Page 25

No. Not her. She won't understand. She'll think it's a spiritual failing. I need science. I need an antitoxin.

The thought dissolves as another wave of pain crests, and the world fades to a narrow tunnel of agony.

A new presence in the room. I feel it more than see it. A change in the air, a different scent. Bitter herbs and a kind of dry, dusty authority.

I force my eyes open. An elderly Xylosian female stands over me. Her skin is a paler blue than the others, her face a mask of deep-carved lines. This must be Neema, the Head Healer. Her expression is not one of compassion. It is one of deep, abiding suspicion.

She says something, her voice raspy, dismissive. Kyra is here too, her face a portrait of anxiety. She stands beside Jaro, her hands twisting in the fabric of her tunic.

“She asks what the alien has done to herself,” Kyra translates, her own voice trembling.

“Tell her... it was the tuber,” I breathe, trying to lift a hand to point. “The purple one. I believe... it contains a complex alkaloid that requires a specific... enzymatic neutralizer. Maybe a different cooking method...”

Kyra relays my words, her Xylosian flowing rapidly. Neema listens, her lips thin with disapproval. She shakes her head and responds with a string of sharp, clipped words.

“Neema says it is not the food,” Kyra says, her eyes pleading with me to understand. “She says it is your alien weakness. Your body is not attuned to the spirit of Xylos. She says you have offended the plant's essence by not performing the proper spiritual preparations before consuming it.”

Spiritual preparations? For fuck's sake, I'm dying of a biochemical reaction, not a spiritual snub.

“No,” I insist, my voice weak. “It's chemistry, not spirits. Tell her... ask her if they have a plant with... with saponin properties. Something that foams. It could act as a chelating agent...”

But Neema is already at work. She ignores Kyra's attempts at translation. She pulls a pouch from her belt and begins grinding herbs in a stone bowl, her movements practiced, ancient. Sheadds a dark liquid and begins to chant, her voice a low, monotonous hum that grates on my already frayed nerves.

Jaro stands beside her, his massive form radiating helpless fury. “Neema, she is a... a plant-scholar. She may know...”

“She knows nothing of our ways,” Neema snaps without looking at him. “Her foreign body rejects the life-force of this world. It must be purified.”

She brings the bowl to my lips. The smell is acrid, overwhelmingly bitter.

“Don't,” I try to say, turning my head away. “It will... it could potentiate the toxin...”

But Jaro's hand is on my shoulder, his touch desperate. “Please, Kendra. Try. It is our way.”

His plea, more than Neema's insistence, breaks my resolve. I let the old healer tip the foul-smelling liquid into my mouth. I swallow, and my body immediately rebels. The concoction feels like fire in my throat, and a fresh wave of cramps, ten times more powerful than before, rips through my abdomen. I cry out, arching my back, my vision exploding into a starburst of white-hot pain.

“It is worse!” Kyra cries out, rushing to my side. “Neema, what was in that?”

“A purification infusion,” Neema says, her voice unwavering, though I see a flicker of doubt in her old eyes. “It should expel the foreign imbalance.”

“You're killing her!” Jaro's voice is a roar, the sound shaking the very walls of the dwelling. “You see her science is true! Your way is failing!”

“You dare question my methods?” Neema draws herself up, her small frame radiating an authority that even Jaro seems to quail before. “You, who brought this... this disruption into our tribe? This is the consequence of your defiance, Jaro. The spirits of this land are not pleased.”

The room is spinning. The voices are a distant, distorted buzz. I can feel my own systems shutting down. Tachycardia. Respiratory distress. My limbs are growing cold.

Hypovolemic shock is imminent.

I have to make them understand. I grab Kyra's arm, my grip surprisingly strong. Her face swims into focus above me.

“Kyra... listen,” I force the words out, my tongue thick and clumsy. “The crash site. There was a vine... a pale green vine... with small, white, bell-shaped flowers. It grew near the bioluminescent fungi. My scanner identified... a high concentration of... steroidal saponins. An antagonist... a natural antitoxin to these specific alkaloids.”

I am fading. The edges of my vision are turning grey.

“Tell them,” I whisper, my eyes finding Jaro's. His face is a mask of anguish. “Tell them to find the vine with the white bells.”

He is torn. I can see it in his eyes. The warrior-prince, caught between the ancient traditions of his people and the desperate, scientific plea of the alien who wears his heart-bond mark. His loyalty to his tribe, to his healer, is deeply ingrained. But his trust in me, fragile as it is, has been growing.

He looks from my face to Neema's stubborn, defiant one. He sees me dying.