The vast, metallic halls of the organization’s complex on Relinom buzzed with activity as Ryan and his crew settled into their new roles. Despite the initial culture shock, they quickly learned the importance of keeping busy. It was a way to cope with the anxiety of waiting for news about Proxima—and, perhaps more importantly, to make a place for themselves in this foreign society that operated at the very edge of human comprehension.
Ryan, along with a few other crew members, had been assigned to a communications wing, where information flowed between galaxies, solar systems, and intergalactic hubs like an endless river. He spent his days managing transmissions, working with alien colleagues whose physiology, thought processes, and even ways of communicating were as alien as they were fascinating.
One of Ryan’s colleagues in this department was Dr. Mila Torran, the Proxima's chief communications officer. Mila adapted quickly, even managing to build a rapport with a species called the Xel’Qum—a group of sentient beings composed of liquid, translucent material that glowed in shades of green and violet. The Xel’Qum communicated through a series of melodic tones, and Mila had developed a system of response tones to communicate with them.
“They respond well to melody,” Mila explained to Ryan one afternoon, as her workstation glowed with waves of data. “It’s as if their language is made of vibrations. Once I picked up on their rhythm, it was easier to get a response.”
Ryan watched as Mila’s console displayed streams of tones, translating alien messages into something their systems could interpret. She had even developed a tone-based greeting, which she played to the Xel’Qum each morning, and their replies were often unexpectedly warm. Ryan marveled at how quickly she’d adapted, bridging the divide with a species that had no concept of physical form as humans knew it.
In another part of the complex, Kai Silva, the Proxima's engineer, worked alongside a species known as the Orbindar. The Orbindar were massive, towering creatures with hardened, rock-like skin, and a natural affinity for metallurgy and high-density materials. Kai often marveled at their skill, watching them handle molten metals and refined elements with an expertise he’d never seen.
During breaks, Kai would often talk to one of his Orbindar teammates, a craftsman named Gar’thak, whose deep, gravelly voice carried stories of working in star forges at the heart of dying suns. Gar’thak was fascinated by Kai’s own experience working with metal, albeit on a much smaller scale.
“Your world’s materials must be delicate, yes?” Gar’thak asked one day, handling a piece of refined ore like it was no more than a pebble. “You use much less heat, much less pressure.”
“Compared to your standards, yes,” Kai admitted, grinning. “Back home, we can’t work metals like this without risking a whole facility going up in flames.”
Gar’thak let out a rumbling chuckle. “Perhaps one day, you will. If this organization continues to share technology, maybe your people will forge worlds as we do.”
The interaction left Kai both amused and slightly overwhelmed by the vastness of the possibilities. To Gar’thak and the Orbindar, reshaping planets and harnessing star energy were simply facets of daily life. Here on Relinom, Kai felt like a student, learning to see his own engineering skills in a new, humbling light.
In another sector, Lianna, the ship’s navigator, worked in the planetary analytics wing, where she assisted in charting data from the galaxy clusters under the organization’s purview. She spent her days immersed in star charts and data flows, working with species known as the Requori—a group of slender, bioluminescent beings who navigated the universe not by physical maps but through complex mental visualizations of energy fields.
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The Requori viewed space as a web of energy currents, similar to a river system. They saw pathways between stars as flows of energy that directed space travel and shifted with gravitational influences, supernovas, and cosmic shifts.
One of the Requori, a quiet being named Valun, took it upon himself to teach Lianna the basics of this approach. In the darkened analytics room, he showed her how to trace energy currents instead of focusing solely on physical coordinates.
“Space is a living thing,” Valun explained, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We listen to it, feel its movements. It tells us where to go.”
Lianna nodded, her mind swimming as she tried to absorb the concept. She’d always relied on technology and mathematical calculations to navigate space, but the Requori saw it as an organic entity with its own patterns and will. The more she worked with Valun, the more her own navigation skills expanded beyond what she’d learned back in her own galaxy.
In the evenings, the crew would gather in their quarters, sharing stories of their encounters with alien colleagues over meals and laughter. Each crew member had tales to tell of their work and the intriguing, sometimes bewildering species they’d met. Slowly, they began to feel a sense of belonging within the organization, even if the customs and technologies around them felt light-years beyond anything they’d known.
Their days were demanding, but there was a sense of purpose in the work. They earned compensation in a form of universal credits, which could be used to access resources on Relinom or saved for use once they returned to their galaxy. In a way, earning these credits made them feel like citizens of the organization—no longer outsiders but participants in a much larger system. The work helped them cope with the wait, filling their time with structure and purpose.
Ryan’s respect for his crew only grew as he saw how each of them adapted. Mila’s linguistic talents, Kai’s engineering ingenuity, and Lianna’s willingness to reshape her entire understanding of navigation—all of it reinforced his confidence in their resilience. They were making strides, not just surviving in this alien society but finding ways to thrive within it.
Yet, even as he marveled at the organization’s expanse and its countless species, he couldn’t shake his lingering suspicions. There was still no word on Proxima, no information on their galaxy’s location within the organization’s cosmic charts. And the more he learned about the organization’s all-encompassing reach, the more he questioned why Proxima’s location remained elusive. Was it possible that the organization truly didn’t know where it was—or were they hiding something?
One evening, after a particularly long shift in the communications wing, Ryan brought up his doubts with crew as they gathered for a meal.
“It just doesn’t add up,” he said, voice low as he glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “They control almost every known galaxy, they monitor cosmic events across the universe, and yet they don’t know where Proxima is?”
Mila set down her meal, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. For all their knowledge, they seem awfully vague when it comes to specifics about our galaxy. It’s like...”
“Like they’re keeping something from us,” Kai finished, his tone tinged with frustration. “I get that we’re small in their grand scheme, but if they’re supposed to be helping us, they should be straight with us.”
Lianna nodded, though her face was clouded with worry. “Maybe they’re being cautious. Or maybe Proxima is in one of those uncharted regions they mentioned. Either way, we’re at their mercy.”
They fell silent, the weight of their situation settling over them. Here they were, humans lost in a civilization that spanned the universe itself, beholden to a power they barely understood.
For now, they would keep working, each of them finding purpose in their respective roles. But beneath their growing familiarity with Relinom and the organization, a sense of uncertainty simmered. Until they had answers, they would remain vigilant, wary of what might lie beneath the polished, harmonious surface of this vast intergalactic empire.