"Secure them for ascent," I ordered my team. "Carefully. They're in fragile condition."
The humans, because that's what they had to be, humans, even though humans weren't supposed to exist in Shorstar Galaxy, clustered together in the craft's hold. Some were crying. Others stared with wide eyes at the technology surrounding them. All of them looked about three seconds from complete collapse.
Dana moved among them, speaking in that melodic language, offering reassurance she probably didn't feel. Leadership in action. The kind that came from genuine care, not just authority.
"Lifting off," the pilot announced.
The craft rose smoothly despite the atmospheric interference, my adjustments to the stabilizers paying off. Through the viewports, the humans watched their cave shrink below us, watched the hostile planet fall away.
Then the main ship came into view.
I watched their reactions as Mothership revealed itself in all its massive glory. The vessel was city-sized, a mobile civilization capable of housing fifty thousand beings across hundreds of species. To them, it must have looked like a mechanical god hanging in space.
Dana's eyes went very wide. She said something that sounded like cursing in any language.
"Take them directly to medical bay," I ordered. "They need evaluation before anything else."
The landing craft docked, and we guided the humans through Mothership's corridors. They moved close together, protective formation, eyes darting to take in every detail. Their small size was more apparent here, surrounded by Zandovian architecture designed for beings twice their height.
Medical bay was ready. Zorn waited with his full team, his warm golden-brown eyes taking in the humans with obvious fascination.
"Extraordinary," he breathed. "Completely unknown physiology. This will require?—"
"Careful evaluation," I finished. "They're traumatized and don't speak any known language. Move slowly."
The humans were obviously afraid of the medical equipment, of Zorn and his staff, of everything. But Dana stepped forward again, that fierce protectiveness evident in every line of her body.
She was protecting her people. From us. From the rescue they'd desperately needed.
I understood it, the paradox of salvation that looked like threat.
"We need the VR communication pods," I said to Zorn. "They can't understand us, and we can't help them if we can't communicate."
"Agreed. But the pods weren't designed for unknown species. The neural interface could?—"
"Could work or could fail. But failure leaves us here, unable to help them, unable to tell them they're safe." I looked at Dana, at the way she was watching us with analytical intensity. "She's intelligent. She'll understand what we're offering."
Zorn moved to activate the communication pod system, and I approached Dana carefully. She tensed but didn't back away.
I pulled up a holographic display, showed her images of the VR pod process. Neural upload. Language acquisition. The ability to communicate.
Her eyes tracked the images, and I could almost see her brilliant mind working through the implications. Risk versus reward. The same calculation I'd made about responding to their distress signal.
She looked at me, then at her people, then back at me.
And nodded.
3
Er’dox
She'd volunteer first. Of course she would. Leaders bore the risk, took the uncertainty on themselves.
I led her to the VR pod, trying to project reassurance I wasn't entirely sure I felt. The pods worked—we'd used them for hundreds of species. But "hundreds" wasn't "all," and there was always the chance that human neurology would reject the interface.
Dana climbed into the pod with determination that overrode obvious fear. I sealed the interface and stepped back, monitoring the neural patterns as the system engaged.
For thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then the patterns began to align, her brain accepting the language upload with surprising flexibility.
