Exiting the Exodus—budum ts—took an excruciatingly long time. Not just because of the process or her limp, but because they had a hike to the aircraft that would take them down to Pantor. This was as far as the Exodus would go. And the flight itself? Wouldn’t be half bad if she could keep her eyes open. She’d stopped counting how many hours had passed since leaving Earth. Maybe it was nearing a full twenty-four. How long had she been awake? It hurt just to exist at this point.

  The walk was a battle. Her limp made her feel clumsy and exposed, each footfall a reminder of how little energy she had left. Keeping up with the others demanded everything she had, and then some. But—some miracle—her leg hurt less than it should have. Banged up, yes, but not shredded. Shockingly, whatever Melora had put on it was working. Magic. Pure, undeniable magic.

  To Sloane’s shock, the hangar doors were open. Open. Yet she was breathing. Space wasn’t supposed to have air. How was this possible? There was no one to ask—not that she had the energy anyway. At this point, she was moving on pure muscle memory. She knew she had to keep moving forward and that’s all that mattered.

  The aircraft they boarded was similar to the first one she’d been on: white and chrome inside, with soft blue-white lights glowing along the floor, guiding passengers inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the walls, revealing the cosmos beyond. The exterior shimmered in chrome, its shape familiar but just different enough to feel new.

  The hum of the engines began, and Sloane felt the aircraft lift effortlessly. She made sure to take in every detail—she wasn’t going to miss this for the world, or any world for that matter. The hum shifted, signaling movement.

  And then she understood. The hangar doors were irrelevant. A translucent forcefield held the interior safe, protecting them from the vacuum outside. The barrier rippled as the craft glided through it, dragging streaks of blue-white light in its wake.

  And suddenly, space opened up around her. The stars weren’t distant—they were close, brilliant, spilling across the black like scattered diamonds. The Milky Way stretched across the sky, glowing like a river of light. Were they even in the Milky Way? Whatever it was called, they were definitely in a massive barred spiral galaxy that had to contain other solar systems. The faint glowing band across the black sky was proof they were inside one. Three moons floated nearby, serene and alien. One significantly bigger than the other two. Colors danced in the void—pinks, purples, blues, greens—so vivid she didn’t think it was real.

  Sloane’s chest tightened with awe. What she would give to be able to reach out and touch it, hold a star in the palm of her hand. She wanted to freeze it, capture it, keep it forever. When, if ever, would she see something like this again? She can hear every science nerd correcting her: that’s not how it works, a star is a sun. You can’t just hold it. Eye roll.

  For what it was worth, Sloane managed to find peace in this moment. There was a bigger world out there—bigger than anything the average person could ever fathom. And here she was, drifting through it. She had survived the worst Earth had to offer… or whatever this reality had thrown her way. And not many had.

  Fifty thousand humans. That was it. Six-thousandths of a percent of Earth’s population. A microscopic sliver of civilization, all headed to Pantor. And the rest? Most likely dead, taken by the enemy, or trying to stitch together some new kind of life on a ruined planet.

  How could anyone believe that the universe—God, fate, whatever name you slapped on it—didn’t have a hand in this? A slow warmth unfurled in her chest, pride melting through her like honey. Maybe… just maybe… she was meant for something bigger. Maybe this was all a test, and the ones still standing were the ones meant to be.

  Then she looked around. A surprising number of the survivors didn’t exactly look like they’d ever stepped foot on a treadmill. Sure, plenty of the younger crowd had made it—those who could run, fight, or at least be dragged by someone who could. Hopefully the rest were geniuses, because there had to be a reason they were here. It really did feel like being chosen.

  Because what were the odds? She ran out onto that field, sprinting toward a ship while almost everyone around her died and she lived. She made it. And now she was here, floating between worlds.

  They were close enough to Pantor now that the planet filled the windows. Sloane pressed her forehead lightly to the glass, breath fogging it as she stared down in awe. From space, Earth always looked, well, like Earth—the familiar patterns of the continents and the sea with greens, browns and blues all dull and muted. But Pantor? Pantor was alive. The greens weren’t just green; they were deep, mineral-rich, almost shimmering. The oceans didn’t have the calm blues of Earth—they looked electric, bright enough to cut through cloud cover like neon veins. It’s as if she was seeing color for the very first time. Sloane was of course basing all of this on photos that NASA took—if those were even real—so her basis of comparison was very limited.

  As the aircraft hit the upper curve of the atmosphere, everything trembled softly. Sloane braced herself, feeling that strange weight shift in her stomach. Through the thinning veil of clouds, the world sharpened, textures rising to the surface.

  Vegetation spread across the land like woven fabric—tropical, but with a wild, alien edge. Some leaves were enormous, shaped like natural shields. Trees climbed so high they disappeared into the low-hanging mist, trunks thick and weathered down as if they’d been growing for thousands of years. It felt ancient, untouched by time.

  And then she saw them: clusters of civilizations scattered throughout the jungle. Some ancient, some modern. Not human cities—these blended with the environment rather than fighting it. Structures carved into the cliffs. Huts woven seamlessly into the treetops. Settlements hugging the ocean in swooping, curved designs that looked more like art than shelter.

  She wondered what the beings who lived there looked like. What they sounded like. What they believed. The thought hit her like a jolt—these species had existed this whole time, living their lives beneath alien suns, while humans stared up at the sky convinced they were alone. How unbelievably na?ve.

  The aircraft descended lower, engines shifting pitch. Something massive came into view, rising from the dense jungle like a gleaming glacier.

  The base.

  She’d heard rumors—there were supposedly more than one—but from up here, it was hard to imagine needing anything more than this. The place was enormous. A city made of white. Building after building. Platforms and hangars stretching out in precise geometric shapes. Paths glowing with soft light, like veins running through a giant mechanical heart. It looked a bit too perfect, like they were trying really, really hard to say, Look. We’re the good guys.

  The aircraft banked right sharply, preparing for landing. The movement swung her view outward—toward the mountains rising above the treetops. Her breath caught.

  Perched atop the peaks were temples—massive stone structures carved with intricate swirling patterns, their shapes unlike any ancient architecture she’d ever seen on Earth. Some were connected to waterfalls, sheets of glowing water cascading down the mountainsides in sparkling ribbons.

  It felt holy. Sacred. Untouched by war or ruin.

  And for one dizzying moment, Sloane felt like she wasn’t just arriving somewhere new—she was stepping into a story that had been unfolding long before humans even existed.

  A spark lit in her chest, quiet but fierce.

  If they ever let her off that base—even once—she was going to climb one of those mountains and see those temples with her own eyes. She didn’t care how far she’d have to walk, limp or no limp. That was a promise.

  The gears shifted, and the hum of the aircraft changed pitch—a subtle but unmistakable drop. They were descending onto a tarmac of their own making. Other crafts were scattered around the landing zone, each one similar in structure but unique in shape, like they all belonged to the same family but had grown up with different personalities.

  The gate lifted with a hiss, and—like clockwork—everyone shot to their feet. Just like on Earth. As if standing sooner did anything besides clog the aisle and irritate everyone trapped behind them. Some universal habits clearly transcended planets. Sloane hated it on Earth, and apparently that feeling survived the trip to Pantor intact.

  So she stayed seated, letting the herd funnel out. When the space finally cleared, she grabbed her boot and whatever scraps of dignity she still possessed, and limped her way down the ramp.

  The sunlight hit her like a slap—bright and yet so mistakenly different. She squinted hard, her eyes taking their sweet time adjusting. Too many hours inside metal walls had made natural light feel foreign. And Pantor’s sunlight? It wasn’t Earth’s. It was sharper, clearer somehow.

  But the air. God, the air.

  It was crisp like a perfect fall morning but warm like a lazy summer breeze—an impossible combination that wrapped around her, threading through her tangled hair, slipping across her skin. It felt like silk brushing against her exhausted face. She wanted to breathe it in until her lungs ached. If this was what “fresh” was supposed to feel like, Earth had been lying to her for years. It almost had a nostalgic feeling, she couldn’t explain it, but it felt like home. And that thought nearly frightened her. Because this wasn’t home, she was far from it.

  From the tarmac, she could finally take in the base. It sat on the edge of an ocean, perched above a massive cliff that stretched downward in dramatic jagged sheets. Up close, the buildings were even more futuristic than they’d seemed from the air—sleek, modern structures glowing with lines of soft, pulsing light. Walkways bridged between platforms. Panels shifted open and closed with mechanical precision. Everything gleamed.

  And everything moved.

  There were transports of all sizes darting around—sleek pods, long carriers, small single-rider vehicles—and not a single one used wheels. They all hovered, humming softly as they glided through the air or skimmed inches above the ground. The entire base thrummed with an undercurrent of motion, a rhythmic hum that made it feel like the place had its own heartbeat.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  It wasn’t just busy because thousands of humans had just crash-landed into their lives. These beings had jobs. Missions. Assignments. The operation was massive, and from the looks of it, well-practiced. They moved around the new arrivals with all the indifference of people stepping around a puddle—noticeable, but hardly worth slowing down for.

  Humanity’s evacuation wasn’t a spectacle. Apparently, it was just a Tuesday.

  To her left, past the landing platforms, she spotted tree lines in the distance. So the rest of the base stretched north. She’d bet those hovering vehicles were absolutely necessary to get around. Walking from one end to the other would probably take all day.

  Not that her leg would let her attempt it anytime soon.

  Pantor was vast, intimidatingly beautiful. And for the first time since Earth fell apart beneath her feet, Sloane felt something like hope. But hope for what? Peace? A sense of normalcy? Sloane didn’t have a plan anymore and that almost made her feel uncomfortable.

  As she walked forward, a soldier in grey was sorting humans based on the number that glowed on their wristbands—like some kind of armored bouncer. Sloane followed the direction she was given and joined a group she definitely didn’t recognize. These people weren’t from her section of the Exodus. Actually, they didn’t look like anyone she’d even made accidental eye contact with on the ship. Different sections, different regions of Earth, probably different levels of personal hygiene too.

  Her stomach grumbled loudly, a dramatic roar that said feed me or perish. It had been complaining for hours, but now it hurt—like it knew food was somewhere nearby and was offended it didn’t have any yet.

  But what was she supposed to do first? Eat? She was almost too tired to lift food to her face. And there was absolutely no way she was sliding into clean sheets looking like this—she smelled like stress, stale air, and fear-sweat.

  So, shower it is. Food can wait. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.

  And there he was. She knew it was him without a shadow of a doubt—the alien leader she met on Earth. He walked straight to the front of the group with another soldier beside him, this one in white and gold armor with a pair of beautiful white wings. She hadn’t seen an Angel in uniform since the four who presented themselves on the Exodus. These wings were even more impressive up close. They ruffled as their owner moved through the crowd, the feathers fluttering in the breeze. As if the breeze itself was teasing them, the wings shifted slightly away and then lifted high over her head. It was a power move if Sloane had ever seen one.

  The soldier in black had a swagger that screamed I’m in charge—test me at your own risk. Every step was deliberate, commanding, like the ground itself listened.

  “Everyone listen up. I want to get you guys as comfortable as soon as possible and as quickly as possible.”

  Yup. That’s him. That voice. Good ol’ Mr. Man in Black.

  He removed his helmet, and the being next to him did the same. The alien was female, with yellow-blonde hair so bright it almost looked gold. She’d tied it in a high ponytail that bounced like it was starring in its own shampoo commercial—almost too cheerful for the stone-cold expression she was trying (and failing) to maintain. She looked like the It girl. Her piercing yellow eyes flashed gold in the sunlight, almost burning. And her wings—white, radiant, spotless—were a perfect match to her crisp white armor.

  Mr. Man in Black, on the other hand, was beautiful in the most plain-Jane humanoid way possible. Brown hair, brown eyes, sun-kissed skin splattered with freckles like he spent all his time working outside. Maybe six-foot-one. And unlike most of the beings here, he looked as close to normal as you can get. At least he didn’t have one eye.

  “You are Division Alpha One,” he announced. “All your numbers will start with the number one. In case you want to see who is in your division—or what division someone else belongs to. If you ever need anything, you will turn to me or my partner, Persephone. She is one of the many Seraph Commanders here at Pantor and will gladly help with anything she can.”

  As she was introduced, Persephone folded her wings tightly against her back in a gesture of pride. She almost seemed to glow. Sloane had a fleeting thought that maybe they’d have a lot in common. Maybe they could be friends. Assuming angels didn’t judge humans the way humans judge each other—forming cliques, hierarchies, and whatever else people invented to make life harder.

  Mr. Man in Black continued, “My name is Tavian Solvayne, and I am High Marshal of the ground soldiers. None of that makes sense to you now, but it will. Tomorrow is a new day. We’ll get you up to speed on what’s going on and what you can plan for. Right now, let’s get you into rooms, get you fed, and show you where you can go to stretch and try to make sense of things with others.”

  A girl drifted closer to Sloane and said, in a lightly accented voice, “If I’m not in a penthouse suite at this point, I’m out.”

  Sloane glanced over and—shockingly—smiled. That was a first since everything went to hell.

  The girl was tall, her skin a deep, rich chocolate—flawless, almost luminous even under the alien sunlight. Honey-colored eyes, high, sculpted cheekbones, and full lips that any photographer would kill to capture. Thick brown-black hair fell perfectly, somehow still salon-fresh despite the apocalypse. Every cut and bruise on her body somehow read like a statement piece, as if she were modeling for Chaos Couture?.

  “If only…” Sloane muttered.

  “Do you think there’s going to be a line for the shower?” the girl asked.

  Sloane shrugged. She still couldn’t process the absurdity of having a normal, casual conversation on an alien planet. How was that a thing?

  “I can’t say I’ll fight you for it,” Sloane said. “You’ll be done with your shower by the time I even make it to the door.”

  The girl smiled and offered her hand. “Aanya. Aanya Bhatt.”

  Sloane shook it, giving her best attempt at a polite expression. “Sloane de la Croix.”

  “Do you have family here, Sloane?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I’m… not hopeful. My family lived on the other side of the country.”

  “Well, better than the other side of the world,” Aanya said. “I’m not too hopeful either. I don’t recognize a soul. And whoever I came in with isn’t in this division, from what I can tell.”

  “I feel like they sorted us,” Sloane said. “Has to be something with our blood. It just doesn’t feel random.”

  “Skeptical, are we?”

  “Aren’t you? Isn’t everyone? That’s all anyone is talking about.”

  “I can only judge once I have more information.”

  “If any information we get is even true and not fed to us for some kind of gain.”

  “So… glass half empty kind of person?”

  “I guess. It’s hard to believe anything. Like—where even are we right now? It’s hard to be positive.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Aanya said, grinning like she was collecting cynics for sport.

  For whatever reason, Sloane liked her—but also wanted to be irrationally irritated by her. How was she so calm? So trusting? How was she giving anyone here the benefit of the doubt?

  But maybe Sloane was being too negative. Maybe she needed someone like Aanya near her—someone who wasn’t spiraling and was going to keep it real.

  And she couldn’t tell if Aanya even cared to be walking with her, but for whatever reason, they kept moving forward together.

  They were led into a building with rooms on rooms on rooms—like a sleek, sci-fi hotel designed by someone who loved the color white way too much. The hallways glowed with soft blue-white lights. It was oddly inviting.

  Everyone had a chance to pick someone to room with. If not, then the room assignment would be at random. Two per room.

  Sloane and Aanya looked at each other and had the quickest silent agreement of their lives. Roomies it was. At this point, it was either stick together or risk getting paired with someone who breathed loudly.

  Their room was on the second floor—the first floor being entrance and amenities, whatever that meant. Right before everyone dispersed, Tavian announced they were to meet outside in the courtyard in an hour for a mini-tour of the base: mess hall, recreation areas, and “places to get situated in your new life.” Sloane did not love the phrasing “until further notice,” but she filed that away for later.

  Inside, the room was aggressively white. White walls, white floors, white built-in beds recessed into the walls like sleeping pods. Soft lights were inlaid behind panels, giving the room a strangely calming glow—the kind you’d see in an expensive spa, if spas also came with alien soldiers. Sloane felt very dirty in that moment, like she shouldn’t be touching a damn thing in here. Everything was spotless.

  On each bed sat a folded pile of clothes: grey sweatpants, a grey zip-up sweatshirt, a white tank top, and undergarments. The drawers had more variations of the same, plus some spandex-like compression gear. Maybe for exercising? How convenient would that be if they had gym access.

  Aanya let out a screech. “Well, looks like there won’t be a line—we have our own bathroom. But, full disclosure, I take long showers.”

  Sloane almost jumped with joy and then her leg pain reminded her that she was, in fact, not capable of jumping. “It’s fine. I need a minute anyway. Take your time.”

  Aanya did not need to be told twice. She practically teleported into the bathroom, door sliding shut. Her energy was excited, happy even.

  Sloane scanned the room, choosing the bed farther in the back. There was a circular table in the center with four chairs, and what looked like a kitchenette—but everything was sleek and unfamiliar, no buttons or knobs, just smooth surfaces that probably required alien-level brainpower to operate.

  And no clock. Of course.

  Then she remembered her wristband. She flicked the screen a few times, and—ta-da—it turned into a watch. So it also told time. What else could it do? Message someone? Track them? Shock them? She wouldn’t put it past these people.

  At least the lights were soft. And the air smelled pure. And she had a bed. And maybe, in about an hour, something warm to eat.

  It wasn’t much, but after everything she’d been through, it felt almost luxurious. And she absolutely deserved it.

  Aanya eventually made it out of the shower. And by eventually, Sloane had approximately fifteen minutes to get herself together and out the door.

  “That was heavenly,” Aanya moaned—loudly, dramatically, and honestly in a way that probably violated several decency laws. But considering she hadn’t seen running water since the world went to hell, Sloane couldn’t blame her.

  At least Sloane had gotten a dip in that freezing waters of Washington after sprinting for the cliff. Then a flashback of the Rolling Turds hit her. Yup. Good riddance to those assholes. She hoped she’d never have the privilege of running into them again.

  The bathroom was spacious—more white, more chrome, more we have technology far beyond you but also we love minimalist decor.

  She pulled the knife she’d kept in her boot since Earth. Safe to say it would be staying with her forever. Trauma bonding at its finest.

  She peeled off her clothes like she was shedding her old skin. Honestly, she needed to find somewhere to burn this outfit. Preferably ceremonially.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. And, wow. She’d lost a noticeable amount of weight. Her body was covered in bruises, cuts, scrapes—like a walking advertisement for the apocalypse. Her hair was a knotted disaster that no brush could fix. Her eyes were both swollen and sunken, a contradictory artistic choice her face was apparently going for. She barely recognized herself.

  She’d seen enough.

  It took her a minute to figure out how the shower worked, but when she did? Oh man. Pure bliss. The hot water melted over her like a physical apology from the universe. She kept her bandaged leg out of the stream, awkwardly shimmying it to the side, but it didn’t matter—the rest of her felt the days of terror wash down the drain. Was she really taking a shower right now? Or is she having a fever dream? Maybe she was dead? Hopefully this was heaven and only good things from here on out.

  She grabbed a towel from the shelf. It smelled like flowers—flowers she’d never smelled before. Alien lavender, maybe. Whatever it was, it was perfect.

  Even after the shower she still looked rough, but at least she felt human-ish. She wrapped the towel around her and leaned over the sink, studying her face. Her eyes—they were her mother’s. Same shape, same softness. Her lips too. A sudden wave of grief hit her so hard she had to grip the counter.

  What were the chances she’d find them? What were the chances they even made it?

  Her father was strong, but they weren’t young anymore. She’d always said she’d take care of them someday. Now look at her. On another planet. Barely holding herself together.

  She took a slow breath in. Out. Blinked until her vision steadied.

  She would find them. If not here, then she would find a way back to Earth. If they survived, she would get to them. Determination kicked in like a heartbeat.

  She just had to keep going.

  From outside the bathroom, Aanya called, “I think it’s safe to say we can throw out all our clothes, right? Especially your boot? That one is, like, 90% blood at this point.”

  Sloane actually smiled at that—saw the curve of it in the mirror. It was small, but it was there. And it gave her just enough strength to believe that maybe, one day, things could feel normal again.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she whispered, mostly to herself.