He knelt beside his laptop, its dim screen flickering in the dusk, and started the AI he’d built back in San Francisco. Its voice cut through the noise, calm and clear:
- Use branches for a structural frame.
-
Weave leaves or vines for a waterproof roof. -
Dig into a hillside for stability and insulation.
The advice was practical, rooted in Earth’s logic, but it felt out of place here, where the ground hummed underfoot and the trees glowed with their own light. Ray kept the ideas in mind, a starting point, and turned to the forest around his crash site. His boots pressed into the soft, pulsing soil—a signal that Islathia followed its own rules.
The trees stretched high, their bark shimmering with a blue-green glow that lit the shadows. Ray touched one, his fingers tracing its surface. It bent slightly—tough yet flexible, light but strong, alive with a faint energy. Vines dangled from the branches, tightening when he tugged them, their strength pulsing like a heartbeat. These weren’t Earth’s trees or vines; they were gifts from a strange, unforgiving world. Ray quickly sized up how they might work, adjusting the AI’s suggestions to fit what he saw.
Using his pocketknife, Ray cut strips of glowing bark from the trees. The cuts sealed fast with a clear sap that hardened in seconds, as if the trees approved. He shaped the bark into a curved frame, its glow brightening the twilight. For a roof, he wove the vines together, their tension holding the shape for a moment. He stepped back, hopeful. Then it fell apart—the bark too soft without something firm beneath it, the vines unable to support the weight. The pile of glowing rubble taunted him.
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Ray sank to the ground, irritation flaring, then fading. He wasn’t an expert at this, but he could figure things out—take a problem apart and try again. The bark could still work; it just needed a stronger base.
His gaze landed on the Land Cruiser, its broken shape catching the alien sunlight. He remembered driving it through California, its steady hum, nights with his mom’s cooking. Now it was junk—but useful junk. With a tire iron and a wrench from his gear, he pried off the driver’s door, then the passenger one, both dented but solid. From the roof rack, he pulled the crossbars—straight, reliable pieces of metal.
Ray reworked his plan. He drove the crossbars into the soil, sinking them deep for a steady frame. Using brackets from the SUV’s engine, he attached the doors as walls, their weight reassuring under his hands. He cut the glowing bark into panels to fit the gaps, its light now a bonus. The vines went back up as a roof, their strength locked in by the solid structure. He noticed the tree sap sticking to his knife, hardening fast. Testing it, he smeared it along the bark’s edges, pressing them to the metal—it stuck tight, a natural bond. The tent fabric lined the inside, softening the space. He tested it, pushing and pulling. It held.
The shelter stood—metal and glowing bark, vines and determination woven together. Rain tapped the roof, a sudden drizzle from the coast, and it didn’t leak. Wind rattled the frame, but it stayed put. Ray stepped inside, the fabric cushioning his steps, and let out a breath. The AI had given him a nudge, but the Land Cruiser—its doors, its bars—made it real. Earth and Islathia met here, shaped by his refusal to give up.
The sun sank, its light splitting through the trees. Two moons—smaller than Earth’s, faint crescents—rose, their glow reflecting off the shelter’s walls. Ray leaned against the cool metal door, the weight of the day settling. He’d done this—alone, hurt, lost in a world of sky serpents and strange mists. He’d made a space to survive.
But the forest wasn’t quiet. A roar, too close, sharpened his senses. Pride mixed with unease. This was just the beginning. Food, water, a way forward—they were still out there. For now, he rested, the vines’ faint pulse easing him into sleep under Islathia’s moons.