;)
17
In a dark, silent game transport, racing off somewhere-
Alan 'd had his first public words all worked out, and everything. See, the transport would land, its doors would fly open and out he'd spring like a hero, quipping, "No fear, Peeps! I have landed!"
Only, it didn't work out that way, at all. Score one to Globe Studios for skipping the dang frying pan and going for straight-up nuclear fire. As John would say, 'no ifs, ands or butts' except Al's, folded right into the drama.
So, yeah… so, he knew it was time to land when Zippy, his video camera drone, came back to life. All of a sudden, that shuttered lens went from dull crimson sleep mode to bright, active green. Next, the football-sized bot unclamped from its bulkhead charging station, played a short 'ready' chime and shot right over to Al.
The young astronaut grinned, preening a bit for his distant electronic audience; trying to flex every possible muscle group whilst simply unstrapping to rise.
"Hey, Zip!" he exclaimed, keeping the dreaded squeak out of his voice like a manly beast. "Checkin' out the Gucci, it's about that time."
Zippy beeped something back in response, performing a graceful loop in midair. Not Morse, which Alan determined right then to teach him. Some purely mechanical data code which John would have worked out in seconds, probably.
Anyways, shifting his stance as their transport nosed downward, Alan said,
"Pay attention, Zip… this is important. Lesson one. Deet-Dah is A. Got that? One more time. Deet-Dah is the letter A, whether it's blinked, flashed, tapped, or hidden in binary code… only, then, the Deet is a zero, and Dah is a one. You copy?"
Kind of heart-fuzzy warm and junk, Zippy buzzed back a Deet and a Dah. Alan high-fived the bot's right stabilizer fin. Would have continued with B (Dah-deet-deet-deet) only stuff started happening double-fast quick-time.
Their transport halted, seeming to judder and sway as though battered by swirling wind. Then the cabin lights cut back on, making Al squint.
"This is it, Pal," he whispered, feeling a lump of ice and nervous giggles lock up his gut. "Showtime."
The transport doors swished open, with Alan right there and ready to go, gaping wide onto breath-catching wind, a face full of driven sleet and this weirdly mechanical landscape. Some kind of platform hovered right there in front of him, so Alan leapt forth. Only, the bold greeting he'd scripted came out more like,
"Hey, Pee…oops!"
Also, he didn't quite stick the landing. Wind-milled a little, from pure, icy, what-the-heck shock. He was alone. Nobody there. Just some kind of briefly projected map and equation. Like the bat-symbol, or something, blinking yellow and red against…
Imagine the Grand Canyon, only made out of metal, wires, falling machinery and landslides of half-frozen mud. In Alan-terms, it looked like he was caught in the midst of a giant, transforming mecha; biggest he'd ever seen or imagined, even in John's wakey-wakey game scenarios. Rust and corrosion, leaking hydraulic fluid, worn-away gears, and stripped drive-shafts everywhere. Frickin' nightmare for Alan, who wanted a mountain of rags and an ocean of WD-40. Quick first impressions, yo?
Anyways, the transport was already yeeting on out of there, and Alan's small platform wasn't real near either mech-canyon wall. Discovered he could steer his perch a little, though, by moving around on its smooth metal surface. Got, maybe, twelve feet away from a ledge on the west canyon wall, blinking through snow and ghost-wailing wind at what looked like a maintenance tunnel. Nothing below him but tumbling debris and a gaping, cable-laced void. Nothing above but sky and more canyon. It was cold, too; that wet and shivery, see-your-breath kind of mega-suck cold. A sort of throbbing and screeching noise filled the air, like something was real big and dying alone.
Zippy beeped a few times, using his camera lens to flash 'A', repeatedly. Alan thought for a second, then grinned at the gull-swooping drone.
"Okay, here's the plan, Zip. First of all, I hereby deputize you as an International Rescue auxiliary field operative, with all rights and duties, blah-blah. Zippy Mc Drone-Face, you have earned a spot in IR. Congrats, Bro-chine."
Zippy beeped modestly. (Or, so Alan perceived it.)
"Second… ever played Legend of Zelda? You know how Link can grab onto a chicken and jump from a height? Getting over big gaps that he couldn't do, normally? Yeah. That's the plan. Lots of power, Buddy. Need all the ups you can give me, copy?"
So saying, Alan whipped off his IR utility jacket and tied up the sleeves at one end. Face getting numb from the rust-flavoured sleet, he explained,
"Right. So, I'm gonna throw this over you and hang on, then run and jump off the edge. We're aiming for that ledge, over there. See it?"
The drone's tracked camera moved around to its other end as a sudden floodlight came on, swaying around till it fixed on a ribbon of narrow, projecting machinery. The hood of a giant motor, or something.
"Yeah, that one. You ready?"
Zippy responded by charging up, all at once seeming to crackle with unleashed energy. Al grinned and gave him a jaunty thumbs-up. Then, flinging his jacket over the drone, he backed up as far as he dared, locked eyes on his target and took a deep breath. No pain, no gain, right? He could sit there all day like a chump, crying and waiting for John and Virgil to find him, or he could frickin' move.
Shouting, "Cowabunga!" at the top of his lungs, Alan R. Tracy took off running for the edge of his tilting and unstable platform. Jumped like a track and field athlete. Like a pro skateboarder, performing a gnarly stunt.
Legs not flailing but raised and extended. Eyes on his target, wind in his face, cloth going all at once taut as a guy-line in his clenched fists. Void below, corrosion-flecked wall rushing forward and up.
(Just a game, right? Only a game. They wouldn't for reals let him die. Nobody died, on Triumph. They only got hurt.)
And, SLAM! Like he'd been tackled by Virgil. Pinned to the mat by Tanusha. Tried to catch one of John's fireball pitches. Tried to block Scott, going up for a point. Like he'd been steamrolled by Gordon, heading for water or food…
Al crashed into that wall. Reflexively let go of the jacket and Zippy, scrabbling with hands and feet for a purchase on wet, rusting metal. Behind him, Zippy got out and pushed, digging right into his back. Looked like a Pac-Man ghost, still draped in that fluttering blue IR jacket.
Yeah. Didn't die. Didn't fall. Just, y' know, clung there a second, heart hammering and breath coming raggedy-quick. Fingers clutching at fan belts and wingnuts. Whatever would hold him.
He whooped aloud and then started to laugh. (Almost peed himself, too, but never told anyone else except… much later… Pip.)
The maintenance tunnel was off to the left, he recalled. About, maybe, five or six feet.
"That was easy," Al lied for the audience. "Piece of cake."
And then, one shuffled crab-stepping foot at a time, Alan started to move. Zippy still pushed at his back, using crap-tons of power to stabilize Al. See, that wall wasn't smooth, and his "ledge" no more than the projecting case of a vibrating motor, below. Junk stuck out here and there. Ancient metal crumbled away in his grasp. Cold wind tried to chisel him loose. And, all the while, trash and mud rained down from above.
Still, he got there. He did it. Reached that dark, humming tunnel and lunge-fell right in. Face-planted, hard. Didn't care. Just sucked in that rust-scented air, glad to be still frickin' breathing, at all. Couldn't stay down for too long, though. Didn't look good.
"Ready to rock, Zip?" he croaked, squeaking a little on 'rock'. "Power down, some, and I'll carry you." They had to keep moving because each Triumph challenge was timed.
Job one, figure out where his team was.
Job two, find a recharge station for Zippy.
Job three, turf up that pylon-shard and look good while doing it.
…no prob whatever, right? He only hoped they'd stay tuned.