The crystalline towers of Station Epsilon pierced the amber clouds of Kepler-442b like frozen lightning. Maya pressed her palm against the observation deck’s bio-glass, watching the harvest ships return from the memory fields below. Each vessel’s hull shimmered with captured recollections—first kisses stolen from the native Keplerian moths, childhood laughter siphoned from the singing crystals, decades of grief extracted from the weeping stones.
“Another successful run,” Captain Torres announced, his voice cutting through the hum of the station’s atmospheric processors. “The Earth colonies are paying premium rates for authentic alien emotions this quarter.”
Maya’s stomach churned. She’d signed up for xenobiology research, not memory trafficking. The Keplerians had evolved beyond physical form centuries ago, existing as pure consciousness within their planet’s mineral network. Humans had discovered they could harvest these crystallized thoughts and sell them to Earth’s privileged classes—wealthy individuals who collected exotic experiences like vintage wines.
“Dr. Chen, you look troubled,” Torres observed, studying her reflection in the bio-glass.
“The extraction process is killing them,” Maya said quietly. “Each harvest weakens their collective consciousness. We’re committing genocide for nostalgia.”
Torres laughed, a sound like breaking ceramic. “Genocide requires killing people, Doctor. These are just… atmospheric phenomena. Curiosities.”
That night, Maya descended to the planet’s surface in a maintenance pod, violating every protocol. The Keplerian landscape pulsed with bioluminescent veins, and she could hear them—thousands of voices singing in harmonics that bypassed her ears and resonated directly in her bones. They were mourning their stolen memories, she realized. Each harvested thought left holes in their collective identity.
She knelt beside a cluster of memory crystals, their surfaces swirling with captured dreams. As her gloved fingers made contact, visions flooded her mind: the birth of Keplerian civilization, their evolution beyond flesh, their desperate attempts to hide their most precious memories from the human thieves.
“Help us,” the voices whispered through the crystal network. “You understand what they do not—that memory is not commodity, but soul.”
Maya knew what she had to do. She activated her portable transmitter, broadcasting everything she’d seen to Earth’s networks. The footage would spark outrage, investigations, maybe even war crimes tribunals. Station Epsilon would be shut down within months.
As security alarms shrieked across the surface, Maya smiled. Some thefts deserved to be stopped, even if it meant becoming a thief herself—stealing truth from those who traded in stolen souls.
The Keplerians’ song grew stronger around her, no longer mourning but celebrating, as if they knew their memories would finally be safe.
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