Koen slapped a Quotidian "fish" down on his cutting board and examined it.

It had been a long day. The still-curtained windows of the kitchen/cafeteria were red with sunset light, but Koen had drunk another cup of coffee. He would pay for it later with difficulty sleeping, but for now he could make dinner. He unrolled his knife case.

The shopping trip had been strange, shameful, and from a romantic point of view, a failure. But now Koen had something worth cutting up.

The fish was about the same size as the Quotidian male, but the smell was distinctly fishy. Why would that be? Ocean salts?1 And how distantly was this thing related to Quotidians? Was there a species in the Convention that was closer?2

Koen had spent an awkward and brooding ride home distracting himself with theories about the anatomy of giant rotifers. Now, Koen cut a circle around knobbly bulb where the fins joined the head. They separated just as he thought they would. They came free easily, bringing with them a set of nested jaws and flanged muscle-attachments.

The rest of the head and abdomen he put into a roasting pan with vinegar to remove the smelly osmoregulatory proteins. Perhaps he could use the giblets for broth, but for now he would concentrate on the muscular fins. These he decided he would fry.

"No good," came Laura's voice.

Koen put down his knife and looked around. Still twitchy from his unwisely-drunk coffee, he was ready to be angry at Laura if she insulted his fish.

"The Pick won't return my call." Laura leaned against the counter and sighed.

Koen redirected his potential annoyance and put his gall-smeared hands on his hips. "I'll go back to Twine tomorrow and get more information out of her."

Laura could tell Koen was trying to impress her, and this had the opposite effect.

"You don't have a translator any more," she pointed out.

What Koen felt deep down was that he needed to prove himself as a provider, but what he said was, "At least we got some good fish. I think they'll fry very well."

Laura wasn't hungry, and was considering whether she wanted to start a fight by saying so, when Mark walked in.

"Hey, how're y'all doing?" he said. "Back from your first trip to the Zogreion? Crazy place, huh?" He walked to the refrigerator in the corner of the cafeteria and reached into it for an energy drink.

"Too crazy, I guess," said Koen.

Mark heard the resentment in the cook's voice. The date, it seemed, had not gone well. He considered the potential uses of that information as he opened his can.

Koen had been frowning at Laura, but now his look turned to horror. "You're drinking that now?"

Mark swung the half-empty can like a bell. "Got work to do. Busy busy."

"Those things will give you a heart attack." Koen's hand came up to his chest, and he pressed his fingers against his ribs. The coffee! he thought. The coffee I drank.

Mark cocked an eyebrow. Now, this was interesting. "Why are you so worried?" he asked.

"We've had a difficult day," Laura said.

Koen put his hands on the counter opposite her. "How many of those things do you drink a day?"

"Uh, as many as I need? Usually one in the evening like this and one in the morning."

"Well, I cook for the whole embassy. There will be breakfast in the cafeteria every morning," Koen promised.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Mark's super power tingled. "You worried about my health?"

"Yes," Koen grimaced at Mark's can of caffeine and aspartame. "That stuff will give you a heart attack."

Koen was not conscious of the tightness that came over his body at the word "heart attack." Laura was used to it, and didn't notice either. Mark, however, did. And this was the second time Koen had said that. Mark filed away his suspicions.

"It's a good thing you're here, to tell me that," he said, patting his own chest. "Now, tell me how your shopping trip went. Got some fish, huh?"

Koen's expression slumped yet further. "It was somewhat a failure. We will have to deliver, but I don't know who from. Laura called someone but…" He shook his head, feeling exhausted. Suddenly, the thought of going into his room and hiding there didn't seem so bad.

"Called someone? You mean, called for help?" Mark hadn't heard news of anything like that.

"I called the Pick," Laura said. "Or tried to."

"The who? Oh, you mean nonhumans? The Pick." Mark realized he had heard of that species. They'd snatched an opportunity from the UN at the last Convention meeting. "They're a big species," he said.

"Big dinosaurs, apparently," said Koen. "Allied to the Tensors. I haven't had time to look them up."

"They wouldn't return my call," said Laura, but the idea was already occurring to her. The words call, dinosaurs, and Tensors rearranged themselves in her head.

Mark saw the thought forming and stated it.

"But you know a Tensor who would, right? It gave you its business card."

Laura and Koen looked at each other in sudden elation, and Mark saluted them with his energy drink. "Glad to help."

***

Mark and (after he'd washed his hands and put the fish back on ice) Koen followed Laura to her suite. One of them paced and drank from his can, while the other peered around a little guiltily.

"It looks like my suite," Koen said, "except for the filing cabinets."

Laura's organization system was extremely efficient. She found the folder containing the jewelry box containing the Tensor's "business card" and held it up triumphantly.

The "card" was a crystal of quartz the size of a chickpea, with inclusions of titanium and carbon. When Laura rotated the it between thumb and forefinger, the tiny flecks of black and white moved in and out of alignment. Viewed from the right perspective, they formed an intricate and beautiful pattern of concentric circles, like ripples in a pond.

"Is that a QR code?" Koen asked.

Laura understood what he meant and held the crystal up to her translator. It flickered with brief laser light.

"This is the business card of…"

Names are always hard for translators, but Laura's did its best.

"…Arch-beacon Carbonate-and-Clay, of the Hydrated Carbonate-and-Clays, 413 million kilometers and 17.9 kilometers per second."

"Uh," said Mark, "let's call him Arch-beacon Clay?"

"Confirmed," said his translator.

"Is he some kind of priest?" asked Koen.

"No, I think he's a dentist."

The bug clicked. Clicked again. "Arch-beacon Clay is currently out of this universe and unavailable for synchronous communication. Do you wish to leave a message?"

"Yes. Hello, this is Zhang Hongxia, Public Relations Secretary for the United Nations embassy," said Laura, as both Mark and Koen tried to speak over her.

"Ask if it can put us in touch with the Adventurians," said Mark.

"Can it tell the Pick that we want to buy their food?" asked Koen. He turned to Mark. "A line of fresh ingredients! You'll never have to drink that garbage again."

Mark smiled and nodded back. "All right, all right. You got me." He looked down at the can still in his hand and bit the inside of his cheek. He would have to drink these things in secret now. Or else find some other way to punish himself.

Laura waved her hands at them, glaring. "We have a business proposition concerning, uh, a tender for nutrition consignments that we would like to discuss with the embassy of the, uh, the Pick…" She snapped her fingers at Mark.

His eyes went wide as he searched his memory. "The Pick that Administers Direction."

"The Pick that Administers Direction. This could be a lucrative and culturally important deal. Thank you in advance for your help. I would love to talk more at your earlier convenience."

1 Tangentially, yes. The smell is caused by osmoregulation proteins stored in the cells of ocean animals to prevent the water inside from rushing to join the salt water outside. See Lowe, Chris et al. (2005). Evidence that the rotifer Brachionus plicatilis is not an osmoconformer. Mar Biol.

2 Yes. Several.