Fresh water isn't supposed to foam as well as the ocean, foam as in the intense and complete mixing of a gas whether it be the warming air on a silver stretch of beach or the burnt dry exhaust over an unnamed martian lake.
Decelerating through three hundred knots at about four metres height above a dark border defined by my flight computer as pure water. One of the many lakes developed last century and maintained by the designer wildlife.
No vehicles were allowed to place down on the land due to possible damage to the craft from the wildlife, as on this planet the ecosystem was based around garbage reclamation. Any non-biological structure was canvassed as food. It was safe on their bodies of water though, as this was the excrement and the fuel for ships who could afford to make the flying scoop on their way to the next and final fuel stop at Neptune before leaving our system. Intrastellar flight uses more fuel so craft of all types paid and drank regularly.
No such trivial excuses were resting my mind. Twelve miles to landfall, opaque the canopy and deactivate all unnecessary systems. This left me with four optical cameras and critical flight systems, slaved to create an image, engines run down to free spinninng. Navigation output indicated landfall now.
My excuse for this infringement was no one's business, but my task was to plant a new kind of specimen in the heart of the major landmass. People had begun to worry when all the creatures developed a form of communication and specialization for their own preferred trash, but it was eventually seen as just a path to efficiency. Soon dominant forms developed and species that were not as required were pushed out to the fringes of the masses to dump straight into the wide expanse of water, whereas the dominant types developed winding channels which reached into the safest trash heartlands. My approach was going to be in over mostly synthetic recycles. Looking down I could make out the trash being moved around until it found its resting disintegration place. Now ten kilometres into their territory it was safe to power up and engage. No bird could catch me and I could outrun the flow of any message sent through the trash. Re-ignition, radar suite on thrust twenty percent set height two hundred metres. Instantly the ground heaved as it raised itself what looked like half my height. It couldn't keep up as my craft accelerated past 600 knots. Thank God they couldn't hear the roar of the partially digested space dump rising from it's resting place, it would surely be heard by a human. My target was now twenty three kilometres away. The rear view showed the wave dropping behind. The creatures weren't stupid and had seen my craft. I couldn't drop in from space because the only things falling are trash and the dominant creatures have been known to reach two thousand metres into the air like a sun releasing a solar flare. Fifteen kilometres shutdown all systems off glide into the heart and lay my cargo.
The wave was now seven kilometres behind and traveling at one hundred and fifteen knots. This would give me about two minutes clear on the ground. Dropped the wing and configured for landing, lights on. The target zone was shimmering in unordered pulses. The area looked as if asleep, yet with a wariness that had become reliant on it's surrounding subordinate recycles. Centimetres above the ground was all that was needed, lowered out of my central cargo hold was a dock-like aperture holding within it five containers - in which a new strand of larvae resided, designed to burn through to the soil to provide a new base for the new generation of organic recycles. Release and withdrawal as a whirlwind of static energy fills the air, the monitors sway and the ground disappears below, drawing the craft down into the newly formed whirling chasm. Systems on power up as engines struggle to fight the draw of air dragging me down. I point to the sky and hit fifty percent throttle. Exhaust roars but I only slow. Radar reports wave front contact in forty five seconds, increase to one hundred per cent - good for Mach 12 at twenty five thousand metres, Earth atmosphere. Finally begin to barrel up when the inside of the boiling chasm reaches up and grabs the back outer edges of the ship. Being held still, the exhaust feeds the suction behind. Now! Escape now! The metal flash reaches over the opaque canopy creaking its displeasure at the difference in materials. Arm weapons for self destruct activate ejection sequence. Wave contact in ten seconds. As the wave filled the chasm, it spun around changing the direction of the craft, slowly revolving it around until I was looking at a late afternoon sun. All around were the sounds of shattering shards, the molecules being ripped apart, surely finding my flesh. The green-grey flesh reached me through gripped shut eyes consuming my suit. Like water drenching my skin, it crawled over me stripping my jewelry; I was alone drowning in a sarcophagus of what felt like seaweed. I had thought I had enough air for twenty seconds. Trying to move was impossible, but at the same time like flying through some gelatinous mass. Forming a cup beneath me I break through into sunlight, up and up. Naked like an offering to the sun, looking down I see the surrounding garbage straining an invisible eye towards me, somehow urging me to accept the sky. Looking up my vision is greeted by a quite large cylinder circling down. Quickly grabbing the edge of my cupped resting place, I notice three larvae hungrily boring into my left leg. I let out a cry of pain as my body seems to compress under the scored ceramic booster.
"Heart rate reading 75," exclaims Berhlo, the assigned technician for the day. The telepresence probe soundlessly moves away from my reclined position, only to emit an ungainly beep at reaching a safe distance. They would have to run one of those health programs now which meant I'd lose about four missions. I inclined my head to gaze at the emotion wall pulsing with seemingly random energies, a part of it stopped to look back at me then moved on, gradually diminishing its view of my thoughts.
"It's strange, now I'm sure that the terrain in this setting was deliberately holding me in a position of safety away from that damn shuttle booster."
"So did the booster trigger your regression?"
"No." The only actual pleasure out of my job was the rare regression that one is supposed to see of one's life at the moment before death. The Technicians had tried programming images into the simulation upon death of your character, but this had actually led to mental damage which had taken way too long for the organization to accept. Occasionally, once before for me on my first run, pilots had seen there life flash before their eyes - truly a wonderful and stimulating experience. No, that Columbus booster was supposed to be a subtle push in the direction of the past but hadn't worked. It could also be why my physiological state was so balanced.
We weren't supposed to die because we had been told we were running these 'simulations' to discover why computer systems had developed a peculiar habit of demanding human interaction. All the leading computer operation companies were enlisting 'Diamond Hackers'. That is what I am, a mercenary (by definition from the edge of habitual space) whose specialty was system/vehicle manipulation. This skill had led me through several illegal hauls and even one unofficially sanctioned pickup of some United Troops. The system I was operating now was gently probing the reactions of the main logic circuit of the Human Computational Facility. Situated in huge pyramids on each polar cap the Earth now behaved like a huge magnet. But where iron filings were the flow indicators in high school science, people now wrestled with the ultra fast exchange of logic between the North and South. Continually re-evaluating all its knowledge into the most efficient form.
The problem arises with the fact that if we can't return the system to its stable self then someone has to switch off at least several sections. I wasn't going to volunteer unless the price was right anyway. Picking myself out of the crash couch, I worked my way back to my room. Not a bad sized room, at least five times bigger than my living space aboard my ship. Placing the heath program into the schedule I flopped onto the old style bed, big enough for four people! The room seemed to gently vibrate and I was washed in a lighter shade of the standard blue. I knew it would imitate a sunrise so I let myself drift into sleep.
I remember dreaming of being lost in a shuttle station, not knowing what the time was and feeling like the station had been shut (something that doesn't actually happen) for ages. I woke up with a smile feeling drowsy but completely revitalised. Blinking several times I finally realised that everything was dark. Now you have to realise I was accustomed to a tailored sleep but being woken up by darkness and a sense of time that didn't feel right, made me jump out of bed promptly forcing me to my knees and hands on the floor. I crawled over to where I knew the door was and searched for the terminal. It was there but wasn't working. Murmuring curses under my breath I grabbed my pistol and forced the door open. The light switched on immediately making me feel like a polar bear in a desert. I got a few strange looks then went into my room. Terminal wasn't working so I left immediately for the lab via the local cafeteria. Advised a disbelieving technician and accepted the program.
The world shifted to the now familiar cockpit of a UF FaithRanger Tactical Medium Range Craft. One man, it had been the same craft as on my previous mission. I was greeted by a swirling rain pattern thrashing its way off my canopy. Translucent, all I could see was pelting rain. Instruments indicated I was moving very slowly at a height of about 120 metres. Collision warning craft - 300 metres dead ahead. Type UF-35 FaithRanger Reciprocal heading, collision speed - twice what I was doing! I reversed and the craft followed and answered all communication with an identical request. I pondered my image for a while and after several maneuvers discovered it was maintaining a position not more than 350 metres away. No navigational instructions so I was left wondering what I was even doing here. I figured it must be some personality test, and thoughts of raises in position flooded briefly through my mind. Okay, lose this aircraft, full throttle. The seat shifted upright as the acceleration forced me into the snug chair. Sensors show myself at 360 degrees. It was quite a sight seeing myself in full reverse thrust. As the speed increased my ship in front of me starts gradually becoming larger. I can almost see inside the canopy except for the damn rain. I gently pull up and get ready to break if I follow myself. I do, our noses hover surely on top of each other as we madly brake and our collision speed drops to zero. I select full reverse thrust as my ship hangs nailed in front of my face. I see my ship sprout two cones of orange as she selects full forward thrust. Eject, as my instruments buckle. Heat underneath and a strange flash of myself in an ejection seat.