My new quarters in Outpost Helios are almost luxurious compared to the cabin on the Border Command vessel—a spacious main room with separate sleeping and work areas, a full bathroom with actual water allowance for showers, and even a small kitchenette. The walls are a neutral gray, but someone has added a few touches to make it feel less institutional—abstract art prints, a small shelf of physical books, even a potted plant that appears to be some kind of miniature fern.

  "Standard accommodations for special personnel," Lieutenant Voss explains, noticing my surprised inspection. "The research division believes comfort leads to better performance and cooperation."

  "And easier monitoring, I assume," I comment, spotting the subtle security sensors embedded in the ceiling corners.

  She doesn't deny it. "Basic safety protocols. No audio or visual in private areas." She gestures to the bathroom and sleeping area. "The main room has standard security monitoring, deactivated only during official medical or psychological sessions."

  In other words, Elara's desire for "real privacy" won't be found here. I file that information away for later.

  "Your personal effects from the ship have been transferred here," Voss continues, indicating a small bag on the desk—my meager possessions from the Horizon Drifter. "Your ID chip has been programmed with limited station access appropriate to your status. Mess hall, recreation facilities, medical, and training areas are all accessible. Restricted zones require escort."

  "Prisoner with privileges," I observe.

  Her expression softens slightly. "Guest with security considerations," she corrects. "None of us started with full access. Trust is earned here, Andrew."

  She shows me how to use the room's systems—environmental controls, communication panel, information terminal—before heading to the door.

  "Rest," she advises. "Tomorrow will be intense. First day of training always is."

  "Lieutenant," I call as she's about to leave. "One more question. About Elara..."

  She pauses, her expression guarded. "Yes?"

  "You said she has her own agenda regarding the Nexari. What did you mean by that?"

  Voss considers me for a long moment. "My daughter believes there's more to the Nexari than Border Command acknowledges. That their hive mind isn't the threat we perceive it to be, but rather a different—perhaps even superior—form of consciousness that we're too limited to understand properly."

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  "And you disagree?"

  "I've seen what assimilation does to people," she says simply. "Whatever philosophical arguments exist about collective versus individual consciousness, the practical reality is that humans who are assimilated lose their autonomy, their identity. Whatever remains isn't the person they were before."

  "Like my crew," I murmur, the memory of Patel's vacant eyes flashing through my mind.

  "Yes." She gives me a sympathetic look. "Rest, Andrew. We'll talk more tomorrow."

  After she leaves, I explore my new quarters more thoroughly, checking for any surveillance devices beyond the obvious ones. Finding nothing suspicious, I unpack my few belongings—spare clothes, a datapad with some technical manuals I was studying, a small metal puzzle cube gifted to me by Captain Mercer on my last work anniversary. Remnants of a life that seems increasingly distant and foreign.

  The terminal on the desk activates at my touch, displaying a welcome screen with limited access options similar to the one on the ship—station information, entertainment modules, training schedules. My name appears in the corner, along with a new designation: "Resistant Subject 17-A, Integration Phase 1."

  I spend some time browsing through the available information, learning the layout of Outpost Helios, the meal schedules, recreation options. Basic orientation material for someone newly assigned to the station. Nothing about the Nexus Protocol or the genetic modifications Dr. Khoury mentioned.

  As evening approaches, I make my way to the mess hall following the directions on my terminal. The facility is large and surprisingly varied, with different food stations offering cuisine from various human colonies and Earth regions. Despite being deep in space on a classified research station, Border Command apparently believes in keeping its personnel well-fed.

  I'm selecting something that resembles pasta when I sense a presence behind me—a distinctive mental signature that I'm already beginning to recognize.

  "The synthetic protein actually tastes better than the real thing," Lopez says, appearing at my side with a tray already loaded with food. "One of the perks of having xenobiologists who moonlight as chefs."

  "Thanks for the tip," I respond, adding the pasta dish to my tray.

  He leads me to a table where several of the resistants from the meeting are already seated—Dr. Chen, Commander Wells, and a quiet woman who had introduced herself earlier as Technician Santos.

  "Welcome to the freak table," Lopez says cheerfully as we sit down. "Where the food is normal but the conversation decidedly isn't."

  "Carlos," Commander Wells admonishes, though without much heat.

  "What? It's true. Regular personnel avoid sitting with us because our conversations tend to veer into territory that makes them uncomfortable." He demonstrates by turning to me. "So, Andrew, any spontaneous telekinetic episodes yet? Precognitive flashes? Sudden ability to bend spoons with your mind?"

  "Not since lunch," I deadpan, earning a surprised laugh from the group.

  "You'll fit right in," Lopez declares, digging into his food.