Page 2 of Bonded to the Star-Beast

That's not good. Unidentified elements could mean slow-acting neurotoxins. Or cumulative organ failure. Or nothing. Insufficient data.

I push the thought away. I have to get out of this metal tomb. I carefully, painfully, maneuver my body through the jagged opening, my bad arm held tight against my chest. My boots sink into soft, spongy ground that feels like moss but is the color of lavender.

I'm standing in a small clearing, carved out of the forest by my crash. The pod is a mangled wreck behind me, smoke coiling from its ruptured hull like a dying breath. And all around me is the forest.

My God, the forest.

It's nothing like the blurry image I saw during the descent. It's a place of impossible beauty and terrifying alienness. Trees taller than skyscrapers pierce the sky, their bark shimmering with a pearlescent sheen. The foliage isn't just leaves; it's a cascade of broad, violet fronds, some so dark they're almost black. Photosynthetic nodules, glowing with a soft, internal light, dot the undersides of the fronds, pulsing in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

The air itself seems to hum with life. I feel... strange. My senses are on fire. The purple of the leaves is so vibrant it almost has a sound. The clicking of some unseen insect is as sharp and clear as a bell. A wave of dizziness hits me again, and I brace myself against the pod's hull.

Atmospheric composition. Trace elements. Potential hallucinogenic or neuro-sensory effects. Or maybe I just have a concussion.

I need to be methodical. I need to treat this like any other field expedition, albeit one I didn't plan. I activate my personal log recorder, a small device clipped to my collar. Its tiny green light is a reassuring beacon of familiarity.

“Log entry, cycle one. Dr. Kendra Miles, reporting.” My voice is shaky, but I force it into the detached, professional tone I've used for years. “Mission vesselStardust Drifter... experienced a catastrophic failure. I have crash-landed on an uncharted M-class planet. Planetary designation... Xylos. That's what the nav-computer called it before it died, anyway.”

I pause, taking a deep breath.Just the facts, Kendra. No emotion.

“Initial assessment. The emergency pod is a total loss. Communications array destroyed. Long-range sensors offline. Life support systems are failing; reserve power at nine percent. My survival supplies are... minimal.”

I look at the wreckage, at the shattered remains of my scientific equipment. The resonance imager, my custom-built spectral analyzer... all gone. My heart sinks. That was my life's work.

No. Stop. Your life is what matters now. Focus.

“The local environment appears to be breathable, though atmospheric analysis is incomplete. Flora is... complex.” I trail off, staring at a tree whose roots seem to be pulling nutrients directly from the humid air, dangling like woody tentacles. “Evolutionary path is radically different from Terran standards. I'll need to establish a secure perimeter and begin cataloging potential resources. For now... for now, I need to reset my shoulder.”

I look around the clearing, my scientific mind assessing, categorizing. I need leverage. A sturdy branch, a rock crevice. My eyes land on a section of the pod's landing strut, bent at an angle. It'll have to do.

Setting my jaw, I approach the strut. I take a deep, steadying breath, hook my armpit over the metal edge, and let my body go limp.

The pain is white-hot, blinding. A scream tears from my throat, raw and animalistic. My vision blurs, and for a second, I think I'm going to pass out. Then there's a sickening, wetclunk.

My arm hangs loosely at my side, no longer at an impossible angle. The intense, sharp pain recedes to a deep, throbbing ache. I sag against the pod, sweat-soaked and trembling, my good hand cradling my injured arm.

Step one: complete.

The rest of the day cycle, which is alarmingly long, is a blur of methodical work. I salvage what I can from the pod: a medkit, three days' worth of nutrient paste, a water purifier, my multi-tool, and an emergency energy blaster with a half-charged pack. Not much, but better than nothing.

I use the multi-tool's cutting function to shear off panels from the pod's hull, creating a crude, defensible shelter against one side of the wreckage. It's not much, but it's a barrier between me and the unknown.

I force myself to eat a tube of the nutrient paste. It tastes like chalk and despair, but it's fuel. I use the purifier on a puddle of rainwater collected in a piece of bent hull. The water is clean, but has a strange, metallic aftertaste.

As I work, I keep my log running, a constant stream of clinical observations that keeps the terror at bay.

“The soil composition is rich in heavy metals, which may explain the unusual pigmentation in the local flora. Spectro-analysis required.”

And I have no spectro-analyzer. Brilliant.

“Observed several small, six-legged arthropods. Seemingly harmless, but caution is advised.”

They have way too many eyes. And they watch me. I swear they watch me.

“The twin suns are setting. One is a G-type star, similar to Sol. The other is a smaller, red dwarf. This will result in a complex and extended twilight period.”

As the larger yellow sun sinks below the horizon, the forest transforms. The red dwarf casts long, eerie shadows that seem to writhe and twist. The bioluminescent nodules on the plants begin to glow more brightly, bathing the clearing in a shifting, ghostly light of purple and green.

The sounds change, too. The gentle clicking and rustling of the day cycle are replaced by deeper, more menacing noises. A low chittering from the treetops. A heavy, shuffling sound in the undergrowth just beyond my perimeter. A mournful howl that echoes from far away, a sound that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

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