“Warning!” the female voice flatly intoned, “Critical systems failure! Activating safety pod.”
A set of hard panels shot up out of the floor and enclosed Rene from all sides, fitting seamlessly into airtight coffin and leaving only a round porthole of thick glass for him to peer out of. The interior of the tight space was furnished with gelatinous cushions supporting his spine, head and neck. Flexible straps extended from hidden slots above his shoulders and either side of his waist, wrapping him in so tight he could barely breathe.
“What’s going on?” he demanded of the Engine.
“Shutdown procedure in progress. Have a very safe day.”
“Oy! I asked you a question.”
“Warning! Ejection sequence imminent. Warning! Brace for takeoff. Brace for takeoff. Brace—”
Rene did not have time to scream— though he couldn’t have done so even if he’d wanted to. All the breath was driven out of his body as the iron sarcophagus shot straight upwards with explosive force. In instant he was ripped away from the dome and shunted out through a tube, lobbed like a stone from the arm of a catapult. He saw flashes of sunlight flickering past, the stony ground reeling away from him as he sped towards the heavens at hundreds of feet a second. Wisps of low-hanging cumulous clouds caressed the porthole, leaving streaks of dewy precipitation.
The craft’s velocity eventually bled off under the influence of gravity, and suddenly everything went perfectly still, a surreal and oddly peaceful moment where his arms gently floated up to the ceiling. His guts, which had been compressed under enormous acceleration, now relaxed. Feeling immensely grateful, Rene took a welcome gulp of air—only for it to be hammered right out of him again as his innards decided to reverse course, crunching upwards along the meagre contents of his stomach which now spewed out of his mouth in an uncontrollable torrent of vomit and spittle, coating the inside of the porthole. Through levitating gobs of half-digested food Rene saw that the craft was now in total free fall. Gone was the mad chessboard of the karst canyons and towers, replaced by a verdant rainforest that stretched well beyond the horizon, a shining brown river snaking through the impenetrable green.
“Initiating aerobraking maneuvers,” said a bodiless male voice, harsher and more metallic than that of the Engine, “Please remain calm.”
“Hnggng,” Rene groaned, giving it a thumbs up. His optimism evaporated when something ruptured in the bulkhead above him with a loud bang.
Wonderful, Rene thought with a sardonic grin. Damn thing’s going to fall apart before I even hit the ground. He heard the flapping of canvas and glanced up to see the flapping edge of what looked like a great big tent spreading open above him. The tent was attached to the coffin via taut black cables which were thrumming from a great deal of tension. One of them snapped apart under the immense forces at work, the split end slicing right past his porthole. The tent began to spin uncontrollably, jostling the coffin like it was a tin can being kicked down the road. Throughout all this, Rene was treated to the dubious pleasure of having the vomit on the porthole peel off and reapply itself all over his face.
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This is how I die, Rene thought glumly. Covered in my own filth, squealing like a pig and trapped in an iron coffin built sometime in the previous millennia.
“Aerobraking unsuccessful. Please remain calm.”
“I’m…trying…” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Compensating. Compensating.”
There was a second bang and the cables were all severed, the big tent floating away into the clouds.
“Unable to compensate. Initiating lithobraking maneuvers. Brace for impact.”
There was a third and final eruption, this time from somewhere under his feet. He peeked down and saw four massive bladders rapidly inflating at the base of the coffin. A forest clearing was rushing up to meet him, and from the look of things, it was packing a nasty knuckle sandwich. Commending his soul to the Eternal Flight, Rene silently offered up a prayer to the ancestor-gods:
“Hello there. I’m not entirely sure how to do this, so I’ll keep it brief. I have only one thing to ask of you: I left certain…illustrations…under my bunk at home. Illustrations depicting young ladies in rather indecent postures. Whatever happens to me, don’t let my mother find them—”
Boing!
The coffin struck the ground at full force and bounced right off. A stand of trees reached out to catch it. Wood splintered and branches scratched against the side of the craft. A hefty bough smacked into the porthole and produced a worrying crack in the glass that grew larger and larger with every bump and snag.
At last, with a final whallop to the side of the coffin that set Rene’s teeth rattling in his gums, the craft rolled to a halt. Rene opened his eyes and found to his disbelief that he was still alive.
“Still alive?” he wondered aloud, wiping his lips and breathing shakily. When the buzz of adrenaline ebbed and he finally processed what had just occurred, Rene burst out in a mad cackle:
“Aha! Ah-ha hah! I’m still alive, you bastards!”
Who exactly he was referring to, Rene wasn’t sure. But it felt good to say those words all the same.
“Lithobraking maneuver successful,” the safety pod belatedly informed him, “Thank you for choosing Exodus Industries. Your future, built today!”
“If that’s your idea of success, I’d hate to see what you’d call a failure,” Rene joked, still giddy from the experience, “As for my future, do you have any ideas on how I could prolong it?”
“Safety pod hull integrity is compromised. Foreign contaminants have entered the compartment. Recommend immediate antifungal dosage.”
A groove on the wall of the coffin slid open to offer him the contents of a tiny drawer. In it was a strange object nestled in an indented mold. It was shaped like a pistol with trigger and all, but in the place of the barrel was a syringe filled with a dubious orange liquid in a transparent capsule. Next to the pistol were two identical capsules likewise holding the same substance.
“Hm,” Rene grunted, “Did you say antifungal?”
“Affirmative. Once injected, it will counteract the effects of native spores for up to 48 hours, standard Terran.”
Rene could hardly believe it. A remedy against infection from airborne spores was the holy grail of modern science. It was the second great hurdle that the Fleet faced in its struggle to reclaim the surface world, right after the deadly atmosphere.
“Terran?” he repeated, “That’s where the gods were born, correct?”
The safety pod did not reply. Sighing, Rene tried to work free of the restraints binding him to the seat but found the task harder than expected. Then her remembered that he had a tiny clasp knife in his trouser pocket and used it to cut himself free of the upholstery.
“Do you have anything else that’s of use to me, pod?” he asked, turning his attention to the syringe and examining it thoughtfully?
“A complete survival kit is available in the foot locker.”
Another, even larger drawer opened up between his feet, containing a compact white chest held shut with airtight seals.
“Right. Thanks,” he said awkwardly.
Rene stooped to open it and felt something wet and heavy inside the seat of his trousers. Sniffing at it inquisitively, he gagged and added: “I don’t suppose you could conjure up a bucket of water and some soap? I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess.”