Chapter 1 Bri
ONE
Bri
Ipull off my boots for the millionth time and dump out the sand.
It was a struggle to get up this dune. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes so I can get my bearings.
My wrecked lifepod is down below me nestled deep between two dunes.
It’s hot. I’m sweaty. And there is sand everywhere. Everywhere everywhere.
The crash keeps replaying on a loop in my head. The feeling of dead weight dropping through the atmosphere. The deafening roar followed by the absence of noise, which now I know is different from silence.
The console was dead by the time I came to. A pounding headache was the only confirmation I was alive. I felt around in the darkness for toggles or buttons to reboot the lifepod when my fingers snagged on the emergency survival pack under the cockpit.
The shape of the portable respirator was unmistakable when I pulled it out.
Every space traveler knows to secure the air mask first. I haven’t traveled much, but I can recite the instructional video from memory.
The clear face mask formed a tight seal around my nose and mouth.
With a hiss, sterile oxygen flooded into my lungs.
The bitter air from the respirator was beyond gross.
It took everything in me to keep it on so I wouldn’t suffocate.
The hatch opened and my ears popped, stoking my blinding headache. The respirator flashed green, indicating the air was safe. At least I had that going for me. I pulled off the mask and took a deep breath. The atmosphere smelled like dust. Not great, but better than the canned alternative.
Perched on top of the dune, I watch little avalanches of sand rush down and come to a stop against my lifepod from the impact of my tread. It’s a strange sensation, watching the ground literally fall out from under me.
From up here, dunes spread out in every direction except one, so that is exactly where I will be heading. Is it north? South? Who the hell knows? But the flat, cracked ground riddled with dried-up bushes is more appealing than the alternative.
This is all Tai’s fault. If he would’ve minded his own damn business, I wouldn’t be here right now. The overbearing alien maybe possibly saved my life, but I will never admit that to him.
I should have been happy to see him. After all, he was there to take me back to j’Tilak.
Which is what I wanted, but when I saw him across the room—tall, blue, and surly—my baser instincts took over, and I picked a fight.
A normal person might have cooled off after those few weeks, but it seems my issue with him only festered and grew.
His calm, cool demeanor sent me through the roof, and our entire convoluted past flashed through my mind.
Every time I thought he was redeemable, he would swiftly remind me that he wasn’t.
Now it’s hardwired in me to get mad the instant I lay eyes on him. It’s damn near Pavlovian at this point.
More sand falls down the dune, the unsteady ground getting more precarious by the second. I plop down and anchor myself to the ridge. My khaki coveralls are doing a shit job keeping me clean. Handfuls of sand weigh down every pocket and scratch against my skin underneath my clothes.
I hate sand. I hate it so much. I avoid the beach because of it.
The only redeeming quality of the beach is the water.
It’s absolutely my luck that I’ve crashed on a planet covered in sand with no water in sight.
As fate would have it, there are no waves crashing against the shore making me forget the itch of the sand in my underwear.
No cold water lapping at my feet. The rough grains between my toes are already forming painful blisters.
And there is a distinct lack of ice-cold beverages with tiny umbrellas to quench my thirst.
What I wouldn’t do for one of those drinks right now. I’d order a pink one with a slice of fruit or pretty flower on the rim. Every summer, I trudged along the beach delivering those kinds of drinks to rich assholes on loungers.
I see it so clearly, me balancing tray after tray of glasses with condensation dripping down the sides. A refreshing drink of blended colors to take the edge off. I’d stare longingly when I’d hand one over to a guest.
It’s crazy to think how far I’ve come from being that girl in Myrtle Beach. I finally got my wish to leave Earth and travel to a distant planet. All with the added benefit of playing a part in solving the food crisis on Earth.
Sure, things have gone a little off course, but what’s an intergalactic adventure if nothing goes wrong? It all happened so fast. A classic case of “hurry up and wait.” It gives me whiplash each time the thought comes back around.
Between classes on molecular biology and working on my genetic model, I worked shifts at the bougiest resort on the other side of the city.
When I wasn’t tits-deep in sand delivering cocktails, I dreamed about getting me and my family out of our miserable apartment in our miserable town, and out of working miserable jobs.
Fuck the beach—and fuck Earth, for that matter.
I lace up my boots and cinch them tight. It won’t keep the sand out, but hopefully I won’t have to stop so often to empty them. I rifle through my pack one last time, taking inventory. The contents haven’t changed the last three times I’ve checked. A little reassurance goes a long way.
Don’t think about food.
“Hello, my old friend,” I say to the nutrigels as I push them to the side. I haven’t had one of these since I traveled to j’Tilak from Earth. I was so hungry when I woke up from stasis, I pounded the gel and tore into a bowl of noodles. I ended up puking for hours.
I’ve got my air supply canister, some hydropacks, a foil blanket, liquid sutures, and a tiny graphite translator patch the size of my fingernail. There’s also a flat disc and a tightly sealed pouch. I have no idea what those are for.
Whoever thought of including the translator did me a solid. I’m not in the mood to play charades to get myself home. The chances are slim that someone way out here will speak the universal language.
I step down on the opposite side of the dune ready to tackle the sprawling desert to find salvation.
My foot sinks down into the soft sand, and before I can catch myself, I’m rolling ass over tea kettle all the way down.
I land with a thud at the bottom. It’s as solid as I had hoped—the air punched out of my lungs can attest to that.
“That’s one way to do it.”
Great, Bri. You’re talking to yourself. It’s only been a few hours, and you’re already losing it.
I tighten the straps on my pack and stagger forward. My shirt is drenched. Fluid pours down my back and legs. Two thoughts flash at the same time: Is that pee? Or did I just destroy my emergency provisions?
“Fuck!” My scream evaporates into the hot ground.
I drop to my knees and flip the pack open.
Most of the hydropacks broke along with half of the nutrigels.
I slurp the ooze off my fingers, trying to get anything I can from the ruined supplies.
It would have been better if I had peed myself.
Something I never thought I’d wish for. A hollow laugh starts in my chest. Wow, context really is everything.
Now is not the time to freak out. I take a slow and steadying breath. Calm and focused, calm and focused. Panicking now could mean the difference between life and death. And I refuse—absolutely refuse—to die on a goddamn oceanless beach.
I secure the straps on my shoulders again with the same determination and start walking, one limping awkward foot in front of the other.
“This is nothing but a little recreational hike,” I say out loud to myself.
Whenever I’m in a terrible situation, I play this game. I picture myself retelling the story of the event I’m experiencing. I think of ways to make it funny and maybe even embellish a tiny bit to raise the stakes.
This is definitely going to be a hilarious story I’ll tell over ice-cold cocktails, regaling a crowd with my survival skills. Impressing my brothers with my prowess.
The terror at realizing I’ve lost half my supplies is nothing compared to the horror rippling through my body when I realize my shirt and pants are bone-dry already.
I grit my teeth and dig deep into the stubborn part of me that refuses to give up.
There is only one outcome, and it’s where I conquer this desolate planet and get back to my life, surrounded by cold air and even colder drinks.
The toe on my good side catches a rock, and I’m pitched through the air again, landing on my face. Again.
“Jesus titty-fucking Christ.”
It takes all my mental energy to not list everything against me right now. Dwelling on all the negatives won’t do me any good. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I pull my arms out of my dirty coveralls and tie the sleeves off at my waist. If this is the adventure I get, then I will damn well enjoy it. I tighten my ponytail, ignore my swollen ankles, and set off.
This is going to make one hell of a story someday.