Dear Sis,

If you've never been stuck in a sandstorm, you're not missing much. It's basically like a blizzard, but hotter, and can probably blast the paint right off your Tesla, or at least the sandstorm I'm currently in. My ship will probably need repainted after this, and probably quite a bit more work thanks to the friendly neighborhood pirates. (I'm fine, just ticked.) At least with the Vy'keen they shot down, I'm not alone on this spinning rock. You'll be proud of me; I performed a chest decompression with an AI's guidance, and the dude actually lived. What do you think; should I apply for med school after this?

Ginger noses my discarded helmet against my leg, waking me up drooling on the unfinished letter. America's "Sergeant Darkness" plays quietly over the cockpit speakers, and sunlight streams in from a dusty yellow sky with cigar-shaped flying fish overhead. I check the solar chronometer; about 11:30 planet time. So much for an early start. I wipe the saliva off and check the planetary scan.

Erpinyamatr-Praak

Atmosphere: Breathable

Climate: Arid, severe sandstorms

Terrain: Dunes, canyons

Resources: Variable

Flora: Low

Fauna: Average

Looks like we'll be dealing with more geovores. Figures. At least we won't be competing for air. On the last planet I visited with low flora and livable oxygen levels, all the animals breathed CO2. Probably the same story here. As long as they don't mistake me for a mobile plant, we'll be golden. Not that I couldn't take them if I had to, especially with a Vy'keen for backup.

Speaking of which—

I stretch and head to the fuselage with Ginger close behind. Even after his close call, I imagine Khrelan will be up before me. Vy'keen are nothing if not regimented.

Sure enough, he's gone, along with the mounds of sand. The entire place has been swept clean, and the crucifix dusted and rehung. Everything else is stacked neatly on my workbench, including the Tillandsias. I give them a spritz from my suit's water supply and put them back in their places, the ticklish purple one squirming in my fingers and the midnight blue one humming as it absorbs the moisture. Theirs was a beautiful lush world, its canopy singing and writhing in the storms. Latté enjoyed helping me poke around the underbrush for fallen specimens.

Outside, I hear her happy whistle accompanying the sound of a mining beam. I open the door to a wave of heat, making Ginger retreat to the relative cool of the cockpit. I seal the door behind her and step down the ramp. Latté sits under my recently excavated hauler wing, supervising Khrelan as he vaporizes tons of sand in mere seconds. He jumps down in the oddly stable hole, lugging out the crate followed by his life-support/jetpack unit. He clearly has his priorities straight. The mission comes first, whatever it is. As long as it can't bite me or blow me up, I don't really care what's in there. When it comes to alien cargo, the less you get involved, the better. Don't even ask about the Porwiggle[1] incident.

"How's your lung?" I ask.

Khrelan gives me a thumbs up. "Good. Iyuanpin also fixed my suit."

"I assume you're talking about the nanites and not the lizard." Last I knew, her bloodlike healing secretions only work on flesh.

Khrelan laughs. "He tried. He doesn't know colors."

"Actually, she," I correct. "Her name's Latté. The shy one's Ginger. Also female."

"Ginger, like gingerbread. Like Christmas."

There's that goofy grin again, like some kid who found the last Oreo. I can't help but laugh. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're an Earthling."

He makes a scoffing growl. "I could eat Earth warriors like Grahberry."

Yep, just like you did those Gek, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. The guy's pride has been damaged enough already. No point in twisting the knife. Though to be fair, I have no idea how many pirates he shot down before I arrived. "Yeah, well this Grahberry pulled your butt out of a really sticky situation."

That was clearly so much better.

Khrelan stares at me a second, rubbing his chin. "Did I bleed that much?"

Not quite the answer I was expecting. I forget how literal Vy'keen can be. "Uh, a bit. Mostly internal, I think. You were too busy dying for me to notice."

His expression softens. "Good for me you are more than a warrior."

"I'm only a warrior when I have to be."

"That is best kind."

Now I know he's missing brain cells. Not that I'm complaining.

I hold out my hand. "The name's Verity."

He gives me a firm handshake. "Khrelan Ozemkar-Straak Barghast."

A full name. In Vy'keen culture, that's a high honor. I should probably reciprocate.

"Verity Renee Lyon."

"Ver-i-tee Re-nay Lee-on," he says in that growling baritone peculiar to Vy'keen. "Veri-tee. It is a good name."

"Thanks. I'm fond of it. Not the Renee bit, but the rest of it."

He laughs. "I do not like Straak or Barghast."

"Lousy meaning or lousy ancestor?"

"Both."

Look at that. We're bonding already. Though to be honest, I'd rather bond over a cup of coffee in a climate-controlled space station. Was it really just yesterday I had that luxury? I seriously need to look into getting a freighter at some point. Have Scotty beam us up out of this mess. Like I'm ever going to afford that.

"I take it your ship's not salvageable," I say.

"Some parts maybe," he says.

I motion to Rocko. "Stow your cargo and make yourself at home. There's a workbench if you need it. Ginger won't bother you."

"Much thanks," he says.

He gently lifts the crate and carries it with a great deal of reverence. Probably hauling ancient artifacts. Pirates have a habit of going after religious relics, after all. You'd be amazed how much unscrupulous Earth collectors will pay for a Vy'keen idol. Last I heard, Hirk was going for the same price as a converted vintage Lamborghini. Personally, I wouldn't pay two cents for that ugly mug; oversized metal beard, outstretched facial tentacles, more horns than Satan. No thank you. Assuming that's what he really looked like. I think the priests exaggerated a few things in the retellings, kind of like Jesus being white or Buddha having prediabetes.

Latte stretches and follows me as I do a preliminary walk around and check the cargo in the hauler wings. Like I thought, the left wing is pretty much empty, its cargo likely orbiting somewhere above our heads. The right wing is pretty much intact, though I plan to make a few quick repairs to keep the geovores from smelling the goodies inside. Thank God I had the sense to stow my cake in the fuselage. If they would've got that, I'd be ready to scream. Though, that's probably what the pirates were really going after, at least if they're anything like me. Who cares about practicality when chocolate is at stake?

I make my way to the engine next, struggling to undo a latch made for someone a lot stronger and taller than me. Why on Earth didn't I get a Gek or a Korvax ship? I had this problem the first time around, too, but at least then I'd had a nifty rock to stand on. Shows you my lack of future planning.

I hear heavy footsteps crunching across the sand, and turn to see Khrelan coming up behind me.

"Need help?" he asks.

"What's it look like?"

"Like your ship is Vy'keen."

The guy says it with such genuine frankness that it makes me feel more than a little guilty. Seriously, it's not his fault I'm hangry. I'm the dumb butt who decided not to eat her underwhelming breakfast. Though the thought of that nutrient mush makes me want to puke at the moment. "Some help would be great actually."

Khrelan does the heavy lifting, while I do the fiddly work. I'm sure he's perfectly capable, but it's an unspoken code that you don't touch another pilot's ship without their express permission. Just like I let him pull useful parts from the guts of his wreckage. It's easier to tell who goofed if something goes wrong.

The fishlike flyers swoop down to get a better look at us, rumbling low-pitched tones as if giving suggestions. Somehow I get the feeling we're not the first crashes they've seen, but possibly the first survivors. It seems to never dawn on them we could be a threat. Khrelan eyes them as if sizing them up for a future meal.

By the time evening comes, we have both wings patched and about half of the engine repairs finished. Most of the parts I'll need to fabricate on the onboard 3D printer tonight, but thanks to Khrelan's wreck I still have plenty of hermetic seals. We sit on the right wing and eat our meager rations in silence, watching the sun paint the horizon orange. You know, it's funny. This whole time I've wanted someone else on board, and now that I do I have no idea what to talk about.

"You never told me your rank," I say.

He's quiet for a moment. "Liquidator," he says. "My rank is Liquidator, First Class."

He clenches and unclenches his jaw, seeing the ghosts of battles and fallen comrades. I probably should have known better than to bring it up, but most Vy'keen seem so proud of their military service.

"My brother was a sergeant when he was killed," I say quietly. "Space Marine, defending colonists. My—my mother doesn't like me being up here."

He gives me a long look. "You are heroes, yes?"

"He was."

Khrelan breaks his gaze, looking back at the dying sun. "Then I am nothing like him."


[1] Gek are amphibians like frogs, so their Porwiggle offspring are basically beaked tadpoles ranging anywhere in size from a pet goldfish to a Chinook salmon. Having a bunch of those flopping all over the floor isn't fun, even if it isn't your fault they wound up there. (Glares at Latté.) No deaths or major injuries, at least, though paying for specialist pediatric treatment for twenty youngsters wasn't easy on the bank account. Thus why I always strap my pets in before taking on extra cargo and passengers, not that I'm in the habit of hauling either anymore.