life or death?

Chapter 1

“VELMA, any luck on communications?” Standing near the monitors when she answered, I glanced at the muted video showing humans and aliens laughing and talking inside a sleek alien ship.

“Negative, Joan,” she said. “I will keep trying.”

“Mark the time, please,” I said.

“Day thirteen on Ikthe,” VELMA said. “Noon hour on adjusted local time. Would you like a rations update?”

“No thanks,” I said as I slid my knife blade along the thick white root I held in my right hand. “If these are edible, I’ll be fine.” I looked through my viewport over the bog where countless reeds clustered at its banks. If being the operative word.

A growing pile of uprooted plants behind me indicated my luck so far: bad. Every leaf, stem, pod, and vine I’d passed through the scanner had shown dangerous levels of toxins for humans. To be fair, my sampling came exclusively from the island. There could be other options across the bog.

Removing the root’s casing, I pulled out the tender flesh reminiscent of bamboo shoots crossed with cattails. Placing it in the clear box, I waited for the scanner’s results.

“Initial scan reveals the presence of manganese, vitamin K, and iron, as well as the presence of the flavonoid pigment anthocyanin,” VELMA said. “However, due to the concentration of cyanogenic glycosides, these roots will need to be heated before consuming.”

“Just like bamboo shoots or cassava,” I said, and pulled out the specimen. “Well good, I can cross that off the list.”

After thirteen days, VELMA knew to pull up my rudimentary checklist and place a red checkmark inside the little box next to Find Sustainable Food Source. At least I wouldn’t die of starvation. Right away.

Sparing another glance to the silent video, I brushed off the remaining bits of purple reeds from my pants and then gathered up the pile of foraged flora. My helmet secured, I activated the hatch and walked out onto the island.

VELMA had found the only spot of dry land capable of supporting the EEP’s weight in the vast bog I now called home.

An island of solid ground in a sea of mucky water that bubbled and popped, it boasted a crude diameter of three and three quarters meters, and not quite half of that was the space taken up by the pod. But small as it was, it had a variety of plants from which I’d pulled fruits, leaves, stems and roots for possible consumption. Of course, they’d all struck out except for the vibrant purple reeds that surrounded the entire island. My water filtration system treated the bog-water, and with those two factors, I knew I wouldn’t die from starvation or dehydration.

Hands on hips, I stared across the bog at the pacing rokhura.

Eunice was another matter, entirely.

“How’s it goin’ over there?” I shouted and waved.

Her dark orange throat sac billowed, but just as VELMA had taught me, no sound detectable to human ears came out. A line of drool stretched from her gaping narrow tooth-filled jaw to the ground which her huge talons clawed. Even from across the bog she looked as big as an elephant with her huge dino-like dark green body, powerful hind legs and tail, and long, slender front legs tipped with deadly claws.

Eunice had shown up on day five in which I’d stayed inside the pod for twelve hours sweating it out. In spite of VELMA’s lecture series I nicknamed “Fecal Matters”, I wasn’t convinced the rokhura wouldn’t jump in the bog and march its way to my ship, cracking it open like a Baugo Nut from Jeppsit 5.

When it became evident she wouldn’t dip a single claw into the bog, I ventured out and introduced myself. A walking buddy she was not, but she was a good listener.

“Great news, Eunice!” I said. “I can eat these roots! Just have to cook them first.” My external mic carried my voice across the bog where Eunice cocked her head.

I waved again and then got to work, kneeling at the shore to yank up a handful of the purple plants with white roots. It took significant elbow grease, but I managed to harvest four. I’d need to start slow and make sure my body could digest the fiber after so many days on the MRE packs.

Back inside, I pressed on the panel for the cook surface and heated the peeled roots until the outside was charred and the pulp inside was mushy.

“Flush the air vents,” I told VELMA, and when the pulse of air stopped, I removed my helmet.

The pungent tang of baked broccoli assaulted my nose in spite of VELMA’s venting; not a great sign that the reed was going to taste amazing, but fresh produce was fresh produce.

I bit off a chunk and chewed, the texture identical to undercooked bamboo but the flavor more “bland potato” with hints of overcooked Brussels sprouts. Chewing took a lot of work; I’d have to try boiling, sauteing and baking next.

“How is it?” VELMA asked.

Swallowing, I grimaced as the lump went down. “It’s chewy and mostly tasteless,” I said. “All things considered, I’d say that’s a win for Joan and VELMA.”

Salting the remaining portion from my limited stash of seasoning, I settled into the chair to eat the rest.

“Let’s go over the heart home myth one more time,” I said and bit into the root. The salt helped immensely, and VELMA pulled up video feed from the assorted conversations featuring Theraxl hunters and my fellow humans.

For whatever reason, my comms still wouldn’t send, but VELMA managed to receive, so upon waking from cryosleep a dozen days ago, I’d received all the vital information a survivor could need on Ikthe as well as the short histories of the three other women who’d landed here.

VELMA, the penultimate achievement in humans creating an evolving neural network, was my personal tour guide for Predator Planet, resident chemist, encyclopedia, therapist, and glorified poop scanner. She was also the source for entertainment and a great sounding board for my ideas. And lastly, she’d found her way into alien technology, and could access the archives of the alien race whose hunting grounds we’d inadvertently begun colonizing. Thankfully, the physiological phenomenon known as ‘finding one’s heart mate’ was making the transition from human interloper to loving companion nearly effortless. Minus all of the deadly wildlife interactions, of course.

Naturally, I was skeptical until VELMA showed me snippets of footage where the huge alien hunters interacted with the human women. Unless VELMA was curating the videos with bias, everything showed mutual respect, teamwork, and community. I’ll admit, I was flabbergasted.

In another lifetime, I might have fancied myself interested in participating in such an arrangement, but David had been my entire world. My soul mate. No one could replace him, least of all an alien from another galaxy. While I could admit to a healthy curiosity of my colleague’s surprising circumstances, I knew I wouldn’t be part of it.