Nick started to close the hatch, then hesitated. Maybe... Nick opened the hatch again, and quickly tossed all the food he was carrying onto the ground. Then, he closed the hatch for real, and got the hell out of there.

  Okay, second time meeting and still nobody dead—so far. I just pray to God we're immune to each other's diseases. He desperately wanted to ask Petra about it, but didn't know how. He tried anyway.

  After a few dozen failures, Nick finally asked, “I go other dungeon. I get air. I lose health?”

  “Not now, Nick.” Petra was mimicking something he said to her often. I think she means 'not yet.' Maybe.

  “I go other dungeon. I get air. Tomorrow, I lose health?”

  “I don't know, Nick.”

  Shit. That wasn't 'I don't understand', that was 'I don't know.' So, that's a maybe.

  “I go other dungeon. I get air. Tomorrow, I lose all health?”

  “No.”

  Well, that's a relief...and surprisingly direct.

  “Explain.” That command only worked about one time in ten or twenty, but luck was with him this time.

  “Tomorrow, Nick lose health, Petra see, Petra heal Nick.”

  Nick turned that over in his head. If—big if—we're not mis-communicating again, then Petra is confident that if I get sick with an alien bug, she can heal me. But what about them?

  For some reason, the concept of “other people” was one Nick and Petra had a lot of trouble communicating. It was like Petra got it, then forgot it again. It was weird. Of course, it wouldn't be so weird if it was Nick who was screwing up repeatedly. For the rest of the trip home, Nick tried to get an answer out of Petra as to whether the aliens would get sick from his germs, without success.

  If only learning how to speak with Petra wasn't so goddamn boring! I've got transcripts of every conversation we've ever had, but hunting through them for a word or phrase has got to be the dullest thing ever. I really suck at this.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  As soon as Nick arrived home, he set Petra to building the other communicator, then went for a swim to clear his head. Man, I just hope they don't break the communicator I gave them, trying to take it apart or something. After he'd done enough laps to feel tired, he floated on his back, stared at the stone ceiling, and tried to think.

  Who are these people, anyway?

  They're natives to this world. They had a civilization, towns and cities and farms and mines and radio towers. And now the Death Star is practically sterilizing everything. How are they growing crops? Are they growing crops? Are they starving to death? How fast is this happening? How long ago did the Death Star turn lethal? How are they still alive?

  When I was about to bolt, that girl alien basically begged me to wait long enough for her to show me that they'd opened and emptied the can of tuna, and that that was important. Why else would it be so important unless they need food?

  Are these people miners? Small town citizens? Military? Corporate? Random survivors? Nick sighed. It doesn't fucking matter. They're dying. They need help.

  Can I help?

  Nick got out of the pool, dried off and got dressed. He looked at the T shirt and sighed. It's boring only having exact copies of the same T shirt every day. At least I have spare clothes. Good thing Petra can replicate anything.

  He checked on the progress of the print. Still a bunch of hours until I can talk to them. He couldn't print anything else at the same time, but he could analyze something. He had Petra absorb the can the aliens had given him, being careful not to touch it with his bare hands.

  “Is this food?”

  “No.”

  Somewhat wise in the ways of Petra, Nick asked, “Is there food inside this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I eat this food, I lose health?”

  “I don't know.”

  “I eat this food, I lose all health?”

  “No.”

  Again, Petra was confident she could save him if he poisoned himself. Nick decided to try it, once Petra's printer was free to make some.

  Nick wandered into the pantry and checked out his supplies of food. He had enough for about a week of regular eating at this point, and every day had Petra print out another day's worth of food or a bit more, so that he would have a buffer when making time-consuming prints of equipment.

  I'll try to talk with them, and see if they want more of my food. If they're desperate, I'll bring them what I've got and have Petra just print food for a while.

  Nick forced himself to scroll through transcripts for a while, and got reminded of something. He went back to a drawing he had made of Earth and BigBall side by side, with population labeled. At the time, Petra had said that the population of BigBall was 1, but with uncertainty. Now, though, they had scanned the interior of the silver mine.

  “Petra, what is the population of BigBall?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “Population of this dungeon?”

  “One.”

  “Population of the other dungeon?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Damn. Twenty-seven aliens, and they might be the last survivors of their entire species. Well, hopefully not. They're trying to call someone on the radio, so there must be others, right?

  ...or there were.

  Nick shivered.

  “Fuck. All this time, I've been hoping for rescue...and I might end up doing the rescuing instead.”