Box fifteen describes the neural implant. Translation and comprehension of hunter communication, including what theycall “subsonic vocalizations.” Box sixteen covers the portal technology. Box seventeen explains the thirty-day timeline and what constitutes a successful completion without accepting a mate bond.
“What's the success rate?” I ask while initialing box eighteen.
The coordinator finally looks up. Her eyes are bloodshot, exhausted. “For returning through the portal?”
“Yeah.”
“On aquatic worlds? About four percent.”
Four. Out of a hundred. The stylus grows slick in my grip.
“The water changes everything,” she continues, maybe feeling guilty for the honesty. “Humans can't outlast something that never has to leave the ocean. Most accept the mate bond by day ten.”
“But the credits clear immediately?”
“The moment you step through the portal. Your designated recipient receives full payment within six hours.”
Six hours and Sam will be on a transport north. Six hours and he'll be safe from the Atlantic's steady consumption of our coast. That's all that matters.
N.C. N.C. N.C.
The last box is different. Longer.
“Read this one aloud,” the coordinator says.
I clear my throat. The words scraped my throat, each one a fresh betrayal of the water I once loved. “I acknowledge that by entering the Mate Hunt, I become property of the assigned hunter for thirty days. I understand that Earth law no longer applies to my person once I cross the portal. I accept that refusing the mate bond after consensual mating may be interpreted as theft of resources by Galactic Alliance standards, and that hunters have the right to... to pursue their claim through any means necessary within their species' cultural norms.”
“Initial and sign.”
The stylus moves without my conscious thought. N.C. Then, at the bottom, my full signature. Naia Marie Cross. Former rescue swimmer. Current alien bait.
The coordinator swipes through her tablet, processing everything. “Medical bay, Dock Seven. Follow the yellow lines.”
I stand to leave, then pause. “The four percent who make it back. What are they like? After?”
She looks at me for a long moment. Outside, a wave broke against the seawall, and a tremor ran through the building's foundation.
“Different,” she says. “They're all different.”
Dock Seven used to be a cruise ship terminal. The medical bay occupies what was probably a duty-free shop, all the luxury goods replaced by examination tables and industrial medical equipment. Three other women wait in curtained cubicles. Nobody makes eye contact. We're all calculating our own desperate math.
A tech in scrubs that have seen better days gestures me to a table. “Behind the left ear for the implant. Preparation tonic after. Any questions?”
“Why behind the ear?”
“Best integration with auditory processing centers. Also,” he loads the injection gun, “tentacled species communicate through vibrations in water. The implant translates those to something your brain interprets as sound.”
The injection burns cold, then hot, then something beyond temperature. My skull aches, and suddenly I'm hearing the building differently. The wave impacts have rhythm, almost like words. The air conditioning hums consonants I don't have letters for.
“Test phrase,” the tech says, but I also hear something underneath. A ripple of meaning that translates to verification requested.
“I understand,” I say, and feel my throat trying to add a subsonic pulse that human vocal cords can't produce.
“Good integration.” He hands me a sealed vial. The liquid inside shifts between green and blue, too thick for water, too thin for oil. “Preparation tonic. Drink it all at once.”
“Here?”
“Wherever you're comfortable. Effects begin within minutes. You have two hours before portal activation.”
