Chapter 3
Er’dox
She'd volunteer first. Of course she would. Leaders bore the risk, took the uncertainty on themselves.
I led her to the VR pod, trying to project reassurance I wasn't entirely sure I felt. The pods worked—we'd used them for hundreds of species. But "hundreds" wasn't "all," and there was always the chance that human neurology would reject the interface.
Dana climbed into the pod with determination that overrode obvious fear. I sealed the interface and stepped back, monitoring the neural patterns as the system engaged.
For thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then the patterns began to align, her brain accepting the language upload with surprising flexibility.
She emerged five minutes later, gasping, disoriented. I caught her elbow when she swayed, steadying her.
"Can you understand me now?" I asked in standard Zandovian.
Dana blinked up at me, those green eyes focusing. Then, in accented but comprehensible Zandovian:
"Yes. I can understand you." Her voice broke. "Where are we? What galaxy is this?"
And I had to tell her the truth that would break her heart all over again.
"You're in the Shorstar Galaxy. We've never heard of your home galaxy. We don't know how you got here."
I watched her process it. Watched the hope drain from her face as she understood: they weren't just lost. They were cosmically, impossibly lost. Separated from everything they knew by distances that had no meaning.
She turned to face her people, and I knew she was about to translate the worst news possible.
I watched her shoulders square, watched her prepare to carry another impossible burden.
Then Zorn's voice cut through the medical bay: "Er'dox. We have a problem. Two of the humans aren't responding to treatment. Their biology is... reacting to something in the air."
Dana's head snapped toward the sound, and even without translation, she understood.
Her people were dying.
And we had no idea how to save them.