Escape

Escape

Until now they had been strolling idly across the blood grass plain and had yet to feel the half g difference between PM and standard Earth gravitation. Now that the group had to exert themselves it felt as though they were trying to jog with dumb bells strapped to their ankles. It soon became obvious that they would never out run the serpents at their heels. Borlov turned to cover their retreat, spraying the vanguard of serpents rising from the ground in front of him. A cursing Hawthorne spun about to assist the Russian when he heard the gun fire, allowing Borlov to retreat further.

Bradley Johnson never stopped running, his legs pumping furiously despite the gravitation and the clumsy environmental suit he wore. He did not pause long enough even for the grass analogues to give way. Instead he plowed through them, causing those he touched to explode like blood filled landmines. In a matter of moments Johnson was covered by settling clouds of red mist. His entire suit, from crown to foot, was drenched in the corrosive substance expelled by the Sanguis Herba. From his staggered process, it became obvious that the fluid had fouled his face plate to the extent that he was essentially blind. Still he ran, spurred ever onward by an all-encompassing fear.

Janice ran behind Johnson, yelling all the while for him to slow down. Whether the kid had not seen the effect of the blood grass secretion or his terror of the pursuing creatures had overwhelmed his senses would not matter. If the Johnson did not remove his fluid soaked suit he was bound to liquefy along with it.

Borlov and Hawthorne traded positions as they fell back, one shooting while the other retreated. Their volley of arms fire did not halt the rush of creatures but did manage to slow them down. They had traversed little more than half the distance back toward the spacecraft when a new horror chose to reveal itself.

From the sky a flight of black, short winged things more akin to jets than birds swooped in to spear wounded ribbon serpents and those too slow in finding safety below the surface. The ebony bird analogs gave the harried humans a slight reprieve from the land bound creatures, but no one doubted that the alien avian would soon turn their ravenous attention on them as well.

Lee only caught a glimpse of the new threat. She was too busy tackling Johnson to spare them much notice. She knew that she was endangering herself by trying to aid the panicked playboy. Not only had she stopped her retreat to the ship, but she was also exposing her own EVA suit to the deadly secretions of the blood grass. Why she was risking her life for the often obnoxious kid Janice did not know. She had come to Plethora Minor to document its lifeforms with the hope that by doing so she might be able to protect them from arrogant men like Bradley Johnson. Men who viewed their own interest above everything else in the galaxy. She chucked it up to atavistic instinct and dove for Johnson's legs, just barely managing to catch his ankles before he could charge head long into another batch of the alien flora.

Johnson tumbled to the ground and Lee could hear him hyperventilating above her own heaving breaths, both of them taxing their self-contained breathing apparatus. Frantically, Johnson fumbled unsuccessfully to unlatch his helmet. Lee saw that he could not reach the clasps of his helmet in his panicked condition so she crawled over top the kid so she could remove it herself.

With one hand she held Johnson's helm, and with the other she undid its latches. The hand Lee stabilized Johnson's head with made finger indents in the inch thick face plate; proof that the blood grass enzyme was already beginning its digestive action. The helmet came off with the hiss of escaped air. Johnson immediately began taking in huge gulps of the ambient air. Lee idly wondered how long it would take for him to succumb to oxygen toxicity. For that matter how long would it take for their suits to disintegrate under the wash of the blood grass enzyme. Already Johnson's suit was beginning to smolder. She guesstimated that it had taken the enzyme anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes to activate within the specimen container. The approximate time it had taken the group to walk from the Excelsior to the point where they had had to begin their retreat.

Lee knew they didn't have anywhere near that much time to make it back to the ship. If the monsters at their backs did not devour them post haste, then the blood grass secretion would reduce them to pulp in far less time than it had taken it to eat through half an inch of plasteel. She stood, trying as she did to pull the kid to his feet. She could not lift him. Johnson was still struggling for breath and squirming on the ground.

"Bradley, get up! We're almost there!" She cried. It was true, the ship was less than a hundred meters from where they had fallen. Lee was momentarily taken aback by the sight the Excelsior, its flat black hulk oddly congruent with the beasts of Plethora Minor, resembling the chrysalis of an enormous alien beetle, its size absurdly disproportionate for the size of its crew as though it were a biblical whale sent to devour Johnna. As menacing as the ship appeared, Lee knew it was their only chance for salvation. She tried harder to raise Johnson, but he was too frantic and heavy for her to handle. She had a gut-wrenching felling that she would have to leave him to his doom.

Sobbing now, Lee pleaded with the kid to get up. "Please…please…please, Bradley. We have to go," she said all the while preparing herself to sprint to the safety of the ship.

Then, like an angel from heaven, Borlov was there. With his left hand he grabbed hold of Johnson's EVA suit, dragging the other man toward the ship. In his right hand he bore his rifle, blasting a path through the field of blood grass.

"Go!" The SAA commandant ordered.

Janice Lee did not need to be told twice. She ran.

Hawthorne followed behind them. He provided covering fire as often as he could without stopping, spinning on his heels to take pot shots at the swarm of Plethorian predators. The Excelsior loomed before Lee, Borlov, and Johnson, who was still being pulled by the collar of his suit. A suit which was quickly being consumed. When Borlov reached the ship he unceremoniously dropped Bradley at the closed gang way and turned about so that he could assist Hawthorne.

"Hurry, open the causeway," Borlov called to the beleaguered pilot as he crouched and began firing controlled bursts into the throng.

"I'm kind of busy!" growled Hawthorne, ducking to narrowly avoid the spring of a ribbon serpent. Borlov downed the beast and another that was breaching the ground to Hawthorne's right.

The remote console whichh would open the Excelsior's entrance was strapped to Hawthorne's right wrist. He knew their lives depended on his activating the hatch but he was averse to lowering his guard. 'This is all my fault', Hawthorne thought. 'I knew this planet was damned, I knew.'

He'd be further damned If he would allow his clients to die on the God forsaken rock. Trusting in Borlov's suppression fire Hawthorne raised his arm to key in the remote sequence. He'd managed to enter the final digit when a black blur struck from the sky, cutting his right arm just above his elbow. Hawthorne glimpsed his severed arm twirling through the air amid a pin wheel of blood before collapsing into darkness.

"No!" screamed Lee as the gang way began to unfurl beside her. Borlov growled a russian explication she did not understand and started full out for the fallen pilot. Lee knew she could not assist Borlov's rescue attempt of Hawthorne so she knelt to see if there was anything she could do for Bradley.

The kid's suit was falling apart around him. Up until now Johnson had been quite as he gasped for breath. Now he began to scream as the first remnants of the substance ate through his EVA suit. Lee did not hesitate. She began stripping the thrashing man even as her own suit started to smolder. Her efforts in freeing Johnson were aided by the digestive enzyme. Great strips of the survival suit ripped off easily until eventually he was almost nude aside from his briefs and boots. These last Lee removed as well, fighting Bradley's thrashing limbs to do so. The kid had not escaped the encounter unscathed. Shot gun splatters of the substance had burned through to his legs.

Lee vaguely realized that she was smelling the ambient odors of Plethora Minor for the first time. The planet's air reflected its ambiance. It smelled like a carnal house. The nauseating sour aroma of rotting meat and the sweet smell of sizzling flesh filled her helmet. This last wafting from Bradley Johnson's thumping legs where the enzyme appeared to be still active. Lee reached up to find the clasps of her own helm had come loose during her scuffle to subdue Johnson.

She groaned aloud at the realization that she had been breathing the ambient atmosphere. For her, the threat of oxygen toxicity was not the only hazard the planet's tainted air presented. Something far worse might await her if they survived. First they had to survive, though. In disgust Lee undid the helmet and cast it aside, knowing she did not have time to properly reseal it. Suppressing her secret fear, the astrobiologist snapped back to her present problems.

If the blood grass enzyme had been a normal proteolyptic enzyme, then there were numerous neutralizing agents she could use to combat it. But the substance had bored through half an inch of plasteel, a flexible polymer that was just as tensile as the metallic compound from which it derived the latter portion of its name. For a biological excretion of such inexplicable acidity Lee could not begin to guess at what composition of neutralizers would be necessary to cease its destructive process. At that moment, she could not concentrate on the problem. She had to remove her own suit before she too became a victim of the Sanguis Herba secretion. Without a second thought she began to strip.

Borlov ran for the fallen pilot. For a moment, he was back on Mars during the Deimos rebellion. Then the monsters had been drill mechs and walkers transformed into weapons of war. The SAA soldiers had come to call the fierce rebels and their ragtag arsenal the Deimos Dragons. They became legendary because of their relentless ferocity. Here, though, there were real monsters. They did not spew fire or shoot arcs of mining lasers, but were the things of nightmare regardless. Any sane man would have retreated to the relative safety of the ship. Now as then, commandant Andrew Borlov ran into the maw of the beasts with a prayer on his breathe.

"Would they die for you?" Ivona, Andrew Borlov's wife of thirty standard and more than three hundred sleep years had asked him on more than one occasion. She never understood his dedication to the service and he supposed she never would. To him every man and woman under his command was just as much family as she was. He knew also that she was just as brave as any soldier that had fought for him, and a thousand times more loyal. There weren't many women that would voluntarily go into cryosleep when their husbands were called out to duty, just so they could spend a five years' time with their husband before the SAA contract demanded they go back on ice until the next conflict arose. This was to be the commandant's last duty call and he had accepted a non-combatant role just to please her. Now here he was risking his life again for someone he barely knew.

The co"mandant slaughtered Plethorian analogs with every shot as he sprinted toward the still form of Carl Hawthorne. The pilot was not moving and his EVA had deflated. What remained of his right arm lay several meters from Hawthorne's body, the remote bracelet still attached to the wrist of a twitching hand. Borlov knew that the remote might be his salvation should he fail to hold off the horde of creatures. For while there was a manual means of lowering and raising the debarkation ramp it was a timely process. Smugglers such as Hawthorne often employed remotes so that they could depart a transaction swiftly if their business turned sour. Borlov never once considered striking out for the bracelet.

Luck and a life spent in one conflict or another saved the Russian as he approached Hawthorne. He'd no sooner dispatched a ribbon serpent when one of the Plethorian avian swooped down toward him from the veil of cloud. Reflex brought his gun to bare and he pulled its trigger just as the thing leveled out for the attack. The bullet stuck the creature in the chest at point blank range. As its corpse tumbled by Borlov was given the impression of a sleek bodied animal with short wings and a tail that resembled that of a jet fighter. Two organic intakes were positioned just below the stubby wings, lending the creature the further appearance of a jet propelled craft. It's head though, was another matter. Like the ribbon serpent, it had no eyes. Four blade like bills surrounded a mouth filled by row upon row of teeth. It was an elegant beast. An evolutionary war machine. If Borlov had his way, he'd kill them all.

Clad in only her briefs and bra, Janice Lee dragged an unconscious Johnson up the catwalk and into the Excelsior's outer lock. She was beginning to feel the onset of oxygen toxicity. Her head swam and her stomach roiled with each gasping breath. Through blurred sight she eyed two key pads and a manual wheel that would raise or lower the ramp. One of the keypads would close the outer lock while the other controlled the debarkation ramp. Blue and red dots floated in the fore of her vision and the numbers of the keypads spun counter clockwise. There was no way she could use either the keypad in her current state. Besides Hawthorne had not seen fit to give his clients the numbers to his magic portals. Damn smugglers and their surreptitious habits. It would have to be the old fashion way. She took hold and began spinning the wheel. The ramp started to rise very, very slowly.

Hawthorne was still breathing. Borlov was relatively sure of this because he saw the pilot's face plate alternately fog and clear. The stump of Hawthorne's right arm still squirted blood, but Borlov knew that a man's heart could beat it's last well after death. Dead or alive, the commandant was resolved to bring the pilot back to his ship.

Fortunately for Hawthorne he had fallen on patch of ground which had been cleared of blood grass. The Sanguis Herba around Hawthorne were creeping towards his prone body like carrion crows with the stench of rot in their nostrils. Borlov raced forward, dropping his weapon and scooping the pilot's limp form over his shoulder in one swift motion. There would no more time for retaliation. The demons were at his back.

The adrenaline whichh had been driving Borlov was starting to wear thin. He felt his legs quiver from the exertion of running and gunning, his back bowed under the weight of the supine pilot, and his EVA air supply was over taxed by his deep breaths so that he felt like a fish out of water. Still he soldiered on, zig zagging his way to the Excelsior and the ramp which was rising much too slowly.

Lee saw the Russian struggling to make his way to the ship. She tried to increase her efforts to raise the ramp, but was far too exhausted. Even the sight of the monstrous horde shambling behind her companions could not spur her to greater effect. They were all going to die, she thought. Then, another ominous thought crossed her mind. My vision has already cleared.

"Die!" screamed Bradley Johnson. Laying in the prone position at Lee's feet, Johnson unloaded a barrage of rifle fire at the creatures chasing Borlov and his charge. Lee had not seen the youth regain consciousness, but apparently, he had. Somehow the kid had crawled to the ready room to gather another rifle. Still yelling his battle cry Johnson covered Borlov and Hawthorne, but his erratic fire threatened to hit those he was trying to protect.

"Stop!" gasped Lee. When he failed to heed her, Lee stomped on one of Johnson's wounded legs. The playboy yelped, dropping the weapon to nurse his throbbing leg. Lee had managed to raise the ramp a meter before becoming completely overcome by fatigue. Borlov leaped onto the ramp none the less, with Hawthorne still draped over his shoulder. Together they sprawled onto the floor of the lockout room. While the pilot lay unmoving, Borlov rose to his hands and knees. He looked depleted, hardly able to maintain his crouched position. Regardless of his lethargy, the commandant removed his helmet with practiced hands.

"Help", croaked Janice, leaning on the wheel. Borlov saw the problem, struggled to his feet and to take over the wheel from Janice. He started cranking as fast as his strained arms could… and still the ramp seemed to move at a snail pace.

The catwalk had lifted two meters off of the ground when a ribbon serpent thudded over its lip to twirl maniacally before sliding down the incline. Johnson, who had regained his rifle, fired two panicked shots at the beast. The first missed completely, the round ricocheting off the ramp, into the ceiling of the lock out chamber and into the ready room. Sparks flew from the bullet's multiple impacts, but fortunately no one was hit. Lee knelt, nearly slipping in the growing pool of blood leaking from Hawthorne's stump or the kid's legs, she did not know which. She grabbed the weapon from a bewildered Johnson. While he'd no doubt saved them from certain death if the creature had been allowed to worm its way throughout the ship, she was afraid the kid's next misfire would kill them all before the Plethorian monsters had a chance. The heir of Johnson Electronics did not protest. He rolled onto his back and crossed his arms over his head. Lee thought she heard him weeping, but was too tired and scared herself to sympathize. While there was still life in her, however, Janice Lee knew she had to contribute in anyway she could. The astrobiologist fell to her knees to see what she could do for the stricken pilot.

All the while Borlov cranked the wheel. Things crashed into the ramp, pounding into the barrier with mindless abandon. The meteoric bombardment was out of proportion to the scant meal the humans would provided the Plethorian animals. It was as if the planet's indigenous life forms had been driven into a fervor by the arrival of the expedition. Blind hatred drove the beasts to attack the rising ramp despite their ineffectiveness.

Borlov put his entire body into raising the ramp. He'd been in many situations throughout his life in which death had seemed a certainty. He'd survived wars, mining accidents, and the dangers of a highly volatile political regime in which failure often meant a one-way trip to a gulag on poisonous Old Earth. Somehow the commandant had lived through it all. He prayed to God for one more miracle.

By force of will Lee released the claps on Hawthorne's helmet. To her surprise Johnson was there to help her remove it. There was more to the kid than she had supposed. If they lived through their stay on Plethora Minor she promised herself she'd tell him so.

"Is he breathing?" Johnson asked. His voice was high and thin like that of the frightened child the others considered him to be. Lee placed an ear over Hawthorne's mouth and felt a wisp of air tickle her lobe.

"Barely," she said. "But he won't be for long if we don't stop this bleeding."

Lee reached past the tattered remains of Hawthorne's EVA suit to where the avian had dismembered Hawthorne's arm. Her fingers slipped over the ragged meat and jagged bone of the wound to find what remained. There was still enough of the arm left to access bicep and triceps. If the wound had been any higher, she would never have been able control the bleeding through pressure points. As it was she found the brachial artery and pressed it against the humorous bone. Carl Hawthorne, you'd better thank God that human anatomy is part of the astrobiologist curriculum she thought grimly. Five minutes, give me five minutes, and I'll save this man's life. But it was unclear whether they had five seconds, nonetheless five minutes.

At around hundred and fifty arduous turns Borlov lost count of how many revolutions he had made. His arms felt like lead weights and he could only continue cranking the hand wheel by leaning on it during the downward swing. At one point a Plethorian bird had wedged itself between the rising walkway and the ship's hull. Borlov had continued raising the ramp until the thing was bisected with a satisfying crunch. Now scarcely a meter remained before the ramp was fully coupled to the Excelsior. At his feet, he heard Johnson cheering, "Go Andy, Go!"

Janice Lee was still administering the pilot, yet spared the time to give him a wan smile. Borlov never stopped cranking the wheel. His philosophy was that one should never let down their guard even in light of an impending victory. He was still cranking the wheel when disaster struck.

Although mere decimeters were left to seal the causeway to the ship, a dendriform reached a questing tendril through the slot. The screams of Johnson and Lee were the only warning Borlov had before the scaled tentacle wrapped around his throat. The Russian released the wheel so that he could pry the constricting rope of alien flesh from him, but only managed to trap his fingers between throat and tentacle before his strength waned. Slowly the creature began hauling the big man upward. Borlov's feet left the floor and he was hanging with his back to the deck.

"Help him" Lee screamed at Johnson. Her yell knocked the kid from a momentary state of shock, and he crab walked himself as fast as he could to grab hold of Borlov's legs. Whimpering, Johnson took hold of the Russians dangling legs with the intent of pulling his companion down. But Borlov's struggles soon dislodged him. Lee released her hold on Hawthorne's mangled arm and was rewarded by a violent squirt of blood. The pilot was still alive and she was unsure of what, if anything, she could do to save Borlov. She returned to Hawthorne so she could resume holding the pressure point.

"Help him," she moaned again. Not to Bradley Johnson, who with his maimed legs was beyond the ability aide their companion, but to a higher power she did not believe in.

The commandant was dying, his face turning purple before their eyes as the creature strangled him. Andrew Borlov, commandant and hero of the Deimos rebellion, delegate of the SAA, would not die without a fight. Legs braced on the now vertical ramp, Borlov tried to kick himself free of the dendriform's grasp. He strained with all his considerable might to push himself free. The commandant managed to get several centimeters away from the ramp. The sight of the struggle between man and monster was a palpable tension leaving Johnson and Lee emotionally on edge.

Then, just like that, it was over. The demonic tree jerked its snake like appendage back through the slot. Borlov's head and body fell independently to the deck.

More dendriform tentacles reached through the slot but none were thin or long enough to reach the three survivors. Lee and Johnson were not about to take chances. Lee dragged Hawthorne into the ready room while the kid crawled there on his own.

Meanwhile the siege of the Excelsior continued. Dendriforms lashed its hull, while avian and serpents bombarded the spacecraft. The cacophony was maddening, but since there was nothing they could do about it Lee and Johnson tried their best to ignore the ruckus. The pilot's bleeding slowed considerably after Lee tied her bra around the stump. An action which managed to put a brief smile on Bradley Johnson's waxen face. Fortunately for him, no wise crack left his lips.

The kid's leg wounds had long ago ceased bleeding and it looked as though the acidic property of the blood grass enzyme had ceased. Lee suspected the lessened oxygen content of the ship's atmosphere may have stopped the destructive process. Johnson had not survived the attack completely unscathed, however. He still was unable to use his legs. Whether there was a neurological aspect to the enzyme or the substance had simply fried the nerves in the kid's lower torso, she did not know. Whatever the case, Bradley had yet to speak of his immobility. Janice Lee was equally unwilling to hear those complaints no matter how valid they might be. The survivors had too much to deal with as it was. Making sure the one man who could fly them home lived, for instance.

Lee searched the ship for a first aid kit once she was certain that neither Hawthorne or Johnson were in danger of immediate demise. What she found was a box of bandages, an AED, and some painkillers. If the smuggler had more sophisticated emergency materials, they must have been hidden. After dressing into another jumpsuit as quickly as she could, Lee wrapped Hawthorne's stump with the gauze she had found and once more checked his status. The pilot was still breathing, albeit fitfully. She feared he would awaken soon. There was another can of worms she did not want to open just yet. The analgesics she'd found would do nothing to alleviate Hawthorne's forthcoming pain. Then there was always the chance of infection which while it might not kill the pilot outright, would certainly lengthen their stay on the hellish planet. Not to mention the psychological effect of losing a limb. If Bradley did not recover from his injuries she would have two crippled men to deal with. Lee tried to choked back her building tears. Even if Hawthorne survived his injuries, she wasn't sure if he could fly the Excelsior with one arm.

Janice Lee covered her face, determined that Johnson not see her weeping.

"It's going to be alright, Doc", Bradley said.

'So much for the tough girl act,' Lee thought. "Your right, Sir Galahad. Everything is right in the kingdom," she said.

Bradley attempted a grin, but it looked more like a grimace. The kid quipped, "Tis, true. The dragons are forestalled and the maiden fair is safe. Now if you wouldn't mind, these minor flesh wounds need tending."

Lee turned her attention to the kid. His bare legs were cratered by the corrosive enzyme, but at least she had removed his soaked clothing before any further damage could be done. Still, his wounds were horrendous, most of them showing signs of suppuration. She would have to clean them before bandaging.

"I have to find something to disinfect those wounds, something better than water," Lee said.

"Carl is a smuggler by trade. If that's anything like a pirate, there is bound to be some booze on the ship. I'd check his cabin again."

"Good idea, Bradley. I should have thought of that. Stay here and I'll be right back."

"I'm not going anywhere," Bradley Johnson said solemnly.

Sure enough, there was an ancient bottle of Crown Royal beneath Hawthorne's bunk. Lee opened the whiskey bottle and gulped a swing before returning to Johnson. The liquor was smooth and potent. Lee felt its effects immediately and for moment she relished the buzz before returning to her patient.

Back in the ready room she handed the bottle to the kid. He wistfully took a gulp and handed it back. "Okay, Doc, let's do this."

Lee poured liberal amounts the alcohol over Johnson's legs and was surprised that he didn't squelch from the pain.

As if he had read her mind, Johnson said, "You know I can't feel my legs."

"I figured as much," Lee replied, "or else you would have…" Lee immediately regretted her line of thought. She started wrapping his legs with the remaining gauze, ashamed of her outburst.

"I would have what? Ran?" A mortified Johnson asked. "I'm sorry, Okay. I'm sorry."

When Lee did not reply. Nonetheless the kid broke into an explanation. "It's just that those things looked like snakes. I'm terrified of snakes. Have been since I was little. On my eighth birthday, my father brought one of those cyber-serpents for as a pet. You know, the fake boa constrictors. At first I loved the thing. Named it Reggie after that boa in that old vid Raiders of the Lost Ark. Anyway, it malfunctioned one night while I was sleeping. Crept up on me and started squeezing real slow. Mom and dad were out to some function or another, and the butler was down stairs dipping into father's wine supply. No one heard my screams. If James, that was the butler's name I think, hadn't come upstairs to take a piss, I would have died that night. Thing is cyber-snakes are programmed not to kill. This one took it upon itself to act like the real thing. It broke both my arms and two ribs before James turned it off."

"It's alright, Bradley. It's over," Lee said, continuing to wrap Johnson's legs and finding it hard to look him in the eye in lieu of his confession.

Johnson shook his head so violently Lee had to press a restraining hand on his chest. He was crying openly, either unabashed or too tired to cover his shame.

"No, it's not alright. I got Andy killed. It's my fault. If I'd been braver Andy would still be alive and the captain would still have his arm."

"None of this is your fault, Bradley," Lee said. "We were all scared. No one can know how they will react in a situation like that"

Johnson sniffled, "But none of you came here to face your fears! That's why I came here in the first place. All just so I could prove to daddy I wasn't a coward."

"You were brave when it counted. Borlov might never have made it to the ship at all if not for you, and if that worm had made it into the living quarters none of us would be here."

"I guess," Johnson said, wiping tears from his face. "Thanks, Doc. For everything. Now that your done mummifying my legs, would you mind getting me some clothes."

Lee blushed. She had been working on the youth's legs oblivious to his state of undress. Now that she was done, his nakedness became self-evident by his arousal.

"Oh," Lee said, stood and hurried to the quarters to fetch Bradley Johnson a jumpsuit.

"Well," Johnson chortled at her retreating form, "At least that still works".

'And Bradley Johnson's sense of humor is still intact,' Lee thought. But for how long?

Lee yawned mightily from the pilot's chair. She could not recall making herself home in the cockpit. Although Lee felt she could sleep for a thousand years, the Astrologist could not catch a wink of repast due to the incessant assault from Plethora's wild life. Hawthorne and Johnson had long since succumbed to exhaustion despite the danger pounding on the Excelsior's proverbial door. Even without the constant reminder of the dangers amassed outside the spacecraft, Lee would have been hard pressed to find solace in the oblivion of slumber. There was simply too much to assimilate.

The behavior displayed by Plethora Minor's indigenous life forms was both intriguing and terrifying in its implications. The attacks on the ship went against everything she knew about non-sentient life, and nothing she had observed previously had indicated that they were intelligent. Still, they besieged the ship as though it were a hated enemy.

On a whim Lee activated the Excelsior's exterior cameras. What she had seen only heightened her fears. The creatures were attacking the ship in a concerted fashion, no longer interested in their natural predation. Thankfully the blood grass was deterred by the rock formation on which Hawthorne had landed. The fungoid creatures extended their many tendrils onto the rock shelf but could not find purchase. Some of these self-detonated, presumably to reach the soil through which they normally navigated, but the ebony stone was too deep. Otherwise Lee was certain the Sanguis Herba would have already dissolved the ship's landing struts. She knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before the malicious flora worked its way through the rocky strata and from there to the legs of the Excelsior.

Lee reached for the bottle of brandy she'd absconded from Hawthorne's cabin. She swirled the mouth full of liquor left in the glass decanter before drinking its remains. The liqueur burned her throat and sent a soothing miasma in her brain. At that moment, nothing mattered save the fuzziness nestling in her mind. And then just like that it was gone.

The pounding and clawing of Plethora Minor's wildlife against the hull of the ship was pervasive. There was no way of ignoring the assault, no matter how inebriated Lee may have desired to be.

Sighing, the astrobiologist placed the old earth cowboy hat she'd also found in Hawthorne's cabin on her head. Somehow the relic gave her comfort. It was something she imagined ancient ancestors had worn while trekking the untamed wilderness of the Americas. Was that the reason Hawthorne kept the centuries faded apparel?

"Looks better on you than it ever did on me," a stricken voice said from behind her. Surprised, Lee swiveled about to see Hawthorne clinging to the rail of the stairwell. Hawthorne was naked from the waist up, his injured arm held close to his chest in a sling made of bedding. Something else I should have done, Lee thought.

"Captain, you should be resting," Lee said.

"Time enough for rest in the grave," Hawthorne replied.

"You look as though that time might be forthcoming." It was true. The pilot looked like the living dead. His caramel colored skin was dusky, the complexion of ash, and his normally ram rod straight posture was bent double. Lee could have been in the presence of a zombie. 'Why not,' she thought, 'there are Kraken and serpents outside.'

"I couldn't sleep with all the racket going on. I also noticed you hadn't closed the outer hatch. Thought I might do something about that."

"Great," Lee said, "The com is all yours".

"I'm afraid this is as far as I go. It took all my strength to get this far," Hawthorne said. By the way he clutched the rail, hands gripping the metal so hard the tendon shown clear through the pallid skin, Lee saw that the pilot was not exaggerating.

"Which one of these buttons is it?"

"On the left panel, look down the third row of switches. There are four locking levers. Those control the ship's lockout hatches. Find the one painted blue."

Lee turned back to the command console. Hours of observation had not revealed the means of securing the causeway, and with dendriforms still probing the space between the hull and ramp she had no intention of completing the closure manually. As none of the control panel's mechanisms were marked she had refrained from pressing buttons randomly.

Lee scanned the impossibly complicated console until she saw a row of levers with the number of switches Hawthorne had indicated.

"Got it," she said, "up or down?"

"Pull up on it first," Hawthorne said weakly. "Then push it forward. You'll feel it lock in place. Then push it forward."

Lee performed the task as directed. The hum of hydraulic pistons at work could be heard from below along with the thump of tentacles thrashing against the plating. Abruptly the hum and thrashing ceased.

"I hope that sheared an arm or two off those fuckers" Lee said. "Anything else I can do from up here?"

"No, that's…" There was an audible thump in the stairwell.

"Captain?" Lee queried. She spun about in the chair only to find Hawthorne collapsed at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Oh shit", she said, racing down to aide the stricken man. Lee gasped in relief when she determined that Hawthorne was at least still alive. The pilot was breathing, albeit shallowly. His skin was hot to the touch and he groaned when he when she reached under his arms in an attempt to lift him.

Lee believed her worst prediction had come true. Hawthorne's wound had become infected. If the fever didn't kill him, then it would render him incapacitated for an interminable stretch of time. Time they simply did not have. She tried again to lift Hawthorne to his feet, but he was too heavy. "Carl, you have to help me," she said.

Hawthorne murmured his acknowledgment of her request and struggled to stand. Together they managed to raise Hawthorne enough so that Lee could get a shoulder underneath his uninjured arm. The pilot was not a very large man, but well-muscled. Lee, an athletic woman herself, struggled to walk him to the closest bunk located in the crew quarter designated for passengers. She thought about calling Bradley for assistance, but then remembered that he too was worse for wear. As it was they caromed from bulkhead to bulkhead before Lee finally led Hawthorne to an empty bunk.

The pilot lay like a corpse on the bed, his flesh radiating a palpable heat. Almost immediately Hawthorne fell into a catatonic slumber. Lee saw that the bandaging she had applied earlier to Hawthorne's stump was a red mess, blood and puss having soaked through the cloth. A rancid odor rose from the purulent wrappings. Janice Lee cupped her mouth with her hands and gasped silently at the sight of the wound's condition, partly in sympathy for Hawthorne and partly for the plight of Bradley and herself should the pilot die.

Despite Lee's attempt to hide her distress, Hawthorne must have heard her. His eyes flung open and her turned a sweat soak head to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, "So sorry."

For the second time that night Lee felt like weeping.

"Nonsense," Lee told him. "We all knew there would be danger when we signed up for this trip."

"Yes, you did. But I didn't tell you everything. I knew there were things here that were fatal. Three days ago, when I got out of cryo, I went to the bridge to make sure we hadn't overshot our trajectory. During my check lists, I turned on the deep space radio. To my surprise I found a repeating SOS sent by the precols on Plethora Minor. I don't know what eventually happened to them, but by the tone of the transmission it clearly indicates that they were in dire circumstances. A squad of soldiers complimented the precols. Anything that could have defeated that amount of firepower had to more dangerous to us than it had been to them. I'm sure now that they are all dead. I knew they were dead the first time I heard the transmission, I felt in my gut. But I ignored my instincts and continued anyway. Now I've killed us all."

Lee did not immediately respond to Hawthorne's admission. Although she tried to disguise her unease at the pilot's confession, her face must have belied her true emotions.

Hawthorne tried to take her hand. Lee, at once repulsed by his empathy and in need of comfort, initially pulled away from his grasp, but later gave in. Hadn't s she sensed that there was something strange about the pilot's demeanor ever since they'd landed? If Hawthorne was guilty of motivations which had committed the safari to hunting on the hostile planet for his own selfish needs, then wasn't she equally culpable for ignoring her instincts in the sake of academic curiosity?

"Honestly, Captain, I can't say that I would have requested we return. We all sacrificed years of standard life to have this opportunity. Whatever their reasons for being here, I'm certain the others would have chosen likewise."

"That may be true, but it does not excuse me for not warning you as to the specifics of the danger. I mean I didn't know exactly what we'd find. But the message…if you'd heard the desperation, the fear in the sender's voice. You would have known we were descending into the ninth gate of Hell. I doubt any of you would have been anywhere as eager to be here then, no matter the cost."

"Why ignore your feelings then?" Lee asked. "It couldn't have been for greed alone."

Hawthorne closed his eyes. His chest rose, then fell, and rose sharply again. Then he was still. For a moment Lee believed the pilot had finally succumbed to his injuries. Tentatively she reached to shake his shoulder. Before she could, Hawthorne' s eyes sprang open. An uncanny thought occurred to Lee. Had she just witnessed a man rising from the grave in the fashion of Lazarus, the truth having set him free? Or like a zombie in one of those pointless holo flicks, risen only so that an equally mindless foe could lay him to rest again?

"No, not greed alone. Pride also played a role in my decision," Hawthorne said, his voice soft and sullen.

"How so," Lee asked. She knew it would be fruitless to command the pilot to save his breath even though it was clear every word taxed him dearly. It was best she allowed him to get whatever admission he wanted to divulge off his chest. Then, perhaps he would be more pliant.

"You know that Mr. Johnson was not the only product of generational wealth," Hawthorne started. "But do you know the story of how my family achieved and lost those riches? No? That hat which fits you so well was worn by Jeremiah Hawthorne more than two thousand years ago. Not many people know this, but African-Americans were among the first cowboys. During the Old Earth American civil war, white ranchers called to the war front were forced to leave their holdings in the hands of their women, children, and the African slaves they housed on their property. The slaves learned all the skills of ranching in the absents of their owners. At the end of that war African-Americans were emancipated, set free to pursue their own lives. Those that did not flee northward remained in the south. Some of whom continued to perform the duties of ranchers, albeit as free men. A select few eventually went on to own their own ranches. That was by no means an easy task since most of the southern whites still held prejudicial views toward blacks. Somehow Jeremiah managed to pull through the transition of slave to businessman. He not only held onto the Hawthorne ranch, but prospered. Since then Hawthorne's have been successful in one avenue or another. There was a Hawthorne pilot that flew with the Tuskegee airmen during Old Earth's second world war, and another who was one of the first African American astronauts to settle on Luna, Old Earth's moon. There have been Hawthorne's that were oil tycoons, scientists, and politicians".

"We can try to forgive that Hawthorne ancestor," Lee said to interposed some levity into what she guessed would be a sorrowful story.

Whether because of her banter or the fever ravaging his body, the pilot began coughing, pausing his tale as he tried to compose himself. Janice Lee took his hand, waiting for Hawthorne's convulsions to subside. She reflected grimly that his skin was much hotter than when she last touched him.

"So you see we Hawthorne's have always been exceptional," Hawthorne said, a ghastly blood stained grin on his lips. "The last relative to make a significant mark was my great, great, great grandfather Dwight Hawthorne. He was a visionary. He saw interstellar flight for what it would become, the gateway to solidarity. He not only invested heavily in NASA Inc., but was also an exploratory commander during the expansion years. Dwight discovered Gleise 41, and founded a short-lived colony there. He meant for G 41 to be a refuge for the remaining Muslim people who had escaped the genocide of Old Earth's World War four. He wasn't an especially religious man himself, but believed there was room enough in the galaxy for all manner of people and beliefs."

Lee squeezed the pilot's hand in reassurance. "I recall the G 41 incident. The colony self-imploded into civil war over resources if I remember correctly."

"You're not wrong. But it wasn't indigenous resources they fought over. At least not initially. Gleise was habitable, but its water sources were few and shallow. There are asteroids in the system composed of ice, but NASA Inc. held the sole means to transport and refine them. The people of G 41 refused the exorbitant terms the corporation demanded for the transport service, however. Terms which would have made the colonists slaves to the company. When no negotiable terms could be made, G 41 decided they could live without NASA Inc. assistance. They thought they could subsist on the indigenous water supply. They were a desert people after all. But Gleise is a desert planet unlike any other. Continent sized sand storms envelope the planet in yearly cycles, polluting its sparse rivers and lakes, making potable water even scarcer. By the time the colonies realized the true depth of their problem it was too late."

"So what did Dwight do?"

"He was distraught. He knew NASA Inc. could have intervened at any point during the G 41 conflict. Thoroughly disillusioned by the corporation, Dwight removed his investments so he could start his own exploration endeavor. He spent the Hawthorne fortunes so he could build this," the pilot said, gesturing to the ship walls. "He never found another Goldilocks planet, even after decades of looking. In the end, he bankrupted generations of accumulated wealth. The only thing left of the Hawthorne estate was the Excelsior. That and Jeremiah's hat."

"And a nice hat at that," mLee said, earning a wan smile from the pilot.

"The surviving Hawthorne's have been living meager lives on New Haven, struggling to earn enough credits just to get by," Hawthorne continued. "My father, and his father before him resisted the urge to sale the ship. For decades, the Excelsior lay derelict, a quiet reminder of the Hawthorne legacy. Until now…"

Another bout of coughs beset the pilot.

Lee saw the froth of blood around his lips increase with every spoken word. She wasn't a doctor, but Carl Hawthorne's chances did not look good to her untrained mind. She had to put Hawthorne's confession to rest before he died right there in front of her.

"I understand", she said. "It's hard to follow in the footsteps of great men, especially when that man or woman are family. I too have a legacy to live up to. I come from a long line of scientist. You might say that I am equally influenced by the past. We all have demons not of our own making to confront. Tomorrow I'll tell you about my inherited woes. But not tonight captain. Tonight, you rest."

The pilot nodded.

"Tomorrow then," Hawthorne said, closing his eyes and fading into sleep before the last syllable was muttered. Lee continued holding his hand until she was sure he was completely asleep. Then she stood, wiping tears from her face. She was about to leave the crew quarter when Johnson surprised her from the bunk opposite the one she had laid Hawthorne.

"Will he make it through the night?" Johnson asked.

Lee stopped to consider his question. "I don't know,' she said finally. In truth, she thought the odds were against the pilot living through next hour, nonetheless a full night. Before Johnson could cage her into a conversation she'd rather not have, Lee retreated from room.

Janice Lee thought she would never sleep again after all the events that had transpired since landing on Plethora Minor. Her body decided otherwise. While watching the relentless assault of the Excelsior from the bridge, the astrobiologist fell into fitful slumber, Jeremiah Hawthorne's Stetson slouched over her brow.

She dreamed, oddly enough, not of the horrors pelting the ship's hull, but of the snow encapsulated peaks of Caspian. Lee had never traveled to the frozen planet. However, she had seen hundreds of hours of documentary vids and holos concerning Caspian and its recently extinct life forms. As she had informed the others, Caspian was a planet to which conservationist often point the dangers of meddling with a new world's biosphere.