Ambassador Jorem, the senior member of our delegation, nods curtly. “Adequate. We will require time to meditate before the evening’s...festivities.”
The way he says ‘festivities’ makes it sound like a particularly unpleasant form of torture. Jorem views this entire mission as a necessary evil—humans are useful for their resources and strategic position, but hardly worthy of genuine respect. He tolerates my fascination with their culture only because my diplomatic skills serve the Consortium’s interests.
If he knew what happened when I touched the captain’s hand, he would demand my immediate recall.
“Of course,” Harrison replies. “Captain MacGray has asked me to inform you that the celebration begins at 2100 hours in the main promenade. Attendance is, naturally, entirely voluntary.”
Jorem’s markings darken to a disapproving shade of amber. “We shall attend as diplomatic courtesy requires.”
The human retreats, leaving us alone in the corridor. My quarters are adjacent to Jorem’s, separated by walls that won’t do much to muffle his inevitable lectures about proper Zephyrian conduct.
“Zylthar,” he says, his voice carrying the formal cadence of high-ranking displeasure. “Your behavior during the greeting ceremony was... inadequate.”
I keep my expression neutral. “In what way, Ambassador?”
“You hesitated. Showed uncertainty. The humans will interpret this as weakness or, worse, disrespect.” His eyes narrow. “We cannot afford to appear anything less than composed and superior.”
“Of course, Ambassador. It will not happen again.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it. Something fundamental has shifted in the last hour, something I don’t understand and can’t control. The captain’s emotional resonance still hums at the edge of my consciousness, a warm constant that makes concentration nearly impossible.
I retreat to my quarters and activate the privacy shields, grateful for the sudden silence as the barriers cut off the worst of the human emotional noise. The chambers Dr. Yakamura prepared are surprisingly adequate—resonance arrays that approximate our homeworld’s energy patterns, atmosphere adjusted to our precise requirements, even mineral supplements arranged according to traditional protocols.
But nothing silences the memory of her touch.
I sink onto the meditation platform and close my eyes, trying to access the calm that has sustained me through decades ofdiplomatic service. Instead, fragments of her consciousness flicker through my awareness—images and sensations that shouldn’t be accessible across species lines.
A transport accident on Mars. The smell of burning metal and the taste of grief. Standing alone in a cemetery while red dust swirls around headstones that bear familiar names.
Years later, staring out at stars that never seem close enough. Command codes and duty rosters and the weight of responsibility that never lessens, only grows.
This morning, looking in a mirror and wondering when the woman staring back became so tired, so alone.
The visions fade, leaving me shaken. Empathic resonance between Zephyrians is carefully controlled, ritualized, sacred. What I just experienced was raw, unfiltered, and utterly impossible according to everything I know about interspecies contact.
Unless...
I stand and activate my personal data terminal, connecting to the Consortium’s archives through our ship’s quantum communication array. The files I’m looking for are restricted, accessible only to senior diplomats and cultural specialists. But my clearance is sufficient, and within moments, I scroll through historical records that few Zephyrians have ever seen.
The Starlight Matrix. Sacred artifacts of the old empire, created during the Time of Passion before our people learned proper emotional control. Theoretically capable of creating empathic bonds across species barriers.
I pause, my hands trembling slightly as I read the clinical descriptions of something that was supposed to be legend.
Three artifacts known to exist. Current location: Unknown. Warning: Extended exposure may result in permanent psychic bonding with non-Zephyrian species. Such bonds have been observed to intensify over time, leading to spatial distortions and potential catastrophic failure of quantum containment systems.
The data stream cuts off abruptly, replaced by a priority message from the ship’s communication center. Ambassador Jorem requests my presence in his diplomatic suite.
I deactivate the terminal and walk the short distance to his quarters, my mind racing. The captain’s ship took on supplies this morning, including cargo from various sources. If one of those shipments contained a Matrix artifact, if she’s been exposed to its influence...
The door to Jorem’s quarters slides open before I can announce myself. He stands beside a tactical display showing the station’s schematics, his expression cold as vacuum.
“Explain to me,” he says without preamble, “why the station’s sensors detected a quantum resonance spike exactly forty-seven minutes ago.”
My hearts skip in perfect synchronization. “I’m not certain I understand, Ambassador.”
“The spike originated from Docking Bay Three. Precisely when you made physical contact with Captain MacGray.” He turns to face me, and the markings along his temples pulse with dangerous intensity. “Quantum resonance, Zylthar. Thesignature of old magic that our people abandoned for good reason.”
I meet his gaze steadily, though everything inside me wants to flee. “Coincidence, surely. Human technology is primitive but energetic. Perhaps their docking procedures?—”
