"Wormhole physics say otherwise. We're here. In the Shorstar Galaxy. With no way home and no one who knows where home is."
"But surely they have records—" Bea started.
"They don't. They've never heard of the Milky Way. Which means we're not just lost. We're cosmically, fundamentally, impossibly lost."
Someone started crying. I didn't turn to see who. Couldn't afford to let their grief become mine, not when I needed to stay functional.
"Everyone's going through the VR pod," I continued, bulldozing through the breakdown happening behind me. "It uploads their language directly into your brain. Feels like someone's rewiring your neural pathways with a socket wrench, but you'll come out speaking Zandovian. Then medical evaluation. Then we figure out what the hell happens next."
"And what happens next?" Elena asked, her voice sharp with something between anger and terror. "We're stranded in a galaxy we've never heard of, on a ship full of aliens eight feet tall, and you're talking about medical evaluations like that's going to solve anything."
"It's going to solve the immediate problem of keeping you alive," I shot back. "Long-term planning comes after we make sure there is a long-term. Now who's volunteering for the VR pod, or do I have to make that decision for you too?"
Jalina stepped forward, because of course she did. She'd been backing my plays since the Liberty disaster, and she wasn't going to stop now just because the universe had gotten exponentially more complicated.
I watched Er'dox guide her to the pod, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he helped her climb in. The contrast was almost absurd with her petite frame dwarfed by Zandoviantechnology, by Zandovian scale, by the sheer overwhelming alienness of everything we'd stumbled into.
The pod sealed around her with a hiss that made my teeth ache. I'd been through it. I knew what was coming. The disorientation, the sensation of thoughts that weren't yours flooding your consciousness, the weird moment when you realized you could suddenly understand words that had been meaningless five minutes ago.
Jalina emerged gasping, her dark eyes wide. "That was?—"
"Deeply unpleasant," I finished. "Welcome to multilingual consciousness. Bea, you're next."
One by one, they went through the pod. One by one, they came out able to understand the Zandovian language that was about to become our lifeline. And one by one, I watched their faces as they processed the same devastating truth I'd already absorbed: we were never going home.
By the time the last woman, Harriet, had been processed. Zorn was ready to begin medical evaluations. He moved through our group with methodical efficiency, scanning us with devices that made my engineer brain itch with curiosity even through the exhaustion.
"Remarkable," he muttered, more to himself than to us. "Bilateral symmetry, carbon-based biochemistry, but the cellular structure is unlike anything I've documented. The resilience required to survive Class Seven conditions with your level of technology is?—"
"Is us being too stubborn to die," I interrupted. "How bad is it? Medical assessment."
Zorn's golden-brown eyes settled on me, and I saw the calculation happening behind them. How much truth could we handle? How much should he sugar-coat?
"Five of your people need immediate intervention," he said finally. "Burns, fractures, internal injuries that have been slowlydeteriorating. Another six are showing severe malnutrition and dehydration. The rest are functional but compromised. If you'd lasted another week on that planet, I estimate seventy percent mortality rate."
The numbers hit me. Seventy percent. We'd been that close to complete collapse.
"Can you fix them?" I asked. "The critical cases?"
"Yes. Our medical technology is significantly advanced compared to what you've described. But there's a complication."
Of course there was. Because the universe wouldn't be satisfied with just stranding us in the wrong galaxy. It needed to add complications.
"What kind of complication?"
"Treatment costs resources. Medical supplies, surgical time, pharmaceutical compounds designed for your unique biochemistry." Zorn glanced at Er'dox, who had remained at the edge of the medical bay, observing. "Mothership is a rescue vessel, but we're not a charity operation. We have protocols."
"Protocols," I repeated slowly. "You're telling me we have to pay for medical care? We just got rescued from a death planet, and now there's a bill?"
"Not exactly." Er'dox stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through my rising anger. "Captain Tor'van will want to speak with you. With all of you. But first, let Zorn treat your critical cases. We're not going to let anyone die over administrative complications."
"How generous," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm that probably didn't translate well across species barriers.
Er'dox's expression didn't change, but I saw something flicker in those amber eyes. Amusement? Respect? I couldn't read alien microexpressions worth a damn.
"You've been through significant trauma," he said. "You're exhausted, displaced, and processing information that would break most beings. Hostility is an understandable response."
"I'm not hostile. I'm realistic. We don't have money. We don't have resources. We don't even have clothes that aren't falling apart." I gestured at my salvaged outfit, singed and torn and held together with improvised repairs. "So when you say 'protocols,' what I hear is 'you're about to become indentured servants,' and I'd really like to know if that translation is accurate."
