Survival

A hovering cargo truck glided down along a dirt path below a rocky outcrop, its engines kicking up dust as it sped along. Plisken lay crouched on the outcrop, his battered and bruised body covered in makeshift bandages made from scraps of his clothes and tied with leaves of the jungle floor. He was wearing the black uniform of the soldiers of Time with No Boundaries. He had taken down a squad of patrolling men near a lake, easily ambushing them with a makeshift knife in hand.
So far, Plisken had only encountered regular patrols that scoured the jungles and forest, presumably looking for him. The occasional convoy of supplies also came through the dirt roads on their way to the Mother Base. Time with No Boundaries had research outposts all across the planet, or this section of it at least, that seemed to be conducting some sort of experimentation, though on what he couldn’t know.
Plisken leaped off the outcrop, landing on the sleek bodywork of the truck’s load bay. His booted feet made a loud thump and at the sound, the truck swerved violently. Frantic shouting erupted from the cabin as the driver re-gained control of the vehicle, pressing down hard on the accelerator.
The truck picked up speed, the wind rushing through Plisken’s wild hair and billowing the short black officer’s jacket that he wore over his naked torso. A few shots fired overhead as the crew of the patrol car behind leaned out of the windows. The old man paid these men now mind and made for the cabin of the truck. Resting all his weight on his real arm, he leaned over the side of the truck and punched out the glass window with his metal fist. The driver’s wild eyes darted frantically for the small pistol in his holster. But he was too slow. Plisken let off a shot, his quick hand already grasping the officer’s pistol he had acquired earlier.
The driver’s body slumped and Plisken opened the door to let the corpse fall onto the roadside, to be left to be picked over by the hungry birds of the jungle. Plisken climbed into the cad and took control of the wheel, bullets hitting the metal all around him. He turned the truck wildly into thin part of the jungle, small trees and plants being crushed underneath the anti-grav jets that suspended the vehicle off the ground.
The patrol car followed, loosing one of the crew over the side as the smaller vehicle lurched over a rock. It chased Plisken through the ever more dense growth, each slowing down to avoid the thick trees that now dominated the way.
Plisken glanced in the shattered mirrors of the truck. The driver was good, he had been trained well. It would not be easy to lose him. But he didn’t have to. Up ahead was a canyon and on the ridges were several tall, blue skinned figures. A rocket whirled from a plume of smoke on the canyon ridge, the patrol car exploding in flames. Plisken stuck out a friendly wave at the assembled people and carried on through the canyon.

The makeshift house Plisken had made from discarded metal and rocks was less of a house and more just a collection of things between two trees. A simple fabric flap made from sewn together military jackets and a roof from the canvas of an old troop carrier that had long since been forgotten were lashed to thick trees to form the barebones of a camp. Inside was a makeshift bed of grass and leaves, a crate of food supplies at its base. Taking up the vast majority of room was the cylindrical tank, the blue liquid hidden behind another section of canvas, to protect it from the sun. Various stolen computer parts and scientific equipment were crowded around it, wires and cables and tubes all hooked up to it.
Plisken dropped the bag he was carrying onto the grass floor. He had park the truck some miles away, better to stay hidden even in ‘friendly’ territory. The bag contained the essential items the truck had been carrying to the Mother Base: fission batteries, quantum condensers, molecular purifiers. All of these should have been easy to acquire on the planet was the spaceport not impossible to reach through the frequent patrols of No Boundaries and if it didn’t lie hundreds of miles to the east. That is, if it was still standing.
The old man busied himself with his work, his generally pathetic understanding of what he was actually doing taking up all his concentration. Science and computing was just beyond him most of the time and a lot of what he had done so far had been copied from incredibly old records that salvagers had managed to pluck out an abandoned research post, perhaps before even No Boundaries arrived. There was little left to do bust what was left was experimental. Plisken wound some wire around the battery’s electrodes and hooked it up to a mess of computer parts and science-y modules.
The flap door opened up and through stepped a hulking blue Haruk, a battered rifle in his hands. He dressed in an elaborate robe with patches of armour haphazardly attached on. He was flanked by two similarly dressed Haruk, though their clothes were more simple.
Plisken turned, instinctively throwing his hand to the holster of his stolen pistol but rested it at the sight of the armed aliens. He gave a hurried salute, thumping his red metal fist on his chest, and turned back to his work.
“They are dead,” said the Haruk in slow and broken English, his words jaggedly jumping his throat.
“Yes,” said Plisken as he hooked up the last of the wiring, “But there is more, there are always more.”
“Are you finished?” asked the Haruk, looking over at the strange and foreign mess before him.
“Just about,” Plisken said, wiping some sweat from his brow on the back of his hand, “Just got to add the final lines of code to the program and we should be ready to go.”
Plisken frantically tapped away on a keyboard, green numbers and letters appearing on a smashed computer screen bolted to a tree. He cursed under his breath and tossed the keyboard aside, diving into a stack of ancient and old piece of paper.
“Where is it?” he muttered before finally producing page 874 of chapter 6 of An Idiot’s Guide to Advanced Genetic Computing, the Simpleton’s Edition. He held the page out at arms length, letting his old eye squint the tiny text into focus. He copied the numbers and codes out onto the computer and hit enter.
The tank began to bubble and the Haruk raised their weapons. Plisken lowered them as he watched the blue liquid bubble and dance, the dark shape inside fading. The tank so began to drain its contents into a jar on the floor below, several tubes going through compressors and deconstructors and other high-tec gizmos that Plisken didn’t know the names of.
The process took little over a minute and what was produced was a deep blue liquid in the jar, which Plisken quickly sealed.
“Now you tell us what it is?” asked the Haruk.
“No, I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand Isaiah,” Plisken said, his eyes gleaming at the jar in his hands.

The Haruk of the region had been good to Plisken, certainly a lot better than his last visit to Fernando’s, Isaiah especially. It was difficult, for Plisken at least, to speak their language but they seemed to be able to learn bits of English fairly well and Isaiah was a close enough approximation of the Haruk’s actual name. Plisken had a good relation ship with the Haruk despite his last encounter with the species. But there hadn’t been a common enemy for them to share before. News of the Ssala rebellion in the east seemed to have reached region around Mother Base, though how it had done so was not know to Plisken. But instead of the quick and successful overthrowing in the east, both sides had somehow become entrenched a bitter war.
It seemed like a different world here in the West of Fernando’s. No Boundaries had wiped out the dominate tribe when they built Mother Base a decade or so ago and left the region unstable in the wake of the Eastern Rebellion. Gone were the days of gladiator battles and blissful tribal gatherings of pacing peace pipes. Replacing it was a primitive and desperate population clinging on to the jungle roots.

Living in the shadow of Mother Base had become problematic for both the Haruk and the Ssala, as Plisken would again see as the heavy wooden stockade doors were pushed open to allow him, Isaiah and his men to enter the town of the Haruk.