The food was arrayed before the officers by three crewmen, each with heavy bags under their eyes. Winterborn let out a silent sigh, empathizing with the stress the crew must be under. Each course was selected from the officers' food preference lists. Ava took her seat and practically fell into her meal. She always had the same meal for lunch—a steaming bowl of clam chowder, a slice of sourdough bread, and a root beer. Val was more reserved, picking away at a spring salad, her appetite obviously diminished by the current situation. Winterborn examined Fallborn’s "meal"—as always she had a plate absolutely loaded with decadent dessert items. This time she’d gone for a double chocolate brownie à la mode.

“Remind me again, Lieutenant, why do you insist on eating sweets for every meal? Don’t you get tired of it?” she asked, her lips curling into a sardonic smile.

Her reply was muffled by the food which stuffed her cheeks, “Well, Sir,” she paused to swallow, “Since everything we eat is whipped up in a laboratory anyway, so no matter what I choose, I get the same nutritional value. Why wouldn’tI pick something delicious?”

Ava snorted with laughter, “Because normal people like a bit of variety, maybe?”

Fallborn shook her head as if talking to a severely ill-informed child. “You obviously don’t have the palate required to enjoy the spectrum offered by sweets.” She sat up ramrod straight, lifting her chin in mock superiority, “From the delicate and light textures offered by an apple tart, to the rich decadence of the double-fudge brownie,” she gestured at her plate, “The realm of desserts offers more fulfillment than any other individual meal.” She snapped a quick wink at Val, “You people can suffer through grilled artichoke hearts and asparagus.”

Winterborn laughed, her mood lifting. “I happen to like artichoke hearts! There’s nothing weird about that!” She popped one into her mouth for emphasis, looking around the table for support. She hung her head in mock defeat as each eye failed to meet hers. “I’m going to court martial the lot of you! This is mutiny!” Everyone at the table laughed softly, their predicament momentarily forgotten.

Commander Val coughed lightly, “I just wanted to say, Captain, I think you’re handling this situation well. Between everything that’s going on, no one would blame you if you were feeling a bit overwhelmed. I just want you to know,” she gestured to the other officers, “we’re behind you one-hundred percent. We know you’ll get us through this.”

Winterborn bowed her head slightly, “Thank you, Val. Thank you all. I believe we will come out on top in this situation. We may be out of our depth, but I trust that everyone here can swim.”

Fallborn coughed, “I uh…I actually never learned how to swim.”

“I guess everyone aside from Rosa will be alright then,” giggled Commander Val.

The laughter died down gradually, everyone obviously grateful for the reprieve from the seriousness of their situation. In the ensuing silence, Winterborn looked on at her officers. It disturbed her to know that one of the people sitting before her could very well be the traitor. The idea brought bile to her throat, her mood slipping like sand through open fingers.

A message from Commander Julia flashed in her ocular interface; it read: “Captain, scans of the ship are complete. No alien lifeforms are present. Either the alien has left the ship, or they’re capable of evading the sensors.”

If her mood had fallen before, it was blackened now. Winterborn swore under her breath, the other officers tensing at her expression. “We weren’t able to track down the alien lifeform with our internal scanners.”

Commander Val cursed softly, “What’s the next step? If they aren’t on the ship, they probably fled to the Quin’tel vessel with Ren’brus and the others, right?”

Winterborn nodded, “I’ve had the 3-D mock-up of the creature sent to the Quin’tel; we hope to have it identified soon. Meanwhile, I’ll try to have the Quin’tel drop shields and allow themselves to be scanned,” she looked to Val, “How far along are we on the jump-drive probe designs?”

Val rhythmically rapped her knuckles on the desk, “We should have the designs finalized in the next few hours. Materials are another matter, we’ll need a lot of ore to fabricate these probes. We’re not going to be able to just modify one of the Mimir II probes—instead, we’ll have to build one around a jump-drive,” she paused, “It would be helpful if the Quin’tel could supply us with raw material.”

Fallborn shook her head, “It would be helpful, but can we really afford to trust them? They may try to sabotage any materials they supply in an effort to keep us from contacting Command.”

Winterborn sighed heavily, massaging her temples. “That’s a fair point, though we should be able to inspect any ore they provide us before utilizing it. Our 3-D printers should be more than capable of simply breaking down the ore into its component parts. I don’t see how they could sabotage ore in any significant manner.”

“We should pursue that option. Hell, given your status as the 'soon to be Prime', I’d be surprised if they didn’t have an ore shipment to us by the end of the day.” Val smiled and stopped rapping her knuckles on the desk, “Honestly, I think they might be hurt if you didn’t ask.”

Winterborn was about to respond, but was cut off by a priority one message flashing insistently. The message was from the Quin’tel; it read: “Communication not safe. Meet us on our ship.”

Winterborn frowned at the brusque message, this definitely wasn’t good. Rising to her feet, she announced, “I’ve received a message from the Quin’tel Captain; I need to meet with him. Val, continue working on the probe,” she turned to Ava, “Keep going through the crew logs, we need to exonerate as many people as possible. I have to know who we can trust." Finally, she turned to Fallborn, “Rosa, work with Doctor Julia on a scanning protocol to find this alien. I’m sure she’d appreciate it,” she turned her gaze to take in the faces of her officers, “Dismissed.”

Winterborn turned and strode out of the conference room. As she walked, she called for two security officers who had been cleared thus far by the investigation to meet her. They joined her side as she approached the docking bay. As they waited, she approved the request for the Quin’tel shuttle to link up with the Athena. Winterborn watched through the visual display in her ocular implant—the shuttle was obviously alien, with proportions which defied human design philosophy. While the basic geometry made sense from an engineering standpoint, the main body of the shuttle was a wide oval. The aesthetics were nothing like those of earth; the hull was decorated with thousands of tiny hair-like protrusions, in fact the ship looked rather like a floating ball which had been experimenting with new facial hair. As the outer airlock slid open to accommodate the peculiar-looking craft, she saw a long tunnel extending from the ship. She was startled to see the mouth of the tunnel shifting its shape to better match that of the Athena’s docking port. It struck her then that she hadn’t actually paid attention to how the Quin’tel had docked with the Athena the first time around—they wouldn’t have been built to Terran specifications, after all.

“I suppose they had to build something capable of interfacing with hundreds of species ships eh, Sir?” observed one of the security officers.

“That makes sense, Warrant Officer. I suppose it’s easier than trying to standardize a single building spec.”

The hiss of oxygen filling the airlock drowned out the ensuing silence. After a moment, the Captain's visual display indicated that the airlock was now safe to open. She proceeded, and looked on to see three Quin’tel. She almost called out to Ren'brus when she remembered he'd be resting in their equivalent of a med-bay.

The Quin’tel bowed to the floor, with the apparent leader among them speaking in reverent tones, “This one is not worthy, Prime.”

“Please, don’t bow. I made it known to Ren’brus and the others that Humans are generally uncomfortable with bowing and scraping.”

The Quin’tel hurried to their feet, the leader stumbling over himself with apologies. “This one is most sorry. This one will ensure that all of our people know that this is your judgment,” he inclined his head, “Now, if you would follow this one. The Captain is eager to meet you.”

Winterborn and the security officers followed the three Quin’tel through the docking tunnel. She was surprised to see that, upon closer inspection, the walls were entirely smooth. She had expected interlinking scales, or some other malleable design, but now she suspected that the structure was composed of some kind of nano-material. She’d have to ask Ren’brus when she could find the time—that is, if he was able to recover from his injuries.

She spoke up to her guide, “How are Ren’brus and the others recovering?” She was mildly surprised to hear genuine worry in her voice. She hadn’t realized it before now, but she had grown fond of the neurotic little Quin’tel.

The three new Quin’tel chittered very softly, and seemingly concerned. Finally, the guide turned his head as he walked, saying, “The Prefect and the others are doing well. Ren’brus will need one of his eyes replaced, and Bre’brus will need a new arm. Val’brus should be fine, he got away with only a few shattered bones.”

Winterborn was shocked by the casual nature of the response—two would require major surgery, and the third wouldn’t fare much better. Still, she was glad to hear that the Quin’tel possessed the capability to regrow organs and limbs. “Approximately how long does it take Quin’tel to generate new tissues and appendages? It takes us a little more than a week to have something like an arm regrown.”

The Quin’tel excitedly chittered, “Humans can regrow limbs and organs too? Regeneration is an exceedingly rare trait in the galaxy. And so fast? Humans are truly worthy of being the Prime species.”

Winterborn raised her hands, “Wait a minute, I think there’s a misunderstanding. We don’t physically regenerate. We grow organs, limbs, hell, entire bodies in laboratories. Recovery from the surgery lasts a hell of a lot longer than a week as well.”

The Quin’tel seemed to deflate. “Ah, a technology. Yes, there are a number of species who blaspheme against nature in such a manner. They are not blessed in the way of the Quin’tel, so we do not judge them...you...too harshly.” The Quin’tel realized quickly what he had said, “This one did not intend to criticize the Prime. This one will submit itself for discipline.”

“No, please don’t worry about it. Our cultures can’t be one-hundred percent compatible.” Still, Winterborn was surprised. She wondered if this was a religious consideration, or something relating to a bad experience. She asked the question on her mind, “Is that a religious belief? Or something else?”

The Quin’tel stepped up to the entryway of their shuttle and pressed a button on his shirt; the airlock opened as they approached. “You could call it a religion, yes. We believe that technology is technology, and biology is biology. They should not mix in unnatural ways,” he seemed concerned, speaking rapidly, “Not that we presume to judge you, Prime. Understand, this is merely a belief of my people.”

The airlock was a head taller than the shorter Quin’tel, but Winterborn still found herself having to duck under the low door. As she stepped though, she was startled by the environment which greeted her—she was surrounded by what could only be described as trees, low-hanging vines, and small red flowers set in a field of shiny green moss. The trees were covered in an emerald fur, looking much like something out of a Doctor Seuss book. She was even more startled to realize that there seemed to be genuine sunlight filtering through the canopy. She was breathless at the sight, were it not that she had just walked in through the airlock, she’d have sworn that she was on the surface of an alien planet.