I awoke to the sound of water. Dripping, echoing, distractingly rhythmic.
My leg burned. Not the subtle whisper of discomfort, but a full-throated aria of pain. The jagged wound on my calf was mostly sealed thanks to the nano-agents laced through my uniform — a miracle of science I will never again take for granted — but the bandages I’d made from my shredded pant leg were starting to show an abstract pattern of red blotches in the tan fabric. Stylish.
Beside me sat the only surviving piece of the ship I could find: a shard of metal, crusted with my blood. About the length of my hand, a long thin triangle with one fractured end making a nasty spike. Originally some part of a bulkhead or bracket on the ship, it had found a new home recently, lodged in my calf. I decided to call it “Lil Stabby”. Not out of affection, but out of necessity. Naming things gives them purpose. And you need purpose when you’re stranded on a hostile alien planet.
The crash had been spectacular. It had happened so fast. A tiny puff of smoke and light in the vegetation far below the ship, then suddenly flames, screaming wind, and a series of crunching grinding impacts. I found myself tangled in vines hanging from tree-like mushrooms. The slumgullion of tendrils extended for many metres around, and showed a trail of tattered and broken ends that terminated where I hung. All those vines must have absorbed the energy of my fall, and besides the shard in my leg I was in relatively good shape. The rest of the crew hadn’t been so lucky. I was the one egg that didn’t crack when the carton hit the floor.
Now, survival.
The fungus jungle, the Fungle?— could I call it that? — was dense with towering spearlike stalks, masses of fat, heavy globes, vines thick as firehoses hanging from huge phosphorescent caps that glowed in undulating greens, blues, and purples when the light faded.
I needed shelter. And elevation. The ground was saturated and soggy. I’d seen a ridge above the crash site, barely visible through the curtain of hanging moss and spore-pollen haze. I hobbled uphill, Lil’ Stabby in hand, limping like an arthritic goat. The incline wasn’t steep, just inconvenient. Slippery ground. Bulbous fungus underfoot. At one point I disturbed a sack of spores that exploded with a moist whump, dusting my legs in something that smelled vaguely metallic. It shimmered and sparkled faintly in the dying light.
Even amidst the pain and fatigue, the flora of the place was fascinating. More than once I had to remind myself I was in survival mode in the real world now, not on a research jaunt through an Institute biome farm.
By the time I reached the hilltop, the jungle had pulled back just enough to reveal a broad overlook: a wide ledge of rock extended out below the summit, a mossy outcrop and large cave at one end. The cave was protected from the daily rains, vines curled down around the entrance like curtains, and phosphorescent fungus bloomed in clusters along the walls. A good vantage. Dry. Defensible. Almost suspiciously perfect.
The walls were embedded with nodular round pebbles, and more of them were scattered around the ground. I picked one up, it was like a mix between glass and rock, smooth on some sides and devilishly sharp where it had a fractured edge. Flint-like. Not actual flint — wrong crystalline structure — but close enough for desperate improvisation.
I sat. Arranged a bundle of fibrous bark, dry grass, and what I hoped wasn’t sentient moss. Then, Lil’ Stabby in one hand, “flint” in the other, I scraped until my knuckles bled and my vocabulary devolved into nothing but swear words and pleading. Eventually — sparks. Flame. Smoke. Glorious, flickering life.
I fed it slowly, whispering encouragement and apologizing to the wondrous thing for my earlier remonstrations. When it was steady, I leaned back against the cave wall and allowed myself to feel a moment of pride.
I had a fire. I had a roof. I had Lil’ Stabby.
Progress.
I reached for a chunk of crusty lichen I’d pulled from the cave wall — greenish, brittle, threaded with dark brown veins — and tossed it into the fire, more out of idle curiosity than expectation.
The flames flared blue-green, bright and cold-looking. I leaned forward, squinting. “Well, ok then,” I muttered to myself. “That color suggests elevated copper content. Could be uptake through mycorrhizal networks in the substrate… possibly a metal-accumulating symbiont…”
“If it’s bioaccumulating heavy metals, it might be paired with medicinal detoxifiers. Potential pharmacological applications. Liver support, maybe. Or antimicrobial properties. Could even hint at more complex alkaloid-bearing species nearby.”
If only I had a lab. Or a spectrometer. Or food.
My ruminations unravelled at a sound — not an animal. Not a wind-shifted branch. Some subliminal cue that set off my animal wariness.
I reached for Lil’ Stabby.
Waited.
Just the rustle of vines, the hum of phosphorescent moths, and the slow, steady burn of my fire.
Then a figure stepped into the light.
She moved decisively. All coiled muscle and deliberate grace — like a panther who’d spent some time studying martial arts. Her olive skin glowed faintly under the funguslight. Green eyes. A small scar on one cheek. She wore a cut-down version of rebel fatigues, armor and utility gear strapped tight and tidy. A complicated looking rifle strapped to her back. A blade rode her thigh. And on her left wrist, partially covered by fingerless gloves, a black tattoo curled like some ancient sigil.
She didn’t speak for a long moment, watching me.
“You talk too much.” Her voice was soft but intense.
I blinked. “Good news: I talk less when I’m scared shitless.”
Her expression didn’t change. “You’re in my woods.”
“I thought they belonged to the fungus,” I said. “I was going to ask about a rental agreement.”
She stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you.”
She gestured at the mission patch on my sleeve. “That is clearly Imperial.”
“Well, I just discovered a probable copper-bonded medicinal lichen. And you clearly have a chronic attitude condition,” I said. “Which I might be able to treat.”
A pause.
Then — incredibly — the corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile. A glitch in the mask.
She moved around the fire, her gaze scanning everything: the crude shelter, my bandaged leg, the pathetic but functional fire. “One knife,” she said. “No tech. No backup. And you talk to mold.”
“Lichen,” I corrected. “It’s a symbiotic community of fungus and—”
She raised a hand. “Stop. No grunt has a vocab like that. What are you and why are you here?”
“Fair. I’m a scientist. Exo-biology. Got a suspiciously vague but incredibly lucrative job offer for a research position. I needed the credits and so here I am. The delivery method left something to be desired, but this planet is really amazing. There are interactions happening in the biome here that we haven’t seen anywhere else in the system.”
I took a breath to begin detailing some of the things I had noticed, but she raised her hand again.
“Enough. We can talk about this later. The Commander will want to meet you. Medic types don’t last long out here.”
She sat cross-legged on a rock near the fire, rifle still within reach but pointed elsewhere.
“It’s too late to leave for the base now, and you need rest. I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours. You better not snore.”
The unspoken truce settled over us like spores in the dark.
I didn’t sleep for a long time. The night noises were strange, and I got the distinct impression she was listening for something more specific than wildlife. Finally I dropped off.
Around midnight, she woke me and I knew whatever she had been waiting for had arrived. I heard it: a low, thrumming buzz. Distant. Directional. Closer.
“Drone,” she whispered, already moving. “Rebel tracker unit. They can track humanoid signatures.”
“But isn’t it friendly then?” I asked, immediately regretting the question.
“No.”
Bootleg drones. Poorly coded, often couldn’t tell friend from foe. Cheap to make. Prone to violence. Rebels deployed them as crude patrol dogs.
We slipped behind the edge of the rock wall, crouched. She pulled out a short-range jammer and swore when it fizzled. “Dead,” she muttered. “Of course.”
I peeked out just in time to see it emerge from the underbrush — tall, insectile, multi-limbed. Optical sensors gleamed like angry rubies.
She hissed at me. “Just stay out of the way.”
A blur, low and fast as it zeroed in and charged at the cave. It was so fast. But jerky, uncoordinated.
She rolled aside and it followed her, trying to get close enough to trap her in its arms. The slashing blades on the ends sliced just behind her back.
I stepped in, jabbing Lil’ Stabby into a gap in the armor plating — not heroic, more like “accidental bravery” — but maybe it gave her an opening. Then the segmented plates closed up, trapping my blade. Before I could let go the thing gave a violent twitch and the hard flank of metal shot out and slammed into me. I was flung into a tumbling roll and ended up sprawled out in the wedge of the wall and cave floor. The drone swivelled its sensors back and forth between us for a moment, hacked circuits struggling to determine a priority target.
She spun behind it, casually flipped a short blade from her belt, and drove it straight into the base of the cranial module.
The drone twitched, sparked, collapsed.
I lay on my back, gasping. “Did we win?”
She looked down at me. “You fight like a botanist. But you’re good bait.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“These things are impossible to control or program. Once they are turned on they just attack and try to capture anything humanoid in their range. The interchange point where I hit it is a weak spot we add as a kind of kill switch for emergencies like this. Bad tech, messy. But they’re cheap.”
She offered a hand. I took it.
We hauled the drone carcass to the back of the cave and piled scraps of lichen and mushroom trees over it. She set a tiny transmitter in a niche nearby.
“I have to get you back to the base, but we can send a team out to recover this. Someone will have to come back to set up the watchpoint anyway.”
I cleaned my wound while she continued with inscrutable scout-like duties, setting snares and redundant way finding transmitters. Lil’ Stabby, for the record, was a terrible surgical instrument.
She finished and sat down, her silhouette sharp against the brightening sky.
“So,” I said. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“Not today,” she said, watching the flames dance. “You might be useful. We need medical help.”
“And… charming?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she poked a chunk of lichen into the coals, and watched the flames shift color again.
“Beautiful, no? ” I said, looking at her and not the fire.
She rose and dumped out her canteen on the fire, then scattered the ashes with her foot. She gave me a flat look.
“Don’t push your luck, fungus boy. And save your breath, it’s time to move out.”