Mortality Revisited

By Will Decker

Book 1 in the Healf Saga. When Capt. 'Rod' Rodick crashes in the Eastern Fringe, he has no idea that his aircraft was the last viable craft left on the planet and that his crash signified the start of a terrible new era. On a planet with only one side that is habitable by man, it's imperative for the human race to maintain a constant westward progression in order to stay ahead of the rising sun, the heat of which turns the surface into a Hellish inferno, scorching everything and everyone in its path! After crashing, Rod is rescued by the beautiful, but strong-headed Lote who is accompanied by her aging parents. They begin an arduous journey westward to stay ahead of the rising inferno, while keeping their own raging desires in check. It is only through dumb luck that they discover there is a whole other side to Healf-an inside. Follow them on their journey through the dangerous tunnels and catacombs of one of the most Hellish planets in the Universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Decker
• Release date: Feb 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458117588

Will Decker

Hello,There have been some dramatic changes going on in my life and because of them I am finding that I now have more available time. Yeah, that's a laugh. Now it seems like my days are even more hectic than they were before. Hence, I have decided instead of using the narrow sighted approach to marketing my books, I am going to use a much simpler approach. No longer will my books be available through Amazon markets, but instead, my plan is to make them all available through the Smashwords site as well as their affiliated markets for FREE. However, this will take time so if you have read any of my books and are looking to read more of them, bear with me, I promise you they are coming. I hope this works for my dedicated (few) readers. On a different topic, as you can see, most of my writing efforts have been serials.With that said, you will never find a Cliff Hanger amongst my works. All of the stories have beginnings and endings and can stand on their own. Their common thread might be the characters and in some cases, the planet, but all are Stand-Alone novels! I really despise Cliff Hangers with a passion. Can you tell?Thanks for taking the time to get to know me a little better, WillHope you have a great day.Sincerely, Will Decker

Book preview

HEALF

MORTALITY REVISITED

Will Decker

Book 1 in the HEALF SCI-FI Series

Copyright 1998 by WILL DECKER

Smashwords Edition

WILL DECKER has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased, or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

MORTALITY REVISITED is a stand-alone work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, media, situations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away except with written permission from the author or as otherwise permitted through special promotions and programs.

A special thank you to everyone that has made this story possible. My beta reader, my proof reader, and to you the greatest readers. I sincerely hope you enjoy this work of fiction.

Will

More Exciting Stories by WILL DECKER:

DRIVEN

UNREQUITED LOVE

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The ‘HEÄLF’ Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The ‘Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

Every book is a stand-alone novel—NEVER A CLIFFHANGER HERE!

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review because as everyone knows, authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the bottom of my stomach, WILL DECKER

Table of Contents:

Prologue

Hours Earlier

Return to Present

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

More Exciting Stories by Will Decker

Prologue

In the beginning there was a planet called Healf that was colonized by men and women from Earth. This planet had twin moons and a single sun. And although it was a far distance from Earth, supplies arrived in a convoy of freighter ships every six months. Their arrival coincided with the planet’s six month rotation around its sun. Because the planet was so near to this sun, only half of the planet was ever habitable at any given time. The near side of the planet reached temperatures well in excess of twenty-five hundred degrees, scorching everything in its path, while the dark side of the planet was a steaming jungle of dim-daylight from the reflection of the sun off its twin moons. This relatively dark side of the planet, though hot and humid, was still hospitable enough to support human life, so long as they remained ahead of the rising sun.

At first, when the supply ships arrived on schedule, there was structure and order; a hierarchy that maintained a government of the people that looked out for the weak and infirm. But when Earth self-destructed in a nuclear holocaust and the supply ships stopped coming, the hierarchy became anarchy and every man was out for himself.

Tribes formed; some comprised of ruthless killers and pillagers, some of righteous men trying to maintain civilization in the only way they knew how. Yet, despite their beliefs or lack thereof, they all had one thing in common; they were nomads struggling to stay ahead of the rising sun or burn to death in its heat.

Captain ‘Rod’ Rodick and his co-pilot Lipton flew one of the last remaining helicopters. Their job was performing rescue missions along the Eastern Fringe; plucking the aged and injured from the surface and transporting them a safe distance due west where they could heal or recoup before continuing their journey west. Despite knowing they were only buying these sorry souls a little more time, they did it with all the pride and fervor of any modern hero.

Because there were so few of these machines still flying, pilots and their crew members were treated like Gods. They were constantly rewarded with feasts, trinkets, and even delights of the flesh; some tribal leaders willingly offering up their daughters to gain favor with them.

Unfortunately, with the lack of supplies, parts, and fuel to keep the airships flying, the last vestiges of the ruling hierarchy were also coming to an end. The way of the pilot was over; Rod just didn’t realize it.

Our story begins with the end of the last flying machine and the brave man that went down with it attempting to carry out his mission.

**1**

With false confidence, I spoke into the mike, It’s going to be a tight fit, so hang on. We’re going in!

We were one branch away from crashing. Even if we made it through the jungle canopy without incident, retrieving ourselves from the hole with three extra bodies on board was going to be a difficult feat. Lipton, my copilot, knew this as well as I, yet he held his tongue, wisely refraining from arguing with me. This was a dangerous, almost foolhardy way to attempt a rescue, even with a healthy bird. Putting our craft down on the jungle floor went against everything that we’d ever been taught. There were just too many unknowns, too many dangers down there. And yet, because of the failing mechanical condition of our craft, it seemed like the most logical choice.

Maneuvering into position over the small opening in the jungle canopy, I backed off on the thrust and gently descended, easing into the dark hole. Lipton, speaking softly so as not to interfere with my concentration, said, Just for the record, Rod, I don’t like this.

His words had no sooner left his mouth than the steady thrum of the engine was drowned out by a tremendous explosion, followed immediately by the sound of frustrated metal being ripped and shredded apart.

The craft heaved violently to starboard, the controls flaying wildly in my hands; despite the strength in my heavily corded arms and chest, I could feel my control over her slipping away.

Yelling excitedly into the radio, I cried out to Lipton, What the hell was that?

Before he could answer, the entire craft gave a tremendous shudder, followed immediately by a lesser series of rattling tremors. Our bird was convulsing; she was dying in my hands, and I was helpless to prevent it! The last vestiges of control were quickly slipping away, nothing was responding. Warning alarms screeched madly in time to the flashing instruments. We were completely at the mercy of gravity!

Slowly at first, and then picking up momentum, we began a downward spiral. Twisting around, I looked into Lipton’s face. Immediately, I understood the reason for his silence; he was already dead.

With tremendous centrifugal force, a sheared steering rotor had sliced through the flimsy fuselage material, entering the rear of the cockpit at a high rate of speed. With ease, it tore through the thin metal backing of his seat, stopping only after impaling him in place. Approximately one foot of the blade was protruding through his blood-splattered uniform, directly in line with his heart. The once bright-orange tail-rotor was now a much deeper shade of crimson.

Disturbingly, his eyes remained fixed on me, pleading as though he were crying out for my help; help that I could not give. In all my life, I had never felt so helpless. While I looked on, his eyes glazed over, the life force having left his body. All this had happened in less than a fraction of a second, and yet, it felt as though we’d stared into each other’s eyes for all eternity.

Strapped into my seat with the world spinning dizzily out of control around me, I felt as though it, and not I, was on a merry-go-round. Through it all, I was vaguely aware of the blurry-green hue of the vegetation turning a darker shade with each rotation as we dropped lower beneath the jungle canopy, and ever nearer to the surface.

Though my consciousness couldn’t deny the reality of the situation, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that this was really happening to us. Having flown together for so many years, we had experienced our share of narrow escapes. Yet, as we flew through the hot skies, we’d always felt invincible in our girl. Now, suddenly, and without remorse, she had taken my closest friend’s life. Yet, I couldn’t tear my gaze from him. For the first time in my life, I tasted fear in its primordial form. Subconsciously, I knew that if I survived this, I would never fear anything so deeply again.

On a more conscious level, I didn’t have the luxury of time to think about the future. The craft, suddenly pitching forward, nose-dived at the planet’s surface directly below. The engine was screaming, the broken controls having ripped the governors loose. In a matter of seconds, it would disintegrate, sending tiny pieces of hot shrapnel tearing through my flesh.

Reflexively, I continued wrenching madly on the controls. Yet, my adrenaline charged efforts were to no avail; nothing was responding. The cockpit was quickly filling with an acrid smoke. Breathing had become difficult, and my eyes were burning. Everything was a blur of motion. In an effort to stop the world from spinning, and to shut out the pain, I squeezed my eyelids shut.

A spine-shattering convulsion ripped through the seat beneath me, slamming my head against the side of the cockpit and disrupting all conscious thought; the main rotor had contacted the side of the jungle canopy. Above the death scream of the engine, the blades striking the foliage added a surrealistic thrashing sound. With mere seconds to live, several possible scenarios tore through my mind. If the engine held together, she would probably break up in the tree limbs and drop me like an egg from its shell. If she made it through the tree limbs, and the engine still hadn’t blown, she would surely explode on impact. Moreover, even if she didn’t explode on impact, the force would be enough to kill me; no one drops from almost two hundred feet and lives to tell of it. Although the ground looked soft and welcoming, I knew it to be barely concealed igneous rock.

Thinking of my inevitable end, I began wondering if I would see Lipton when I reached the other side. Would he blame me for getting us killed? Or would he be all forgiving? Or maybe, I wouldn’t have to face either him, or the guilt that I felt for insisting on this one last rescue, because there wasn’t any ‘hereafter’ to worry about.

A sharp pain suddenly shot up my spine and exploded within my skull. I wondered if this is what it felt like to die. More thoughts of death and dying raced through my pain-wracked head. My eyes opened, but they refused to focus. The world was a dark green blurring swirl, and I was at the center of it. It was so damn painful and then, slowly, the pain was replaced by a calm soothing blackness. Coming from everywhere and yet nowhere, the feeling washed over and through me, totally engulfing me. It was warm and gentle, and I welcomed it with open arms. With utter abandon, I slipped into it, escaping to the past, to a safer time, to a time before the crash.

Just Hours Earlier

The mission had been a bust, quickly turning into a lesson in futility. In addition, we were both growing bleary-eyed from the relentless light that penetrated through the thick plexi-glass canopy, flooding our cockpit with its scorching heat. Fortunately, it was nearing time to turn back. Our bird, as well as my copilot and I, were due for some much-needed rest. Our inability to find stragglers was becoming disheartening; fuel was a precious commodity and we’d already burned up more than half a tank without pulling up a single living being.

Without having to see them, we knew that we’d passed over the usual number of dead and decaying bodies, mostly of animal origin. Some, however, were human, as we’d learned to expect; we couldn’t save them all. Despite our best efforts, the scanners hadn’t detected any noticeable heat fluctuations to indicate the presence of life. Life, that is, besides the predators, the native creatures that inhabit the eastern fringe. Most were vicious scavengers, dangerous beasts that had learned a long time ago that there was an abundance of easy prey dying just beyond the shaded reaches of the dense jungle growth. Only the weak and abandoned inhabited the eastern fringe, and there was little competition for their flesh.

While the beasts were learning of man’s plight to survive in the eastern fringe, man was learning that it wasn’t feasible to send men and supplies into it in search of stragglers. Very few returned successful, while the vast majority never returned at all. This latter was an unbearable loss of both lives and precious resources. As long as there were airworthy craft and the fuel to power them, it was much more economical to continue the current method of rescue. Once the craft or the necessary fuel was no longer available, they, the pilots and copilots, like so many other facets of life on Healf, would cease to be; they would become nothing more than just bygone memories of a better, more prosperous era.

It’ll be but a few days from now, a week in Earth terms at most before everything beneath us is reduced to molten magna. The scavenging beasts will have drifted westward, leaving little more than decaying carcasses behind as a sacrifice to the hungry heat of the rising sun. So too, will be the final fate of the lush green vegetation sprawling thickly just hundreds of feet below us. Of course, this is all just a small part of the life cycle on this godforsaken planet; this planet called Heälf. Though its technical name is ‘IP-11-05’, which denotes the eleventh inhabitable planet discovered in the fifth millennium, it was quickly nicknamed, ‘Healf’, for obvious reasons.

Considerably smaller than its foster planet Earth, Healf also rotates around a fiercely burning sun. Unlike Earth, however, Heälf maintains an equidistant rotation much nearer to its searing orb. Because of this equidistant orbital pattern, it experiences no seasonal changes. Instead, it faces only the drastic change of night to day which slowly takes place once every six earth-months.

As the planet slowly rotates into the sunrise, the surface temperature gradually swells to more than four thousand degrees, first singeing, and then ultimately melting the surface. In its wake is little more than a heavy layer of ash covering a hard, glass-like substance known as obsidian. Although relatively smooth, this newly formed material is predisposed to cracking and etching as it cools, leaving jagged, razor sharp edges and hidden crevices.

Meanwhile, the side facing away from the sun, commonly referred to as the ‘dark’ side, is the equivalent of Earth’s tropical rain forest, maybe even a few degrees warmer on average. Of course, that’s nearer to the central band or equator, where the main trail leads from east to west. If one moves farther to the north or south, the temperature grows steadily hotter, eventually rising to uninhabitable levels. It also grows progressively drier, prohibiting even the hardiest creatures from venturing too far in either direction. Thus, the equatorial trail running from the eastern horizon to the western, and spanning the entire dark side of the planet, is also the most densely populated region on the planet’s surface.

In addition to the similar traits that Heälf shares with Earth, there exist many less similar traits, the most obvious of which, are its two moons. Although Heälf’s physical mass is considerably less than that of Earth’s, the two moons within its grasp are approximately the same size as that of Earth’s Luna. However, unlike the waning and waxing cycles that Luna exhibits against Earth, both of Heälf’s moons maintain an equidistant orbit. In effect, they offset any gravitational pull that one alone would exhibit on the planet while enabling both to cast a steady and uninterrupted reflection over the habitable side. This reflected light from the sun warms what would otherwise be a cold and barren wasteland, a desolate place incapable of supporting even microbial life, much less that of human origin.

An added benefit from this reflected light is that it provides the necessary ingredient for photosynthesis, thus enabling the extremely lush plant growth that quickly reclaims the scorched surface. Although it’s never quite as bright as direct sunlight on Earth, it’s never quite as dark as night on Earth either. In fact, too much exposure to this reflected light, especially when nearing the eastern horizon and it’s possible to experience a severe burning of the skin, very similar to Earth-style sunburn.

Balancing the relentless approach of the consuming sun on the eastern horizon is a western horizon of phenomenal plant growth, literally sprawling ahead of the nomadic tribes. As the surface cools, a layer of moss quickly establishes itself, laying down a soft bed of green over the hard, crusty surface. This low-growing plant life is quickly shaded by an upward-reaching growth of taller trees and leafy vegetation, species and varieties that have evolved over the millennia to form a dense protective canopy. Included in this taller growth are many fruit producing varieties, the bounty of which plays a large part in sustaining the advancing civilization.

Although there are no physically distinguishing events on Heälf to signify a day, as Earth knows it, Earth-time is still the standard by which time is tracked. In essence, this means that if you’re standing on the western-most edge of the jungle facing west, in the equivalent of six Earth-months, you will have an inferno scorching your ass.

When the first manned spacecraft landed here more than three thousand Earth-years ago, they christened the planet Heälf, after the old English spelling of the word half. During the early years of settling the planet, it was quite commonly, and with a good measure of fondness, referred to as half-baked. Then, after a catastrophic meteor shower left Earth almost devoid of its population, the supply, commerce, and passenger ships ceased to arrive.

Without the spare parts and fuel to keep the newly inhabited planet’s population moving ahead of the inferno, the hardier pioneers discarded their less precious belongings and took to the jungle on foot. They had no other option if they intended to go on living.

These hardier men and women formed the essence of today’s nomadic tribes, while the less hardy became the unfortunate slaves of those that would take advantage of them. It was either that, or they simply vanished.

As the existing aircraft wear out, salvageable parts are stripped from them in order to keep the remaining number in the air. What can’t be salvaged becomes a part of the planet’s surface. All that remains of the original fleet that once crowded the skies of Heälf are a few helicopter-style vessels.

They are designed with a sleek nose, barely large enough to hold the pilot. Seated directly behind him, with a console of instruments and gauges between them, is the copilot. They communicate through headsets.

Behind the copilot is the cargo compartment, or box, as it is commonly referred to. The box is just what it sounds like. Starting directly behind the copilot, the body of the craft flares out on either side, forming a square, open sided compartment. Unlike the cockpit, which is barely wide enough for one man, the box is wide enough for three people to sit abreast. In addition, it’s long enough for three people to sit back to front. However, there aren’t any seats, just a hard metal floor. The seats were removed when the cushions wore out, many years prior. But even if they hadn’t been removed due to wear and tear, they would have been removed when the craft were converted to flying rescue missions. The main reason being: most of the passengers we retrieve from the surface below are too weak to sit upright.

The few remaining craft are responsible for the safety of the entire Eastern boundary of the jungle. Of course, although this sounds like a large area to cover, it is rare to find victims that have strayed very far from the equatorial trail. Most of our searching is done on an east to west and back again route with just the slightest deviation to the north and then south. The important thing is that we are constantly flying over this area bordering the uninhabitable side of the planet, always vigilant in our search for stragglers. When we find them, we transport them back to our base, or more preferably, back to their respective tribes, usually whichever is closer. It is quite a feat for such a small number of aircraft, and we take tremendous pride in our jobs. But more so, it is an even larger feat to become a pilot of one of these highly valued machines.

Every other year, roving bands and tribes get together and hold contests to determine the brightest and fittest braves of their respective groups. To fail in these contests sometimes results in a horrible death. To win only means that you will have an opportunity to compete in the world competition, a competition in which fewer contestants walk away from than enter.

To win in the world competition does not guarantee that you will be flying one of these valued aircraft. Nor does it even guarantee you a position as a copilot. It means only that you will have an opportunity to attend pilot training school.

Even then, to graduate from pilot training school might mean nothing more than to be put on a list with hundreds of others just like you. And being on this list guarantees you of only one thing, an even longer wait for an opening as a copilot.

To actually become a pilot, the most coveted position one can hold on the entire planet, may never happen. For every thousand-plus wannabes, there can be only one pilot. I, Rodick of the Fish tribe, am that one in a million; I am a pilot.

From the long, hot flights across the Eastern border, to the rescues that we routinely perform, I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. Yet, all pilots know they’re the last of a dying breed. Fewer and fewer aircraft are capable of being repaired due to the dwindling supply of parts.

There is also the problem of rapidly depleting fuel supplies. Distilling alcohol from the abundant green foliage isn’t a problem. However, getting the aircraft to fly successfully on it has been more of a problem than getting the human population to fly on it. Nevertheless, even if this problem could be overcome, the poor aircraft themselves just aren’t going to last forever; a situation that everyone is acutely aware of in the Heälf Air Services.

Because of the long hours we spend in our craft, we get to know them intimately. We name them, we baby them, and we grow to become much attached to them. Rarely do we leave them, often even sleeping in them. It is a well-known fact that if something detrimental should happen to our craft, we will never fly another. To most of us, the thought of losing our bird is paramount to death itself.

Many ruthless bandits and rogues roam the planet, mostly preying on the weaker inhabitants. However, occasionally a bolder one will step forward and attempt to steal a more worthy prize, one of our coveted flying machines. Fortunately or unfortunately, whichever way you prefer to see it, few of the bandits that try such brazen schemes rarely succeed. In fact, much to everyone’s dismay, most attempts conclude with the craft and its thieving occupants crashing in the jungle, where the combination of high-octane fuel and impact with a barely concealed surface, leads to a horrible end for both.

Lipton, my copilot, has been with me for almost ten years. Thanks to a fluky coincidence where a pilot and his copilot both retired together, we were paired up in our own bird straight out of pilot-training school. Lipton, hailing from the Bird tribe, just naturally assumed he would be a pilot. I, however, by some greater degree of luck and skill, drew the much more coveted assignment. Nevertheless, we have come to know and trust each other even more so than most brothers. Because of our compatibility, we’ve never experienced the jealousy or animosity which most new pilots and their copilots do; we just felt fortunate that we’d been selected.

If a pilot can’t adjust to his copilot, both are usually sent back to their respective tribes. The only exception to this is if the pilot displays something very remarkable to his teachers. The copilot never gets a second chance.

Despite the number of students that wash out, few actually return to their tribes of origin. Many, rather than face the shame of friends and families, turn to a more solitary life, much like a rogue bull, or worse.

Even fewer, feeling disgruntled and betrayed by their fellow man, turn to a more violent lifestyle, generally teaming up with others that share their dim view on life. Because of their greater intelligence, these men can be especially dangerous. They easily lure others into joining forces with them, usually with promises of great wealth. They use their talents, the same talents that garnered them positions in pilot-training school, until they have amassed a band of men worth fearing; a band of villains or, as they are more commonly known, rogues.

Although our craft had been originally equipped with air conditioning, it had long since been dismantled and removed to reduce weight and thereby conserve fuel. Now, getting near the end of our shift, Lipton and I were both beginning to feel the relentless heat through the thin Plexiglas canopy. Since we weren’t governed as to how we patrolled our designated search areas, or for that matter, if we even attempted any rescues, we decided to do another pass over the southern-most leg.

Rather than the more direct route back to base, I put our bird on a heading of ninety-degrees, due west. A north by west route would have meant a shorter distance to our floating base, but we still had enough fuel on board to make the longer route safely. Besides, Lipton and I took our jobs very seriously, as did most of the remaining pilots, and the extra distance meant more chances to perform rescues.

Over the years, we had come to recognize a few of our previously rescued victims as familiar faces. It was sad and unfortunate, in a way, to know that eventually we wouldn’t be there to rescue them, and they would just become so much ash. For the most part, the people we rescued were old, having become burdens on their tribes. In a society that has to remain mobile to remain alive, they had to be left behind. If a tribe is slowed down, the tribe becomes susceptible to attack by rogues or worse. By picking up these burdens on their respective societies, all we really accomplish is to give them another six months, at most, to live. Usually, they die before they need rescuing again. At least, that was the assumption we trained ourselves to believe. The sad reality of the situation was such that the next time they were left behind they were killed beforehand; essentially guaranteeing that they wouldn’t be returned. Although this sounds harsh and cruel for a civilized society, it is unfortunately manifest for the survival of the majority.

As we banked to port and started the last leg, heading due north back toward the highly trafficked equatorial route, I gazed out at the inferno on our starboard side. I wondered at how beautiful this planet could be if you never lost your respect for it. We were less than a day from Hades, as Lipton preferred to call it. He said there was no such thing as beauty in Hades. However, from up here, where a person could see into the golden hues of continually erupting fire spouts framed by the shimmering crystal blue sky above, I felt I could make a good argument against him.

Generally, we maintained a one thousand-foot altitude, unless we picked up life forms on the scanners. When that happened, we would go in for a closer look. From this altitude, everything westward looked like a solid blanket of green for as far as the eye could see. To the north and south, the lush green eventually faded to a dull copper hue. In the few places where you could see through the jungle canopy, you would have sworn you were seeing grass growing. However, having lived the better part of twenty years in that jungle, I knew that it was little more than a thick, green moss over a solid obsidian crust. Few people realize how little ash and decaying matter it takes to support jungle vegetation, or how rapidly green matter will grow under the right conditions. If it wasn’t for this fact, Heälf would never have become as populated as it has. That population, however, was hanging on by nothing more than a tenuous thread. They were also evolving, or rather, reverting, into what might be considered savages by their earlier ancestors from Earth.

Clothing, for the most part, had been discarded, due to the high heat and higher humidity. Very few women covered their breasts, except when wearing beads that signified their tribal position or marital status.

Pilots were the main exception to this trend. Pilots wore uniforms that, along with their respective aircraft, had been handed down through the generations. These uniforms were made of a metallic material that was very heat resistant. It was also durable enough to have lasted for more than three thousand years of use. One of these uniforms would bring a lord’s ransom on the black market. If, for any reason a craft became less than airworthy, the pilot would be retired with his uniform. The uniform, more than his prior status as a pilot, would open many doors of opportunity, doors that would assure him of success through the remainder of his life.

Pilots also carry the few remaining handguns left on the planet. However, ammunition is so scarce that if you do have to use it, you will have a lot of explaining to do when you return to base. The standard issue is a full clip of nine rounds and a small leather pouch attached to the holster that holds ten more. Most pilots, however, have never fired their handguns and consider it a decorous item rather than a useful one. Even in firearm training, pilots are only walked through the motions of aiming and firing, and told what to expect in the way of recoil and noise; they never actually fire the weapon.

The real weapon of choice is the knife. Because the handle is designed to suit personal taste, it might be fashioned from almost anything, not excluding human bone. However, almost all blades are hammered out of the rare iron-ore found in the planet’s crust. The ore is smelted by just a few tribes that have developed a reputation for their work in fabricating weapons and tools. Any flaw in the steel of a poorly fashioned blade and the weapon is liable to break when you need it most. Since our survival depends on it, we are very demanding of the quality of our knives. In addition, every pilot and copilot is proficient with one; if he weren’t, he never would have qualified for pilot training school; a large part of the contests are geared toward the contestant’s survival skills with available weapons.

As we straightened out of our turn, I sensed a small vibration coming through the controls. After noting our position and logging it into the aircraft’s flight program, I did some quick calculations and estimated our distance at approximately twelve hours from base; the farther most point of our journey. Flipping the microphone on, I ask Lipton to run a diagnostic check to see if he could pinpoint the vibration.

After a moment of silence, he replied, Coming back clean, Rod. Nothing showing on any of the gauges. Then, after another long moment, he added, I don’t think it’s anything serious, the mechanics did a full service on her just the shift before last.

We had flown this bird long enough to know every little quirk she had. However, neither of us had ever felt anything like this before. Because I didn’t hear any overt concern in his voice, I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t anything serious. When I couldn’t, I requested him to run the self-analysis sequence. Meanwhile, I informed him that I was putting her on fuel-conserve, autopilot mode; I also advised him of our distance from base, though I suspected he had already apprised himself.

When he didn’t answer me right back, I added, Let me know if anything comes up.

Sure thing, Rod, he finally answered, and then added, Beginning sequence runs on my mark, now.

We didn’t need to say any more to each other. We were both concerned about our girl and whether the malfunction was going to be serious enough to ground her when we got back to base. Rather than allow a wounded bird to go out on missions, and run the risk of losing her entirely, we both knew the mechanics would be only too eager to get their hands on her salvageable parts. If that were to happen, there would be two fewer aviators needed.

The only highlight in that scenario was that our uniforms would also be retired, meaning we would get to keep them honorably and receive all the implied benefits thereof. At least we wouldn’t be destined to the life of a common man, or worse, a slave.

I was letting my thoughts get ahead of the situation, however. For my own sake, I had to think more positively. It was probably just as Lipton had stated; it was nothing so serious that it couldn’t easily be fixed when we got back to base. Maybe we wouldn’t even miss a shift. On the other hand, we might get some much-needed time off. It was just like me to worry over nothing.

Unable to shake my anxiety, I spoke into the mike, Anything showing up, Lipton?

Negative so far, Rod. It mustn’t be serious enough for diagnostics to detect. It’ll be finishing sequence in less than five minutes, I’ll keep you posted if anything even remotely resembling trouble shows up, he audibly sighed into the mike, sounding as though exasperated with a bothersome child.

I know you will, Lipton, I said, and then added in a more apologetic tone, I’m just worried about our girl here, is all.

Although I did my best to sound calm, I was sure he could see right through me. You don’t spend as much time together as we have, and not get to know each other intimately. Nevertheless, despite my best efforts to remain calm, it seemed as though the vibration was growing worse.

When I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I grew even more convinced that it wasn’t my nerves. As I was about to mention it to Lipton, he spoke through the radio, his voice slightly animated, We got us a real problem, Rod! The screen is showing a vibration from the main gyro. Trouble indicated is excessive bearing wear, creating insufficient oil flow. If it continues to worsen at the present rate, we’ll lose navigational control before we reach base! He paused for a second before adding, Hell, we might even lose the damn rotor! I know I’m not a mechanic, but it must have blown a lube seal. At the rate it’s wearing, it will be running metal on metal very soon. It’s heating up awful damn fast, and the lube pressure is dropping toward zero as I watch the gage!

It wasn’t my imagination or a case of nerves, after all. The vibration was increasing in intensity by the minute. If Lipton’s projection is accurate, we’re going down well short of our base. Our only option is to put as much distance between the eastern horizon and ourselves as we can before that happens.

Turning fuel conserve mode, off, auto-pilot, off. Hang on Lipton, we’re going to fly! I yelled into the microphone, noting for the first time that I had to raise my voice to be heard over the increasing thrum of noise.

My fingers flipped the all-too-familiar toggle switches. Within a minute, we were flying at top speed on a direct course for base. Our airspeed, which was the same as our ground speed, since there was very little wind on Heälf, was in excess of two hundred miles per hour. At this speed, it will take us approximately ten hours to reach our floating helipad; a large wooden platform suspended above the jungle canopy through the use of lighter-than-air gasbags.

I was about to confer with Lipton regarding our chances of reaching base, when almost as if on cue, the infrared monitor started screeching into my ear, alerting us that we were approaching life forms. Out of reflex, I cut rotor speed and adjusted the scanners for definition. According to the monitor, we had just passed over a group of three bi-pedal life forms. I immediately recognized the familiar readings as those of human origin.

Without thinking, I banked hard, putting her into a one hundred and eighty degree turn, intending to go back and pick up the stragglers. My efforts brought a screeching sound from the craft as the worn gyro bushing protested against the extra ‘G’ forces being put upon it.

What the hell are you doing? Lipton yelled so loud, I could hear him without the aid of the radio.

We’re doing our job. We’re picking up stragglers, I calmly stated into the microphone, not completely convinced that I wholly agreed with myself.

Not and get this bird home, we aren’t! he yelled back, his abrupt outburst clipped with anger. The way it stands right now, we’re down to a fifty-fifty chance of reaching base in one piece, and that’s if we run full out and limit our maneuvering to strict course corrections only! With the extra stress we’re putting on her by maneuvering into position, not to mention the extra weight we’ll have in the box if we succeed, we ain’t got a prayer!

Lipton, I said calmly, You have been flying this girl for as long as I have. You can feel her as well as I can. Neither one of us needs self-diagnostics, nor any other electronic gadgetry to know she isn’t going to make it back to base. We might as well give that small band of people down there a lift for as far as she’ll take us!

Lipton fell quiet. It was understandable that he wasn’t in agreement with my decision to pick up the stragglers. I wasn’t so sure that I was in agreement with myself. But no matter how I sliced it, this was our job; I couldn’t just let those people down there die. The temperature this close to the eastern horizon was at least thirty degrees warmer than it was at the midway point to the western horizon. In addition, the humidity was pushing close to one hundred percent down there. With that kind of humidity, coupled with such high temperatures, it had to be very damn uncomfortable for them.

Lipton may not have agreed with my decision, but he was going to back me up; the tone of his voice suggested as much when he soberly and softly spoke into the microphone, This extra maneuvering could be the end of our ride, Rod. Maybe we should just look for a break in the jungle canopy where we can set her down. He took a breath, trying to stay calm, and added, Hell, while we’re at it, we might even check out that bearing. After taking another nervous breath, he continued again, If nothing else, it would give the parts a chance to cool. Maybe we can swipe some oil from the gearbox and apply it to what’s left of the bearing. It might not be of much help, but it might just make the difference.

Rather than hover and bring the party up one at a time in a basket, Lipton’s suggestion made good sense, and I needed to tell him so. Good idea. Keep your eyes open for a break where I can set her down. Who knows, we might even be able to fix her. Wouldn’t that be something?

Lipton suddenly cried out, his voice shrill with nervous anxiety and excitement, Right there, Rod, about two hundred yards to the northwest! What do you think? Should we go for it?

I see it, I answered him, turning my own eyes toward the area and assessing it.

Looking over a solid sea of green, jungle canopy, the spot looked like a black hole, barely wider across than our rotor blades. As I approached it, we were able to look into the hole and see the softer green of the moss-covered jungle floor, easily two hundred feet below. If we succeed, this will be the first time we ever set our bird on the planet’s surface. A knot tightened in my stomach.

It looks good from here, I reaffirmed to Lipton. I have the party of stragglers at three hundred yards beyond the clearing, if you can call it a clearing. After touchdown, we stay near the craft. Let them come to us. They should be able to pinpoint our location by the sound of our engine. It’ll be much easier than if we go looking for them.

I don’t know about you, Rod, but if I were one of them, I’d already be heading in this direction, he said almost jovially. Little did I know they would be the last words he’d ever say to me.

Return to Present Time

Gradually, as though swimming upward through a sea of tree sap, consciousness started coming back, slowly putting the pieces of reality back into place. We had crashed! And then, with sudden lucidity, I remembered that Lipton had been injured, possibly even killed. For reasons that I couldn’t comprehend, it suddenly became important that I find him. Though I didn’t know why or how, I sensed that he needed my help.

As suddenly as the pain had receded, it now advanced on my consciousness. I was alive, of that I had no doubts. Would I be feeling such intense pain if I weren’t? My eyes burned as if I had stared directly into the sun for hours on end. Streaks of white pain seared into the depths of my skull. My mind was screaming in anguish, yet, I couldn’t vocalize a sound.

Struggling against the pain, I willed my body into motion, but my efforts proved futile. Even in my delirium, I was aware of being restricted. Through the haze in my head, it dawned on me that I must still be in the wreck because my body refused to act on my will. On the verge of panic, a new thought made itself known; I must be paralyzed!

With tremendous effort, I reached deep into my soul, summoning all of my determination. Slowly, I forced my burning and watering eyes open. If I was going to be of any help to Lipton, I had to see.

There was nothing but bright white light. Not only was I paralyzed, but I was blind, too. The intense whiteness increased the pain in my skull, forcing my eyes to shut against it. The pain couldn’t get any more severe.

I have to rest a minute, I thought, all the while squeezing my eyes shut with such force that I could feel the wet of tears running down my cheeks. With increasing lucidity, my training began to kick in. I needed to take stock of my situation, and learn which faculties were still available to me.

Let’s see, I uttered, not sure whether I actually vocalized the words, or just heard them in my head. There are sounds coming from the jungle, a bird crying out; my ears are still functioning. If I can hear, that’s further proof that I’m not dead!

Just knowing for sure that I wasn’t dead was a tremendous boost to my mental fiber. However, that fiber was being stretched to the breaking point. Nevertheless, I’d been in tough jams before and managed to escape; I would find a way out of this one too.

Summoning all of my remaining strength and resolve, I slowly raised my eyelids. Through an intensely bright white light, I could just make out a blurry green backdrop. Slowly, it took on more substance, as the white light gradually receded, taking the intense pain in my skull with it. As my vision cleared, I realized that I was looking into the jungle. Miraculously, I was on the ground, and I was still alive!

Slowly, and with great effort, I found that I could turn my head. But it was with only a limited amount of movement before the pain became too great to bear. It would be so much easier to just close my eyes and go back to the painless sleep. But an inner voice told me that I had to get out of this wreck and find Lipton.

The balls of my feet felt as if I had just jumped from a tremendous height. However, try as I might, they wouldn’t move. With a returning feeling of panic creeping around the fringes of my consciousness, the very real fear of paralysis began to set in. With the fear to inspire it, the panic slipped an inch closer to my core. If I were going to make it, I couldn’t let it get any closer; it was imperative that I keep the fear at bay!

Forcing myself to look down at my legs, I felt immediate relief when I saw that they were pinned beneath the control panel and not something worse. On impact, it had broken free, pancaking straight down on my lap. The canopy, likewise, had shattered. It was lying in shards about my feet on the floor of the cockpit, or rather, what was left of the floor of the cockpit. It looked as if someone, or something, had hammered at the cockpit floor from below with a large hammer.

Reaching under the control panel, I lifted straight up with all my might, innocently expecting the panel to move. Instead, my vision blurred, and my head felt as if a rocket had gone off in it. The effort made me nauseas, though I hadn’t eaten for hours. Experience from dealing with the sick and injured made it simple for me to recognize that I was suffering from a serious concussion. Relaxing my grip on the control panel, I calmly waited for my vision to clear and the thundering in my head to subside.

After a moment of sitting in silence, I suddenly realized that I could hear voices. The sequence of events leading up to the present suddenly came back to me; we had crashed while attempting to pick up stragglers. What I heard was probably them, working their way toward me through the jungle vegetation.

Some rescue attempt this turned out to be, I said wryly, though I couldn’t hear my own voice.

Twisting my head around as far as the pain would allow me to, I searched the surrounding jungle for the source of the voices. For the first time since the crash, I could see the part of the cockpit that held me pinned. Surprisingly, it had been torn free from the rest of the fuselage. Because of my limited range of vision, I couldn’t see the remainder of my craft, yet I doubted that it was very far away. In a haze, I thought of how Lipton must still be strapped in or he would have found me by now. Then the vision of his pasty, glazed expression came flooding back.

Slowly, I could feel myself slipping again, but not into a panic. This time, I was slipping into the darker depths of grief. A gnawing feeling of loss was eating at my heart; the realization that Lipton was dead was sinking in. Quickly, before I could slip any further into the inviting depths, I forced myself to shrug the feeling off; it wasn’t going to help either one of us. What I needed now was help getting out of this wreck before the sun came up, or Lipton’s death would have been for naught.

From my left, I could hear the sounds of brush being crushed beneath feet. The stragglers must be getting close. In the lush denseness of the jungle, though, they could pass within yards of me and never know it.

Help! I tried yelling, but only managed a rough crow.

From breathing the acrid smoke which had previously filled the cockpit, my throat felt raw, almost as if it had been singed by fire. My mouth was dry and I was suffering from an immense thirst. If I didn’t get out of this cockpit soon and find some water, I wasn’t going to have to worry about the rising sun. Even if the stragglers managed to find me in this dense jungle growth, the likelihood that they could help me was slim.