We leave the observation deck, following a route that takes us to one of the ship's airlocks. A small delegation waits for us there—Admiral Thorn, two security officers I don't recognize, and a thin, austere-looking woman in a scientist's uniform with Border Command insignia.

  "Lieutenant," Thorn acknowledges Voss, then turns his attention to me. "Andrew. I trust the view was informative."

  "It's... impressive," I admit cautiously.

  "This is Dr. Elena Khoury," he continues, gesturing to the scientist. "She heads our Special Neural Research Division and will be overseeing your integration at Helios."

  Dr. Khoury studies me with clinical detachment, her dark eyes sharp and evaluative. I resist the urge to extend my consciousness toward her, remembering Voss's warnings about maintaining mental boundaries.

  "Fascinating," she says finally, her accent placing her origins somewhere in the Middle Eastern colonies. "Even without active scanning, the neural activity is visible to the naked eye." She turns to Thorn. "The reports weren't exaggerated."

  I blink in confusion. "Visible? What do you mean?"

  Voss steps closer to me. "Your eyes," she explains quietly. "The irises occasionally flash with a blue light when you're processing intensely or extending your consciousness. It's subtle, but noticeable to those who know what to look for."

  Great. As if I needed another marker of my growing differences from normal humans.

  "Let's proceed," Dr. Khoury says, apparently satisfied with her initial assessment. "The others are assembled in Conference Room Alpha."

  We move through the airlock, crossing the pressurized docking arm into Outpost Helios proper. The difference in atmosphere is immediately noticeable—not in composition, but in feeling. The station has its own rhythm, its own pulse, distinct from the military precision of the Border Command vessel.

  The corridors here are wider, the ceilings higher, designed for long-term habitation rather than efficient military function. People move with purpose but without the rigid formality I observed on the ship. Many glance our way as we pass, curiosity and sometimes wariness in their expressions.

  I notice something else, too. As we move deeper into the station, that constant pressure in my mind begins to respond, resonating like a tuning fork to nearby frequencies. There are others here with abilities similar to mine—I can feel their mental signatures growing stronger as we approach our destination.

  Conference Room Alpha turns out to be a large, circular chamber with a domed ceiling and a round table at its center. Fourteen people are already seated or standing in small groups around the room, their conversations halting as we enter.

  The diversity of the group is striking. Men and women of various ages, ethnicities, and apparent backgrounds. Some wear Border Command uniforms of different divisions. Others are dressed in civilian attire or scientific garb. The only thing they seem to have in common is an intensity to their gaze, a focus that feels almost tangible.

  And I can feel them. Each mind is unique—some tightly contained behind strong mental shields, others more open and curious. The pressure in my mind responds to their presence, reaching out instinctively before I rein it back, remembering yesterday's training.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Admiral Thorn announces, "may I present Andrew, formerly of the transport vessel Horizon Drifter, and the newest addition to our... unique community."

  Fourteen pairs of eyes focus on me with varying expressions—curiosity, sympathy, assessment, and in a few cases, something that looks like concern or even fear.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "Holy shit," one of them—a young man with close-cropped hair and engineer's calluses on his hands—blurts out. "He's broadcasting like a damn beacon."

  "Language, Mr. Lopez," Dr. Khoury admonishes, though without much heat. "Not everyone shares your colorful vocabulary."

  "But he's right," adds an older woman with silver hair and the bearing of someone accustomed to command. "Even with minimal training, I can sense his projections from across the room." She steps forward, extending her hand. "Commander Diana Wells, Border Command Intelligence Division. Welcome to the asylum, Andrew."

  I shake her hand, and immediately feel a light touch against my consciousness—not invasive, just a gentle acknowledgment, like a mental handshake to accompany the physical one.

  "Thank you," I respond, uncertain of the proper protocol here. "I'm... still trying to understand what's happening to me."

  "Aren't we all," says another man dryly. He's middle-aged, with the physique of someone who spends more time in laboratories than gymnasiums. "Seven years since my encounter with the Nexari, and I'm still discovering new quirks in my altered neurology."

  One by one, they introduce themselves. Commander Wells, the silver-haired intelligence officer. Dr. Marcus Chen, the sardonic scientist. Engineer Carlos Lopez, the one with the colorful language. Dr. Simone Okafor, a neurologist who studies her own changed brain patterns. Captain Reza Nazari, who leads special operations teams against Nexari incursions. Nine others with various roles and specialties within Border Command's structure.

  Each of them, like Voss, developed different abilities after resisting Nexari assimilation. Commander Wells can detect lies with perfect accuracy. Dr. Chen can perform complex calculations by interfacing directly with computer systems through thought alone. Lopez can sense and manipulate electronic fields. Dr. Okafor can see neural activity as visible auras around people's heads.

  And so on. Some abilities are subtle, almost mundane. Others verge on the miraculous. All of them changed forever by their encounter with the hive mind.

  But none, it seems, developed abilities as quickly or as powerfully as I have.

  "It's the timeframe that's unprecedented," Dr. Khoury explains once the introductions are complete and we're all seated around the table. "Most manifestations occur gradually, over weeks or months after exposure. Andrew began developing empathic projection abilities within days."

  "And without the usual migraines, nosebleeds, or psychotic episodes," adds Dr. Okafor, studying me with professional interest. "Fascinating."

  "Wait," I interrupt, alarmed. "Psychotic episodes?"

  "A common side effect of rapid neural restructuring," she explains matter-of-factly. "The mind rejects the changes, creating psychological defense mechanisms that manifest as hallucinations, paranoia, or dissociative states."

  "Which you've somehow bypassed entirely," Dr. Khoury continues. "Your brain appears to be accepting—even embracing—the changes triggered by Nexari exposure."

  "Lucky you," mutters Lopez from across the table. "I spent three weeks convinced that my toaster was plotting to assassinate me."

  Despite the serious situation, a ripple of knowing laughter runs around the table. These people have all experienced their own versions of this transformation, I realize. They understand what I'm going through in a way no one else possibly could.

  "The question," says Admiral Thorn, cutting through the moment of levity, "is why. What makes Andrew's neural architecture so uniquely receptive? And can we replicate that receptivity in others?"

  A sudden chill runs through me. "Replicate? You want to create more people like us?"

  The room falls silent, the atmosphere shifting perceptibly. I sense unease from several of the others around the table, suggesting this might be a contentious topic.

  "Border Command's primary directive is to protect humanity from the Nexari threat," Thorn says carefully. "Any advantage we can develop toward that end must be explored."

  "Even if it means deliberately exposing people to the hive mind?" I press, unable to contain my horror at the implication. "Do you have any idea what that feels like? To have something alien trying to erase who you are?"

  "I think everyone in this room has a pretty good idea," Commander Wells interjects, her tone sharp. "Which is why any research protocols include only volunteers who understand the risks."

  "And are thoroughly screened for neural compatibility," adds Dr. Khoury. "We've learned much from studying the seventeen of you. We can now predict with 82% accuracy whether an individual will resist assimilation or succumb."

  That's not entirely reassuring, but before I can say so, the door to the conference room slides open. A young woman in a lab assistant's uniform hurries in, moving directly to Dr. Khoury and whispering something in her ear.

  The doctor's expression changes subtly—surprise, followed by intense interest. She turns to Admiral Thorn. "Sir, the latest scans have been processed. I believe you'll want to see them immediately."

  Thorn rises from his seat. "Continue the orientation," he instructs Voss. "I'll return shortly." He follows Dr. Khoury out of the room, the lab assistant trailing behind them.