Landing

The Excelsior plummeted into the thermosphere of Plethora Minor like a bullet aimed at the heart of the planet. The slip stream it created upon entry left a swirling white contrail of super-heated air. A stentorian blast reverberated throughout the spacecraft, setting it to shake violently and deafening its crew. Only Bradley Johnston's triumphant wail of a "YaHoo!" could be heard above the cacophony. Outside the hull plating began to blossom an orange red hue, invigorated by the higher than normal oxygen content of PM. For a few tense moments, the bulk of the Excelsior was wreathed in flame, falling through the violet sky as fatally as Icarus from Olympia. Absently, Hawthorne wondered whether the ship's thrusters would set the whole world ablaze.

Hawthorne struggled to straighten the Excelsior from its suicidal trajectory. He'd underestimated the planet's gravitational pull and for this his muscles paid the price. His arms quivered, his back arched and strained as he pulled back on the throttle and wheel, attempting to place the Excelsior's undercarriage parallel with the planets surface. Teeth gritted in a feral snarl, Hawthorne's efforts were rewarded by another clarion boom signaling that the Excelsior had turned its nose roughly even with the horizon. The pilot immediately toggled the belly deceleration thrusters and the Excelsior began to slow its descent.

An unbroken sheet of purple red cirrus clouds obscured view of the terrain below.

Hawthorne leveled the Excelsior and dove into the swirling bands of nubilation. At two thousand feet the cloud cover dissipated and an alien landscape unfolded.

From horizon to horizon a plain of red vegetation stretched over hills and valleys. In the far distance pillars of ebony rose like alters to a pagan god while closer still sparse copses of black tree analogies dotted the crimson landscape appearing as scabs in a sea of blood. Hawthorne found the landscape eerie in ways no other planet had in a life time of interstellar flight.

He drove the nose of the Excelsior toward the only area within sight that was devoid of the magenta vegetation, a circular plate of black rock. Igneous? thought Hawthorne. Possibly. However, there were no volcanoes in sight. Granite, perhaps? Whatever the material comprising the half a kilometer-wide plate, it was the only area nearby not covered by the bilious flora. His earlier ruminations about igniting the planet's atmosphere with the ship's thrusters reemerged. While the atmosphere might not ignite, he was sure setting the vegetation ablaze would lead to an uncontrollable forest fire if the plants were flammable. Besides this conviction, an irrational loathing of the strange vegetation consumed Hawthorne. He determined not to land the Excelsior on the repulsive red growth. The things I do for money, the pilot thought, toggling reverse thrusters and lowering the anchorage legs.

It wasn't his best landing, but centuries of man-made flight had not diminished the universal truth that any landing was a good one. For one thing, PM's gravity was slightly stronger than that of most planets Hawthorne had visited. His gravimeter showed 1.5 G. The pilot groaned inwardly. Most of his life had been spent on the .9 G of New Haven or the artificial 1 G of inertial dampeners which made life aboard interplanetary spacecraft bearable. The only saving grace was that the safari would not last long if his clients quickly succumbed to the muscle fatiguing pull of the planet.

"Man that was a blast," Hawthorne heard Johnson exclaim from the ready room once the Excelsior's three mechanical legs had extended and the landing was complete. The excited kid was already unbuckled from the safety restraints of the ready room before Hawthorne could shut the ships engines down.

"Simmer down," Hawthorne called from the cockpit. Well so much for that one wearing out, the safari leader thought. "Let me scan the area before you go leaping out the outer lock."

"No problem, boss," Bradley yelled back. "Gotta check on our toys before we go hiking anyway."

Hawthorne could hear the others releasing themselves from their bindings and their muted excitement carried from the passenger section as they prepared for the expedition. He tuned them out as he began taking readings of the planet's atmospheric environment to compare with those taken by the P 72 probe. It took only a few minutes for the Excelsior's instrumentation to substantiate much of what NASA Inc. had already determined.

As Hawthorne ensured that the generators, coolant, life support and other autonomous systems were functioning properly, he informed his clients via intercom the results of his examination and the necessities of the expedition.

"Looks like we are going to have to suit up boys and girls. There's a fifty-five percent oxygen atmospheric mixture out there with a barometric pressure four times that of Old Earth. More of a deep-sea environment rather than anything terrestrial. The rest of PM's air is composed of inert gases. Fortunately, nitrogen makes up most those trace gases. Unfortunately, the one gas we need most is also the most dangerous here. Under these conditions oxygen becomes toxic over time. The symptoms of O2 poisoning are nausea, vomiting, and convulsions. It could even kill you if not treated. Since the parameters for poisoning vary from person to person, there is no telling how long each of us will have if our suits are compromised. You may be able to breathe the ambient atmosphere for an hour or only minutes before the effects kick in. To be safe don't make matters worse by panicking. he only cure is to breathe standard air which your suits have a twenty-four-hour supply of. Keep your helmet on and your tanks strapped, and you should be fine."

On the screen Hawthorne saw Bradley Johnson looking for a call box in the ready room. Locating the communicator, the kid pressed its button and asked, "You mean we gotta wear these ugly orange prisoner garments you have for survival suits?"

Carl sighed in exasperation and shouted "Yes!"

"Okay, okay. Jeez, don't get your panties in a bunch. I was just wondering how we're supposed to sneak up on anything in these neon orange jumpers?" Bradley said into the call box. Then with a wry smile he returned to the lockers in which the EVA suits were housed.

Hawthorne thought about pulling his cowboy hat down around his ears so he wouldn't have to hear the kid whine, but its precious place in his heart stopped him. Minutes later the video feed showed the wonder child slipping clumsily into his survival suit. Borlov was already dressed, but there was no sign of the astrobiologist.

"Don't let the kid get to you," Lee said from behind the pilot. "He's just pulling your strings. We knew we would likely have to wear EVA long before landing." She was standing in the stairwell leading down to the general quarters. The astrobiologist was dressed for the expedition with everything, save her helmet which she cradled in one arm.

"Yeah, I know," grunted Hawthorne. "It just irks me to have to cow toe to a privileged bastard like Johnson."

"Aren't you also descendant from a wealthy family?," asked Lee.

Hawthorne snorted, "Once upon a time. The Excelsior is the only asset that remains of the Hawthorne fortunes. If not for trips like this, and let's say, less savory jobs, even she would be a thing of the past. If not I wouldn't be driving snot nosed miscreants like Johnson around the galaxy."

"What would you be doing then? If the Hawthorne riches had survived, I mean?"

"Probably skiing on Caspian," Hawthorne said, at which they both chuckled quietly.

When their mirth subsided Hawthorne asked Lee if she was going to hunt as well as collect data.

"No captain, only thing I'll be shooting is this," indicating the camera clipped to the harness of the EVA breathing supply tank strapped to her back.

"I'm sure those two will supply you with enough tissue samples from their kills if you need them."

"I suppose so, by the way..." Janice began before the pilot cut her off.

"Maybe you should help them prepare. It doesn't look like Johnson gauged his breathing mixture properly. Hate to have him loose his air supply during one of his drawn-out stories of galaxy hopping adventures," Hawthorne said. "Besides, I have some more systems to close up here. I'll be down momentarily."

"See you down there then," the astrobiologist said, apparently forgetting what she had been about to ask him. Smiling, Janice Lee turned and descended the causeway. Hawthorne made a show of flipping switches, although he had long ago secured all the ship systems he needed to. Hawthorne had seen a question forming on her lips. He may have been wrong about its content, but Hawthorne did not want to chance she had been about to ask about the fate of the precols.

On the monitor showing the ready room he saw Borlov breaking down the M-94 caseless rifles Hawthorne had supplied for the safari. They were throw backs from the Deimos conflict Hawthorne had acquired after a liquor run to a helium mining platform on M 24. It was alright to have guns capable of cutting a ten ton, five meters around, Helium-cow in two, but not whisky on the mining platforms. Go figure. Besides, the caseless rifles produced negligible flash and weren't likely to set off the abnormally flammable atmosphere of PM. At least Hawthorne hoped that was so.

Johnson was noticeably slower caring for his weapon to the point that the commandant had completely dressed and loaded his weapon before the kid had separated the stock. That one is going to shoot himself in the foot, Hawthorne thought. Fortunately, Borlov began assisting the playboy reassembling the rifle. In the meantime, Janice Lee went about fastidiously checking the condition of their EVA suits and breathing tanks. Hawthorne was mollified that at least his clients seemed to be able to work as a team. Another glance at the outside monitor squelched any comfort he may have gleamed from that observation. PM would never be a tourist attraction. No one would sympathize with whatever monstrosities stalked its bleak countenance. It was a planet Carl Hawthorne never wished to step a foot upon.

"All righty," came the excited voice of Bradley Johnson from the causeway. "Let's do this."