Riding from orbit to planet-side in an escape capsule was about the least comfortable thing you could do. But when your ship was dead in space and you were unable to break out of a decaying orbit, the escape capsule was all that was left to try.
The capsule's sole occupant was Greg Blackburn, captain, partial owner (with the bank) and sole occupant of the merchantman Aurora, which was even now breaking up as it plummeted toward the planet. Greg was plummeting too, but that's what the capsule was designed for, so he wasn't too worried about making it down in one piece. He was a lot more concerned about what was going to happen when he got down. The planet below was an unknown. Not uncharted, but unexplored and unsettled. He had found time to send out an SOS, not that there was anyone to hear it out here, and he had hopes that someone would come looking for him when he failed to arrive at Terra Station on time. Hopes, but not much expectation.
That was part of why he spent most of the ride down from orbit swearing. When the g-forces of the descent allowed him to catch his breath, at least.
Finally, the speed of descent fell to the correct level and there was a tremendous bang that made his ear's ring, then a series of painful jolts as the drone and finally the big parachute was deployed. The sensation of uncontrolled hurtling and breakneck speeds was replaced by a slow descent and a gentle rocking motion.
Greg checked the few instruments that the capsule provided, he was at 8,000 feet so he had a little time before landing. He took one minute to stretch his cramped body as well as he could in the limited space. Then he turned his attention to preparing for landing.
The distress beacon was on, that was automatic. Gravity was on the high side, 1.3 standard G's. Air was acceptable, somewhat less oxygen but within the norms. Temperature... He blinked and looked again, 112 degrees with 99% humidity. And he wasn't even all the way down yet? Shit, no wonder the place wasn't colonized, nobody would want to live here.
He started scanning the radio frequencies, nothing but static. Great. He wiped images of five star hotels with swimming pools out of his mind.
He flipped on the external cameras and began scanning the area below.
Jungle. Thick canopy, a few breaks here and there, a river off to one side but not close. Some animals flying around, but they were too far away for a good look. Nothing moving on the ground that he could see.
Speaking of thick canopy... shit, nothing under the capsule but trees, or whatever they were called here. Of course. Coming down in an open area would be too much to ask.
The crashing sounds of contact were followed by a long series of scraping sounds, breaking sounds, slams, all of which accompanied the rocking and twisting of the capsule as it caromed from one branch to another. Then with a thump all motion stopped. Greg checked the camera and the altimeter.
Yep, still about 30 feet off the ground. Naturally. He sighed heavily. Why should my luck change now?
Reaching back he found the release for the hatch and pulled it down. It groaned, then popped open suddenly. He unbuckled his straps and began extricating himself from the capsule, muttering curses under his breath.
Once out he carefully pulled the seat forward so he could reach the storage area in back. It contained a large knapsack for the standard emergency supplies. A few days food and water, first aid kit, one side arm, a few other things that would keep him alive. Hopefully. He slung his gear on his back and began working his way slowly down, moving carefully from branch to branch.
The tree was surprisingly easy to climb, the branches were thick enough to support his weight and close enough together. The sunlight faded as he descended, the temperature dropped a degree or two but stayed blisteringly high. Sweat was streaming off his face when he dropped the last 5 or 6 feet to the ground.
The forest floor was thick with damp mulch, his boots sank several inches into the mess when he dropped. There was a thick smell of damp and rot on the air. He was already sweating through his clothes.
He dropped the backpack, then unzipped the one-piece ship suit he was wearing and worked his arms out of the sleeves. He tied the sleeves around his waist.
He raised his head to look around again and focused on a gun barrel an inch from the bridge of his nose.
It looked like a gun barrel. Best to assume it was a gun barrel.
"Enshalla," a voice said sharply. "Enshalla besh. Besh!" That was definitely a command. No doubt about it.
With infinite caution he raised his spread hands to shoulder height, then forced his eyes away from the barrel to the weapon's owner.
He didn't recognize the species. Tall, but not as tall as Greg's own 6'4", slender, pale, almost white, skin, thick white hair that rose in an unruly crest from the top of its head and fell most of the way down its back.
And, unless its anatomy was wildly different from Greg's, female. There were some definite curves to the thing. Woman. Whatever.
"You don't need to point the gun at me, okay," he said automatically. "See? Hands are up in a clearly non-threatening way. We can all relax, okay? All friends here."
It, no she, responded with a long string of sounds in its, her, own language.
"I don't guess you understand Standard, do you? Of course you don't, why would my luck start improving?"
Another string of words, longer this time, that was followed by her jabbing the end of the gun sharply against his forehead.
"Hey, that's not necessary, alright? Why don't we all just make like friends. You know, friends?"
She narrowed her eyes and considered his face.
"Of course you don't. Shit" the word popped out without thinking about it.
Her response was very clear. "Shit."
"Yes, that's a good way to sum things up." Moving slowly he patted his own chest with his hand. "Greg Blackburn." Then he held his hands out in what he hoped was a questioning way. She did the eye narrowing thing again. Greg decided that was her 'what the hell' expression, so he repeated the process again.
Cautiously she reached out to pat his chest. "Greg Blackburn." She had a problem with the L sound and it came out more like "Brackbuurn" but it was close.
"Yes, Greg Blackburn. Now you?" He motioned to her again.
She patted her own chest. "Semaar Answah"
"Now we're getting somewhere. Nice to meet you, Semaar Answah. You want to put the gun down now that we're being all friendly and everything?"
He made a motion to her to lower her weapon. She grunted and dropped it into a holster strapped to her thigh. He took a moment to notice her clothes. Surprisingly like his own, actually. Pants made of thick cloth and bloused into heavy boots, and shirt that looked a lot like the t-shirt he had worn under his ship suit. She was sweating profusely, just as Greg was, so the shirt wasn't really hiding anything. What he could see was pretty nice, too. This was not the time for that he told himself sharply.
He was startled when she stepped closer and took his chin in her hand. She bent his head down so she could look in his eyes, then turned his head to either side. She released his chin then ran her fingers through his dark hair. What? Was she looking for fleas?
She ran her hands down his arms, lifted his hands so she could examine his fingers in detail, patted his chest a few times, then, the oddest of all, leaned in close and sniffed him.
