purple and green.

  Atlantic had been drinking something sweet and mildly hallucinogenic as he watched Specialist Brainiacsdaughter dance with Johnny Rook. In the three years after he had first seen her on the beach
at Eden-World, he had become a junior helmsman, had been at the controls some months earlier when Pegasus had been nearly destroyed by the defensive systems of one of the galaxy’s last StarLocks. He had gone out with two other girls in that time, but they were lesser than Brainiacsdaughter.

  On the dance-floor, her dress, a bright white slit-skirt, flowed and danced around her like veils in the wind, as she quickly picked up the movements of a lewd and lascivious Auroran dance. The warfighter matched her movements with his own, a beat and a half behind.

  “I think that couple over there is having carnal relations,” said one of the other junior officers, Shoshona Baron-Saturday, a female Republicker in the Technical Core.

  “Actually, there’s three of them,” said another junior officer, Mersey Raindrummer, a Sapphirean male. “It’s a man and a woman, but I’m not quite sure what the third one is.” A lithe dancer, whose pale body was naked except for a layer of purple glitter and completely shaven of every hair, minced over to their table. “Hi, people of the stars and distant worlds. I’m a smoothie…” “I can see that,” said Mersey.

  “Are you having the most amazing time ever in your lives?” asked the smoothie.

  Atlantic didn’t hear the reply, because at that moment Johnny Rook and Specialist Brainiacsdaughter left the dance floor, and he lost sight of them as they mounted a spiral staircase to another part of the bar.

  Atlantic had wandered over to the observation rail and looked over the city, the obscene neon displays and multi-story high-definition hardcore pornography that was displayed on the sides of its skyscrapers, and he wondered if he threw himself over the side if he would be lofted up by the stiff winds that blew between the buildings or if he would fall dead onto the street, bathed in the peculiar red glow of the city’s lower levels.

  “Is this Hell?” he had muttered aloud.

  “Excuse me?” giggled someone standing next to him. He turned and it was Brainiacsdaughter.

  He must have stood there looking at her with a stunned expression on his face. “What was that you said about ‘Hell’” she repeated with a curious smile.