The darkness retreats, inch by inch, as sharp, unrelenting pain pulses through my head. Faint streaks of color begin to flicker at the edges of my vision, twisting and blurring against the lingering void. A wave of nausea crashes over me—deep, gut-wrenching, all-consuming. My breath catches, panic clawing at my chest. Oh God. Is this it? Am I alive?
I want to groan, to let out some sound, any sound, but nothing comes. My throat feels constricted, locked in silence. I still can’t make out where I am, so I stay on guard, my body tense and unmoving. Slowly, cautiously, I force my eyes open a little wider. Gradually, shades of gray and white begin to bleed through the murky haze.
An unremarkable ceiling looms above me—flat, featureless, almost mocking in its blandness. A pale white light stings me softly, illuminating the mostly empty room around me. I’m lying on my back, cradled by a bed that feels almost too comfortable, unnervingly perfect. It’s that kind of false warmth, sterile and impersonal, that only exists in hospitals. God, how I hate that. The smell of disinfectant hits my nose.
Suddenly, I notice a man standing beside me, dressed in white, looking down at me. He speaks.
“There, there. Easy, man. You’re safe for now.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re at the Manides. It’s okay. You’ll recover.”
“Manides? Who are the Manides?”
“The people of this planet. A soldier brought you to the infirmary.”
“What soldier?”
“The one you attacked.”
What!? The terror swells in my mind, and the scream I want to release gets stuck in my throat. Horror creeps in as I stare at the man. He’s not a Meses. He’s human like me. I can tell by the way he leans over. He looks concerned. Somehow, he understands what I’m thinking.
“Don’t worry! The Manides won’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”
“Am I a prisoner? Am I captured?”
“Yes, sort of. You’re on the planet of the Manides. Your ship was destroyed. Your attack failed. You’re in the infirmary, and the Manides will make sure you recover.”
“The Meses are the Manides?”
“Ah, yes. Manides, Meses, same thing.”
I stare at him, confused. He’s obviously working for the Meses—or the Manides, or whatever they call themselves. He’s working for the enemy.
With that realization, I slip back into an exhausted sleep. When I wake again, the man is gone. Instead, some Meses are moving around the room, adjusting a stack of monitoring machines that must’ve been tracking my condition. They’re no longer needed, I guess. As they work, I notice I’m strapped to the bed. Probably standard procedure for injured enemies.
Then, without warning, one of the Meses grabs hold of my bed and starts pushing it out of the room.
“Wait! Where are you taking me?” I shout, but they only respond with chatter in a language I don’t understand. Of course, they don’t speak English, I think, letting my head sink back onto the pillow. Wherever they’re taking me, I’m at their mercy.
They wheel me into a smaller room that looks like a prison cell. Clearly meant for just one person. For me. They position the bed against the wall and leave. Alone and still strapped down, I eventually drift off into another uneasy sleep.
Nightmares haunt my restless sleep, each one a twisted reel of horror. My colleague’s head, ripped from their shoulders, plays on an endless, grotesque loop. Each time, the scene shifts, more grotesque, more impossible, and yet it feels horrifyingly real. When I finally jolt awake, sweat slicking my skin, the door creaks open, and a Meses steps inside.
Calmly, he sets a tray of food and water on a small table. His movements precise and deliberate as he starts to unfasten the restraints binding my wrists. I sit up slowly, rubbing the tender, raw skin where the straps held me, and stretch my aching limbs. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, totally unbothered by my movements. As I reach for my food, he just leaves without uttering a word.
Hours pass before the man in the white coat returns, this time with a Meses by his side—probably his bodyguard. It’s a good thing, too. Without that bodyguard, I’d have slapped the traitor across the face.
And here again, as well, there’s a calmness to this accompanying Meses, almost unnerving in its indifference. Of course, it makes sense—Meses are far stronger than humans. I watch as he moves, his limbs powerful and fluid, his steps imbued with a grace that seems both natural and deadly. If we weren’t enemies, if the sight of him didn’t churn my stomach with dread, I might even admire the way he carries himself. But admiration is the last thing I can afford. These creatures could rip a human head off without any effort.
“How are you feeling?” that traitor-human in the white coat asks.
“How do you think I feel?” I shoot back, unable to hide my anger.
“I understand this is disorienting, but I need to assure you that you’re in a manageable situation.”
“Oh, really?” I retort, still bitter.
He remains calm. “In a few days, you’ll have a hearing. You’ll get a chance to explain how you ended up here and what you want. You have the right to request asylum. If you don’t, they’ll offer you a painless termination. Unfortunately, we can’t send you home.”
It takes me a few moments to process what he’s saying. Is this traitor seriously offering me death or asylum like it’s the most normal thing in the world? I can’t stand him.
“Tell them I don’t care.”
“It doesn’t matter. The hearing will happen, and you’ll get a lawyer.”
He pauses, then adds, “Do you want the lawyer to be human or Manide?”
“Manide,” I answer without hesitation. I trust humans even less than the enemy at this point.
“Alright, Manide it is.” He shows no emotion, then turns and leaves, the towering bodyguard following behind him.
Days go by. The cell is boring, but the food’s decent. The aliens aren’t as bad as I’d expect. That’s what makes it worse—nothing is more dangerous than an enemy who’s nice to you. It’s all a trick. You can’t trust it.
Then, finally, the day of my hearing arrives. They provide me with clothes that fit surprisingly well, both in size and style. Another spineless human briefs me on the proceedings, then escorts me through a series of long corridors until we reach a courtroom. The hall is grand, filled with both Meses and humans. It’s not much different from a court on Earth, except for the seating—higher and differently shaped to accommodate Meses. And, the wooden furniture glows faintly orange when the light hits it.
The Meses and humans stand as I enter, watching me silently. Their expressions are unreadable, though some appear curious. Strangely, the Meses' faces remind me of people from Earth—like they’re strange reflections of old acquaintances. But they’re not, of course. There’s a certain nobility to the way they stand, a grace that makes me think of ancient tales of devils, charming their victims. The humans here are noticeably shorter, and from what I can tell, well-integrated into this society. Traitors are rewarded, apparently. It disgusts me.
The hearing begins, and the judge speaks in that strange, guttural Meses language. I sit beside my lawyer—another Meses, as I requested. He glances at me with suspicion, which I return. His papers, written in right-to-left Meses script, capture my attention despite my situation. The judge continues speaking until, suddenly, my lawyer responds in Meses.
“Hey, what are you saying for me?” I snarl.
The room falls silent, and all eyes turn to me. My lawyer responds in perfect English, his voice low and calm.
“I informed the judge that I’ve received the necessary documents about you.”
I stare at him, taken aback. “Oh... okay,” I mutter, feeling foolish.
The judge continues his sermon, and after a while, my lawyer begins translating his speech to me, providing the same information outlined in the briefing. Today is the day I must decide whether I want to die or ask for asylum. He also confides that seeking asylum offers a promising foundation for a good, well-integrated life on this planet, but I remain unaffected by his attempts at persuasion. Finally, after they finish what they consider to be an adequate explanation, I am asked for my decision. My lawyer urges me to rise, and as I stand, my thoughts seize on this moment—my last opportunity to deliver a meaningful statement on this hostile planet, in front of a significant audience. I must make it count—for humanity, for my mother, and for myself.
“I have come here to defend my home from outside intrusion. Time and time again, history has shown how your kind influenced the minds of humans. Those humans, in turn, were driven to commit unspeakable acts. The less developed human society was, the more devastating your influence had been. This is what the historical record tells us. Only now are we sufficiently prepared to put an end to this, and I felt an obligation to be part of an effort to secure a more peaceful and virtuous future for the children of Earth. Sadly, this has also meant the end of my life and my family’s lineage, which has fallen into poverty as our government mobilized to address the threat you represent.I have no regrets. I will not betray the humans who trusted me with their lives and futures. Therefore, I choose death from the two options you have given me.”
That’s it. Traitors and enemies, in your face! As I stand there, proud of delivering my statement with a steady voice, I notice the hall has gone utterly silent. Countless eyes remain fixed on me. Most of the expressions are unreadable, though a few seem to reflect shock or concern. Astonishingly empathetic, I have to admit. Perhaps my message wasn’t in vain. Maybe this is the crucial turning point in history! I will never know. Like artists who never learn if they’ll become famous posthumously.
Slowly, I sit down. My lawyer stares at me, clearly worried. He has no idea how to salvage the situation. Good. I’ve sealed it.
A low murmuring begins, spreading and growing louder as the crowd discusses my words. Suddenly, a strong female voice cuts through the tension:
“Mezbūrma-hem ladāver zastava!”
My lawyer’s head snaps toward her, murmuring a translation: “She says, ‘I have to say a pledge!’” I follow his gaze, searching for the speaker.
A Meses woman has risen from the audience, her presence instantly commanding the room. She strides toward the speaker’s console with large, powerful steps, owning both elegance and raw authority. Her movements are fluid, yet each one lands with weight, as if the air itself bends to accommodate her.
As she passes the table where I’m seated, I can’t help but glance up at her. A shiver snakes its way up my spine, and unease tightens in my chest. There’s something achingly familiar about her—a presence that claws at the edges of my memory, refusing to take shape.
Her eyes remain locked on the judge, unyielding and intense, as she sweeps past me. Yet, in her wake, I feel it: an unspoken connection, cold and unmistakable.
At the console, she addresses both the audience and the judge with her sonorous voice:
“İo serledān dekām nolāwi kētanta.”
Immediately, my lawyer begins gathering his papers into a stack, preparing to leave. “She’s applying for a common clause. We need to go,” he hisses, already standing. Shocked, I watch him pack and then rise myself, reluctantly mimicking his retreat.
As I step into the aisle leading to the exit, I glance around, trying to make sense of the situation. People are staring at me, clearly waiting for my departure. Staggering after my lawyer, I shout, “What’s going on?”
No one answers. All I see is the woman at the console, her sharp eyes locked on me like a hawk’s. Those same sharp eyes I remember from the ship, when she knocked me unconscious after shooting one of my companions and tearing the head off the other.