Early morning at the Wormhole Study Headquarters. Cheddar, Phoebe, and Wilder were focused, methodically filling out questionnaires and drafting an open letter to Dr. Brans. Their team had finally taken the shape of a true expeditionary corps.
The roster was official. Anna: Coordinator. Capable of navigating the ship with surgical precision even if the primary systems failed. Cheddar: Scientific Lead. A wormhole specialist and the group's primary advisor. Gabriel: Pilot and Videographer. Tasked with capturing every moment of their triumph. Sam: General Laborer. The bedrock upon which their daily survival rested. Phoebe: Researcher. Her depp curiosity will help her uncover the planet's deepest mysteries. Wilder: Captain. Just cap. The minimum threshold for departure had finally been crossed. The Letter to Dr. Brans:
"Dear Doctor Brans,
We are your long-time followers. It is with great enthusiasm that we inform you of our complete agreement with your theories. We are ready to prove the validity of your work through practical application. Our tactical plan includes:
1.Big repair and modernezation for Main CP-01, which is not ready for long trips now.
2. Getting food, gear, special tools, and powerful explosives.
3. A detailed study of the space area around the wormhole.
4. Decoding and checking any things we find.
5. Blowing up the wormhole. We believe there is a 'clog' inside blocking the way.
6. Setting up a research signal.
7. A second, aimed explosion to fix the path.
8. A final check of the results and starting the trip.
Our team has serious workers, and your followers will support us.
"Waidy, this is just straight-up space-fantasy!" Phoebe was practically glowing; it looked as if sparks were about to fly from her head any second. "You became our friend, and bam! You get a ship. Then, double bam! The universe tosses us a chance to study these wormholes. Gabriel is a god at the helm and a pro with the camera. This isn't just a coincidence; this is Destiny with a capital D."
"I wouldn't jump to conclusions, Phoebe. We need to secure permission first," Cheddar said, remaining guarded as he studied his tablet screen.
"Oh, come on, Cheddar! Turn off your inner grump," she snorted playfully. "Our resume is so cool they should frame it behind glass. We're getting this contract, I can feel it in my elbows!"
"I also express hope that our labor-expenditure will not prove futile," Wilder interjected. "Based on my comparative analysis of the requirements, we completed the questionnaire with the maximum possible coefficient of accuracy. The probability of a favorable outcome is seventy-five percent higher than the median average."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far..." Veteran began.
"Exactly! Cheddar, don't even think about being the 'modest genius'! You put more huge ideas into this letter than the rest of us together. This isn't just text; it's full of your smart ideas in every single line!"
"No, I was trying to say I agree with Wilder's statement," Cheddar said. "Actually, I would lower our chances to twenty-five percent."
"Don't listen to him, Waidy!" Phoebe angrily crossed her arms and looked unhappy. "He's in 'eternal-negativity' mode today. A real little rain cloud in a party hat!"
"Alright, Phoebe..." Wilder started.
"See? Look!" She smiled instantly, turning back to Wilder. "At least someone here knows we're future legends!"
"Using many factors for analysis, our chances are not stable — fifty-fifty," Wilder continued. "This is not a choice between 'good' or 'bad,' but a fact of uncertainty. On one side, we have the perfect structure of the letter; on the other, Cheddar's personal doubts. Since he is a consultant, I thought he had hidden information. So, I first chose his sad forecast of twenty-five percent..."
"Cheddar, what did you do?!" Phoebe turned toward the Veteran angrily.
"Me? What did I do?!" Cheddar raised his hands in surprise.
"However, because I have labeled our relationship, Phoebe, as a 'friendship,' and considering Cheddar's habit of expecting the worst... I have decided to change my calculations. I accept your idea. So, we stay at the fifty-percent mark. It is a balance between dry data and the need for the team to stay together."
"Oh, Wilder..." Phoebe breathed out in relief.
Wilder walked through a new city. The sun was slowly going down behind tall buildings of strange, scary shapes. Some walls were hidden behind huge pictures — just like on his home planet. Maybe cracks were on those walls, too. The noise of cars was too loud. Wilder wanted to cover his ears, but then someone held his hand tightly. A young alien or man... Wilder didn't have time to understand who it was before the stranger kissed him, using his teeth in a strange rhythm on lips. It was a nice pain — light bites that made his head spin. Wilder held the stranger tightly, like they might fall through the wall into another world. He felt the soft body and the strong muscles under the skin. Suddenly, a bright light blinded him; a hot wind blew, and the city disappeared. They were in the wild. Surrounded by real, living green.
"Will you come, Wilder?" the stranger whispered.
"Where...?"
With that question, Wilder woke up.
"To the wormhole..." he said to the empty room.
"Good morning, Wilder! You have a visitor," his mother called from the living room.
A few times later in living room.
"You have a friend here! Why didn't you tell us?" his mother asked, smiling. "But then again... he never tells us anything. He had friends in school after all, and I was so worried. I remember the day Bucks came here... he asked how you were."
"Bucks came here?" Wilder froze. His blood turned to ice. "When?"
"He asked me not to tell you. I thought he told you later. It was that day... when you stayed in your room for a week and didn't go to school. Back then, we really gave him a piece of our mind. But in the end, it helped bring Wilder into line and teach him some discipline."
"Is that when he had a broken nose when fall in hall?" Phoebe asked, her ears moving with interest.
"Oh, he only talks about those things with friends," his mother sighed. "George was right. He told me not to bother our son with questions and let him solve things alone. Why don't you sit and have breakfast with us?"
Wilder moved slowly to the table on heavy legs, staring at his parents. He wondered how many more secrets they were keeping. And why had Bucks actually come? They truly believed he was their son's only friend. The terrible breakfast wouldn't go down. Wilder desperately processed the data: hunger reduces already weakened mental abilities by three points. And first impressions account for forty percent of success. If you win them over in the first minute, no one notices the later friction. It was like curling: the final position of the stone depends entirely on the initial force and vector of the throw. The stone might not stay in the "house" until the end of the game, but that first impulse decides everything. He had to be at his peak today... In his best form.
Today was the day they submitted the expedition sponsorship papers. Wilder forced the dry, fake breakfast into his mouth, watching as Phoebe excitedly explained their club and the help Wilder had made. His parents listened with a sort of polite, careful worry.
"It's so wonderful that Wilder has friends like you, Phoebe," his father said. "Has he told you yet that he snatched up a 'golden ticket' and will soon be starting his own company? I'd advise him to hire you as his PR manager."
"Oh! Do you also-also believe that we'll make everything-everything happen and become legends?!"
"Sorry?"
Father don't understand her excite reaction about logistic of armor like it's breakthrough. Phoebe's energy had just started to drop like an old battery under their sharp gazes yet, but she suddenly flared up again like a supernova. She even bounced in her seat.
"Oh yeah, this is just straight-up space-fantasy! We're definitely going to be the first ones who..."
"Who deliver weapons to our King!" Wilder cut in sharply.
"Weapons?" Phoebe froze, her mouth hanging open.
"Now, Wilder, you really should have trusted your close friends with that much," his mother gently scolded.
"So, what exactly did he promise to haul for you then?" his father asked, squinting. He was clearly interested to see his son learning how to manipulate information.
"Uh... I mean, standard cargo!" Phoebe instantly flipped a switch on her face, adopting the look of a very important and very busy strategist. "Pure routine, nothing unusual! First, we'll pick up some stinky—I mean, super-important waste from the oxygen plant."
Wilder sat in a trance, ready to burst into a scream at any second, but his friend had quickly caught on to the situation and the toxic family dynamics at play.
"Wilder, is your crew in the loop?" his mother asked.
"No, I deemed it useful to employ a 'narrative delay' technique so they might fully appreciate the significance of this stage," Wilder muttered. "I've already conducted a mental simulation of their reactions: they will return in a state of deep physical exhaustion, and the sudden provision of positive data will trigger a maximal emotional spike. It is best understood when contrasted with fatigue."
"Oh, thanks for the heads-up," his father said, gesturing that his lips were sealed. "I'm actually meeting Anna today and wanted to discuss the contract. Fine, you tell them yourself. It will be a surprise for them."
Phoebe and Wilder headed into the city on the public monorail. Outside the windows, the usual sandstorm roared—the same constant strong wind that had long ago forced everyone who could afford it into orbital cars. Because of the eternal dust, life in the town didn't truly begin until the twentieth floor. Everything below that level had turned into gray concrete canyons, filled with layers of fine dust and forgotten machinery. During the ride, they discussed that difficult breakfast. Wilder assured his friend that he would never, under any circumstances, agree to transport weaponry. His reasons were two-fold: first, for the sake of their shared dream of discovery; second, because of the moral weight of the issue—Bucks was in the Starship Trooper. The thought of why that "soulless machine" had even come to his house in the first place continued to bother Wilder's peace of mind.
They arrived in the downtown, the beating heart of their state. The political structure here was a maze of competing interests, but none of that mattered to them now. They stood before the grand headquarters of Brans Incorporated.
In the lobby, after learning the rules at the reception desk, they headed up to the waiting area outside the chief's office. There weren't many alien. Phoebe and Wilder took seats next to a strange-looking alien. The ancient air conditioner was clearly failing to cool the thick, hot air, and the stranger was nervously fanning his face with a thick stack of documents, trying to create even a faint hint of a breeze. Phoebe, noticing Wilder starting to pull at the hem of his t-shirt, leaned in close to encourage him.
"Wilder, pssst! Listen to me: you're going to grind them all into dust!" Phoebe whispered, her warm breath likely tickling his ear. "First off, look around—the competition is basically non-existent; we won't even notice them. And I'm ready to bet anything that not a single one of them has a mega-brainy background like yours. You're our walking space-wiki! Here, look at that wonderful little alien in sitting next to us… His stack of papers is so tiny, it looks like he's signing up for a knitting circle, not an expedition!"
At that moment, the strange stranger tucked a sheet into his folder. Phoebe turned red and stopped.
"Oh..." her smile froze for a second, her eyes going wide. "Oops. Cancel the 'knitting.' Turns out he's got a whole brick in there... that folder is three times thicker than ours!"
"What? Yo! Did you seriously think, alien, that I'd carry all my documents here instead of sending them through a secure channel?" The stranger snorted, waving his folder. "These are... Yo! Just notes for the presentation. My main package is five archival boxes. Do I look like a freighter pilot who carries that kind of weight on his back?"
"Esteemed sir... ahem... could you perhaps explain to me the algorithm of your success?" Wilder asked, his curiosity raised. "I am extremely interested in which specific items are included in your document checklist. I'm trying to compare your strategy with the theoretical models I'm familiar with."
"Well... Yo! It's full telemetry, ships specification..."
"Ships?" Wilder froze, catching the grammatical nuance. "Forgive me, you used the plural noun. Was that accidental verbal redundancy, or do you truly operate an entire fleet?"
"Well, yo 'lien. What kind of idiot goes into a wormhole with a single bucket of bolts?" He looked over the pair mockingly. "Though that moron from Vector-Group listed 'Main CP-12' in his roster. Ha! Unless he's planning to use it as a space toilet, I don't even know why that junk is in the expedition."
Wilder felt everything inside him turn to ice. His Main CP-01 was older than the "Twelve" by a good twenty years.
"That is... remarkably educational." Wilder swallowed hard, trying to fight the sudden dryness in his throat. "Does that mean your documentation is one hundred percent complete? Including those 'secret conditions' for securing the grant? Some articles call them 'mythical,' but you seem to have found a way to turn them into a real advantage."
"What secret conditions? It's just standard rules. Here, look, if you know how to read..."
Wilder and Phoebe couldn't help but start comparing their crew to this strange guy's team. The roster was scary: a Professor of Cosmology, a cartographer, a scientist specializing in wormholes, a demolitionist who was ex-special forces, an engineer, and even a decorated videographer from Living Eye magazine, whose exhibitions had once been the talk of the City Hall in capital of state.
"Waidy, listen to me! This is just... well, you know, one of those important life lessons about how the first step is always the thorniest!" Phoebe tried to force a smile, though her eyes were moving quickly as if searching for an emergency exit. "You'll see! In the future, when you're literally drowning in money, like a king in his counting house, you'll look back on this day with a killer smirk. Like: 'Ha! And to think this once felt like just a stupid dream...' But we know we're the real deal!"
"Phoebe, I've detected a certain ambiguity in your words. How exactly should I interpret that statement?" Wilder asked, looking at her with suspicion.
"You have to be an optimist, that's what I'm telling you! Optimism is our fuel; without it, we're just stuck on the cosmic shoulder. But... whew... now I finally get why Cheddar only gave us a twenty-five percent chance." Phoebe froze for a second, something clearly clicking into place in her mind. "By the way, Wilder! It just hit me why that sly fox didn't come with us... He just didn't want to be around when they dumped this bucket of cold reality over our heads!"
At that moment, the commission began its session. Massive doors swung open, and serious-looking alien with briefcases began entering the hall in a line.
"Oh yo! Things are heating up now. The suits from the global companies have arrived," their strange neighbor grunted. "Yo! After that mess with the arms delivery patents and all that junk, at least we've got a ghost of a chance for a trip."
"In what specific plane did these difficulties arise?" Wilder asked, surprised. "I reviewed your resume carefully, and it possesses phenomenal precision and data integrity. From a logical standpoint, you are the ideal candidate; I see no reason for doubt."
"From where, yo boy?!" The stranger gave a joyless laugh. "Doctor Brans yo! Turned me down once already. And back then, I had a better team, to be honest. Brans is a moody old alien; that's why there haven't been any expeditions for so long."
"'Better'? You must understand, that word carries no measurable information. If you consider the current option merely 'acceptable,' what specific success metrics are you basing your current calculation on?"
"Yo boy! I'm just looking to get noticed by the corporates and get a piece of the..."
He didn't get to finish. The attention of everyone in the room shifted to the alien entering the hall. In suits. They weren't just lawyers; behind them in the doorway appeared one of the most famous businessaliens in the system, accompanied by his daughter. They walked with their heads held high, looking right over the "talentless pack" of applicants who had come to beg for scraps. These two knew exactly what they were there for.