Above me, hundreds of thousands of stars dot the sky, pinpricks of dust resting in the absolute blackness of space. The light of Iro's one moon illuminates a thin cloud, sparking indigo in a sea of monochrome.
There used to be another moon. But it vanished before I arrived. It's disappearance didn't matter; whatever had happened, it no longer looked over the world. An omniscient, scrutinizing eye, awash with disapprovement. Now there's only one.
A slight peppery-mint aroma envelops me, carried by the slight breeze raking the spice fields, and I rest my chin on my arms, which are crossed over legs tucked against my chest.
There're entire worlds up there, full of people and places and things beyond my comprehension. Scattered millions upon millions of miles away.
And I'm stuck here. Trapped. . .
There's dirt under my fingernails. All of them. I begin the long process of scraping it all away, flicking it out into the darkness of the night.
But there's no point in it, and I pause. Tomorrow will be the same thing. And the next day, and the next day after that. Just more dirt. A never ending sea of dirt and plants and water.
Another scented breeze winds its way by; I crinkle up my nose, trying to avoid the smell of sharp mint. It hadn't dulled since my first day here. It probably never would.
At least spice is a better smell than. . . other things.
I return to watching the stars, seeing them flicker slightly. Just slightly. Light waves aren't perfect, but they are beautiful. Inspiring, the kind of inspiration that forces you to stand still and just. . . watch. Silently, the closest anything could ever come to achieving perfection.
Matron Verona lectures me about how I am always tired each morning. If she only knew I was sneaking onto the roof to glance at stars, she would go berserk. I'd be punished for sure.
But it just happens. I find myself on the roof. Calm. Alone. Away from the sweat and grime and heat of a typical Iroan day.
With nothing but the stars and moon to light the world, things seem much smaller. Space seems that much closer. As if I could reach an arm out and. . .
My arm is extended, hand mid-reach towards the sky. Perhaps because of the sudden rush of feeling I have within me. My skin is painted in grey, a dash of silver in the moonlight. Just like my eyes. Odd how everything that makes me different is the same in darkness.
I am about to get off of the roof when the wind picks up, spraying me in a misty array of spice and musk, curling strands of hair across my face.
A sudden, sharp glare of light streaks across the rim of the atmosphere.
What is --
And then, the sound reaches me. A grinding whir, a whoosh of superheated air traveling at the speed of hundreds of miles. So deafeningly loud. Shattering the silence. As if the thing that is creating the noise is right in front of my face.
Night remains in a shell of darkness for only a moment more. The object sailing through space lands on the horizon, crashing in a horrifying burst of light and fire and debris.
Looking down, I'm suddenly standing. The expanse of the Reforming School for Nonconformity drops out below me, in sharp angles of looming black. It resembles more of a prison than a school.
Skidding down a ladder, I shiver at the sudden, deep silence that coats the night. Whatever had crashed-landed is either burned up or worse by now.
Fire? But how is there fire? Iro is 99% water, consisting of over millions of crater lakes, the only land barely 500-foot wide stretches of dirt ringing around them at the widest.
Oh. But the water is only around three feet deep. Matron Verona gave us a lesson of geography once. The crust of the planet is so thin, which is why everything is warm. All the time. Which is also why it is such a plentiful, bountiful agricultural site.
A pang of panic shivers its way through me as I hurry to the ground, dropping past windows, inching down drainpipes, finally planting myself on hard ground. Well, as hard as sopping dirt could be.
Then I head for the site of the crash. What if someone was in. . . whatever-it-was that flew across the sky? What if they need help?
No one ever comes to Iro except the annual supplies delivery and spice collectors. And those are only under the strict supervision of the Reforming School for Nonconformity, particularly Matron Verona.
What else could explain this? There wasn't anything. My pace picks up, until I'm running across myriads of crater lakes, not caring how the mud inches its way to my thighs, and the thin gown I wear gets sprinkled with water.
The whatever-it-was is now only a dim glow on the horizon, quickly fading.
I look back. The school remains untouched by the event. Dark, foreboding, silent. If the Matrons inside heard the crash, they didn't make a big deal out of it. No alarm goes off. Nothing.
And then, suddenly, the world spins. My foot lodges in a stubborn tendril of adraria, and in a moment of panicky confusion I sit on the floor of a lake. It is small, the size of a puddle, but the ugly patches of spice plants take up much of its floor. I've gotten into a harvesting zone, and probably have messed it up so badly the sickly little adraria plants will all die. Someone will be punished.
Great. Perfect. I'm slick with mud and vines, sopping wet, and the lukewarm water does nothing for my bladder. Brushing off myself as best I can, I return to my jog across the land, towards the fallen. . . thing.
Whatever it is better be worth it for this. When a Matron finds me like this, I'll have some explaining to do. Perhaps the reward of finding the thing will outweigh the consequences of sneaking out and ruining a harvest.
Getting closer. Somehow, the thing is still all in one piece. Smoking, battered, charred, but all in one piece. I think.
It is ripe with a soft glow, like an ethereal ghost, but almost alive. Around the impact zone is a ring of smoking sand, from the blast's shockwave. A trail of smoke leaks off the metallic surface, arching towards the heavens.
The radiating heat hits me even at a distance. Tapering off my run, feeling lightheaded and dizzy with fatigue and anticipation and fear, I study the space shuttle for the first time.
Because it is a space shuttle. I have never seen one until now, and the prospect of having one right in front of me is almost too much to handle.
"Hello?" I make my way around the shuttle, climbing over a mountain of overridden sand. "Is anyone in there?"
No answer. Of course, I wasn't exactly expecting one.
But oddly, as if reacting to the sound of my voice, a hatch at the side of the shuttle slips open with a whir, revealing its dark interior.
So there is someone! I trip backwards, almost falling into another crater lake. Who is it? What do they want?
Will they. . . take me away?
Seconds pass. No one exits the shuttle via the hatch door. Only the sounds of the shuttle crackling with faint heat can be heard.
Finally. There's. . . no one in there. They would've come out by now. I frown, eying the darkened space inside, faintly making out a control panel, and lit screens.
Then the door is in front of me, warmth falling away from it in waves. And then I am inside, gazing at the area beyond. I rub my arms against the sudden chill.
It's a small shuttle, inconspicuous, with two main seats for a pilot and a co-pilot. The plastic walls are sculpted with rough edges, sliding away and replaced with a ledge in the front of the shuttle, a ledge that is coated with buttons and buttons and more buttons.
The steering wheel at the left side is backed by screens, coordinate-based guidance systems, and other pointless machines that I don't understand.
"What. . ." This didn't make any sense. Obviously someone had to be flying this at the time of its crash. Did they just get out and leave? Did they still need help?
BEEP. A high-pitched wailing struck my ears. I whirl around, heart racing.
The hatch is closed. When did it close? No, it doesn't matter. I can't just sit in here. It was a trap. It was a trap all along. Matron Verona designed it, she knew I was sneaking out. Oh no, oh no, oh no. . .
My hands hit the frame of the hatch. It doesn't budge.
"Please ensure all personal items are properly stowed," a female voice speaks soothingly out of nowhere. So calm. "Autopilot engaged. Prepare the shuttle for takeoff."
TAKEOFF? Since when --
A faint vibrating rocks the floor. My jaw begins to clatter. Then a buzzing starts up, from the rear of the ship. The engine.
My entire body is coated in a freezing sweat. "THIS IS A MISTAKE!"
"Please buckle your seatbelt, Caia."
The disembodied voice. How does it know my name?
The ship rocks, moving slowly. This is impossible.
I don't understand.
I --
The rockets engage. The force of it slams me against the back of the ship.
Pain. Darkness.