Pictured is a creature like an octagonal hatbox made of wood. Each face had a hole in the center covered by a transparent window, either for sight or to support photosynthesis in the interior. At the corners where the faces of the box come together, there are 12 limbs like horsetails, used either for locomotion or manipulation. Knobs and whiskers sprout from the edges. [https://64.media.tumblr.com/cbe3c99006ff8e4f37d4d28a895cf6e1/5cf414d3c2f8005f-81/s640x960/a08c4dc77332c2c9179391a7148a3cdc25823e8a.pnj]Picture by Timothy Morris

Dr. Tejaswini Kaliannan stood with his hands on his hips and rotated his head as if following the course of the sun.

Now tree pose. He pressed the flat of one foot to the other leg, just above the knee, his arms tracing downward arcs. Another pair of arcs, this time extending out in front as Kaliannan bent at the waist, reaching down to just about touch his toes. The backs of his legs burned. Too much sitting.

He'd started in his thirties as a way of social networking when he'd moved to Mumbai from Jakarta. Best for a Tamil man from a Muslim country to blend in. By now, it had become a habit. The day couldn't begin properly without the Discipline of the Body.

Dr. Kaliannan squatted, arms held out in front, hands down. And up. As one hand windmilled down to approach his big toe, the image came to him of scrubbing the inside of his skull. It was a smooth, nubbly surface, like the roof of the mouth, or the thick, wired glass window in the door of his first office. An oily residue tended to accumulate on the glass, and it was Kaliannan's pleasure every morning to clean it off. Often, the only positive impact he had in a given day.

The Embassy was tiny. Its medical needs were few. Administrative work took up as much time as one gave it, and political work took up the rest. Kaliannan would have excellent prospects when he returned to Earth. In the meantime, he seldom talked with anyone.

Self-pity. He allowed the diagnosis to dissipate. Memory. Worry.

Thank goodness there were no children here, in the Zogreion. If this were not an embassy, but a human community, isolated on a nonhuman world, what would become of them?

Worry and resistance to worry. His brain chewed at the thoughts like an old dog with his favorite bone. Kaliannan blinked at his toes, unsure of what pose he was in or what to do next.

His translator clicked. Straightening, relieved, Kaliannan placed his hand on it. "Yes? Who is this?"

"I am General Barrel-roll Graa of the Vancouver Island Graas."

Kaliannan's newly-stretched muscles contracted as his unease found its focus. A nonhuman! Why in the world would a nonhuman call him? To report some kind of health crisis in the staff, it must be. Someone was outside the Embassy, where danger lurked. Koen.

"This is Dr. Kaliannan. Is Koen alright?"

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A caw from his translator, followed by throaty burbling. "Ahoy! Are you the animal husband?"

"I'm sorry?" Kaliannan frowned at the device. "Are you calling about Koen? I mean, Mr. Ruis. Or is there someone else in — "

" Health confessor?"

Kaliannan sought clarity and submitted to the needs of the caller. "I am the doctor of the United Nations Embassy, yes. Please tell me if there is any kind of medical emergency."

"Yes," said General Graa. "I am relieved. You are competent to care for my steed while I attend to other business."

Kaliannan had grown up in a multicultural neighborhood and worked for two decades for the United Nations. He knew what to do with translation error. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Your Excellency."

The translator coughed. "I am frustrated. You will tend Human Koen because he needs care and I — I am upset — I cannot give Human Koen care. I am proud."

Kaliannan had also worked long enough with important people. "Your concern does you great credit, Your Excellency. Now, would you please tell me the nature and severity of Mr. Ruis's health crisis?"

A short cough. "He is blown."

"Clarify?" Kaliannan asked patiently.

"Fatigued. Human Koen is unable to perform at the desired level. I take responsibility. I did not know his condition was inferior when I rode out with him."

"Fatigued?" Kaliannan paced the length of his little office. There were all sorts of serious problems that could present as fatigue, but one must always begin with the most obvious possibility. "Well, when was the last time Mr. Ruis slept?"

Cough cough gurgle. "Two days ago."

"Two days? What on earth was he doing all night?"

"I was looking for Mr. Grumbles." That was Koen's voice.

"Mr. who?" Kaliannan looked around, as if he could see anyone. Modern human telecommunications included a visual channel, but Quotidian technology was voice-only.1 "I mean, Mr. Ruis! Are you all right? I am relieved to hear your voice. Why didn't you speak up sooner?"

"Natural submissiveness," said General Graa. "I am proud. This is my demand: you will enforce sleep upon Human Koen."

Kaliannan's spine straightened and his heels came together. "I shall!" He shook his head. "I mean, I'll certainly prescribe bed rest. I'll prescribe a sedative if I have to, but—"

"Then go, Koen. Go on. I will swoop down upon you tomorrow around dawn. Be prepared!"

Kaliannan's translator bug settled back onto his desk. The doctor looked at it, wondering if he should go talk to someone. Mark, or better yet, Ms. Zhang. But, he realized, he really didn't want to.

Kaliannan's throat constricted at the thought of leaving his office. The tips of his fingers tingled. He recognized in himself the symptoms of social withdrawal. Isolation creating more isolation. That was the syndrome of the entire Embassy, wasn't it? Trapped in a bubble of normalcy created to protect them from the frightening chaos outside. Who had the strength to break out?

Not him. Not today. Kaliannan went back to his stretches.

1 Quotidians can detect every nuance of emotion from the voice of a clone and non-clones are disgusted by the sight of each other.