"It qualifies." He pulled up a holographic display, and I saw data streaming across it with presumably information about us, about our condition, about the rescue. "Here is your situation. You have no resources, no currency, and no way to return to your home galaxy even if we could locate it. Abandoning you on a habitable planet would be effectively murdering you, as you lack the technology and knowledge to survive in Shorstar civilization."
"So we're at your mercy," Elena said, her voice tight.
"Yes. But mercy is not without cost. Mothership operates on a carefully balanced economy. We rescue stranded beings, but they must contribute to maintain that balance. You will be evaluated based on your skills and assigned positions within Mothership's crew. You will work to pay off your rescue costs, your medical treatment, and your ongoing maintenance."
"For how long?" Jalina asked.
"That depends on your positions and your efficiency. Minimum five years. Potentially much longer if your debts are significant or if your skills place you in low-value positions."
Five years minimum. Five years trapped on this ship, working off a debt we hadn't asked for, separated from everything we'd ever known by distances that had no meaning.
"What if we refuse?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
"Then we drop you on the nearest habitable planet with basic supplies and wish you well. You'll be free to make your own way in a galaxy where you don't speak any local languages, don'tunderstand the culture, don't have currency, and don't have any means of survival beyond what we provide."
"So no real choice at all."
"Life rarely offers real choices, only degrees of terrible options. This is the least terrible option available to you."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to rage against the cosmic injustice of surviving a disaster only to become indentured servants. But Tor'van was right. This was the least terrible option. And after three weeks of fighting for survival on a death planet, I was intimately familiar with terrible options.
"Okay," I said. "We accept. What happens next?"
"Er'dox will conduct initial evaluations of your skills and knowledge. Based on those evaluations, you'll be assigned to department heads for training. You'll be given quarters, shared, initially, until your status changes, and access to Mothership's facilities. You'll be expected to learn our protocols, our language, and our way of life."
"And if we don't integrate well?"
Tor'van's expression didn't change. "Then your debt takes longer to pay off, and everyone suffers for it. I suggest you integrate."
The meeting continued for another hour, Tor'van outlining protocols and expectations while we sat there absorbing information that felt simultaneously too much and not enough. By the time he dismissed us, my head was spinning with details about work schedules and currency exchange rates and cultural expectations that made no sense in context.
Er'dox was waiting outside the conference room. "I'll show you to temporary quarters. You'll share space initially, six to a unit. Not comfortable by your standards, probably, but better than a cave on a burning planet."
"Low bar for comparison," I said.
"Most rescue survivors would say the same." He led us through more corridors, deeper into Mothership's massive structure. "Tomorrow I'll begin your evaluations. I'll need to understand your skills, your knowledge base, your capacity for learning new systems."
"You're looking forward to this," I said, reading something in his body language that might have been enthusiasm.
"Your technology is completely foreign to anything in Shorstar databases. The engineering principles you used to build that distress beacon, improvised, yes, but showing sophisticated theoretical knowledge, suggest a civilization with advanced capabilities despite limited resources. From a purely academic standpoint, studying human technology is..." He paused. "Fascinating."
"We're science projects. Great."
"You're survivors who possess knowledge we don't have. That makes you valuable beyond your immediate labor capacity."
We arrived at a corridor lined with doors, each marked with symbols I couldn't read despite the language upload. Er'dox opened one, revealing a space that was probably considered cramped by Zandovian standards but looked enormous to my Earth-trained eyes.
Six sleeping platforms, basic sanitation facilities, and a common area with seating designed for beings much larger than humans. It wasn't home. It wasn't even close to home. But it was shelter, and safety, and after three weeks of survival mode, that counted for something.
"Rest," Er'dox said. "Medical will send updates on your critical cases. Food will be delivered, standard rations, synthesized to match your nutritional requirements based on Zorn's scans. Tomorrow we begin integrating you into Mothership's systems."
He turned to leave, and I called after him. "Er'dox."
He paused, looking back with those unsettling amber eyes.
"Thank you," I said. "For responding to our signal. For not leaving us to die."
For a moment, understanding and empathy shifted in his expression.
