Memory Transcription Subject: Chiri, Gojid Bartender
Date [standardized human time]: November 10, 2136
It was a very short walk from the Cropsey Carnival over to Maimonides Park, no more than a block and a half, and made all the easier by the fact that the roads had finally been cleared. David had been up before the sun rose, prepping all the food he’d need for the day, and now we rolled a pushcart stacked high with chafing dishes over to the baseball field together. Whatever David had said to the organizer in negotiations must have been brutal, because he’d gotten us quite the plum spot to set up our stand, not far from “home base” as he’d called it. We had a nice view out over a field of packed dirt and green grass, painted with white lines in a diamond shape. The seats formed a V-shape on one half of the field, and there were electronic signs and the like on the far side. From a business perspective, our spot near home base put us astonishingly close to the entrance, the bathrooms, and as many seats as possible. From a more aesthetic perspective, it had actually been a while since I’d seen grass. It was nice to look at. A real change of pace from restaurant and rubble, sand and sea. The only living green things I'd seen in weeks had been David's herb garden, and I was so deprived that I was thisclose to giving the basil plant a name.
That being said, the food was David’s domain, but he was, ultimately, both taller and longer-limbed than me, so I carefully unloaded the chafing dishes while David hung up the sign. It was a pretty sign, with the restaurant logo from the front of the building, plus pictures he’d carefully taken of each of the finished wraps, plus simple yet colorful descriptions of those dishes in both English and a carefully machine-translated rendition of the Yotul language. Very carefully, I might add. Apparently, the uplifts had at least three different words for a generic root vegetable, and two of them weren’t also slang for ‘penis’. You’ll never guess which one the software suggested first. Frankly, even picking the best translation for ‘wrap’ had been a nightmare because half the Yotul words for ‘soft container’ seemed to turn into weird marsupial double-entendres about ‘pouches’. But, as we’d known for centuries in the Federation, that was the inevitable peril of using translators that weren’t wired directly to the part of your brain handling intent.
But still, we got it done, both then as well as now. We had a plan, and we had what we needed. David had his pre-prepped ingredients, ready to be rapidly slung together into a delicious hand-held meal, plus condiments for modifications, and a heaping stack of disposable plates, trays, and napkins. My holopad was updated with the latest point-of-sale software, ready to handle credit transfers all the way from Leirn, and it even finally had the language pack for my species installed so I could actually understand the numbers when I was ringing people up. Even the athletes out on the field were warming up and testing the newly-repaired equipment. One human threw a ball towards home base, and a sign in the background behind him lit up. I was still fuzzy about literacy here, but I’d studied the English numbers, just in case the software update hadn’t come in time, even if I couldn’t read them quickly. I squinted. “One hundred and six?” I said aloud, idly, not quite sure of myself. “Hey David, what units are those?”
David was in work mode, and took a very long moment to recognize that I was talking to him. He blinked. “Hundred and six miles an hour,” he said, and my eyes widened as it translated.
“Wait, what the fuck? How?!” I blurted out.
David blinked again, and finally stopped to look at me. “I, uhh… I think I’ve mentioned that humans are really good at throwing. We’ve got some versatility, but ‘ranged specialization’ is definitely one of our odder evolutionary talents, I’ll grant. There’s the muscle and limb orientation, sure, but frankly the fact that we can eyeball ballistics trajectories is kind of more fascinating to me. You gotta throw the ball inside the batter’s reach--above home plate, between around mid-torso to the knees--for the pitch to be valid. It’s not an easy target to hit.”
I mumbled to myself silently, trying to do the math. “So accurate to within like half a square meter, at almost twenty meters distance? With enough force to basically explode a bird?!”
David blanched. “Oh no… I’m sorry, you didn’t see that one old video clip, did you?”
My jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s a thing that happened?!”
“Not on purpose!” he protested. “A seagull dove onto the field at the worst possible spot at the worst possible time. May as well as been swooping into traffic. It was just a freak accident!”
I groaned. “It’s like I’ve grown past expecting you people to be bloodthirsty, but you’re still just… casually violent sometimes without really trying to be. Heugh! You wanna know what word an Arxur probably never utters after killing something? Whoops!”
David snorted. “And for the record, these are professional athletes. The average human is lucky if they can throw a ball half that fast.”
I rubbed my eyes in exasperation. “Oh good, the average human can only throw a rock fifty miles per hour. They might merely stun a bird. I feel so much better.”
David chuckled nervously. “I should probably put the dart board away before I start inviting aliens to the restaurant…”
“No, you should show me how it works once, and then put it away,” I said, smirking.
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A strange tranquility settled over the empty stadium like the calm before a storm. Still, it was a sunny day, a beautiful Saturday morning, chilly enough that wearing my loose skirt and blouse didn’t feel oppressively warm, and we waited with a sense of anticipation as the fans started filing in through the front gates to find their seats.
Most of the people here to watch the baseball game were humans, of course, but the rusty-furred Yotuls formed a sizable minority. In third and fourth places by population, a handful of tiny ochre-furred Zurulians and wooly Venlil filtered in as well, typically attached at the hip to the nearest human. The Venlil had had an ongoing cultural exchange program with humanity for a while now--the humans they were tagging along after must have been their exchange partners--but the little medically-inclined Zurulians were new.
I tapped David and pointed to one. He squinted. “Huh. Yeah, I guess the Zurulian exchange program must have just started up,” David said, wiping down his hololenses one last time before we started service. “There’s a lot of pharmaceutical research in North Jersey, so it’s not a far commute to see a ball game.” The Yotuls had his interest more. A few had human chaperones of their own, but far more so than any other alien group, they were wandering in on their own, looking all around with a sense of awestruck trepidation. “They look like tourists,” David observed fondly. “We're used to tourists, here in The City. Should be alright. We got this in the bag.”
And there we were, set up right by the entrance, as heads began to turn. For the humans, the sight of a Gojid working a food stand was an exciting novelty, and they wanted to see what strange delicacies we were selling. For the Yotuls, it was a sign of safety and trust: even after the great reveal that my people were secret omnivores, we were still best-known as the defenders of this sector for centuries running. If the nearest Gojid looked calm, then everyone else in the herd knew they could relax a little. And every one of the Yotuls saw the sign written in their own language and immediately looked like they felt a little bit more at home.
All according to plan, Luna cackled. They’ll fall for our nefarious schemes yet.
Our ‘evil grand design’ is to give them food in exchange for money, Shadow sighed. It’s practically the exact opposite of nefarious.
A few people milled around to stare at the sign--and at me--but most made their way to their seats first. It wasn't quite lunchtime yet, so the line started out small. It was actually a Yotul couple who lined up first, trying to beat the crowd.
“This all looks incredible!” the husband said. “I didn't realize humans would be selling food for us at all, let alone these complex stew-stuffed bread dealies.”
I put on my best customer service face and desperately tried to remember the Federation version of smiling politely. “I understand your surprise. I've only been living here for a couple weeks now, and I’ve literally never seen a wider variety of vegetables in my life.” I perked up my quills politely. “I'm Chiri, by the way. And you two?”
The husband flicked his ears politely. “I'm Nikolo, and this is my wife Rosi. We just got here yesterday.” Rosi swished her tail in acknowledgement. Nikolo looked over the menu. “What’s good?”
I nodded towards the sign. “I've taste-tested all of them, and I can vouch for the quality and purity. I’ve had more issues with the spicy dishes than anything else, personally. I know the Venlil do Firefruit, but we don't usually go that hot on the Cradle. What about you guys?”
Nikolo perked up immediately. “No shit, humans grow their own version of kadews? That's awesome! What's the hottest wrap you got?”
I pointed at the Tropical curry wrap that had kicked my ass earlier. “This one. Lots of spices and fruit, in a thick white sauce made from crushed seeds.” Coconuts were stone fruit pits, technically, but ‘crushed seeds’ sounded more appetizing. And calling it coconut milk was going to gross the customers out. I moved the conversation forward and pointed towards a little dish of red chili paste. “And then you can add a little of this if you want it even hotter.”
“Perfect! I'll take that,” Nikolo said, beaming. He turned to Rosi, still half-cowering behind him. “How about you, sweetie? What are you in the mood for?”
“I'm not hungry,” Rosi lied, staring at David nervously.
“Aw, come on,” said Nikolo. “I know you're nervous around humans. That's why we came early, so we wouldn't have to line up around all the hungry predators.”
Oh shit, said Shadow. We didn't think about how nerve-wracking the queue might be for prey being surrounded by hungry humans. Is that going to impact our sales?
Remember, we get half of every sale, said Luna. She's not going to buy anything unless you can convince her of the intrinsic glory of becoming a predator.
That's not… what the fuck? Shadow blurted out incredulously. No! Just convince her that humans aren't going to go into a blood frenzy around food.
I flexed my quills on one arm and pricked my other paw hard enough to draw blood.
I didn't mean literally, Chiri! Shadow shouted. What the shit are you doing?!
The Yotul couple recoiled in panic as I calmly held my bloody paw out towards David. My boyfriend stared at it for a few moments, not quite fully grasping what he was seeing, before it dawned on him.
David's eyes widened. “Wait, you have blue blood? Oh my God, is that why you randomly turn blue sometimes?” He laughed. “Aww, you were blushing!”
I turned blue. “Forget you learned that!” I exclaimed.
David snorted. “Okay, well, please bandage that up immediately. It's a health code violation to bleed near the food. You could spread a disease that way.”
“I can't, actually, since I'm literally not from this biosphere,” I grumbled, stiffly, “but fine.”
I patched myself up from the first aid kit, and the Yotul couple nodded slowly. “Alright, I getcha,” Nikolo said. “I guess Humans aren't actually as violent as we were taught.”
We all flinched, David included, as gunshots rang out by the front entrance to the stadium. Uniformed Peacekeepers ran towards the noise, chattering on their comms to coordinate as they responded. I tried my best to put on a brave face for the Yotuls, so they'd know everything was going to be alright.
“Humans are not typically violent for food-related reasons,” I corrected.