Fire. Smoke. Choking. He could see it, the flames eating at the mother-of-pearl walls. Panels and glass and bodies ripped from the air and sent into the gaping light. Steel bending as it tore asunder, and walls buckling under the pressure. He couldn't breath. He could only smell smoke. He heard the ear-punching scream of the oxygen as it was sucked out the hole, but he did not feel it. He felt like he was swimming, staring as the light swallowed everything around him. And then a shadow passed, and he saw Landfall - a glass donut, glazed in steel and stretching across miles of alien forest. He reached out, his heart lifting with hope only to be dropped into his stomach as a bloom of flame licked up the walls. He was afraid to die, and his hand was wet.

Herc woke up in a cold sweat. Sticky slobber dripped from his hand where Yipp has licked it. He looked down at the dog, and the dog looked back up at him as if he were the oldest friend it had. Yipp yapped twice, as shrill as any alarm.

"Okay, okay." Herc said gently. He pawed for his wallet and pulled it sleepily to his face. Hercules Ofakimuli.. It was his. He stuff it lazily in the pocket of his jumpsuit and crawled out of bed.

The cold touch of the tarp floor against his bare feet sent a chill up his legs, and it crunched like sticks with every step. It had been weeks, and he had yet to get used to sleeping in a tent. Or in a camp. Every day brought a new bad smell to the mix, and some days the wind would catch it right and cause him to gag. The smell of shit and piss and rotten food. On bad days, the putrid stench of decomposing corpses added to the mix.

He changed jumpsuits, leaving the top half hanging off his waste like the half-peeled rind of a banana. The jumpsuits hardly covered his girth, and his height only made it more awkward. It was more comfortable to wear the undershirt and leave it at that. The camp had grown increasingly informal anyway. Soldiers wore disheveled uniforms, using their plasma rifles or rail guns as badges of authority rather than their appearance. Old men grumbled in front of their tents wearing nothing but stained pairs of underwear, and toddlers eschewed clothes all together if it meant they could play in the mud.

Herc moved through his morning routine in a dull blur. He ate no more then a cut of flesh from one of the airborne mushroom-trees that filled the air like balloons during the day and landed on the ground like parachutes at night. They had become a staple crop - easy to find, and capable of feeding many. They were nearly flavorless, like eating air with a bitter earthy aftertaste. Sometimes, it made him wish for the gruel he often ate in the morning back home in Hawaii so many light years away.

There were more soldiers today than most days. That made Herc nervous. They were there to protect them, and in many cases they did, but it seemed that the drama they managed to create was often worse. The camp commanders had started to argue about who was in charge, or who was disobeying orders, or about what they should be focused on. It has created a tension that spread through the rest of the camp. Herc was afraid that people would begin taking sides in a more violent way, but so far they had not.

The Infirmary - a glorified name for a series of larger tents protecting the infirm, with a silvery climate controlled tent serving as a place to safely perform surgeries - was also busy with soldiers. Herc entered, looking for some answer.

"Hercules, my boy." he heard a familiar voice, stuffy and aged. Dr. Kumar stuffed a chart to Herc's chest. "I was afraid you had overslept. These men are with Lieutenant Babalola. They claim they had some trouble with a handful of acid barrels. Minor burns, nothing more, but I need you to handle this." Before Herc could speak, Kumar walked off, his grey dreadlocks tapping against the wrinkled brown of his skin.

Lieutenant Francis Babalola. He hadn't been taken care of yet? Confused, Herc went to find him.

Babalola was still in his armor, even in bed. It was thicker then Wen's, but made from the same plastic-like material that caught the light in stripes. He was a black-skinned man, and his moon like face showed little hint of emotion. When he saw Herc, he spoke calmly with only an underline of marshal sternness.

"I told the Indian doctor that I was to be treated last. Go find one of your other patients."

Herc looked at the chart in his hand and flicked the page. "You are the only one I have." he said gently.

Babalola sighed. "Fine then. It is nothing. Just a burn."

Herc looked, taking the mans sinewy arms and turning them. Simple burns, in pink and tan spots across his skin. "How did this happen?" Herc asked.

Babalola leaned back, wincing as he wounds were treated. "That is classified." he said. "I cannot say."

Herc smiled. "Who classified it?"

There was no answer. This one is cold Herc thought. He left him to heal.

(Left off from...)

Len returned to the clearing, behind him yet another group of tired, confused, anxious colonists. They clutched to what meager belonings they had, or were burdened with my Len's orders. Stepping out onto the clay they joined in with the first batch. And like a missing glove, joined perfectly with the lost and disorganized group, drifting into some kind of position.

"Old man, sir!" Teshlena shouted to Len, running up to him. Her face was twisted and troubled. Len how ever ignored her concern.

"Not now." he said, waving her off, watching his second group assume a position before turning off back into the marsh.

"But it's important!" she cried out. But Len didn't believe her.

"When I'm finished." Len bit, walking back into the thick forest.

Group by group Len led his crew of survivors into the swamp. Teams of seven, or nine, in all. Each time he returned to the outcropping where they camped he got more concerned looks. Simon himself watched him curiously, in some state between shock and green ignorance. Every time Len saw him, he grew angry. Not just at him, but his trainers in general. How come he did not understand? Had he not been in the field? Never the less, he needed him here. He needed at least a single soldier to watch him back, even if he wasn't armed with anything but a small handgun.

And again every time Len arrived back at the new camp, Teshlena approached him again with worry. But each time he ignored her. Choosing to ignore the rampant anxiety. And even the subtle hints of concern on their faces or in the way they moved.

The process took the better part of the afternoon. The last group carried Simon, and the injured Technician that Len carried. This was the slowest. Weighed down by the older men and women in the group, the injured specialist, and a new foot soldier. And again as he arrived at the new camp Teshlena rushed to Len. She had not even become anxious, but she was furiously angry.

"Hey old man!" she boomed loudly, "What d'he hell was you ignoring me for!?" she roared.

Len restrained the urge to wail her across the head with the back of his hand. He traded instead for a hot predatory snarl as the fires inside him cooked again, "What?" he said in a pained growl.

"What d'he hell did you ignore me like d'hat!?" Teshlena boomed, "Did you not tell somed'hing was up!?"

Len looked at her, then up at the group. He went over them, doing a head count. All thirty were there. "I don't see anything wrong." he growled, "There were thirty left off our ship, and there are thirty still."

"D'hat's not d'he point!" Teshlena shouted, "D'here's somed'ing out d'ere."

"Of course there is, this is an alien planet." Len replied dryly, pushing passed the anxious youth into the middle of the camp. He'd been in the jungle before.

"No really, I saw somed'hing, we all did!" she yelled, clearly in a state of panic.

"Then what was it?" Len asked, turning on the young girl.

"I don't know!" she yelled, her eyes shone as tears welled, "Why don't you believe me!? No one's ever believed me!" she wailed.

Len blinked cynically, "Have you checked out the surrounding area at least?"

"Wha'dever, I don't want t' d'alt t' you!" she spat, turning from the commander with a hissing spit and a flail of her arms. She stomped off to the furthest point she could get from Len. On the edge of his vision he could sat Carlos standing by awkwardly, strumming his fingers as he stepped curiously over to her side. Len didn't need to try hard to know he didn't like him. He found he had that reputation on his people if he suggested anything about his career in Central America, or its failed revolution.

The group chatted nervously among itself as Len threw his heavy pack down and pulled out his gear, laying out his tablet to go over the map.

"So, any idea on what we're doing?" a voice asked softly. Len paused, looking up at Carl who hung nervously over him. For a man his size and of his stature Len was amused that such a man could be so docile in his voice.

"Get us some water at least, and keep moving." Len replied, "The faster we can get to the other side of the planet is the soonest we can even find out what happened, and where I need to be."

"How's that?" Carl asked, squatting down alongside Len.

"I've been asked to find out what happened to the other colonies." the commander said, "Before we set down Homsy personally requested that I scout for information on the colony of Landfall and any successor colonies spawned by the second mission." Len read a serious look of confusion on Carl's face. His brow's furrowed and a deep frown as he tried to get a grip on the information, and the exact scale of the scenario.

"We were not properly hailed," Len responded, he decided it might be best to ignore the unidentified craft also in orbit of the planet, and its own possibly terrestrial landing spots, "It's suspected something happened to Landfall, and if I at least can get to it their control and command post I can maybe see if they got any logs it still has, or if they even hailed the second ship. We could get a series of events from that, and a proper explanation on what went wrong."

"Like the Olympus blowing up?" Carl asked stupidly.

"I think that's a problem all it's own." Len replied.

"I see." nodded Carl.

"And what then do we have on the situation at hand?" Len asked, "Find anything?"

Carl smiled, "A lot of strange birds, bugs, and rodents, I think." he laughed, "At least I think they're like mice, but I dunno. They're weird. They slither, but they got fur."

"And that's all?" Len asked, "What about that Teshlena girl?"

"I think she just heard a twig snap." Carl laughed, "I tried to check it out, but found nothing."

Len nodded, "Good, thank you."

"And I thought if it would come to it," Carl began, "that if we needed something to defend ourselves with, then those big thorns there will help." he stated, nodding to the massive thorns that curled off from the trees that rung around the muddy, lichen covered clearing, "But I tried to break one off. They just don't budge."

"We may need to fix that then." Len mused, standing up.

The song of birds returned cautiously to the marshy forest as Carl lead Len a short way through the brush of the alien jungle. The light hushed chatter of the group of lost colonists carried on the warm breeze like a nervous classroom. Their chatter was not nearly a ward against the native wild-life as they returned to the trees and brush to gawk at the aliens.

Stepping cautiously, the two men walked around the broken brambles of the under-growth and the outreaching claws of the native trees. Their very presence threatening to gouge into the exposed skin of the two. "None of us really need to go far." Carl said in a cautious voice. On a branch above their heads a strange bird peered down at them. Its small beady eyes blinked as it watched them, trying to parse off if they were a threat or not. At the end of its wings nimble claws like bats kept it stable to the branch it rested on as it watched. Its bright plumage shone with the sheen of polished metal in the sunlight.

"But really, none of us have to go far," he continued, laughing nervously. Coming to a stop at the trunk of a large boiled tree.

The size of the tree was immense, as wide as an entire house with a branching canopy draped in green and off-green mosses, tipped with blue and yellow flowers. Covering nearly every available inch struck a series of massive thorns, many as long as Len was tall. The leaves that crowned it were a thick canopy of dish-pan sized green-gold leafing. And in those distant branches, a milling flock of those alien birds sat perched, watching the two humans below with those distant beady stares.

"Yeah, I saw a lot of them coming into here." Len said, "I imagine a lot of us do."

"And a lot of the group think they'd make good spears if we can detach them." Carl agreed, "I think at this point, if there's nothing else we could use these as self-defense. The problem is though, I can't pull any off for the life of me."

This situation greatly perplexed Len. Carl was a large man, and for his height he for sure had a lot of muscle and weight packed in him. It certainly showed well. And for he to not be able to pull something off was astounding. Carl must of seen the shock and curiosity on the commander's face as he added: "This thing is as hard as steel. It's not something I can pull off. And I don't want to try too hard, or I'll skewer myself."

His fears were founded well enough. With the tree coated so heavily in massive thorns - at least in the lower branches - it was possible that a slip would run one through your hand, or you'd throw yourself into one.

"But hey listen," Carl began with barely restrain caution, "You do got that little black box, don't you?"

"My side laser?" Len asked.

"Yeah, I was thinking that if you could, it might be possible to burn one off." Carl asked, "God only knows, I and the others have tried everything else we know. Some of us tried with what few knives we managed to someone get on the trip."

"Someone has knives?" Len asked.

"A couple." Carl waved, "I don't know where they got them, or how they got them on. Could have managed to steal them. I know there was some light looting when Red Sector was being evacuated. Probably found them in a utility case before getting out."

Len nodded, "Well it's something that would have been nice to know."

"I didn't know until now." Carl said, "If you get the chance you can talk to the Irish kids, they're the ones with them."

"Bright red haired lot?"

"Yes."

"I'll make a note then." Len groaned, throwing his rifle up onto his back. Reaching for his breast strap he un clipped the small laser box and approached the tree. With a flip of a hidden switch, the glass bead at the end of the box lit up. And as he raised it to the base of one of the thorns there was a flash of red light as he hit a button. Len began the slow process of trying to burn through one of the thorns.

The thorn hissed and cracked, then a pop parted from the tree. In his hand, the small defender let out a distorted whine as the light dimmed and weakened, loosing its vibrancy as the light died to a dimmer glow. It now had the strength of a pet toy. With a low sigh, Len slipped it back into his breast pouch and threw the disconnected thorn to the ground. In all, he had collected five before his tool's battery died.

"So that's that then?" Carl asked as he collected the large spears.

"Unfortunately," Len grumbled, "It'll have to recharge before I do anything more with it. But that'll be about a day before the batteries are finished."

"And how many more times can you do that after?" Carl asked.

"Enough to give everyone a stick." Len sighed.

The two returned to where the group waited. Silence fell over the collective like a careful blanket as Len came through. He looked over them with a hard stony grin. "Alright," he started, "If anyone thinks they want to try their hand at defending themselves we got something. But we only got five."

He let Carl passed with his arm full of thorns. They were indeed considerably long, and many thick and heavy. They had a texture like that of solid stone, though were organic in their shape. Ridges ran along the sides, which came to a cruel triangular tip as the spines narrowed. No doubt a natural disincentive against predation. Though what would possibly devour a whole of those trees with them so coated in thorns was beyond Len. But he was hardly a biologist in any respect.

"That's fine and all, gringo," Carlos jeered from the periphery, "but what are we still doing, eh? What are we doing in a giant swamp to begin with!"

"Finding our bearings." Len said, "And keeping ahead of anything out here."

"But should we really be moving?" a sickly thin woman asked, "I mean, it could make us harder to find. What if everyone else is looking for us. Shouldn't we have a choice on the matter?

"I mean, you're a commander. Aren't you? Surely you'd be missed. Wouldn't they be looking for you, if possible!?"

"Did you see the drop?" someone else shouted, "People died coming down here! They probably assumed if we didn't come down with them, then we'd all be dead!"

"W-well what makes you so certain. Couldn't they have a tracker!" the same woman shouted in a swift panic.

"It wouldn't work if he did." the injured Technician moaned. He was leaned up against the side of a tree. His suit still on and caked thick with mud. Even his bandages were beginning to look like they needed a change, "Any tracking devices would only work on a short range around him. Beyond that, they'd need orbital assistance to triangulate his position and impose it on a device until they reach the local area.

"And we lack any orbital assistance." he said.

"W-what do you mean?" the woman said, panicking.

"You haven't heard?" Len said, "No one told you?"

"I-I can't say I have..." the lady moaned.

"The Ararat is an empty silent hulk." Len said, turning to the rest of the group he rose his voice "And I'm saying this to everyone here, right now; to be sure we're all on the same page. We - I - don't know what happened to the Ararat or why it failed to properly hail us. It's systems - as I have been told by Captain Homsy - are barely functional.

"The Fujisan, which was sent as a follow-up, is no where to be detected in orbit. And with the Olympus gone and exploded across Invictus' northern poles there is no doubt we have no contact or conventional means to call for help or find our way back to everyone else.

"I hope you read the stories. Because we're not exactly to date down here."

Leaving the operating table - landfall colony medical tents

Gawaadi from the medical bed waited among the wailing agonies of the other patients not so patiently, as he wanted to go see the rest of the place and had spent far too much time cooped up in the tent with other people whom did not seem to be getting much better. The smell in the air is repugnant, smelling of dried up blood tissue, rotting corpses, some presumably alien fungus and other such unpleasant odors, and Gawaadi felt like he didn’t know how much he could take of it. Gawaadi tries sitting up, but the pain in his arm spikes from the burn and he falls back down onto the bed making some weird shrieking noise that Gawaadi tried muting down into a whisper as to not disturb other sleeping patients since he did not want to know what the doctors would do.

Thankfully it seemed to Gawaadi the time spent on the medical bed was nearing a close, as Dr. Torres finally seemed to be getting around to Gawaadi, and instead of a cast like claimed earlier Dr. Torres held that looked like a thick strip of white, translucent tape of some sort. Gawaadi watched as the assistant doctor wrapped the tape around the arm of another patient, and ignorant of what the tool the somewhat Hispanic looking doctor whose coat was covered in dirt due to lack of ability to maintain, was using thought the tape’s nature was of duct tape. However Gawaadi, despite fearing the tape and contemplating how much it will hurt to take off when the wound heals cringes a bit in fear, but keeps silent to see the rest of the procedure.

After wrapping the tape around the other patient’s arm ten times the doctor simply told the other patient, a bald Caucasian man who looks like he is from a western earth country, “The gauze is administered. You are free to go.”

The bald man asked, “do you have any clothing?

The assistant doctor helped the patient up and looked at the bald man with a dejected face and said “I am afraid you’ll need to make do with the clothing on your back for now.”

“No clothing at all?” the bald man asked again with skepticism.

“Look at my jumpsuit.” Torres tells the Bald Man who scans the coat and sees that it is filthy. “I have to make due with what I have as well.”

The bald man just accepts this fact and is helped up and sent to another part of the slowly deteriorating, tarp floored tent presumably to check out.

The assistant doctor than with no hesitation moves straight to Gawaadi, and Gawaadi has a look of fear in his face when he sees the doctor with his increasingly filthy jumpsuit get out a abnormally white [in comparison to everything else in the tent, which was covered in dirt, some weird colored mold or a bit of blood] roll of gauze. Torres tells Gawaadi “Please lift your burnt arm.”

Gawaadi hesitantly lifts up his arm with the burn mark that runs down half his upper forearm and closes his eyes not wanting to see the pain as he shudders over the gauze tape.

“Please stop shaking.” The doctor tells Gawaadi.

“It-it isn’t going to hurt right?” Gawaadi stutters out for a bit.

“It won’t, it’s not sticky or hard on the skin.” The doctor assures Gawaadi, but Gawaadi remains somewhat unconvinced despite seeing the procedure done by another patient.

However the assurance was enough to allow the doctor to start wrapping the gauze around the burn mark. Gawaadi during all this kept his eyes closed and kept thinking of the other patients he saw who had way worse injuries than him. Yet the fear Gawaadi is irrational; it’s the simple constricting the gauze gave that scared Gawaadi, not any actual pain.

Yet after the doctor wrapped the gaze around half the forearm where the burn mark was, Gawaadi opened his eyes and found himself relieved that he could still feel his hands despite the constricting presence of the gauze on his forearm.

Unlike the bald man Gawaadi didn’t ask about the clothing since he overheard the conversation the assistant doctor had before, and simply asked Torres “am I free to go?”

The assistant doctor said, “Free enough to leave the table. You need to walk around and get used to the gravity of Invictus before you can be let outside, which shouldn’t take too long as the gravity on the world is only a tiny bit different.”

Dr. Torres helped Gawaadi out of the medical bed, and Gawaadi found himself at first a bit caught off guard by the much higher gravity of the planet, and lost his balance before almost hitting the tarp floor before the assistant doctor caught him and brought Gawaadi back up on his feet.

“A Martian I take it?” The doctor asks, finding the reaction Gawaadi had much worse than expected.

“Yes.”

The doctor than told Gawaadi “If so, you’re going to need to spend a bit more time adjusting to the gravity of Invictus.”

Gawaadi agreed, despite how rude it seemed to Gawaadi of the UN to pick a world where the gravity was much more like earths than somewhere in between.

UNIS Olympus – Violet Sector: Military Hangar
110,000 Miles/117,000 Kilometres from Invictus
January 9, 2212 – The Fall of Olympus

“All systems are optimal. Requesting permission to disengage clamps.”

“Permission granted, Demoiselle.” Hydraulics groaned as the mechanical arms loosed from around the ship. “You are set and ready for takeoff.”

“Roger that, flight control.” The lieutenant pressed a button on the console. “Hoverfly, Brown Hawker, what is your status?”

“Ready, sir.”

“Primed and ready, sir.”

“Okay then boys, follow my lead.”

The boarding platform at the rear of the ship folded upwards to meet the lip of the cabin ceiling, sealing the exit. The landing gear did likewise as the ventral thrusters burst into life, pushing the craft into a hover a few feet off the hangar floor.

The damselfly-class vessel was as much a piece of art as it was a vehicle. It was uncannily insectlike, from a distance appearing almost organic, wrought in the likeness of its namesake. Stretching 60 feet long and 16 feet high, the damselfly had a long streamlined fuselage terminating at the front in a spacious cockpit with a domed plexiglass window. This provided 180 degree vision and looked similar to the compound eyes of an odonate. The cockpit comfortably sat the pilot to the right and the Naval Aviator Astronaut to the left before a complex flight console. The ship was fully weaponised, sporting twin missile drums either side just under the cockpit and a Gatling gun under the front of the cockpit. Most notable were the two sets of rotatable pectoral wings centred either side of the fuselage. These doubled as flaps when rotated 90 degrees, their controls manually operated by the pilot, and their surfaces were solar paneled for auxiliary power.

The damselfly was one of the most efficient multi-purpose military ships. Able to withstand extreme atmospheric pressures, it was both a submersible and an aircraft, and safe to fly up to ionospheric heights.

Lt. Titus Blake flicked on the Demoiselle’s navigation lights, casting a green glow over the vessel’s turquoise-finished body. He pushed two sliders on the console, fanning out the expansive wings. Above the sliders four small wheels were rolled to rotate the wings laterally. With a final pull of a gearstick, the two rear thrusters roared and blasted the Demoiselle out into the black of space.

Titus allowed himself a brief look at his new home. The gargantuan mottled sphere of Invictus loomed before him, clouds swirling over the vast terrains of reds, greens and yellows. It was like nothing he had seen before. He imagined this was how Earth appeared centuries ago before humanity had marred its natural beauty. Invictus was an unspoiled paradise. It felt almost a sin to taint it with human presence. Titus looked down eagerly.

“Beautiful, ain’t' it, mate?” came an Australian twang.

The lieutenant turned to his co-pilot and grinned beneath his visor. “Sure is, Mickey.”

“We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.”

Titus sighed. Mickey’s obsession with 20th Century cinema was insatiable and he was constantly quoting them. Titus scarcely got half the references; those films were so primitive. Who the hell is Toto? he thought.

The pilot turned back and returned to his job.

“Trajectory vision, on,” Titus commanded, the shaded view from his visor now illuminated by green squares and dots and coordinates in the top left corner. These guided him where to go, following the dots through the squares like checkpoints in a computer game. It took the fun out of flying, but this was a dire situation and they had important cargo aboard.

Titus still couldn’t believe the Colonel had chosen his ship to make touchdown in. The cabin was cramped at best; the gangway running from the cockpit to the rear exit was narrow and packed tightly on either side with equipment and provisions. There were three crude seats embedded into the walls either side with safety harnesses, but you’d get a numb arse just sitting in it for three minutes. Though Titus supposed these men were made of sturdier stuff, buns trained to peak physical condition to steel against the elements, and chairs.

Joking aside, this lot were not to be crossed; they looked like they’d sooner kill you than look at you. The six marines sat silently in the fuselage staring at the floor, one digging out the dirt from his fingernails with a hunting knife. They looked to all be of oriental descent, no doubt all consigned to Colonel Xing via his instruction. The Colonel was a tall man, clad in khaki uniform and a superior officer’s cap, insignia emblazoned upon his right lapel. His stern deeply lined face indicated an age in the late fifties, greying hairs combed close to his scalp. The man had a fearsome reputation and he suffered no sleights. Rumour had it he’d had a private beaten bloody on the Olympus for scuffing his shoe. Titus would have to tread carefully.

The Hoverfly and Brown Hawker swooped either side of the Demoiselle as the squadron hurtled earthward. The lieutenant’s plan was to outpace the other dropships to avoid any incidence and allow the Colonel to establish a safe point on the surface for the colonists. The shuttles and gliders weren’t the issue, it was the pods. They were unpredictable vessels and could reach alarming velocities when poorly controlled. With the rife panic on the Olympus, poor piloting was to be expected and there would be casualties. It was a good thing the damselflies were pre-packed and fueled for a swift exit from the mothership. Titus only hoped this leg of the voyage would be as smooth as the escape.

“How’s my tail, Mickey?”

“All clear. Stay frosty.”

Who says that? Titus’ mind drifted to the connotations of the word “frosty” when…

((You gonna die music))

“Woah! What the fuck was that?!”

A huge bullet had zoomed past near metres from the Demoiselle’s right wings. It burned like molten iron in the distance, superheated by its speedy projection through the Invictan atmosphere.

“A pod! The radar didn’t even pick it up!”

A band of sweat formed on Titus’ brow as his hand drifted to the commlink.

“Hoverfly, Brown Hawker, fold in your wings. Commence full speed thro…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Titus saw Brown Hawker lanced by a speeding pod and drop off trajectory.

“Brown Hawker is down. Repeat, Brown Hawker is down!” Titus folded in the wings and freefell towards the planet, thrusters at full capacity. He gripped the joystick with both hands, wrestling against the turbulence. Thermals blazed off the reinforced plexiglass, filling Titus’ vision with scarlet red. The trajectory vision pervaded through it like some guiding phantom, the distance meter in the corner blurring downwards.

“Mickey, we’re coming in too hot! Reprogram the destination to that sea west of Landfall!”

“Copy! Triangulating now!”

The coordinates reset and the trajectory dots and squares violently shunted in another direction. Titus yanked with all his might on the joystick and engaged the wing flaps when the velocity was low enough not for them to be instantly blown off. Unstably, the craft jolted round and plummeted through the cloud layer, wings folding back into default. Hoverfly was nowhere to be seen. White fogged the window as Titus tried to slow his breathing. It was make or break time.

They suddenly burst from the clouds and were greeted with the scene of a vast blue sea. Titus struggled with the joystick to pull up and get a good angle. Mickey punched the loudspeaker button and announced:

“Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”

He didn’t have time to do a countdown. The Demoiselle darted over the Invictan waters and plunged into the sea, vaporising the surf. Mist and water erupted high into the air as the ship disappeared from view.

The altitude decreased rapidly, and Kaus could feel the blood rushing into his head. Barely thirty minutes ago he was asleep and unaware of the events that had taken place that had him strapped to a dropship and descending into Invictus. The craft, holding about thirty people, plummeted into the planet with one working engine; the other was destroyed by debris from the Olympus. Two pilots sat in the front of the ship, desperately trying to take control of the situation. Kaus looked down at his hands, which were trembling. Flakes of dry skin were visible on his hands, a side effect of interstellar sleeping. The ship was dark, with a single floodlight lining the top of the body. Most of the ship's power was being diverted to the engines, and the lights occasionally went out, leaving the survivors in darkness. He struggled to make out anything the others around him were saying.

“--78 percent of the crew--”

“--Has anyone seen my-- --ther ship?--”

“--veryone hold still, we're going to try to land as safely as possible!”

Kaus closed his eyes. A headache, as if a nail was being driven through the side of his head, rendered him barely conscious and somewhat blind. He slowly felt himself rising out of his seat, his safety straps holding him down.

“We're gaining speed!”

“Pull up!”

His ears began to cut into his skull. He guessed it was the pressure of Invictus.

The dropship hurled itself into a massive lake. After it touched the surface, it traveled a good 800 meters before resting itself on the shore of the lake leading into a forest. The ship's nose was buried deep in the soil, with it's backside tilted about 20 degrees upward. The ship had landed with no lives lost.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now opening the bay door, please keep yourselves strapped in and still.”

Kaus watched at the middle of the floor opened and formed a ramp that led down into the lake. Once it stopped, people began unbuckling themselves and walking around inside the dropship, making sure they were alright. Kaus shook his head and exhaled while keeping his mouth closed and his nostrils pinched. His ears popped, and finally he could hear the people around him. He got out of his chair and walked over to the cockpit where the two pilots were still sitting. He knocked on the metal walls to get their attention, then leaned in so he could see them.

“That was a real Sullenberger stunt there, guys.”

The co-pilot turned around. “Sullenberger?”

“Yeah. Crashed his plane in the Hudson River almost a century ago with no casualties.”

“Is everyone alright?”

“No one's dead, which is alright enough for all of us.”

People began diving into the lake and swimming to shore. Kaus, however, stayed with the pilots, as the only thing on his mind was reaching Landfall. They opened a holographic terrain map on the dropship's navigational computer.

“It looks like we went down somewhere to the west of Landfall.” the captain said, pointing at the little red dot on the map labeled “Landfall”.

“Approximately 8.5 kilometers, actually.” the co-pilot calculated.

“What do we do for food?” Kaus asked.

“Well, we have three supply crates on board. If those are all full, we can easily make a trip to Landfall and back to the ship.” the captain answered.

The pilots got out of the cockpit and pushed the three crates off the ship. As expected, they sank to to bottom of the lake, which was no more than eight feet deep.

“I don't believe we have exchanged names, gentlemen.” Kaus stopped them before they jumped off of the ship.

“Captain Julius Bernard.” the captain said, removing his flight helmet.

“Lieutenant Eli Sartre.” the co-pilot shook Kaus's hand.

“Hettinger. Captain Hettinger.” Kaus said, extending his hand to meet Eli's.

The three grabbed their backpacks which were piled up under the seats and abandoned the dropship. In little time, the three supply crates were recovered and the supplies were rationed to the survivors, who were still recovering from the crash. After the food was distributed, the survivors were ordered to stay together and not to wander off. The captain grabbed Kaus and took him over to the waters, making sure the others didn't follow him.

“Do you notice something strange, Hettinger?”

“Other than the Olympus going down, I don't think so.”

“If this place was a colony, I'd expect that we'd see a radio tower or at least a sign that the colonists were here.”

“You know, I didn't notice that.” Kaus said as he looked around, realizing that the planet looked pretty much uninhabited.

Julius pulled a handgun out of his vest and gave it to Kaus.

“Can I trust you with a gun?”

“Of course.”

They turned around and lined up the passengers to make sure everyone was accounted for. Once they made sure all 28 passengers were fit for walking, Julius ordered six people to carry the crates, and everyone else to stay near them. Eli removed a small automatic rifle from his bag and slung it over his shoulder. The group moved into the forest heading towards Landfall.

Alien birds chirped and sung overhead. Below, the alien to their world crawled their the muck of their marshy home as a black shape. Mud caked his armor and effects from the trek. And behind him, a hopeful gang of some thirty individuals attempted to keep pace.

The air was sticky and wet, making the trip all the more painful to Len. And behind him the stragglers he led had refused to stay alone, even against his demands. He still did not know what was out there, and preferred not to find out. Especially if it meant it got everyone killed.

After all, he had a gun. They only had sticks and a handful of thorns.

The Irish boys Carl and informed him about had fessed to the knives. But they became relieved when they were allowed to keep it. By the looks of their pale faces it was one of the larger blessings they had. And Len, while he was at it, had taken the opportunity to learn their names. Angus, Milford, William, Connolly, and Fion; all he was told were out of Dublin. They didn't say why they were here, but Len suspected they had run afoul of someone.

But with this revelation, the matter was no different. They were still lost on an alien world and they needed a heading. Len had hoped to trek into the swamp and scout to the crater sea he hoped was nearby. Use it as a way to get a bearing. Find out where they were, find something he could find on the surface map he had downloaded, then set a course west for Landfall.

That's all he knew. They had to go west. They could go east, but he feared the salt flat on that whole stretch would kill them worse than a flat savannah. He hoped it would be little more than home. He would be comfortable in that environment he felt. He prayed it wasn't Tunisia, he hated it there. And he was already back in Central America here.

But now here, now getting bearings, he was finding new things he did not expect. Though the flies the size of tennis balls were nothing more than an overgrown nuisance there were already forming clouds of a gnat-like insect. They bit like mosquito and the side of his arms were glowing red from their bites and his itching.

Deep inside he hoped he would not get sick or die from these bugs. It would be a silly thing to die over, and like the thought of a violent death in space the idea of coming to an all-to untimely end here crept back up on him. That slithering black beast, seeping its venom into his heart. He felt himself going cold at the thought. It was dangerous, and he feared if he lost it out here, no one would get back.

He made a bid to stop and turn around, to see how his companions were doing. They all struggled, just like him. Whether it was out of fear or some strange respect for him was beyond Len's imagination. But for whatever drove them, it drove them to at least dare to bother with Invictus on its terms like he. And like he, they were muddied and wet. Sweating and beat red from the swampy humidity and the nagging flies.

Maybe it'd be over soon.

The terrain was slopping gently downhill. The mud did not run. But in spots it could be seen. Light down-hill trickles or dry areas protected by thick dams of brush, rock or clay that made a gentle sweep down. Often cresting up to a hill crowned in trees before falling again.

Len looked up to the sky, it was already starting to get late. The afternoon was dead, if not dying still. And no one had any ideas of what was out on Invictus at night. What stranger creatures they hadn't seen.

Hayato sat dangling upside down from his seat in the dropship, keeping from crashing down to the ground only by the restraints that had luckily remained in tact. As he opened his eyes, he quickly had to shit them, as the harsh light from the sun instantly assaulted his pupils.

“Shit. How long have I been out...” He mumbled, as he pulled one of his dangling arms up to his head to shield himself from the harsh light of the sun.

Once he was able to look around, he saw just how lucky he was. All around him, the walls were stained red with blood, and mangled bodies either dangled from their seats like him, or laid on the ground. Eyes widening, he began to try working the restraints off, but it was to no avail. They had been jammed into place during the landing. Quickly feeling a sense of fear washing over him, Hayato's eyes darted back and forth, trying to find a sign that at least somebody else had survived.

“Help!” he shouted weakly, his throat extremely dry. After gathering as much saliva and mucus to his throat as he could, he tried once more, hoping that would be enough.

“HELP!”

A couple minutes after the last shout, he heard rustling somewhere in the distance, accompanied by voices.

“Help! ” he shouted once more, while making as much noise as he could with his hands and feet against the ship.

Within two minutes, a man maybe ten years younger than Hayato pulled open the hatch to the ship, and looked inside.

“Jesus fucking christ!” he shouted, stumbling backwards while trying not to vomit. “Hey-” he said, catching his breath. “Hey, Tom. I, uh... God... I need some help here.”

Standing back up, the man covered his mouth with his arm, and looked back inside.

“Hey, uh... Don't worry. We'll get you out of there. Just give us one minute. The same thing happened to Tom. Had to use a crowbar to get him out. He's got it so...” Turning around, the man shouted again.

“Tom, hurry up! We gotta get this guy out!”

A minute later, a man with curly red hair came jogging up, and had the same reaction to the inside of the ship as the other one. After he was done, they ran inside, and helped Hayato out of the seat, and to his feet. The younger one with shaggy blonde hair introduced himself as Marco, and explained to Hayato that they had set up a small camp nearby where a group of survivors that landed in the area had gathered.

So, uh... Yeah. Come with us, we'll lead you to the camp.”

Hayato nodded and followed behind the two, who started to talk among themselves.

“Shit, man... Can you believe that? The other ships had people that died, but it didn't look anything like that.”

Tom nodded in agreement. “Think something may have gone in there and done that? I think he might have been too out of it to notice, but those people were torn up. They didn't get that way from landing.”

Marco shook his head. “I don't know, dude. But if it was, we'll probably want to start moving ASAP.”

Tom agreed, and then turned to Hayato.

“Hey, I don't want to sound rude, but you haven't really said much. I'm just making sure, so I'm sorry if it comes off as offensive, but... Do you speak much English? All I've heard you say is help, and that's one of the words they rushed to teach a lot of non English speakers before we left. So-”

“I speak English just fine.” Hayato replied somewhat coldly. The mans talking was getting on his nerves, as his head already hurt enough.

“Oh.” Tom said. “Okay. I was just asking, since we have a few more Japanese guys at the camp, who don't speak any English at all.”

This caught Hayato's attention. “How many of them are there?” he hastily asked. He knew that at least four of the corpses in the ship had been friends of his, so he was wondering how many more made it.

“Uh... I think there was maybe four or five? I could be wrong, but I think that's it.”

Hayato's eyes dropped.

'Four or five? There were thirty of us. If only four or five made it... Shit.” he thought, looking back up.

“How long until we reach the camp?”

“It should only be a little while longer. It's a straight right from that massive bush up there. About a fifteen minute walk, I'd guess.” Tom said, pointing to a thorny brush up ahead.

Nodding, Hayato followed, just observing their surroundings as they walked. He didn't know if his brother made it or not, but he could do nothing but hope at this point.

Water fell over the rocks and the ground firmed. Stepping out of the tree line the men and women of Earth stepped out into a field, thinly dotted wide-trunked trees, their canopies blooming in outward flower petals. The lowering alien sun was again beginning to bathe the sky in fiery hues of reds and orange as it started to dip low. The golden shine of yellow just raising to meet the setting sun, and the long shadows stretching across the braze, fresh savannah.

From behind them, the marshy water of the bog they had wadded out flowed together. A shimmering strip of fresh water ran a heavy coarse through the alien yellow and green grass as it carved a coarse, presumably to the sea. It snaked through the high grass, flowing over rocks and between the raised heads of alien beasts.

In the sky, the lumbering hovering carapaces of jelly-fish things faltered and lowered, dipping down into the grass and trailing their wrapped roots through the grass. Alien beasts broke into a run to evade the collapsing creatures as they trailed dangerously low into the turf.

A number of birds squawked and cawed with their strange notes as they excitedly took to the branches of their bastions in the heavy trees. Their roosts marching across the landscape in staggered clumps, and the whipping and turning flocks clouding the sky with black.

In the distance, the faint gray silhouettes of distant hills and rocks glowed red in the south.

“I haven't seen anything like this...” Carl gasped amazed as he walked up alongside Len. Dark tracks had formed under his eyes, and his breath rasped heavy from his lips. He was pale, like everyone else. They needed to set down.

“I don't think anyone has.” Len said in a growling voice.

Behind them the remnants of the group Len led were making their first tentative steps into the foreign grass. Prodding into it with sticks, or the large thorns. Acting as if they suspected it to collectively spring to life and devour them. “And we've made good progress.” he said in a low voice.

“We're tired.” Carl added.

“Aren't we all.” the old ranger said, “We'll set down here for camp over the night. We got the streams nearby, so we got water.”

“Water, from the streams?” Carl said aghast, “Are you sure? You've seen what it was like in those marshes. Muddied, wet. Who knows how much was rotting in that muck!”

“There's no water cleaner than what's pulled from a stream than a stagnant pool.” Len said with a sagely groan.

“Do we even know what's in the water?” Carl argued.

“No, but it's worth the risk in any case.” Len sneered, “Would you rather die of thirst when water is right there?”

“I suppose not.”

“Then I wouldn't complain about the fortune we have.” replied Len, “Having been out in the field, if only in Central America, you do learn to take advantage of what you can. What few fruits you can find, or animals you can kill.

“It keeps you alive one more day longer, then might as well. I thought someone from Detroit would get it.”

Carl looked at Len shocked, confused. “I guess you're right.” he said, easing a little. Though he still carried himself uncomfortably as he stared down at the nearby trickling creek, “I suppose what doesn't kill us makes us stronger.”

“And if it does then we're not fit for this world anyways.” Len added.

He looked up at the cautious, nervous followers. They still plodded the inches towards them as the left the trees. Maybe after several hours of walking they'd come to feel as comfortable in the grass as they did the swampy brushy and the mud.

Uncertain, fearful eyes glanced down on Len before darting away out of fear. This was the man who had attacked soldiers, officers, on the ship. It didn't take much to upset him. And they feared they could set him off. They whispered as they came down, looking outwards at the distant beasts that gave them curious looks. They knew as little as they on how they should treat these visitors.

“Don't get too uncomfortable.” Len said in a low voice, straightening himself to speak to the group, “I can tell you're all tired.” he started in a loud voice, “So we're going to stop here for the night. We'll keep going south in the morning folks.”

“Here!?” a woman's voice said, “But what if something should find us? Or... Those land on us!” she yelled as she pointed at one of the large floating masses drifted low over the grass.

“Then we move.” Len said, “They're not going too fast and I doubt they know where they're going if they think anything at all.”

“Well how do you know?” the same woman asked.

“Because they don't look it.” growled Len, ripe bitterness on his teeth, “Have you seen tumble weed miss?”

“Tumble-what?”

“I thought so.” Len spat, “Listen, they're just moving along on the wind. If we're in their way we can see them a mile off and we can step aside.

“Then we can worry if they can kill us on choice.” he added in a quiet voice.

“I'm not sure,” the woman continued, “Can we just go back in in there?” she asked, turning back to the swamp, “At least we had something over our heads!”

“Back in there, have you fucking seen the size of some of those bugs!?” shouted a young man, “I ain't fucking going back in, bitch. There's no point. At least there's nothing flying around out here that could eat my face off.”

“Listen, why can't we climb a tree?” someone asked.

Len looked at the nearest tree. “I doubt anyone has any climbing claws if we could!” Len shouted, holding his hand out to the nearest tree, some fifty yards out. Its sides as flat and broad as anything else. Branches and any other features they could make a hold out of were far too high up, reaching into its crown than the base at the roots, “I seriously doubt we could, but we'll sleep under it if it suits you.”

“I'm hungry.” a complaining voice spoke up.

“As am I.” Len said back, “But let's sit down before we figure this out. If anyone's thirsty you can drink from the stream. So let's move on the last stretch of the day.”

Western Sea
January 9, 2212

The Demoiselle cruised along the boundary between light and shadow. The depth – 190 metres – would slowly brighten over the course of the day as the sun drew closer to its zenith. The light penetrated deeper on this planet than on Earth due to closer proximity to its star. Titus wondered how warm it was on the surface; the temperature down there read 69 degrees Fahrenheit, warm for the time of day.

It was still early morning, around 7am by Titus’ approximations. Of course, the days on Invictus were different, an extra three hours to Earth. The sun would move more slowly and Titus dreaded the initial effect on his sleep pattern.

Titus figured this was the wisest depth to drift at; there was no telling what manner of alien wildlife lurked in the waters. Marine life on Earth tended to be most abundant in the pelagic zone above them, decreasing with depth, but Titus didn’t like the idea of exploring the abyss of an alien planet. Not on his first day anyway.

He was erring on the side of caution. The havoc the drop pods had wreaked in the upper atmosphere no doubt had produced a shit storm the likes of which Titus had never seen. Debris and errant crafts would be hurtling towards the earth like an iron rain and he reckoned it was safer underwater for the time being, regardless of potential unknown dangers.

What had caused those pods to be so frantic? Panic was anticipated among the inexperienced pilots but not on a scale like that. It was like they’d just been jettisoned from the Olympus unmanned.

Titus wondered how the Olympus had fared. He’d seen the size of the asteroid field from the hangar bay and knew then it would be devastating. How the lunar debris had ended up so far from its origin was a mystery and made Titus anxious. They’d thought they’d known so much about this virgin planet yet they were so unprepared. If only they’d considered the lack of communication from the Ararat and Fujisan more seriously. Their naïveté had cost thousands of lives already.

“Hoverfly, do you copy? Hoverfly, do you copy?” Mickey repeated, toggling the radio frequency. They’d been sitting ducks for the last half hour, waiting in silence for any whispers of communication. Mickey, in his expert knowledge, thought it strange that no frequencies were being picked up, despite the distance from the colony. Even radio systems from forty years ago could transmit this far and more. “Perhaps their towers are down,” Titus had said, denying a darker possibility.

The sea had been empty bar for a school of strange corkscrew-finned “fish” Mickey pointed out like a kid at an aquarium. Titus too was awestruck, overwhelmed by the first sign of alien life. The torpedolike creatures were like nothing on Earth, their individual evolutionary path literally a world apart. He reckoned the scientists would be ecstatic here and wouldn’t know where to begin.

The worst part about the silence was the lurking presence in the fuselage. The marines were so quiet. Too quiet. Mickey had confirmed their safety but you wouldn’t have guessed it. The Colonel had graced the cockpit briefly after they’d secured a stable course, but only to utter, “Good job,” in a deep coarse voice flavoured with Mandarin. At least he was satisfied.

Titus peered into the darkness below. He’d turned on the infrared vision on his helmet, capable of detecting the most minute traces of heat. There was activity down there but very distant, indicated by blotches of dark blue-violet.

“Magnify times forty.” A square blinked around the focus of his eye and produced a zoomed window. The colouration brightened to a lime green, but, to Titus’ amazement, definition wasn’t added; they were still amorphous blobs. How deep is this sea? he wondered.

Judging from the stillness of the heat signatures, Titus hypothesised they were volcanic. The lieutenant was no geologist but if the planet’s composition was similar to Earth’s then the crust would be close to the mantle at extreme depths. If there was a fault line running through here, might there be volcanoes near Landfall?

“Hey, Maverick, look!”

“Stop calling me that.” Titus closed the magnification window and turned to look at what Mickey identified. A large orange object loomed fifty metres above them. He switched off the infrared and squinted.

The Hoverfly coasted in the filtered light. Its wings were outspread and it looked like a giant flying fish.

“Hoverfly, do you copy?” Mickey repeated again. “Something’s up with their commlink. Should we go up and take a peek?”

Titus disengaged auto-pilot and swung the Demoiselle around and upwards in a graceful movement. They were level with the other damselfly in minutes and drew alongside it. It was empty.

“What on earth,” Mickey uttered, not realising the irony of the phrase. There were no clear signs of struggle in the cockpit and the rear exit was sealed. Titus drifted the Demoiselle round to inspect the Hoverfly from the front.

“Magnify times ten.” The window homed in on the cabin through the cockpit screen.

“Colonel, sir,” Mickey announced over the loudspeaker, “I think there’s something you should come see.”

Colonel Xing entered swiftly. Titus and Mickey swivelled round and saluted before Mickey explained the situation.

“We found the Hoverfly…”

“I can see that. Why is it empty?”

“We… We don’t know, sir.”

The Colonel glided forward and leant forward between the two, squinting into the deserted craft. “You’re helmet.” He stretched out his hand to Mickey, still peering out to sea. Mickey obliged. The Colonel donned it and magnified. After a moment’s pause it was apparent to Titus that he didn’t have a fucking clue either. He handed back the helmet.

“How many MMU’s does this vessel have?”

“Three,” Titus chipped in, “Sir.”

Silence ensued. Titus wasn’t sure whether the Colonel was unimpressed or simply cold. His face betrayed no feeling.

“I will take two men to search inside. Where is the manual hatch override?”

“To the right of the exit, sir. There will be a handle under a keypad. My serial number is 6078-5123-7600. Shall I write it down for you, sir?”

“There is no need. You are coming. Fetch the suits.”

Titus felt a wave of adrenaline rush through him. This voyage was getting better and better. He followed the Corporal into the cabin. It was dark, illuminated only by two thin light fixtures that ran down the ceiling of the gangway. The seated marines were still as statues. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. One of them was trying.

The lieutenant’s eyes flickered over the knife-wielder. He was ghostly pale and he stared at Titus with cruel, dead eyes. Titus quickly moved on. Eye contact was bad.

Sliding open a plastiform wardrobe of sorts, Titus retrieved the three vac-packed suits. He handed one to the Corporal, held his and laid the other on the floor for whoever was chosen to assist.

“Corporal Fang, let’s go.” The man with the knife got up. Typical.

Titus ushered the remaining marines into the cockpit and gave the cabin a last sweeping look to make sure everything was secure and waterproofed. It would be underwater in a minute. He started to suit up.

It was a tight squeeze in the cockpit, Titus imagined, made worse by the solemnity the soldiers brought with them. By the time Mickey had brought the ship round behind and facing away from the Hoverfly, the three explorers were ready. Decompression and deoxygenation were initiated with a pressurised hiss and the two marines and the pilot stood silently.

Titus looked to the airlock through the fishbowl plexiglass. After a few minutes, it opened.

Water flooded in as the platform lowered into the marine void. Titus followed the marines’ lead and pulled himself along the rungs on the wall. They pushed out into the alien waters and jetted towards the hull of the Hoverfly.

Titus watched the Colonel and soldier move ahead of him. He noticed a railgun holstered on a belt around the waist of Fang, dangling loosely in the current. He hoped they wouldn’t need it.

Colonel Xing was the first to reach the ship, closely followed by Fang and Titus. They parted to allow the lieutenant access to the keypad. He punched in his serial code.

Text appeared on the interface:

ACCESS DENIED

Bemused, Titus tried again.

ACCESS DENIED

“Someone’s overridden my command codes.” Titus couldn’t understand it. How and why would someone do this?

“Move aside, lieutenant.”

“Wait a minu…”

BOOM! The airlock exploded, sending sheets of burnt metal drifting out into the open sea. Titus was blown back a few metres by the impact and struggled to regain balance in shock. The piercing scream of the shell reverberated through his helmet and rolled like thunder through the water and down into the abyss.

Titus looked to Fang. His face looked disinterested as the water around the barrel of his railgun fizzled. These guys are fucking nuts!

“After you,” ordered the Colonel.

Titus went in reluctantly. He couldn’t wait to get these maniacs off his back. The inside was still lit and didn’t look much out of the ordinary except for the odd floating crate. There were no signs of struggle, just unfastened seat harnesses flapping like seaweed. He inspected the provisions and nothing seemed to be missing. Where the hell are they?

The lieutenant moved to the cockpit. Its slide doors were open and he drifted effortlessly in. The chamber was much like the cabin, empty. Auto-pilot was engaged and the radar blipped quietly on the co-pilot’s console. A small glimmer caught Titus’ eye and he moved to see what it was.

A military dog tag floated by the pilot’s chair, attached to a ball bearing necklace. Titus cradled it in his hand and read the inscription:

PETERS
JOHN
546-32-8280
RH POSITIVE
PROTESTANT

Titus didn’t know the name. It must’ve been one of the military personnel aboard. He turned to beckon the Corporal. He handed him the dog tag which the superior officer briefly scanned then tied around his arm.

“Sir, I’m resetting the auto-pilot to take the ship to the surface.” The Corporal nodded. The ship shortly began to change direction. “Demoiselle, do you copy?” Titus said through his helmet comm link.

“Loud and clear, Hoverfly.”

“Follow us to the surface.”

“Roger that, on your six.” The ships ascended.

As did something in the black abyss.

Walking

With the best ability he has, Gawaadi practiced walking with the heavy [for Gawaadi] gravity of the world. In truth the gravity may not be as horrible as he thought, as Gawaadi may just be very physically weak. For unlike some martians, Gawaadi never worked out his muscles nearly as much. Despite that, he still wanted to see the world outside the stuffy tent he has rested in for perhaps too long. There is a reason to still live, isn't there?

However the gravity pulled Gawaadi back down, only to once again be caught by Dr. Torres.

"You're weak for a martian." the doctor claims.

"I know."

"Well, you may need something to hold yourself up. We ran out of walkers however."

The Doctor, holding Gawaadi dragged him to a seat made of plastic and left out of the room for a bit.

The room still putrid, still smelling of bacon and some weird orange-white [for lack of a better word] scent made Gawaadi want to hold his breath, but he couldn't. He didn't want to hold his breath because he feared if he did, his lungs would explode and splatter all over the medical tent making a massive mess for the doctors to clean up.

The Doctor came back, holding in his hands two coral-like branches. They are surprisingly straight in shape, and have little refinement; the point at which they clearly were broken off still are well visible despite being numbed enough to walk with. On one end the canes have some foam-like material sprayed on.

"What are the pink things?" Gawaadi, confused asks.

"They are plants from the world, they are strong and sturdy enough that some of the colonists have been collecting them around the site."

Gawaadi wasn't really paying attention. Again, Gawaadi asked "okay, what are they for? Me?"

"Yes. There is no other alternatives for supporting walking."

What the doctor said sounded a bit weird, as the coral-like branches clearly had foam stuck on the top. How is it this assistant doctor has foam that hardens, but not plastic tubes? It all seemed so absurd! Obviously, the assistant was full of shit. Though the pink coral things did show god's creativity, kinda. Why god just reused coral and pretended coral is like bamboo is beyond Gawaadi.

Still, the question stuck; how is it they have foamy stuff, but not plastic tubes??

Questions like that went unanswered, as instead of asking this, Gawaadi with a near bi-polar fury starts shouting at Torres from his throne of a tiny, blue plastic childish chair "No alternatives? Non sense! I demand a real doctor, not some filthy assistant!"

"Calm. Doctor Herc has other important patients to tend to."

Nothing the assistant said got to Gawaadi, shouting again Gawaadi says "I demand Herc! You lie!"