Tiptree boarded the aviator pod in preparation. The enclosed space, stark white surfaces broken by dark screens and switches, intimidated her.

Russ and Samuel waved as the airlock hissed and slid closed. The assignment was for seven hours, but she wouldn't see them again for seven days.

The count down occurred for Tiptree in slow motion, while the drop happened in a blur. 

She double-checked the incoming coordinates to ensure a proper landing. It was her first time operating an aviator, and she wanted to do it right. Basic training required 100 hours of aviator know-how, but she had spent double the allotment.

"Landing in one minute," the interface intoned, the aviator trembling slightly as if to prove the computer's words.

Passing through the atmosphere to Kevrun 9 caused on overload of the aviator interface. Switch lights flickered and died, and a slight shift occurred as the ship spiraled down to the surface.

"One, two, three..." Tiptree said, remembering what Russ had told her.

On "three", the machinery was supposed to light up, and the engines should've roared back to life. Except, that didn't happen. The panels and switches remained dark, cold.

Tiptree frantically depressed the "hard reset" button. Nothing. She slammed her fist on the emergency beacon, but without power, that didn't work either.

A reckless panic filled her chest. A dragging sensation rooted in her stomach, and moved to her throat. She couldn't breathe.

The pod continued a harsh freefall to Kevrun 9.

~*~

Her arm hit the corner of a metal casing.

Even sheathed in a starsuit, the blow hurt. Tiptree yelped, a dull throb lighting up from her elbow to her pinky.

As she searched the darkened cabin, she acknowledged that her arm was the least of her many worries. The pod had crashed, and hard. In the impromptu landing, she had given into vertigo and passed out for who knows how long. Luckily, the simulations had prepared her for this very scenario.

She extended her good arm until her fingers came into contact with a tingling hum.

"Disable particle bubble."

The humming ceased.

In the event of a crash, individual particle bubbles dispatched to protect passengers. If not disabled, getting stuck was a real possibility. Though Tiptree was grateful for the tech, she wasn't keen on being the next Bubble Boy.

Laughter gurgled from her mouth. It rang with relief, with a side of unhinged. Tiptree clapped a hand over her mouth to stop it. Maintaining control was part of the preparation.

I can do this.

She continued to mumble the mantra, over and over. The search for her ansible proved fruitless. The wreck had destroyed the small dash, and other bits of tech, including the ansible. Tiptree took in deep breath. Prep training, remember?

Even if all the tech was destroyed, the black box couldn't be. The small onyx rectangle was tucked under her box. Tiptree snatched it up and pressed the red button on top. A light beside it began to blink. Her little green, winking savior.

Another relief-laugh threatened to bubble up. She tapered that shit right back down.

The last thing on the crash-checklist was stay effing put. That's how Russ had said it.

Stay effing put.

Yeah, but while she waited for Russ or Samuel to come fetch her, she could show how not entirely useless she was by procuring samples. That's what she'd been sent for.

As she lumbered from the broken door to venture into a new world, she failed to notice the slight tears in the legs of her starsuit. What encapsulated her field of vision was a rocky outcrop of land. Small pebbles crested to create large hills, tumbling into valleys. Each peak met at the gray sky, smeared with pink clouds.

This time, she allowed herself more laughter.

Another planet.

Her joy clouded over.

Kass should be here.

She rubbed her wrist, feeling the bracelet bite into her skin through the suit.

By now, Tiptree had stepped a few meters from the pod. Gravel crunched underfoot with every ginger step she made. Ahead, a promising form of life beckoned, with tree-like properties.

Using the tool kit around her midsection, she scraped at the viscous liquid dripping from its limbs. Then, her head swam.

~*~

Tiptree rolled over, moaning at the stiffness roaring in her muscles.

Her head rested against the window of her helmet. She was grateful the thing hadn't busted or she'd be dead.

Under her gloved hands, she pushed against the ground, a purple clay-like substance. The sky glowed with a soft pink tinge. A slow panic set in when she realized the pod was no where in sight.

"Tragla ba. Com ragel bued."

The strange words hit the language converter in her ear: "Ye be whole. Thanks be."

Though she understood the words, the final meaning was lost on Tiptree. Panic flared again at the thought that she was not alone. A bright light hit her eyes and she cried out.

Tiptree scrambled to sit up, rubbing at her eyes. They had to be broken, affected by the crash. Yet, the shimmering refused to stop. The figure standing before her was ringed by a white light, making it hard to discern. All she could make out was a humanoid shape near her.

"What...where am I?" Tiptree amended the question to what was most important, hoping the converter would do its job.

She heard her question repeated back in the new language, and waited for a response. Obviously, the aviator pod had piloted to Kevrun 9. Scratch that, crashed on Kevrun 9. Except that the probes had sworn there was zero surface activity. The shining host staring down at her was the opposite of "zero surface activity."

"Treglar, sub-sar quadrant," the host said.

Tiptree righted herself, head spinning. The coordinates meant little. She understood how silly her question had been. Of course the names would be alien. None of the names or coordinates she had for the planet would align with the Natives.

The host inspected her, poking a pointed and blurry face near her.

"More lounging," the host advised.

The more she saw (or couldn't), the more Tiptree thought of how full of shit the initial scans of the planet were.

"Neutral my ass," she muttered.

"Say once more? Azz?"

Not keen on explaining, Tiptree tried to gain back a professional footing with a smile and her training. "I'm with the Institute, and am grateful for your hospitality. Do you know where my aviator pod is?"

The host stared, head slightly tilted. "Once more?"

Tiptree dropped her smile and straightened her fingers, zooming and dipping a hand in the air. "Ship. Have you seen my ship?"

That sparked some know-how.

"Ah, the vessel, yes. It rests near sub-bol quadrant. Very curious vessel, no cloaking," the host said, rubbing its arms and clothes. "Dangerous to remain uncloaked, in the open."

It began walking away, gesturing for Tiptree to follow. Standing wasn't easy, but she managed.

Large white sentinels surrounded them, blue curtains hanging from their arms. When the figures didn't move, Tiptree figured them for trees. She resisted the urge to caress a leaf, knowing it could be poisonous. Without her other tools, collecting samples would be impossible.

The host strode by the trees, unconcerned. The hill sloped downward quite a ways, leading to a valley. Tiptree measured her steps, noting the bounce and edge the clay allowed under her boots.

Pointing, the host said, "Ya ship lies there, in a vagary camp."

While speaking, the host's plastic skin shifted and moved. Tiptree disguised a shudder best she could.

"Vagary camp?"

"Dangerous, like no cloak. But no matter."

An awareness tingled at the back of Tiptree's neck. "Why doesn't it matter?"

The host seemed to grimace. Or smile. It was hard to tell beyond the blinding light. "Because I sold you into the arena. If you sword-wield, you may yet survive."

Tiptree had never been more grateful for the numerous duels with the bot.

Had she thought to check, the scans from her suit would've indicated zero surface activity and zero language conversions. What the scans in fact indicated was a foreign toxicity capable of fostering hallucinations.