Eventually he managed to persuade the safety pod to let him out. It had stubbornly urged him to stay inside for his own protection while it sent out a distress signal.
“A recovery team is being sent to your coordinates,” it had told him, “You are advised to remain inside. Please keep your limbs within the pod at all times and await rescue. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“No one is coming,” he had replied in exasperation, “The people that built you have long since turned to stardust.”
“65 Syngman Bb is a class-C planet currently unsuitable for human life. Hazardous conditions are guaranteed.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he’d scolded it, “I was born on this miserable rock. I’m well aware of the dangers.”
Still, he had waited around for a bit to see if the machine would make good on its promise. In that time he’d tried to catch a nap inside the safety of the pod even though it reeked to high heaven. But after an hour the stuffiness and stink had driven him briefly insane and he’d demanded his release, stamping his foot like a petulant brat. He’d conjured up an irrational suspicion in his head that the reason the pod wasn’t letting him out was that it was physically incapable of obeying his commands, having perhaps taken too much damage in the crash. The last thing he wanted was to be entombed alive inside it.
Then the pod wall in front of him slid aside and Rene felt the hot blast of the tropical breeze as a new world sprang to life before his eyes. The Aeronautical Division had never flown this far north to his knowledge—all of this was virgin territory. The lithobraking bladders had deflated shortly after landing and lowered the pod gently to the ground.
Rene stepped out onto the rich black loam of the jungle. And a jungle it was, that and then some. The shortest trees were at least sixty feet tall, while the tallest gave him a crick in the neck when he tried see where their branches ended. Ropy strangler vines wound around the crooked trunks, weaving a loom so thick that he could barely make out the suns. In fact he wasn’t entirely sure it was daytime anymore. From the sparseness of the undergrowth it was clear that not much could grow under the total shadow of the canopy.
“Alright, trooper,” he said to himself, “What now?”
Oxygen narcosis would kill him in a matter of hours. He was beginning to regret opening the pod and letting out all the good air, though he doubted it would have lasted very long anyway with that great big crack in the glass. Besides, he couldn’t bear another hour stuck in that cesspit. He’d made quite a mess in there, and he rather hoped that the spirit in the pod wouldn’t take offense.
Which was quite ridiculous, really. He had bigger things to worry about than offending an incorporeal presence. He was going to rupture his lungs out here in a matter of hours. Either that, or starve to death, or sprout mold across his skin like Lethway, or perish of thirst, or get gobbled up by some exotic new lifeform yet to be named by science. Or worse, the Amits could come creeping up on him in the night while he lay delirious. All he would feel were claws digging into the soft flesh of his neck, and then…
“You’re being hysterical,” Deschane would’ve told him right about now, “Act like you’ve got a pair, trooper. Remember your training.”
What training? Three years in officer training school? His mother has been so proud when he’d been accepted into the elite Pathfinder Regiment. It had meant that his family received additional weekly rations. Even better, they had earned the right to add a five by four foot living extension to their living quarters, which was just large enough for him to crawl into at bedtime and save his parents the trouble of stuffing themselves and three fully grown children into a chamber that could barely hold two people. Yes, he’d had it somewhat soft as an officer, however lowly his position. For one thing, it had meant that he only had to complete the barest minimum of an infantryman’s training regimen. A regimen which included, incidentally, several courses on surviving in the wilderness. Skills like building a fire without flint and steel, constructing makeshift breathing apparatuses in case of gasmask failure, or even fashioning those crude but highly effective stone weapons like the Amits were so fond of using; these things had been given lesser priority than topics like strategy, logistics, small-unit tactics, cartography, navigation and basic firearms drills.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
As such, Rene had only taken the first survivalist course, and his memory of that was spotty at best. Ah well. It was better than nothing.
“Rain or shine, we hold the line,” Lethway had been fond of quoting. It was the motto of the 3rd Pathfinder Regiment and its meaning was simple: a proper trooper made do with what he had, no matter the circumstances.
Cheering up a bit at the memory of his eternally ebullient friend, Rene began taking stock of his situation. Oxygen narcosis was his immediate enemy. He would start to get dizzy and slap-happy in a few minutes unless he did something about it.
An idea occurred to him. The ancestor-gods would’ve faced the same issues when it came to surviving on the surface world. He opened the survival kit and rummaged around for something that could help. Sure enough, the first tool he found was a rubber mask with a see-through visor. It seemed much flimsier than the standard-issue masks he was used to, with a long hose connecting its snout to a breathing apparatus mounted on a backpack. Rene wiped his face clean with his sleeves before putting it on. The visor fit his face like a glove, the straps and the lining of the mask remolding themselves to form an airtight fit. It came as no surprise that the air he inhaled through it was sweeter and more wholesome than any he had ever encountered. He took a moment to simply enjoy the luxury of breathing before moving on with his work.
Rene also found a spare set of clothing in the form of a white jumpsuit made of some supple fabric that was stronger than canvas and lighter than silk. But there was no way he was getting into that without washing himself clean. Rene hated feeling filthy. Like every right-thinking citizen of Mound Ulysses he was a severe germaphobe who knew that uncleanliness always preceded outbreaks of disease. Plagues had wiped out entire settlements in the past, the tight confines of the hive a natural breeding grounds for contagion. Yes, a good wash in a river or pond would do him wonders.
Speaking of which, he still had to secure a source of potable water. He licked his lips at the thought of a cup of water from the underground reservoirs of home. Ulysses was famous for its delicious water. Chock-full of minerals it was, enough to put hair on a growing boy’s unmentionables.
Searching for water would mean venturing into the unknown, and with night falling who knew what awaited him out there, or how far that river he’d seen truly was? Coming across some local wildlife was a certainty.
He still remembered those winged harpies he’d seen right before the Divine Engine had given him the old heave-ho. The beam-throwing weapon had caught scores of the creatures in its flames, but many more had flown clear and escaped. Even now they could be roosting in the branches above him, waiting to dive down and dismember him with the same ease with which they had butchered the Amits. Rene wasn’t taking any chances. He needed a weapon, and once more, the box provided.
It came in a sheathe of alabaster metal, a short broad blade with a cumbersome basket hilt. He wondered why a stubby blade needed such bulky hand protection when it was clearly unsuited to sword fencing. The pommel folded up to reveal a red button. Pressing it, Rene was startled when the blade began to vibrate in his hand like a living thing. He was so surprised that he dropping it by accident, snatching back his hand and letting it fall. It hit the ground hilt-first and spun, the cutting edge glancing against a huge granite boulder. The stone parted like butter beneath a hot knife, splitting apart into two equal halves. But the blade kept on going, skittering across the ground and striking the base of a tree. There was a terrible groan of stricken timber and the giant was felled, Rene judiciously stepping aside as it ripped through the blanket of vines to leave a gaping rent in the canopy above him.
Rene gingerly picked up the now inert sword and grasped it firmly in hand.
“Why, yes,” he muttered, feeling pleased, “Yes, I believe this will do.”