Page 9 of Nansar
Back to work.
I pulled out what remained: two protein bars, packaging dented but sealed. They'd taste like cardboard soaked in regret, but calories were calories. Three water packets, maybe half a liter each—nowhere near enough for a desert planet with an unknown day-night cycle. A compact medical kit that rattled when I shook it. A thermal blanket, its silver surface wrinkled but intact. An LED torch that actually worked when I tested it, the beam slicing through the yellow-tinged air like a knife. And there, clipped to the inside panel like a gift from a generous god, a utility knife with a four-inch blade.
Not much of an arsenal. But I'd make it work.
I clipped the knife to my belt and fashioned the thermal blanket into a makeshift pack, knotting the corners together and loading it with my meager supplies. My gaze swept the crash site, hunting for anything else useful. A section of hull plating lay half-buried nearby—too heavy to carry, too unwieldy to weaponize. But there, jutting from the red dust like a grave marker, a support strut. Five feet of straight, solid metal.
I yanked it free and tested its weight. Good heft. Balanced. With a stone, I could sharpen one end into a spear point. It might not stop whatever nightmares this planet kept in its closet, but it beat harsh language and aggressive finger-pointing.
I straightened, shading my eyes against the alien sun as I studied the horizon. Those rocky hills to the east, maybe twoklicks out. High ground meant perspective. A chance to see what I was really dealing with—water sources, threats, whether this planet wanted to kill me quickly or take its time.
The Navy had drilled it into me until it became reflex: assess, adapt, survive. In that order. Dad made sure I knew it by heart.
I shouldered my makeshift pack and started walking, the strut a reassuring weight in my right hand. Each step sent fire lancing through my ribs, but I gritted my teeth and kept moving. Pain was just data. It meant my nerve endings still worked, my heart still pumped, my body still fought.
The terrain fought back—loose gravel conspiring to twist my ankles, patches of something resembling purple moss but with the texture of old rubber, springy and alien beneath my boots. The air had a metallic tang that coated my tongue, like licking a battery terminal. Every breath reminded me I wasn't on Earth anymore. That I was utterly, completely alone on a world that had no use for me.
But I'd survived worse than an indifferent universe.
I'd survived Declan Hewes.
The name alone sent ice through my veins, dragging with it memories I'd buried deep. His hands crushing my windpipe. The pressure building, building, building until reality fractured into black stars. The cold calculation in his eyes when he realized I wouldn't break, that I'd let him kill me before I'd give him what he craved—my complete and utter submission.
The FBI agents who pulled me out called me lucky. Called me strong. Called me a survivor.
I'd felt like none of those things. Just hollow. Scraped out. But somewhere in that nightmare—in that basement reeking of rot and terror—I'd learned the truth about survival. It wasn't about strength. It was about spite. About dragging yourself forward when every cell screamed to surrender. About forcingair into your lungs when they felt full of concrete. About choosing, again and again, to exist.
My jaw clenched as I hauled myself over a ridge of volcanic glass. The hills loomed closer, their shadows bleeding across the rust-colored wasteland.
Whatever horrors this planet harbored—apex predators, toxic storms, the crushing weight of solitude—none of it could touch what I'd already endured. Declan had tried to destroy me, and here I was. Still breathing. Still moving. Still refusing to die.
I'd survived that monster. This alien hellscape didn't stand a chance.
Chapter 4
Nansar
I urged Starfield forward, the kuda's powerful muscles coiling and releasing beneath me as we devoured the rust-colored plains of Palaydium. The beast had earned her name a thousand times over—fast as a shooting star, relentless as the void itself. Wind screamed past my face, stinging my eyes, carrying with it the acrid bite of mineral-rich soil that seemed to seep into your very bones on this forsaken world.
I'd found Starfield weeks after my boots first hit this rock. She'd been young then, barely past a foal, her leg twisted and caught in a snarl of thornbrush—the kind that grew like razor wire in the lowlands. Her herd had left her behind. That's what kudas did when one of their own couldn't keep pace. Out here, survival of the fittest wasn't philosophy. It was the only law that mattered.
I could have left her too. Should have, by any measure of common sense. But something in the way she looked at me—not with the wild panic of prey, but with burning determination to survive—made me stop. I spent the better part of an hour cutting away that cursed brush, moving slow and careful, talking low and steady while she trembled and snorted hot breath into the thin air. When I finally freed her leg, she didn't bolt like I expected. She just stood there, testing her weight on the injured limb, watching me with those intelligent dark eyes that seemed to see straight me.
I nursed her back to health after that. Fed her, tended her wounds, earned her trust one careful day at a time. Training her to carry a rider came naturally—she was smart, adaptable, and once she decided I was hers, there was no breaking that bond. No amount of credits could buy that kind of loyalty.
I glanced down at the tracker strapped to my forearm, watching the coordinates blink steadily like a mechanical heartbeat. The crash site wasn't far now. Minutes, maybe less at this pace.
My jaw tightened as my thoughts drifted to the Welati.
The natives were a problem I desperately hoped to avoid. Bloodthirsty didn't begin to cover it. Vicious, brutal, merciless—the Welati had earned their reputation in blood, a hundred times over. They killed everyone who crossed into their territory. No exceptions. No negotiations. Didn't matter if you were armed to the teeth, unarmed and helpless, alone or traveling in numbers. If the Welati found you on their lands, you were already dead. Your bones would bleach white under Palaydium's relentless sun before anyone knew where to start looking.
And the crash site sat right on the edge of Welati territory.
I leaned lower over Starfield's neck, coaxing more speed from her, feeling the rhythm of her labored breathing beneath me. The human female—whoever she was, whatever had brought her to this hell—didn't stand a chance if Persico's people reached her first. And if the Welati found her before either of us? I forced that thought away before it could take root.
The wastes were giving way to the lowlands now—treacherous stretches of rust-colored rock and scrub brush sharp enough to draw blood. Somewhere in the distance, a low rumble rolled across the barren landscape. Engines. Three, maybe four hoverbikes, their mechanical growl carried on the thin air from the west.
Persico's men. Closer than I'd hoped. And gaining ground.
