I was startled awake.

All around me, the pod shuddered. It rolled one direction while my body was pitched another. Like a doll, I was thrown across the loft, slamming into the far wall with a splitting crack. The wind was instantly knocked from my lungs, and I laid in a crumpled heap, gasping uselessly for air. I knew immediately that we had dropped out of lightspeed, but didn't know why.

In my ringing ears, I could vaguely make out the computer's voice, but it took a long moment for me to process it.

"— Hull integrity has been compromised."

On shaky arms, I pushed myself up, slowly taking stock of myself. I hurt, and I couldn't be sure if anything was broken. I took a shallow breath, testing my lungs and ribs. I winced at the ache in my left side. Only a few bruised bones, I hoped.

In theory, the escape pod would have the supplies necessary for tending minor injuries; bumps and scrapes. Nothing for setting bones or worse, though.

"What happened?" I finally asked, my voice raspy with both sleep and pain.

"The emergency shuttle has entered a debris field."

"And we just plowed right through it? Why wasn't it picked up on our scanners?"

Is that why we dropped out of lightspeed?

Did the shuttle attempt to alter course when it detected the debris, but it was too little, too late?

I closed my eyes. "Is the pod okay?"

"All core systems have been switched to auxiliary power but remain functional. Speed-of-light propulsion has sustained damage and is inoperational."

My stomach sank. "Will we be able to reach the depot station at this rate?"

"At the current rate of speed, the shuttle will arrive at Atmos Twelve in two hundred and fifty-seven —"

"No," I interrupted the computer, waving a hand to dismiss its next words. I didn't need to hear how many years it would take. Just as quickly, I scrubbed my face with my palms. They still stung after my fall on Yudor's ship. I took a steadying breath. "Okay, so we aren't reaching the station in my lifetime."

"That is an accurate assessment," the computer agreed.

"So, how long can the auxiliary last?"

"Under peak conditions, the emergency shuttle can maintain auxiliary life support for six months, but to ensure the best long-term survival of all occupants, it is recommended that you engage the distress beacon."

"No." The thought sent my stomach tumbling all over again. "Not yet. I need to think. Just... gimme a minute."

My fingers curled, pressing into the rumpled mattress that stretched beneath me. My body still ached, and my breathing was unsteady. Yet the pain somehow kept me grounded.

The distress beacon was the obvious choice. The only choice, really. It was either that, or I drifted along until the systems failed completely. With the beacon, there was at least a chance of being rescued. Or caught. In the outer sectors, distress calls were a crapshoot. Mostly crap, realistically. It made a vessel an easy mark.

"Not many chances for a friendly rescue out here... Any other bright ideas?"

"Based on logged data of the current sector, the emergency shuttle is within traversable distance of the Marhi Prime system." The computer chimed, having run some sort of analysis. "A potential course has been charted."

I paused, looking up at the ceiling, as if that was where the computer lived. "Charted to where?"

"LOR-942-A."

That meant absolutely nothing to me. It was just a string of useless letters and numbers. "And what's that?"

"Cataloged by the Terran Federation in the year five-twenty-eight SD, LOR-942-A is an undeveloped planet in the multi-planetary system of Marhi Prime. LOR-942-A has a tropical climate, comparable to the Paleocene period of Earth. The average global temperature is twenty-four degrees Celsius — seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. The gravitational pull of LOR-942-A is 16.15 meters per second squared. LOR-942-A has —"

"Yeah, okay," I cut it off. "Thank you. That's enough."

My head was spinning, but I tried picking through the information that had been summarily dumped on me.

The computer was suggesting landing on an alien planet.

Climbing carefully, so as not to upset my ribs, I slid down the ladder and back to the pod's compact bridge. Once seated, I scooted forward to look over the console. I pressed a few screens, pulling up an extensive database. I wanted to know more but without the computer's mindless rambling.

With a few strokes of my fingers across the screen, I found the Federation's file on LOR-942-A.

My eyes skimmed the facts.

Breathable atmosphere, at least by human standards. Liquid water. Life sustaining temperatures.

While that was all well and good, the undeveloped status was what gave me reason to pause. The Federation had strict rules when it came to undeveloped worlds. Especially ones that were home to intelligent lifeforms. Not that those laws were adhered to much in the outer sectors. But making first contact with a species that had only just discovered the wheel was a big no-no. It had the potential to alter the course of history for those species, and often to their detriment.

The Federation was pretty clear about those sorts of things; first contact could only be made after a species had reached a certain level of development. That, and contact was never made by civilians like myself. There were whole teams of specialists for it.

A memory tugged at the edge of my thoughts.

I'd once told my father I might like to become a first-contact specialist.

It had not gone over well.

I kept reading, absorbing what information I could.

According to the database, LOR-942-A was classified undeveloped, as it was home to at least one observed intelligent species, though the information about them was seriously lacking. The log gave only an estimation on their level of tech; something comparable to the age of antiquity on Earth.

Well, that meant the planet's inhabitants had definitely figured out the wheel. They would have moved way beyond hunter-gatherer lifestyles and would be living in actual settled communities. Livestock, farming, irrigation; the works.

Unfortunately, none of that meant a damn thing.

Even if I were to make a successful emergency landing, my contact with the planet's inhabitants would have to remain limited. I couldn't run off to mingle with the locals. Instead, I would be living on an alien world, by myself, for the foreseeable future.

I swept a hand across the console, dismissing the files. No sooner than they'd disappeared, I slumped back. "Alright... How long will it take to reach this planet?"

"Nine days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes."

"Wonderful..."

I had a week and a half to come to terms with my situation.

Unless...

"Engage the distress signal while we're at it. We can see which shit sticks."

The computer hummed around me. "Confirmed. The distress beacon is now active and functional."