The sword's edge glints ominously in the weak sunlight. Narrowing my eyes, I sight along its length, assessing the curve, judging the balance. The handle was not made for a human hand, but it fits well enough.

 

A practice stroke cuts through the cold air, sounding like a hissing snake. From across the duelling diamond, my alien opponent gives me a hard stare.

 

Introduced as Tappai, apparently he's one of their innumerable lesser princes. Even after a year embedded in this culture, it's difficult to interpret body language. Does he look nervous? I know I'm terrified.

 

Terraces rise on either side of me. Assembled on them, dressed in ceremonial finery, are the aliens' ruling elite. Their long robes trimmed with analogues of fur and feathers. A riot of scarlet, indigo and gold. In other circumstances, I would find it magnificent.

 

Sarah and Amin stand among them. Their uniforms appear drab by comparison. Sarah manages a brave smile, bringing a lump to my throat.

 

Aliens and humans alike have the same tense, strained expressions. The scientist in me wants to make notes concerning convergent interspecies facial similarities. I imagine myself returning to base, walking arm in arm with Sarah. We would write up our findings together. Will we ever share moments like that again?

 

The priest gestures to approach the centre of the diamond. Physically, we're evenly matched. We stand face to face. It takes an effort not to flinch from Tappai's hate-filled gaze. He must be an Ultra. One of those who believes our presence is not merely unwelcome but blasphemous.

 

The priest bows. My earpiece translates his stomach-churning words.

 

"Prince Tappai, Woman of Earth Anna Vendor: your fight will be to the death. May truth triumph."

 

I've barely returned to my mark when he rushes in, sword hacking downwards. I block it. The force of the blow jars my wrist. It feels like it's on fire.

 

My old fencing master's instructions ring out in my mind. "Miss Vendor, parry, riposte, lunge, rhythm, rhythm, rhythm." Muscle memory begins to guide my feet and direct the sabre.

 

The prince launches another wild onslaught. Our bodies collide, swords clashing above our heads, metal grinding on metal — a slip. I stumble backwards. He's inside my guard! The tip of his blade rakes my cheek. Reaching up, my fingers come away bloodied.

 

A roar of triumph erupts from the gallery. Almost inaudible in the tumult, a lone voice screams my name.

 

Emboldened, Tappai attempts a repetition. This time, I deflect his sword and see an opening. I spring forward and slice into the top of his shoulder. A keening cry echoes around the arena, silencing the crowd.

 

The priest strikes a gong. We separate into our respective corners. With a shaking hand, I apply pressure to stem the bleeding.

 

This is a waking nightmare. Everything happened so fast. The summons to the chancellor's office. Shouted accusations that we had gravely insulted their not-quite gods. Their insistence that as lead liaison, I must atone.

 

The anger had seemed genuine, but was it all a performance? There are palace factions who want the mission expelled. Is this the pretext? Should I win, injured pride will force all the cliques to unite and call for banishment. We will all be expelled with little hope of return. If this is a political manoeuvre, it's a cleverly constructed trap.

 

The priest brings us together. Tappai is more cautious now, edging forward, probing my defence. I let him come on, then pounce. A flurry of thrusts. He barely counters. Off balance, his other arm is exposed. Gleefully, I carve into it. It's difficult to stop myself from screaming in jubilation.

 

Angry and in pain, the prince reverts to a reckless attack. He trips and falls, swearing as he hits the ground. "Expletives," my translator announces, unable or unwilling to describe the actual curses.

 

Tappai is helpless. I stand over him, weapon poised. Part of me wants to finish this, but I fear the consequences. The priest steps between us, and the opportunity passes.

 

The breaks in combat always seem to the prince's advantage. Still, I'm glad to rest my sword arm.

I have greater skill with a blade, but Tappai has one powerful advantage. The prince knows exactly what he wants: my corpse laid out before him. I can only see different ways to lose.

 

Spitting out grit, I'm conscious of this world's taste. The hint of something like musky cinnamon permeated everything. The atmosphere, the soil, the foliage. "You'll get used to it," they'd said when I first arrived, and I had. Now it hits me: the otherness of this place where I may die, so far from home.

 

Perhaps we should never have come. But lives were lost in the effort to get to this planet. Decades spent gaining the aliens' trust. I've dedicated my life to this. There is still so much to learn.

 

Touching blades, we circle once again. The young prince continues to advance, but the fight has gone out of him. His wounds are still haemorrhaging badly. Vividly red against green scales, blood trickles down both arms and pools in the sand.

 

Without warning, he stops, collapsing onto one knee. Breathing flaps on his shoulders rapidly rise and fall. The priest signals for me to pause.

 

Using the sword as a crutch, Tappai hauls himself upright. He's swaying, spent, exhausted. I can take him, but at what cost?

 

A yearning to see Sarah's face overwhelms me. Searching for her in the throng, sweat and tears cloud my vision. I howl in anguish. It's only now, when it's gone forever, that I truly appreciate how much I loved our time here.

 

Uncomprehending, Tappai looks on, gathering his strength for one last charge. He runs towards me, legs almost collapsing beneath him, mouth contorted with what sounds like a scream.

 

"Unidentified word," says the calm voice in my ear. "Caution: possibly threatening." I almost smile at that. Instead, I lower the sword and close my eyes.