There aren’t enough transport copters to carry all of the injured people from the destroyed fortress to the safety of my mother’s group of rural ranch lands. I hate being here and I visit as seldom as is permitted.

The central buildings were some kind of detention center for criminal humans when we arrived on the planet. Vast fields of grain surround a wall that rings a series of multi-story buildings that sit like the feathers on a tail fan, all connected to the central spine. What was once space for prisoners to exercise is now turned to feed lots for imported fauna. The bars for what was once cells were removed, and now the rooms are in the process of being remodeled into much more pleasant living quarters by our superior standards.

But it never feels like a real home to me. I much prefer the sense of security of a building designed to repel attacks from the outside than this place designed to prevent escape. If I did not dream often of escape, would I not be content to have remained a part of my mother’s entourage instead of seeking out a career outside her wake?

It seems that I will never exit her sphere of influence. Not without making a suitable life partner match or being adopted into a higher status family.

Without enough transport copters, we’re resorting using the original prison transport buses that were designed to move humans, not us. It is hard to sit on the bench seats. Our tails are not flexible at the base, which leaves me to have to perch awkwardly with my claws in the faux leather and lean my long neck across the back of the seat.

I sit between Trosaline and Benvodon, with my flock of drones stashed under the seats. There were many volunteers to bring the unpowered devices onto the bus. I should be able to

“Did I hear her right?” Trosaline asks, red feathers trembling in more than the vibrations of vehicle’s rough-sounding engine. “Did she truly indicate that the current military exercises are not going in the favor of our regime?”

Benvodon nods nervously, his enormous eyes expressive to the extreme. I read them as fearful, with significant portions of their concern being directed at me.

“I believe you are not mistaken,” I answer for him, as his much lower caste than either of ours would make it most inappropriate for him to openly express any opinions on the military situation. “The disaster that befell our fortress has weakened our hold on this region significantly. It will be necessary to regroup and reorganize our forces.”

I look around the bus to be certain of who is listening. There are only two other people, one medic with bright green feathers and his patient with darker green plumage lying unconscious on a stretcher suspended across the walkway between the bench seats. Human collaborators occupy other seats. They find our copters uncomfortable, and would have declined to use one had there been space for them.

Several of the humans are injured, and have received some medical care. None are in as dire straights as the darker green-feathered individual. Most appear to be asleep on the benches, not seeming to mind the rumble and rocking motion of the vehicle as it traverses the long, straight paved road. At regular intervals, the wheels hit expansion joints in the cement and the whole bus bounces just a little bit. What is most distracting to a person seems to be hypnotic and calming to the humans.

The few that are not napping stare out the windows in a way that suggests that they are not even thinking at all. I meet the eyes of one through the reflection in the glass and he does not even blink. Though he could be looking right at me, he makes absolutely no indication that he sees me.

It is disconcerting.

But I feel free enough to speak.

“What do you imagine will happen next?” I hazard to ask, as it is not a good practice to sow worry among those beneath you, but careful requests for input create the impression of a leader who is better able to manage expectations and work with complete data sets than one who is an incompetent dictator. And Trosaline has always seemed like someone I could trust to provide excellent data with which to work.

“If I were royalty,” she starts, and then pauses to click her teeth thoughtfully. “If I were royalty, I’d lean on my human resources to start the process to sue for peace. I’d be looking to see what borders we could reasonably hold against them in the longer term and how much territory we require to build self-sustaining communities where we can build up a population of our own. We do not have an advantage in numbers.”

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“What motivates the humans to act as resources at our disposal?” I have never heard a good answer to the question, and I am honestly curious what Trosaline would say.

“Surely they just want to be on the winning side,” Trosaline answers blithely. “When we arrived we had every technological advantage over their primitive materials. We out-gun them, our armored divisions were impervious to their weapons, and we were able to wrest control of their primitive satellites before even entering atmosphere. If they work with us willingly we do not have to exterminate them entirely.”

“Is that all?” Even Benvodon has been caught captive by her musical voice and considerations of human nature. “Could there not be something more noble than mere self-serving fear to motivate our collaborators? Could they not be acting on a desire to have a better life undefined by their abusive prior overlords in preference to how they are handled by people who understand obligations and the duties of leadership?”

“For truth,” Trosaline replies, “there may be some few who recognize that we have the preferable system of governance and that our royalty have a much more reliable claim to their titles than however it was they were choosing their overlords. But I am certain that those who come to us for a preference for the bonds of honor between master and servant are much fewer than those who come to us out of honest and true fear for their lives should they instead be a part of the resistance.”

“And of that resistance,” I ask, wanting to hear her thoughts and unsure if I should ever dare speak mine so freely and with so little regard for formality as she. “What are they fighting for if not to prevent their total annihilation?”

“Certainly some do see the alternative as death. We have not done an excellent job of letting them know what their options are. We should definitely be trying harder to spread the message that our regime does have roles for humans that permit them autonomy.”

“And what autonomy would that be?” Benvodon’s feathers ripple across his neck while his face stays rigidly still, even against the bumping of the bus. Those expressive eyes are suddenly and violently without emotion. It is like a door has been slammed shut.

“We do not force them into a specific career,” Troasline states with a nod. I notice for the first time that her eyes fix on the horizon outside the bus. She may be able to hold this conversation, but I suspect she is dealing poorly with motion sickness.

I am not personally afflicted with motion sickness at all. That was the trait and skill that opened the door for me to take the aptitude exams for operating a flock of drones. Had I suffered as such I would never have been able to take on that role. I listen, interested in her thoughts. This is not a topic I have heard anyone speak of so openly or among mixed company.

“They have any role within their caste to choose from! And they are able to pick where they fill their duties. And they even have freedoms we are not permitted as far as who they choose to partner with and where.” Trosaline nods with what could only be wisdom. “They can even continue to follow their own religion rather than adopting ours.”

Benvodon chuckles darkly and then turns his head away from the both of us. I do not know what he got out of the conversation, but he clearly has opinions of his own.

“Trosaline, would you pick a different career if you had your choice of any in your caste?” I ask an idle question, only slightly invasive, but with how open she has been on this long ride I can only assume that we have developed a level of comfort that can openly criticize choices made by our betters and our lessers. That has to count for a great deal of intimacy.

“I would rather have been in administration and leadership than working at the front in a technical communications role. The digital infrastructure might have been my highest scores on the aptitude tests, but I have long felt called toward nurturing those who serve the regime underneath me. I do not want them to be mislead.” Her eyes close briefly. “My greatest fear is that I could have prevented a disaster like befell our fortress by anticipating such an attack and having countermeasures in place, but failed to do so for having failed to listen for warnings that such a thing were possible.”

“Did you not also take the aptitude exam for leadership?”

“I was not permitted it.” She carefully shakes her head. “My family is ill placed to provide an entry to those ranks, even within our own caste.”

I reach out and gently brush the back of one hand across the edge of the feathers on her shoulder. It’s a ghost of an embrace that could have provided comfort and tender care had we been of appropriate relationship status relative to each other to offer such things.

“Did you not take it too?” she asks me, with a hint of accusation in her harsh tone.

“I did not choose to take that aptitude test. My brothers had already passed it and I did not desire to compete against their superior scores.” The feathers on my arms ripple with the memory. I will them into stillness and swallow bitter memories.

“That was a kindness of yours.” She does not move away from my gentle near-touches. “Let others shine in their own light.”