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I pull at the buckles keeping me harnessed into the wreckage and crawl out of the place where my windshield used to be, then turn and survey the damage. It’s… bad. The hull is crushed. The wings are gone. It looks more like a shiny saucer-type rock than any kind of spacecraft. I have about as much chance of getting this off the ground as I do of growing wings and flying.
Panic rises in me, but I do my best to push it down. There’s one option left. If the shuttle’s controls aren’t too damaged, I may be able to summon my ship down using the emergency beacon. That is very, very much against protocol, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
The beacon is located in what remains of the cockpit, and it’s still intact. I think. That shell is designed to withstand the force of a star going supernova, and it’s the only reason I’m alive. It is also designed to act as a base in emergencies. There are beacons, blankets, spare clothes, generators, and other items that will help me stay alive.
I practiced crash landings over and over in the academy, but the simulator wasn’t even close to this. I’m shaken, adrenaline coursing through my system, making me stupid as I try to remember what comes next. Our more cynical instructor said something that now comes blazing into my mind: You don’t really want to survive a landing on an alien planet. Quick deaths are better than slow.
He was a bastard, but he was probably right. I’m breathing air that is likely loaded with all sorts of pathogens. There’s a decent chance that most, if not all things on this planet will kill me.
My training is starting to kick in. I’m going to need protein sources for the onboard emergency ration generator. There’s no guarantee I can eat anything down here, but if I can gather base resources, the generator should be able to use solar energy to create palatable food for me, extracting the right levels of vitamins and minerals to… oh, who gives a fuck. I’m listing facts in my head to try to calm my nerves, but I know how much trouble I’m in.
Even if I somehow survive, the Patron and the council are never going to believe this was an accident. If I bring my ship down, the logs will show it entered the atmosphere. They’ll lock me up and freeze me for that. But what can I do? The alternative is having them swing by in three years and catching me down here anyway.
I try to get rid of some of the adrenaline by walking around the crash site. The area I’ve landed in is open ground. I’ve torn up soil and pale blue grass and left it strewn in my wake, all the way down to a purple- and green-tinged rock below. I have left a scar on the world, but fortunately, not on myself.
Okay. What am I going to do? Call the ship down? Try to survive down here? Spend some time doing reconnaissance before I go back up? I mean, I’m down here now. May as well look around. I could gather the kind of data I’ve dreamed of. No more on screen readouts. Actual living things to look at.
Circling back around to the cockpit, I decide to call the ship down. It’s the right thing to do. It’s the correct thing to do. Protocol dictates that if you somehow end up on world, you get off it as quickly as possible. My hand reaches for the beacon, but stops.
Why the hell am I hesitating? I’ve crash-landed. This is dangerous. This is scary. This is… exciting.
I pull my hand away and resume my wandering. Maybe if I stay down here just a little I can explore the planet. If I’m going to end up in stasis, maybe I should give myself something to remember while I’m frozen.
I’ll take care to stay away from anything that looks sentient. Including the humanoids. And maybe the Patron will forgive me. I mean, I did crash. The evidence for that is obvious. Is he really going to think I slammed my shuttle into the planet at near terminal velocity just to rebel against his orders?
Yeah. He probably will.
Something rustling in the gold and blue bushes nearby distracts me from my mental war with myself.
I turn and freeze, trying to remember if I have a weapon in the cockpit. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.
There are women emerging from the undergrowth. They don’t look like me. They look vicious. Their lips are curled back from their teeth, their breasts are bared and covered in light down and something bright scarlet red that might be blood and might be pigment. They look like animals, and they act like beasts. They are clutching weapons in their hands, spears and knives. One has a rock. It should be laughable, but clutched in that big hand, it is frightening. There is no doubt that they intend to hurt me.
