Mike's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor as he sprinted toward the escape pod bay. Emergency lights pulsed an angry red, barely illuminating his path. Through the viewport to his left, he could see other pods already launching, their engines flaring bright against the darkness of space.
"Wait!" His shout was lost in the blare of alarms. Another pod detached and fired its thrusters, carrying his crewmates to safety. The ship shuddered around him - from damage or whatever had caused the evacuation order, he wasn't sure.
The bay door was already cycling closed when he reached it. Mike dove through the narrowing gap, rolling onto the metal grating of the launch bay floor. Only one pod remained, its hatch still open, waiting.
He scrambled inside, fingers trembling as they found the restraints. The automated launch sequence should start as soon as he was secured. Should. The console remained dark.
"No, no, no..." Mike's hands flew across the manual override panel. Basic training kicked in - primary ignition, auxiliary power, emergency protocols. Half the indicator lights stayed stubbornly dark, but he didn't have time to troubleshoot. Through the viewport, he could see the main ship's hull beginning to glow from whatever was causing the evacuation, and the other pods becoming distant specks of light.
He yanked the manual release lever. Nothing happened. Again. Still nothing. On the third try, the lever snapped down with a crunch that didn't sound good at all.
For one horrible moment, nothing happened. Then the pod jerked violently as the emergency launch mechanism finally engaged. The acceleration slammed him back against the seat as the pod shot from its bay like a bullet from a gun. No gradual thrust build-up, no stabilization period - just raw emergency power hurling him away from the ship.
The pod tumbled end over end, its navigation systems as dead as mostly everything else. Through flashes of the viewport, Mike caught glimpses of the other pods' orderly descent paths toward the planet below. His own trajectory looked more like a drunken comet.
Warning lights flashed across the cramped interior as he frantically worked the manual controls. The growing heat around the hull suggested he was already hitting the outer atmosphere.
A violent shudder ran through the pod. Through the small viewport, he could see the curvature of the alien planet below - beautiful, terrifying, and getting closer by the second. The manual controls responded sluggishly as he tried to establish some kind of descent pattern. Another warning light joined the constellation of red on his console.
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The pod entered the atmosphere proper, and physics decided to remind Mike why automated systems were invented in the first place. Every correction he made was either too much or too late. The night side of the planet rushed up to meet him, dark except for what looked like bioluminescent patches in the ocean below.
He managed to level out somewhat, bleeding off speed, but the landing was going to be rough. A stretch of beach appeared in his viewport, silvery in the moonlight. It would have to do.
The impact was less of a landing and more of a controlled crash. Sand flew everywhere as the pod plowed into the beach, digging itself deeper with each bounce. Mike's head slammed against the restraints, his vision blurring. When the pod finally stopped moving, it had buried itself at an angle in the wet sand.
Ears ringing, head spinning, Mike fumbled with the restraints. The pod's interior lights flickered and died, leaving only the alien moonlight filtering through the viewport. Warning indicators still flashed across the console - hull integrity compromised, life support failing, power systems critical.
His eyes darted to where the emergency supplies should have been stored. The compartment hung open, completely empty. Of course - this pod had been scheduled for maintenance. No emergency oxygen. No survival kit. No atmospheric testing equipment. No nothing. He vaguely remembered seeing the "OUT OF SERVICE" tag when he'd dived in, but there hadn't exactly been time to pod-shop during an emergency evacuation.
He stared at the hatch release, hand frozen halfway to the lever. His exosuit was back on the ship, along with every other piece of standard survival gear. The emergency evacuation hadn't exactly left time for packing. Opening that hatch without protection was against every safety protocol drilled into him during training.
But as smoke began to curl from somewhere beneath the console, he realized he might not have a choice. The pod's systems were failing, and he could either take his chances with whatever was outside or definitely suffocate inside.
Mike tried to remind himself the last atmospheric reading. Nitrogen-oxygen mix, similar proportions to Earth, but with higher concentrations of... something he couldn't remember. Theoretically breathable. Theoretically.
Another spark shot from the console. The air inside the pod was getting thinner.
"Theoretically breathable it is," he muttered, and yanked the release lever.
The pod's hatch protested but finally opened with a hiss of equalizing pressure. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the smell of an alien ocean. Mike took a shallow experimental breath. The air felt thick, but he wasn't immediately dying. That was something.
He had just managed to climb out onto the tilted surface of the pod when he saw it - a dark shape moving with impossible grace across the beach toward him. Mike did what any reasonable person would do upon crash-landing on an alien planet and immediately encountering a tentacled creature - he ran.