"Did I just... control those men with my mind?" I ask Voss, the reality of what happened still not fully processed.

  "Something like that," she confirms, taking a seat across from me. "Though 'influence' might be more accurate than 'control.' You essentially created a temporary neural link similar to the Nexari hive mind connection but directed by your individual consciousness."

  "How is that possible?"

  She shakes her head. "We're in uncharted territory. The working theory is that exposure to the Nexari collective awakened latent abilities in your brain—abilities that might exist in every human but remain dormant without the right trigger."

  "Like the other sixteen people who resisted assimilation," I realize.

  "Exactly. Though none of them developed abilities this quickly or to this extent." She studies me with renewed interest. "There must be something different about your neural structure to begin with, something that made you particularly receptive."

  I pick up my fork again, forcing myself to eat despite my churning thoughts. I need the energy. "So what happens now?"

  "Now," Voss says, standing up, "we get you settled in quarters that aren't a glorified cell, and I begin teaching you how to shield your mind before you accidentally take over the entire ship." There's a hint of dry humor in her voice, but I can sense her underlying concern.

  "Is that likely?" I ask, only half-joking.

  "Let's not find out." She gestures for me to follow her. "Finish eating while we walk. We've got a lot of ground to cover, and not much time before we reach the station."

  "Station?" This is the first I've heard of our destination.

  "Outpost Helios," she explains as we exit the briefing room. "Border Command's advanced research facility. If anyone can help you understand what's happening, it's the scientists there."

  As we move through the corridors—no security escort this time, I note—I feel the weight of stares from crew members we pass. They know something's different about me, even if they don't know exactly what.

  "They're afraid of me," I murmur to Voss.

  "They're afraid of what you represent," she corrects. "The unknown. Change. Evolution, maybe." She glances at me. "Fear is a natural response to all of those things."

  We reach a different section of the ship, where the corridors are wider and the doors spaced further apart. Voss stops at one, pressing her palm to the security scanner.

  "These are officer quarters," she explains as the door slides open. "More comfortable than where you spent last night, and with privacy controls you can actually access."

  She's right. The room is nearly three times the size of my previous cabin, with separate sleeping and living areas, a proper bathroom, and even a small desk with a terminal.

  "The terminal has limited functionality," Voss explains, anticipating my question. "Information access only, no communication capabilities. Security protocol."

  I nod, understanding. They're still not entirely trusting me, which is fair given what just happened.

  "Thank you," I say, genuinely appreciative of the upgrade. "For this, and for standing up for me with the Admiral."

  Voss's expression softens slightly. "Don't thank me yet. The training you're about to begin isn't pleasant. Developing control over empathic abilities is like learning to use muscles you never knew you had—painful, exhausting, and frustratingly slow."

  "You sound like you know from experience."

  She doesn't answer directly, but I feel a flicker of something from her mind—a carefully guarded memory, edges blurred with old pain.

  "Rest for an hour," she says instead. "I'll return with the initial training materials and we'll begin." She moves to leave, then pauses at the door. "And Andrew? Try not to touch any minds while I'm gone. The fewer people who know exactly what you can do, the safer you'll be."

  The door closes behind her, leaving me alone with that ominous warning and the constant pressure in my mind, still seeking, still reaching for something I can't identify.

  I explore the quarters briefly, grateful for the sense of space after the confines of the Nexari cell and the previous cabin. The bathroom has actual water allowance for a shower, a luxury on a military vessel. Clean clothes that look less like prison fatigues and more like standard civilian attire wait in a small closet.

  After washing up and changing, I sit at the terminal, curious about what information I'm allowed to access. The interface responds to my touch, displaying a menu of options: ship schematics (limited), historical archives, scientific databases, and entertainment modules.

  I select the scientific databases, searching for anything related to the Nexari or human empathic abilities. Most of the results are restricted, requiring security clearances I don't have, but I find enough general information to piece together some context.

  The cold war with the Nexari has been ongoing for nearly seventy years, since humanity first expanded into their adjacent territory. Unlike us, they never developed faster-than-light travel on their own, instead focusing on biological and neural technology that made their home systems virtually impregnable.

  When humans arrived with FTL capabilities, the Nexari didn't respond with hostility at first. They were curious, studious, methodical in their approach to the new species that had suddenly appeared at their borders. It was only when they began assimilating human explorers and colonists into their hive mind that relations deteriorated.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  From the Nexari perspective, assimilation was an honor—the highest form of acceptance, bringing individuals into their unified consciousness. From the human perspective, it was a horrifying violation, erasing individual identity and autonomy.

  The conflict that followed never quite escalated to full-scale war. The Nexari, despite their biological advantages, couldn't match humanity's faster ships and more advanced weapons. Humans, despite their military edge, couldn't penetrate deep into Nexari territory without risking assimilation.

  So the boundaries calcified, the occasional skirmish or incident maintaining the state of tension without triggering all-out conflict. Until now.

  I switch to searching for information about empathic abilities in humans. Here, the information is even more limited, but I find references to research conducted in the early days of space exploration. Studies on twins separated by vast distances who somehow maintained emotional connections. Experiments with meditation techniques that seemed to enhance sensitivity to others' emotional states.

  Nothing, however, that explains what I experienced in the briefing room—the ability to not just sense emotions but to influence physical actions through mental connection.

  A soft chime at the door interrupts my research. "Enter," I call out, closing the terminal screen.

  Voss returns, carrying a small case and what looks like a headset of some kind. "Ready to begin?" she asks, setting the items on the desk.

  "Do I have a choice?" I respond, only half-joking.

  "There's always a choice," she says seriously. "But not all choices are equal. You can learn to control these abilities, or they will eventually control you—and potentially harm others in the process."

  Put that way, it's not much of a choice at all. I sit up straighter, giving her my full attention. "Where do we start?"

  She opens the case, revealing what looks like medical monitoring equipment. "First, we establish a baseline. Then we work on containment—building mental shields to keep your abilities from affecting others unconsciously." She attaches small sensors to my temples and wrists. "After that, we'll move to controlled projection—learning to extend your influence deliberately and precisely."

  "And you know how to teach this because...?" I prompt, still curious about her apparent familiarity with empathic abilities.

  Voss hesitates, then seems to come to a decision. "Because I went through similar training myself, seventeen years ago." She taps the scar that runs from her temple to her jaw. "I'm one of the seventeen who resisted assimilation."

  The revelation stuns me into momentary silence. Suddenly her advocacy makes more sense, as does the Admiral's willingness to put her in charge of my training.

  "You can do what I did? Influence people's actions?" I ask.

  She shakes her head. "No. Each of us developed different abilities after exposure. Mine is more limited—I can sense deception, experience another's emotions if I'm in physical contact with them. Nothing like what you demonstrated." There's no envy in her voice, only professional assessment. "The scientists have theories about why the manifestations vary so widely, but no definitive answers."

  "So I'm even more of an anomaly," I mutter.

  "In some ways," she agrees. "But that's why this training is so important. The more powerful the ability, the more critical the control."

  She activates the monitoring equipment, which hums softly as it begins recording my neural activity. Then she hands me the headset.

  "This is a neural dampener," she explains. "Originally developed to protect high-value targets from Nexari assimilation attempts. It creates a feedback loop in your own brain, making it harder to extend your consciousness beyond your physical body."

  I eye the device skeptically. "Sounds unpleasant."

  "It is," she confirms bluntly. "Especially at first. Like wearing shoes that are too tight, but for your mind. But it's the fastest way to develop mental boundaries."

  Reluctantly, I put on the headset. The effect is immediate and deeply uncomfortable—like suddenly being wrapped in heavy blankets, my senses muffled, the constant pressure in my mind compressed into a tight knot at the center of my consciousness.

  "Breathe through it," Voss instructs, watching the readings on her monitoring device. "Focus on the sensation of confinement. Memorize it. This is what a properly shielded mind feels like."

  I struggle to follow her instructions, fighting the instinctive panic that comes with the constriction. "How long do I have to wear this?"

  "Until you can recreate the effect without the device," she says. "For most, that takes several days of practice. But you seem to adapt quickly."

  The next hour passes in a haze of discomfort and concentration. Voss guides me through exercises to identify the boundaries of my own consciousness, to recognize the difference between internal thoughts and external influences. It's exhausting in a way I've never experienced before—not physical fatigue, but a bone-deep mental weariness.

  Finally, she removes the headset, and I gasp with relief as the pressure expands outward again, my awareness flowing back to its natural state.

  "Good work," she says, checking the readings one last time before packing away the equipment. "We'll continue tomorrow. In the meantime, try to maintain awareness of your mental boundaries. If you feel yourself unintentionally connecting with others, use the visualization technique we practiced."

  I nod, too drained to speak. The visualization—imagining my consciousness as light contained within a glass sphere—seems simplistic, but it had helped while wearing the dampener.

  "Get some rest," Voss advises, moving toward the door. "We arrive at Outpost Helios in ten hours. Things will move quickly after that."

  "Lieutenant," I call out as she reaches the door. "The Admiral... he's not telling us everything, is he? About why I'm so important to Border Command."

  She pauses, then turns back to face me. "No," she says finally. "He's not. But neither am I in a position to share what I know." Her expression is carefully neutral, but I can sense her internal conflict. "Some questions are better answered when you're more prepared for the implications."

  With that cryptic statement, she leaves, the door sliding shut behind her.

  I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as I had the night before. The training has left me mentally exhausted but physically restless. And beneath it all, that constant seeking pressure in my mind, temporarily dampened by the training but already reasserting itself.

  What am I becoming? What did the Nexari unlock in me? And why does Border Command seem both prepared for and deeply concerned about these changes?

  As I drift toward uneasy sleep, the pressure finds focus again, stretching outward through the ship. This time, I don't fight it, too tired to maintain the visualized containment. I let my consciousness expand, brushing lightly against the minds around me.

  Crew members going about their duties. Security personnel at their posts. Scientists reviewing data. Voss in her own quarters, thinking about me with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

  And somewhere, distant but growing clearer, a response to my unconscious seeking. A mind that feels... familiar. Connected. Similar to my own in ways I can't articulate.

  I jolt fully awake, the contact breaking as my concentration shatters. That wasn't just sensing emotions or thoughts. That was something else entirely—like finding an echo of myself elsewhere on the ship.

  But who? And why do they feel familiar when I've never met anyone aboard before yesterday?

  The questions swirl in my mind as fatigue pulls me back toward sleep. Tomorrow at Outpost Helios, I might finally get some answers—though I'm increasingly uncertain whether I'll like what I discover.