Just when I can’t walk another step, I see it glimmering ahead. Our final torch-tube burned out long ago, but this glow is different. It’s sweet and pale, like the first glimmer at dawn. I increase my pace until I’m running, only vaguely noticing that the incline slopes upward, as if we’re going aboveground at last.

The tunnel opens in a hillside covered with verdant growth. This is a different aspect of the planet—neither the hungry jungle nor the dry wasteland—but a gentler clime that permits more familiar flora to thrive. If Mary is kind, we’ll find a gate somewhere nearby, and we can end this exile. I’ve lost all certainty of how long we’ve been gone. Days and nights have blurred together, and privation takes its toll, but if I haven’t lost count entirely, it’s been three weeks to a month.

I inhale deeply through my nose, delighting in the fresh air. Beside me, Vel scans the surrounding area, looking for toxins and large predators. He lowers his handheld and points off into the distance.

“There is a settlement that way. And I detect a power source similar to the gate we used on Marakeq.”

That’s the best news I’ve heard in forever. But things get better still when we climb down the hill and find a narrow stream running among the rocks. My throat is so dry at this point that it hurts to talk. Without waiting for Vel to scan, I kneel and drink from my cupped palms. I’ll take my chances with local parasites over a painful death from dehydration. He’s a little more cautious and takes some readings before doing likewise.

“It’s safe?” I ask.

“You had better hope so.” Amusement threads his words.

“Yeah, yeah.”

After further exploration, he finds some fruit and roots that should be safe for us both to eat. The former is bitter and green, but it’s so much better than nothing that I don’t complain about the taste. It takes me fifteen minutes to chew down a root; it’s clearly not meant for human teeth. Vel has no such trouble, grinding it with his mandible. I feel better almost immediately.

“To the settlement?”

I nod. Sleep sounds divine, but maybe we can rest in a more comfortable locale. Excitement pounds in my veins. These might be descendants of the Makers. How amazing would that be? I quicken my step, trusting Vel to keep pace, and soon we close the distance. I’m shocked to see familiar moss-covered mounds in the distance. This looks quite a bit like the Mareq village.

“Perhaps a few Mareq activated the gate, as we did,” Vel offers.

That seems most likely. But—

“If there was a return gate nearby, wouldn’t they have figured out how to get back?” And not still be here.

“One problem at a time, Sirantha.”

Yeah, he’s right. At least we have food and water now, and we’re out of that hellish hole. And overall, it’s a lucky break for us. Unless their language has evolved beyond all recognition, we should be able to communicate with them.

The trek passes in near silence, and it’s all downhill, another mercy. Just as I’m thinking things have shifted for the better, two creatures come up the hill toward us. They bear some resemblance to the Mareq we know, but they’ve lost the oversized heads and the bulging eyes. These alt- Mareq are more streamlined and muscular, as if they’ve had to fight to survive here. That doesn’t bode well for us.

One of them speaks in quick, rhythmic croaks, but my chip can’t interpret it. Not yet anyway. Shit. Their language has changed.

There’s no mistaking their meaning when they draw weapons on us. Not primitive ones, either. It must be salvaged Maker technology because it looks like a pistol of some kind, but I can only imagine the kind of death it deals. We could fight, but that would guarantee hostility from the rest of the village, and there are only two of us. We can’t fight a war on our own. I exchange a glance with Vel, who inclines his head, silently counseling surrender.

The smaller one approaches to bind our wrists with a thin razor cord; struggling against this would slit my wrists. They confiscate Vel’s pack though there isn’t much in it anymore. I’m sorry to lose the handheld, and, by his expression, he is, too.

Then the other gestures down the hill toward the settlement. We are, unquestionably, being taken hostage. I suppose I should be grateful that they didn’t shoot us on sight, but maybe they’re used to beings wandering through the gates and turning up here. Their town may be more diverse than we expect.

A hard shove gets me moving, as if I doubt their intentions. But even with the language barrier, I understand what I’m meant to do; I start walking.

It isn’t far to the village proper, and once we reach it, they drag us through an interested crowd of onlookers to a mound that has clearly been designated as a prison. It’s smaller than the others, and the door is different—well, the fact that it has a door. The others offer freedom and open space instead.

Our captors push us within, where it reeks of bodily waste and old food. There isn’t enough room for us to stand upright, so I drop down and lean back against the dirt wall. This time, there is no cozy bed to sleep on, just mud and a whisper of white that could be bone, but I hope it’s not. It would be kinder to kill intruders than leave them here to a slow death.

“On a scale of one to ten, how fragged are we?” I ask tiredly.

“That depends on their intentions.”

I offer a wry smile. “Let’s pretend they’re planning us a party.”

“Will there be choclaste?”

“You’re so cruel.” My mouth waters.

Though it seems unlikely under the circumstances, I’m so exhausted and weakened from the journey that I pass out as much as fall asleep. I wake with Vel’s injured claw atop my head. At first I don’t know why he’s bothering me until I hear the footsteps drawing closer. Someone is coming to check on us. Or execute us. Either way, it means a change.

This time, it’s a different alt-Mareq, a female I think, by her size and markings. She’s heavy with eggs, and she croaks at us in inquiry. Unfortunately, my chip offers gibberish in place of a true translation: Want run fly target hope fall off?

No, not really. Switching to Mareq, I tell my chip, and then answer without any hope of being understood. “We came through a gate. We just want to go home.”

To my astonishment, she cocks her smooth, green head, and studies me. Hm. I wonder if she got any of that.

She replies, “Come portal?”

“Yes.”

“From Faraway Broken,” she tells me.

I have no idea if we’re actually communicating, but I’m encouraged to keep at it. My chip is the advanced kind, which learns, the more it hears of a new language. It doesn’t offer immediate perfect comprehension, but if I can keep the natives from killing us while it trains to local nuance, we may have a shot, here.

“Yes. Need near gate, not broken. Know one?” It seems best to keep my sentences short and simple, less chance of the vocalizer going insanely awry.

She makes an angry, negative sound. “Only Close Broken.”

Shit. None of the return gates work? We are so fragged.

She leaves then, but a short while later, a packet of food is shoved in through a slot at the bottom of the door. The roots have worn off by this point, so I unwrap it to look at what they’ve given us. Some kind of meat, it looks like, so these creatures are not herbivores like the ones on Marakeq. There are also tubers, greens, and some gray pasty stuff, along with simple water.

“It seems unlikely they intend to kill us,” Vel says. “Or they would not bother feeding us.”

He takes up some of the meat and downs it without visible difficulty. I haven’t eaten real meat often—only that time on Venice Minor—and I don’t know the nutritional value of these others foods. A protein deficit at this point could be disastrous, so I hold my nose and force the flesh down. It sits uneasily in my stomach, and I whimper, trying not to picture what I’ve just eaten.

Time passes. I’d lose track, except they give us a new packet of food each morning, and I note the arrival on the wall beside me. On the fourth day, a small alt-Mareq male steps into the hut with us. He bears some interesting implements, which look like a knife, a scanner, and something I’ve never seen before.

He explains, “Fix smelly female,” before setting to work.

That’s more sense than I’ve gotten from any of them yet. He uses all three tools on me, and I scream while he burns the infection out. It requires Vel holding me for the Mareq healer to finish the job, and I’m weeping by the time the wound seals. Afterward, Vel pets my hair with his claws until the shaking stops.

We wait more. Ten meals. And marks. If my poor count holds true, we’ve been stranded here six weeks. Dina and Hit must be petrified. Now I bear a nasty, puckered scar in the shape of the creature’s teeth, and since the Mareq worked on me, I’ve shaken the fever that’s plagued me since the attack in the jungle.

“How’s your hand?” I ask Vel.

He peels off the dirty Nu-Skin to show me the blunt tip, where his claw once grew. But the gouge where it ripped free has sealed over cleanly.

“On Ithiss-Tor, I would be cut in caste for such a disfigurement,” he says quietly.

“Even with a prosthesis?”

He nods, but before he can say more, I hear footsteps, and it’s not mealtime. Hopefully, this means they’ve come to some decision about what to do with us. If they haven’t, Mary help them.

Because I’m Sirantha Jax, and I have had enough.