Chapter IV

Silence. The cold, pink crystal cave reflects the suns and it’s tough to see the entrance through the blinding shine. Neop pulls forward, deeper and deeper into the hall of mirrors away from Longsuffering and the landing party. She feels her blood pulse in her ears and her eyes dart back and fort. She creeps forward for what seems like hours, turning every corner with a jolt. She remembers her training: scan, breath, listen, sense. Finally, a sound. A muffled clenching, animalistic and wild. Neop freezes, her eyes widening. PHL3 is near. 

A mauve silhouette comes into focus through the crystal walls. Neop freezes, her eyes dilate as she gradually realizes the form just feet away. She braces her phaser low. Any movement and I shoot. The form speaks: “You don’t surprise me.” Silence. Neop shifts her weight to her right, bracing to react. A crystal shifts underfoot with a high-pitched ping. 

“Who are you?” says Neop, wanting to confirm the obvious.

“That’s cute. Did he tell you to say that? To play surprised?” The silhouette’s androit arm raises, becoming darker as it nears the transparent barrier between them. The sound it makes echoes unnatural through the chamber. PHL3 sounds tepid, rusty and misaligned. Her repeated words indicate a short circuit. Neop has never seen a promethean so derelict. 

“I’m from the Syndicate,” says Neop. “I’m on leave from the Troi system. And you are?” 

“And I’m from Baska, the beachy cabana country, land flowing with milk and honey, and I come here for the culture--of course I’m from the Syndicate.”

Neop keeps her cool. The shadow continues: “Perhaps you’ve heard my name. Likely in fleeting confusion. Embarrassment.” Neop still can’t see the figure clearly, but its resentment is as thick in the air as ship oil. “I am wretched. Alone, scavenging for scraps here on this abhorrent planet. You know, I used to be like you. A soldier on a ship to Troi. My name is PHL3.”