Chapter 5
Er'dox
The detention protocol lasted exactly forty-seven minutes before I overrode it.
Captain Tor'van's standing orders were clear: unknown species remained in medical observation until cleared for general population integration.
Standard procedure. Sensible procedure. Procedure I was actively violating by accessing the medical bay's security systems and unlocking the door that separated the humans from the rest of Mothership.
"You're going to get reprimanded," Krev observed from my workstation, not looking up from his own console.
"Noted."
"Captain specifically said—"
"I heard what the Captain said." I finished bypassing the final security layer, watching the medical bay door's status change from locked to accessible. "I also heard what he didn't say."
Krev finally looked up, his metallic green skin reflecting the console lights. "Which was?"
"That we can't keep them confined indefinitely. They're not prisoners. They're refugees who've just learned they're stranded in the wrong galaxy with no way home and no resources to bargain with. Treating them like potential threats will only make integration more difficult."
"Integration." Krev's tone suggested he found the concept amusing. "You sound like you're planning to adopt them."
"I'm planning to evaluate them. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I didn't answer, because I wasn't entirely sure myself.
The humans had been aboard Mothership for six hours now, enough time for Zorn to complete basic medical assessments, enough time for all sixteen of them to go through the VR communication pods, enough time for Dana to translate the devastating truth to her people that they were never going home.
I'd watched that conversation through the medical bay's observation window.
Watched Dana's careful control as she explained their situation in that melodic human language, watched the breakdown ripple through the group like structural failure.
Some cried. Some went silent. One woman, Elena, the pilot, had punched the wall hard enough that Zorn insisted on scanning her hand for fractures.
And Dana had held herself together through all of it, providing strength for her people even as I could see her own foundation cracking.
Forty-seven minutes of observation. Forty-seven minutes of watching them process trauma that would have broken most species. Enough time for me to make a decision that was probably going to cost me a formal reprimand from the Captain.
"I'm going down there," I announced, standing. "To begin preliminary evaluations."
"You mean you're going to interfere with medical observation protocols."
"I mean I'm going to do my job. Captain Tor'van wants them integrated. Integration requires evaluation. Evaluation requires access." I headed for the door. "You have Engineering."
Krev's response was a grunt that could have meant agreement or resignation or both.
The corridors between Engineering and Medical Bay took three minutes to traverse at standard walking speed.
I found myself moving faster, drawn by something I didn't have a name for.
Curiosity, maybe. Professional interest. The engineer in me wanted to understand their technology, wanted to see what a completely foreign civilization had developed.
The door to the medical bay opened at my approach, my security clearance overriding the observation lock. Inside, the humans had claimed a corner of the bay, defensive positioning, backs to the wall, able to see all approaches. Smart.
They noticed me immediately. All conversation stopped. Sixteen pairs of eyes tracked my movement with varying degrees of fear and suspicion.
Dana was sitting on one of the medical beds, reviewing something on a datapad Zorn must have provided. She looked up at my entrance, and I saw the calculation happen behind her eyes. Threat assessment. Risk evaluation. The same analysis I'd run a hundred times in first contact scenarios.
"Er'dox," she said, my name slightly mangled by human pronunciation but recognizable. She stood, putting herself between me and her people. Always protecting. Always the wall.
"Dana." I stopped several paces away, maintaining a non-threatening distance. "How are your people?"
"Five in surgery. Three more under intensive care. The rest are tired, scared, and processing the fact that we're cosmically fucked." She delivered it in flat Zandovian, no emotion in the words themselves, but I could hear the strain underneath. "So about how you'd expect."
"I came to begin evaluations. Captain Tor'van wants you integrated into Mothership's crew as quickly as possible."
"Right. Because we have to work off our rescue debt." Something sharp entered her tone. "Tell me, what's the going rate for cosmic displacement? How many years of indentured servitude equals one catastrophic wormhole accident?"
Behind her, several humans shifted uncomfortably. They understood Zandovian now, and understood exactly what their situation meant.
"That depends on your skills and the positions you're assigned to," I said carefully. "Captain Tor'van mentioned a minimum five years, but that's assuming basic labor positions. Specialized skills reduce the debt significantly."
"Specialized skills." Dana crossed her arms. "You want to know if we're useful enough to be worth feeding."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway.
"I want to know what you're capable of. Your technology is completely unknown to us.
The beacon you built, improvised, failing, but functional, suggests sophisticated engineering knowledge.
I need to understand what your civilization developed, what skills you possess, where you might contribute to Mothership's operations. "
"And if we don't have useful skills? If we're just refugees with no currency and no value?"
"Then you'll be assigned basic positions and work off your debt over a longer period." I held her gaze. "But I don't believe that will be the case."
Silence stretched between us, tension thick enough to measure. The other humans watched with the stillness of prey animals assessing predator behavior.
Finally, Dana's posture shifted slightly, not relaxation, exactly, but a millimeter of give. "Okay. What do you need to know?"
"Everything." I pulled a portable interface unit from my belt, activated its holographic display.
"Your technological development, your scientific knowledge, your engineering principles.
I've studied your beacon, the hybrid power systems, and the improvised transmission array.
It shouldn't work. By any logical analysis, that configuration should have failed catastrophically.
But it didn't. You made it work anyway."
For the first time since I'd entered the bay, something that might have been interest flickered across Dana's face. "You analyzed the beacon?"
"Of course. It's completely novel technology. The integration of incompatible systems, the creative application of limited resources—" I caught myself before I could launch into a full technical analysis. "It's fascinating from an engineering standpoint."
"Fascinating." She repeated the word like she was testing its weight. "Our survival beacon was fascinating."
"Yes. Because it represents engineering philosophy I've never encountered. Zandovian technology prioritizes efficiency and standardization. Your beacon prioritizes functionality regardless of elegance. Different approach. Different thinking."
I pulled up the schematics I'd extracted from the beacon before it finally died. "This interface here has three different power sources connected through a distribution hub that shouldn't handle that kind of variable input. How did you stabilize it?"
Dana moved closer to look at the holographic display, her people watching carefully. I could see her engineering instincts overriding her defensive posture as she studied her own work rendered in Zandovian technical notation.
"Manual load balancing," she said after a moment. "The distribution hub couldn't auto-regulate, so I monitored it constantly and adjusted power draw to keep things stable. Not elegant, but it worked."
"Manual monitoring for three weeks?"
"Someone always had eyes on it. We took shifts.
" She gestured at the power distribution schematic.
"Your analysis is off here, though. That's not a standard interface.
I built it from a medical scanner's power regulator and part of a life support system.
The connections are improvised, not standardized. "
I adjusted the schematic based on her correction, watching the system architecture realign. "You built functional technology from salvaged components with no proper tools?"
"I had a multi-tool and desperation. That's enough."
"That's extraordinary."
Dana looked up at me, something uncertain in her expression. Like she wasn't sure if I was mocking her or genuinely impressed.
"It's survival engineering," she said. "You do what you have to with what you have. Nothing extraordinary about it."
"I disagree. Most beings confronted with that level of resource limitation simply fail.
You found solutions that shouldn't exist." I saved the corrected schematic to my database.
"This is why I need to evaluate your skills.
If you can do this with salvaged parts and no tools, what could you do with proper equipment? "
Behind Dana, one of the other women spoke, Jalina, I thought, based on medical records. Small, dark-haired, watching me with less hostility than Dana but equal caution. "You want her to work in Engineering?"
"If her skills warrant it, yes." I looked at Dana directly. "I'm Chief Engineer of Mothership. I oversee all technical systems, power distribution, propulsion, life support, structural integrity. If you have the knowledge and capability, I can use someone with your creative problem-solving skills."
"And if I don't measure up to Zandovian standards?"