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Roslyn

A ship always has a story to tell.

Outfitted with the latest in blaster tech or fortified with meter-thick alloy. Superbly furnished for pleasure cruising or left to its bare-bones to make use of each centimeter of cargo space. Buffed to a pristine shine or stained with plasma burns from one too many atmospheric entries.

There are stories, if you know where to look for them, and I’ve spent a lot of time looking.

I’ve spent the better part of my last decade in cruisers bound for remote corners of the universe. In hulking freighters sent to resupply outposts, and sleek transports filled with troops headed to support some galactic war or another. In peaceful star systems where I could breathe easy on a landing approach, and in the midst of enemy fire.

I might just be one human in a universe bigger and more humbling than I’ve ever been able to fully grasp, but I’ve seen more of it than most. I know how to keep my head on straight in a crisis and my lunch down in the lurch of hyperspace travel.

But despite all those years and all that experience, I’ve never felt so ill-equipped to be aboard a ship. Hurtling through hyperspace just outside the Seventh Sector’s 39th jumpgate, she glides frictionless through the void. It’s a smooth ride, no hint of trouble, but I’ll be damned if I can make my body believe that. Muscles tense, throat tight, I try to remind myself I’m safe and not about to be blasted into oblivion, with absolutely no success.

Maybe it’s because I’m not piloting, but stuck back in the passenger bay.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been this alone on a mission.

Maybe it’s because, looking around at my fellow passengers, it’s never been more evident that I may be in way, way over my head.

But there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I turn my attention to the planet we’re approaching and focus on my breath.

In. I need to remember why I’m here.

Out. Panic won’t do anything but make this more difficult.

In. I’m ready. I’ve made plans and backup plans, researched and studied for months.

Out. I’m not going to fail. It’s just not an option.

My eyes adjust from the low lights of the passenger bay to the sprawl of space outside. The lush surface of Eritin II looms large out the cruiser’s window, brilliant and beautiful from way up here.

We’re on a slow approach for landing, a leisurely descent to the tropical planet’s shores as we near the upper levels of its atmosphere.

The world below is almost entirely covered in painfully blue ocean, scattered with landmasses of white sand beaches and emerald jungles melting into sloping mountainsides. Smaller islands dot the sea beyond the beach where we’re headed, little jewels shining in all of that turquoise.

My eyes trace familiar topography as I orient myself in a world I’ve only seen through maps and holos. I search desperately for a foothold, a stable perch that might ease the vise-grip panic has on my lungs, the restless, shaking energy coursing through each tense muscle.

But it’s no use. Looking only makes my mind race faster. It jerks me out of the soft padded seat in the passenger bay to the uncertainty waiting for me on the ground. The uncertainty I won’t be able to do a damn thing about until my boots hit sand.

I turn my attention back inside the cruiser.

Up and down the passenger bay, I’m surrounded by a kaleidoscope of alien beauty. I surreptitiously scan each unfamiliar face, trying not to notice the other twenty-four passengers doing the same. All of us sizing each other up, and all of us here for the same reason.

To compete on Mate Match, the Seventh Sector’s most popular reality dating vidcomm show.

Not so different, actually, from the shows that used to air back on Earth in its heyday, in its last gasp of entertainment and frivolity before the Collapse started.

But unlike those shows back on Earth—which I’ve only seen through maddeningly hard to find archived content in Sol Alliance databases—Mate Match is truly in another stratosphere.

Beamed to planets across the Sector, its viewers number in the billions, and its contestants come from far-flung galaxies and a myriad of different species.

The premise is simple enough. Fifty hot, single beings with basic physiological and sexual compatibility, dumped into paradise and let loose to find their ‘perfect mate.’

Truthfully, it’s much more of a trainwreck than that, with all the heartbreak and love triangles and betrayal played up for entertainment value.

Apparently sex and drama sell a show no matter what galaxy you’re in.

Still, even if the concept is easy enough to grasp, it doesn’t make me feel a whole hell of a lot better about being here. It’s been months since my application to join the cast was accepted, and even though this is exactly the outcome I wanted, it does next to nothing to ease my nerves.

In theory, everything is great. Perfect, even. Gone off completely without a hitch.

In reality, my heart’s in my throat, my stomach is roiling, and the meager breakfast I choked down this morning is in danger of ending up all over my boots.

“Anyone get a look at the goods?” a contestant asks from half-way up the ship.

She gestures out the window at the twin cruiser coming in beside us.

The cruiser we’re in is mostly filled with female contestants, and the other male, though there are also plenty of contestants who don’t fit that binary and chose which ship to hitch a ride on. We haven’t gotten to meet the contestants on the sister ship, and from this distance, it’s too far to get a good look.

And there’s no more opportunity to try as the ship shudders and a murmur of surprise works its way through the contestants.

The window is engulfed in a white-orange blaze as we breach the top layers of the atmosphere, and I blink spots out of my vision from the sudden flare of light.

As the passenger hold comes back into focus, I drag myself back into the present, into the cruiser carrying us toward those sapphire shores and the surprising comfort of realizing more than a few of my voyages over the years took place in ships just like this one.

I never flew an XC8 myself, but all these Jurvian models have the same look to them. Stalwart, reliable, a good ship.

This one has been modified to ferry civilians from Mate Match headquarters to the planet where the show is filmed, but not enough to make it unrecognizable. I certainly saw enough of the insides of these ships during my days with the Sol Alliance military for the tells to jump out immediately.

If I squint my eyes a little, it’s not hard to see this old bird as she would have been outfitted for troop transport. Stacked to the gills with supplies and munitions, huddled soldiers making space for themselves on any bit of spare floor they could find. Off-color jokes and nervous laughter, cards to play and liquor purloined from the last port, anything to cut through the drudgery of long treks through deep space.

I can almost see myself, too, amongst all those soldiers. Younger. More afraid. No idea where my next assignment was going to—

“You’re human, right?”

A sharp voice demands my attention, and my heart leaps into my throat when I find myself the focus of two sets of keen, curious eyes. Two contestants sitting on the opposite side of the cruiser wait expectantly for my answer.

The one who spoke is a Nexxan female. Tall, beautiful, with topaz skin and shining gray eyes, she tilts her head to one side as she studies me. The contestant beside her is Vas-Greshiran, I think, with deep brown skin and silver tattoos that almost seem to glow in the cruiser’s low light. She’s got silver eyes, too, every bit as focused on me as the Nexxan’s.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Hmm,” the Nexxan hums. “So that would make you the first of your species to compete on Mate Match?”

I shrug. “I guess so.”

There’s no guesswork needed, not when I’m painfully aware of my novelty here. But I’m also more than aware when someone’s got a mind to get under a fellow soldier’s skin. A fellow contestant’s skin, I suppose it is now, but the principle of the thing seems to be the same as she narrows her eyes.

“Nervous? I would be, given the proportions of some of the males they’ve probably cast. I wonder how that would work, considering how small humans are. Would you even be able to—”

“What’s your name again?” I ask.

I’m not entertaining that thought. Not for a single damn second. Who on the other cruiser I may or may not be able to take to bed is entirely irrelevant.

She bristles. “Ansalla.”

We all made introductions at the start of the flight, but I wasn’t trying to be rude. With my head full to the brim with nerves and plans and mental maps, I really did forget.

“Roslyn,” I say, and that’s all she’s getting.

No use being cute or trying to play nice. Not when this soldier— contestant —has obviously singled out the weak member of the herd and is ready to press her advantage.

Ansalla opens her mouth, but she doesn’t get any words out before the contestant sitting beside me pipes up.

“And I’m Juni!”

We both look, and I choke back a surprised laugh when Juni winks at me.

With her maroon skin, wings, and black, curling horns, I have no idea what species she is, but she’s stunning.

“A pleasure,” Ansalla drawls.

Apparently also ready to be done with the conversation, she turns her attention back to the Vas-Greshiran. The two of them start speaking softly to one another, too softly to pick up what they’re saying, though their eyes do occasionally dart my way.

“That was unnecessary,” Juni mutters beside me, and I bite back another smile.

“Not necessarily wrong, though,” I say. “I’m a little on the scrawny side compared to…”

I glance around at the other contestants. Some are having their own conversations, some appear to be sleeping, and others are entirely focused and in their own world, like they’re psyching themselves up for whatever’s waiting for us on Eritin II and the Mate Match beach.

Troops, preparing for their next battle.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone size appropriate. I’ll help.”

I arch a brow at her. “Really? And what kind of male would be ‘size appropriate’ for me?”

“I heard there are a couple of Jurvians in the cast. They could be a good time.”

I groan. “I’ve been burned by one too many Jurvians. They make a good ship, but are notoriously cocky flyboys.”

Juni laughs and thinks for a moment. “Vas-Greshirans, then, definitely. And maybe Sendahlans, if you’re not opposed to the scales.”

“Rough?”

“Surprisingly silky! Two, um… appendages, though, which might be a bit of an adjustment.”

I huff a laugh. “Noted.”

“And Volbherrans. Definitely Volbherrans.”

“How many appendages are we dealing with there?”

“Just one.” She winks. “And forked tongues, which could very much come in handy depending on your anatomy.”

“Oh, really? And you have firsthand knowledge of this?”

Juni sticks her forked tongue out at me. “Absolutely.”

We both dissolve into laughter, drawing reproachful glances from Ansalla and the Vas-Greshiran and a few other contestants, but I couldn’t care less.

It’s… nice. Finding a friendly face here.

Maybe if I were actually on this show to find a guy, Juni could play matchmaker for me. Maybe we’d be friends.

Even though that’s not the case, and even though my days on the Mate Match beach are already numbered, I let myself enjoy it for a few moments.

I let myself feel like I’m not entirely alone here.

Alone in the whole damn universe.

Juni starts to say something else, but the ship’s comm system crackles with an announcement that my translator implant picks up as a warning we’re about to start our final descent.

I check my seatbelt, and panic rears its ugly head again as the atmospheric fire fades and the surface of the planet comes back into view.

Much bigger now, and more vibrant, full of sunshine and life and color.

I’ve been studying maps and videos and holograms of Eritin II for months, but none of them do it justice. Breathtaking, in all it’s verdant glory. Familiar in a way that makes me think of photos I’ve seen of Earth, though I barely have any memories of my own to compare it to.

A far, far cry from the planet I landed on after evacuating the human homeworld. I drink it in greedily, something unconscious and primal at the center of me aching at the sight of it.

But there’s no time for that, either. No time to forget or let myself be distracted or take trips down memory lane.

With that strange, unfamiliar homesickness sitting heavy in my chest, I focus on my breathing and try to get my head back on straight

I’m not here to admire, or to compete.

I’m just a soldier on another mission, ready to get my boots on the ground.