The silver clad figure stuck out like a sore thumb in the green and brown jungle and even the specially designed moccasins he wore could not fully mask his presence. He was a skilled tracker to be sure, but the thick atmosphere and even thicker matter vines made it tough to advance noiselessly, like wading through pea soup without a spoon. He paused a moment to pull a tattered bandana from his pocket, wiping the sweat that stung his exotic almond-colored eyes as it poured down his coppery complexion from a mop of jet-black hair. Easing aside a spider fern, he finally spotted the thing he had been tracking for the better part of an hour.
"There you are you little shit," Doctor Catcher Jensen subvocalized as he stared at his elusive prey. It was quite the spectacle; a chimeric blend of scarlet macaw, golden eagle and peacock with the coloration of the first, the body shape of the second and the gaudy tail plumage of the third. If that combo doesn't sound weird enough, evolution had also saw fit to give this alien avian an extra set of wings and legs but make it almost entirely terrestrial.
Retreating back out of sight, Catcher donned a mask and hood that fully covered his rugged features. He then pulled on a set of gloves, making sure they overlapped the wrist contacts of his long sleeve tunic. Lastly, he began twisting a dial on his left wrist.
Instantly his whole body began to flicker in a technicolor display as microscopic cameras in the fabric began to analysis his surroundings and after several adjustments, he seemed to disappear completely, the photo-luminescent fibers now matching the background perfectly. Like many an invention of man, the Chameleo-suit had originally been conceived with wartime use in mind. But due to a limited battery life and the eventual abolishment of war during the mid twenty-second century; they now found greater use by members of the Planetary Survey Corps, particularly by xenobiologists such as himself.
Creeping closer to the thing he had humorously dubbed an octopavian, he pulled from a now concealed pouch an object that looked like a silverplated Rubix cube. It was in fact a Biological Analyzer and Recording Fluxometer or B.A.R.F. for short. And never was there a more appropriate acronym given how much information the device would eventually regurgitate, only some of which was digestible by those without knowledge of the higher life and physical sciences.
The B.A.R.F went to work, breaking up into smaller cubes that began flying in gracefully efficient orbits about the target. The octopavian for its part was oblivious to the silent swarm, so busy was it in picking at bits of viscera from a small furry animal clutched in its blue taloned foreclaws.
All at once, the creatures head jerked erect, its brights crest feathers stiff with alarm at some unseen disturbance in the distance. With a quick hop, it bound into the thicker jungle, the silvery swam obediently following after. Catcher was mumbling an unmentionable in his native tongue when suddenly he heard it.
Thunder.
Now this wasn't an uncommon occurrence on a planet whose green equatorial girdle saw nearly daily rainfall. But there was something different about the booms he was hearing. They almost sounded like seismic charges but that couldn't be right, the geological surveys weren't scheduled for another week. Whatever they were though, they were definitely coming from the direction of basecamp.
With a sudden sense of foreboding, Catcher pulled the mask and hood off as he fled toward the sounds, a bodiless head streaking through the jungle. Invisible feet thudded on slippery and sodden earth as unseen hands parted the foliage like a green bow wave. He stumbled onto a ridge overlooking the valley and his blood ran cold.
The PSC Galileo was a towering silver edifice in the glade, a shining example of the latest in scientific exploration spacecraft. Her cigar shaped body stood on swept back fins in the center of a charred clearing, remnants of a fiery rocket landing just six short weeks ago.
Since then, a small village had been erected in concentric circles around the ship; grey prefab huts that doubled as living quarters and mobile labs. The few married couples of the expedition were afforded some privacy with individual huts while the un-weds were relegated to his and hers barracks.
Such segregation would seem unnecessary but when one took into account the makeup of the crew, the necessity became apparently. For while they may have been masters in their various fields, the hand selected crew were also some of the most virile men and nimble women the scientific community had to offer.
Of course, the precautions were about as affective as air conditioning on the sunward side of Mercury. Indeed, Catcher had heard of quite a few hyperspace hookups during the weeks long voyage to this uncharted planet. But the issue of which spaceman was docking his rocket in which spacewoman was beside the point, for hovering above this community of spacefaring and fucking coeds was an honest to goodness flying saucer!
The ship was massive, dwarfing the four-hundred-foot Galileo by half. An opaque dome sat atop a sloping, frisbee shaped body while below hung a series of what could only be described as metal tentacles, giving it the appearance of a giant metal jellyfish. And although the mechanism of how the craft stayed aloft was unknown, the purpose of the tentacles was dreadfully evident. For emanating from the wavering tip of each were beams of greenish energy.
"Z-Rays!" Catcher whispered in terrified astonishment. It seemed impossible. None of the intelligent races that humanity had encountered thus far were advanced enough to have discovered the powerful etheric rays. Yet here they were, conical rays that sweeping the camp like otherworldly searchlights.
He watched as plasticine walls vaporized, followed seconds later by thundering explosions as diridium fuel cells ruptured, spurting their highly reactive contents skyward. He saw an aircar attempt to escape only to be volatized mid-flight, cartwheeling to the ground in a sputtering heap of melted slag. Here and there he could make out the distinctive flash of blaster fire, no doubt members of the Solar Guard attempting in vain to repel the invaders. Soon even this paltry resistance was silenced. Thankfully he too far to witness what those deadly rays did to unprotected flesh and bone.
Yet through all the carnage, he had but one person on his mind: Circe!
Doctor Circe Van Ames, resident xeno-botanist. She was one of those rare specimens who was gifted with not only beauty but a brain to match. Petite, blond and perfectly proportioned, the pretty PHD had all the unattached males, except himself, openly vying for her affections. She was the type who could make parasitic fungi sound fascinating, could have you on the edge of your seat over polymorphic chloroplasts. They had had many a lively discussion, their chosen vocations being at times symbiotic, but the shy biologist had always kept their interactions professional. The thought that he might never see her again suddenly made his heart ache.
At last, the deadly errand seemed complete as the beams cut out, the murderous craft hovering a moment over the scene. Then it drifted down the valley, quietly slipping into the mists that crept down from the now menacing, forest-covered mountains.
An eerie silence had descended on the jungle. Catcher strained his eyes, shielding them against the glare of the yellow sun and its smaller blue binary directly overhead. It was then he noticed that his suit had lost power, his body once more visible. He knew the kinetic battery on his hip would recharge in due time and he wondered what he would find as descended the ridge, his hopes fading with each cautious step.
***
The devastation was even more horrific up close. It was as if he were stepping from one world into another, from the riotous hum of life into a silent realm of death. Thin columns of smoke drifted up; their wispy tendrils stirred by a light breeze. The metal frames of the prehab were twisted and warped like grotesque works of post-modern art. Lab equipment and personal affects lay strewn about, littering the ground with the charred remnants of a once bustling community.
Catcher bent down to pick up a half-burned journal, recognizing the elegant scrawl of omni-linguist Doctor Sylviana Smith. The last entry dated just yesterday read: "John just asked me to marry him when we get back to Terra. I can't what to be Mrs. Sylviana Marsden!"
Then there were the bodies. Oh, God, the bodies! How can one truly describe what those deadly rays did to their victims. So intense and rapid had been the conflagrations that skin and muscle were rendered instantly to ash, leaving behind only blackened skeletons. Worst still were those only partially consumed, a sickeningly macabre mashup up living and dead.
He found one such couple near the edge of the clearing, mere steps away from what could have been possible safety. The man wore the dark grey uniform that identified him as a member of the Solar Guard. He appeared to have been caught by the outer edge of one of the rays; his head, right arm and shoulder scorched to bone but the rest of him seemingly untouched. His companion, a girl whose hand he still clutched, had not been so lucky. Her entire upper half had been skeletonized, her lower still seeming plump and healthy, sheathed in the silvercloth of the scientists.
Choking back a knot of gore in his throat, Catcher bent down to turn the dead man over. Empty sockets stared up at him, the eyes having flashed to steam. Stark white teeth shone through lips that had curled back like burnt paper. Were it not for the dog tag around the neck, identifying the dead man would have most likely required dental records or a genome sequencing. The still living man read the name on the tag, still warm to the touch but otherwise unharmed.
Hoedekker, Richard J.
Catcher's bronzed face grew deathly pale. Richard was one of Circe's more ardent suitors, never missing an opportunity to shameless hit on her. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized the likely identity of the dead girl. Despondently his mind sough morbid comfort in the thought that whoever had attacked them might return to finish the job.
"Dr. Jensen?"
The voice was a whisper but sounded like a shout in the stillness of the clearing. Catcher spun and his face lit up with joy. It was Circe! She who had been presumed dead was now standing just a few feet from him, safe if not entirely sound. She was unblemished save for the trademark dirt that always caked her well-manicured hands but never seemed to make it onto her clothes. Like himself she wore a silver tunic, though hers was short sleeved with a hem that flared into a skirt that hung down over her lean and toned legs. On closer inspection he saw that she had been crying, her vivid blue eyes red and puffy.
Ignoring any sense of professionalism and convention, Catcher ran to her, pulling her into a tight embrace. Surprisingly she clung to him just as tightly, fresh tears racking her body as her arms encircled his neck. He held her as she wept, and he couldn't help but notice the softness and suppleness of her body against his. But upon remembering their situation, he pulled back, ashamed of his ungentlemanly thoughts.
