"No shit," Elena muttered. "Question is: do we trust them?"
I looked back at our cave. At our dying beacon and our dwindling supplies and our injured lying on makeshift beds. Looked at the women who'd survived a disaster beyond imagination, only to face death by slow starvation on a hostile world.
Then I looked at the aliens. At their ship hanging in the sky like a mechanical god. At the technology that had brought them here, to this exact spot, at this exact time.
Terror and hope warred in my chest, two sides of the same desperate coin.
"We don't have a choice," I said finally. "We're out of time, out of supplies, and out of options."
I took a step forward, hands raised in what I hoped was a universal gesture of non-aggression. The blue-bronze skinned alien watched me approach, those amber eyes tracking my movement with an intelligence that was simultaneously comforting and deeply unsettling.
When I was close enough to see my reflection in his eyes—close enough to smell copper and ozone coming off his skin, I stopped.
"I'm Dana," I said clearly, touching my chest. "We're... we need help. Please."
The alien stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he touched his own chest and made a sound that I knew was a name, even though I had no hope of pronouncing it.
Behind me, I heard someone start to cry. Tears of relief, probably. Or fear. Maybe both.
The alien gestured again toward the landing craft, more insistent this time.
I turned back to face the others. Fifteen women were looking at me for the answer, for the call that would determine whether we lived or died.
"We're going," I said. "Everyone. Now."
"Dana—" Jalina started.
"Now," I repeated. "Grab what you can carry. Help the injured. Move."
They moved. Because that's what we did. We survived, and we adapted, and we made impossible choices because the alternative was giving up.
I was the last one to board the landing craft, taking one final look at the cave that had been our shelter, our prison, our last defense against a planet that wanted us dead.
The alien was waiting at the top of the ramp, those amber eyes still watching me with that uncomfortable intensity.
I met his gaze, tried to convey everything I couldn't say in words: gratitude and terror and desperate hope and the bone-deep exhaustion of carrying fifteen other lives on my shoulders.
Then I stepped onto the craft, into the belly of an alien ship, and the ramp began to close.
Behind us, through the narrowing gap, I caught one last glimpse of the cave entrance, of the planet's surface beginning to glow red with heat as the sun started its climb.
The ramp sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss.
We were committed now. For better or worse.
And as the craft lifted off, carrying us toward the massive ship hanging in the sky above, I couldn't help but wonder if we'd just been rescued or captured.
I guess we were about to find out.
The descent was rough, atmospheric interference playing hell with our stabilizers. I monitored the craft's systems, making real-time adjustments to keep us from tumbling into an uncontrolled spin. The planet didn't want us here. The feeling was mutual.
We broke through the worst of it as the sun began its descent, timing our arrival for the temperature transition. Through the viewscreen, I could see the surface—red rock, heat shimmer, a landscape that looked actively hostile to organic life.
"Life signs confirmed," our pilot announced. "Multiple contacts in the cave system, approximately twenty meters from our designated landing zone."
My chest tightened—an emotion I didn't quite have a name for. They'd survived. Against all probability, whoever was down there had lasted long enough for rescue to arrive.
"Approach slow," Vaxon ordered. "Don't spook them. Unknown species means unknown threat assessment."
