Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“I am Sima,” the otherworldly woman intones, gliding across the metal floor.
“This vessel is a Galactic Council ship, and therefore contains Intelligence Technology. I am not an organic being, but my systems have been modulated to best approximate a pleasant, non-threatening presence for you. If any of my selections are unsettling, please let me know.”
I have too many questions to count. Am I really here? How can I understand them? And this person is… a computer? One that can hear my thoughts?
“Yes,” the artificial lady—Sima—replies, nodding sagely as she floats to a halt before my open pod.
Her eyes are unnerving as they roll over me—an inhuman shade of neon green. The second I register my disquiet, the computer’s irises shift, turning to boring brown, the same color as my hair.
I blink, feeling as if I’ve swallowed my tongue.
The “woman” nearly smirks. “As I was saying, you are not afraid because I have modulated every aspect of my current form to settle you. And yes, I can hear your thoughts while you are aboard this ship. I have also uploaded the necessary linguistic files to your knowledge base.”
I blink. She glitches mildly. “Your brain,” she corrects, and actually looks somewhat embarrassed. “My apologies.”
Holy shit. Is this what all those AI movies were warning us about?
Because, Jesus.
I regret every time I used ChatGPT to create my grocery list.
Forcing myself to focus is uncomfortable with the thick wedge of panic pressing into my gullet. I’ve never been so scared, yet unable to process the fear. There’s something twisted about not even letting me have my reactions in this impossible situation.
“So you’re… not speaking English?”
“Correct,” the computer confirms. “This is Galactician. I believe your people would call it the ‘universal language.’ It is used by all civilized members of the Galactic Council for business, travel, trade, and disseminating information. Most races in our galaxy know it. But never fear—we can upload any other language you need.”
My brain feels like it’s doing some sort of agility course, trying to weave together all these scraps of information. “W-why would I need to know another language?”
Sima pauses for a beat too long. “My systems do not feel it’s prudent to explain at this time.”
Well, then.
I try to riddle out everything else I know. Rescued, she said, not abducted. And what were those Vaseline octopus-turned-mini-giraffes from before?
“Those are Boplopes, from the planet Bpurlp, in Quadrant Three. They are contracted by the Galactic Council to transport cargo and maintain its stasis.”
Me, I realize. I’m the cargo. And I’ve been in stasis.
That’s what this pod is. And probably why I’m covered in drying goop?
“Yes,” Sima confirms, beaming. “You are clever, for a human. Interesting; your race is of very little relative intellect, yet my scans indicate higher numbers for you. Congratulations on your above-average intelligence.”
Christ.
I will not get insulted right now.
I don’t have time, damn it. I have to figure out what the hell I was supposedly rescued from.
Sima blink-glitches. Her earlier surprised pride evaporates, replaced with a dull sort of disappointment. Like she’s discovered I’m precisely as stupid as she suspected.
As it suspected.
Hell, I am losing my mind.
“You were rescued from humanity,” she answers, speaking slower. “Obviously.”
My mouth gapes, sputtering, “What? Why?”
Her eyebrows pinch, true befuddlement on her fake face. “Your questions do not compute. Humanity is objectively terrible, and your planet becomes more uninhabitable with each orbit. These circumstances indicate an obvious need for intervention. Yet you are confused?”
When I don’t answer, stunned into both internal and external silence, Sima sighs. A projection appears behind her, despite the lack of a screen. Horrible images play out in front of me—a series of clips from familiar news networks. Explosions, natural disasters, suffering and death.
Finally, a single picture materializes, displaying the planet I know so well from the view of a passing satellite.
As I watch, it changes. The green disappears, withering into roughened patches of sandy brown.
The blue oceans become gray, then black.
White clouds darken before disappearing altogether, leaving a disconcerting lack of atmosphere.
Sima does something else, and the outer layers of the ruined planet melt away, revealing a diagram of the segments to the core. One by one, they either deaden or collapse.
“It is called Desiccation,” she informs me. “I’m afraid it is mathematically inevitable, at this point.”
Squandered panic smolders in my middle. It churns and burns, mixing with a horrible, heavy sort of certainty.
Everything she just showed me… makes sense. Sure, she failed to include a timeline, but still. Haven’t humans been projecting our own demise for generations?
A shard of memory floats to the surface of my mind. One of the reels I doomscrolled past on the morning of Addy’s birthday. Something about shifting tides and thinning atmosphere.
I have a million other questions, but only one trembles out. “I-I don’t want to be rescued. Can you put me back?” It hurts to swallow past the lump of pride in my throat, but I manage to rasp, “P-please?”
Sima has the grace to look sympathetic. “No, human. Once you’ve been beamed off a Class D planet, galactic law forbids returning.
Your race is unaware of the existence of others, and it must remain that way until they make first contact.
That is the moral code of this galaxy—we do not intervene unless expressly asked. ”
I can’t decide whether that makes them heartless, or far more ethical than any human nation ever has been. Frankly, there’s no time to debate the philosophy and no time for the expanding weight blocking my lungs. I have to know—have to hear her say it before I bother with the rest of my questions.
“So…if this is real… you’re saying I’m… stuck here? I’ll… never go back?”
Sima nods succinctly. “Correct. As I’ve assured you, the reality you sense is genuine. You are truly here. Aboard a Boplope cargo transfer. My systems indicate we have crossed the boundary from Quadrant Four to Quadrant One. Our arrival at the Selection Station is imminent.”
Half of that explanation is gibberish to me, and Sima knows it. Her poor-stupid-human face returns. “We will arrive shortly,” she sums up. “So please, direct your other inquiries to me quickly.”
I hate myself for the pitifully self-centered concern I can’t shake. The only question that reaches my numb lips. “W-why did you take me?”
Sima glitch-blinks, like my stupidity is too much for her super-brain to comprehend. “You asked to be rescued,” she replies slowly, as if speaking to a dog. “And you are a member of a protected class. Galactic law dictates a good-faith effort to save your kind.”
My mind whirs, trying to parse her words. “Asked to be rescued?”
Sima’s fake-brown eyes flit from my face to the shirt stuck to my torso. I follow her focus, my stomach heaving as I reread Addy’s dumb joke.
Abduct me, Daddy.
“A clear cry for help,” the computer determines.
And, you know what? I can’t disagree.
Fresh dizziness washes over me, my dismay apparently so strong, it overrides the alien spray for a millisecond.
Oh. My. God.
I got abducted by aliens…
Because I asked them to take me?!
For someone who didn’t believe in aliens yesterday—or whenever the hell they knocked me out—this feels like an impossible situation.
Sima seems to be losing her patience. I’m sure I should be insulted by a computer getting sick of me, but I barely register her aggravated exhale. She repeats her earlier explanation even more slowly.
“The Galactic Council is required to do whatever possible to offer assistance to members of protected classes, provided those beings have asked for help. It is the law.”
Right. And I, apparently, asked. Which just leaves one last question.
“Protected class?”
Sima gives a final glitch, thrown once more by my cluelessness. “Because you are an omega.”
This time, my mouth moves as fast as my brain. Both blurting, “A what?”
“A perfect breeding vessel,” the not-woman replies. “We saved you so you can be Selected for an alpha in need.”