Drifting to an Alien Planet for a Slow Life After a Mutual Kill with the Enemy - Chapter 11

The cockpit filled entirely with the holographic projection fed by the ship’s sensors.
A three-dimensional image materialized—a vibrant tapestry of deep green, light brown, and flowing grey light. It was the heart of the forest, a village tucked away in the mountains. Wooden buildings climbed the slopes, and the tree canopies were neatly trimmed into curved shelters. Smoke curled from several rooftops, dissolving into the mist.
Uranus’s report came through, steady and even: “Total thermal signatures: 357. Approximately one-third are adults, with 82 suspected juveniles. The remaining low-activity signatures are estimated to be elderly or infirm individuals.”
Lysander didn’t respond. He swiped a finger across the virtual interface, zooming in. The screen revealed the creatures’ silhouettes—humanoid, with sleek, smooth fur, sharp, erect ears, and tails that twitched subtly with their movements. They were carrying timber, washing cloth, training, or minding their young. Every action seemed part of a single, established rhythm, as if their movements were simply the forest’s own pulse made visible.
Uranus: “Observation log initiated. Significant variation in body type noted. Suspected sexually dimorphic species.”
Lysander stared at the projection, his fingertip idly tapping the control panel. “The females appear close to humans, but with animal ears and a tail… Fur is concentrated around the ear tips and the base of the tail. Their behavior suggests a high level of social organization.”
He shifted his gaze to a group of males hauling logs nearby. They weren’t bulky, but possessed the lean, swift build of a predator: shoulders hunched slightly forward, ears constantly scanning for sound, their tails acting as counterweights.
“The males, however, are closer to beasts. Their posture isn’t fully upright, and muscle mass is concentrated in the limbs and lower back. They are built for agility and speed, not brute strength. Their bodies are heavily furred, and their limb proportions resemble a hunter. This kind of reverse sexual differentiation shouldn’t happen naturally within a single species…”
Uranus supplied: “Hypothesized as the result of cultural or genetic manipulation. Possibly adaptive differentiation.”
“Adapt to what?”
“The environment, perhaps. Or possibly, belief.”
Lysander let the view slowly pan, offering no further comment. He watched the figures talking, fetching water, and securing ropes in the sunlight. A peculiar emotion welled up—not fear of the unknown, but a quiet, compelling curiosity.
“…I truly wonder what they make of themselves.”
He leaned back in the pilot’s seat and watched for a long time.
“…They aren’t mere animals,” he muttered. “But they aren’t human, either.”
Uranus detected his voice and followed up: “Genetic structure is estimated to be close to human. Should we activate the sample collection protocol?”
Lysander looked up, his voice hardening: “Absolutely not.”
“Reason?”
“They have a community, a language, and defined rules of conduct.” He paused, then emphasized: “I believe they are intelligent life forms.”
Uranus paused briefly, then reported: “According to Federation Wartime Regulations, a sample may be collected from an unknown intelligent life form via non-contact means to mitigate potential threats.”
“I know the Wartime Regulations,” Lysander said calmly, the refusal absolute. “But we are not on a battlefield, Uranus.”
The only sound in the cockpit was the low thrum of the instruments. Lysander watched the image—a child chasing a sunspot, a splash of light through the leaves. The child tripped, its tail getting dusty, but it just let out a peal of giggles.
The laughter cut through the static, faint, but vividly real.
He was struck by how deeply foreign this place was. It felt alien not just because it was another planet, but because it felt like a different time altogether.
The Logos Federation had no ancient trees, only green data codes; no winding rivers, only coolant circulating in glass tubing. The air was sanitized and recycled, devoid of the smell of soil. The fragrance of plants was labelled an ‘irritant,’ permitted only in the experimental zones reserved for Arcadians.
But here, there was wind, dampness, and the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke.
All of it was completely foreign to Lysander, yet he felt a knot in his chest loosen for the first time in years. He didn’t know why, but it felt good.
“Uranus, set up a numbering system.”
“Confirmed.”
The screen flashed. The Fox-people’s village was segmented into multiple zones, and new labels appeared.
“Temporary designation for the collective: L–4X–09-H–COLONY–01. Individuals will be labelled with the S-series codes.”
Lysander fixed his gaze on three figures walking together.
They were three females—one was patrolling the perimeter with a long blade, another was gathering herbs with a basket slung over her back, and the third was carrying a water bucket while speaking to a child.
“S–027, S–028, S–029,” he numbered them, his voice flat.
Uranus updated the data: “Designate for priority observation?”
“Yes.” Lysander pointed to the one collecting herbs. “The female Fox-person with the basket. She appears to be the leader. Mark her as Class A.”
“Acknowledged.”
In another corner of the projection, voice sampling began. Waveforms rose and fell in the air—low-frequency, soft, and melodic. The AI systematically broke down the sounds, parsing syllables and marking stress.
“The language is poly-syllabic and composite,” Uranus reported. “It incorporates onomatopoeia and sensory modifiers, with a tendency toward emotional simulation.”
“Emotional simulation?” Lysander offered a small, knowing smile. “No, that is emotion.”
Light flashed over his face like shadows cast by moving branches. He mused that in the Federation’s database, a community like this would be quickly dismissed as a ‘low-level civilization.’ Yet, on this planet, he had a strange feeling—this was perhaps how humans were meant to live.
He understood perfectly why humanity had always searched for worlds like this: because this, surely, was humanity’s true ‘home’ or ‘final sanctuary.’
Uranus broke the silence: “Establish a continuous observation task?”
“Set it up, and flag it as a priority research project.”
“Understood.”
“But—,” Lysander added, “no direct interaction is permitted, unless I specifically order it.”
“Confirmed: Non-contact observation.”
Lysander settled back, letting out a deep breath.
He watched the Fox-people repair the wall, feed the birds, do the washing, and join their hands in prayer as the sun set. Their way of life was basic, inefficient, but strangely and deeply secure. He thought that perhaps humans once had this rhythm of breathing with the world, but had either forgotten it or somehow lost it over time.
The lights in the cockpit dimmed, imitating the night.
The forest outside shimmered in the distance, like countless eyes watching him.
“Lysander,” Uranus’s low voice cut in. “Your emotional state… seems unusually stable.”
“It’s not unusual,” he chuckled softly. “For a human, this is what we call peace.”
He reached out and shut down most of the displays, leaving only the main image window. On the screen, the Fox-people’s campfire was burning brightly, the orange light flickering in the breeze, as if bidding the world goodnight.
Lysander closed his eyes, soaking in the brief moment of serenity flowing from the image.