Rythar and the Ex O speak quietly together for a moment. The Ex O speaks again, more softly this time. “You are alldesignated as fertile females. Genetically speaking, highly likely to produce viable offspring with a suitable mate. Even fertile offspring. You are all well into sexual maturity, and yet your data and our scans show you have never produced offspring. If fertile males were available on New Terra, why have you not produced children? Are you sexually active?”
I blush a little. Sex wasn’t openly discussed on New Terra. We did our duty. Rythar's attention is far too heavy as I shift to avoid every male gaze here.
Dr. Patel saves me. "We will not discuss sexual activity with any of you," she says. But we glance at each other, and the males surely notice it. We all know we’ve tried to get pregnant—lots of times. It was our duty. Withgenetically approved human men. I catch Quinn’s eye again. She knows something about this. There were always rumors about the causes for the dropping birthrates.
“Dana,” I whisper. “Does it matter on Xytheos, legally, what our mission instructions were?”
I hand Dana the datapad. She scans the instructions, and from the surprise on her face, she's seeing the same thing I read. Then she looks at the Ex O. "I'm an expert in interplanetary law and New Terran law. I’m not familiar with many Xythean laws.”
The Ex O catches her meaning. “It does not matter what your New Terran mission instructions were. We were merely puzzled by your resistance to fulfilling them. We will find you fertile males. You will be safe under the laws of Xytheos as Starfallen brides. It is ideal.”
We don’t have time to debate it further. Five more of Rythar's men enter the clearing, guiding a smooth, floating platform by its corners. It hums low to the ground, suspended by unseen tech. Atop it sits a curved, seamless structure of polished alloy, rounded like a capsule or pod. A shimmer dances across itssurface—holographic symbols flicker and fade in alien script as it settles into the mossy floor of the clearing.
The women flinch. I feel it ripple through us, a silent question with no answer?—
What is that?
The Ex O gestures toward the structure as the men use tech to set it down. “You may enter. It is a preparatory vessel, designed to meet all human medical and hygienic needs. It will heal remaining injuries, restore hydration, and offer garments aligned with the Ceremony’s requirements.”
Dana scoffs, arms still crossed. “A bridal spa?”
“No,” the Ex O replies. “An acclimation unit.”
We look at each other, suspicion twisting in our guts. We're humiliated at the suggestion, but still wounded. Still sticky with sweat and jungle muck, clothes stiff with dried blood and alien soil.
Piper’s face is pale with disgust. “They want us shiny before they parade us.”
“They want us weak, so we owe them,” Maya mutters. “They want us compliant.”
But none of us moves to stop Dr. Patel as she steps forward and presses a hand to the capsule's side. A seam forms instantly, opening a doorway. Inside, the glow is soft and white. Warm air spills out.
One by one, we approach the vessel. Dr. Patel turns to the rest of us. “All things considered, I’d rather be clean than dirty,” she says simply. She steps in, and the pod seals behind her. For long minutes, there’s only silence. Then a chime. The door opens again.
She steps out transformed.
The cut on her cheek is gone. The limp she was hiding vanishes with her first step. Her hair falls in clean, dark waves down her back, still damp, the ends curling slightly in the jungleair. She blinks like she’s surprised to be pain-free. She's wearing white fabric, soft and loose. A long, modest, flowing dress that hangs from her collarbones. Ceremonial, but not designed to show much skin.
After how openly the Ex O brought up sex, I’m relieved that it’s not something skimpy, but the modesty makes sense. These territorial warlords won’t want anyone else viewing too much of their “bride.”
Another woman enters. Another reemerges fresh-faced, clean-skinned, looking around as though unsure if she's ever felt this scrubbed. Some wear pants and tunics, while others wear flowing dresses in various cuts.
Each woman comes out looking like a version of herself untouched by violence. It’s like the machine peeled off the war.
It’s not a kindness. It’s so we’re something they can show off. Something that can be claimed.
I’m the last one.
Maya, newly clean and delicate-looking in her white fabrics, gestures toward the pod. “It’s okay,” she says quietly.
I blow out a big breath and go inside.
The pod seals behind me with a whisper. White light blooms into a soft, ambient glow. Everything is strangely tinted after my eyes got used to the green jungle. The air is pleasant, fragrant with something gentle and mineral, like the breath of a cave pool. I feel slightly invigorated. It’s different from the sedative smell of the sap.
A ribbon of light sweeps down my body.
Heat blooms along my broken arm first. A deep, bone-level warmth grows under the wrap that’s still in place. The pain and the wrap dissolve in a breath. The swelling vanishes as I watch. My wrist tingles, fingers flexing easily for the first time since the crash.
Another pass of light sweeps over me. The cuts along my shoulder knit together. The bruising on my body recedes. My skin feels new.
