Original Writing II: Electric Boogaloo
This is mostly the same as the last copy I threw up, but it's been edited a bit and I've added a tad more to the end. Thanks to teal_deer for the comments, suggestions and bit of help editing. Couple ways I can go with this from here, so I'm always interested in feedback.
At first, there is no indication that anything is wrong. There is no dramatic blaring of alarms, no traumatic hiss of escaping air or the ear-shattering roar of an explosion. There is only the slow blinking of a light that should be steady, a minor fault of the electronic and he extends a hand to tap the console, hoping to jar the loose diode back into place. That it is nothing more than a minor fault in the system. Nothing has gone wrong before. Not in any of the missions that he has been on to other systems, other faraway worlds and suns.
The first sign of trouble, serious trouble, comes when the thrusters on one side of his craft fail to fire. He remains calm, remembers his training; mission control is bleating in his ears as he tears the panel free, searches for the loose connection, as his craft slowly rolls through the great void of space. He has time, all the time in the world, his mind tells him, as fingers splice together wires, search for the one that has gone wrong. He depresses the button; nothing happens.
A cool, calm, collected and altogether artificial voice (a woman's) repeats the same words over and over again, never varying her tone. Fault. Fault. Fault. Abort. Abort. Abort.
He seizes the controls, tries to wrestle the craft around; he is heading for the planet he was meant to survey ahead of control and the mother-ship (the only home he has ever known). That same cool, voice beginning to call out warning after warning as he tumbles toward the atmosphere. Again, he plunges his hands into the mess of wires and tubes and equipment, attempting to bring something, anything out of this disaster.
He thinks of home, of the people he will leave behind. Another funeral without a body. Another empty berth and life will move on for the survivors. He will be remembered and then forgotten. Another name on the wall of those that gave their lives for the mothership and the promise of new worlds.
He squeezes the controls again and this time thrusters fire. Not nearly enough to boost him free of the gravity well, but enough to adjust his entry angle. That gives him the small consolation of knowing that at least he won't fry (and if the heat shielding holds, explode, either). The impact will probably kill him instead. A thousand pieces spread out over kilometers of planet.
Control vanishes in a squeal of static as the craft hits the atmosphere and the little scout vessel rocks as it's buffeted and beyond the viewport, he can see the hull heating as it streaks through the sky. He remembers his training again; what to do in case of an emergency ditch (silly to teach them this; most of the planets they scout are dead and lifeless, nothing more but barren rocks too far or too close to the sun). But he remembers that this time, there was a streak of green and brown and blue.
Maybe he has a chance.
He fires the thrusters again as the ship begins to slow, friction and air resistance doing their work. The ship is still out of his control and the vast surface of the planet fills his vision as he hurtles to earth. Another squeeze of the thrusters, his body presses back into the acceleration chair and he strains to slap the emergency chute.
There's a jerk as it deploys and then the craft tumbles as it's torn free. He feels himself jerked against his restraints and he can't quite reach-
The inflatable pads meant to ease the impact are out. One last shot before he ends up so much jelly on the inside of the little capsule he has called his own for years and his father before him. And his grandfather before that.
The reserve chutes finally go and with one last jerk, he is falling slower, slower-
The craft smashes into the ground and tumbles. A control panel slams into the side of his skull and lights flash in front of his eyes as the capsule rolls and tumbles and crashes through rock and dirt. It continues digging a furrow, until it finally comes to rest.
He cannot believe he is alive. The pilot checks himself for injuries and (miraculously), finds only scrapes and bumps and bruises (and what he suspects may be a concussion). He unstraps himself; there is still fuel aboard, possibly leaking. He clambers through wreckage and the remains of what was once a brave little ship. He double-checks the seals on his suit - and then crawls out of the twisted little ship, swinging the airlock shut behind him, and waits.
It seems an eternity before it swings open.
Outside, it is dark; it is night. There are no familiar lights and no sounds inside of his helmet aside from his own labored breathing. Control has long since gone and the only thing in his ear is static. He looks down, raising the visor of his suit as he clambers awkwardly out of the trench his ruined craft dug. His limbs feel far too heavy.
He is startled to realize that there are plants beneath him. And he finally recognizes the little readout in his helmet that indicates the atmosphere seems safe. Relatively. He reaches up, removes the helmet with a hiss; takes a breath. It is not like the air on the mothership. It is different. With a scent that is not oil or plastic or anything that he recognizes. It is soil and grass and smell of moisture in the air.
He looks up to a sky full of stars, a sea of light and void stretching away to the horizon.
---
His father would not have crashed, he feels (although he knows the thought is irrational). His father would have saved the valiant little ship, that little capsule, that had been in the care of his family for so long. For a long him he sits on the edge of the crater and the path that his pod has dug through the earth, staring at the cooling wreckage. He feels ashamed, although he knows it was not truly his fault. Perhaps not even the fault of his ground-crew, who are always so thorough, so caring for the tiny machine. Simply a mechanical error. A one in a million chance.
Finally, he shakes himself free of his self-imposed stupor. He cannot sit here forever. For the first time he takes in his surroundings, illuminated by stars and the pale moon overhead. His attention is caught by a line of trees just on the edge of his sight, away on the edge of this meadow where he's been brought to ground. For a moment he simply stares; he has only seen trees in pictures and vids. He is seized by the urge to see them up close, to stand underneath the branches and really look and see for the first time. He begins to walk and his limbs feel heavy, weighed down. He tries to take one of the large, bounding strides he's used to, to gently glide his way through the air and finds that his body seems to weigh more, that he cannot move with the same practiced ease that he is used to. It disturbs him. Is this what living planetside would do to him? To his friends and family? Would they become slow and heavy?
But it is still a world. It is still one that gives life, so different from the empty, dust-swept surfaces they've encountered or the burning heat or frozen wastelands. Different from the stately, giant balls of gas that help fuel their journey to a planet such as this. There is so much life, even in the darkness. He can hear insects, the faint rustling of smaller creatures in the bushes and occasional distant call of a bird (he has heard such calls before, ancient recordings played back so they would remember where it was they came from).
He flexes his legs and frowns at the feeling of weight again and then stares up at the night sky; he catches sight of a distant, moving star. He watches for a moment, squinting as he follows its pace across the arc of the sky. She would be worried for him, he knew. She would wonder if he had survived, might have caught a glimpse of the burning wreck of his ship as it shot through the sky like a meteor. Although, he is sure the beacon will be sending the constant signal - I am here, I am here, I am here, I am here - into the void. But that will not tell her (them) he lives, after all. Just that the transponder has survived the impact. They will find him. Eventually.
And they would stay.
Once again, the trees catch his attention and he remembers his purpose, feeling almost giddy, like a child. It takes him longer than he expects to get there. When he reaches them, he finds more than one or two of the plants, but a whole grove and for a moment, he simply stares up at them in silent awe and reverence, before he finally lifts a gloved hand and runs it slowly over the wrinkled, rough surface. He can only feel some of the texture through the heavy glove of his suit, but it is enough. At some point, he begins to cry tears of wonder and joy and relief.
He is alive, he is alive, he is alive and he has found something rare and beautiful.
---
His sense of wonder is dimmed, but not quite extinguished, when he remembers he must spend at least one night on the surface. The mothership is at least two or three days behind him and the other scouts. Maybe more. And their scouting craft are designed to hold two or three people at most and cannot lift off from the gravity well of this planet on their own. Even the larger control ship of the scouting force won't be able to get to him. Not yet. No, there will be no rescue for some time.
He has his rations and the emergency kit, although before now, any crash landing on a planet would most likely have meant instant death for the unfortunate soul. At least his suit, bulky though it is, keeps him warm and dry. He makes camp (if it can be called that) in the grove of trees and slurps down one of his nutrient packs. A cool breeze runs over the stubble on his scalp and he shivers as he shifts against the tree. It is a strange experience. The temperature at home is carefully maintained and monitered. Even in the scout craft, his suit and life support systems kept him comfortable. This is new, different, alien.
He is not sure he likes it.
The next morning, he awakens to a bright, yellow star rising over the horizon. A sun and a young one, one which will give this planet life for billions of years to come. Perhaps it will make a good home for his people one day (although the idea of living on the surface like this permanently is a disturbing one; he still feels too heavy and weighed down, not like the easy motions of home).
He shouldn't stray far from the wreck; that is how they'll find him when they come for him. But even so, the suit is heavy and bulky, strapped with life support equipment, meant to be worn in the weightlessness of space, not the heavy gravity well of a planet. So, reluctantly, he removes it. For now. The jumpsuit underneath is more comfortable, but he feels strangely vulnerable. He is meant to wear it at all times when there is a possibility of exposure, but here...
Here, he can feel sunlight on his skin, he can feel the breeze. There is no encroaching void (to which they all must ultimately return). No harm in removing it. Is there? He has a few days at least, with which to explore the area - a recon mission! He is still a scout, after all, and he must have some information to bring back, mustn't he?
He's quite pleased with his idea. It gives him an excuse to walk. So he does, examining trees and rocks, listening to the sounds of wildlife (sounds he had only heard in recordings). The pilot spends an hour or two simply meandering between trees and minutes staring at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds that slowly roll past overhead. Truly, this planet is a paradise. He tires after a time and pauses to rest, slurping down a mouthful of nutrient past and sip of water.
Water.
He'll need more, eventually. The emergency supplies will last him a week at most. His suit can recycle his own waste for a while, but that is not an option he wishes to contemplate; experiencing a few days of that during his upbringing and induction to the rank of pilot was enough for him. He will secure more.
From his education and lessons, he knows that water occurs naturally on life-giving planets, that it flows in rivers and streams. But it must be purified first. Fortunately, the emergency kit contains one. Not that he ever expected to use it (for who would survive a crash landing from orbit). He retraces his steps, breathing a bit labored. This gravity will be the death of him where the crash was not, he thinks ruefully to himself. Would that not be an ironic end for an explorer and scout and pilot? To die from exhaustion having been the first to set foot on a life-giving world?
A pleasant thought.
He retrieves the filter; surely, there must be a stream or creek nearby. He listens intently, searches - and after ten or fifteen minutes, he comes upon a creek running in a little dip between two hills. And there is something else, something that catches his attention. A dirt track has been cut through the trees and grass and hills, covered in small stones and patched here and there by the grass that seems to grow everywhere on this planet. He stoops to examine it, letting the dusty pebbles run through his fingers.
What cut this path? He wonders. He searches his memory for anything that might explain it and finally remembers a lesson from his days in school. That back and back and back, long before, his people had lived on a planet and they had cut roads so they could walk or ride and travel in between communities.
He is pleased with himself until the full implication of his discovery hits him. His curiosity overrides his sense of caution and he trots off down the road, following it. His limbs are adjusting to the strange new feeling of weight and heaviness about them by now and it's not as hard or as tiring, but still an effort. He tries to keep track of time as he walks, looking at the clear blue sky overhead. The sun has moved a few degrees when he sees the first sigh of habitation.
The road branches off toward a small, wooden building. It looks run down and the path leading up to it is overgrown. Even if he doesn't have much experience, he can still tell that this house hasn't been cared for in some time. He approaches cautiously, a solitary figure picking his way through the grass and weeds.
The door hangs open, swaying slightly in the breeze that comes rolling in. It's quiet. Inside, everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Utensils, gray, monotone pictures of strange beings wearing stranger clothing. Cups and plates and glasses all still arranged neatly in cupboards. A large, hulking device set against one wall with a series of knobs and dials on the front. He examines it curiously and cautiously twists one of the knobs.
There is some resistance and then a 'click'. A loud hiss of static fills the room and he jumps back, startled. A receiver of some sort, then. He tries one of the dials, watching the little analog readout move back and forth as he searches for a station. On one, he finds a steady, repeating tone over and over again. On another, distant speech, unintelligible, fading in and out as the signal weakens.
At first, there is no indication that anything is wrong. There is no dramatic blaring of alarms, no traumatic hiss of escaping air or the ear-shattering roar of an explosion. There is only the slow blinking of a light that should be steady, a minor fault of the electronic and he extends a hand to tap the console, hoping to jar the loose diode back into place. That it is nothing more than a minor fault in the system. Nothing has gone wrong before. Not in any of the missions that he has been on to other systems, other faraway worlds and suns.
The first sign of trouble, serious trouble, comes when the thrusters on one side of his craft fail to fire. He remains calm, remembers his training; mission control is bleating in his ears as he tears the panel free, searches for the loose connection, as his craft slowly rolls through the great void of space. He has time, all the time in the world, his mind tells him, as fingers splice together wires, search for the one that has gone wrong. He depresses the button; nothing happens.
A cool, calm, collected and altogether artificial voice (a woman's) repeats the same words over and over again, never varying her tone. Fault. Fault. Fault. Abort. Abort. Abort.
He seizes the controls, tries to wrestle the craft around; he is heading for the planet he was meant to survey ahead of control and the mother-ship (the only home he has ever known). That same cool, voice beginning to call out warning after warning as he tumbles toward the atmosphere. Again, he plunges his hands into the mess of wires and tubes and equipment, attempting to bring something, anything out of this disaster.
He thinks of home, of the people he will leave behind. Another funeral without a body. Another empty berth and life will move on for the survivors. He will be remembered and then forgotten. Another name on the wall of those that gave their lives for the mothership and the promise of new worlds.
He squeezes the controls again and this time thrusters fire. Not nearly enough to boost him free of the gravity well, but enough to adjust his entry angle. That gives him the small consolation of knowing that at least he won't fry (and if the heat shielding holds, explode, either). The impact will probably kill him instead. A thousand pieces spread out over kilometers of planet.
Control vanishes in a squeal of static as the craft hits the atmosphere and the little scout vessel rocks as it's buffeted and beyond the viewport, he can see the hull heating as it streaks through the sky. He remembers his training again; what to do in case of an emergency ditch (silly to teach them this; most of the planets they scout are dead and lifeless, nothing more but barren rocks too far or too close to the sun). But he remembers that this time, there was a streak of green and brown and blue.
Maybe he has a chance.
He fires the thrusters again as the ship begins to slow, friction and air resistance doing their work. The ship is still out of his control and the vast surface of the planet fills his vision as he hurtles to earth. Another squeeze of the thrusters, his body presses back into the acceleration chair and he strains to slap the emergency chute.
There's a jerk as it deploys and then the craft tumbles as it's torn free. He feels himself jerked against his restraints and he can't quite reach-
The inflatable pads meant to ease the impact are out. One last shot before he ends up so much jelly on the inside of the little capsule he has called his own for years and his father before him. And his grandfather before that.
The reserve chutes finally go and with one last jerk, he is falling slower, slower-
The craft smashes into the ground and tumbles. A control panel slams into the side of his skull and lights flash in front of his eyes as the capsule rolls and tumbles and crashes through rock and dirt. It continues digging a furrow, until it finally comes to rest.
He cannot believe he is alive. The pilot checks himself for injuries and (miraculously), finds only scrapes and bumps and bruises (and what he suspects may be a concussion). He unstraps himself; there is still fuel aboard, possibly leaking. He clambers through wreckage and the remains of what was once a brave little ship. He double-checks the seals on his suit - and then crawls out of the twisted little ship, swinging the airlock shut behind him, and waits.
It seems an eternity before it swings open.
Outside, it is dark; it is night. There are no familiar lights and no sounds inside of his helmet aside from his own labored breathing. Control has long since gone and the only thing in his ear is static. He looks down, raising the visor of his suit as he clambers awkwardly out of the trench his ruined craft dug. His limbs feel far too heavy.
He is startled to realize that there are plants beneath him. And he finally recognizes the little readout in his helmet that indicates the atmosphere seems safe. Relatively. He reaches up, removes the helmet with a hiss; takes a breath. It is not like the air on the mothership. It is different. With a scent that is not oil or plastic or anything that he recognizes. It is soil and grass and smell of moisture in the air.
He looks up to a sky full of stars, a sea of light and void stretching away to the horizon.
---
His father would not have crashed, he feels (although he knows the thought is irrational). His father would have saved the valiant little ship, that little capsule, that had been in the care of his family for so long. For a long him he sits on the edge of the crater and the path that his pod has dug through the earth, staring at the cooling wreckage. He feels ashamed, although he knows it was not truly his fault. Perhaps not even the fault of his ground-crew, who are always so thorough, so caring for the tiny machine. Simply a mechanical error. A one in a million chance.
Finally, he shakes himself free of his self-imposed stupor. He cannot sit here forever. For the first time he takes in his surroundings, illuminated by stars and the pale moon overhead. His attention is caught by a line of trees just on the edge of his sight, away on the edge of this meadow where he's been brought to ground. For a moment he simply stares; he has only seen trees in pictures and vids. He is seized by the urge to see them up close, to stand underneath the branches and really look and see for the first time. He begins to walk and his limbs feel heavy, weighed down. He tries to take one of the large, bounding strides he's used to, to gently glide his way through the air and finds that his body seems to weigh more, that he cannot move with the same practiced ease that he is used to. It disturbs him. Is this what living planetside would do to him? To his friends and family? Would they become slow and heavy?
But it is still a world. It is still one that gives life, so different from the empty, dust-swept surfaces they've encountered or the burning heat or frozen wastelands. Different from the stately, giant balls of gas that help fuel their journey to a planet such as this. There is so much life, even in the darkness. He can hear insects, the faint rustling of smaller creatures in the bushes and occasional distant call of a bird (he has heard such calls before, ancient recordings played back so they would remember where it was they came from).
He flexes his legs and frowns at the feeling of weight again and then stares up at the night sky; he catches sight of a distant, moving star. He watches for a moment, squinting as he follows its pace across the arc of the sky. She would be worried for him, he knew. She would wonder if he had survived, might have caught a glimpse of the burning wreck of his ship as it shot through the sky like a meteor. Although, he is sure the beacon will be sending the constant signal - I am here, I am here, I am here, I am here - into the void. But that will not tell her (them) he lives, after all. Just that the transponder has survived the impact. They will find him. Eventually.
And they would stay.
Once again, the trees catch his attention and he remembers his purpose, feeling almost giddy, like a child. It takes him longer than he expects to get there. When he reaches them, he finds more than one or two of the plants, but a whole grove and for a moment, he simply stares up at them in silent awe and reverence, before he finally lifts a gloved hand and runs it slowly over the wrinkled, rough surface. He can only feel some of the texture through the heavy glove of his suit, but it is enough. At some point, he begins to cry tears of wonder and joy and relief.
He is alive, he is alive, he is alive and he has found something rare and beautiful.
---
His sense of wonder is dimmed, but not quite extinguished, when he remembers he must spend at least one night on the surface. The mothership is at least two or three days behind him and the other scouts. Maybe more. And their scouting craft are designed to hold two or three people at most and cannot lift off from the gravity well of this planet on their own. Even the larger control ship of the scouting force won't be able to get to him. Not yet. No, there will be no rescue for some time.
He has his rations and the emergency kit, although before now, any crash landing on a planet would most likely have meant instant death for the unfortunate soul. At least his suit, bulky though it is, keeps him warm and dry. He makes camp (if it can be called that) in the grove of trees and slurps down one of his nutrient packs. A cool breeze runs over the stubble on his scalp and he shivers as he shifts against the tree. It is a strange experience. The temperature at home is carefully maintained and monitered. Even in the scout craft, his suit and life support systems kept him comfortable. This is new, different, alien.
He is not sure he likes it.
The next morning, he awakens to a bright, yellow star rising over the horizon. A sun and a young one, one which will give this planet life for billions of years to come. Perhaps it will make a good home for his people one day (although the idea of living on the surface like this permanently is a disturbing one; he still feels too heavy and weighed down, not like the easy motions of home).
He shouldn't stray far from the wreck; that is how they'll find him when they come for him. But even so, the suit is heavy and bulky, strapped with life support equipment, meant to be worn in the weightlessness of space, not the heavy gravity well of a planet. So, reluctantly, he removes it. For now. The jumpsuit underneath is more comfortable, but he feels strangely vulnerable. He is meant to wear it at all times when there is a possibility of exposure, but here...
Here, he can feel sunlight on his skin, he can feel the breeze. There is no encroaching void (to which they all must ultimately return). No harm in removing it. Is there? He has a few days at least, with which to explore the area - a recon mission! He is still a scout, after all, and he must have some information to bring back, mustn't he?
He's quite pleased with his idea. It gives him an excuse to walk. So he does, examining trees and rocks, listening to the sounds of wildlife (sounds he had only heard in recordings). The pilot spends an hour or two simply meandering between trees and minutes staring at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds that slowly roll past overhead. Truly, this planet is a paradise. He tires after a time and pauses to rest, slurping down a mouthful of nutrient past and sip of water.
Water.
He'll need more, eventually. The emergency supplies will last him a week at most. His suit can recycle his own waste for a while, but that is not an option he wishes to contemplate; experiencing a few days of that during his upbringing and induction to the rank of pilot was enough for him. He will secure more.
From his education and lessons, he knows that water occurs naturally on life-giving planets, that it flows in rivers and streams. But it must be purified first. Fortunately, the emergency kit contains one. Not that he ever expected to use it (for who would survive a crash landing from orbit). He retraces his steps, breathing a bit labored. This gravity will be the death of him where the crash was not, he thinks ruefully to himself. Would that not be an ironic end for an explorer and scout and pilot? To die from exhaustion having been the first to set foot on a life-giving world?
A pleasant thought.
He retrieves the filter; surely, there must be a stream or creek nearby. He listens intently, searches - and after ten or fifteen minutes, he comes upon a creek running in a little dip between two hills. And there is something else, something that catches his attention. A dirt track has been cut through the trees and grass and hills, covered in small stones and patched here and there by the grass that seems to grow everywhere on this planet. He stoops to examine it, letting the dusty pebbles run through his fingers.
What cut this path? He wonders. He searches his memory for anything that might explain it and finally remembers a lesson from his days in school. That back and back and back, long before, his people had lived on a planet and they had cut roads so they could walk or ride and travel in between communities.
He is pleased with himself until the full implication of his discovery hits him. His curiosity overrides his sense of caution and he trots off down the road, following it. His limbs are adjusting to the strange new feeling of weight and heaviness about them by now and it's not as hard or as tiring, but still an effort. He tries to keep track of time as he walks, looking at the clear blue sky overhead. The sun has moved a few degrees when he sees the first sigh of habitation.
The road branches off toward a small, wooden building. It looks run down and the path leading up to it is overgrown. Even if he doesn't have much experience, he can still tell that this house hasn't been cared for in some time. He approaches cautiously, a solitary figure picking his way through the grass and weeds.
The door hangs open, swaying slightly in the breeze that comes rolling in. It's quiet. Inside, everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Utensils, gray, monotone pictures of strange beings wearing stranger clothing. Cups and plates and glasses all still arranged neatly in cupboards. A large, hulking device set against one wall with a series of knobs and dials on the front. He examines it curiously and cautiously twists one of the knobs.
There is some resistance and then a 'click'. A loud hiss of static fills the room and he jumps back, startled. A receiver of some sort, then. He tries one of the dials, watching the little analog readout move back and forth as he searches for a station. On one, he finds a steady, repeating tone over and over again. On another, distant speech, unintelligible, fading in and out as the signal weakens.