Page 1

Chapter 1: IMPACT

The shriek of tearing metal is the only sound I can process over the roar in my ears. Red light strobes across the viewport, painting the swirling cloud cover of the planet below in apocalyptic flashes. My knuckles are white where I grip the command chair's arms.

Maintain control. Analyze. React.

My own training echoes in my head, a useless mantra against the violent shuddering of the pod.

“Computer, status report!” I shout, my voice tight and strained.

“Warning. Atmospheric entry angle critical. Hull integrity at thirty-seven percent and falling.” The pod's synthesized voice is maddeningly calm. “Multiple system failures detected.”

No shit, HAL. Any other bright ideas?

“Reroute auxiliary power to the retro-thrusters! Override safety protocols and give me manual control of the stabilizers!”

“Manual control engaged. Acknowledged: safety protocols overridden. Probability of successful landing: 4.7 percent.”

I hate you, you glorified calculator.

The pod lurches violently to port, slamming me against the restraints. My teeth clack together hard enough to make my vision swim. Pain, sharp and immediate, blossoms in my shoulder. Dislocated? Fractured? No time to diagnose.

“Come on, you piece of junk,” I mutter, my fingers flying across the control panel. The holographic display flickers, the planet's surface rushing up to meet us. It's a blur of impossible green and a startling, deep violet.Fascinating. A world with purple foliage. Must be a different photosynthetic compound.The stray scientific thought is a flimsy shield against the terror clawing its way up my throat.

I wrestle with the controls, the stick slick with sweat under my palm. The pod groans, a death rattle of stressed alloys. I manage to level us out, just for a second, pulling the nose up from its suicidal dive. The G-force presses me into my seat, a crushing weight that steals my breath.

“Altitude: five thousand meters. Four thousand. Three thousand...”

The numbers drop with terrifying speed. Through the viewport, I see them now. Not just green and violet, but trees. Trees with structures that defy all known botanical principles, their branches twisting into interlocking archways, their roots growingupinstead of down. It's a forest, but an architectural one, like a cathedral built by a mad god.

“Two thousand. One thousand.”

I pull back on the stick with all my strength, my injured shoulder screaming in protest. The pod groans one last time.

“Proximity alert. Proximity alert. Brace for impact.”

The world outside becomes a chaotic smear of color. I close my eyes.This is it.My last thought isn't of my parents, or myfailed relationships, or the Nobel I was sure I'd win. It's a simple, absurd regret:I never finished cataloging the flora of Cygnus X-1.

Then, a sound like the universe tearing in half, and a final, brutal impact that snuffs out everything.

Silence.

A profound, ringing silence that is somehow louder than the alarms. I open my eyes, my breath a ragged gasp. The red emergency lights are dead. The only illumination is a soft, ethereal purple glow filtering through the cracked viewport.

I'm alive.

The realization is a slow, creeping thing, not a jolt of relief. Every muscle in my body aches, a deep, throbbing protest against the G-forces and the crash. My shoulder is a sun of pure agony. I risk a glance at it. The joint is swollen, the skin already darkening. Definitely dislocated.

Okay, Kendra. One problem at a time. Assess. Triage. Survive.

I unbuckle my restraints with my good hand, my fingers clumsy. The buckle clicks open and I nearly fall out of the chair, my legs refusing to hold my weight. I catch myself on the console, a wave of dizziness washing over me. The air in the pod is thick with the smell of burnt wiring and ozone.

“Computer?” I ask, my voice a croak.

No response. The panels are dark, the ship's AI as dead as the rest of the systems. I'm alone. Truly alone.

The main hatch is buckled, twisted into a grimace of metal. But the viewport... it's a spiderweb of fractures, but a large section has been knocked out entirely. A way out.

I haul myself towards the opening, my boots crunching on shattered glass. The air that drifts in is sweet and damp, surprisingly breathable. I take a cautious sniff. No obvious toxins. The scent is alien: like rich soil, crushed mint, andsomething else, something electric and floral. I run a quick diagnostic with my wrist-mounted enviro-sensor. Oxygen levels are high, nitrogen a bit lower than Earth-normal. Trace elements are... unidentifiable.