Page 15 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol. 1
But I know better.
And as long as Prianka suspects nothing, I’ll keep playing along. She must never know what it really costs me.
“I’m really disappointed you’re not joining us,” Henri says with a theatrical sigh. “I would’ve made sure you weren’t alone—and that you had a wonderful evening with us.”
Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second. I’ve seen how much he enjoys putting on a show—how he loves to be seen as the kind, attentive man who goes out of his way for others. Walking around the base with my disabled sister on his arm only adds to his image: the humble, generous leader.
What a performance.
Now that I know him intimately, I’m no longer fooled by the polished exterior. Everything about him is calculated. But he’s not cruel. Just clever. Strategic. He’s chosen two women who serve his image well—me, the beautiful orphan he “rescued,” as he likes to remind me, and Prianka, the fragile sister who makes him look like a hero.
I can live with that. For her.
So I swallow my resentment and paste on a smile.
“Let’s go, Henri.” I turn to Prianka. “Get those videos ready for us—our future home! I’ll be back soon and bring you some of those treats you love. See you later, sweetheart.”
Chapter 5.
Pherebos, 5126 Polaris year.
I open the ship’s front panel and watch as the SIL approaches the BN-35 space base. I notify the Confederation that I’ve arrived—and that I’m not alone.
Ever since I brought Wingo aboard, I’ve changed course, leaving the slave market investigation to the agent assigned to it. My priority now is this little guy. He’s smart, and he’s lost in a universe where his people may be gone for good. Maybe I see something of myself in him. I lost my family in a massive disaster too. Maybe that’s why I care so much.
“Gnuffgnuff?” he asks, sending a wave of anxious images into my mind.
“Yeah, there’s nothing to worry about, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply, trying to sound reassuring.
I can feel the tension in him. He’s been on edge since this morning. I told him we’d be stopping at a base to register him as traveling with me and to check the archives for any trace of others like him. What I didn’t tell him is that I’m planning to request a universaltranslation implant for him—the same kind I received when I joined the Confederation.
No point stressing him out if the request gets denied.
Since he came aboard nearly twenty days ago, Wingo has proven himself to be incredibly intelligent and adaptable. He’s clever, and far more mature than I first assumed. Our “conversations” are frequent, though the language barrier still gets in the way. Even so, he’s already learned several words telepathically—Pherebos, hunger, sleep, shower, drink, play, SILMAR...
Vocally, though, I doubt he’ll ever say much more than his signature “Gnuffgnuff,” which he delivers with an impressive range of tones and emotions.
“Attention, docking imminent,” SILMAR announces.
The Confederation’s space bases are scattered across the galaxy. BN-35 is one of them—a massive structure floating in the void, equipped with a docking bridge for passing ships and a thin atmospheric layer maintained by powerful generators. The metallic surface gleams under distant starlight, and the low hum of the generators creates a constant background noise.
I don’t plan to stay long. A day at most. I’ve never liked these bases, even though I have to stop by regularly to restock supplies. This one’s a medical base, so I’ll take the opportunity to pick up some injectable doses while I’m here.
An hour later, we’re in the lab of Fanyoru, the base’s chief medical officer. He’s clearly skeptical about my request. He narrows his eyes as he studies Wingo andrepeats—three times—that these implants aren’t designed for animals. The only reason he’s even considering it is because I insisted Wingo is telepathic and could be a valuable asset to my mission.
As Fanyoru prepares the implant, I feel a mix of anxiety and hope. Wingo has already proven himself to be incredibly intelligent and adaptable. If this works, it could finally bridge the communication gap between us. And with everything ahead of us, I need every advantage I can get.
We both look down at Wingo’s small, sleeping form.
“Let me give you a quick reminder about this device,” Fanyoru says, his tone clinical but focused. “It’s a linguistic cerebral implant. A crucial tool for interspecies communication. With a base vocabulary of five hundred words, we can already establish basic understanding. But to truly master a language, you need around five thousand words. Most adults use about half of that in daily conversation.”
He adjusts the settings on the implant as he continues.
“The problem isn’t our capacity to speak—it’s our brain’s ability to analyze, catalog, and retain new vocabulary. That’s where the AI comes in. Within forty-eight hours, assuming there’s enough interaction or audio input, it can fully map a new language. Once that’s done, the implant handles the rest. If the language has already been mapped, comprehension is instant. If it’s new, the implant analyzes each word as it’s heard, links it to what we already know, and allows us to start understanding and speaking after about two thousandwords. It builds on what we’ve already identified or figured out ourselves.”
I nod slowly, watching Wingo breathe steadily. The stakes feel higher than ever.
“Wingo should be able to communicate with me pretty quickly,” I say. “I speak Asgarne when I’m alone on the SIL, and that language’s already mapped by the AI.”
