ALBION

I wake up with a pounding head, my heart hammering in my chest. It wasn’t a blow that knocked me out, I think. Then, the scene from earlier—or maybe yesterday—rushes back to me, and with it, the pain from the kick that sent me sprawling. It’s not the only discomfort. Beneath me, a strange mass of foam and soft material of uncertain origin barely cushions the hardness of the rock.

We are being held in a cave.

I’m not the only one shifting uncomfortably. A groan to my right makes me open my eyes further.

Groboln. The poor old man already has joint pain, so this must be even worse for him. I tell myself we need to reorganize, reestablish order in our group, plan our escape. But my thoughts are moving too fast, my mind is sluggish.

A block of foam—unlike the thick, damp moss of the forests, but rather a strange yellowish square—collapses under my hand, making me lose balance for a second. This material resembles certain fabrics I've encountered before, yet it remains distinct and unfamiliar to me.

I tense up. This isn’t natural. Everything here is strange. Whatever they injected into us, it’s strong enough to throw off my senses.

Around me, others begin to stir from their stupor. Whispers rise, hesitant and hushed. Some curse under their breath, others push themselves up slowly, clearly still dazed. We are all in the same state.

— “Damn it…” Groboln grumbles as he tries to sit up. “If someone had told me I’d end my career in some drug-induced nightmare, I’d have laughed.”

— “Where are we?” Salina murmurs, her voice hoarse.

— “What is this floor?” another asks, patting the strange foam.

— “Who put us here?!” Lyrel’s voice is sharper, tinged with growing panic.

Good question. I’d love to have the damn answer.

The panic starts spreading. Some try to reassure the others. That should be my role—I’m partially responsible for this mess. I was the one who came up with this foolish plan. Everything that’s happening to us, I led them right into it.

A friend from another group notices my distress.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Don’t worry, Albion. How the hell could we have known those damn Bavils would invade the forst, let alone capture us?!”

I start to respond, to mutter some self-reproach, maybe hoping for their sympathy. But then, the strange metal creatures emerge at the end of the cavern. From the corner of my eye, I spot the source of the light in this place—strange wires running along the walls, embedded into the rock at certain points, feeding into tubes that emit a pale glow.

What kind of sorcery is this? No fire, no earth oil like the dwarves use. Magic? I sense nothing familiar about it.

“Bastards! What do you want from us?!” a woman yells from the far end of the cave, where the foam ends and a dozen of those metal beings stand in formation.

----------------------------------------

ADMIRAL

I watch them speak, forming words I don’t understand—except for the rough approximations Leia is trying to transcribe in my head. I don’t have a cerebral implant; the Empire banned such devices after the oligarchs used them to wreak havoc. Instead, she has patched me up with an auditory implant, allowing me to hear her.

And she talks.

Without me being able to tell her to shut up.

It’s disorienting, especially since I’m trying to grasp what they’re saying, but her translations make little sense.

— “The ground is shifting.”

— “I hurt everywhere… my back… oh, and my hand?”

A gaze breaks my focus—already struggling to reassemble itself after waking from the same sedative they received. I didn’t fight the droids, but I was on amphetamines before. Maybe this forced sleep did me some good.

The gaze belongs to a man. Some of the others defer to him with subtle reverence. He holds authority.

And he’s staring at me. Of course, he is. Who am I?

Certainly not one of his group. He’s already figured that out. And I’ve already realized something critical—societies exist, whether human or otherwise. Given the estimated size of this forest, it is more than likely that multiple cultural groups inhabit it. If this group represents all humans and they share a common language, I’m doomed.

Well, they are.

Because if they turn aggressive toward me—despite having their weapons confiscated—my droids will eliminate them.

But if my hypothesis holds, if different cultures with unique dialects exist, I might have a chance. A chance to pass as another unfortunate captive, a man who ended up here by accident. Perhaps even a companion in misfortune.

The longer I stay with them, the more Leia can refine the translation, the broader my opportunities for integration.

On the other hand, learning their language in just a few days might seem suspicious. But if I continue pretending to struggle, I can still understand everything they. It could significantly expand our database, our knowledge without them even knowing we're getting all the intel.

What troubles me most is that I’ve had to delegate the search for viable cryopods entirely to Leia, even after she initially lied to me about them. My forced sleep lasted nearly the entire night, and I hope with every fiber of my being that as many cryopods as possible have been secured, that some viable ones have been found. That idiot Leia won’t update me on the progress. She only feeds me crude translations. And my auditory implant won’t let me respond, it would be too strange to talk to myself, and I dare not even mutter a whisper.

I can’t ask her about the status of our species' survival. Are the colonists—some of them—alive? Are any cryopods intact? Can we retrieve them before someone else does?

All I can do is fixate on the man approaching me, my head clutched between my hands.