Page 2

T he twin suns of Xylos climb the alien sky, one a familiar, brilliant yellow, the other a smaller, angrier red.

Their combined light filters through the violet canopy, casting the clearing in a bizarre, bruised twilight.

I survived the night. The thought doesn't bring relief, only a cold, methodical awareness of the next problem. And the one after that.

The predators from last night will return. That is a statistical probability, not a paranoid assumption.

I push myself to my feet, my body a symphony of protest. Every muscle screams. My dislocated shoulder throbs with a dull, insistent rhythm, but at least it's back in its socket. A small victory. I need to collect them.

My first priority is defense. My makeshift shelter is pathetic, a few bent panels of hull plating leaned against the main wreckage. It offers concealment but no real protection. I need walls. I need a defensible perimeter.

“Log entry, cycle two,” I say, my voice a dry rasp.

The recording device's green light is a small comfort.

“Subject has survived the initial nocturnal period. Auditory evidence suggests multiple predator species, at least one of which is a large, terrestrial hunter. Immediate objective: fortify position.”

I begin scavenging, my movements stiff and painful.

I use the multi-tool's cutting torch to shear off larger sections of the pod's outer hull.

The metal is a lightweight alloy, easy to cut but surprisingly resilient.

I drag the panels into a semi-circle around my shelter, their jagged edges facing outward.

This isn't a fortress, Kendra. It's a cage with a very flimsy door. But it funnels any attack. Creates a kill zone. Assuming the blaster works. Assuming I can hit anything in the dark. Too many variables.

I work with a feverish intensity, my scientific training providing a framework for the desperate, primal act of building a wall.

I analyze stress points, calculate angles, reinforce weak spots with twisted metal struts.

It's a grim parody of my usual work. I'm used to building climate-controlled botanical enclosures, not desperate fortifications against things that growl in the dark.

The perimeter established, I turn my attention to the next critical need: resources. Food and water. The nutrient paste won't last forever, and my water purifier is designed for known contaminants, not the alien soup I suspect flows on this world.

I step cautiously beyond my new wall, the energy blaster held tight in my good hand. The forest is less menacing in the dual daylight, but no less alien. Every plant is a question mark, a potential source of nourishment or a swift, agonizing death.

Risk assessment protocol. Observation, analysis, controlled testing. The ESD handbook is useless here. It assumes a support team. It assumes a lab. It assumes we're not on the menu.

My spectrographic analyzer is miraculously functional, though its power cell is dangerously low. I can't afford to use it on every leaf and stem. I have to rely on my eyes, my instincts, and a dangerous amount of guesswork.

I start near the crash site, documenting everything. “Specimen 001,” I murmur into my log, focusing on a broad, fan-like leaf that retracts when my shadow falls across it. “Apparent photo-sensitivity and rudimentary tactile response. Note the serrated edges. Defensive mechanism?”

I move on, my boots sinking into the spongy, lavender moss. I find a vine covered in what look like berries, a deep, tempting blue. Too tempting. Bright colors in nature are often a warning. Aposematism. But the rules of Earth evolution may not apply here.

I snip one off with the multi-tool, careful not to touch it with my bare skin.

I bring it back to the pod, placing it on a clean piece of hull plating.

I'll begin a microdosing protocol later, when I have a stable water supply and a better understanding of my own physiological state.

Ingesting an unknown substance now would be reckless.

Deeper into the clearing, I find a network of fungi. They're not just bioluminescent; they pulse. I watch, mesmerized, as waves of soft, green light travel from one mushroom cap to the next, a silent, coordinated conversation.

Interspecies communication? Or a collective response to environmental stimuli? Like the change in light from the twin suns? The data is insufficient, but the hypothesis is... electrifying.

I spend hours like this, lost in the familiar rhythm of observation and documentation. It's a shield against the fear, a way to impose order on the chaos. But I can't ignore the changes happening within my own body.

My sense of smell, always sharp, is now almost overwhelming.

I can detect the faint, sweet perfume of a flowering plant fifty meters away.

I can smell the metallic tang of the minerals in the soil, the ozone from my own damaged equipment.

My vision feels sharper, too, especially in the shifting shadows beneath the canopy.

The world is a hyper-saturated, high-definition experience, and it's giving me a constant, low-grade headache.

“Log entry, supplemental,” I record, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Subject is experiencing significant sensory enhancement. Olfactory and visual acuity are well beyond baseline human norms. The effect seems to be escalating. Possible atmospheric adaptogen, or a neurological reaction to unknown airborne compounds.”

Or I'm slowly going crazy.

I'm also constantly thirsty, but my appetite is suppressed. My body feels like it's running on a different kind of fuel, one that requires more hydration but less caloric intake. My metabolism is recalibrating itself in real time.

I'm becoming a part of this world, molecule by molecule. Am I adapting, or am I being... rewritten?

Following a subtle downward gradient, I push through a thicket of the violet fronds.

The air grows cooler, damper. I hear it before I see it: the sound of running water.

The stream is small, but the water flows with a strange, syrupy slowness.

It's not just the viscosity that's wrong; the water itself emits a faint, internal luminescence, a soft blue-green glow.

I kneel, scooping a sample into a collection vial.

Back at the pod, I run a preliminary analysis using a repurposed component from the life support system.

The results are... problematic. The water has a mineral content unlike anything I've ever seen.

Heavy metals, complex silicates, and several compounds my databanks can't even identify.

My standard purifier won't touch this. It might even react with the unknown elements, creating something more toxic.

Another problem to solve. I'll need to create a multi-stage filtration system. Distillation first, to remove the heavy metals. Then a series of improvised charcoal and fiber filters. The fibrous inner bark of Specimen 004 might work.

The suns begin their slow descent, and the familiar dread returns. I retreat to the relative safety of my perimeter, my mind racing. I have water, or a path to it. I have potential food sources, pending cautious testing. But I have no real defense.

That's when I start cannibalizing my own ship.

My beautiful, state-of-the-art research pod, now a source of spare parts.

I'm not an engineer, but I know the principles.

I dismantle the short-range scanner, its primary lens shattered.

I carefully extract the power coil and the motion-sensing components.

With the multi-tool's soldering function, I reroute the circuits, creating a crude but functional perimeter alarm.

It's a low-power system, a simple tripwire that will emit a high-frequency shriek if anything larger than a breadbox crosses the designated boundary.

It won't stop a predator, but it will wake me up.

My hands ache, my shoulder is a constant fire, but the work is a balm. I am Dr. Kendra Miles. I am a scientist. I solve problems. This is just the most complex, high-stakes problem I've ever faced.

I create redundant data logs, transferring my digital journal entries to physical data chips and even scratching key findings onto salvaged metal plates.

If I don't make it, the data has to. Someone needs to know what's here.

The thought is both grim and comforting.

My professional identity is a rock in a sea of terrifying uncertainty.

As the last light of the yellow sun fades, leaving the world bathed in the bloody glow of the red dwarf, my new alarm system is active. The small monitor I jury-rigged from a secondary control panel shows a simple, circular display of the area around my camp. It's quiet. For now.

I sit inside my shelter, the energy blaster in my lap, and watch the screen. The fear is back, a cold companion in the encroaching darkness. I try to push it down with logic, with plans for the next cycle.

Tomorrow, I test the blue berries. A one-milligram sample, ingested with purified water. Monitor vital signs for twelve hours. If no adverse reaction, increase dosage. Then, I need to build a better water distiller. The current setup is too inefficient.

A flicker on the screen.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. It's at the edge of the monitor's range, a subtle distortion in the energy field. It's large.

A glitch? An environmental anomaly?

It flickers again, closer this time. Then another appears, to the west. And another. They're not random. They're moving in a coordinated pattern, sweeping through the forest. A patrol. Or a hunt.

This is not a single predator. This is a pack. Or something... else.

My scientific objectivity is gone, shredded by a primal terror that is pure, instinctual prey-knowledge.

The logical, analytical part of my brain is screaming that I need to collect data, to observe and record.

But the older, deeper part, the part that understands teeth and claws and darkness, is telling me to run.

But there's nowhere to run.

I watch the monitor, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The blips move with a terrifying purpose, their path slowly, inexorably, converging on this small, insignificant clearing. On the wreckage of my pod.

On me.

They know I'm here. And they're coming.