Page 18 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

I was really glad to be alive.

6

VANTOR

Zero signs of intelligent life anywhere…

My body hummed with tension as I catalogued the fallout—the crash foam was dissolving quickly, metallic shards of our craft littered the no longer pulsing floor. Artifacts of a botched mission were all around us. We couldn’t ignore the evidence, not as dim light seeped through a wound in the upper hull, the ship’s air quality lowering with every beat of my hearts.

We were far from home now, marooned amidst unfamiliar chaos that smelled of damp earth and acrid, rotting foliage. I focused on controlling my pulsating bioluminescence, the shifting patterns across my skin conveying both urgency and unrest. As an oceanic defense specialist, I had little experience against land-based threats, and yet, here I was, stranded in that exact environment. How many unknown dangers had never been cited on this planet because our pre-op intel was mostly localized to Earth’s waters? How many poisonous plants could end our lives with one bite?

Were the natives truly as barbaric as our records indicated? I tried to remember the historical information. Our planetary leaders only gave the barest information about this planet to the general populace. Before coming here, I’d read the unredacted files.

Bodies of our kind were found because of our unique signature of decay. We emitted a gas during decomp that otherwise does not exist on this world; it permeates the soil long after the body is fully gone. One intact body was found. It had been butchered. There were clear signs of being restrained and tortured. Jagged, stitched-together wounds. Organs removed. Our people did not stay long enough to discover the predator who had committed the atrocity. We were not even sure what the dominant species here was.

But, we would survive.

I had the mind for this, the training, and the physical prowess. My instincts would guide me. And I could draw upon the few missions I’d manned to other, water-weak worlds.

I reached out with my tentacles, feeling my way through the wreckage of our ship’s interior. The slight offering of light from outside illuminated very little clearly.

Through the jagged tear in the ceiling above, innumerable stars blinked down. That’s where we should be, already back outside this planet’s atmosphere, readying ourselves for the journey home. The oceanic samples would have taken so little time had this journey stayed on track. No, not that fast, I corrected myself. We’d still be in the trench but nearly done there. Everything was wrong.

Upside down.

Gone sideways.

My head spun, sudden disorientation kicking in, as if the spinning, plummeting crash was only now registering inside my body.

Each tentacular appendage gave me separate information. I felt a thrumming through the floor, telling me the sentient ship was not completely dead, only mostly. Another tip of an arm felt a breeze push into the ship, and with it dust that tried to cling to my skin and dry it out. My advanced optic lobes flexed, seeing every nuance of every wound in the vessel. I became entrenched inside tactical analyses, algorithms calculating survival probabilities based solely on mission intelligence, not direct observation.

An object flew overhead—a winged creature—its shadow momentarily blocking the faint starlight and yellow glow filtering through the breach. I strained my senses toward the sound of rustling brush. Was it the quadrupeds spotted before the impact? What was outside these battered, bent walls? What watched us while we remained blind in our metal coffin?

“Whatever land creatures inhabit this sector will be nothing like the creatures of the Marianas, who are peaceful unless provoked,” I stated, my voice a clipped cadence pushing through the shadows. I sounded professional and calm, despite the chaos that swirled around me. Unfortunately, our kind do not easily hide our internal thoughts. The fluctuating patterns of my bioluminescent skin betrayed the intensity I was suppressing inside. “We need to ensure our location can be defended before we do anything else.”

Cyro, my so-called leader, appeared as I finished my calculations, annoyance simmering in the furrows across his brow. “No,” he said firmly. “First, we need to study the extent of the damage,” he instructed, gaze darting across the debris. “We need to fix the ship as quickly as possible and gather the samples before departing.”

“If Kalith can miraculously get this vessel flight worthy—” I paused, cursing under my breath, frustration threading through my tentacles as I analyzed the shattered state of our craft— “then we will head home and regroup before a second attempt.”

“What do you mean a second attempt?” Cyro snapped back, irritation clouding his usual arrogance. “Do you plan on returning empty handed? I certainly have no intention of limping home with my tentacles tucked.”

My patience melted like the wires in the console. Cyro had already reverted to his usual commanding tone, exuding the arrogant audacity that grated my every nerve. We typically got along. I even liked him sometimes. But other times I wanted to shake the sense into him. Our relationship had been this way for well over a hundred star cycles. On the flip side, I couldn’t imagine my life without the infuriating egomaniac.

I kept my voice even, though frustration clawed at my resolve. “I don’t think we can repair delicate machinery here, Cyro. Records indicate limited fossil fuels and diminished natural resources. We’ll be Argoth-blessed if we can get home at all, regardless of your precious samples. Not to mention the unknown threats we will face while stranded. You read the unredacted files just like I did.”

“We will not be leaving this planet without the samples,” Cyro intoned slowly, putting authority in each gurgle and pop of sound. “And many species have come to this world without experiencing violence from the natives.”

I sighed heavily, gaze rolling up to the ceiling chasm, then I shook myself to slough off Cyro’s unimaginable hubris and turned to Kalith.

“Is it safe to turn the systems back on?” I asked him, voice low, trusting the smaller one despite the odds.

Kalith’s undulating colors gave away his worry, his mind clearly shaken by our precarious predicament. Kalith had been the engineer on most of my missions. We’d become quick comrades. I enjoyed his company, though his sense of humor sometimes left me wondering about his sanity.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he admitted slowly, the top of his head wrinkling as his gaze narrowed in thought. “Actually, I can run some diagnostics at subliminal power. That will help me pinpoint problems that might fry when energy surges back through pathways. It won’t be quick, but better safe and slow.”

“Do your thing,” I replied, turning away from both as I shifted and slipped across the floor, the fleshy surface beginning to lose its moisture. “I’m going to check our surroundings. Do I need to suit up?”

“No,” Cyro responded in a clipped tone, his coloring bellying his irritation. “Though drying to our anatomy, the atmosphere is survivable. I do recommend taking a moisturizing unit along.”