7. The Bridal Spa
THE brIDAL SPA
ELENA – THE GREEN REACH
We stop in a clearing where the jungle looks suspiciously symmetrical. Vast fan-leaves arc overhead, filtering the light into shifting bands of emerald and gold that make the air shimmer. It almost appears magical. I wish someone out there were looking for us. For me.
Thick trunks rise in a precise ring, each wrapped in vines etched with luminescent patterns that pulse like circuitry under living bark. It feels like a ritual site disguised as wilderness. The order here is unnatural, and silent expectation prickles my skin.
“More than just trees,” Maya whispers to me.
The hairs at the back of my neck stand up for a second. They settle again as sap drips from coiled vines in amber threads, perfuming the air with minerals and something floral, alien and intoxicating. The alien smell should unsettle me, but my worries fade.
Maya catches me breathing it in, looking at the sap. She leans closer to my ear. “It’s mildly sedative, right? It’s in the air.”
I nod.
Nothing moves inside this place. Not the insects. Even the humidity feels suspended. It’s as if this clearing has been prepared for us.
I glance at Rythar. He's standing upwind of the sap, I notice. Breathing through his mouth. He knows exactly what it does, and he's not letting it affect him.
“Where are we?” I say.
Rythar looks at the Ex O. The Ex O looks at Rythar. Some unspoken negotiation goes on about how much to tell me. Rythar gives the Ex O a slight nod.
“This is the site of the Claiming Ceremony,” the Ex O answers. The Xytheans begin removing their packs.
We women look around at each other. We’ve clustered together.
Rythar lifts a canteen from the bag he carries on his back. He holds it out to me.
“Drink,” he says.
I don’t move. My mouth is like sandpaper. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. But I don’t want anything from him, even if my body’s screaming for it.
He thumbs the clasp and tilts it just enough to let the water inside shift, the way I imagine he'd tempt an enemy prisoner of war. I smell minerals and crushed pine. The sound is cruelly tempting.
“Safe,” he adds.
I almost laugh. I’m not safe on Xytheos. I’m in the custody of alien males with thighs bigger than my waist, and they already stripped all my secrets from my data chip.
And I’m thirsty. I take the canteen. I make him wait an extra second before I drink, just to see if he’ll take it back.
Or take his eyes off me. He does neither.
Finally, I drink deeply. It’s cold and wild, like it came from the belly of a mountain.
The other women are drinking too, accepting canteens from the warriors.
I hand the container back slowly, my eyes locked on his.
The Ex O addresses us. “The Claiming Ceremony will soon begin. We must prepare you.”
Dana steps forward. The Xytheans eye her through their visors. "You cited the Astra Conventum. We formally invoke its protection, on record, before the highest governing authority on Xytheos,” she says.
None of the Xytheans react, but we stir in response. Dana is using their own law on them.
Ex O Drenz addresses Dana. “Your request is formally recorded and routed to the Concord Council. By law, you are under the protection of the Astra Conventum. Article Seven.”
Dana advances slowly, like she's walking into a negotiation. Or a trap.
Rythar shifts. He hasn’t forgotten that Dana tried to use a weapon.
“Article Seven doesn’t give you the right to force us to march with you to some claiming ceremony,” she says.
The Ex O says, “Article Seven allows planetary sovereignty in protective enactment. You are on Xytheos. The Concord Council keeps Xythean law. Under Xythean law, all Starfallen females are placed into Claiming Custody until they are claimed as brides.”
Custody. Bride. A neat solution for them. Not for us.
Piper snorts. “Like a prize show dog. One with birthing hips.”
Rythar’s visor is pointed toward me for a moment. Then he gives a slight nod to the Ex O.
The Ex O answers for him. “No. Assignment is not transactional. The Concord Stone will match each of you.”
Dana crosses her arms. “Sure. Because magic rocks have such a great track record.”
Rythar’s lips press tight. “Comply,” he says, almost like he is forcing the word out, or forcing himself not to say worse.
But we don't.
Maya moves up, shoulders squared. “No. We won’t be forced to mate with anyone.”
Dana is beside her in a heartbeat. I move too, flanking them, and other women follow.
“Forced mating is illegal,” Dana says. “On every planet signed to the Astra Conventum.”
A ripple moves through the group.
Rythar’s reaction is quiet but sharp. His spine locks. I can see his frustration as he gives another tight nod to the Ex O.
“We do not force mating,” the Ex O says again. His voice is almost a growl. "The Stone assigns custody. Reproduction is a duty. Not a choice. We do not understand your objection. You left New Terra to preserve your genetic library. Or did you forget why you exist?”
“Our mission goes far beyond reproduction,” Dr. Patel snaps. “And we were to preserve the human genome.” She doesn’t elaborate, but everyone here knows what she means. These Xytheans aren’t human. Not to us.
The Ex O frowns. “Your mission details direct you to locate fertile males and produce fertile offspring.”
"What?" I step forward. "Let me read the mission data you extracted from our chips."
At the Ex O’s glance, Rythar nods once. The Ex O turns his datapad to me, letting me read the section detailing our mission.
I shake my head, glancing back at the other women. “It’s wrong. This was never our mission.”
All the aliens watch closely as confusion ripples through us. In the crowd of women, I catch Quinn’s eye.
“Quinn?” I ask.
Quinn looks at the ground. Whatever it is, she doesn't want to say it here. We never got to hear the secrets she was keeping, what she encrypted or decrypted. Probably just as well, since Rythar and his warriors are watching us the whole time.
Rythar and the Ex O speak quietly together for a moment.
The Ex O speaks again, more softly this time.
“You are all designated as fertile females. Genetically speaking, highly likely to produce viable offspring with a suitable mate. Even fertile offspring. You are all well into sexual maturity, and yet your data and our scans show you have never produced offspring. If fertile males were available on New Terra, why have you not produced children? Are you sexually active?”
I blush a little. Sex wasn’t openly discussed on New Terra. We did our duty. Rythar's attention is far too heavy as I shift to avoid every male gaze here.
Dr. Patel saves me. "We will not discuss sexual activity with any of you," she says. But we glance at each other, and the males surely notice it. We all know we’ve tried to get pregnant—lots of times. It was our duty. With genetically approved human men. I catch Quinn’s eye again.
She knows something about this. There were always rumors about the causes for the dropping birthrates.
“Dana,” I whisper. “Does it matter on Xytheos, legally, what our mission instructions were?”
I hand Dana the datapad. She scans the instructions, and from the surprise on her face, she's seeing the same thing I read. Then she looks at the Ex O. "I'm an expert in interplanetary law and New Terran law. I’m not familiar with many Xythean laws.”
The Ex O catches her meaning. “It does not matter what your New Terran mission instructions were. We were merely puzzled by your resistance to fulfilling them. We will find you fertile males. You will be safe under the laws of Xytheos as Starfallen brides. It is ideal.”
We don’t have time to debate it further.
Five more of Rythar's men enter the clearing, guiding a smooth, floating platform by its corners.
It hums low to the ground, suspended by unseen tech.
Atop it sits a curved, seamless structure of polished alloy, rounded like a capsule or pod.
A shimmer dances across its surface—holographic symbols flicker and fade in alien script as it settles into the mossy floor of the clearing.
The women flinch. I feel it ripple through us, a silent question with no answer—
What is that?
The Ex O gestures toward the structure as the men use tech to set it down. “You may enter. It is a preparatory vessel, designed to meet all human medical and hygienic needs. It will heal remaining injuries, restore hydration, and offer garments aligned with the Ceremony’s requirements.”
Dana scoffs, arms still crossed. “A bridal spa?”
“No,” the Ex O replies. “An acclimation unit.”
We look at each other, suspicion twisting in our guts. We're humiliated at the suggestion, but still wounded. Still sticky with sweat and jungle muck, clothes stiff with dried blood and alien soil.
Piper’s face is pale with disgust. “They want us shiny before they parade us.”
“They want us weak, so we owe them,” Maya mutters. “They want us compliant.”
But none of us moves to stop Dr. Patel as she steps forward and presses a hand to the capsule's side. A seam forms instantly, opening a doorway. Inside, the glow is soft and white. Warm air spills out.
One by one, we approach the vessel. Dr. Patel turns to the rest of us. “All things considered, I’d rather be clean than dirty,” she says simply. She steps in, and the pod seals behind her. For long minutes, there’s only silence. Then a chime. The door opens again.
She steps out transformed.
The cut on her cheek is gone. The limp she was hiding vanishes with her first step.
Her hair falls in clean, dark waves down her back, still damp, the ends curling slightly in the jungle air.
She blinks like she’s surprised to be pain-free.
She's wearing white fabric, soft and loose.
A long, modest, flowing dress that hangs from her collarbones.
Ceremonial, but not designed to show much skin.
After how openly the Ex O brought up sex, I’m relieved that it’s not something skimpy, but the modesty makes sense. These territorial warlords won’t want anyone else viewing too much of their “bride.”
Another woman enters. Another reemerges fresh-faced, clean-skinned, looking around as though unsure if she's ever felt this scrubbed. Some wear pants and tunics, while others wear flowing dresses in various cuts.
Each woman comes out looking like a version of herself untouched by violence. It’s like the machine peeled off the war.
It’s not a kindness. It’s so we’re something they can show off. Something that can be claimed.
I’m the last one.
Maya, newly clean and delicate-looking in her white fabrics, gestures toward the pod. “It’s okay,” she says quietly.
I blow out a big breath and go inside.
The pod seals behind me with a whisper. White light blooms into a soft, ambient glow.
Everything is strangely tinted after my eyes got used to the green jungle.
The air is pleasant, fragrant with something gentle and mineral, like the breath of a cave pool.
I feel slightly invigorated. It’s different from the sedative smell of the sap.
A ribbon of light sweeps down my body.
Heat blooms along my broken arm first. A deep, bone-level warmth grows under the wrap that’s still in place. The pain and the wrap dissolve in a breath. The swelling vanishes as I watch. My wrist tingles, fingers flexing easily for the first time since the crash.
Another pass of light sweeps over me. The cuts along my shoulder knit together. The bruising on my body recedes. My skin feels new.
My filthy clothes dissolve into dust under a shimmer of blue light. My grandmother’s ring stays on my finger. A new outfit materializes from hidden compartments. It’s a soft, white dress that drapes around me.
My hair lifts in an invisible breeze. Warm air threads through it, washing out sweat and dirt. The faint hum of drying mechanisms threads the air, and then my hair falls around my shoulders in a clean, heavy sheet of black. Brushed, smoothed. Shining like obsidian under the lights.
When the mirror slides up from the wall, I freeze.
It’s me. But not the scraped, grimy, exhausted version I’ve been dragging through war and terror. My face looks rested. My skin looks alive again. My eyes are bright. Then the worry creeps back as I remember what this is for.
A faint chime sounds. A door panel nudges open.
The machine is shooing me out.
I step out into the clearing, feeling light, whole, almost unreal in the white drapes of fabric. We all look new—even if inside, we’re the same as we ever were.
Rythar sees me and stops breathing. It's only a split second before he turns and barks a command at his men. But I saw it. And he knows I saw it.
The "bridal spa" is swiftly removed, but more males step out of the jungle, carrying a massive object on a platform.
“What is that?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
Rythar doesn’t look away. He hasn’t looked away since I stepped out of the pod in my white dress.
“The Concord Stone,” Rythar says.
It’s taller than I am. Crystalline. It glows. First transparent, then ink-black, then a shifting shimmer that feels like being stared at by something older than logic. It’s putting out an energy field that’s, well… alien. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it on New Terra.
My hands clench before I even know why. I want to understand it. Take it apart, rip the secrets out of its guts.
But mostly, I want to run.