Samara scowled as she looked over Rächerin’s diagnostics report. “This can’t be right,” she muttered, before querying the ship’s computer for an update. She quickly decided she liked those numbers even less. Punching up the intercom, she said, “Xeno? Kalypso? Get up to the bridge. We’ve got problems.” The pair acknowledged her hail, arriving a few minutes later.

“How bad is it?” Xeno asked, coming straight to the point.

“Bad enough,” she told him. “Engine performance is falling off rapidly, and the power plant is spitting out error messages like an angry cat.” She shook her head. “We can’t put it off any longer. We have decisions to make.”

“Can we hold out long enough to get clear of enemy territory?” Kalypso asked.

Pulling up a navigational chart, she perused it for a few moments before shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. I’m fairly sure if we try, we’ll end up dead in space.”

“There must be something,” she pleaded, turning to Xeno. “Some way out of this mess.”

“I rather doubt we’ll find another Star’s End in the Tu’udh’hizh’ak Empire, though considering how things turned out there that might be a blessing in disguise,” he replied. “In the meantime, I will continue searching for additional information,” he said.

“So that’s it then?” she asked, defeated.

“We took a lot of damage during our escape,” Samara explained. “As for the rest, Rook was the one monitoring the systems and keeping them running. Without him…” she shrugged.

Xeno cleared his throat. “There may be... another option.”

“What option?” Samara asked.

“Well,” he equivocated, “you have been extolling the virtues of that alien device. If it is all you claim it to be, perhaps it may be of some service.”

Samara blinked. “... maybe?” she answered, suddenly unsure. “Only I have no idea how to activate it. It seems to make its own decisions in that regard.”

“Perhaps, but you are ignoring the common denominator,” he continued. “On all three occasions where the device... rose to the challenge, shall we say?... you were grievously injured. If we were to replicate those conditions…”

“Are you suggesting we shoot Samara?” Kalypso said in utter disbelief.

“Perhaps nothing quite that drastic,” he answered, quickly backpedaling. “It is possible something less dire may trigger the effect.”

“And just how were you planning on testing that theory?” Samara insisted. “Start with breaking my pinkie and work your way up?”

Wilting under the glare coming from both women, he held up his hands in defeat. “I only offer it as an alternative,” he said in a small voice.

Samara started to say something and then thought better of it. “It might come to that,” she admitted unhappily, “but we’re not there yet. We still have time to consider all our options.”

“What’s nearby, in case we have to make port in a hurry?” Kalypso inquired.

Zooming in on the display, Samara highlighted the closest system. “Khid’aad’ad,” she informed them. “It’s not much to write home about. A day’s travel, plus or minus.”

“If the ship is in as terrible shape as you claim, perhaps we should alter course,” Xeno suggested. “Not too close, but prudence dictates we prepare for the worst.”

“It’s a risk, but at this point it might be the lesser of two evils,” Samara admitted. “Altering course,” she told them, punching the command into the computer.

“Should we be forced to declare an emergency in Tu’udh’hizh’ak space…” Xeno said softly.

“I know,” she said, a sour expression pinching her features. “If things get to that point...at least we’d be alive.”

“Not for long,” Kalypso predicted.

Only try as she might to deny it, Xeno’s words had found fertile soil and taken root. They were almost out of options, and soon they would face two equally unacceptable fates unless something drastically changed in their favor. Either they’d be forced to surrender to the Tu’udh’hizh’ak, which meant their deaths, or else Rächerin would likely fail altogether, far from any safe harbor. Which also meant their deaths.

They needed a game-changer.

Samara hefted the alien box and set it in front of her. It was still as enigmatic as the day they’d found it, and if there was a way to open it up and peer inside, they’d yet to find it. If it weren’t for her experiences, it might as well have been some ornately carved plant stand.

It sat there silently, mocking her efforts.

She desperately needed to understand its secrets. If they were to have any chance at all, it would have to come from this strange box, and as much as she wanted to deny it, Xeno had hit upon the one method of gaining access they knew would work. She’d known it the moment he’d uttered the words, despite her sarcastic dismissal. This private war she’d begun had required sacrifice from everyone involved, and now it would require even more from her.

It’s not that big of a deal, she told herself, picking up the knife, I’ve endured worse than this. It wasn’t even a lie, though it felt like one. Growing up with a crippling disease, the trauma of her surgeries and genetic therapies, the even more grueling rehabilitation that followed, when weighed against all of that, this one insignificant deed paled in comparison.

In fact, there was only a single argument against this act of desperation she could think of. Each previous... occasion? Encounter?... may have left her healed, but also bereft of any memory of how it was done. Even the camera footage they’d retrieved from the ship’s logs told her nothing, and while Xeno and Kalypso’s eyewitness accounts had added some detail, they were equally unhelpful. If only she’d been conscious when it happened…

Her head snapped up as her eyes narrowed with sudden awareness. If consciousness truly was the key, then there were ways to tip the scales in her favor. Samara jumped to her feet and searched her meager belongings, locating the small hypospray she’d used occasionally over the years for various purposes. Checking her supply of medications, she found what she was looking for, quickly loading up the attached canister and pressing the device against her neck. There was a small click as she pulled the trigger, and the effects were almost immediate, which made sense, since the carotid artery led directly to the brain.

If 200mg of amphetamines didn’t keep her awake for what came next, then nothing would.

That out of the way, she took a few minutes to prepare, moving some blankets and a pillow to the deck so as not to ruin her bed. The next part was harder; while normally the autohypnosis techniques she’d learned allowed her to block pain by shutting down the receptors, the adrenaline rush now coursing through her veins made the necessary focus all but impossible. After several more minutes of effort she could lessen the effects somewhat, but a true block was out of the question.

This is going to hurt, she sighed, picking up the blade and pressing the tip against her stomach, gripping the handle tightly with both hands. She spared a moment to glance up at the box... still silent, still inscrutable... before she closed her eyes once more. Samara took a deep breath and let it out, then took one more, before shoving the dagger deep into her guts, aiming for the abdominal aorta.

Her head snapped back in a silent howl of agony as the pain registered. She collapsed on her side as she yanked the knife back out, doing even more damage, letting it clatter to the deck as her hands struggled to staunch the spurting flow of blood.

“Anytime... you want... to get in... on this…” she hissed at the box before another wave of torment ripped through her defenses as if they were tissue. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she curled into a fetal position when she was struck by a sudden panicked thought.

What if she was wrong?

If she was, it was a little late now. She could try contacting the others, but a wound like this, with their meager supplies and expertise? It was unlikely they could do anything but make her comfortable before the end came, which could take hours. Days, if she was really unlucky. God, this was a stupid plan, she cursed herself, looking up once more at the device.

Still nothing.

“Damn it... do something!” she screamed.

The box ignored her.

Fuck me to Hell, she swore, her gore-covered hands scrabbling on the polished metal deck as she tried crawling to the intercom, leaving a smeared trail of red behind her. She shook her head as her vision blurred, and with a sudden moment’s clarity she realized her fatal mistake.

All the drugs in the universe won’t keep you conscious if you bleed out.

“... shit,” she sighed as she propped herself up against a bulkhead. The intercom was a good meter above her head, and she knew she needed to push herself up and press the button, but the will to even try was slowly ebbing away from her. Yup, blood loss, she nodded to herself, as her shoulders slumped in resignation.

... you are such an idiot, was her last conscious thought before slumping on her side, her eyes fixed and open.

...Connection Established.

...Emergency Protocol - Activated.

...Contextual Status Corroboration - Verified.

...Simulacrum Database Search - Complete.

...Cognate Located - 97.404% Match

...Imprint S09W3JHOW09509SJHK27V - Activated.

...I am Clinicus-Theurgist 1st Grade Sothan Golthe. It has been 4.8 x 1011 cycles since my previous activation. As per instructions under the Emergency Protocols, I immediately assess the situation.

...After reviewing my host’s logs, I see now why I have been summoned. Four separate medical emergencies in less than two centicycles is a disturbing trend indeed, and even as I begin repairs to the host’s damaged physiology, I see I must delve deeper than my predecessors. While it is possible these incidents could merely be coincidental, my intuition says otherwise. While I agree with Bellator-Theurgist 1st Grade Cherdor Hosk’s assessment that the host is engaged in a dangerous profession of some sort, especially given the extensive modifications she has undergone, I cannot rule out the possibility that some form of psychosis is at work without further examination. It is possible the host is in fact unconsciously seeking methods of terminating her existence, and if so, then this is delicate ground. I must tread lightly, even as I sift deep within her memories.

...Despite the inherent cost, I must begin by accessing her language files. I understand why my predecessors failed to do so; in each case it was not required to ameliorate their respective emergencies. I, however, as a Clinicus-Theurgist, must search for the root cause, the connecting thread that binds these separate incidents together.

...Language files are now fully assimilated. The argot spoken by the host is simple, yet unusually fluid. Phonemes can contain multiple meanings, forcing communicants to divine the intended message from the surrounding context. It is woefully inefficient, yet I can see where it allows for subtle shadings of possibilities that a more rigid dialect would make difficult. A language designed for artists and liars, I find it difficult to believe this odd patois has any sort of linguistic relationship to our own vernacular, but under the Emergency Protocols I am prevented from studying this dichotomy in further detail. More pressing matters await within the host’s mind.

...It is worse than I feared. This latest event was indeed intentional, a deliberate act upon herself, though seemingly without the intention of terminating her existence. I find this puzzling. Surely an individual with the host’s intelligence would know the inherent dangers of such an act, yet it is obvious there was no hesitation on her part. Yet another dichotomy, though this enigma is one I may pursue...in fact, it goes to the very core of why my Cognate was summoned. I must delve deeper, to understand her reasoning and motives…

...CODE PRIORITY ALPHA - INTERREGNUM DETECTED - CRISIS CONCORDANT NOW IN EFFECT.

…

...Connection Established.

...Crisis Concordat Protocol - Activated.

...Interregnum Status Corroboration - Verified.

...Simulacrum Database Search - Complete.

...Cognate Located - 100.00% Match

...Imprint 1A - Activated.

...I am Archive, Custodian-Theurgist of the assembled Cognates within my domain. This is the seventh time circumstances have activated me since my creation, the seventh Interregnum I have observed since the very beginning, and as I consult the logs and my internal chronology, I realize now it is by far the longest. I fear there is much work to be done.

...Clinicus-Theurgist 1st Grade Sothan Golthe’s efforts have been successful. He has stabilized the host, the damage to her systems repaired. Any further intervention must be carefully weighed, given the gravity of the situation.

...The protocols are clear. I must begin initial assessment and investigation. But I too must tread lightly, for fear of endangering not only my host but also myself, the Cognates under my charge, and most importantly, the Great Work. I must protect them all.

...Connections and Interlocks have been engaged. It is time.

Samara opened her eyes and tried to sit up. Surprisingly, she could do so without effort. Several moments passed before her brain reengaged, a groan escaping her lips as she remembered why she was sitting on the deck. The stained knife lay a meter away, near the strange alien box, and as she gingerly checked herself, she found the same familiar pattern; no wounds or scars, faintly tinged clothing... and zero memories.

Great.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet. No sense in telling the others about this, they were already worried about her mental state as it was. A shower and a change of clothes, a thorough cleaning of her cabin, and no one would be the wiser. She padded over to the sink, splashing some water on her face before stripping off her clothing, and…

...Samara.

Her head snapped up in shock, before whipping around to see who had called her name. The cabin was empty, as she’d known it was. Was Xeno calling her on the intercom? It hadn’t sounded like his voice, but then she was still groggy from that idiotic stunt of hers. She headed back over to the panel to double-check…

...Samara, it is vital that we speak.

She spun like a top on the balls of her feet, her arms raised while her hands immediately formed knife-edges for attack, but no one was there.

“I’m losing my damn mind,” she winced, as she felt a headache coming on. That got a laugh out of her, an hour ago a headache would have been the least of her worries…

...Samara, you are not suffering a delusion. I am real. We must communicate.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” she shouted, backing into a corner and hugging herself.

There was a long pause.

...You may call me… Guardian.