“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 couldmean 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.
TWO
Tai
Crash-landing is not the way these fucking pods are supposed to work. I’m alive, but this thing is dead. I kick the hatch open and immediately know where I am when the sand pours in. The one place in the entire universe I swore I’d never return to. I fling the respirator back into the lifepod. It wouldalmostbe better if I needed to use it because then it would mean I wasn’t on Sabaak. At least I’ve got my blaster this time.
This is all Bri’s fault.
Once things calmed down back home, Aro gave me a simple mission: get Bri back to j’Tilak. But things are never that simple with her. Silly me for expecting her to be happy when I showed up. Instead of gratitude and cooperation, she radiated disdain and fury. It still doesn’t quite make sense to me. A few weeks ago, Bri was on my home planet doing anything she could to stay. Then, she wouldn’t let me take her back.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by any of this. Come to think of it, every interaction with Bri has sent me on a collision course with ruin.
I don’t know which is more irritating: Bri refusing my help, which she obviously needs, or the sand grinding between my teeth.
The thing I hate most about Sabaak is the bad memories it brings up. I’m a completely different Tilak now—those memories belong to someone else.
First things first: I need to get to higher ground and locate Bri. She can’t be far. Hopefully she’s still with her pod. Anyone with the smallest amount of self-preservation knows to stay with the lifepod after a crash landing. It’s a lot easier to find a lifepod than a lone figure wandering the desert.
We’ll probably be stuck here a day or two—max. Then we should be picked up. The locator beacons in the lifepods these days are pretty reliable. Any competent recovery operator should find us easily.
But then again, there are multitudes of travelers who get marooned on random planets and have to make it their home. Not me, though. I’ll get back to j’Tilak—or die trying.
I double-time it up the hill, moving fast so the sand doesn’t fill up my boots. From the top of the dune the howling wind lashes my face. I put on my visor, and it gets to work gathering data on my surroundings. Neon green glyphs leap across the screen and blink, rubbing in the bad news, as if I needed a reminder.
Inoperable lifepod.
Boiling temperatures.
Limited emergency supplies.
