James Wittenbach - Worlds Apart 08

by Hellfire

  There were two trails of footprints in the snow besides his and Commander Keeler’s. One belonging to a tall warfighter, and the other to a girl with sparkling eyes, an upturned nose, and the most perfect set of tits he had ever seen.

  It was then Atlantic realized with a horrifying finality that he was never going to see Specialist Brainiacsdaughter again.

  When he came out of his reverie, he found himself alone on the trail. Aramburuzabala was no where to be seen. Atlantic thought she must have gotten ahead of him on the trail, and quickened his pace.

  As he followed a turn on the trail, he looked up to see a woman standing at the edge of the path ahead, between the jungle and the beach. She wearing an Odyssey Project jacket. It had to be either Aramburuzabala or one of the survivors. Atlantic began running toward her.

  The woman turned toward him and smiled. He stopped in his tracks.

  She looked just like Specialist Brainiacsdaughter.

  “Mr. Atlantic, I presume,” said a voice beside him, startling him.

  Atlantic turned to see Doctor Skinner standing next to him.

  “What?” he said. He turned back, but Specialist Brainiacsdaughter was gone.

  Was I just dreaming? He wondered.

  “And how does this wonderful morning find you?” Skinner persisted. His silver mane of hair looked a little disheveled, but his eyes really put Atlantic off. They seemed to be looking at him from some place far away.

  “I just saw Specialist Brainiacsdaughter,” Atlantic said.

  “And how is she this fine morning?” Skinner asked.

  Atlantic said, “There’s no one here, but us.”

  “That isn’t quite true,” Skinner told him. “That isn’t true at all, in fact. You’re here, I’m here, mean old Mr. Sun is here…”

  Atlantic struggled. Perhaps the sun, the heat, had confused his mind. “Where… you disappeared… where did you go? Where have you been?”

  Skinner grinned, “Oh, around and about, about and around. I needed to get away from myself for a while, and it’s done me no end of good. And I’ve made a new friend. He has told me many things about this island. He’s lived here for a very long time.” “You met a native?” Atlantic asked him. If there were natives, maybe they would have food and shelter.

  Skinner pulled a yellow wood log out from behind him. It was, maybe, two-thirds of a meter long and thick as a man’s calf. Skinner stroked the log gently. “My log says they’re alive. They’re all alive.” “Who?” Atlantic asked, hoping he was still dreaming. He hoped, but he was pretty sure he was really awake now.

  “Why the others, of course,” Skinner said.

  “What others?” Atlantic persisted.

  “Don’t be silly, there were twenty-five other people on that Aves besides the two of us.

  The five of us landed here, the twenty two-of them in another place.” Skinner stroked his wood again and pressed the log to his ear. “My log says there are other people on this island, also, others besides the others. Do you want to know how to find them?” Atlantic felt himself nodding. He supposed his survival instinct was kicking in, and he didn’t want to risk offending Dr. Skinner … or his log.

  Skinner pointed. “Up there, where the mountain divides into a pair of identical summits.” He pointed toward the middle of the island. Above the foliage of the jungle rose a pair of nearly identical volcanic cones. “Up there,” Skinner repeated.

  Up there was some place Atlantic did not want to go. Not with several kilometers of probable jungle monster between him and it. He suddenly wanted Doctor Skinner to go away and Brainiacsdaughter to come back.

  In the moment, this didn’t seem like an irrational thought.

  “My log says you want me to leave now,” Skinner said. “I can understand. Also, I don’t have any particular desire to stay here. But consider this, 50,000 years ago this world was already here, spinning around its sun, oceans washing the shore of this island. Do you ever think of that? My log thinks of that.”

  Then, Skinner turned and walked back into the jungle. Atlantic did not feel like he should go after him. He looked again toward the summits of the middle island. He had an odd feeling, like he was looking at a familiar landscape from a new angle. And then Atlantic realized … almost mid-way up the side of one of the peaks, he could see something. He could definitely see something.

  He ran back down the trail toward the beach. Aramburuzabala had gotten ahead of him, and was resting at the edge of the jungle. “Where did you go, I was alone,” Aramburuzabala demanded of him.

  “I saw the Doctor,” Atlantic explained.

  “Where?” Aramburuzabala asked anxiously.

  “Back in the jungle,” Atlantic pointed back down the trail. “He was talking to a log, he’s gone. I have to show you something.”

  He led her down the trail to the beach, where he had a clearer view of the peaks. .

  “Up there,” he grabbed her good arm and pointed it to the cliff top, so she could focus her vision on her finger tip. Something was glinting from the side of the mountain, making a metal flash as the morning sunlight hit it. Atlantic sharpened his vision. The white and silver shape resolved and enhanced itself.

  “One of our Accipiters!” Aramburuzabala exclaimed.

  “Aye,” Atlantic said.

  Aramburuzabala wiped her forehead, and a look of renewed determination came to her eyes. “If that can fly, we could use it to find the other survivors. Even if it doesn’t fly, we could access the COM Link and send a distress signal to Pegasus.” Sure, we can, Atlantic thought, but it had also occurred to him that between them and the Accipiter was a stretch of jungle filled with whatever he had seen from the tower the previous night. “What about the jungle monsters?” he warned.

  “That was just the wind moving the trees,” Aramburuzabala said, and Atlantic sensed that she had convinced herself of this. He didn’t think it had been wind last night. “We need to get to that Accipiter.” “We’ll never reach it today,” Atlantic argued, leaving her to figure out the implication that spending a night in the jungle was not desirable.

  “It’s too late to start yesterday,” she chuckled as though she had said something really clever. “With a little speed and a little luck, we can at least be above the tree-line by tonight.

  Let’s find a trail.”

  Atlantic looked at the jungle, looming dark and dangerous, and he had no desire to go any deeper into it that they already had. Aramburuzabala seemed to have no reservations, but just began walking into the dark trees. Reluctantly, he pushed into the brush, with a sense of foreboding that something terrible was going to happen to them.

  “C’mon Kyle,” she said. “We can do this.”

  Flashback -“C’mon Kyle, we can do this.” Trajan Lear assured him. “Line up your approach against the opening in the rear, and just slide it right down the chute.” They were in the cockpit of the Aves Phoenix. Pegasus had been in the Orion Quadrant for over a year, but had not yet found a colony to contact. Restless, Atlantic had signed up for Flight Core.

  He thought this would ease his boredom, and maybe help shake the ennui that had the grasp of him.

  This simulated drill dealt with landing on Pegasus with minimal assist from the automatic landing system.

  Atlantic took a deep breath, and guided the virtual Aves toward the virtual back-end of Pegasus.

  “Whoa, not so fast,” Lear cautioned him. “You need to take it a little slow at first, until you get used to it.” “This is my first time,” Atlantic reminded him.

  “It’s rough at first, but after a while, you’ll get used to it,” Trajan Lear assured him. “Now, ease off and align the head of your ship into the open slot. I know it looks like a tight fit, but you’ll feel better once you’re inside.” Atlantic took a deep breath and focused. This was decidedly more painful than the oral exam had been.

  “It’ll go in easier if you don’t force it,” Trajan Lear told him. “Just ease it in. I’ve done this scores of times.” “I
don’t feel right about this,” Atlantic said.

  Trajan Lear tried to reassure him. “When Flight Captain Driver broke me in, I didn’t think I would ever be slick enough for this kind of thing. You’ve just got to grit your teeth and get through it, no matter how painful it gets. Think about groundball, if it helps. You know, guiding the ship like a groundball through the goalzone.” Atlantic was trying to concentrate, but his neural interlink with Phoenix was still telling him he was outside the zone for safe penetration.

  “I’m not trying to be hard on you,” Trajan warned him. “But if don’t do this right, you can splatter all over the inside of the tunnel. And no one wants that.” Clouds were gathering rapidly when they reached a spot beneath the ledge the Accipiter had come to rest on. On one side of them, a stream rushed over some rocks on its way to the sea. On the other there was a sort of cave carved out by erosion from a hollow in the cleft of some tall rocks. “We should make camp here,” Aramburuzabala decided. “The rain is going to start soon. Gather up some firewood.” From a bunker to a cave, Atlantic thought. It did begin to rain, but it was a shower, and it passed quickly. He activated his music chip, and set out to spend as much time as possible away from Aramburuzabala. He walked into the jungle, gathering up dry dead branches and sticks as he went. The dry vegetation made his skin itch, and he was regularly assaulted by swarms of tiny purple bugs. But worst of all, he had the creepiest feeling that someone was in the jungle with him, watching him.

  He set down his first armload of dry vegetation, shooed away the flies with his hands, and looked around for more wood. As he stepped forward, he swore he heard someone walking behind him. He whirled around but found himself alone in the trees.

  He thought he saw a shadow moving behind him, but when he whipped around he saw nothing.

  The music chip, at that moment, suddenly deactivated. Instead, his head was filled with a buzzing of overlapping voices, repeating strange things.

  “There isone more thing, it’s very important.” “Have some more pork.” “Everyone gets to be confused at least some of the time” “I said it’s very i m

  p

  o

  r

  t

  a

  n

  t

  .

  Y

  o

  u

  h

  a

  v

  e

  t

  o

  s

  a

  v

  e

  t

  h

  e

  C

  h

  i

  l

  d

  r

  e

  n

  o

  f

  G

  e

  t

  h

  s

  e

  m

  a

  n

  e

  .

  ”

  “

  G

  o

  d

  b

  l

  e

  s

  s

  y

  o

  u

  r

  c

  o

  t

  t

  o

  n

  s

  o

  c

  k

  s

  !

  ”

  He turned around again.

  Standing on the path was a black cloud in the shape of some sort of creature.

  It buzzed and snapped at him.

  He turned and ran. And also wet his pants.

  A black cloud that seemed to be made up of millions of buzzing black flies formed up behind him, then became a shape… a shape like some terrible monster lizard. It roared, making exactly the noise Atlantic had heard, after the storm, last night in the forest.

  And it was so fast…

  Atlantic ran blindly through the jungle, and he could hear it roaring behind him. He did not look back, but he could sense it giving chase to him. Wet leaves and vines snapped against his arms, face, and legs.

  Finally, a vine caught his ankles, and pitched him sprawling on the wet sandy jungle floor. He rolled over and looked up. And as he looked up, he screamed.

  There, atop a large pike driven into the ground, was the horrible looking head of a pig-like animal with tentacles hanging from its snout. Flies buzzed around it and in the heat of the jungle afternoon, it gave off a horrible rotting stench.

  Next to the mounted pig’s head stood Technician Savagewood. He wore pants and boots, but nothing above the waist. His bare chest and face were obscured by red and black war paint. Herrald stood next to him, still naked, painted half blue and half black. Both had large black circles surrounding their eyes.

  “Hey, Beautiful, how’s it going?” Herrald greeted him, extending an arm to Atlantic and helping him up.

  “Did you see the creature that was chasing me?” Atlantic asked.

  “There was nothing chasing you,” Herrald explained to him.

  ““There was a creature chasing me. It was one of the creatures I saw from the metal tower.” He scanned the trail behind him. Of the smoky creature that had chased him, there was no sign.

  “Wanna wrestle in the mud?” Herrald asked him.

  “Neg.”

  “No problem. Just putting it out there,” Herrald grinned, his naked body was glistening with sweat and rainwater. “Have you ever walked naked through the pouring rain? It’s like nature is kissing every inch of your body.” “What’s the meaning of this?” Atlantic gestured toward the pig’s head.

  Savagewood grunted a non-reply. Herrald offered that “It could be symbolic of any number of things, but mainly, we were bored.”

  “Bored,” Savagewood grunted in agreement.

  “It’s a bad business, being bored,” Herrald went on.

  Atlantic wanted to tell the both of them they were out of their minds, but their sharp pointy spears … and the fact that they probably were out of their minds… made him think better of it. “I … better get back to Flight Lieutenant Aramburuzabala. It’s not safe out here alone. There’s some kind of monster out here.” “Let’s kill him,” Savagewood suggested.

  “Kill the monster?” Herrald asked.

  Savagewood shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Where’s your camp?” Herrald asked.

  “The cave in the stream at the base of the rocks, I’ll show you…” Herrald shook his head. “No need. We’ll find it.”

  Savagewood pulled Atlantic very close to him. “I can smell you,” he hissed.

  They stared at each other a few minutes longer, then Savagewood and Herrald moved back along the trail.

  Carefully, his senses on red alert lest they return, Atlantic gathered another armload of wood and made his way to the campsite.

  As night came to the island again, Atlantic stared at the fire he had made in front of the shallow cave in which he and Flight Lieutenant Aramburuzabala were sheltering. The rains had come and gone again, but this time they at least had a fire to dry themselves.

  “I am so hungry,” Aramburuzabala told him.

  “Didn’t you find anything with that thing you wear on your wrist?” Atlantic asked. He too, was very hungry. His stomach had diminished to a hard knot, and he was aching from lack of food.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “There’s some fruit on the vines, but its unripe, and if we ate it, the alkaloids inside would reduce us to cramps within minutes. Later… death.” Atlantic shook his head. “I’m so hungry I could eat a plate of Eddie Roebuck’s ‘Deep-Fried Parts of Formerly Living Things.’”

  “There might be some edible worms in the soil,” Aramburuzabala suggested.

  “That’s starting to sound good,” Atlantic conceded. “Where the Hell is Pegasus?”

  “Something must be wrong if they can’t find us,” said Aramburuzabala. “Maybe whateve
r knocked us out of the sky destroyed Pegasus as well, or…” “We’ve had this conversation,” Atlantic snapped at her.

  She was silent for a moment, then she moved closer to him in the firelight. “Are you scared, Kyle?”

  “Kyle?” he thought. She unbuttoned her flight jacket and guided his hand to her supple breasts. She put her arms around him and began to stroke his chest and breathe heavily on him. “We all get scared… we all get so very… very scared sometimes. It is all right to be scared.” Just when Atlantic didn’t think it could get any weirder, Specialist Savagewood emerged from the jungle with the carcass of a dead pig slung over his shoulder. He plopped it down next to the fire. “Food!” he explained. “Meat,” he explained more specifically.

  “You killed that?” Aramburuzabala asked, quickly redoing the front of her uniform.

  Savagewood offered a guttural and savage affirmation. He then held out the weapons he had crafted from a sturdy stick and some sharp pieces of debris from the ship.

  Atlantic beheld the dead animal on the ground. He didn’t care that Savagewood had killed it, he was overtaken by the primal need to get meat in his belly. Aramburuzabala was eying it hungrily as well.

  “I give meat,” Savagewood said. “We take woman.”

  Atlantic looked to Aramburuzabala. “This woman?”

  “Ungh, want woman,” Savagewood repeated.

  And then, Atlantic felt a sharp pain on the back of his head, as though Herrald had snuck up from behind him with a big rock and smashed him where his skull met his neck.

  Which is exactly what had happened.

  The Island – Day 3

  Atlantic dreamt he was on board a Pathfinder ship, in a landing bay that had been reconfigured into a strange inhabitation matrix. Cargo containers were locked in a kind of metal framework, stacked three high. Each one had been made into quarters for one family or two crewmen.

  He was looking for the one where Specialist Brainiacsdaughter was waiting for him. He was going to tell her…

  He knew which one she was in, but every time he turned the corner he came upon a row of inhabitations that was wrong.