I’m not going to leave the ship and wander off, but I need to know how we landed. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I retreat to my quarters and add an extra layer of clothing and my jacket, so I don’t freeze to death the moment I step outside. I won’t be out for long. I’ll just walk around the outside of the ship so I can assess what state the ship is in and if it’s going to slide off the mountain. All practical things to keep me occupied and keep the panic entertained. It’s still the first hour—what am I going to do for the next 5 days and twenty-three hours?
I try not to think that far ahead. One thing at a time. Right now, I’m assessing the damage. I climb out the door and drop into the snow. It crunches beneath my feet. In two heartbeats, I know I’m not dressed for the mountains. I have no gloves. My flight suit and jacket won’t keep me warm for long. My boots aren’t made for hiking, they’re made for walking softly through ships. Everything screams that I’m not meant to be on the ground.
I take several cautious steps, my feet sinking into the powdery snow, away from the ship. One wing is missing, presumably it was ripped off when we crashed and is now on the rocks below, hydraulics spill from the wound. I was lucky the ship didn’t follow. I doubt I’d have survived the tumble. I trudge around to the other side of the ship and get knocked over by the wind.
The snow is rough and cold against my palms and quickly soaks into my pants. Strands of hair whip my face as the wind tears my neat bun into a million pieces.
“Fuuuck youuuu,” I yell, but the wind snatches my voice away. Cold and wet and annoyed, I scramble up to continue my inspection. But every step I take, feels like the planet is trying to stop me. The snow flicks up into my face and stings my eyes. The wind buffets me. I lean against the ship, and I’m sure it moves.
No.
I yank my hand away. The ship groans again, and metal shrieks against rock. Then stops. I run, which is more like big ungainly steps through the snow that wants to rip my boots off, to the door and slide back inside. It’s only then I realize how dumb that is. If the ship slides off the edge of the mountain, I’ll be trapped inside.
For several heartbeats, I can’t move. I can’t stay in the ship in case it does go over the edge. I listen, but all I hear is the wind howling, whistling through the holes in the ship. Laughing at me for thinking I stand a chance.
If I can’t stay in the ship, the next best thing is to stay near the ship—unless it goes. I won’t be climbing down after it. I fill a bottle of water and stuff as many meals as I can into a bag. Then I take Sawle’s coat from his quarters and put it over my clothes.
I remember to grab the first aid kit, and the emergency survival kit, then I leave the ship for the second time. The storm seems less ferocious now, though lightning still lights up the sky and reflects on the snow. I don’t know where I’m going to spend the night, and it’s getting dark fast.
The ship sits awkwardly in the snow, a broken lump of twisted metal. It might be perfectly safe…or it might be a coffin waiting to happen.
I take several steps backward, then force myself to turn around and trudge upward to a rocky outcrop that looks like it might provide some shelter for the night. While I know the planet is uninhabited—by sentient life according the initial scans made when Lora was discovered—the hair on my neck prickles like I’m being watched. I pause halfway up the hill and scan my surrounds, hoping the animal with big teeth that enjoys eating drones doesn’t live this high up the mountains.
There’s no movement. There’s nothing up here with me, but for a moment I think I see a torch light. Hope flares and I squint against the wind stinging my eyes, the light hovers for a moment and then vanishes. I blink. It probably never existed. There’s no one here but me. But the feeling of being watched remains.
I’m not sure if it’s fear or hope. Or both.
