Chapter 8
Dana
The landing craft's interior smelled like metal and recycled air and the sharp tang of adrenaline that sixteen people trying not to look terrified produced.
I sat between Er'dox and one of Vaxon's security officers, a massive Zandovian named Kor'val whose bicep was approximately the size of my entire torso, and tried to remember the breathing exercises from Liberty's survival training.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Repeat until you stop feeling like your heart is trying to escape your ribcage.
It wasn't working.
"First field mission?" Kor'val asked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You're holding your breath every time we hit turbulence. Either first mission or you have serious trust issues with pilots."
"Can't it be both?"
That actually got a laugh from him, which made the other security personnel glance over with expressions ranging from surprise to amusement. Apparently joking with the giant alien warriors was not standard terrified-engineer behavior.
Er'dox leaned closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear over the engine noise. "You don't have to prove anything to them."
"Yes, I do. I'm the junior engineer on a tactical mission because I found a weird power signature. If I can't at least pretend I belong here—"
"You caught sophisticated sabotage that my entire department missed.
You decoded a signal that should have been impossible to interpret.
You've already proven you belong." He paused.
"But if you need to convince yourself, focus on the mission parameters.
We're doing reconnaissance, not combat. Minimal risk scenario. "
"You don't believe that."
"No. But I'm trying to be reassuring."
I almost smiled. Almost. Then the craft hit another pocket of turbulence that made my stomach try to relocate to my throat, and I went back to gripping the restraint harness like it was the only thing keeping me attached to reality.
The coordinates were three hours away at standard speed, far enough that we'd left Mothership behind, close enough that we could call for reinforcements if things went sideways.
The system we were approaching wasn't on any major trade routes, which made it perfect for hiding salvage operations or establishing covert bases or generally doing things you didn't want official attention focused on.
"Approaching coordinates," the pilot announced. "Scanning for vessels or structures."
I pulled up the data feed on my portable interface, watching sensor returns populate in real-time. The third planet in this system was marginally habitable with a thin atmosphere, low gravity, surface mostly rock and ice. Not somewhere you'd choose to live, but adequate for temporary operations.
"Got something," the pilot said. "Small structure on the surface, probably prefabricated shelter. Minimal power signature, no defensive systems detected."
"Life signs?" Vaxon asked from his position near the cockpit.
"Inconclusive. Atmosphere is interfering with bio-scans."
"Then we land and investigate on foot." Vaxon's cobalt-blue eyes swept across the team. "Standard reconnaissance formation. Security establishes perimeter, Engineering evaluates the structure and any salvage. Dana stays in the center of formation at all times. Questions?"
No one had questions. Or if they did, they were smart enough not to voice them when Vaxon was in full tactical mode.
The landing was smooth despite the marginal atmosphere, our pilot threading us down through ice crystals and thin air to set down maybe fifty meters from the structure.
Through the viewscreen, I could see it clearly now—definitely prefabricated, definitely human design, definitely not supposed to be here in the middle of nowhere.
My heart rate kicked up another notch.
"Suit check," Vaxon ordered.
I pulled my environmental suit's helmet into place, feeling the seals engage with soft hisses that sounded way too final.
The heads-up display activated, showing me atmospheric composition that would kill me in about three minutes without protection, surface temperature that was technically above freezing but not by much, and a structural analysis of the shelter that suggested it was in decent condition.
"Dana, communications check," Er'dox said through the suit comm.
"Reading you clearly."
"Good. Stay close. If shooting starts, get behind the nearest security officer and let them handle it."
"If shooting starts, I'm going to have several questions about your minimal risk scenario assessment."
I heard what might have been a quiet laugh before he cut the channel.
The ramp extended with hydraulic precision, and Vaxon led us out into the alien landscape.
The gravity was definitely lower than Mothership standard, not enough to make me float, but enough that each step felt slightly wrong, like walking on a surface that didn't quite believe in keeping you grounded.
The security team formed up around Er'dox and me with practiced efficiency.
Kor'val took point, two others flanked us, and the rest spread out in a perimeter that looked casual but was probably anything but.
I'd watched enough tactical drills aboard Mothership to recognize professional paranoia when I saw it.
The structure was maybe thirty meters ahead, sitting on the ice-rock surface like someone had just dropped it there and walked away. No external lights, no visible activity, no signs of recent habitation beyond the power signature we'd detected.
"Er'dox, Dana, take lead on structure analysis," Vaxon ordered. "Security maintains the perimeter. No one enters until we've confirmed it's safe."
We approached carefully, and I pulled up scanning equipment on my portable interface. Power signature was definitely active but minimal with basic life support and environmental controls, maybe emergency lighting. Nothing that suggested active occupation.
"Door's sealed," Er'dox observed, studying the entrance mechanism. "Standard emergency lock configuration. Designed to keep the atmosphere in, not people out."
"Can you open it?"
"Easily. Question is whether we should."
"We came all this way. Might as well see what someone wanted us to find." I moved closer to examine the lock mechanism, and my breath caught. "Er'dox. Look at this."
He leaned in, his massive frame casting shadows across the lock panel. Then I saw his posture change with recognition, surprise, maybe concern.
The lock was marked with human symbols. Not just any symbols, but Liberty mission identifiers that only the crew would know.
"Someone from Liberty built this," I said, my voice barely steady. "Someone survived long enough to establish a shelter, maintain life support, and send signals back toward Mothership's location."
"Or someone found Liberty salvage and is using human symbols as bait." But Er'dox didn't sound convinced. "Only one way to know for certain."
He interfaced with the lock, his Zandovian engineering expertise making short work of human emergency protocols. The door hissed open, releasing a puff of slightly-warmer-than-outside air that my suit sensors immediately analyzed.
Breathable for humans. Marginal for Zandovians. Life support was active and functional.
"I'm going in first," Vaxon said, materializing beside us with that unnerving silence large beings shouldn't be capable of. "Security sweep, then Engineering."
He disappeared into the structure's dim interior, and I tried not to think about all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong. Ambush. Trap. Automated defenses. Structurally unstable prefab that collapsed on top of us. My engineer brain was excellent at catastrophizing.
"Structure secure," Vaxon's voice came through the comm. "No contacts, no threats detected. Er'dox, Dana, you're clear to enter."
We moved inside, and I had to let my eyes adjust to the lower light.
Emergency illumination panels provided just enough visibility to navigate without running into things.
The interior was cramped even by human standards with a single room, maybe four meters by four meters, with basic survival equipment clustered against the walls.
And in the center, a workstation cobbled together from salvaged Liberty components and improvised repairs that made my beacon engineering look elegant by comparison.
"Someone lived here," I said quietly. "Recently. There's food wrappers, waste recycling is active, the sleeping area's been used."
Er'dox was examining the workstation with professional interest. "Sophisticated communication array. They've been monitoring multiple frequencies, probably scanning for signals that might indicate other survivors."
I moved to check the data logs, my hands finding the familiar interface despite two weeks away from human technology. The system booted up, and I started pulling files.
"Personal logs," I breathed. "Someone documented everything. The wormhole disaster, the escape, establishing this shelter—" I opened the most recent file, and a face appeared on the small viewscreen.
Human. Male. Maybe mid-thirties, with dark skin and exhausted eyes and the kind of desperate determination I recognized from looking in mirrors on the burning planet.
"This is survivor log, so many days I’ve lost count," the recorded voice said. "Still no response from Liberty command. Still no rescue signals detected. Beginning to accept that I might be the last one."
My throat tightened. Since the demise of Liberty. He held hope that was slowly dying.
The recording continued: "Modified the beacon today. Added human encoding protocols to the power modulation signal. If anyone's monitoring in this sector, Zandovian, human, anyone, they'll see the variance. Long shot, but long shots are all I have left."
"That's the signal I detected," I said. "He created the power bleed specifically to get someone's attention."