A patch of leaves broke loose and skated sideways under his toe. They were dew slick from the warming morning air. They didn’t move much. Half a boot width. Nearly nothing. The distance between life and death.
His other foot missed the landing. A tiny slip to the right had thrown his balance mid stride. He felt his left ankle roll under him as he tried to find solid purchase on loose sticks and pebbles and rapidly browning leaves. He let his legs collapse under him. His hands flew up reflexively, briefly touching down on drying pine needles before he caught himself and tucked up into a clumsy shoulder roll. A hundred small bites stung the heels of his hands. He pulled his legs in just barely missing the trunk of a thin coniferous.
The millisecond he felt back in some sort of control, he rolled back up onto his feet aiming to keep as much momentum as he could. He planted his left leg down firmly, testing for any damage or weakness in his ankle. Finding none, he pushed like a sprinter off starting blocks.
Surely they must have heard that. There was no way they didn’t. Maybe the forest dampened the sound. Maybe the tracker was headed in the wrong direction. Maybe.
He lept over a narrow creek and angled toward an area with thicker growth. A dark spot in the forest where shafts of early morning sun couldn’t quite make their way through. A spot to hunker down and catch his breath. A spot to look over his hands and legs and assess any damage.
With the darkened patch of forest only a few steps away, he had to fight down the urge to turn away and keep running. If there was a safe haven somewhere in this forest the only way to get there would be to run. Run as hard and as fast as he could. Let abject terror propel him.
He overruled the urge. If he needed to run, if he needed to fight, he would have to make sure that he wasn’t already critically injured. He would need to save up some stamina for a sprint. Better to stop briefly than to run himself to death. That’s what trackers did, right? They would run down their quarry. Force him to burn through his reserves and move in when he was no longer any threat.
He angled his shoulders and ducked his head to avoid the reaching branches of a poplar. The sharp tip of one brushed across his cheek and he flinched away pinching that eye tight. He continued well into the shaded spot hoping that it would be tough to catch sight of him from the relatively clear woods surrounding this grove.
He slunk in tight against a base of a tall evergreen, well beneath a heavy bough. Shelter enough he hoped.
He forced long smooth breaths. He could feel the speed of his heart in his throat and heard the blood whooshing through his ears. More slow breaths and he imagined he could feel his pulse falling.
As quietly as he could, he rolled that ankle in small circles. Everything seemed fine. While he was running there was the possibility that he had masked an injury with adrenaline. He was rested enough now, even after a few seconds, to rule that out.
He reached into his left hip pocket and pulled out the thin cylinder of paste. He tapped it against the glass rectangle sewn into the cuff of his flight suit. The screen read 75% with a mostly filled bar beneath it. Not great but it could be worse. He popped off the cap and rolled a thin layer paste onto the heel of his left hand. He quickly snapped the cap back on so that the ball applicator wouldn’t dry out and rubbed his hands together. He tapped the tube on his wrist again. Still 75%, but he could have sworn that the bar had decreased ever so slightly. He needed to save as much paste as possible. A serious injury could use up an entire tube, and he didn’t have an entire tube to begin with. Smearing the stingy amount he had applied across both hands probably wouldn’t be enough to properly heal the scrapes, but he shouldn’t have to worry about an infection.
He double checked that the cap was fully on and tucked the tube back into his pocket.
Okay, last thing. He rested a finger on the panel for a moment and a selection of images slid into view. One resembled a slice of topographical grid map. He pressed it and the panel filled with a birds eye view of the immediate area. He tapped it to stick a pin into the map. Now he should know where he came from, even if he had no idea where he was going.
He took a set of slow deep breaths, pulling the relatively cool shaded air deep into his lungs. He closed his eyes tightly for a few more breaths hoping that the change in illumination would make him more perceptive when he opened them again.
He brushed his fingers over the glass plate and it flickered to life. 13:43. 13:44. 13:45. Not even 14 minutes since the horn sounded.
Off to his left, deeper into the darkness of the forest, he heard the hollow crack and slow impacts of heavy branches falling. A series of groaning crashes before a single, definite thud. It could be that a tracker knocked a branch loose from a tree while climbing to a perch. It could have been on purpose to flush him out. It could have been natural deadfall, or the work of an animal. It could have been caused by so many things. No matter what caused the noise, it forced him into a decision.
Stay put, or continue running. If a tracker didn’t cause the noise, there was no way they didn’t hear it. Someone would be investigating and the felled tree was too nearby to ignore.
Stay or run.
His ankle was uninjured as far as he could tell.
Run then?
Run.
He ducked under the evergreen boughs tucking his chin so that the needles that caught him only brushed against the collar of his flight suit.
He turned and ran back the way he came. He had estimated the direction that the sound of falling timber had come from, so he angled away from that as best he could. So not quite doubling back, but near to it.
He had absolutely no idea where the ship was.
That was part of the plan, he thought. The plan to disorent him. Make him easier prey. The ship was sitting somewhere in a clearing in this forest. It couldn’t be too far away. He imagined it sitting just like he left it, with the ramp down and the engines in standby.
From down here, dashing from tree trunk to tree trunk, it was impossible to fully get his bearings. He could see light from the sun cutting through branches. That helped keep him from running in circles. It got him no closer to finding the ship and getting the hell out of here.
He ducked under a heavy log, a tree stalled in the act of falling. It’s branches had meshed with shorter trees on the way down. He had been dodging branches, jumping over roots and rocks without ever seeing them in any detail. The morning light dulled as it filtered down through the trees. Every so often he came across a downed tree or chiseled stump perfectly visible in a splash of light. Trees that had been hacked down deliberately and broken down into logs several meters long.
When he emerged on the other side of the tree, he stopped dead.
A massive dark shape shifted about twenty meters ahead of him. An animal. Heavily flocked in deep brown fur. He watched as an enormous jaw lowered, closed, and returned glistening red. He could hear the jaws working, a savage grinding noise dulled and tempered by the branches and leaves around him.
He forced himself to breath.
A million tiny alarms went off inside him. This was a danger he knew, but couldn’t place. It lacked definition. Danger, nonetheless. Danger was something to back away from. With great effort he demanded his legs carry him backward slowly. Silently.
From this position he couldn’t see the animal’s kill. It could be anything. It could be the tracker. That would be a lucky break. It was probably some large herbivore. Faint hope is still hope, so he clung to that as he backed away.
Up.
A shadowy thought ran through his mind. Up. Go Up. This monster is no climber, but you are, go up.
He spotted a leafy tree just off to his right with low branches as thick as his leg. Even thicker where they met the trunk. A tree made for climbing. He inched over as quiet as the breeze and started climbing. He could just barely see the monster through the leaves. It seemed occupied with it’s meal. Good. Still, better to be up off the ground and out of reach of the teeth and jaws presently crunching down on meat and bone.
He climbed until the branches thinned and started to angle upward. Finding a perch where he could wedge himself between two branches seeking some small amount of comfort. It wasn’t the worst seat he could remember. Odd that he couldn’t remember many. Maybe, he thought, this just wasn’t the sort of time to be comparing seats.
He leaned out as far as he could to get a look at the creature and what it was feasting on. Four legs. Some sort of large herbivore like he thought. Long spiral antlers sprouting from four points on it’s head. Just an unlucky citizen of the forest. Not a tracker. The predator tore a large chunk of meat off of it’s hind end with a loud crunch.
From this vantage point he could see the trunks of felled trees spread evenly through the forest. One out of every dozen or so trees was sheared off at the base. Lines gouged in the soil all led off in the same direction
From up here the rest of the forest seemed peaceful. The songs of distant birds drifted to him on the morning air. Sunlight cut the chill. Wood insects buzzed and chirped. A thin mist hovered above what must be a pond or stream not too far beyond where the creature was devouring it’s breakfast. Just past that, a blinking light.
Red and blue blinking lights. Not even a kilometer away. Antenna beacon lights. That had to be the ship. Nothing else out here would have lights like that. Nothing he could think of. Tall enough to be seen through the narrow cones of evergreen tops. Unmoving in the breeze. Rhythmic as a timepiece. It had to be the ship.
He pressed on the wrist panel and called up the map. He tapped it to drop another pin and then swiped outward in the direction of the ship. A dashed arrow appeared on the panel that bent slightly around the water, but otherwise pointed roughly toward the ship. Toward hope.
He stared and planned and weighed options until his legs felt numb and his feet tingled from sitting on the narrow branch. He worked the stiffness from his shoulders and neck as best he could without losing balance. The sun drifted high overhead and midday heat was rising fast. At least the thin branches above him carried enough leaves to offer some shade.
He hadn’t looked in a while, but he couldn’t hear the chomping and chewing anymore. When he did lean out to check there was no sign of the monster, or it’s prey. He would consider his plan again, just for a moment, before climbing down and making a beeline for the ship.
He had just started moving back to his perch when a spot along the branch above him exploded into a puff of wood dust and smoke. He flinched back, almost losing his balance. A small hole opened up in the middle of his forearm. The fabric of his flight suit shrunk back from the spot and blackened around the edges. The hole turned into a line snaking a jagged path up his arm. The line crossed the glass plate and continued out the pinky side of his wrist. His left hand went completely numb and he tucked it in tight to his chest. He threw himself back against the tree trying to wedge his ribs between the branches again but the thinner of the two gave way. He heard the crack of the shattering branch fading into the distance as his vision collapsed at the edges. He saw the tips of the treetops kaleidoscope away from him just before they disappeared completely.
How long?
The sun was still directly above. He tried to raise his left arm to check the time on the panel, but nothing happened. His left arm was underneath his back. His back was arched over a heap of broken branches. He rolled over slightly to free it and fire shot through his shoulder, down his back, and didn’t extinguish until it had travelled well past his toes.
He tried to lift his arm again. This time it responded, but his left hand hung limp from his wrist like a wilted flower. Petals threatening to come loose if the wind pulled on them too hard.
He lay his useless hand on his chest and weakly flicked at the panel with his right thumb. No response. The line cut across half of the screen like a lightning strike. He pressed longer. He thought he saw the panel flicker slightly at the break but nothing appeared on it.
He carefully lifted his left hand with his right and tilted it so that he could inspect the damage. It still felt warm to the touch and a gentle pulse reverberated through the thumb.
On the back side of his hand he could see a thin canyon burnt into the skin. It was deep enough that it had to extend below the surface and into the tendons and bone beneath. When he tilted his hand further he could see that the skin around the side was sealed and light pink. The paste he had applied earlier must not have cleared his system yet. The infinitesimal machines were in there doing their work of rebuilding damaged tissue and reconnecting severed vessels and nerves. There had been enough of them left to numb the area and start some repairs, just not enough to finish the job.
With enormous strain he was able to reach his pocket and pull out the tube of paste. He applied a generous amount to the back of his hand and slid back his cuff to rub some into the wound on the back of his arm as well. The spot where his skin was covered by the panel was spared any damage. That was some small amount of luck at least.
He sealed up the tube and tapped it against the panel. Nothing happened. He hefted the tube in his hand trying to judge how much was left by the weight of it, but the thing was so light anyway that it was impossible to tell. He tucked it back into it’s pocket taking note that it was a bit easier to move now. There must have been some injury in his shoulders and back that the paste rushed over to deal with before tending to his hand.
Finally able to move, he rolled up to sitting. Gingerly moving his legs and testing his ankles and toes before moving off of the heap of branches.
He went over it in his head. The shot had hit the branch and then his arm. It could have come from anywhere off to his left, but the ship was to his right. The tracker would be moving toward him now If this was a race to the ship, the tracker might have tagged him, but he had a head start. He just had to use it.
Two long breaths. He tried to move his left hand again. There was no strength to it, but his thumb and forefinger contracted slightly. That paste is incredible stuff.
Time to run then?
Time to run.
The first few steps were wobbly. The next few, a fraction more sure, more stable. After that he was off again. Moving through the trees at a dangerous pace, desperately hoping that he was travelling in the right direction.
When he reached the edge of a thinly wooded valley he slowed down and crept up as close as he could while staying out of sight. At least what he hoped was out of sight behind the cover of some low bushes.
For a few moments he considered climbing one of the trees to get a better look, maybe find the ship again, but that didn’t seem too appealing. He could fully open and close his left hand now, but he didn’t have much faith in it holding his weight if he started to climb.
From here he could see a slow flowing river down in the base of the valley. Quite a few stumps but not many trees. A pile of logs had been gathered by someone next to the river. It looked like they had been there for quite a long time. He had a hunch that he knew why and decided it would be best to avoid those logs. The river either started or ended at the body of water he had seen on the map. That would mean he was probably somewhere near the ship. He wished he knew how close he was. Or what direction to run. Or anything else really.
Go around or head down and through. Around would provide some small amount of cover. He could stay up on the ridge of the valley and work his way along but it might carry him far away from his goal. Down would be more exposed, but a much faster way to find the source of the river and maybe even the ship. He lifted the panel on his arm and tapped it before remembering that it was carved nearly in two. Exactly nothing appeared on the panel.
No information. No heading. No beacon.
Down then. Down and through. It’s just faster.
He sprinted out of the brush and down the slope toward the river. Partway down he had to stutter step to check his speed. Loose rocks and twigs rolled under his boots like marbles. He lifted one foot to clear a root attached to a pointed stump and everything locked up. His leg froze mid step and he couldn’t lean forward to catch himself. He collapsed in a stiff roll bouncing down the incline until he collided with one of the hacked off stumps.
He forced himself to his feet. Something in his side felt wrong. Sort of loose and displaced. That’s when he noticed the charred line zig zagging it’s way up the left side of his flight suit. It might have been the paste, the shock, or the adrenaline that kept him from feeling any real pain. Maybe some combination of all three. Right now though, he was out in the open. Not ten meters away some standing trees, and just beyond, that enormous pile of logs.
He reached across his abdomen trying to hold together whatever damage he had suffered. With every step he felt like parts of him were sliding out of place. While he was running he thought about the recharge time on laser cooling units. He didn’t really know why, but he started counting down from 30. He had only reached 26 when he started scaling the pile of logs. He threw himself over the top of the pile at 23 and curled up as much as he could on the far side of the heap at 21.
He pulled the tube of paste from his pocket and squeezed out the last remaining globs, pressing into the wound. It wasn’t much. He could have looked, opened up his flight suit and assessed the damage, but he really didn’t want to know.
The pile of logs rumbled slightly beneath him. He slammed both hands out to brace himself, dropping the tube in the process. The rumbling increased as something heavy shifted down below. He tucked his legs up tighter to his chest trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
15. 14. 13.
Running footsteps slapping the hardened river bank just on the other side of the logs. They were coming closer.
He slammed the panel on his wrist repeatedly against the timber below him. Banging out a steady rhythm. The pile of logs vibrated slightly and he banged harder.
8. 7. 6.
His count must have been slightly off because he heard a distinctive whoosh of air. He banged on the log even harder. Tiny shards of dense grey panel material embedded in the wood and he hammered them deeper with his next blow. The logs shifted and he heard the laser fire. A sort of short harsh exhalation as the system dumped heat and compressed air. That sound was followed by the clack of enormous teeth slamming together.
He scrambled down the logs and headed away from the noises as fast as his compromised legs could carry him. As deep into the forest as he could get while still keeping the river on his right.
The sun was well on it’s way down when he finally had to stop. The trees were thicker here. Closer to the river with scrub and bushes scattered around their trunks. He used the cover to get up to the edge of the water and then dared a few handfuls to drink. He hadn’t even noticed how raw his throat felt until the cool water hit and soothed him. He took a few more deep drinks before deciding to head back into the shade.
He propped his back against the trunk of a short leafy tree, tucked under the branches and closed his eyes, just for a moment. It felt like he hadn’t closed them all day. They stung and ached behind his eyelids. The numbness in his side spread to his neck and head. He slumped slightly and drifted away. Tiny machines coursing through his system doing all that they could before also running out of energy to be washed away on the current of his pulse.
The air had more of a chill when he opened his eyes. The sky had shifted from vibrant blue to orange and purple gradient lines. Through the tree branches he could see blinking blue and red, and now green lights. Just above him and only a few minutes away. Seconds if he ran.
He pulled himself to his feet as silently as possible. Now that he was so close he couldn’t risk making a racket. The trackers chase probably ended back at that monster’s den, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t other dangers in the forest.
When he finally edged close enough to see the ship he could see that he had been wrong. Someone was here. The ship was in launch position, with it’s struts extended and the flaps tucked tight to its sides. The ship looked like a long teardrop, the beacon tower extending from the pointed tip. Someone had wedged one of the tapered logs between the grating of the entry ramp and the hydraulic closing mechanism, holding it open. The ramp was locked at a steep angle hanging just above the ground. Safety systems on the ship would prevent the inertial drive from firing while the ramp was open, so it sat there, on a knife’s edge between staying put and flitting off into the sky.
A trap then?
Certainly.
If it was a trap, the tracker, or whoever had set it, would be expecting him to try to remove the log to trigger a launch. They would probably be waiting in the trees, laser at the ready. He knew that even if he couldn’t make it launch, the ship had other resources. Light laser torches meant for welding, but something he could use as a weapon. A stock of paste tubes for healing. A synthesiser to make whatever he needed once he was safe and secure.
Run then?
Run.
He sprinted hard toward the ramp counting on his speed to get him up the steep incline. He expected a laser shot so he tucked his head as much as he could without losing speed, trying to make himself a smaller target. He planted his feet and started to climb. Nothing. In a few steps he had made it to the top of the ramp and placed one boot up on the flat deck of the ship interior.
That’s when the tracker stepped in front of him. One leg and side of their armor bore deep square puncture marks. Their movement was slow and laboured, but it was fast enough to intercept him. He tried to catch himself, half on and off the ramp, but the climb was too difficult to resume now that his momentum was lost.
The tracker drove a balled fist at his neck. He dodged back, twisting his head to the side. The trackers glove brushed along the length of his jaw. The glove, like the rest of their armor, was built of braided high density fibres meant to slow projectiles and stop edged weapons. It skidded across his bare skin like sandpaper. The remaining paste in his system numbed the area almost instantly. The other fist flew at him and he stepped back down the ramp. That step positioned him well out of range of the trackers hands, but not far enough away to avoid the kick that followed.
The tracker’s boot caught him flat in the chest lifting him off his feet. The ramp slammed him hard in the back knocking the wind out of him and he slid backward along the steel grate shredding his flight suit at the shoulders.
The tracker stumbled, his injured leg giving out. If they had used paste, it hadn’t healed enough to be throwing kicks. They dropped down to one knee. He couldn’t see the trackers face through the opaque helmet, but their body language betrayed the extent of the injury.
He continued to slide down the ramp until his head rested on the forest floor. Trying to lift his shoulders didn’t accomplish anything. The lack of strength in his chest and abdomen thwarted any efforts to sit up. Instead he rolled to the side and used his legs to spin himself around on his shoulder and off of the ramp completely. With some effort he pivoted around so his eyes pointed back up the ramp toward the tracker. Light flashed across the edge of the short knife as the tracker slid it from the side of their boot.
He attempted to bolt up off the ground but nothing cooperated. He laboured to his feet, ready to run. His legs would have been game for it but he remained hunched over holding his side. It was numb, but clearly not healing nearly fast enough.
The tracker lunged forward but the steep ramp tripped them up and they tumbled forward. The tracker swiped out with the knife and he threw his left arm up defensively. There was a loud clang as the knife struck.
The tracker’s helmet bounced off the forest floor in front of his toes while the rest of their body draped itself awkwardly up the ramp. He quickly scanned around for the knife when he didn’t see it in the trackers hand. It took a beat to notice the tip of it buried in the panel on his wrist. He twitched his arm, startled by the weapon and the knife flicked out and cartwheeled to the ground about a meter away.
The tracker extended their arms and he pivoted sideways to avoid their reach. Surprisingly, they didn’t try to grab him. Instead the tracker tapped at a panel on their left wrist. A menu sparked to life and the tracker jabbed at one of the options. In an instant he could hear the sharp sound of a laser cooling pack spinning up. Like sucking air through tightly clamped teeth.
He took half a shuffle step sideways and put all the weight he could gather into a single kick. The flat bottom of his boot connected with the log holding the ramp open. There was a roar as the wood tore and split and the hydraulics engaged. The ramp slammed violently upward catching the back of his heel and flipping him onto his back.
Laying on the dirt and leaves and scattered pine needles he looked up at the tracker. They were pinned just above the hips between the ramp and the hull of the ship. Their arms hung limp.
A powerful wind suddenly pulled at his flight suit as the ship’s inertial drive kicked on. It pulled the breath from his lungs as the ship attempted to gather as much local air as it could, compressing it to cool the drive.
There was a brief moment of silence. He reacted as quickly as he could to cover his face before the ship dumped all of that air, now heated to scalding temperatures. It passed over him like a burning wave. He could have sworn he felt the moisture on his skin boil away to steam. The wave passed and cool forest air swirled in behind it like a salve across the backs of his hands and exposed cheeks.
A loud thump at his feet startled his eyes open. The ship was gone. Tree tops framed a splotch of darkening sky where the ship had been. Hovering there, superimposed on the trees and sky were words. Words and numbers. They said:
Survival - Success
Escape - Failure
Injuries - Significant
Adversarial Learning session 412 logged and uploaded
Collect helmet to accept Tracker role.
The bottom line pulsed softly. A number appeared below it. 45. 44. 43.
He sat up and saw the top half of the tracker laying in the dust. When the inertial drive fired and the ship hopped away it had left anything outside the ship where it was. Including this half of the tracker.
He reached forward and took the helmet in his hands. 38. 37. He tugged at the helmet and it lifted from the ground easily. There was nothing in it. Nothing in the top half of the tracker’s armor. Just a hollow shell. 33. 32. 31.
He put on the helmet. The countdown stopped. In front of him stood a man in a flight suit. More words floated in front of him.
Adversarial Learning session 413.
Prevent escape of other agents.
Recovery items not replenished.
Chase can begin in 5 minutes.
The man in the flight suit tapped at the panel on his wrist, read what he saw, and bolted off into the forest.
He flexed the armored gloves on his hands and checked over the laser weapon on his right wrist. 4:57. 4:56. 4:55.
His other foot missed the landing. A tiny slip to the right had thrown his balance mid stride. He felt his left ankle roll under him as he tried to find solid purchase on loose sticks and pebbles and rapidly browning leaves. He let his legs collapse under him. His hands flew up reflexively, briefly touching down on drying pine needles before he caught himself and tucked up into a clumsy shoulder roll. A hundred small bites stung the heels of his hands. He pulled his legs in just barely missing the trunk of a thin coniferous.
The millisecond he felt back in some sort of control, he rolled back up onto his feet aiming to keep as much momentum as he could. He planted his left leg down firmly, testing for any damage or weakness in his ankle. Finding none, he pushed like a sprinter off starting blocks.
Surely they must have heard that. There was no way they didn’t. Maybe the forest dampened the sound. Maybe the tracker was headed in the wrong direction. Maybe.
He lept over a narrow creek and angled toward an area with thicker growth. A dark spot in the forest where shafts of early morning sun couldn’t quite make their way through. A spot to hunker down and catch his breath. A spot to look over his hands and legs and assess any damage.
With the darkened patch of forest only a few steps away, he had to fight down the urge to turn away and keep running. If there was a safe haven somewhere in this forest the only way to get there would be to run. Run as hard and as fast as he could. Let abject terror propel him.
He overruled the urge. If he needed to run, if he needed to fight, he would have to make sure that he wasn’t already critically injured. He would need to save up some stamina for a sprint. Better to stop briefly than to run himself to death. That’s what trackers did, right? They would run down their quarry. Force him to burn through his reserves and move in when he was no longer any threat.
He angled his shoulders and ducked his head to avoid the reaching branches of a poplar. The sharp tip of one brushed across his cheek and he flinched away pinching that eye tight. He continued well into the shaded spot hoping that it would be tough to catch sight of him from the relatively clear woods surrounding this grove.
He slunk in tight against a base of a tall evergreen, well beneath a heavy bough. Shelter enough he hoped.
He forced long smooth breaths. He could feel the speed of his heart in his throat and heard the blood whooshing through his ears. More slow breaths and he imagined he could feel his pulse falling.
As quietly as he could, he rolled that ankle in small circles. Everything seemed fine. While he was running there was the possibility that he had masked an injury with adrenaline. He was rested enough now, even after a few seconds, to rule that out.
He reached into his left hip pocket and pulled out the thin cylinder of paste. He tapped it against the glass rectangle sewn into the cuff of his flight suit. The screen read 75% with a mostly filled bar beneath it. Not great but it could be worse. He popped off the cap and rolled a thin layer paste onto the heel of his left hand. He quickly snapped the cap back on so that the ball applicator wouldn’t dry out and rubbed his hands together. He tapped the tube on his wrist again. Still 75%, but he could have sworn that the bar had decreased ever so slightly. He needed to save as much paste as possible. A serious injury could use up an entire tube, and he didn’t have an entire tube to begin with. Smearing the stingy amount he had applied across both hands probably wouldn’t be enough to properly heal the scrapes, but he shouldn’t have to worry about an infection.
He double checked that the cap was fully on and tucked the tube back into his pocket.
Okay, last thing. He rested a finger on the panel for a moment and a selection of images slid into view. One resembled a slice of topographical grid map. He pressed it and the panel filled with a birds eye view of the immediate area. He tapped it to stick a pin into the map. Now he should know where he came from, even if he had no idea where he was going.
He took a set of slow deep breaths, pulling the relatively cool shaded air deep into his lungs. He closed his eyes tightly for a few more breaths hoping that the change in illumination would make him more perceptive when he opened them again.
He brushed his fingers over the glass plate and it flickered to life. 13:43. 13:44. 13:45. Not even 14 minutes since the horn sounded.
Off to his left, deeper into the darkness of the forest, he heard the hollow crack and slow impacts of heavy branches falling. A series of groaning crashes before a single, definite thud. It could be that a tracker knocked a branch loose from a tree while climbing to a perch. It could have been on purpose to flush him out. It could have been natural deadfall, or the work of an animal. It could have been caused by so many things. No matter what caused the noise, it forced him into a decision.
Stay put, or continue running. If a tracker didn’t cause the noise, there was no way they didn’t hear it. Someone would be investigating and the felled tree was too nearby to ignore.
Stay or run.
His ankle was uninjured as far as he could tell.
Run then?
Run.
He ducked under the evergreen boughs tucking his chin so that the needles that caught him only brushed against the collar of his flight suit.
He turned and ran back the way he came. He had estimated the direction that the sound of falling timber had come from, so he angled away from that as best he could. So not quite doubling back, but near to it.
He had absolutely no idea where the ship was.
That was part of the plan, he thought. The plan to disorent him. Make him easier prey. The ship was sitting somewhere in a clearing in this forest. It couldn’t be too far away. He imagined it sitting just like he left it, with the ramp down and the engines in standby.
From down here, dashing from tree trunk to tree trunk, it was impossible to fully get his bearings. He could see light from the sun cutting through branches. That helped keep him from running in circles. It got him no closer to finding the ship and getting the hell out of here.
He ducked under a heavy log, a tree stalled in the act of falling. It’s branches had meshed with shorter trees on the way down. He had been dodging branches, jumping over roots and rocks without ever seeing them in any detail. The morning light dulled as it filtered down through the trees. Every so often he came across a downed tree or chiseled stump perfectly visible in a splash of light. Trees that had been hacked down deliberately and broken down into logs several meters long.
When he emerged on the other side of the tree, he stopped dead.
A massive dark shape shifted about twenty meters ahead of him. An animal. Heavily flocked in deep brown fur. He watched as an enormous jaw lowered, closed, and returned glistening red. He could hear the jaws working, a savage grinding noise dulled and tempered by the branches and leaves around him.
He forced himself to breath.
A million tiny alarms went off inside him. This was a danger he knew, but couldn’t place. It lacked definition. Danger, nonetheless. Danger was something to back away from. With great effort he demanded his legs carry him backward slowly. Silently.
From this position he couldn’t see the animal’s kill. It could be anything. It could be the tracker. That would be a lucky break. It was probably some large herbivore. Faint hope is still hope, so he clung to that as he backed away.
Up.
A shadowy thought ran through his mind. Up. Go Up. This monster is no climber, but you are, go up.
He spotted a leafy tree just off to his right with low branches as thick as his leg. Even thicker where they met the trunk. A tree made for climbing. He inched over as quiet as the breeze and started climbing. He could just barely see the monster through the leaves. It seemed occupied with it’s meal. Good. Still, better to be up off the ground and out of reach of the teeth and jaws presently crunching down on meat and bone.
He climbed until the branches thinned and started to angle upward. Finding a perch where he could wedge himself between two branches seeking some small amount of comfort. It wasn’t the worst seat he could remember. Odd that he couldn’t remember many. Maybe, he thought, this just wasn’t the sort of time to be comparing seats.
He leaned out as far as he could to get a look at the creature and what it was feasting on. Four legs. Some sort of large herbivore like he thought. Long spiral antlers sprouting from four points on it’s head. Just an unlucky citizen of the forest. Not a tracker. The predator tore a large chunk of meat off of it’s hind end with a loud crunch.
From this vantage point he could see the trunks of felled trees spread evenly through the forest. One out of every dozen or so trees was sheared off at the base. Lines gouged in the soil all led off in the same direction
From up here the rest of the forest seemed peaceful. The songs of distant birds drifted to him on the morning air. Sunlight cut the chill. Wood insects buzzed and chirped. A thin mist hovered above what must be a pond or stream not too far beyond where the creature was devouring it’s breakfast. Just past that, a blinking light.
Red and blue blinking lights. Not even a kilometer away. Antenna beacon lights. That had to be the ship. Nothing else out here would have lights like that. Nothing he could think of. Tall enough to be seen through the narrow cones of evergreen tops. Unmoving in the breeze. Rhythmic as a timepiece. It had to be the ship.
He pressed on the wrist panel and called up the map. He tapped it to drop another pin and then swiped outward in the direction of the ship. A dashed arrow appeared on the panel that bent slightly around the water, but otherwise pointed roughly toward the ship. Toward hope.
He stared and planned and weighed options until his legs felt numb and his feet tingled from sitting on the narrow branch. He worked the stiffness from his shoulders and neck as best he could without losing balance. The sun drifted high overhead and midday heat was rising fast. At least the thin branches above him carried enough leaves to offer some shade.
He hadn’t looked in a while, but he couldn’t hear the chomping and chewing anymore. When he did lean out to check there was no sign of the monster, or it’s prey. He would consider his plan again, just for a moment, before climbing down and making a beeline for the ship.
He had just started moving back to his perch when a spot along the branch above him exploded into a puff of wood dust and smoke. He flinched back, almost losing his balance. A small hole opened up in the middle of his forearm. The fabric of his flight suit shrunk back from the spot and blackened around the edges. The hole turned into a line snaking a jagged path up his arm. The line crossed the glass plate and continued out the pinky side of his wrist. His left hand went completely numb and he tucked it in tight to his chest. He threw himself back against the tree trying to wedge his ribs between the branches again but the thinner of the two gave way. He heard the crack of the shattering branch fading into the distance as his vision collapsed at the edges. He saw the tips of the treetops kaleidoscope away from him just before they disappeared completely.
How long?
The sun was still directly above. He tried to raise his left arm to check the time on the panel, but nothing happened. His left arm was underneath his back. His back was arched over a heap of broken branches. He rolled over slightly to free it and fire shot through his shoulder, down his back, and didn’t extinguish until it had travelled well past his toes.
He tried to lift his arm again. This time it responded, but his left hand hung limp from his wrist like a wilted flower. Petals threatening to come loose if the wind pulled on them too hard.
He lay his useless hand on his chest and weakly flicked at the panel with his right thumb. No response. The line cut across half of the screen like a lightning strike. He pressed longer. He thought he saw the panel flicker slightly at the break but nothing appeared on it.
He carefully lifted his left hand with his right and tilted it so that he could inspect the damage. It still felt warm to the touch and a gentle pulse reverberated through the thumb.
On the back side of his hand he could see a thin canyon burnt into the skin. It was deep enough that it had to extend below the surface and into the tendons and bone beneath. When he tilted his hand further he could see that the skin around the side was sealed and light pink. The paste he had applied earlier must not have cleared his system yet. The infinitesimal machines were in there doing their work of rebuilding damaged tissue and reconnecting severed vessels and nerves. There had been enough of them left to numb the area and start some repairs, just not enough to finish the job.
With enormous strain he was able to reach his pocket and pull out the tube of paste. He applied a generous amount to the back of his hand and slid back his cuff to rub some into the wound on the back of his arm as well. The spot where his skin was covered by the panel was spared any damage. That was some small amount of luck at least.
He sealed up the tube and tapped it against the panel. Nothing happened. He hefted the tube in his hand trying to judge how much was left by the weight of it, but the thing was so light anyway that it was impossible to tell. He tucked it back into it’s pocket taking note that it was a bit easier to move now. There must have been some injury in his shoulders and back that the paste rushed over to deal with before tending to his hand.
Finally able to move, he rolled up to sitting. Gingerly moving his legs and testing his ankles and toes before moving off of the heap of branches.
He went over it in his head. The shot had hit the branch and then his arm. It could have come from anywhere off to his left, but the ship was to his right. The tracker would be moving toward him now If this was a race to the ship, the tracker might have tagged him, but he had a head start. He just had to use it.
Two long breaths. He tried to move his left hand again. There was no strength to it, but his thumb and forefinger contracted slightly. That paste is incredible stuff.
Time to run then?
Time to run.
The first few steps were wobbly. The next few, a fraction more sure, more stable. After that he was off again. Moving through the trees at a dangerous pace, desperately hoping that he was travelling in the right direction.
When he reached the edge of a thinly wooded valley he slowed down and crept up as close as he could while staying out of sight. At least what he hoped was out of sight behind the cover of some low bushes.
For a few moments he considered climbing one of the trees to get a better look, maybe find the ship again, but that didn’t seem too appealing. He could fully open and close his left hand now, but he didn’t have much faith in it holding his weight if he started to climb.
From here he could see a slow flowing river down in the base of the valley. Quite a few stumps but not many trees. A pile of logs had been gathered by someone next to the river. It looked like they had been there for quite a long time. He had a hunch that he knew why and decided it would be best to avoid those logs. The river either started or ended at the body of water he had seen on the map. That would mean he was probably somewhere near the ship. He wished he knew how close he was. Or what direction to run. Or anything else really.
Go around or head down and through. Around would provide some small amount of cover. He could stay up on the ridge of the valley and work his way along but it might carry him far away from his goal. Down would be more exposed, but a much faster way to find the source of the river and maybe even the ship. He lifted the panel on his arm and tapped it before remembering that it was carved nearly in two. Exactly nothing appeared on the panel.
No information. No heading. No beacon.
Down then. Down and through. It’s just faster.
He sprinted out of the brush and down the slope toward the river. Partway down he had to stutter step to check his speed. Loose rocks and twigs rolled under his boots like marbles. He lifted one foot to clear a root attached to a pointed stump and everything locked up. His leg froze mid step and he couldn’t lean forward to catch himself. He collapsed in a stiff roll bouncing down the incline until he collided with one of the hacked off stumps.
He forced himself to his feet. Something in his side felt wrong. Sort of loose and displaced. That’s when he noticed the charred line zig zagging it’s way up the left side of his flight suit. It might have been the paste, the shock, or the adrenaline that kept him from feeling any real pain. Maybe some combination of all three. Right now though, he was out in the open. Not ten meters away some standing trees, and just beyond, that enormous pile of logs.
He reached across his abdomen trying to hold together whatever damage he had suffered. With every step he felt like parts of him were sliding out of place. While he was running he thought about the recharge time on laser cooling units. He didn’t really know why, but he started counting down from 30. He had only reached 26 when he started scaling the pile of logs. He threw himself over the top of the pile at 23 and curled up as much as he could on the far side of the heap at 21.
He pulled the tube of paste from his pocket and squeezed out the last remaining globs, pressing into the wound. It wasn’t much. He could have looked, opened up his flight suit and assessed the damage, but he really didn’t want to know.
The pile of logs rumbled slightly beneath him. He slammed both hands out to brace himself, dropping the tube in the process. The rumbling increased as something heavy shifted down below. He tucked his legs up tighter to his chest trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
15. 14. 13.
Running footsteps slapping the hardened river bank just on the other side of the logs. They were coming closer.
He slammed the panel on his wrist repeatedly against the timber below him. Banging out a steady rhythm. The pile of logs vibrated slightly and he banged harder.
8. 7. 6.
His count must have been slightly off because he heard a distinctive whoosh of air. He banged on the log even harder. Tiny shards of dense grey panel material embedded in the wood and he hammered them deeper with his next blow. The logs shifted and he heard the laser fire. A sort of short harsh exhalation as the system dumped heat and compressed air. That sound was followed by the clack of enormous teeth slamming together.
He scrambled down the logs and headed away from the noises as fast as his compromised legs could carry him. As deep into the forest as he could get while still keeping the river on his right.
The sun was well on it’s way down when he finally had to stop. The trees were thicker here. Closer to the river with scrub and bushes scattered around their trunks. He used the cover to get up to the edge of the water and then dared a few handfuls to drink. He hadn’t even noticed how raw his throat felt until the cool water hit and soothed him. He took a few more deep drinks before deciding to head back into the shade.
He propped his back against the trunk of a short leafy tree, tucked under the branches and closed his eyes, just for a moment. It felt like he hadn’t closed them all day. They stung and ached behind his eyelids. The numbness in his side spread to his neck and head. He slumped slightly and drifted away. Tiny machines coursing through his system doing all that they could before also running out of energy to be washed away on the current of his pulse.
The air had more of a chill when he opened his eyes. The sky had shifted from vibrant blue to orange and purple gradient lines. Through the tree branches he could see blinking blue and red, and now green lights. Just above him and only a few minutes away. Seconds if he ran.
He pulled himself to his feet as silently as possible. Now that he was so close he couldn’t risk making a racket. The trackers chase probably ended back at that monster’s den, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t other dangers in the forest.
When he finally edged close enough to see the ship he could see that he had been wrong. Someone was here. The ship was in launch position, with it’s struts extended and the flaps tucked tight to its sides. The ship looked like a long teardrop, the beacon tower extending from the pointed tip. Someone had wedged one of the tapered logs between the grating of the entry ramp and the hydraulic closing mechanism, holding it open. The ramp was locked at a steep angle hanging just above the ground. Safety systems on the ship would prevent the inertial drive from firing while the ramp was open, so it sat there, on a knife’s edge between staying put and flitting off into the sky.
A trap then?
Certainly.
If it was a trap, the tracker, or whoever had set it, would be expecting him to try to remove the log to trigger a launch. They would probably be waiting in the trees, laser at the ready. He knew that even if he couldn’t make it launch, the ship had other resources. Light laser torches meant for welding, but something he could use as a weapon. A stock of paste tubes for healing. A synthesiser to make whatever he needed once he was safe and secure.
Run then?
Run.
He sprinted hard toward the ramp counting on his speed to get him up the steep incline. He expected a laser shot so he tucked his head as much as he could without losing speed, trying to make himself a smaller target. He planted his feet and started to climb. Nothing. In a few steps he had made it to the top of the ramp and placed one boot up on the flat deck of the ship interior.
That’s when the tracker stepped in front of him. One leg and side of their armor bore deep square puncture marks. Their movement was slow and laboured, but it was fast enough to intercept him. He tried to catch himself, half on and off the ramp, but the climb was too difficult to resume now that his momentum was lost.
The tracker drove a balled fist at his neck. He dodged back, twisting his head to the side. The trackers glove brushed along the length of his jaw. The glove, like the rest of their armor, was built of braided high density fibres meant to slow projectiles and stop edged weapons. It skidded across his bare skin like sandpaper. The remaining paste in his system numbed the area almost instantly. The other fist flew at him and he stepped back down the ramp. That step positioned him well out of range of the trackers hands, but not far enough away to avoid the kick that followed.
The tracker’s boot caught him flat in the chest lifting him off his feet. The ramp slammed him hard in the back knocking the wind out of him and he slid backward along the steel grate shredding his flight suit at the shoulders.
The tracker stumbled, his injured leg giving out. If they had used paste, it hadn’t healed enough to be throwing kicks. They dropped down to one knee. He couldn’t see the trackers face through the opaque helmet, but their body language betrayed the extent of the injury.
He continued to slide down the ramp until his head rested on the forest floor. Trying to lift his shoulders didn’t accomplish anything. The lack of strength in his chest and abdomen thwarted any efforts to sit up. Instead he rolled to the side and used his legs to spin himself around on his shoulder and off of the ramp completely. With some effort he pivoted around so his eyes pointed back up the ramp toward the tracker. Light flashed across the edge of the short knife as the tracker slid it from the side of their boot.
He attempted to bolt up off the ground but nothing cooperated. He laboured to his feet, ready to run. His legs would have been game for it but he remained hunched over holding his side. It was numb, but clearly not healing nearly fast enough.
The tracker lunged forward but the steep ramp tripped them up and they tumbled forward. The tracker swiped out with the knife and he threw his left arm up defensively. There was a loud clang as the knife struck.
The tracker’s helmet bounced off the forest floor in front of his toes while the rest of their body draped itself awkwardly up the ramp. He quickly scanned around for the knife when he didn’t see it in the trackers hand. It took a beat to notice the tip of it buried in the panel on his wrist. He twitched his arm, startled by the weapon and the knife flicked out and cartwheeled to the ground about a meter away.
The tracker extended their arms and he pivoted sideways to avoid their reach. Surprisingly, they didn’t try to grab him. Instead the tracker tapped at a panel on their left wrist. A menu sparked to life and the tracker jabbed at one of the options. In an instant he could hear the sharp sound of a laser cooling pack spinning up. Like sucking air through tightly clamped teeth.
He took half a shuffle step sideways and put all the weight he could gather into a single kick. The flat bottom of his boot connected with the log holding the ramp open. There was a roar as the wood tore and split and the hydraulics engaged. The ramp slammed violently upward catching the back of his heel and flipping him onto his back.
Laying on the dirt and leaves and scattered pine needles he looked up at the tracker. They were pinned just above the hips between the ramp and the hull of the ship. Their arms hung limp.
A powerful wind suddenly pulled at his flight suit as the ship’s inertial drive kicked on. It pulled the breath from his lungs as the ship attempted to gather as much local air as it could, compressing it to cool the drive.
There was a brief moment of silence. He reacted as quickly as he could to cover his face before the ship dumped all of that air, now heated to scalding temperatures. It passed over him like a burning wave. He could have sworn he felt the moisture on his skin boil away to steam. The wave passed and cool forest air swirled in behind it like a salve across the backs of his hands and exposed cheeks.
A loud thump at his feet startled his eyes open. The ship was gone. Tree tops framed a splotch of darkening sky where the ship had been. Hovering there, superimposed on the trees and sky were words. Words and numbers. They said:
Survival - Success
Escape - Failure
Injuries - Significant
Adversarial Learning session 412 logged and uploaded
Collect helmet to accept Tracker role.
The bottom line pulsed softly. A number appeared below it. 45. 44. 43.
He sat up and saw the top half of the tracker laying in the dust. When the inertial drive fired and the ship hopped away it had left anything outside the ship where it was. Including this half of the tracker.
He reached forward and took the helmet in his hands. 38. 37. He tugged at the helmet and it lifted from the ground easily. There was nothing in it. Nothing in the top half of the tracker’s armor. Just a hollow shell. 33. 32. 31.
He put on the helmet. The countdown stopped. In front of him stood a man in a flight suit. More words floated in front of him.
Adversarial Learning session 413.
Prevent escape of other agents.
Recovery items not replenished.
Chase can begin in 5 minutes.
The man in the flight suit tapped at the panel on his wrist, read what he saw, and bolted off into the forest.
He flexed the armored gloves on his hands and checked over the laser weapon on his right wrist. 4:57. 4:56. 4:55.