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Planet of Game: Introduction

Man, what a headache . . . He hadn't felt this bad since basic training. Must've been because of the hypersleep. It was his first time; he supposed that these things took acquiring. He wanted to open his eyes, but he had trouble doing so - - he could hardly move at all. Geez, put a human to sleep and look how weak we become. He shook the thought from his head. He was a marine, he could not be weak, not for a minute. But he'd never felt this weak, this disoriented.

Who was he? Ralph Stuart . . . But who am I? Ralph Stuart . . .But who is he, exactly? One helluva tired man. And, as far as he could tell, he was the only one awake. Now, where was he? There's another question to ponder. One that simple memory couldn't restore. He had to get Cominsky to ask Mother.

He stirred, gradually working his way into a sitting position. On his way up, he clunked his head against the capsule's roof. A few curse words later, he was standing, stretching his limbs for the first time in six and a half months, probably. He turned around to the others. They were still asleep, although their cryotubes were open.

The cryotubes, like a hundred others on a hundred different ships, were built into a single life-control unit, with the four egg-like pods protruding from the squarelike base. He knew that down the hall was another bundle of the pods, followed by another. 25 pods for 25 marines. Downstairs was another of the flower-like arrangements, built with eight pods rather than four, to accommodate the eight crewmen who actually flew the ship.

Ralph thought for a moment, wondering how to get the others up. Sure, in 10 seconds they'd be awake anyway. The cryotubes' safety precautions saw to that. But, where's the fun in just waiting around? He glanced around the room and saw what he wanted.

He staggered over to it - - he'd definitely have to get used to walking around - - and picked up his favorite toy for the moment: a megaphone. He raised it to his bearded mouth and blared through the deck in his most cheerful voice, "Let's go, campers! It's 10 a.m., time to start the day!"

Cominsky jumped up so fast he banged his head against the roof of his pod. Similar to Ralph's experience, but much harder. His square jawbone gritted to keep his choice words from escaping, and he quickly rolled his muscular body out of the tube. A few of the others woke with a start; a few just got up.

Ralph waited for it . . . Peiper came up behind him from the second set of pods and smacked him across the back of the head, aiming so that her rather substantial engagement ring bore into his scalp. She may be attractive, but she was certainly not a morning person. "Give me that," she snapped at Ralph, grabbing his megaphone and tossing it to the floor.
Just doing my civic duty, Ma'am. Seeing that our . . . fine, proud warriors start the day with a little - -"
"Shut up."
"Yes, Ma'am." Ralph was no fool (as his nickname, "Smartie," implied), and he knew better than to mess with her. Especially when she just woke up. Plus, she out-ranked him.

He turned to the others, to see if his cohorts were awake. They were. A few were just standing around and talking; Ragsdale, a well-built man with a squared, god-like face, was on the floor, exercising. Science/Medical Officer Pope stepped over him, obviously less than interested in this guy's workout. Just as long as he was in condition to avoid the med-lab. The wiry Stan Giger chose, instead, to step on the well-carved man rather than over him.

"Hey, hey!" Ragsdale protested, pointing at the impression of Giger's footprint spreading over his bare stomach.

"Oops. Sorry," Giger said with a cocky lopsided grin covering half his face. "Looks like Ragsdale's on the rag." He strutted off toward the lockers with Ragsdale close behind.

Cominsky walked slowly over to Ralph, leaning on the wall for support. His voice rumbled in a tone so deep the metal he held onto almost rattled.
"Ralph, what did I tell you about waking a big, sleeping black man?"
"That it'll make me stronger assuming I don't die?"

Cominsky flared his already-wide nostrils. "You got a lotta brass, Ralph, and I respect that. But if you get me up like that one more time, you're riding home duct-taped to the hull."

Ralph didn't actually see it, but he knew that, behind him, the lovely Ms. Peiper was playing with her straight, dark brown hair trying not to smile at the idea. Not that she didn't like him, she was just still steamed about him getting her up like he did. Knowing he'd been beaten, Ralph backed away quietly.

He proceeded to the lockers, which held what few clothes and books he'd been allowed to bring. Regardless of the time, he wasn't too comfortable hanging around these people in his underwear. He grabbed a pair of pants and his favorite shirt; he loved it, but everyone else seemed to see it as a hole-ridden, dull rag. Looking for his glasses, he brushed aside a few of his books. He preferred reading novels from the early 21st century, because that was young enough to avoid being classical but written before all the authors ran out of ideas. He couldn't read the covers too well without his glasses, but he knew that the one he'd just pushed away was his favorite: An almost-poetic novel about invisible killers written by a guy pen-named Beach Bladen.

He pulled on his jeans, then rooted around his locker a bit more, eventually producing his glasses. He pulled them over his face and threw his shirt on, then moved, in wide, cocky steps, over to the mess hall. Half the people on the ship were already there, feasting on some unidentifiable crud labeled by the Company to be omelets. Of course, to Ralph, the omelets, pork chops, chicken, and meat loaf all tasted more or less the same. He grabbed one of the pouches and used his fork to cut it open and start gnawing on the . . . substance it contained.

Ralph chose not to sit; rather, he leaned on a monochromatically decorated wall. He glanced over to Cominsky, who was sitting at the end of the table, choking down the omelet as best as he could while conversing with the other crewmen. Ralph had to admit that Cominsky was pretty cool, for a sergeant, but the big oaf seemed to have forgotten his first duty upon waking.
"Hey, Sergeant!" Ralph said loudly over the others.

"Yeah, what is it, Smartie?" came back the eventual reply.

"Are you planning on keeping us in suspense, or are you gonna ask Mother what we're doing here?"

"Smartie, remember what I told you about - -"

"Don't tell you what to do, I know."

"Yeah, and you remember that. I do what I do because I know what's best. And right now, what's best is to get some grub. Now siddown and eat. I'll go give Mother her good-morning."

Ralph plopped down at the table next to Giger and started munching away at this breakfast. "Space Age" foods. Yeah, right. He always thought that in 200 years, they'd figure out how to put some flavor in this stuff.

Cominsky never really understood why, in this big, giant ship, the corridors were so small. Still, at a loss of options, he squeezed through them to Mother's chamber. It was a rather ungainly room, roughly spherical in design with little blinking buttons and switches covering almost every pallid inch not occupied by the four monitors placed around the command chair. He eased himself into the seat and allowed it to rotate itself into a position facing the main keyboard. One of the monitors was in front of him, another above him in a heads-up-display.

He typed in the password, which prompted Mother to reply with a little animation to show that she was listening. He quickly typed in "What's up, Mother?" hoping she wouldn't take it too seriously.

<##User_Cominsky query="What's up, Mother?"/a. Answer*^consult grav-scanner 5. Class 3 planet in proximity. Translate=English: Dialect: Layman. Reply=Uncharted planet detected on port side."##>

The answer quickly came back on the little monitor, "UNCHARTED PLANET DETECTED ON PORT SIDE."

Cominsky was a little put off by this. The area wasn't exactly unscouted; this planet must have been on the other side of its revolution around its star when the scout ships came through. He typed in, "Where are we?"

"DOES NOT COMPUTE. PLEASE RE-PHRASE."

"How far are we from our destination?"

"DESTINATION NOT SPECIFIED IN DATABASE."

"Not specified?" Cominsky asked.

"DOES NOT COMPUTE."

"Why did we take off if we had no destination?"

"WEYLAND-YUTANI CONTROL SYSTEMS GAVE ORDER TO TRAVEL THROUGH THIS SECTOR AND REPORT POSSIBLE ODDITIES," she answered in her annoying monotone.

"That would mean they had some idea that something was here," Cominsky whispered to himself but did not type into Mother. Besides, she'd just come back with her "Does Not Compute" crap. Mother wasn't much for small talk.

"Were there any transmissions telling us what to look for?"

<##Play record Transmission II?: False. *Classified information, L1 authorization required. Translation=English: Dialect: Layman. Reply="No."##>

"NO," came mother's flat reply.

Cominsky shook his head. Surely, they'd have sent something telling them what to do. But, it was becoming obvious that this little session with Mother wasn't going anywhere. He closed her down and pulled himself out of the chair, then walked uneasily from the room.

Ralph was the only person still in the mess hall when Cominsky returned. He was not eating; he was wrapped up in one of his books. He tossed it to the table and bounced up to greet the massive George Cominsky walking from the hall leading to Mother. Cominsky's skin was darker than usual under the sparse lighting; most of the time, he was a nice, healthy brown rather than actual black. In fact, now that he thought of it, he had never seen a truly black man. Sure, you had shades of brown, light and rich colors, even a licorice-like color on some folks, but never a truly black man. Though, he never factored this into his friendships. He learned early on not to let the package hide the pudding.

"So, Sergeant, what's up?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Private. Mother was never given any instruction on an actual destination. The Company just told her to fly us through this region."

"So, where are we?"

"She wouldn't tell me. Wouldn't tell me why we're here, either. I'll talk to her again once she's done scanning the planet's surface."

"What planet?"

"Dunno."

"Well, that's just wonderful. Do you think they realize just what we went through so they could fly us through a region they won't even tell us about? I mean, Peiper would be on her honeymoon now if it weren't for this bullshit mission!"

"You secure that griping, Private. Now, if you're not too busy, maybe you could help me out in a game of poker or something," he rumbled.

Ralph grinned. "So, I take it you're not too worried about satellite alignments and all that stuff?"

Cominsky smirked right back. "Of course not. That's why you're here."

"Lucky me."

"Now, get some cards. I'll see if I can find another player or two."

They're getting closer, Joey thought as he stared into the dark desert night. I can hear them . . . their screams . . . He crept further back into his retreat, tears welling up in his eyes as a feeling of utter loneliness filled his quivering form. It was getting cold, now, and he could feel his feet slowly getting number, a welcoming feeling as he thought it might dull the pain.

Was it safe here, wedged underneath the two large rocks he had found this morning? Would it provide sanctuary from . . . them? Would he even live to see his sixth birthday? He could only guess. All he knew was that he was safer here than he would be out in the open, and maybe they would overlook him in this tiny spot.

Maybe. But the shrieks were closer still, and he had seen how quickly and visciously they had wiped out his family. His mother, his father, all of his siblings - - slaughtered in an instant. They weren't the only victims; in only a few short hours last night, the entire camp had been destroyed. The tents that had doubled as the survivors' temporary homes had been ripped to shreds by the monsters' claws, and the inhabitants followed shortly thereafter.

They usually attacked at night. Joey figured the light hurt their eyes. Only thing was, he hadn't ever seen their eyes . . .

Joey still remembered every last detail of the attack. The rattling of the pulse rifles . . . the screams of his friends . . . the monster's blood, which burned through his shoe and left a sore on his foot. It still hurt so bad! He prayed that he wouldn't be forced to run away. Please, God, he began, folding his arms in front of him and looking into the night sky. Please, let them not find me. I don't wanna die, God. Please . . .

Tears once again flowed from his smooth cheeks and he yearned for his mother. She had always been there for him, a shoulder to cry on and an attentive ear to listen. He would run to her after a bad dream; she was the only one who could comfort him when things were tough. But now, he had no mother . . . the thought only made him weep louder.

He suddenly stopped as another scream pierced the cool night air. It was close, very close, only a few meters away. The tears continued to come as Joey crammed himself further back into his cubby, the sharp edges of the rock cutting into his sides. Oh, God, make them go away, he silently pleaded. Just make them go away . . . He bit his lower lip in a futile effort to halt the flow of tears, applying so much pressure that he began to bleed.

He could hear their footsteps, now: light, skittery sounds, almost like a group of insects marching across the sand. The sounds wandered about the area, at first very near, then gradually fading away. They're gone, Joey thought, listening closely.

The sounds came back though, extremely close this time. Did they really move that fast? He shuddered at the thought. Just stay calm, and everything'll be all right. Just a little bit longer now . . . they're leaving . . .

That was when Joey's young mind came to the startling conclusion that there was not one, but two or more of the monsters. Yes, that had to be it . . . he heard multiple screams from every direction, hisses and howls that seemed to taunt him. They knew where he was now; they were merely torturing him for the pure pleasure of it, relishing in the fact that their prey had fallen into anguish.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Joey could see something dark poke through the entrance of his shelter, a writhing, frightening form edged with claws and teeth. It squeezed through the tiny opening with relative ease, its breath heavy and reeking of carrion. As it crept towards Joey, he made no effort to resist - - he only sat there and wept. He would be with his mommy soon. Very soon.

A child's scream echoed eerily across the jagged wastelands, followed by a deep and profound silence.

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