Page 2 of Fallen from the Stars

This is beyond foolish. If it is metal, it is likely to be struck by lightning, and I will learn about fire from the inside out.

Just a quick look and he’d go below for shelter. A few more moments couldn’t hurt — he’d not deny himself that after the struggle of locating this thing. He could not bring himself to abandon the pursuit of his curiosity despite the explicit danger.

Raindrops hammered the strange material, shattering and splashing to fill the air with stinging mist. With hands and tentacles, Vasil hauled himself out of the water and climbed atop the object. His suction cups felt a narrow seam on the surface, but it was too small to see. He paid it little mind; the circular section of glass inlaid on the top front of the object claimed his full attention.

Vasil leaned over the glass and wiped away the droplets gathered upon it with one hand, but it was too dark to see inside. What did it contain? Though he had no idea what this thing was, it seemed humanmade; this was no fallen star, unless humans had made the stars just like they’d made the kraken.

Humans hadn’tmadethe stars, they’d comefromthem ages ago. Hadn’t they?

As the object bobbed on the churning water, sea and sky lashed against it with wind, waves, and rain. All three struck with biting force, hitting Vasil repeatedly as though possessing solid form. The sting permeated his skin. He needed to leave, needed to give up this stupidity and seek shelter from the storm’s fury.

Instead, he found himself leaning closer to the glass, lighting the tiny points of bioluminescence on his stripes. Their glow reflected on the smooth surface, creating the brief illusion of a sky full of stars. Through the reflections, he could just make out a dark, shadow-shrouded shape, defined only by faint highlights along its edges.

Vasil dipped his face closer still. What was it? There was something familiar about it, but he could not assemble the pieces into a complete, coherent mental image — until lightning arced overhead.

Neither the sudden flash nor the immediate, deafening peal of thunder accompanying it startled him; his mind was too absorbed by what he saw. For the briefest instant — a fraction of a heartbeat — the object’s interior was illuminated. Though bereft of color, the image was burned into his mind with vibrancy and clarity.

There was a human female inside, eyes closed and features relaxed.

Countless thoughts tumbled through his head, most of them questions. Had humans come to Halora by plummeting from the stars? Was each star a human encased in one of these egg-like…things?

He thrust all questions aside save for the most immediate — was this human alive?

If he went below to shelter himself from the storm, he would lose the object to the sea forever. He could not haul it under with the flotation sacs inflated, but if he destroyed them and the object sank, he also wasn’t likely to get it back to the surface again.

Could this thing weather the storm?

Couldhe?

He’d wasted too much time already. No one else would help this human. No one else could.

Moving as carefully as possible despite the thrashing sea, Vasil dragged himself below the surface and clung to the underside of the object. The sound of water rushing all around dominated his hearing, but it was not enough to fully drown out the booming thunder from above.

His tentacles brushed over the object’s otherwise smooth surface in search of better purchase only to find a damaged portion; the object’s outer shell had either cracked or been torn off in a spot on its underside, leaving a jagged wound behind. He dared not probe the damage further; his limited study of human machinery and technology over the last year or two had taught him primarily that much of it was far too complicated to be repaired without sophisticated tools and specific, precisely-crafted parts.

He held tight as the storm raged and the sea continued its violent dance, as the strange object leapt and fell on the water, as waves and currents battered his body. Time held no meaning — the rapid thumping of his hearts was the only measure of its passage, interrupted often by unpredictable lightning flashes that pierced the blackness and roaring thunder that vibrated into him through the object. At some point, Vasil closed his eyes and poured all his focus into maintaining his desperate grip on the object, fighting the aches that had suffused his body down to his smallest suction cups.

Abrasive sand scraped along his back.

Opening his eyes, he scrambled to a new position on the side of the object, dragging his torso above the surface.

The sky remained dark, the wind strong, but the rain seemed to have eased. And there was something directly ahead — a strip of paler gray in the gloom.

A beach.

Vasil shifted to the rear of the object and pushed, ignoring the fiery protests in his weary arms, shoulders, and tentacles. He moved with an awkward combination of swimming and crawling, digging his front tentacles into the sand to force the object forward. The waves rolling toward the shore helped him along. Soon, the water was shallow enough that he didn’t have to swim.

The water steadily grew shallower until there was no swimming involved.

His advance faltered when the object’s underside finally struck sand. Vasil paused, chest heaving. His body craved rest; were he to collapse there, he would undoubtedly have fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber despite the surf flowing over and around him.

But the tide could not be trusted to safeguard either Vasil or the object. Even a slight rise in the water level would be enough to carry either of them back out to sea.

He spread his tentacles, lowered his head, clenched his jaw, and pushed.

The object was heavier than he’d expected now that it was partially on land, but the smooth curve of its underside — paired with the incoming tide — eased its journey just enough for him to gain ground. When the object tipped forward, he paused only long enough to lower his stance and adjust the positions of his hands before pushing again.

Slowly, he moved the object out of the water. He allowed himself not a moment’s respite until he’d pushed it beyond the driftwood and debris that marked the high tide line. Growling against the pain in his overexerted muscles, he gave one final shove before collapsing to the ground.

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