And the years were longer here. Jesus. I look at Vektal with wide eyes. He’s looking at me curiously, impatience stamped on his features. I know he has questions, and my conversation with the computer is probably just giving him more of them.
But I still have more questions, so I’m selfish for a little longer. “How many of his people crashed here?”
“Log books record sixty-two passengers and one pilot. Many also died before accepting the symbiont.”
That catches my attention. “Symbiont?”
“The definition for ‘symbiont’ is an organism that lives in symbiosis with another organism.”
I’m starting to get creeped out. “Wait . . . Vektal has an . . . organism in him?”
“This planet has an element in its atmosphere that is toxic to human kind and also to sakh. It is a gas element similar to nitrogen that has not yet been discovered by humans as it does not exist in any form on Earth. Your body is not equipped to filter it out of the air. Once you reach toxic levels of the element, your body will slowly shut down. The sakh at your side exists in mutualistic symbiosis with a creature they refer to as a khui.”
“Khui,” Vektal says, suddenly speaking up. He asks the computer a question, and it immediately answers him. Then he nods and looks at me.
“I told him I am explaining to you how the khui functions in the atmosphere,” the computer tells me.
I rub my forehead. “I’m not understanding. So you have to have this khui thing inside you or . . . you die?”
“The khui enhances the body of its host and makes subtle changes in order to allow it to thrive in an otherwise hostile environment. Those who originally found themselves stranded on this planet lasted eight days without the symbiotic relationship.”
Eight days? All I have is eight freaking days? “M-modifies it?” I ask weakly. I feel sick. I either get a . . . parasite or I die?
“The khui modifies its host. Genetically modified khui-symbionts are altered to perform at lower temperatures and to filter the chemicals from the air that the body cannot process. It improves the host’s recovery from wounds and sickness, and it ensures procreation of viable offspring.”
Oh, God. So I get a cold-resistant tapeworm, or I get to die. “What if I get this khui thing for now and when I leave, have it removed? Can I do that?”
“Once implanted, the khui and host are dependent upon each other. The khui cannot exist outside of its host for longer than a few minutes, and the host will need a replacement khui in order to survive.”
And here I thought staying on Not-Hoth with my sexy barbarian was the better option than waiting for the little green men to come back. If I choose to stay here, I can’t ever leave again. It’ll just be me and my parasite . . . forever.
Ugh.
But if I don’t get the parasite, I only have days left to live. Not even a week, now. The green men must know that we humans can’t survive on this planet for long. That means that either they aren’t intending to pick us up again . . . or they’re going to be returning very, very shortly. I suck in a breath at that.
The odds are not looking good. I have to get the others out of there, and fast.
I want to ask the computer more questions, but the welfare of the others takes priority. One step at a time—we have to rescue the other women, and then we’ll figure out the khui thing. I turn to Vektal. “We need to talk.”
He touches my face, glowing blue eyes tender. “Sa-akh mevolo.”
“Shit. You’re not understanding me.” I turn to the computer. “Can you translate for me?”
“That is one of the functions of this unit,” it says in an amicable tone. “Would you like to learn the sakh dialect he is speaking?”
“You . . . you can teach me?”
“I can perform a one-time linguistic upload. Would you like to do this?”
“God, yes.” I want to be able to hold a real, honest-to-goodness conversation with Vektal. “Please.”
A small red circle appears in midair. “Please step closer to the marked location.” When I do, it gives me additional instructions. “I will perform a retinal scan. When I do, please do not blink or attempt to move. This can interfere with the transfer of information. It will be connected in three . . . two . . . one . . .”
A low hum starts. I freeze in place, trying not to blink as a red laser shines into my eyes.
“You may experience some discomfort as your brain processes the information,” the computer tells me, just before a rush of symbols crashes through my brain and my head feels like it explodes.