one
The waiting room of the Sanctuary Regional Hub smelled of antiseptic and fading hope. I sat with my back straight against the hard plastic chair, hands folded neatly over the small bag containing everything I’d decided to bring to my new life. The gleaming white walls and sterile lighting gave nothing away about what was to come, but the silence—broken only by the occasional electronic chime and the soft footfalls of officials—spoke volumes about the gravity of what happened here.
A woman to my left sobbed quietly into her hands. I refused to look at her.
I was determined not to second-guess myself, not after all the paperwork, the psych evals, the medical clearances, and the countless nights I’d lain awake wondering if I was making the right choice. Earth was dying—not with a bang, but with the slow, grinding inevitability of resource depletion, climate collapse, and social decay. The Sanctuary Initiative offered an alternative: interspecies unions with races from across the galaxy who needed genetic diversity, companions, or political alliances.
Some called it glorified trafficking. Others, salvation. I called it my only real option.
“Mira Kassim.” The voice was flat, efficient. I looked up to see a registry officiant standing at the threshold of a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. Her uniform was impeccably pressed, her expression professionally vacant. “Please follow me.”
I gripped my bag tighter and rose, feeling the stares of the others still waiting. Their eyes bore into my back as I walked—some envious, some pitying, all of them wondering what alien race I’d been matched with. Wondering if they’d ever see another human like me again.
The officiant led me down a corridor that seemed designed to disorient. Each turn looked identical to the last, the lighting never changing, the temperature carefully regulated to a perfect neutrality. Like being inside a machine.
“Your biometrics are good,” she said without looking back at me. Her heels clicked a precise rhythm against the polished floor. “Blood pressure slightly elevated, but within acceptable parameters. Cortisol levels typical for the situation.”
I didn’t respond. What was there to say? Of course my stress hormones were surging. I was about to be handed over to a being I’d never met, from a species I’d likely never even heard of before today.
“Here we are.” She stopped at a door indistinguishable from a dozen others we’d passed and pressed her palm against a scanner. “Counselor Patel will brief you on your match.”
The door slid open to reveal a small office that was a stark contrast to the sterile corridor. Plants grew in hanging baskets, colorful textiles covered the walls, and the desk was clutteredwith personal items—photographs, trinkets, what appeared to be alien artifacts.
A woman rose from behind the desk, her smile warm but noticeably strained around the edges. Dark circles underlined her eyes, and I counted three empty coffee cups on her desk.
“Mira, welcome! I’m Anjali Patel, your transition and cultural counselor.” She extended her hand, and I shook it automatically. Her grip was firm, reassuring. “Please, sit. We have a lot to cover, and not much time.”
I sank into the chair across from her desk. “Not much time?”
She nodded, tapping rapidly at her tablet. “Your match has been finalized—congratulations, by the way—and your groom is already en route.”
My stomach dropped. “Already? I thought there would be more... preparation. Time to adjust to the idea.”
Counselor Patel’s smile turned apologetic. “Normally, yes. But interstellar travel schedules can be unpredictable, and your match’s species places great value on prompt completion of ceremonial matters once initiated.” She tilted her head. “Are you having second thoughts? Because once the match is confirmed, the diplomatic implications of withdrawal become...complicated.”
I swallowed hard. “No. No second thoughts. I just expected more time.”
“Of course,” she said, though her relief was palpable. “Let me tell you what we know about your match.” She slid the tablet toward me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at it yet. “Thealgorithm gave your pairing a 94.2% compatibility rating, which is exceptional. One of the highest I’ve seen.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked. “How can an algorithm predict compatibility with someone from another planet? Another species?”
Counselor Patel leaned forward, and I could smell mint on her breath, likely from the gum I saw her discreetly spit into a wrapper. “The matching process is complex. It factors in psychological profiles, adaptability scores, genetic compatibility for potential offspring?—”
“Offspring?” I interrupted, my voice rising.
“Potential,” she emphasized. “If applicable. Not all matches are for reproductive purposes.” She consulted her tablet again. “Your match is primarily for diplomatic reasons. Your groom holds a significant position within his society.”
The registry officiant chose that moment to return, her face still a mask of professional detachment. “The arrival has been confirmed. Thirty-seven minutes.”
Counselor Patel’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s sooner than expected. We need to move quickly.” She turned back to me. “Mira, I know this is overwhelming, but I promise you’ve been thoroughly prepared for this. Your psychological evaluations indicate exceptional adaptability and resilience.”
I wanted to laugh. What did those clinical assessments know about how I’d react to actually meeting my alien husband?
“The registry has confirmed receipt of the bride-price,” the officiant said, handing Counselor Patel a document. “The funds have been distributed according to the applicant’s instructions.”
My throat tightened. The “bride-price” was a clinical term for what amounted to a massive financial transaction. Part went to Earth’s struggling governments, part to my family (though I had precious little family left), and part to a trust in my name—insurance against the possibility that things went wrong.
“Can you at least tell me what he looks like?” I asked, finally finding my voice again.
