Chapter 11
Rykar
Istared at the words on the screen, REQUEST DATA pulsing gently in the galactic script, and felt completely out of my depth.
Lords were supposed to have instinctual understanding of their Solas, some kind of innate knowledge about how to guide and communicate with their ship-consciousness.
Instead, I was standing here wondering what the hell my ancient Sola wanted from us.
“Well,” Maya said, moving closer to examine the interface, “this is clearly adapted from my scanning equipment. See how the display matrix is similar to my geological sensors?” She ran her fingers along the edge of the screen, her mind already working on the problem.
“If we can find some kind of data port, we could try uploading basic information files. Start simple—maybe atmospheric composition readings, structural analysis, that sort of thing.”
I watched her approach the problem with the same methodical thinking she probably used for her geological surveys, breaking down the unknown into manageable pieces. One of the things I’d come to admire about Maya was her ability to find logical solutions even in impossible situations.
But something about her suggestion didn’t feel right.
Through the partial bond I’d formed with the—or rather, my—Sola, I could sense layers of complexity that weren’t evident in her simple text request. This wasn’t just a computer asking for data input.
This was a living mind that had been isolated for millennia, finally able to communicate but struggling with concepts and memories too vast for linear translation.
“I don’t think she wants data files,” I said slowly. “I think she wants us to talk to her.”
Maya looked up from the interface. “Talk to her how? Through the screen?”
“Maybe. Or maybe through the bond.” I moved closer to the heart crystal, feeling the press of my Sola’s mind against my own.
“She’s not like the other Solas, Maya. She’s older, more complex.
The other lords communicate with their ships through clear, direct mental telepathy.
But she…” I paused, trying to put the sensation into words.
“She speaks in layers. Emotions wrapped around memories wrapped around concepts I don’t have names for. ”
“That could be because she’s damaged,” Maya pointed out. “The fragmentation we’ve been experiencing might be preventing normal communication.”
“Or it could be because she remembers things the others have forgotten.” I pressed my palm against the crystal’s surface, feeling the immediate surge of connection.
Images flashed through my awareness—star charts showing systems that no longer existed, technical specifications for technologies that had been lost centuries ago, memories of the first Destrans to achieve spaceflight.
“She’s one of the original Solas, Maya. She holds knowledge that was already ancient when the current Destran civilization was young. ”
Through the bond, I felt the Sola’s approval at my understanding, followed by a complex weaving of concepts that might have been her attempt to explain her nature.
Not just a ship-consciousness, but a repository of cultural memory, a living library of everything the Destran people had once known and subsequently lost.
“Okay,” Maya said, settling into what I was beginning to recognize as her problem-solving mode.
“Let’s try both approaches. I’ll work on finding a way to interface with her technological systems, and you can try to establish clearer communication through the bond.
Between the two methods, maybe we can figure out what she actually needs. ”
We spent the next several hours working in conjunction, Maya examining every surface of the heart chamber for some kind of data port while I sat beside the consciousness crystal and tried to make sense of the layered communications flowing through our connection.
It was exhausting work. The ancient Sola’s attempts at communication were like trying to follow a conversation conducted in multiple languages simultaneously, with each layer of meaning requiring different interpretive skills.
I found myself grateful for the liquid nutrition that the Sola provided through a small spring that had grown from one of the walls.
It trickled into a basin and I drank from it often.
Lami was the Destran’s primary nourishment.
It had incredible healing properties, but was addictive to some species.
The Brakken had tried to annihilate us to get it.
Since putting roots down on this moon, the Solas’ lami had lost its addictive qualities but was still healing and nourishing. Destrans did sell it as medicine, but its primary purpose was to keep our own people healthy.
Maya, meanwhile, had been subsisting on the emergency rations from our supply packs. She’d been receiving lami while in the med bay to keep her body strong, but I noticed she did not attempt to drink it now. I imagined she’d have to if she ran out of rations before we could leave the Sola.
“Try asking her about specific topics,” Maya suggested during one of our breaks. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketching the crystal formation in a notebook she’d produced from somewhere. “Instead of waiting for her to initiate communication, give her something concrete to respond to.”
I nodded and pressed both hands against the crystal surface, opening my awareness as fully as I could to the ancient consciousness.
Who are you? I projected toward her, trying to frame the question as clearly as possible.
The response was immediate and overwhelming—a flood of identity that encompassed not just individual consciousness but collective memory.
I saw the birth of the early Solas, grown from seed-ships that had survived on Destra only because my people had protected them.
Solas had no weapons. No poisons or armor or even the ability to move quickly from harm’s way.
It had been a symbiotic relationship from the start—the Destrans needed the Solas for shelter and lami, and the Solas needed the Destrans for protection.
I felt the joy of first contact with other species, the sorrow of wars fought over resources and territory, the slow accumulation of knowledge and wisdom over millennia of exploration.
I am memory, came the eventual response, translated through layers of concept and emotion. I am the repository of what was lost. I am the guardian of knowledge that must not die.
“She says she’s a keeper of lost knowledge,” I told Maya, my voice rough from the intensity of the connection. “Not just a ship, but a living archive of Destran history and technology.”
Maya’s eyes lit up with excitement. “That’s incredible! Ask her what kind of knowledge. What technologies? What historical records?”
I relayed the questions, and the response nearly knocked me off my feet.
The ancient Sola shared glimpses of technologies that seemed like magic—methods for healing that could regenerate entire organs, propulsion systems that could fold space itself, communication networks that could span entire galaxies instantaneously.
All of it lost when one of the original Sola collectives had been scattered across the galaxy during some ancient catastrophe.
“She knows how to do things that modern Destrans have forgotten,” I said, struggling to process what I’d seen. “Technologies that would revolutionize everything we know about space travel, medicine, communication.”
“Why didn’t she share this knowledge before? When she was last active?”
I posed the question and received a wave of complex emotion—grief, frustration, loneliness, and something that might have been betrayal.
The planet was hostile, then, came the eventual response. Before your people learned how to fight, how to bind together and be a force. I am one of the ones who fled. Enemies chased, and I crashed here.
He relayed what the Sola had told him and Maya was quiet for a moment.
“That’s heartbreaking,” she said. “She fled danger and has been carrying all this knowledge alone for thousands of years, waiting for someone to awaken her.”
I felt another surge of communication from the Sola, this time directed as much at Maya as at me. Through our shared connection, I could sense her awareness of Maya’s presence, her appreciation for the human woman’s careful attention and scientific curiosity.
She chose well, the Sola projected, and I realized she was referring to Maya. The bridge-builder understands the value of questions over answers.
“She likes you,” I told Maya. “She appreciates your scientific approach, your willingness to learn rather than just demand results.”
Maya smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly pink. “Tell her the feeling is mutual. This is the most fascinating research opportunity I’ve ever encountered.”
As the day progressed, I began to understand why the ancient Sola had chosen me, specifically, as her lord.
It wasn’t despite my retained memories that she’d selected me—it was because of them.
She needed someone who understood loss, who carried the weight of grief and regret, because she herself had been shaped by millennia of accumulated sorrow.
My experience with losing Pira and Jorik, my understanding of what it meant to be responsible for others’ wellbeing, my knowledge of how failure could haunt someone for years, had apparently made me uniquely suited to bond with a consciousness that had watched civilizations rise and fall, that had seen technologies discovered and lost, that had experienced the loneliness of being the sole keeper of forgotten wisdom.
You understand, she confirmed when I shared this insight with her. You know what it means to carry weight that others cannot see. To be responsible for what was lost.
“But I failed them,” I said aloud, my voice barely a whisper. “I couldn’t protect the people I loved.”