Page 6 of Alien Healer's Touch

By late afternoon, my back ached from bending over beds, my throat parched, but something nagged at me—a connection I couldn't quite grasp.

"I need access to my notes," I told Hammond.

"What notes?" Suspicion flared instantly.

"Medical records I've compiled from oral histories." I kept my tone professional. "Some symptoms seem familiar."

Hammond crossed his arms. "Familiar how?"

I chose my words with care. "Similar to historical cases documented in Nyxari medical history."

"So they've seen this before." His eyes narrowed. "Convenient."

"Knowledge isn't conspiracy, Commander." I rubbed my temples. "If they've encountered this pathogen before, that information could save your people."

Even as we argued, fragments connected in my mind—Kavan showing me ancient records on vashkai tablets, reading a passage with mentions of a sickness with similar traits... blue markings, fever... could it be related?

“The symptoms... they remind me of something in the records,” I murmured, trying to place the fleeting connection. “Could it be…?”

"What did you say?" Hammond demanded.

I looked up. "I need to see your food supplies. Anything harvested recently."

"This isn't about food."

"It might be exactly about food." I straightened with renewed focus. "Do you really know exactly how everything interacts with humans here? If it affected the Nyxari, it may well have affected us as well."

For the first time, Hammond appeared interested rather than suspicious. "And they survived it?"

"Some did." I didn't soften the truth. "With proper treatment."

His jaw worked as he considered this. After a long moment, he turned to a guard. "Take Dr. Carter to storage. Full access."

The storage units confirmed my suspicion. A recent foraging expedition had brought back several varieties of mushroom-like growths from the western forest. They appeared harmless—pale, umbrella-shaped caps with delicate stems—but I recognized them from Kavan's botanical drawings.

"These need to be destroyed," I told Hammond when he joined me. "All of them."

"They've been part of our diet for weeks without issue."

"There are Nyxari records of fungi causing delayed symptoms—they called them 'ghost dreams," I explained, hoping my hunch was right. "If this is similar, the toxin could accumulate gradually. It's the only lead matching the symptoms and the historical accounts."

Hammond ordered the fungi destroyed, but his suspicion lingered. As we returned to the medical facility, he questioned how I'd recognized the source, how convenient it was that the Nyxari possessed this knowledge.

As we passed a secured building with armed guards, I overheard one murmur, "The marked woman in isolation keeps asking for more water."

I stopped abruptly. "Claire?"

Hammond's head snapped toward me. "That's classified security protocol, Doctor. Focus on your assignment."

"Any patient falls under my medical responsibility," I countered.

"Your responsibility extends only to those currently in the medical ward," Hammond replied coldly. "Nothing more."

I wanted to press further but knew it would only strengthen his resistance. Instead, I channeled my energy into developing treatment based on Kavan's records.

Hours blurred together. The blue tincture reduced fevers, but addressing the neurological symptoms proved challenging. I combined Nyxari knowledge with our medical science, pushing myself as patients continued deteriorating around me.

By evening, exhaustion dragged at my limbs. I sat alone at a makeshift desk, studying cellular samples when Hammond approached. The ward had quieted—not from improvement, but because many patients had slipped into unconsciousness.

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