Page 24

I need to contribute. To prove my worth is more than just the glowing mark on my chest. I need to understand this world, not just be a guest in it.

My gaze lands on the basket of tubers and fruits Jaro brought me this morning. They are similar to specimens I documented during my initial, frantic days of survival near the crash site. Some, I am certain, are edible. With the right preparation.

An experiment. A controlled culinary trial.

The thought is a balm to my frayed nerves. I can apply my knowledge, my methodology. I can turn this gilded cage into a laboratory.

I select a few of the tubers, their skins a mottled purple and brown. I recall my field notes from the datapad.Family Solanaceae, likely. Note the fine, almost invisible hairs on the tuber skin. Potentially contains steroidal alkaloids. Standard Earth-based preparation would involve boiling to leach out soluble toxins.

I find a pot and fill it with water from the skin Jaro left for me. As I place the tubers in the water and set them over a low heat on the dwelling's thermal plate, a sense of purpose settles over me. This is what I do. I analyze, I hypothesize, I test.

The fruit is another matter. Fructose content appears high based on refractometer readings from the forest. Skin is thin. No obvious defensive secretions. A small, controlled dose should be safe.

While the tubers boil, I slice one of the bright orange fruits. The flesh is soft, the scent citrusy and sharp. I cut a small, precise piece, the size of my thumbnail. The first rule of xenobotanical consumption: start small. Document every reaction.

The fruit is delicious. Tart, sweet, with a complex aftertaste I can't quite place. I wait for fifteen minutes, monitoring my heart rate, checking for any dermal reaction, any numbness on my tongue. Nothing. So far, so good.

When the tubers are soft, I peel them. The flesh inside is a pale, creamy yellow. The boiling should have neutralized any significant water-soluble toxins. I mash a small amount with a fork, the starchy scent familiar, comforting. I taste it. Earthy, slightly bitter, but not unpleasant. Again, I wait. Again, nothing.

Confidence, perhaps foolishly, swells within me. I have applied my knowledge, and it has worked. I am not helpless here. I am a scientist.

I prepare a small meal for myself: a portion of the mashed tuber and slices of the orange fruit. It's the first meal I've prepared myself since the crash, the first time I've eaten something that wasn't provided for me by Jaro. It's a small declaration of independence. A taste of autonomy.

It tastes like victory.

For about an hour, it feels like victory. Then, the first wave of nausea hits me.

It's sudden and violent, doubling me over. I stumble to the waste receptacle, my body convulsing as it tries to expel the meal. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin, and the beautiful, spacious dwelling begins to tilt and swim around me.

Toxin. Unidentified. Delayed reaction. My analysis was flawed.

I crawl to my datapad, my limbs heavy, my vision blurring at the edges. I need to document this.Substance B, the purple tuber. Initial hypothesis of simple alkaloids is incorrect. The heat may have activated a secondary compound. Or... or the interaction between the tuber and the fruit created a new, toxic chemical blend.

Another wave of cramps seizes my abdomen, so intense it steals my breath. I collapse onto the floor, my cheek pressed against the cool stone. Fever is setting in, a dry, prickly heat that starts in my gut and radiates outwards.

My fault. My own damn hubris. I got complacent. I made assumptions based on incomplete data.

My fingers tremble as I try to access my field notes, to cross-reference the molecular structures I'd managed to scan. The glowing script on the screen blurs into an unreadable mess.Disorientation is setting in. A neurotoxin, then. Not just a simple gastrointestinal irritant.

The heavy, woven door to the dwelling slides open. Jaro. His massive frame fills the doorway, and for a moment, he is just a dark, imposing silhouette. Then he sees me.

“Kendra?”

His voice is tight with alarm. He is across the room in two strides, kneeling beside me, his large hands hovering over me, unsure where to touch.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice a low growl of concern.

“The... tuber,” I manage to gasp out, pointing a trembling finger at the remains of my meal. “I think... I misidentified a... a component. Or... failed to process...”

He curses, a guttural sound of frustration and fear. He scoops me up from the floor as if I weigh nothing, his muscles bunched and hard beneath me. He carries me to the bed, laying me gently on the furs. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he brushes the damp hair from my face.

“Stay with me, Kendra,” he says, his amber eyes wide with a fear that mirrors my own.

“Jaro,” I whisper, my throat raw. “My datapad... the samples...”

I need him to understand. The data is everything. If I can just identify the specific alkaloid group...

But he is already turning away, shouting something in Xylosian that my failing translator can't even begin to process. He is calling for help. He is calling for the healer.