Stars, Stripes, & Strange Blinking Lights

2

Zarin's fingers flew across the control panel, the blinking lights casting a cold glow over the cockpit. Warning signals blared in his ears, but he tuned them out, focusing instead on the rapidly declining trajectory. His breathing was shallow, controlled—everything was spiraling out of his hands, but panic wouldn't help.

Critical systems failure. Stabilization compromised. Impact imminent.

The mechanical voice rang out again, monotone and factual, as the ship hurtled toward the planet's surface. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep calm as the readouts flickered—navigation had failed, and the engines sputtered like they were choking on the atmosphere. He could see a wide stretch of...something below, a golden sea swaying in the wind.

It was vast, endless, but whatever it was, it would have to do.

His hands jerked the controls, attempting to steady the ship, but the descent was too fast. His eyes locked on the strange golden stalks growing beneath him, towering at impossible heights, waving in the breeze like a living mass. He aimed for the clearing, knowing that it was his only chance.

Then came the impact.

The ship slammed into the field, the hull screeching as it tore through the thick stalks. The impact jolted Zarin against his restraints, and the ship skidded violently, tearing a jagged path through the earth. For a few agonizing moments, the world was a blur of movement and sound—the ship rattled, metal groaning as it fought against the momentum, and the cockpit filled with the sharp scent of burning electronics.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the ship came to a grinding halt. The sound of bending metal faded, leaving only the eerie rustle of the golden stalks outside.

Zarin exhaled, his body pressed against the seat, his pulse thundering in his ears. The quiet was sudden, deafening after the chaos. He pressed a few buttons, but the control panel only blinked back at him weakly, several screens completely dark.

Assess. Calculate. Respond.

His fingers trembled as he unclipped the restraints. He couldn't afford to panic. His mind ran through the checklist: check the ship, secure the area, evaluate the damage. Emotions could wait.

He leaned forward and tapped at the diagnostic console, trying to reestablish some control. The screen flickered to life, displaying a grim list of failures.

Engines: Critical damage. Navigation: Offline. Communication: Inoperative.

He swore softly under his breath. No communication. No way to send a distress signal or call for extraction. That wasn't good.

He tried to reroute some power, hoping to restore auxiliary systems, but the blinking red lights told him what he already knew—the ship was dead, at least for now. His hands hovered over the console for a moment longer before he forced himself to stand. His body ached from the impact, and the faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, a reminder of how close he'd come to complete disaster.

Zarin walked to the viewport, peering out. The towering golden stalks swayed gently outside, rippling like waves. The plant life was dense, nearly reaching the height of his ship, and the ground beneath them looked soft, pliable—strange for such a vibrant, strong-looking crop. He frowned, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. His data on this planet had been limited, but this...field of towering stalks wasn't something he had been prepared for.

He opened the hatch, a gust of warm air rushing into the cabin. The air was thick and humid, clinging to his skin immediately. The golden stalks stretched on for miles in every direction, their feathery tops dancing lazily in the breeze. He reached out to touch one of the stalks nearest him, its texture rough and brittle, breaking slightly under his fingers. The crop seemed wild, unmanaged. It must have been cultivated by the native species, but its size and density were...unsettling.