Physics of the Crowbar

Impact Control

He found a lever that said "Surface Access." It sounded hopeful. The ache in his left arm was at the bottom of his pain list, far below the acid burns and broken ribs, but it reminded him of its existence as he tried to throw the lever without using any muscle above his shoulder. His right hand held the pistol and didn't seem able to let go. Everywhere his eyes went, the barrel went too.

The lever went down, and the big rolling door went up.

Behind the door was a nice clean grey hall smelling of night-fresh desert air. No bloodstains, no aliens, no black char marks from teleportation discharge, no scuffs from military boots.

He eased through the rolling door and into the hall, gun up and waving, but the hall was clear and well-lit, wide open, silent; no cover, nothing to hide behind, but nothing hidden from him either. At a glance, he saw he was alone, but his mind wouldn't accept it. Surely an alien was about to materialize behind him, or a soldier drop through the ceiling above him, or a-

Stop it, he told himself. He was too busy for paranoia and in too much pain to put up much of a fight if one was called for. Focus. Act on what's under control, he thought, mentally walking himself through the basic laboratory setup exercise. A simple way to gather thoughts and start to frame an experiment when working with too many unknowns. Establish base parameters.

He was still breathing. Still walking. Had ammunition for the automatic, shotgun, handgun and revolver. Had three grenades and a claymore. Was in pain, yes, but wasn't life-threatening. He had to keep telling himself that, because every time he took a breath and a step, the broken ribs sent his brain a signal that said he was in fact dying.

He ignored it like he ignored the suit's constant blood loss detected refrain, set it aside in a box on a shelf to deal with later.

Establish variables. Move forward, choose direction. The hallway turned a corner and he eased around it, gun up. Nothing. More clear, empty well-lit space. It seemed to mock his caution. A door to his left, a dark opening.

A variable.

Anything might come out that door.

He unhooked a grenade, pulled the pin and was about to release and roll it in when he saw the glow of the med box on the far wall. He put the pin back.

He needed the med box. He needed it because he hurt and the pain was distracting him and damage to his physical systems was making him slow. And because he very, very much wanted the chemical distraction it promised. The opiates would give him mental distance from the three dead women and the punch of the sniper round, from the way the guard's eyes had gone blank as the bullet passed through his skull. They'd give him relief from the tension in his shoulders and the twitching feeling of being watched, of the enemy about to attack from where he couldn't see.

That's what he told himself, as he wavered in the hall, facing the door. It wasn't true chemical addiction, not yet. His body just craved the relief from physical pain and mental strain like anyone would. He could walk away but he couldn't afford to. Not in his current state, not with his hands shaking and his breath shallow and short.

His flashlight didn't make much of a dent in the dark room, not with his eyes narrowed for the bright hall fluorescents. Some crates on the wall, but pushed back against it. Ceiling whole. There would be a blind spot as he stepped through the door, though.

He hesitated. Variables. He couldn't control the space, but he couldn't control the pain forever either, nor the mounting paranoia threatening to trap him in a corner as it had trapped so many of his colleagues. He listened, counted to ten and heard nothing. So he counted to a hundred, and then stepped through.