2. A Doomed Shuttle #2
I settle in for several hours of fast flight while the ship evacs us to a better warp point. We need to get away from this sector. Anything habitable nearby is already settled with the typical galaxy-hodgepodge of people, humans so genetically modified that they look alien.
We get three full minutes of silence.
Three.
And then the universe tries to kill us again.
There’s a short warning chirp. Then the whole world flips.
The shuttle rolls hard to starboard, screaming from the inertia. For a split second, I’m weightless—my stomach does a full revolution—and then gravity finds us again. Someone yells. Someone gags. My shoulder slams into a bulkhead.
“Brace, brace, brace,” the AI says, in the same tone it probably used to announce beverage service fifty years ago.
The deck lurches again. A sharp crack splits the air. Dana’s voice cuts through, furious and loud. “I hate this flying coffin!”
Static bursts from the ceiling speakers, and the smell of burning hits fast. The nav screen spits out useless lines of glitching code.
Piper shouts, “We lost attitude control?”
“Starboard engines are fried,” I yell back, punching the stabilizer until my knuckles sting. The console gives a low, miserable moan every time I touch it. “We’re in a flat spin.”
Outside the forward port, stars smear into spirals.
Glitter in a blender. I’m in a blender.
The air tastes wrong now. Laced with copper. The scrubber’s either jammed or dying.
“Sloane,” I manage. “Find us a landing site.”
She's shaking. Eyes wide, lit red by the hazard strobes. "I'm trying, Elena." Her voice cracks halfway through my name. “It’s—hang on.”
Sloane doesn’t finish.
The panel flickers, there’s a shower of blue sparks, and then—miracle—it stabilizes, along with the maneuvering jets. We stop spinning.
One amber icon glows at the center of the screen. Everything else is dark.
M-class planet. XYTHEOS. Landing in 0:12:14.43.
No alternates. The AI chose only one planet. We’re already in its system, well on our way to landing.
“We’re only twelve minutes out. This ship is crazy fast,” I say. No wonder it's falling apart. It wasn't made for this kind of acceleration.
Sloane stares at the screen. "No. Not that one. It can't send us there."
“Ask for a course correction,” I say.
“Course correction denied. Destination locked,” Sloane says.
“Why would they put us on a ship with a bad AI?” Dana asks.
“It’s programmed to keep us alive,” says Quinn. “How it does that isn’t supposed to be our concern.”
My gut drops. “The ship is in rough shape. We don’t have time to tour the galaxy. Can anyone tell us about Xytheos?”
I look at Sloane, but she’s staring ahead. Mute.
Dana exhales through her teeth. "Typical warrior world. Genetically engineered males, few females, territorial as hell. They’ve been begging for unaltered women for decades. Guess we’re about to make somebody’s century.”
Someone mutters, “Better a failed colony than the void.”
Sloane whispers, “Debatable.”
I wait for Sloane to elaborate, but she’s silent. My mouth starts running, trying to make up for her sudden pessimism. I can’t let them stop fighting. “Maybe we can evade them,” I say too fast. Too hopeful. “Carve out our own spot before anyone finds us.”
As if in response, the large display screen flares to life with a white glow, then cuts to black.
When it blinks back, a new message fills the display:
INBOUND VESSEL IDENTIFIED.
DISTRESS SIGNAL RECEIVED.
BIOMETRIC SCAN CONFIRMS: TWENTY FEMALES, ZERO MALES.
PER ASTRA CONVENTUM, ARTICLE VII — CUSTODY OF STARFALLEN IS MANDATORY.
ALL STARFALLEN WILL BE REMANDED TO THE CONCORD COUNCIL OF XYTHEOS FOR PROTECTION, INTEGRATION, AND GENETIC PRESERVATION.
HONOR IN SERVICE. PEACE THROUGH STRENGTH.
I snort. Because the other option is to puke. They’ve scanned us this far out, read our biometric data. They’re going to be more technologically advanced than New Terra. Our chances of evading them are dropping.
A ripple runs through the cabin. We've all heard the stories about warrior colonies and "custody laws." About protection that looks a lot like ownership.
Dr. Patel’s voice slices through it, steady but hoarse. “Elena? Is the computer saying what I think it is?”
“If you’re thinking genetically modified patriarchal world with an extinction-level woman shortage, then yes.
” I swipe the alert away, scanning through the planetary information.
“On the bright side, it’s got an advanced ecosystem and excellent infrastructure.
We’ll be their guests.” The word tastes like ash. “Maybe they’ll need engineers.”
But they’ll need mates more.
Sophia snorts. "Guests, huh? Sure. In a gilded cage." Sophia was a soldier back home. She doesn't say much, and when she does, it's usually about exits. If she's calling this a cage, she's already looking for the door.
Quinn leans her head back. “It’s not a prison planet. Just a really enthusiastic patriarchy.”
“What do they look like?” Lila asks, voice small.
Sloane checks her readout, her face bathed in the cold blue light of data.
“Mixed biosphere. Genetic records show heavy modification. Even the planet itself is modded. Could be scales. Could be fur. Could be bone plating. Depends on what the modders were fixing before they broke whatever was left of humanity there.”
Lila’s voice thins. "We're supposed to preserve the human race. How can we—" She swallows hard. "—if they're too far gone from human?"
Quinn gives a dry, humorless laugh. “They’ll have the right anatomy for the required act. Most of them will be sterile. That’s the rumor, anyway. They went too far—mixed too many alien lines trying to make perfect soldiers. You don’t get to play God without breaking the toy.”
“I want to hear every secret you weren’t allowed to spill on New Terra, Quinn. When we land,” Maya says.
Quinn’s cryptography work means she probably knows more than any of us. Quinn would be in big trouble for revealing anything. Maya would be in trouble for even asking her. But there’s nobody from New Terra to enforce any of that. Not anymore.
Quinn’s expression is carefully blank. “We just have to do our duty and get through this. Even if it means assigned fertility rotations with aliens.”
Sophia mutters, “We’re being remanded for fertility duty to a planet full of half-broken super-soldiers. Stellar.”
“Not broken,” Dana says, twisting her mouth. “Just territorial. And very, very male.”
The way she says male makes my skin tighten.
I run the numbers in my head. The ship’s trajectory, the remaining thrust, and the oxygen levels. It’s a simple equation.
Death or Xytheos.
Lila meets my eyes. “What’s the plan?”
I wish I had one that didn’t sound like a prayer.
“We land,” I say. “We stay together. That’s what this mission was built for. We were chosen to keep the species alive.”
Lila laughs sharply. “You think any other groups got out? That maybe the men made it? That they could claim us back?”
I glance at Dana. She used to deal with interplanetary agreements as a lawyer.
She frowns, thinking it through. “Under the Astra Conventum, repatriation is possible. If the survivors establish a new colony within one stellar year, and they can locate us. Their claim is legal. On paper. If these aliens follow laws, we’ll have some protections in place.”
“On paper,” Sloane repeats, her tone a scalpel. “New Terra’s gone. Even if anyone lived, they wouldn’t find us in a year. They won’t even know where to look.”
Tessa shifts, then says, “Prison planets have laws, but I’ve heard what happens on those.”
“Prison planets can’t enforce their laws,” Dana says.
The ship shudders hard. There’s a sharp sound from the aft compartment, and I hear a hiss. “Right now, it’s the law of gravity that’s being enforced!” I bark. “Brace for crash! Heads down. Shallow breaths!”
Hands grab hands. Instinct. Human. Desperate.
A chain of sweaty fingers and unspoken promises.
Sloane’s voice is a tremor. “If we die—”
“We won’t.”
I cut her off.
Because willpower’s the only thing still working on this ship.
“Approach locked,” the AI says in its calm, deadpan voice. “Prepare for landing.”