The conversation flows easily after that. They're curious about me—my background, my experience on the Nexari ship, my developing abilities—but not pushy. I get the sense they're deliberately keeping things light, giving me space to adjust to my new surroundings.

  I learn more about them in turn. Lopez was a starship engineer before his capture and resistance six years ago. Dr. Chen was researching quantum computing when his research vessel strayed too close to Nexari space. Commander Wells has been with Border Command the longest—over fifteen years since her resistance—and serves as an unofficial leader for the group.

  "Where's Lieutenant Voss?" I ask, noticing her absence.

  "Officers' mess," Commander Wells explains. "She could join us, but prefers to maintain the chain of command visibly. It's her way."

  "And Elara?"

  The group exchanges glances.

  "Specialist Voss tends to keep to herself," Dr. Chen says carefully. "She has... complicated relationships with many of us."

  "Because of her views on the Nexari?" I guess.

  Another round of meaningful looks.

  "Partly," Commander Wells acknowledges. "Elara is brilliant and dedicated to her work, but she operates on the fringes of what Border Command considers acceptable theory regarding Nexari consciousness. Her status as Admiral Thorn's protégé gives her certain freedoms the rest of us don't have."

  "Protégé?" This surprises me. "I thought they had tension between them."

  "Oh, they do," Lopez confirms with a grin. "Spectacular arguments, I'm told. But Thorn recruited her personally from the academy, fast-tracked her training, gave her resources and latitude no other resistant has received. He sees something in her—potential or usefulness, depending on who you ask."

  "And who do you ask?" I press.

  "The better question," interrupts a new voice, "is why you're so interested in my history."

  Elara stands behind me, her tray balanced in one hand, her expression unreadable. I hadn't sensed her approach—either she's very good at shielding her mental signature, or I was too engaged in conversation to notice.

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  "Just trying to understand the dynamics here," I explain, gesturing to the empty seat beside me. "Especially if we're going to be training together."

  She considers for a moment, then sits down, placing her tray precisely on the table. "Fair enough. But I'd prefer you ask me directly rather than collecting secondhand impressions."

  "I'll remember that," I promise. "So, are you the Admiral's protégé?"

  A flash of annoyance crosses her face, quickly suppressed. "I'm a specialist in Nexari consciousness integration patterns. The Admiral recognized my analytical abilities and provided appropriate resources. That's all."

  It's clearly not all, but I decide not to push further in public. The conversation shifts to more neutral topics—station routines, training schedules, recommendations for how I should spend my free time during integration.

  Throughout the meal, I'm acutely aware of Elara beside me. Not just physically, but mentally. Even without direct contact, there's a subtle resonance between our minds, like standing near a speaker playing music at low volume—you can feel the vibrations even if you can't quite make out the tune.

  Occasionally, our eyes meet, and in those moments, the resonance strengthens briefly before one of us looks away. It's disconcerting and fascinating at the same time.

  As the meal concludes and people begin to disperse, Elara leans slightly closer to me. "2300 hours," she murmurs. "Hydroponics Lab 3, East Wing. It's minimally monitored during night cycle."

  She stands and leaves without waiting for confirmation, her tray deposited at the recycling station with precise efficiency.

  "Word of advice," Lopez says, watching her go. "Whatever Elara wants to show you or tell you, remember she always has multiple motives. Always."

  "That's unfair, Carlos," Commander Wells objects. "Specialist Voss has earned her security clearance like the rest of us."

  "Clearance, sure," he concedes. "Trust is another matter."

  Their disagreement follows me back to my quarters, where I spend the next few hours restlessly alternating between reviewing station information on the terminal and pacing the limited floor space. At 2245, I finally decide to head toward Hydroponics Lab 3, allowing extra time to navigate the unfamiliar corridors.

  Outpost Helios operates on a standard 24-hour cycle, but the night shift is noticeably quieter. I pass few personnel as I follow the directional indicators toward the East Wing, and those I do encounter are focused on their own tasks, barely acknowledging me with a nod.

  The hydroponics section is easy to find—the air quality changes perceptibly as I approach, becoming more humid and oxygen-rich, with subtle undertones of growing things. Lab 3 is at the far end of the section, its entrance partially obscured by large planters containing what appear to be experimental crop varieties.

  I pause outside the door, checking the time—2258—and glancing around for surveillance devices. I spot a standard security sensor above the door, its indicator light showing active status. So much for "minimally monitored."

  The door slides open before I can decide whether to enter, revealing Elara inside. She's changed from her uniform into civilian attire—simple dark pants and a gray tunic that somehow looks more functional than casual.

  "Right on time," she says, stepping aside to let me enter. "Good."