Sweat beginning to stream down his forehead, Arlan wrestles the dying shuttle through another set of wild evasion maneuvers, while Grave does his best to manage the shuttle's forward weapons and convince those blobs of sh*t that it wasn't a good idea to get too close.
They had already picked everyone up; all they had to do now was get to the landing point somewhere in the section labeled "Beta Labs". As the designated landing point appeared and safety seemed to be in sight, yet another thing went wrong: a lucky plasma loogie caught the shuttle on the port forward maneuvering thruster, destroying it in an astounding flash of light.
"F***!!!" Arlan screeched as the shuttle suddenly began to spin out of control, unbalanced by the sudden shift in thrust power. The Martian surface beginning to lazily spin up to meet the shuttle, Arlan rapidly hammered commands into the console, rebalancing the thrust distribution amongst the remaining thrusters and cutting off the starboard forward thruster entirely.
Roaring like a wounded animal, the shuttle suddenly stopped spinning and leveled off, only about five meters above the Martian surface. One of the blobs of sh*t, which had been following the shuttle all the way down, spitting all the way, wasn't able to react quickly enough, and slammed into the ground at near top speed. Even its toughed skin wasn't able to handle the impact, and it splattered over the ground like an over-ripe tomato, covering the iron-oxide rocks of Mars with a bright orange paste that quickly burned away into ash.
"Whoo!" Arlan whooped, and continued to maneuver the shuttle towards the last airlock, now only a short distance away. Another near-direct hit from a plasma loogie, and once more a thrust winked out, this time the port rear one. Instantly, the shuttle began to lose altitude again, seemingly intent on crashing before it could get to its destination. "No, no, no!! This isn't fair!!" Arlan cried, once again struggling to bring the shuttle under control. When he quickly found that he could not, he tore the flight stick back, jerking it back up in the air so that it flew for a few more critical seconds. Miraculously, the shuttle somehow managed to stay in the air long enough to reach the last airlock, and then it crashed mightily down onto the airlock, almost certainly never to fly again.
Of course, Arlan didn't particularly care at the moment, looking out his viewscreen in surprise as he realized that somehow they had made it. For whatever reason, the blobs of sh*t also withdrew, allowing the marines waiting on the other side of the airlock to dock with the shuttle's remains and pull the survivors from the wreckage. Exhausted by his rather insane piloting effort, Arlan weakly collapsed back into the co-pilot's chair, and waited for the rescuing Marines to work their way up to the cockpit. Eventually, they arrived, and although Arlan walked out under his own power, he did have his arm thrown around one Marine's neck.
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Sometime later, Arlan felt much better, and much safer, in the medical bay of the Beta Labs. Many of the marines that had been wounded had received medical treatment, and thanks to modern science, most appeared ready and willing to go another round with . . . well, whatever the h*ll those things were. Having finished with one of the marines that had helped Arlan escape from his insane jailors, the doctor came over to him. With practiced ease, the doctor tried the moderate cut on Arlan's forehead, carefully cleaning the wound before covering it over with a patch of synth-flesh. His job done, the doctor then asked him for his name, so he could log it into his PDA as checked and treated.
For a moment, Arlan hesitated.
If you give him your real name, they'll know that you were a prisoner, and that you had managed to escape. All of these people work
for the UAC. You think any of them are going to think twice about turning you in again, regardless of what gratitude they might feel?, the cautious part of Arlan's brain hissed. For a moment, Arlan considered listening to the voice of caution, and either lying out-right, or simply refusing to give the doctor his name. But then Arlan considered how insane it would be for the marines to sacrifice a helper during this apparent crisis. Sighing, Arlan told the doctor his real name, and felt a shiver of fear run through his stomach as the doctor tapped the name into his PDA, and then paused, frowning. Looking up, the doctor said to him, "You might want to be careful who you tell your name to around here, son. The UAC hasn't issued a *cough* recall order for you yet, but I suspect that they might once they realize what's happened, and things get a bit more under control around here." Hearing a sudden, suspicious
thump from the ceiling, the doctor glanced up, before adding "If that ever happens. In any case, be careful as I said before." The doctor tapped a new command into his PDA, and was able to go, before he suddenly stopped and turned back, showing the screen of his PDA to Arlan. The screen showed Arlan's medical file, along with the disturbing tagline: "Prisoner". Even more disturbing, however, were the words flashing across the middle of the screen: "Access Denied. You require a higher security clearance to access further information."
"Any idea what that's all about?" The doctor asked him in a nonchalant tone.
"No clue." Arlan replied truthfully, feeling the sliver of fear churning about in his gut once more.
"Well, whatever the reason, I'm sure the higher-ups have good reason to classify most of your medical file . . . which probably doesn't mean anything good for you. Keep your wits about you out there, son." The doctor said, prompting a nod from Arlan. The doctor then stalked off, heading to check on a wounded heavy marine and leaving Arlan alone with his now-deeply troubled thoughts. The UAC had certainly gone to great extents to get their hands on him. What if there was something in his records that had gotten the UAC's interest, instead of the minor threat that he might bumble into something important during his private investigation of UAC's activities? Shaking his head, Arlan pushed himself off of the medical bed where he had been sitting, trying to fight off the air of menace that had suddenly filled the room . . . and failing.
Idly, Arlan reached down to his right armpit and drew the standard-issue pistol from its holster: built into the chestpiece of the Light Armor itself. By rummaging around with some of the marines earlier, he had managed to procure a small flashlight, which snugly fit into a slot on top of the pistol's barrel. This slot was usually used for a laser-sight, Arlan knew, but the flashlight fit in just as well, and he hadn't been able to find a laser-sight for the pistol. More importantly, it seemed likely that a flashlight would be of greater use to him anyway . . . from what he had heard from some of the marines, the power had a habit of going out frequently since the . . . aliens . . . had started attacking. No power, no lights, and little chance of survival if one of those monsters or zombies found you while the power was out and you didn't have a flashlight.
With a grunt, Arlan picked up the bulky plasma rifle from where he had put it on the floor, and slung it across his back. The thing certainly was heavy, much heavier than a normal rifle. Arlan had no clue why someone would want to develop a weapon that was heavier, bulkier, and more prone to failure than a good number of projectile rifles on the market already, although he did know that plasma rifles had one major advantage: little to no recoil. This alone made it worth carrying around to Arlan, otherwise, he'd have given the heavy weapon right back to Grave after lugging it around for a couple minutes.
Suddenly, the intercom crackled to life, and apparently the same guy who had given him orders to play busboy came on. He informed everyone in the medical bay that the situation was grim, and told them that they had two
new objectives to take care of: obtaining more weapons, and apparently important key cards was one mission, while the second was reaching a comm station so that some sort of distress signal could be sent out. Arlan had no intention of doing either mission: he had done his little bit for these people, and he had had enough. The medical bay seemed a safe enough place, certainly a lot better than out in the corridors of the base, where all sorts of hideous creatures were roaming about. Unfortunately, most of the marines seemed to have a death-wish, as even most of the formerly injured pushed themselves off of medical beds and readied their weapons.
One of the marines who had rescued Arlan, called No Dachi by one of the other marines, suddenly cried out and held his head. Several moments pass, and then as he moved his hand away from his now-pale face, he shouted that they all had to get out of here. As if underlining his point, the power suddenly cut out, plunging the room in darkness.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
