Jorem’s eyes narrow. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. That crystal contains powers beyond human comprehension?—”
“Then explain them to me.”
“Some knowledge is too dangerous for alien minds.”
The condescension in his voice makes my temper flare. I’ve dealt with diplomatic arrogance before, but there’s something about Jorem’s casual dismissal that goes beyond politics into personal insult. “Ambassador, with all due respect, that ‘alien mind’ currently outranks everyone else on this station. The artifact stays in Starfleet custody.”
“Captain,” Zylthar says quietly. “Perhaps a compromise?—”
“Silence.” Jorem rounds on him with fury that makes the air itself seem to crackle. “Your contamination has gone far enough. First you allow yourself to be polluted by human contact, and now you advocate for sharing sacred knowledge with inferiors?”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “Contamination?”
“The neural bonding that occurred during your initial contact,” Jorem explains with clinical distaste. “Zylthar’s crystalline pathways have been compromised by exposure to your primitive emotional patterns. It’s a weakness that must be purged before it spreads.”
I look at Zylthar, noting the way he won’t meet my eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands tremble. “Is that true?”
“The Matrix responds to psychic resonance,” he says carefully. “There were whispers in the ancient archives—of objects once used to bridge the psychic divide between species. Tools of connection, or weapons of collapse, depending on who wielded them.
“When we touched, it created a... connection.”
“What kind ofconnection?”
“The kind that explains your dreams of crystal cities,” Jorem says with vicious satisfaction. “The kind that creates spatial distortions when left unchecked. The kind that will eventually drive you both insane if not severed immediately.”
The words hit like physical blows. The dreams, the strange homesickness, the way my pulse quickens whenever Zylthar is near—all of it is connected to some alien artifact that’s apparently messing with my brain.
“How do we sever it?” I ask.
Zylthar finally looks at me, and the pain in his lavendar eyes is unmistakable. “Traditional methods involve neural purging. Essentially, burning out the affected pathways to prevent further contamination.”
“And the side effects?”
“Memory loss. Emotional suppression. In severe cases, complete personality restructuring.” His voice is barely audible. “You would survive, but you wouldn’t be...youany longer.”
The cargo bay falls silent except for the soft hum of the artifact and the distant vibration of the station’s life support systems. I stare at the crystal, watching light dance across its faceted surface, and try to process what I’ve just learned.
Something alien has been playing with my mind. Creating false emotions, phantom attractions, dreams of places I’ve never seen. Everything I’ve felt since yesterday—the curiosity, the protectiveness, the growing awareness of Zylthar as more than just a diplomatic contact—none of it is real.
“Captain,” Mullen says carefully. “The spatial distortion is still growing. Whatever we decide about the artifact, we need to decide fast.”
I nod, pushing down the unexpected surge of grief that threatens to overwhelm me. Command decisions first, personal feelings later.
“Ambassador Jorem, I need your professional assessment. If we leave the artifact active, what’s the worst-case scenario?”
“Complete spatial collapse within this sector of space. The Matrix was designed to bridge vast distances, but without proper control, it will attempt to merge parallel dimensional planes. The result would be catastrophic.”
“And if we destroy it?”
“The psychic backlash would likely kill both Zylthar and yourself instantly.”
“Then what do you recommend?”
Jorem’s smile is cold as vacuum. “Neural purging. Sever the bond, suppress the Matrix’s activation, return the artifact to proper Zephyrian custody.”
I look at Zylthar, who hasn’t spoken since explaining the side effects of the procedure. His markings have darkened to deep purple, and he stares at the deck plates with the expression of someone who’s already accepted his fate.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask him directly.
