Chapter 1

Ever since I was a little girl, I have dreamed of adventure. Each night, in my small village, I looked up at the night sky. For me, each speck of light held an untold story. I would spend hours on the roof, fantasizing about alien worlds. And it was in my fantasizing that I wouldn’t hear my mother calling. She would scold me for staying out when it was dark. It was dangerous, she said. But, of course, I didn’t listen.

Now here I am, alone on a one-person voyager. It has been five (long) years since I awoke from deep sleep and my ship exited hyperspace in a new galaxy. I go where no human has gone before. Exciting? Well, that night sky full of little lights is a lot darker up close and ... a lot less full of adventure. And so, I kick my feet up and flick to the next page of pulp fiction, not a care in the world.

Though, in my heart, I want a care, at least a little danger.

A blaring siren echoes through the corridors of the small vessel. Sluggishly, I swing myself off my seat.

“OK, I get it,” I grumble. “I’ll strangle whoever designed the alarm to be so cursedculture loud!”

Of course, the issue—whatever it is—is nothing to be alarmed about. I’m not an adventurer, using my cunning and bravery to expand the domain of the Imperium. I am little more than a glorified babysitter, overseeing the ship’s computer systems, making sure they are running smoothly, while I slowly wither away from boredom.

The issue is probably an encoding error. I make my way to the control room ... strangely, the corridor lights do not turn on—no matter how much I wave my arms about. To save energy, nonessential systems only activate when I am present—like I am now! Shaking my head (this ship really is falling apart, like me), I enter the control room.

My heart skips a beat. Everything is down!

I rush to the interface, bringing up memory logs to see if they can tell me what happened—when they come up empty, my heart pounds faster. But it isn’t with fear. A grin pulls on the corners of my lips, as my mind races through possibilities, each time coming up blank. My smile grows...

“Oh my body, could this be what I think it is?” An adventure!

Seven grueling years in the Academy of Outer Space Sciences and Exploration, smuggling stimulants to pull six all-nighters a week, eating every meal in the library (with no friends to show for it), wearing weights on my wrists and ankles so walking between classes doubled as athletics training, never speaking my mind in fear I would exhibit signs of culture, all to graduate at the top of my cohort, all of it to be one of the select few sent on a mission to unexplored space. After five soul-crushing years of doing nothing, perhaps, finally, I am about to fulfil the dreams of my childhood self.

The screen starts flashing.

DATA TRANSMISSION FAILED.

Unable to form a coherent thought in my excitement, I read the fine print. Transmission tower non-operational. Require immediate attention. A piece of space debris could have hit it; unlikely, the ship had defense mechanisms in place—well, whatever happened, it required investigation.

I rise to my feet. I roll my shoulders and do ten quick squats. It seems like I am going to have to suit up.

As I pull the space suit from its rack, I am yanked back five years, or at least five for me (many more for the rest of the universe). I had just been chosen for the newest round of exploratory missions. After passing the Trace Signs of Ideology Assessment for the nth time, I was suited up and escorted onto a podium beside the other chosen. A Chancellor themself presented us each with a Diadem for Unrivalled Service to the Imperium (only given because they did not expect us to return), and the rows and rows and rows of dignitaries all rose to their feet and applauded. It was the best day of my life—or, at least, that is what I remember telling myself.

I open the airlock. Immediately I feel the weightlessness of zero gravity, only grounded by my magnetic boots. Then, without ceremony, the outer doors open ... to the blackness. And it takes everything away.

It is beyond comprehension, and you do not even try. How long I stay there, I don’t know, until eventually I remember there is work to be done, and I am able somehow to drag my eyes away from out there down to my belt, where I clip on the cord that will pull me back.

Pulling myself out onto the shell of the ship, I espy my destination. It is a small vessel, and the signal tower is only thirty yards away. But it will be a slow journey, meticulously un-magnetizing and re-magnetizing my boots.

Closer to the tower, I see at once something is indeed wrong. My heart skips a beat as I fumble (and fail) to unlock the tower’s control hatch. Finally, it clicks out, only slightly ajar, but mist-like smoke immediately cascades out. I fling it open, waving my hands frantically to clear my view. Everything is fried!

It hits me, really hits me. “Fuck,” I mouth. This could be an alien attack!

Un-magnetizing my boots, I yank the cord. Even as I fly toward the airlock, it doesn’t feel fast enough, not compared to my racing thoughts.

I am just one person, with no help to call upon, up against who-knows-what. There is a pistol in the storage room ... but on the opposite side of the ship. I’ll just have to make it there as fast as humanly possible. But I still have the magnetic boots on. Maybe I can take—

I hurtle into the airlock.

The magnetic boots hit the ground with a resounding clang. I am already bending over, unbuckling them. Tumbling out of the boots, I hear the outer doors close behind me. I scramble back to my feet and slam the exit button. The inner doors are barely open as I squeeze through and run!

I am in the storage room in moments (this ship really is tiny!), but council-knows where the pistol is. I am searching like havoc, through drawers full of replacement parts and tools whose function I have long forgotten. Finding the pistol, I turn on my heels, feeling sure that something was watching me. I am alone.

The blood is pumping too fast through my veins for me to think. I rush out, waving the pistol this way and that, as though the Academy hadn’t subjected us to high-intensity conflict scenarios, as though I hadn’t always made the most on-target shots. I dash from room to room, though after each my gait is ... less and ... less frenzied.

I make it to the kitchen at a walk. The pistol is at my side, in a loose grasp. I calmly look around inside.

“No aliens,” I say, and make myself ‘dinner’.

As I slurp down sludge, it finally dawns on me. Of course, there is no aliens! The fucking airlock! The airlock didn’t (nor could it have) closed while I was outside the ship. Accordingly, there was no way for an intruder to have made it on board without my noticing.

“Unless!” I look up.

But it is just a ceiling. A plain old ceiling. No spider-like aliens.

I deflate, just as a tranquil tone sounds, marking my bedtime. I get up—I know better than to break my sleep cycle—and trudge to the bedchamber.

“Ilfa, adventures are for novels, not for you,” I scold myself.

I shower, then climb into bed. In my exhaustion, sleep embraces me, and I enter a world of dreams.

I am trekking through a dense jungle with a band of guerillas. We are all carrying rifles. Are we running from pursuers, or perhaps getting into position for an ambush? I am looking around to take my cues from our leader, only to realize that she is me. How? The question goes without an answer—a boom in the distance, and the earth groans and the trees shake.

I wake up.

I moan at seeing that I am only two hours into the cycle. But then I hear it. A thud. One after the other. Footsteps? My first thought is to dress myself (not having seen another human being for years doesn’t mean I walk around naked!). I pull on a nightgown.

“Lights on,” I command.

The lights flicker, momentarily illuminating a silhouette, impossibly large, filling up the entire doorway—before the room is once again plunged into darkness. Am I hallucinating? I step closer.

My heart is pounding in my chest—and yet I take another step. I say a silent prayer. Let this be true.

The lights burst on. My eyes widen.

An alien creature is before me. A spindly, almost skeletal, body sprouts six long double-jointed arms extending in an inhuman manner, the three finger-like appendages of each clasping the doorframe. On two legs, resembling its arms, it stands—I imagine it scuttering on all its limbs, insect-like despite its enormity. Midnight black, its skin glistens in the light, appearing glossy smooth. It regards me with countless glassy eyes, while it slowly breathes through four holes, on each side of a four-part mouth, which seems to leer with thin lips parted to reveal hundreds of needle-like teeth. It is monstrous!

So, why am I not afraid?

Working against Imperial indoctrination, I draw upon my people’s wisdom, to base one’s judgement on character, history, and context, not on the body alone. I cannot be closed-minded. I am making first contact with alienkind!

My heart races with exhilaration as I try to think of what to do. Bowing my head and breaking eye-contact may be considered rude. I decide upon opening and showing my palms. I have no weapons, no hostile intent.

To my unadulterated delight, it mirrors my gesture, splaying its finger-like appendages. On their tips, I notice what appear to be suction pads and realize the creature must have indeed been on the ceiling when I reentered the ship. I shiver with the thought, and the next moment it is opening its mouth with those flesh-tearingly sharp teeth! I flinch back. But it doesn’t pounce.

Instead, from the mouth, between the long teeth, flicks out a worm-like tongue. It is long, twitching this way and that as though tasting the air. I hesitate only for a moment. It copied my gesture—now it was my turn.