Tristan CH 07 (Patreon)

Landing on Deleron Four proved harder than Helios. This was a corporate planet; the security was much higher. Again, he had to get on the planet using holes in the planetary sensor net, only this time these holes were much, much smaller. This wasn’t how he liked doing things. He much preferred fake IDs. Social camouflage: that was a reliable way to get on a planet.

For a moment, he considered turning back and getting one of his ships. With that, he could dock to the station and take a shuttle down, everything legal. But the closest one was a two-year flight away, and he couldn’t afford to give them time to prepare. It had already been one objective year since his escape.

Even if they couldn’t be certain he’d survived and escaped, the Sayatoga would have put a bounty on him. Anyone who kept track of such things would know to expect him, and Mitch would be keeping track.

It didn’t change anything, other than he would have to be more careful. Once on the planet, he’d be able to confirm what his status was and go from there.

He couldn’t do it from his ship. With the security here, the sniffers wouldn’t just sniff around his information trail, they would board his computers and run a complete interrogation on them.

He physically disconnected the communication system. He couldn’t take the chance the sniffers would wait for him to initiate the contact. They could very well come looking and not take no for an answer.

He’d only been able to find three holes in the short time his approach gave him. He went for the largest one. It wasn’t much bigger than the ship itself, and it was moving.

With a few quick corrections, he was through. Then the strong, high- altitude winds buffeted him about. Before he could scan the surface to get an idea where he was, an alarm sounded. He’d tripped a sensor.

It couldn’t be the planetary sensor net, his piloting had been flawless. He had to split his attention, which meant the ship shook badly, but he had to find out what he’d tripped. This high, it couldn’t be a local, or even a city net. It had to be corporate, which meant trouble.

They wouldn’t ignore him; they would send a ship to verify what had tripped the sensor. He had to reach the ground fast, and take measures to get rid of the ship. He couldn’t simply hide it anymore. Corporations didn’t do cursory checks, they wouldn’t leave until they found what registered on the sensors.

He sped up, scanning ahead, looking for anything that would let him hide once he destroyed the ship. If he could make it seem like a crash, they might not scan for survivors, but he couldn’t count on that. This was a corporate, not governmental, response. There would be no slacking.

He was over uninhabited land, which he’d expected; they wouldn’t allow a hole in the sensor net over a city or any area of importance. Hills, some woods, a river, and something rocky, which might have been a mountain, before a corporation decided it needed the material.

He aimed for the rock. A hard surface would make survivors less likely. He went to the suit lockers, put one on quickly, and grabbed the emergency escape pack. Of his own things, he only grabbed his tool kit and datapad. Anything else he could acquire on the planet.

With the pack on his back, he opened the ramp. It groaned and barely moved. He slammed his fist over button again, and he heard the motor work, but the ramp didn’t go down. He didn’t need this right now. It should have fallen open and been ripped away by the wind.

He looked over his shoulder. The ground was coming fast. He couldn’t be in the ship when it crashed. He needed to either get out or get back in the pilot’s seat and stop the descent. He slammed his shoulder in the ramp. He couldn’t go anywhere in the ship, not with a corporation on his tail.

He shouldered it again, and it budged slightly. He hit it again and again, each time opening a little more. The hinge was damaged. Probably because of when the ramp fell open without the compressor to control the speed at which it opened.

Finally, the ramp fell open and ripped away. By reflex, Tristan grabbed on the wall to avoid falling out. Stupid, he needed off the ship, not to stay in. He jumped out.

The escape pack kicked it the moment he was in free fall, and he immediately knew he was in trouble. He was too low to aim for the river as he’d planned. He had counted on using the water density to dissipate his excess momentum. He cranked the pack’s compensator to its maximum, but it couldn’t slow him enough. It was designed to work from a higher altitude.

The warning came up in his visor, telling him he was approaching the ground at an unsafe speed. He did the calculation, then used the little maneuvering power the suit had to make his angle of approach shallower.

This was going to hurt.

He fought every instinct that told him to stiffen up in preparation for the impact and went limp. The ship’s explosion registered a moment before he hit the ground.

He bounced, his head hitting the inside of the visor. He bounced again, pain shooting up his shoulders, legs, and arms. Another bounce and the world went black.

* * * * *

He came to with a start. His view of the world around him was shattered, and it took him a moment to realize the problem was the cracked visor, not his sight. He took off his helmet. His sight took a second to steady. He probably had a concussion. He reached for the emergency medical pack all suits came with and didn’t find it. It had ripped away when he ‘landed.’ A long trail in the soil led to his current position. The softness of the earth here was probably the reason he’d survived.

No medical kit meant he couldn’t afford to rest. If he slept, he might not wake up. He stood, then immediately fell down, his left leg in debilitating pain.

When he could breathe again, he sat up. He felt along his leg, keeping his touch as light as possible. He felt two breaks in the tibia, bad, but he didn’t think the bone broke the skin. He checked the suit and was relieved to find the compression and immobilization systems were chemical instead of electronic.

He forced his leg straight, wedging it between rocks, and pulled. He screamed as the bones moved. When he stopped shaking, he reached down and turned on the release system in the part of the suit below his knee. The chemical soaked the outer layer of the suit, hardening it, then a foam filled the inside, compressing his leg in place before also hardening.

He woke up with a start. He couldn’t fall asleep. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been out, but corporate security wasn’t surrounding him, so it hadn’t been long. He tested the suit around his leg; it was fully hardened. He stood and put some weight on it. It was painful, but with the suit taking most of the weight, he could bear it.

He couldn’t stay here. With the helmet cracked, the river was out, not that he knew where it was anymore. He’d been counting on the water to hide his signature from the corporate ship.

He was on a hill. Down and to his right, a few miles away, he could see where his ship crashed, a long scorch mark and debris marking it. If he went down the hill, he should reach the river. Water flowed down. The water could hide his presence. He took a step in that direction, then stopped. No, there was something wrong with that. Water wouldn’t hide him. No, that wasn’t right either. Water could hide him, so why shouldn’t he go there?

Right, he couldn’t breathe under water. The helmet was cracked. He should take it off. He reached for it. Why wasn’t it on his head anymore?

He looked around and saw it on the ground, visor cracked. Had he survived the crash without wearing the helmet? He chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. He was tired. He should lie down and rest.

No!

Sound rushed in his ears, his vision wavering for a moment. When it steadied, so did his thoughts. He was in the open, exposed. A corporate ship was going to be here any moment. He needed cover. He looked around, seeing a forest up the hill. The ship’s scanner might confuse him for an animal there.

He started moving, wincing every time he put weight on his broken leg.

“Move, Tristan. You are a survivor. The Universe wants you dead, but you mock it.” The voice was his father’s. One of his favorite phrases. “Survivalist endure. When the world burns, we will be the only ones left.”

“The world hasn’t burned, father,” he replied, “but you didn’t survive.” He shook his head. Why had he stopped moving? His father had spoken to him, and he listened when father spoke. No, that wasn’t right. He was dead. He had died a long time ago, just before Tristan left for space. Left to experience the wonders the Universe had to offer. Where he discovered technology in the form of weapons he’d never seen, security systems to dismantle.

He looked up like he’d often done as a child. He’d always wondered if the Universe had more to offer than death. Now he knew it offered countless wonders and many way to die.

Focus! He needed to reach the tree line. He thought he could hear the distinctive whine of a small ship approaching. 

Once he was among the trees, he found the largest branch and broke it to length. He sighed once the weight was off his leg. He tried to decide what to do.

“The forest is the survivalist’s world. You never have to leave it. It will provide everything you will ever need.”

The ghost was standing next to him, in his pure black fur, dirty and ripped breeches that had been the only thing he wore.

Tristan stared it down. “You are dead, father. Go away.” If he’d been back home, his father’s words would have been true. Back there he could find herbs to dull the pain, to help with the swelling in his skull. That had to be the reason he had trouble thinking. Here? He knew nothing of the flora or fauna. He’d have to check his pad for that information.

He reached behind him for his pack and didn’t find it there. For a moment couldn’t understand why. He was confident he’d put it on before coming here, hadn’t he?

He tried to remember. Yes, he had put it on, just before jumping off the ship. Right, the ship he’d crashed. He’d lost his pack then, his tools. 

The loss of his tools hit him hard. He needed his tools. How was he going to do any of his work without them? His research? He had so much to catch up to.

“Survive!” his father screamed in his ear.

Tristan glared at the ghost. Who was he to tell him to survive?

“I’m what you made me,” his father said. “You are what I made you. I will not see my son just give up!”

“I am not giving up!”

The ghost wasn’t there anymore.

He needed medication. He couldn’t get that in the forest. He needed civilization, except there wasn’t any for further than he could fathom right now. He was all alone.

No, he wasn’t.

He turned and walked to the edge of the forest. He could see the corporate shuttle, not far from the crash. He thought he could make out four people. They weren’t rushing in his direction, so they hadn’t detected him yet, but they would come to investigate the trench he’d made. They’d scan the area then. If he was further in the forest, they wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from the local fauna.

But if he stayed at the edge, they would realize he didn’t belong. If he could draw them in, take them out, the shuttle had the medicine he needed.

He laughed. He was alone, and there was four of them, most certainly armed. Could he even take them on?

He pushed the doubt away. He could feel the ghost next to him, and he didn’t need his father screaming at him again. He was Tristan, he survived. He would take them on, and he would win.

He leaned against the tree, and he waited. He couldn’t tell how many there were at this distance, but they were clearly examining the crash site. Two of them then used jump-packs to go to where Tristan had landed. The packs let them quickly cover the distance. That caught Tristan’s attention. He’d have to try to keep one of them intact. When he was better, it would make traveling to a city much quicker.

The two looked at the trench and picked up a few things, probably the remnants of his pack. One of them pointed in his direction and jumped. Tristan couldn’t walk very fast, but he moved deeper into the forest.

The woman screamed for him to stop moving, and he heard her run after him. She couldn’t use the jump-pack among the trees, but she would catch up to him quickly.

He leaned against a tree, not having to act exhausted. In the silence that followed he wondered why he had been running. Had his brother blamed him for something again?

“Don’t move!”

He turned with a start and remembered where he was just in time to put a mask of fear on his face. She was pointing a Zugaruth hand pistol at him. She was wearing a white, armored suit with an opaque visor. The voice was the only indication she was female.

He asked for mercy in his home language. It felt strange on his tongue; it had been decades since he’d spoken it. Even the ghost of his father had spoken English.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” She took a step toward him, and Tristan recoiled in terror. She took a step back. “Trev? I have a survivor. He’s terrified and in bad shape. He doesn’t speak the language.”

“Is he dangerous?” came the reply. Tristan could barely make it out.

“No, he’s hurt. I think he’s an illegal. I’m going to try to calm him and bring him to the ship.”

“Okay. If he doesn’t cooperate, let me know, and I’ll help you drag him back. Illegals have no business being here.”

The female sighed. “Grow a fucking heart, Trev,” she muttered. She raised her hands. “I’m a friend, I’m here to help,” she soothed. “I’m going to put my gun away.” Slowly, she put it back in her holster.

Tristan watched her with clear weariness.

Then she reached for her visor and raised it. “See? I’m not a monster. I’m human. You’ve seen humans before, right?” She extended a hand in his direction.

Tristan recoiled for a moment, then tentatively reached for it, only to pull his hand away.

She took something from a pocket on her thigh. It was a one-shot hypo-injector. “You’re hurt, you have to be in pain. This will make you feel better.” She offered it to him.

Tristan carefully took it. He couldn’t play at being too primitive. He’d survived jumping out of a crashing ship, so he knew how to use the maneuvering system on his suit. And he really needed to make the pain go away. He looked at it, and he saw the red cross and the three waves next to it, the universal symbol for relief.

Usually he wouldn’t inject himself with anything he hadn’t tested before hand, the dosage could be wrong for him, but he really, really wanted the pain gone. He injected himself and couldn’t stop the sigh as the pain he’d been feeling disappeared. He slumped back against the tree.

“That feels better, doesn’t it?”

He had nodded before he caught himself. She stiffened. “Do you understand me?”

Tristan cursed himself; he couldn’t go back now. He nodded. He had to make her lower her guard again.

“Do you speak English?”

He shook his head. English was the universal language and had been for over a thousand years, so it made sense everyone understood it, and unless she was familiar with his species, she might not realize he could form the words. Not every alien species had a voice box that could. Trilinite needed translator-boxes to speak. It would be credible that the crash damaged or destroyed his translator.

“I need you to come with me. You’re hurt; we can help you back on the ship. We won’t hurt you, I promise.” She extended her hand again.

Tristan put resignation on his face and nodded. He reached for her hand and took it. She gently pulled him toward him. He let go of the branch, took a step toward her, and punched her in the face.

He growled in pain. That had hurt. For it to hurt while he was drugged, he had to have broken his hand doing that. The pain subsided quickly. She took a step back in pain and surprise, losing her footing on the uneven ground.

Tristan grabbed his branch and went to her as she was fumbling for her gun. He hit her in the face with the large, jagged end multiple times. It felt good to let out the anger that had been simmering at his failure to escape cleanly. When he stopped, she was unconscious but still breathing. He had destroyed her face.

Tristan tentatively flexed his hand and was surprised his fingers moved. His hand wasn’t broken. Was the painkiller not as effective as it should be on him?

“Martha?” came another female’s voice over her comm. “Your vitals spiked, are you okay?”

Tristan took out the content of the pocket that had contained the hypo.

“Martha? Please come in.”

Another painkiller hypo, multiple packs of generalized antibiotics, and two packs of bone-knitter. Nothing for concussions, which was what he really wanted. Right now the adrenaline was keeping him focused, but there was no telling when it would wear off.

He checked the dosage on the antibiotics. It was low for his body mass, but he knew the brand, had tested it before. His species didn’t have any adverse reactions to taking too much. He dry-swallowed three packets. He only took one package of bone-knitter, overdoing those was a terrible idea. He pocketed the other hypo and grabbed her gun.

He grabbed her by a leg and started walking deeper in the forest. He didn’t have to worry about them losing him. She had a transponder on her suit, and they would track that.

He could hear someone calling her comm, and for some time she groaned. Her body didn’t stiffen or try to fight out of his grip, so she wasn’t trying to reply, just moaning in pain.

He was far enough in that he couldn’t tell which direction would lead him out again when something nearby roared. Tristan turned and pointed the gun at it. Fifty yards away, something large was lumbering toward him, its gray, brown, and green fur making it blend into the surrounding trees. No, those things looked more like spines than fur. It stood up on its hind legs and roared again. It was easily twice Tristan’s height, its maw full of jagged teeth and its claws looking vicious.

Tristan knew this was something he couldn’t hope to win against claw to claw. He lobbed the female’s body at it. It wasn’t like he had planned on keeping her alive anyway.

The creature went back down on all four, trod to her, sniffed, and prodded her with a paw, then dismissed her, fixing its gaze back on Tristan.

“Really? You’re going to pass on an easy meal and go for the one who can fight back?”

It roared.

It was looking for a fight. Good thing Tristan was armed.

Before he raised his gun, someone else shot the creature. “Martha?”

Tristan crouched next to a tree, figuring it was time to resume playing the scared alien, but the shooting only seemed to enrage the creature.

That wasn’t right. He couldn’t know how thick the animal’s hide was, but the Zugaruth should have more firepower than that. Since the creature was busy with the other guy, Tristan looked his gun over. The model was a few years old, with obvious modifications. The power regulator was locked. He shook his head. What was the point of taking a perfectly good gun and rendering it ineffective? He got that there were times that a lower setting was best, that was why regulators were adjustable. Locked, they tended to become useless, as Trev’s screams of pain indicated.

He reached for his tools, only remembering he didn’t have them once he was groping his back. Alright, so he couldn’t undo the lock and make the power adjustable again. He could still bypass it. He took the power pack out, reached in, and pulled out the regulator. The wires were thin enough he was able to cut it with a claw, though that reminded him he needed to search the bodies to see if one of them had a knife.

He couldn’t attach the wires to the power pack, so he had to hold them in place. Both it and the gun quickly heated up. He aimed it at the creature’s head and fired. It made a neat hole through where its brain should have been. Tristan threw the gun away before it melted his glove.

The creature turned and glared at him with its remaining eye. Tristan had to chuckle at how silly it looked, trying to be menacing while he could see through its head. Then he realized it wasn’t dead.

Did it not have its brain in its head? Was it too small that he missed it, or maybe it hadn’t registered it should be dead yet? The shot had cauterized the wound so it wouldn’t bleed to death. Tristan stood, claws out, ready to go claw to claw against it.

It took a step and stumbled. It tried to raise itself up but didn’t seem to find the strength. It fell to its side. Tristan sighed in relief; he hadn’t been looking forward to that fight. He walked toward the man it had mauled, and it whined as Tristan passed before it.

He stopped and turned to look at it. Its eye was small and beady, but there was no fear in it, just pain. He had won. The Universe had thrown something else at him with the goal of killing him, and he had triumphed over it, but he didn’t feel the usual elation.

He crouched before it, and that eye followed him. He didn’t see any of the hate, the anger, or arrogance, he usually saw in those who tried to kill him. Was he wrong? Could it be that this being was not the will of the Universe, out to kill him? Was it like him, just trying to survive when everything else wanted it dead.

Had he been the will of the Universe, sent here to kill it?

He shook his head. That was a stupid thought, caused by the concussion. Still, he couldn’t look away. He put a hand on the being’s head, just over his remaining eye. “I’m sorry,” he said and waited for it to expire.

He stood and went to the mauled man. Not much of him remained— the being had thoroughly clawed it—but in one of the few intact pockets, he found a few packs of antibiotics, two hypos of painkiller, though they broke in the fight, a pack of bone-knitter, and two packs of stimulants.

He made sure the dosage in them wouldn’t harm him and swallowed the stimulants. It wasn’t ideal, but they would help him stay focused until he made it onto the shuttle.

The man’s jump-pack had been damaged, but he found his viewer away from the area. It was working, and it was set to show him where the shuttle was. He went to the edge of the forest and used it to see how many others he had to contend with.

The cockpit was partially visible to him, and the sun wasn’t reflecting on the clear canopy so he could tell no one was sitting there. The only two people visible were standing by the door.

He studied the shuttle; he couldn’t see any corporate logos on it. Could they have passed the information to the government? He supposed that made some sense. Why pull your people away from the buildings they are protecting when the government is so happy to do it for you? It would also explain the Zugaruth. No corporation would hamper their people that way.

Standard procedure was to never leave a shuttle unattended. From the size of it, he estimated it to be a six people shuttle, so at most, there was four more. Based on the way the two were acting, never looking back in the shuttle, he guessed they were the only ones left. If he could draw one of them to him, it would be easy to take them out. Even if two of them came, he would pay for it later, but the drugs let him function a full strength.

All he needed was a way to draw them to him.

He went back to the bodies. The man’s suit was damaged past the point of being useful, but the other one, Martha’s, still functioned. Every suit was equipped with an emergency beacon, for when someone was gravely hurt, close to dying. She wasn’t in a bad enough state for it to activate, so he cut her jugular open and waited.

He was in luck; only one of them rushed to the rescue.

* * * * *

Tristan was going through the medical supplies in the shuttle, occasionally stepping over the dead body. She hadn’t been wearing her helmet when he surprised her. Breaking her neck had been simple.

He found the medication he wanted for his concussion, but he hadn’t taken it. He didn’t know the brand, and he didn’t want to risk it interacting with the other drugs he’d taken. He also found the bone- regenerator. What he needed now was the medical cutter. He was going to be pissed if this ship didn’t have one.

There it was, all the way at the bottom of the storage cabinet. Good thing he wasn’t suffocating; he’d have died before getting it. He turned it on, and the energy-lance appeared. It would cut through anything except living matter. He’d end up with some burnt fur, but it would be worth it.

He cut the suit off his leg, then clamped the regenerator over it. He turned it on and waited for the computer to scan his leg, adjust the length of the unit, and then manipulate his leg until the breaks in his bones were aligned. He winced at the pain he felt, even with the painkiller still affecting him. Then it started the knitting process.

He was lucky not much time had passed since taking the bone- knitting drug; it hadn’t had a chance to do anything, but now it would help speed the process along. In a couple of hours, his leg would be good as new.

It was a long two hours. He wouldn’t let himself fall asleep, no matter how tired he felt when the stimulant wore off. He hadn’t been able to find a blood-cleaning unit, so he had to wait until his system processed them out. The best he could allow in the meantime was a cool pack.

His father hadn’t come back. He took that as a good sign. Either his survival had appeased his memory of him, or he was actually feeling better. Either way, he didn’t miss him.

Since he couldn’t sleep, he made plans. He had the rest of the day before anyone would come to check on the shuttle. He’d reviewed the communication records, and they hadn’t informed anyone they had found a survivor. That gave him four, maybe five hours. It was enough to heal, wipe the shuttle’s system, and travel a good distance with one of the jump-packs. He had to remember to disable the tracker on it first, or had he already done that? He couldn’t remember.

He avoided shaking his head to clear it. It was a useless reflex, and it wouldn’t help. He just focused on what he needed to do. He’d lost his tools and pad, so he needed to stop at the closest city and get that. It wouldn’t be today or even tomorrow. The jump-pack would let him put some distance between him and the shuttle before dark, but it didn’t have the power needed to take him there. He’d have to walk the rest of the way. At least his injuries would heal by then.

Then he realized there had been people in the shuttle, which meant there should be at least one pad here. The regenerator allowed him some movement, so he looked around. Unfortunately, the only pads he found were government-issue and would have too many programs, as well as hardware, to keep track of what the user was doing. He couldn’t use them.

An hour before he felt he needed to leave, he took the anti-concussion drug. His system hadn’t flushed all the other drugs, but he didn’t want to risk traveling by jump-pack with his brain still jumbled. He would really hate himself if he ended up dying because he’d gotten confused in a jump after surviving this day.

When he finally jumped away, he was confident he had removed all trace of his presence on the shuttle and around it. He couldn’t do much for the forest, but he didn’t expect anyone to search for someone else.