Page 12

I feel a familiar restlessness creeping in, a nervous energy that has no outlet in the confines of Jaro's dwelling.

I've cataloged every carving on the walls.

I've analyzed the structural integrity of the woven plant-matter that serves as a door.

I've even tried to create a rudimentary star chart based on my limited view of the night sky.

It's not enough. I'm a scientist without a lab, a botanist without a field. My mind needs a problem to solve, or it will start to cannibalize itself with worry over my confinement, over Jaro, over the Kresh-Vala .

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.

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. She adds 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.

He makes a decision.

“Neema,” he says, and his voice is no longer pleading. It is the voice of a leader, a chief. It is laced with a power that makes the air crackle. “You will listen to her. You will do as she says.”

He turns to Kyra. “The vine with the white bells. You know the one she speaks of from her datapad logs you reviewed?”

Kyra nods, her eyes wide. “Yes, I believe so. It grows near the base of the old Kresh trees.”

“Then you will go with Neema,” Jaro commands. “You will find this plant. You will bring it back. Now.”

He is risking everything. Challenging the Head Healer in front of his sister is a political act with enormous consequences. It is a declaration. He is choosing my science over their tradition. He is choosing me.

The thought is the last thing I register before the darkness swallows me whole. A single, desperate hope remains: that they find the right plant. That my science, my last gamble, is enough to save me.