“Oh, hello,” Dr. Y said, coming onto the shuttle.

“Greetings,” Plep said.

Y hesitated, turning his head. “I do not eat breakfast, though I understand it is quite good.”

The Qlerning nodded slowly, as if mulling this over. “I quite understand.”

Apollonia watched the exchange with a frown. She, He That Squats on Yellow Sand, and the Qlerning were not the only ones on the shuttle re-boarding the Craton, but they were the only two she knew. Most of them simply filed back aboard, talking and laughing with each other.

Among her group, Plep had insisted they go last. Why, she did not know. He had only answered with another of his riddles, something about he who went last was most memorable.

She didn’t particularly like being memorable, but she also was still glad to be in Squats on Sand’s company. He was so honestly alien, the kind she’d always seen on shows as something exotic. Also usually bad, but she’d never really taken to that; different didn’t inherently mean good or bad, in her view. She just found herself fascinated.

And he had felt the same way. He’d told her how this was his first Detachment Training, how Abmon did not often mix with other species for a lot of reasons.

“We’re full members of the Sapient Union. Not as numerous, as our higher gravity needs makes it harder to build stations for ourselves, and there are less worlds that meet our needs – not to mention the bill for leaving said worlds! But . . . well, our strength can be an issue. We’re very physical with each other.”

“As the dew caresses a leaf as it falls, so too do I say there is truth in his words,” Plep had said. Apollonia had found the allegory strained, but got his point; the Qlerning’s arm looked bruised when he’d rolled up his sleeve.

“Yes, broken arms are common among humans who transfer to our ships! It’s all very unintentional. And then there’s the fact that our skin flakes are sharp. And, well, our breath is somewhat toxic to Sepht.”

“. . . But not humans at all, right?” Apollonia ventured.

“Not at all! But . . . better not touch too much. You’re practically sterile compared to how many bacterial colonies we carry! They’re quite vital to our biology. Usually safe, just . . . don’t get careless.”

She made a mental note not to touch him, and had resisted the urge to slide a little further away.

Now, though, as they all made their way back onto the ship, she was surprised to see Dr. Y waiting.

He made his greetings to Plep, who then left without a word to her and Squats on Sand, which she took to be a rudeness.

Dr. Y made a rumbling sound to the rock pillar, who rumbled back his own pleased greeting.

“Your accent is quite pleasant!” the being said to the machine.

“Why thank you,” Y replied. “I worked quite hard to make it so. It took me minutes.”

Squats on Sand bounced his rumbling laugh again and started to trundle away. “It was a pleasure, Ms. Nor! I hope we speak again soon!”

“Yeah!” she called after him. “Me too!”

Dr. Y watched the being leave, then turned to her.

“You seem to have a knack for making non-human friends,” he said lightly.

She smiled a little. “Good to see you too, Y.”

“Ah, quite the same. I beamed back in not long after you left. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“In a way. Squats on Sand is cool, but Plep . . .”

Y nodded knowingly. “A notable minority of humans have difficulty in social relations with Qlerning. Plep is . . . a particularly rigid example of his people. He knows quite well that his people’s manner of casual conversation does not translate well and is quite odd. But he persists.”

“Why?” she asked, feeling frustrated. “It was like talking to an amateur poet.”

“Their culture is ancient, deep, and rich,” Y replied, seeming surprised by her question. “And drenched in blood. Complex rituals of speech long ago replaced open violence.”

“. . . and the banjo?”

“Ah, so he brought it out! There are many varieties, but Plep’s is a geshin, a type known from a region of the third-largest continent-“

“But what was that about?” Apollonia interrupted, not caring to hear all the details.

“In social situations it is passed around. One’s skill in playing it in a musical way is unimportant, it is used for conveying mood and context in a more aesthetically pleasing way than verbal structures.”

“Oh,” she replied. She could sort of see a logic there.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Qlerning social interactions are extremely ritualized and fascinating,” Y continued. “For example, questions about such universal things as a first meal of one’s day are a way of denoting a likeness, and to therefore build a connection.”

“So when I said I skip breakfast . . .” she said.

Y laughed. “It was an unintentional insult. Do not worry, however. He knew you meant nothing by it.”

She shook her head and started further in, saying nothing. Part of her just wanted to go back to her room and sleep. Another part wanted to ask about Brooks. She hoped that she hadn’t ruined it for him.

Guilt settled over her like a blanket.

“Nor,” Y said gently. “You did nothing wrong.”

She twitched. How the hell did he even know how she felt . . . ?

“Okay,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

Y was quiet a moment longer, walking alongside her.

“Perhaps we-“

“I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting him again, even though she knew it was rude. “I’m kind of tired. I’m just gonna go nap. Perhaps we can . . . talk later.”

If Y could have looked surprised, she thought he was showing it.

“Ah, of course Nor. Have a good rest! Feel free to contact me at a time of your choosing.”

As she walked away, she felt a new guilt added to the old.

----------------------------------------

“Twenty minutes,” an aide told her.

Zeela took a deep breath. Outside the doors, a crowd of over a thousand people were mingling, eating, celebrating.

The live entertainment was just wrapping up; there were several music bands on the Craton, amateur and a professional one sanctioned by the ship, as well as people who enjoyed stand-up comedy or plays, and she had tapped almost everyone she knew for the seven different voting sites around the ship. Where she couldn’t have live entertainment, she’d picked appropriate pre-recorded entertainment, historical films about the history of the Sapient Union and democratic elections themselves, going back to the ancient Greeks, the early Western republics, the socialist states, and everything since.

Most of the voting stations were along the Equatorial Ring, but two were located closer to the poles. Each would have nearly five thousand voters through them, starting shortly.

There was no anxiety among the people outside, as far as she could tell. But despite her best efforts, there was a solemnity beyond the norm for the whole thing. People were still unhappy about the shake-up with Brooks.

There had been growing grumbling about his balance of Mayor and Captain, she had noted before, but not enough for people to truly want him out.

She still thought he’d win. But then – what if Brooks won and was found guilty? That could take weeks to decide, theoretically . . . And if Darhan won, and Brooks lost his captaincy . . . would he want to stay?

She could practically feel all of her work she’d done to get this city running smoothly slipping away. Darhan’s speech earlier had done nothing to make her feel better; he’d spoken well, been eloquent about his time in the administratorial service, both here and on another city-ship, the Skylar’s Rest. All of it verified as he had spoken by the ship’s AIs, as per normal.

But he’d offered up a lot of ideas that – while she could see some value in them from the civilian side, would certainly upset the balance of the ship. More civilian oversight into command processes, especially in matters regarding Leviathans, and even their course, when the ship was not under orders from Sol.

He wanted to bring the position of Mayor into direct competition with the Captaincy! It was a terrible idea that would have to be shot down, but her head spun imagining the arguments, the bridges burnt, and the grudges made by the whole thing.

She mulled on that, watching the time tick down. Fifteen more minutes. People outside were beginning to form a queue.

Letting her mind wander, she absently ticked off every box again for everything in here. Once people started voting, it was an open democratic process, aided by AIs that she could not interfere with. So her job was, in a way, almost done.

Eleven minutes left.

There was a commotion at the door. Frowning, she saw a lot of movement, as if someone was hurrying to the fore.

It was Urle. He knocked on the door, and she opened it, letting him in. The voters around him watched curiously, but were not alarmed.

“Zeela,” he breathed, sounding out of breath. “We need to talk.”

“What is it? Why couldn’t you message me?” she asked.

“It’s sensitive,” he said, looking at the door pointedly. The door closed.

He looked back to her. “The tribunal is over. The charges were dropped.”

“You mean he beat them?” she asked.

“No,” Urle said. “They were just . . . dropped. By Director Freeman himself. He’s . . . well, there are no charges now.”

Her mind raced with the possibilities. “That is significant,” she said. “With them being dropped, it’s legally as if they had not been raised at all, which means . . .”

“Which means we can stop this election,” Urle said. Then he sighed. “But can we really?”

“We have to talk to Darhan,” she said. “He is the challenger . . . if he wishes to continue . . . I’m not sure we can just stop this. But if he is willing to step down, then we can cancel it. But we don’t have a lot of time. Once a ballot is cast, the vote must be completed and the result will be accepted.”

“I’m glad I told him to meet me here, then,” Urle said. “And according to his system readout, he’s nearly here.”

There were still six minutes left when he arrived. Urle had the feeling the man had dawdled, though he had shown up in time.

Urle explained the situation to him briefly.

“I don’t see how this should interrupt democracy,” he said.

Which, Zeela had expected. The man had a lean and hungry look about him, which she didn’t like.

Despite most of his face being hidden, Zeela could tell Urle’s frustration. Understandable, but it didn’t help.

Zeela just nodded thoughtfully. “All right, then. Though I’m surprised . . . Ah, well, nevermind. If that is how you feel, Aoks, I don’t think we have time to do anything else to change it.”

The man caught her unfinished sentence. “What were you going to say?” he asked.

“Well, you’re quite right about democracy. Though the voting hasn’t started yet, and this is not a regular election like we’d have two years from now, so nothing is being skipped, of course. But I’ve kept a pulse on it all, and I didn’t think you’d be so eager, given the recent pollings.”

The man blinked, caught off-guard, and she saw his eyes glaze over as he brought up in his system the information. It was all informal, all done by curious members of the ship. And it didn’t look good for him.

Which was not a surprise. Brooks was still viewed well.

“In addition, I’d think that the news of the dropping of charges could sweep through the ship in the middle of the election itself, and . . . well, that could easily swing public sentiment,” Urle added.

Zeela didn’t even think he was saying it to try and manipulate the man. He just thought that. And it was an acute observation.

Darhan wavered a moment. Finally; “Perhaps we should cancel,” he said. “I could just . . . address the status of the Captain, offer my sincere congratulations, and then . . . drop out of the running.”

Zeela knew it’d be too easy to pounce with happiness on the idea, and so she measured her reaction – just perfectly, she thought. “All right, then. I will send word, we don’t have much time. Why don’t you use the stage just outside? Give yourself about sixty seconds to get ready, but we don’t have much longer than that.”

The man looked a little deflated, and Zeela hoped that perhaps he’d learn and grow a bit in the next two years.

The next time he ran, she hoped she didn’t have to hope for him to lose.