We landed with barely a tremor, our craft's legs finding purchase on the scorched ground. The external sensors showed the temperature dropping rapidly as the sun sank toward the horizon—from deadly to merely dangerous.
"Atmospheric composition within tolerance," I reported. "We can operate without full environmental seals."
"Weapons ready," Vaxon said. "Remember: we're here to rescue, not fight. But stay alert."
The ramp extended with a hydraulic hiss. Heat rolled into the craft, carrying with it the smell of minerals and something else—something organic and distressed.
I was the first one out after Vaxon's initial security sweep, my eyes adjusting to the planet's strange purple-orange light. The cave entrance was visible ahead, dark against the glowing stone. And standing at its mouth?—
Small. That was my first thought. Impossibly small, barely reaching my chest height. Bipedal, bilateral symmetry, but so fragile-looking I wondered how they survived their own planet's gravity, let alone this hostile world.
There were sixteen of them. Females, I thought, judging by body structure and social positioning, though I had no way to be certain. They were armed with improvised weapons that would be laughable against Zandovian technology, but their stance was defensive, protective. Survivors who'd been pushed to the edge and were ready to go down fighting.
One of them stepped forward. Shorter than the others but holding herself with an authority that marked her as leader. Dark reddish hair tied back from a face that was alien and familiar all at once. Green eyes that tracked my movement with an intelligence that made something in my chest constrict.
She was looking at me the way I looked at failed systems—analytically, trying to understand, trying to find the pattern that would make sense of the impossible.
I tried the first contact protocol, speaking slowly in standard Zandovian. No recognition in her eyes. Tried three other major languages. Same result.
They didn't know any of our languages. We didn't know theirs.
The leader—I found myself thinking of her as the leader, regardless of actual hierarchy—said something in a melodic language that bore no resemblance to anything in my linguistic database. Her voice was higher-pitched than Zandovian females, with an emotional resonance that suggested complex social bonding.
I gestured to the others behind me, then to our landing craft. The universal language of rescue: come with us.
The leader turned to speak with her companions, and I used the moment to really observe them. They were in poor condition—too thin, showing signs of dehydration and exhaustion, some injured. Their clothing was damaged, improvised, clearly not designed for this environment. Whatever had brought them here, it hadn't been planned.
The cave behind them was barely adequate shelter. I could see their camp—salvaged equipment, dying power sources, the kind of desperate engineering that came from having no good options. The beacon I'd tracked was sitting in the center, a monument to stubborn refusal to die quietly.
The leader turned back to me, and our eyes met across the distance of species, language, and cosmic accident.
She raised her hands in what I recognized as a non-threatening gesture. Took a step forward. Another. Each movement deliberate, controlled, like she was approaching something that might bolt or attack.
When she was close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her green eyes, close enough to smell the copper-sharp scent of human stress, she touched her chest.
"Dana," she said clearly.
A name. She was giving me her name.
I touched my own chest, spoke my name in return. "Er'dox."
Her pronunciation would be terrible—human vocal structures couldn't replicate Zandovian phonemes—but the intent was clear. First contact. The exchange of names. The beginning of communication.
She spoke again, and I caught the tone even if I couldn't understand the words.We need help. Please.
Behind her, one of the others made a sound that was unmistakably distress. Others were moving now, preparing to abandon their cave, their last shelter.
I gestured again toward the craft, more insistent this time. We needed to move. The temperature was still dropping, butit would rise again soon enough, and I had no interest in experiencing a Class Seven planet's day cycle firsthand.
Dana—the leader, the engineer, the woman who'd kept these people alive with improvised technology and sheer determination—turned back to her people and gave an order. They moved with surprising efficiency for a group in such poor condition, helping the injured, gathering what supplies they could carry.
She was the last to approach the ramp, taking one final look at their cave. I saw something in her expression that I recognized from my own experience—the knowledge that you're leaving behind the last piece of safety, stepping into complete unknown, gambling your survival on trust you can't verify.
Then she met my eyes again, and I saw the decision solidify. The choice made.
She stepped onto the ramp, into the landing craft, into my responsibility.
The ramp sealed behind her with a hiss of hydraulics, and I watched her flinch at the sound—not fear, exactly, but high-strung alertness. Every nerve ending live-wire aware.
