Okay, this is so ridiculously late, I don't even know where to begin apologizing. Suffice to say, it's been a heck of a day (week, month, year...) at sea, Sir. Just glad to get it written and posted, with hopes that the next won't be as delayed. (Bows deeply.)

41

Elsewhere, no-when:

Moving with all the stealth he could muster, the boy had clambered and skittered along the high black wall, keeping to cover and shade. He was blasted by heat on one side, jarred by constant vibration-nausea-NO on the other. With him was Doggo, an old, battered scout-grade K9 cyborg, mostly shepherd beneath all the hardware. Like the boy himself, low on food and lower on energy.

There had to be a maintenance bay near the side gate. The NC's robot devices had to recharge and maintain, without going inside. If he could find one… if he dared use it… half of their problems would be solved on the spot. Just had to find a port, then nerve himself up to approach it. The NCs wouldn't notice. They never checked on the wall scans, anymore.

Doggo nosed the boy's hand, wagging that plumed-cable tail, eyes at half-glow. The boy (who thought that his own name had been Robbie, back when there'd been someone around to call him) scratched the dog's chin. Got licked by a tongue that was way too hot and too dry.

"Good boy. Good Doggo," he whispered. "We'll find some water, soon."

At least, he hoped they would. With the wall on one side blasting fear and painful vibration… with nothing but scrubby wasteland on the other… their situation didn't look good. Still, bots needed water for cleaning and maintenance. Find the recharge station, find something to drink.

In the meantime, he shared what he had, opening a dented soda can and pouring half of it into a faded plastic dish. Drank half of the rest, himself, plugging the can with a wad of cloth, for later. The can said "Grape", although Robbie had never seen or tasted an actual fruit, and had no way to rate its flavour. At least it was wet, and the sugar helped keep them going.

Doggo eagerly lapped the dark fluid, sending their dish bumping and rattling over the stony ground. Then he raised his head, eyes flaring brighter again. He nudged the boy's hand, mouthing it lightly with teeth that could rip the wheel right off a wrecked car.

"Not much further," said Robbie. "We'll wait in the shade till dark, then find the side port. We can sneak in while the bots are recharging, and get you topped up and rehydrated. Promise."

He crouched down and buried his face in Doggo's coarse brownish hair and scratched chrome. Chromatophores glowed briefly, matching the cyborg dog to its background, making it nearly invisible. Robbie laughed at the trick, squeezing tight.

"We'll make it," he whispered. "We'll charge up and keep on moving. There's more people out there. There's gotta be."

His palm-sized comm unit hadn't shared anything other than static and NC talk-pulse for… well, for most of his life… but that didn't mean there was nobody left. Just that the others were smart enough to lie low and stay quiet. Houston, he'd heard, that one last time there were any voices at all. Houston.

The boy screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his face against Doggo. Breathed in the comforting smell of scruffy long hair and hot metal.

"We got a plan, Buddy. We stick to the plan and find help. Just gotta be really careful, is all. And, y'know, if there's enough charge to boost up our signal, we could get a call out to Houston. Someone could come here and find us."

But first, they had to reach that gate-side maintenance bay, and then find a way to sneak in.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

This timeline, location unknown, struggling free of a crashing shuttle-

They'd ground to a wild, crunching halt; nose-down and tipped halfway over, with the hatch shorn loose and flung aside like a frisbee. The wreckage around them shifted and squealed aloud, as three tons of wounded metal negotiated surrender. Warning lights flashed. Hissing sprays battled incipient fire. The deck was sharply tilted and slick with chemical foam. Virgil maintained his footing with difficulty, clinging to the nearest jump-seat and hatch rim. Managed a swift look outside.

Mossy, root-studded ground lurched and swayed about ten feet below them, framed in a tangle of roughly-shorn trees. Small fires burnt on the forest floor, ignited by sparks and spilt fuel. Overhead, he glimpsed a sky like a grey and badly-tuned screen, glowing between all the trunks and torn branches. Force dome, maybe? No obvious danger from either direction, but the most important thing was to put plenty of space between themselves and the smoldering wreck.

Ladies first, because that's the way he'd been raised. Moving fast, Virgil parked himself in the crumpled threshold, swinging first Penny, then TinTin out of their dying aircraft. Drones buzzed all around as he worked, catching dramatic angles and background shots. Their game map sputtered into existence a moment later, almost too pale to decipher. The fanfare and pre-game gloat were barely audible; more static than music or words. No matter. Nobody needed a pep-talk.

"Max, image. Record," Virgil ordered, not having time or attention to waste on a reject like Melissa d*mn Maxton.

The robot trilled agreement, reeling himself out through the hatch. Snakey hydrostat limbs shot forth, their claw-like grabbers clamping tightly to nearby branches and vines. Then he was out and down, clomping to rest on the ground near TinTin and Lady Penelope. A blizzard of medical gear and supplies followed next, fielded and stashed by the robot and girls.

Scott vied to be last through the hatch, but Virgil wasn't having any. Being in charge meant taking care of your people, even rock-stubborn older siblings. As the wreck pitched downward and over, sounding its final collapse, Virgil snapped,

"Out! Or, swear to God, Scott, I'll beat you down to your socks and trade your ass in for Grandma! At least she listens!"

His older brother scowled but gave way, pitching himself out through the door with a seething this-isn't-over-yet glare.

"Great. Pre-dawn P.T. and dirty dishes for the next fifty years," muttered Virgil, as he kicked off the sill and dove for the nearest large branch, following Scott. Grabbed hold, but hadn't counted on all of that water. The branch was slick and half-rotted, covered in flaking bark and dank moss. Hard to hang on to, much less swing along with a loud, manly yodel. More of a slip-scramble-cuss fest, all of it caught by his hovering drone.

After a heart-stopping second, Virgil hand-over-handed his way to a lower, much broader limb. Caught his breath, then jumped to the ground, stabilised by three of Max's long, jointed arms.

Moments later, the dirty, scuffed pilot was safe on the forest floor, surrounded by teammates and gear. Not out of trouble yet, though. Behind them, the downed shuttle squealed an uneven, clashing B-minor. Branches snapped with a sound like gunfire. It might have been cheating, but,

"Max, safest direction. Scan and indicate," panted Virgil, as he hoisted a backpack and started to move.

The white robot beeped once, emitting a broad-spectrum scan bubble. They were already headed away from the wreck; shoving their way through a rat-king thicket of logs and debris, surrounded by towering trees. The air around them was misty and cool, singing with bloodthirsty insects; the light pale and dim. No wind at all.

"Do you think this is part of the challenge?" asked Penny, loping along beside Virgil. Behind them, the shuttle struck ground with a booming THUD they could feel through the soles of their boots. Everyone dropped, reflexively covering their heads and the back of their necks with both hands. The crump and hiss of a muted explosion sent first shock wave, then heat-blast rocketing outward. Birds screeched and scattered, Burning leaves, splintered branches, reptiles and bugs rained down to wriggle and scurry, poison and sting. The plants were nearly as bad as the animals, being covered in fine, toxic hairs… but at least they didn't go burrowing into your clothing, looking for darkness and shelter. (Tough to ignore things with too many legs, hunting for cozy armpits and groins.)

Max's shrill squeal got them up and moving, again; rattled and itching, but all in one piece.

A second blast almost drowned out the rest of Penelope's question. "Do you think we were meant to crash?"

"Definite possibility," grunted Virgil, keeping his eyes on their path. Not all of that motion was blast-induced.

The robot lit their way by laser-painting patches of mostly-safe ground, avoiding quicksand, pit traps and most of the snakes. Scott took point, followed by TinTin, then Max. Virgil and Penny brought up the rear, armed and fully alert.

Virgil's impressions were jumbled. Screeching, bouncing commotion overhead. Harsh bird calls. Soggy, uneven ground, seemingly woven of arthritic roots. The shrill whirring of tree frogs and insects, producing a chord that ground on and on, but never resolved. The scent of musk, damp earth and decay. Moss, vines and snakes. Everywhere, snakes.

"Careful," snapped Scott, who'd nearly stepped on one. "That looks like a golden lancehead. Max?"

The robot fired a series of beeps, creeping forward on altered treads. At the base of a giant tree, by a tangle of huge, up-thrust roots, coiled the serpent. Four, maybe five feet long. Bright yellow in colour, with lidless pale eyes and a flickering tongue. Might have been special effects, or a bot… but no one organic cared to find out the hard way.

As their drones hovered conspirator-close overhead, Max extended a pair of clawed arms and a jointed electrical probe.

"Just get it out of our way, don't kill it," called Virgil, taking back over. Only, the snake acted first, striking faster than he or the others could follow.

One moment, a seething mass of rasping bright coils; the next, a bolt of venomous rage. That gaping head struck at Max, hard. Three times it hit plastic, leaving scratches and runnels of glistening fluid.

Then the robot's left claw clamped shut just behind the snake's triangular head. All whipping muscle, the serpent flung itself at that pinioning metal arm, wrapping around and around as if trying to suffocate its attacker.

As drones buzzed and humans shouted, Max brought his probe-arm around. A sharp SNAP and quick flare of light tore the air, taking the fight right out of that writhing gold snake.

Virgil blinked. Sometimes, it was easy to forget how powerful Max really was. Only…

"The other teams 'll be dealing with all of this on their own," he mused. "Assuming that they were downed, too. Someone's gonna get hurt, unless we reach them, fast."

"The game's off, then?" probed TinTin, edging out of the way as Max found a safe (ish) place for the unconscious reptile.

"Uh… far as I'm concerned, yeah, it is,' Virgil responded, trying not to worry too much about Emma. From the side of his vision, he spotted Scott's nod. Felt better; more assured that he'd made the right decision. "Real people come before drama, no matter what the h*ll rules we agreed to. I'm not chasing some d*mn plastic shard till we find out what shape the others are in, and if they need help."

"Naturally," murmured the pretty blonde noblewoman, flashing a slight, charming smile. "The organization is called International Rescue, after all, not International Scum and Villainy."

"Although that does have a nice ring to it," cut in Scott, grinning briefly.

"And we'd probably have more fun," joked Tanusha.

Max just beeped at them all, projecting a scan of the region, with their position at centre. The image wavered and skipped; like their clue map and sky, banded in cascading static. Coloured dots indicated the other two teams; blue for the GDF Navy, hot pink for the Deth Chix. Unlike the first session, though, they were not equidistantly spaced.

"Could be accidental," said Scott, coming over to stand beside Virgil.

"Or meant to seem that way, sowing just enough doubt to keep the participants on edge," Penny suggested. "May we have a glimpse of the game map, superimposed on your scan, please, Max?"

"And try expanding your scan wave," said Virgil. "I'd like to see where we are, if possible."

Max waved a limb. Then he called up his imaged game map and brought the two images together, superimposing their ground-level scan. As for their clue, this time it simply read: Treasure lies at the gaze of stone eyes.

"Huh," grunted Virgil. "That's helpful." Would have been nice to have John along, or at least be able to call him. The astronaut would have picked up on clues too subtle for non-math analysis. On the other hand… "looks like we're up on some kind of flat mountain or butte."

"A cloud forest," guessed TinTin. "With… a cavern or sinkhole right at dead centre. Care to bet that that's where those 'stone eyes' are gazing?"

Scott had to stop himself from walking around that dim-glowing image. Being holographic, it would only adjust itself to keep facing him, no matter where he stood in relation. There was no other angle possible.

"Looks like one of the other teams is a lot closer to the cave," he pointed out.

"The Navy contingent, I should imagine," said Penny, drifting nearer. "They were in last place, after session one, and may have received an assist, or a handicap."

That was a good thing, maybe; indicating that all of this had indeed been planned, and no one was (probably) very much hurt. Question was, play the game? Or go off and check on the others?

"Okay," said Virgil, coming to a decision. "Let's…"

Run, as fast and far as possible, because all at once the trees and ground behind them blackened with swarming, two-inch long ants. Like a hissing eclipse shadow, the tide of ravenous insects surged forward; catching, overwhelming and devouring everything in its path. Several dropped from a branch onto Virgil's forehead, biting with savage, bullet-like pain.

"Move!" he shouted. "Buddy system, follow Max and stay together! Look for water!"

And then, there was no more time for commands.