Chapter Two

I WOKE UP knowing more than just my location. I knew that the atmosphere of Kepler-186f was Earth-like. That had been the hypothesis on Earth, backed up with no small amount of data, but still unsure. The fact that I could breathe, however laboriously, indicated the presence of sustaining levels of oxygen. The fact that I hadn’t already died indicated there was nothing immediately and lethally toxic in it. There were the ship sensors, too, designed to detect deadly chemicals and alert against them. Their silence was another good sign.

There were plenty of less promising signs though. For starters, I found myself alone. I’d been on a ship with six hundred people, yet here I sat.

Then there was the manner of my awakening. The plan had been that the acting captain would wake the crew after we’d landed safely. Judging by the shattered window overhead and the precarious tilt of the ship, we’d somehow been denied a safe landing. So, where had the captain gone, and who had started the wakening process? My empty, debris-ridden chamber offered up no response.

But I couldn’t sit asking questions of the darkness. The rain was intolerably cold, and the air carried a deep chill. While the cold and wet were the immediate obstacles, I didn’t count them among the more worrying features of my predicament.

Kepler-186f orbited an M dwarf star in the constellation Cygnus, on the outer end of the star’s habitable zone. So we knew in advance that our new planet would absorb less energy from its star than Earth got from the sun. Two-thirds less, according to our measurements: it would be cold. We knew that before we left. What we didn’t know was whether we’d find liquid water. Kepler-186f, being in the habitable zone, was in the right range for its possible existence. But that didn’t mean it actually did exist. That had been part of the gamble we’d taken on leaving Earth.

So the icy downpour, in its own way, was good news. Our gamble had paid off. Though the particular method of discovery left something to be desired, at least we’d found liquid water on Kepler-186f.

I pushed to my feet. For a moment, my legs seemed foreign to me. I reached out to the cryochamber to steady myself. That feeling of cobwebs that I had noted when I’d first come to rushed back. I stood there for a minute, breathing heavily until the sensation dissipated.

Then I let go of the table and looked around. My eyes had adjusted as well as they could to the darkness. I could see the glass overhead and the rain pouring in through the breach. The door stood a few feet to my left, at a downward angle of about forty-five degrees. Water and debris pooled in front of it.

I stumbled for the door and flipped the light switch beside it. Nothing happened.

On its own, that didn’t concern me. I could make out enough by the artificial light of the machinery around me. The cause of the malfunction worried me. The ship had been designed to prioritize life systems and, in a time of crisis, divert all energy to maintaining the cryonics and resuscitation infrastructure. They were ticking away just fine, but everything else seemed dead. Which only furthered my growing sense of unease and the feeling that we had met some kind of crisis.

Or maybe it’s just a busted bulb, my mind argued. It was possible. In combination with everything I already knew about my situation, I didn’t think it particularly likely. But it was possible.

I needed to get to the rest of the ship and the rest of the crew. Standing in water up to my shins, I sifted through the pile of twisted metal, medical tubing, and rocks. I was struck by how quickly and violently out of breath I found myself.

If anything, this added urgency to my movements. I’d never been in an environment where I felt so weak, so utterly spent—and I had been in my fair share of tight spots and close encounters. I clawed at the rock until my fingers bled and I was shaking for want of oxygen.

As soon as my heaving lungs quieted a little, I was back at it. Eventually, the pile had shifted, although the water remained in place. I pushed the lever.

The door remained fast shut. Maybe I have it the wrong way. I pulled. Nothing happened. I threw my weight against it, pulled and pushed and cursed until I was quivering for want of air again. But it didn’t budge.

It was time for a different approach. I could feel my body tensing with each futile gasp. It was like drowning on solid ground. Panic was edging in. I had to fight it.

I waded out of the puddle, onto higher ground and out of the rain, and breathed—one steady, moderate breath after another, rather than quick, stertorous bursts. The burning in my lungs lessened and then returned to a manageable level. The panic receded; the tightness in my chest loosened.

It had been a painful lesson, but a lesson learned. My activity had to be measured, deliberate, and careful, so as to exert no more energy or expend no more oxygen than necessary.

I returned to the door and, this time, calmly examined it. The seal remained intact, and the frame seemed undamaged. And yet, it did not yield.

Heading back to shelter, I considered my options. Without power and without natural light, it didn’t seem likely I’d be able to pry the door open. It was stuck, somehow, but I hadn’t found anything to indicate how. Another option was to climb out through the broken window and try to gain admittance to the main part of the ship from the exterior, but the storm raging outside my window was formidable. The rain that had accumulated in the interior spoke to that. Further, I had no idea where we were and, without light or tools, few means to figure it out. I had no idea what I would be climbing out into, other than a violent storm.

It seemed the most prudent course to wait until morning before venturing outside the ship. But not in my current state. Kepler-186f’s atmosphere contained oxygen. There was liquid water on the surface of the planet. The elements for life as we knew it on Earth appeared to be present. That didn’t guarantee life on the planet, but it certainly seemed to up the odds. There was no chance in hell I was going to sit out the night, struggling to maintain proper oxygenation and unaware of my surroundings as I was, without some means of self-defense.

Our chambers, ostensibly, were medical units, meant to contain nothing beyond ourselves, our clothes, and the medical equipment to sustain our lives. That hadn’t sat well with me back on Earth, and I’d taken measures to rectify the situation.

I frowned. It seemed only yesterday, literally, that I’d stashed a pistol and my combat knife in the paneling of my room. It had happened the evening before I entered the cryochamber. But Kepler-186f was five hundred light-years from home. NASA’s best estimates put our arrival at two and a half centuries after takeoff—and that was provided the USS-Genesis II performed as well as the tests and models had predicted. It was revolutionary technology, in its first application outside of test conditions. But in a best-case scenario, the memory was a quarter of a millennium old.

And yet, in a sense, it was only yesterday—for me, at least. My life had been put on pause when I entered that cryochamber. Someone had activated the Play button. I wasn’t sure who, and I wasn’t sure when. But, until I could find them and the rest of the crew, I would prepare for any eventuality.

Feeling my way around the room, I found the spot—two panels down, three across from the cryonics equipment mount.

With a little pressure, it popped out. And there, right where I’d left them, were my holster and pistol, a sheathed blade, and a box of ammo, all packed in a vacuum-sealed box. It wasn’t much. I didn’t even know if the ammunition would still work. The armory was well stocked, and we were supposed to rely on it for weaponry. Still, it had seemed poor planning to wake up defenseless on an alien landscape, with my only tools for defense half a ship away. This wouldn’t hold off much for long, but something was better than nothing.

I broke the seal and retrieved my gear. In the dim artificial light of the life systems, I could see the silver glint of steel. The blade had weathered its journey well.

I worked the slide of my pistol. It was smooth. I dropped the magazine and filled it. It was too dark to see what I was doing, but I didn’t need to. I could load that gun in seconds, blindfolded. Load it, disassemble it, reassemble it, and hit a moving target based on sound alone. That pistol was almost an extension of my arm, and it had saved my life more than once.

Sitting there, cold, wet, and unsure of my surroundings, I felt indescribably glad I had smuggled it on board. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had Death at my side.

*

THE NIGHT PASSED slowly, and despite my efforts to stay awake, I drifted in and out of sleep. Eventually, the rain stopped, but the temperature continued to drop. I found the cupboard with my clothes, and a cupboard with blankets, and made myself as comfortable as possible under the cryochamber. The cryonics apparatus had been fastened to the wall but was designed to swivel as needed to maintain an upright position—which was why, when I awoke to find the room askew, the chamber still faced upward. Now, it served as a sort of shelter, first protecting against the rain, and now providing cover. Cover against what, I didn’t know. But I didn’t want to be visible to anything that might be exploring outside the ship.

Finally, dawn broke. Traces of a purplish color started to blend with the black. I couldn’t see Kepler-186f’s sun yet, but an old-burgundy hue started to lighten the landscape. The interior of my room grew more visible and, at the same time, revealed that there was a simple solution to one of the mysteries of my awakening. The life support controls had been half buried under a pile of rocks. The resuscitation process must have been kicked off inadvertently, a byproduct of dumb luck and gravity in action, when those rocks crashed through my window.

The sunrise is already shedding light on the situation. I laughed out loud as the thought crossed my mind. It wasn’t that funny. Hell, it probably wasn’t funny at all. But, to my addled, oxygen-deprived brain, it seemed hilarious.

I got to my feet feeling fairly optimistic and hoisted myself onto the cryochamber. Standing on it, I could reach the shattered window. Very little of one pane remained—only a shard here and there. The glass was thick and strong. It had been designed for deep space flight after all. I wondered at the force necessary to shatter it. How close had I come to being crushed in my sleep?

I wouldn’t be able to clear the jagged pieces that remained, so I maneuvered around them, pulling myself over the ledge until my head poked out just far enough to allow a glimpse of my surroundings.

My heart sank. I was on a mountainside as gray and desolate as the bits of stone that filled my chamber. There was not a blade of grass or a bit of foliage to be seen. In front of me sat more featureless mountains, and above me lay a cloudless burgundy sky.