EVERIE
A loud hissing sound, harsh and scraping in my ears, distantly reaches me, as similarly cruel cold air rushes against my face. I turn to my side, but no relief is forthcoming—only the chill; it’s everywhere, in the air, beneath my skin; I can’t escape, can’t even breathe; Where am I? What frozen hell have I—
“Evan? Can you hear me?”
A voice, feminine, its tone patient, warm, a tiny bright spot in the icy chill around me. Whose is it? I know the speaker, but I can’t place it.
Start slow. Where am I?
My bleary eyes search the room around me, trying to focus through the pounding in my skull. There’s a continuous thrum in the metallic grey walls, joined by a faint vibration in the floor—rather, the bed?
A bed; yes, good; that’s progress! It’s really more of a cot, if I look off the edge I can see the floor, perhaps three-quarters of a meter beneath me. The cot is strange; resembles a pod, or a capsule, really, and behind me there’s an alcove in the wall shaped just so for the cot to be slid in, as though it had been stored there.
Stored. Exactly, that’s just it. Stored; I’ve been stored—I’m in a cryopod!
The pieces of the puzzle fall into place neatly around me. I’m on the ship; someone’s woke me up.
Now, why is that…
“Evan, darling, can you hear me?”
The voice again. The one I didn’t recall. I laugh internally at the strangeness of that. Vista’s speaking, I can see her standing over me now, smiling down at me. She wears grey jeans and a faded jacket the color of a forest’s trees; it’s the same outfit she wore just prior to entering her tube.
“How long has it been?” I ask hoarsely. My voice is dry as sandpaper; it sounds like it hasn’t been used in years—who knows, maybe it has.
“A year, almost,” answers Vista. “Huhana woke the Captain, and she woke the rest of us—we’re nearing the solar border. She thought we should see it.”
Then she giggles. “But oh, my, Evan, you took your time to wake. You must have been having a very special dream, oui?”
I shiver, but my cheeks turn a faint, rosy coloration. “Something like that,” I say, smiling. “It’s good to be back. Every time I get into one of these, I always think it can’t be as bad as I remember. And it’s always so much worse.”
“You preach to the choir, mon amour,” says Vista with another giggle. “Come, up, up, and out of bed; we do not have forever!” She takes my hand and pulls me upright, as I giggle half-deliriously; I feel almost hungover, coming out of that pod. Errantly, I wonder what emerging nine years from now will be like.
“Your clothes are on the bench,” Vista tells me, nodding briefly to the dark wooden furniture, placed between two potted plants at the center of the far wall. “Meet us on the bridge!” She calls, dancing away from my hands and toward the door. “Oh, and your meds!” she exclaims from the doorway, glancing back for the briefest of moments. “Remember, you need them right after leaving a cryopod.”
I smile. “Right. Thanks, Vista.” She returns the grin, before spinning back around and flitting down the hallway.
I truly have no idea what I’d do without her.
I stand from the bed as soon as she’s gone. A quick glance at my body reveals I’m clothed in the uniform undergarments, issued to the crew before we lifted off; grey in color, and tasteful, though with nothing in the way of individual personality. Distantly, I recall being unenthused when I was originally given them; they were so plain; devoid of identity. They reminded me of the suits my family wore—sharp, yet lifeless; efficient, yet uninspiring.
But then, Vista was wearing her own clothes—no uniforms for us, it seemed. That was appreciable, if nothing else.
I look toward my clothes, and the large pill bottle labeled testosterone sitting atop them, and begin making my way over. They’re nothing special; no expensive, gaudy clothes like mom—like Rafaella, I remind myself—would wear. A jean jacket, colored a deep navy, over a set of grey clothes, neither dark nor bright on the color spectrum. I figured they’d be a comforting sight once I stepped out of the cryopod—but I don’t feel comfort, right now. I feel unsettled. The air feels thick, like humidity, only there’s no moisture to be found. The air of the Compass Rose is sterile, perfectly dry. Humidity shouldn’t be possible.;
There’s a smell, too—coppery, tangy, like blood, joined by another scent, this one sickly sweet, rough on my throat like smoke. They’re both so faint I can’t even tell if they’re really there. But if they’re not, then… I shouldn’t be smelling them. So they must be, in some sense, even if it’s only in my head. I’d say I’m having a panic attack, but… none of this feels right.
What’s wrong with me?
I shake myself. Must be some kind of crazy cryosleep side effect. I remember reading about those in a magazine back in ‘69 when Z-Wire pitched the current model to the ISA, though… nothing like this. But I could’ve missed something; I do that sometimes.
Just dress. Don’t think about it. It’s got to pass eventually.
I reach for my clothes, hoping the comfort I’d expected will find me any moment now.
. . .
I step onto the bridge of the Compass Rose, decidedly not feeling particularly comfortable. Immediately, the captain’s eyes catch mine. Tristynne’s eyes are like that; they’re like bloodhound missiles. Once they detect you, there’s nowhere you can hide.
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” she says, smiling faintly. “Darren was just about to make a bet on when you were gonna wake up.” My gaze flicks to the huge Chinese-American, who watches on with mirth in his eyes.
“‘Sup,” says the linguist, and I manage to force a chuckle past my lips as I anxiously scratch my neck.
“Yeah, sorry I slept in so late. Won’t happen again.” I turn back to the Captain, putting two fingers to my temple and gently massaging it.
“Luckily enough, you’ve not missed anything,” Tristynne says, glancing toward the viewer and out at the space beyond. “We’re about a minute from the border; just nearly exiting the Oort.” Her eyes come back to me, and she frowns, finally seeming to notice my expression. “What’s eatin’ you? Cryopod syndrome?”
It’s all I can do to nod. My head is stinging in the bright light of the bridge; I feel like I might throw up.
“I know the feeling,” says the captain. “Have a seat, Evan. You’ll feel better.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I manage to stumble across the room, putting a hand on the back of my chair and leaning on it. My ears are still ringing; everything hurts and that damned smell is still so fresh. Blood fresh from a wound, like when I bite down on the inside of my cheek and it’s all I can taste for the next few days. I find myself desperately hoping that this is just a one-time thing, and doesn’t get worse based on time spent inside the cryopod.
Spinning my seat round, I situate myself on the comfortable, yet sensible leather surface, and let out a barely-audible sigh. Vista, who sits across from me, catches it, because of course she does—I swear, the woman has a full readout of my vitals implanted in her brain—and her gentle brown eyes meet mine. “Still feeling sick?” she asks.
I wait a moment before replying. “Is it… is it normal to… smell things, after cryosleep?” I ask her quietly, in French to ensure the others don’t pick up what we’re saying. Her face is all I need to see; a picture of confusion meeting my eyes as her lips begin moving in bemused reply.
“Smell things? Not… that I am aware of. Why?”
Maybe I really am going crazy. “Never mind,” I reply after a moment, and she frowns slightly, tilting her head. She doesn’t push the subject, though, and neither do I; instead my gaze fixes itself on the viewer as I try to keep my mind off that horrible stench. Focusing on something new should do the trick, and what’s outside right now—or rather, the lack thereof—certainly fits the bill.
“It’s so empty,” I murmur. “I’ve never seen a place with so little stuff inside it.”
“It is, isn’t it?” says Huhana, in that kind of sweet, dreamy, voice she does whenever she talks about space. “It’s… it’s quiet, and peaceful. Not like home.”
I can’t help but agree. This place, and back home; they’re polar opposites. It’s strange, falling asleep where every single inch of space is squeezed out of the world, and waking up… here. With only atoms to fill the void. “It’s beautiful,” I agree.
“Welp,” says Tristynne, at once earning the gazes of the crew. “That’s it, then. That’s… that’s the border. Interstellar space. We’re here.”
I don’t respond. No one does, for a moment that might as well have lasted a century.
Then I smile, faintly, my lips curling just the slightest bit, as I turn my eyes back to the viewer. It doesn’t quite feel real, all this. Like a dream you can’t really remember anymore, nothing but phrases and still images that repeat in your mind.
But it’s not a dream. We’re really here, the six of us. This little crew—it’s just made history. The first Humans to be here, beyond the system where our Earth was born. Further than anyone has ever been. They’ll remember us for that. They’ll write our names down in the history books, and someday, some kid will fail a test on it. Probably, anyway. It feels difficult to imagine that a test would be based solely on us, but stranger things have happened.
“I did not ever dream I could come here,” says Nikola suddenly, and her voice is just as starstruck as Huhana’s. I turn to look at her, and when my eyes settle I see she’s rummaging around in a box. Looks like a cooler, maybe? A small one, barely big enough for a bottle or two. When she opens it, my suspicions are confirmed—there’s a small bottle inside; the writing’s too faded to read. Looks like alcohol, maybe?
“I know it is… cliche? Is that the word?'' She pauses for a moment, but no one stands to answer her. “But, ah, I brought this with me, from Earth. It’s vodka; my babushka made it. It must have been… eighty, ninety years ago, I think. She died before I was born. My mother knew the recipe, but she would always tell me that it was not quite as good.” Nikola sets the bottle on the desk, then a set of four shot glasses. Unlike the bottle, they’ve been polished recently; they’re in excellent condition. They’re practically sparkling.
“Before I left,” Nikola goes on, “She gave this to me. This bottle. She told me to pop it open when the time was just right. I… I believe she would have found this moment sufficient. I do not… imagine she is still alive. She was very sick; nothing that could be done. And so I think, while I am here, so far from home, it would be wise to honor her.” She uncorks the bottle, pouring the smallest amount into the first glass. “Will anyone join me?” she asks, looking up from the desk as she takes the glass in her hands.
“Why not,” says Huhana, standing from her chair and moving to Nikola’s side. “She sounds like a lovely woman, Nikola. I’m… sorry about what happened.”
Nikola merely shakes her head. “She had accepted it,” she answers. “And I promised her that I would do so, too. That is why I am here. She wanted me to move on, and follow my dream.”
I stand, shakily, leaning on my arm as I rest it against my desk. “Listen, I… I don’t drink, and…” I struggle for a moment, searching for the right words. The pain in my skull is still kicking around, loud as ever. “And I’ve not been on good terms with my mother in… years. So I won’t claim to know all that much about what goes on in their heads anymore. My mother’s or anyone else’s. But I’m sure she’d be proud, Nikola, your mom. If she could see you right now, she’d be damn proud.”
The red-headed mathematician merely nods, offering a thankful smile, but seemingly unable to say any more. She raises her glass, clinking it against Huhana’s. “To my mother,” says Nikola, and downs it quickly. Huhana echoes the sentiment, and does the same.
“To your mother,” I say quietly, sitting back down and focusing my eyes on the viewer once more.
No one speaks, and for a while the bridge remains quiet. I get the sense that we’re all thinking about them—the people still on Earth. The ones we left behind.
We’ll be back, I think to myself. One day.
. . .
TRISTYNNE
What I wouldn’t give for Xiaji to see this.
All those stars. Just stretchin’ all the way out, far as the eye can see, and then a million million miles past that, and on, and on, and on. No interruptions, just… space.
It doesn’t look any different from before, when she saw it last. When we rode the Scarlet all the way to Mars. But I know she’d have found this, here, this moment, special. She talked about it all the time. Reading her journals, after it was all over, it was clear just how much it really meant to her. An empty, silent majesty. So large nothing could ever fill it up. I remember when I read those words, written in her shockingly delicate hand. It inspired her, made her want to go further, push harder outward from Earth and into the stars. She wanted to see it all and know it was hers to discover.
Ironic, those words of hers. They describe both space, and her absence, equally as well.
She should’ve been here. On this ship, as its captain. Not the memory of one.
I reach down into the top drawer of my desk, my fingers closing around the cold steel chain of her necklace after only a brief moment of searching. Only piece of her I’ve still got—ISA investigators took everything else. Lucky even just havin’ this; it was all I could do to get it decontaminated and released into my care. Everything else—her journals, her glasses, the little stuffed frog her mother sewed for her when she was a little girl—was just evidence for them. Not the only fuckin’ things left in the world of her memory.
I don’t even know what happened to ‘em. The books; I doubt they’d have destroyed them. But the frog, the glasses, the afghan blanket we made together when we were kids—I can’t imagine they’re still around.
I wish I had any of it, any of it that actually mattered. I wouldn’t even give a shit what, of all of it, I got to keep. Just to hold that frog or run my hand over Xiaji’s letterwork one more time. I’d do anything for that.
But no. All they could give me was a necklace she barely ever wore.
I’m gonna bury it. On N22 Amity, when we get there. Mark it with a proper tombstone and flowers. So at least one tiny piece of her can be out here, among the stars she loved. Only reason I’m on this mission, anyhow. One last pilgrimage, for her. Maybe I’ll join her, when it’s all over. Shrink used to tell me that part of me still wanted to, before my mandated rest period was over and I quit. Startin’ to think he might’ve been right, after all, if I’m honest.
I look up again, blinking the sudden, stinging tears from my eyes as I survey my crew. Vista’s jacked into her desk; probably takin’ a look through the sensorium for a bird’s eye view. Everie, Huhana, Nikola; they’re talking about something. I can’t be bothered to listen. And Darren’s just… sitting there, looking at me. Think his mouth is moving.
It isn’t long before I finally register his words—“Cap? You alright?”
I nod quietly, letting the necklace slip out of my fingers and drop gently back into the drawer. “Fine. Just… thinking about someone.”
He nods, and I know he understands. Most everyone’s heard Xiaji’s story—how it ended, how she wanted it told. And of course my part in it—only reason I got where I got with the ISA. ‘Cause my dead Captain wrote a letter of fuckin’ recommendation from beyond the grave. One last gift. Just like she said.
I’ve gotta stop thinking about this. It’s not gonna make me any happier. Course, I’ve known that for years now; a single idle thought ain’t gonna change a thing. She’s always there—whenever I close my eyes. I can still see that damned glass wall. Still hear her givin’ me my final orders, at night when I lie awake. For all its side effects, I can appreciate cryosleep for what it is—the first time I’ve gone to sleep in years and been totally without dreams.
My gaze meets Darren’s. “Thanks, Dare,” I say quietly. “Thanks for worryin’ about me.”
“No problem,” he answers. “I’ve got your back, Cap. We all do. We’re a team, right?”
I nod. “A team.”
My eyes come back to the viewer, and again I take in the stars, spread in all their vastness before me. One year down, I think to myself. Nine to go. And then she can finally rest.
I hope, anyhow.
. . .
It feels like an eternity passes before any noise beyond the thrum of the engines reaches my ears, but finally, with no warning, I hear it—Nikola’s desk. A gentle, computerized chime ringing out in the quiet of the bridge, startling us all. Ship must’ve picked something up on the sensorium, something it thinks we should see.
“Something up?” I ask, and Nikola swivels her seat round, pulling her netcord from its slot at the base of her hand and plugging it into the desk. Her eyes glow with blue lights as she sifts through the information, occasionally squinting like she’s tryin’ to see something very small.
“Hmm,” she murmurs. “Does not seem like… oh, that is… strange. Captain, I am increasing the magnification of the viewer. Have a look at this.” Even as she speaks, the viewer begins rapidly zooming in, ‘til all I can see is one tiny spot in the space outside. But it isn’t just space, there, it’s… like a heat distortion, on a real hot day back home in Louisiana. The kind of blurriness you get if you fiddle with the depth of field a bit too much.
“Nikola, what the hell is that?” I ask, knowing my tone is a smidge too blunt and not giving a damn about it. And anyway Nikola doesn’t seem to mind; that, or she’s just gotten used to it.
“I… I am not sure,” answers the engineer. “There are… these readings, they are conflicting, to put it mildly. Spatial analysis would suggest a wormhole, it seems similar to theoretical diagrams of one, but… there is no other end. It… oh my. It seems… it seems something is coming through it, Captain, and it is moving…” She quints, frowning deeply as her face morphs into a picture of bemusement. “Ah… it is moving through at… seven hundred million and twenty-three meters per second, exactly, Captain.”
“That is faster than light,” says Huhana, her tone flat and incredulous.
“Much faster,” adds Vista. “Over twice as fast, I think.”
“Yes, I am aware,” replies Nikola. “That is not even the strangest thing. This… thing, whatever it is, it should not be moving so quickly, because it, technically, is not. It is like there is some… incredibly powerful force, pushing back against it. Something moving that fast, it should already be here, coming out of this… wormhole of sorts, like… what did you say to me, Captain? A bat out of hell. For it not to be doing so, there must be… billions, maybe trillions, of newtons’ worth of force in its way. But… they simply aren’t there.”
I take a moment to consider her words. Nothing about them makes sense; it’s like our systems are having a stroke. “The scans are nonsense, then,” I tell Nikola, sure of my words from the moment I speak them. “I’ll wager it’s because the computer doesn’t know what it’s lookin’ at. I speakin’ true?”
“Truthfully, Captain, I do not know what I am looking at,” affirms Nikola. “Whatever this is… we have not seen it before. No one has.”
“Could be aliens,” says Darren, and I hear Vista suppress a giggle. I give the both of them a stern look. “What?” asks Darren. “I’m not going crazy here, am I? I mean, reasonably, else could this be?”
I ponder that for a moment. “Hmm… I… I s’pose, I can’t think of anything natural that could’a caused this… but… my god, Darren, do you know how unlikely it is that we’d just run into an alien ship by pure coincidence?”
He shrugs. “You want to tell me what else this is?”
I can only sigh in response. “I… I can’t. Fine, it could be aliens. Hell, it’s probably aliens. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“I didn’t say you did, Cap. I don’t like this,” answers Darren. “And you’re right—this whole thing is so unlikely it ought to be impossible. But, um… oh, what was it? It’s that thing Sherlock Holmes said, about something being… however unlikely, but the truth? Something like that. That about sums up my thoughts on this particular scenario.”
I nod begrudgingly.
“Alright, fine, so if we accept that they are aliens,” interjects Nikola, “then what is our plan? What do we do? Captain?”
I don’t respond for a moment, my thoughts racing at a million miles a second. Much like whatever alien hellspawn is heading through that portal, actually. Well, probably not, in all honesty; I’ve never been great at doing math off the top of my head. Didn’t memorize the multiplication table ‘til I was fifteen years old. Granted, though, my grade schoolin’ left something to be desired in a whole lot more important areas than teachin’ me on-the-fly mathematics.
“Captain?” Nikola asks again, and I nod slowly.
“Yes, sorry, Nikola. Give me a moment.”
So what’s the plan, Tris?
I can practically still hear her voice, asking that. As if I could ever forget it.
My hand idly slips below my desk, and into the drawer where her necklace lies. What would you do, Xiaji?
She’d do something brave. Something crazy. And it’d save everyone’s lives, more ‘n likely.
But how?
Let’s be rational, here. This can’t be a coincidence; the odds are way too bad. I can’t stomach the idea of just running into an alien starship simply by circumstance.
So whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.
It’s not circumstantial, then. It’s looking for us.
Well. Let’s give it a hard time.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Nikola, kill the engines. I want us on full blackout.”
“Captain?” asks the engineer, frowning deeply.
“Do it, Nikola. This thing’s lookin’ for us; I want us as hard as it can possibly be to find. Clear?”
“Clear, Captain. My apologies.” Her eyes light up once more as she reenters the ship’s interface, and after only a brief moment, the whine of the engines comes to a swift halt. Only seconds later, the lights follow, unceremoniously switching off and leaving the bridge totally in the dark, save for the glow of her own eyes and the faint light coming through the viewer.
“It is done, Captain. We are mostly invisible; even our bodies’ heat signatures are masked.” She gently pulls her netcord out of the port on her desk, slipping it back into the socket on her hand. “Although,” she adds, “If we are accepting that these aliens can travel faster than light, I would not be surprised if they can still detect us.”
“Neither would I,” I reply. “Now, Nikola, how close a—”
The space outside the viewer seems to ripple, as the distortion spreads wide and huge for the briefest of moments—and then, with a kind of plu-DUNK sound as loud as it is terrifying, a massive metal spacecraft appears directly before us, unfolding outward from a single tiny point in total defiance of all Euclidean geometry.
A moment passes. A moment where it feels like all the air in the ship has been sucked out through the airlock.
And then, from Darren’s desk, the telltale sound of attempted radio contact breaks the silence.
“Captain,” says Darren, his voice shaky, “They want to talk.”
. . .
EVERIE
Never have I seen an artificial structure that the word alien could be used to describe more effectively. The other ship is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, at least bigger than any vehicle. It’s easily twice the size of the Compass Rose, and built in the shape of an isosceles triangle, with two legs far longer than the base. Its hull seems to be almost entirely covered in a layer of glass, giving the ship a very odd, and undeniably reflective, appearance. The only part of it not totally covered in the material are the metal thrusters covering its back face, and of course the smaller thrusters lining the legs of its triangular body. Of all its thruster, only the starboard side is firing, as if pushing itself away from its current heading. That’s odd—maybe it’s trying to stabilize itself? Reasonably, I guess coming out of a faster-than-light dimensional tunnel thing would give you a bit of extra inertia, so I guess that’d make sense.
And they want to talk. My god, the aliens with FTL capabilities want to talk to us.
Despite the danger of our present situation, I can’t help but feel giddy. For a moment, the awful smell in my nose is forgotten as my heart is skipping more beats than a low-quality music sampler. Aliens. Actual, real, demonstrable aliens! And they’re here to talk to us! There’s so much we could learn from them, so many things that would be firsts for all Humanity. Maybe they’re here because we’ve passed some test! We’ve just reached the edge of our solar system; maybe they’ve come to induct us into some grand galactic order as a reward for our progress. Or maybe they’re explorers, seeking us out for the same reason we’re heading for N22 Amity. By all the stars, I can’t wait to—
“Capitaine,” says Vista, her voice tinged with anxiety, and my excitement promptly comes crashing down like an African bush elephant trying to use a flight of stairs, “Are you sure that we should respond to them?”
Tristynne doesn’t respond, merely tapping a finger against the armrest of her chair. She lets out a sigh, and mutters, “Bein’ frank, Vista, I don’t see how we have much choice.” She sighs again, fiddling with the netcord at the base of her hand. “If they’ve got weapons, and they think we’re hostile—we’re toast. Simple as that.”
“Might already be,” murmurs Darren, staring down at the polished wood of his desk with a dejected expression. His pale brown eyes are full of worry. “You said it yourself, Cap, they’re probably following us. I can’t quite think of a charitable explanation for why a highly-advanced alien starship would be following this rustbucket.”
“Oi,” says Huhana. “The Compass Rose is no rustbucket. Don’t talk shit about my ship.”
“Not talking shit,” says Darren, without looking up. “Comparing our ship to theirs is like comparing a spitball to an atom bomb. For them, you can be damn certain it’s a rustbucket.”
Huhana is about to respond when Tristynne lets out a frustrated noise closer to a growl than it is to anything else. “Hush, y’all, would you? I’m trying to think,” she says, her tone stern, and the bridge falls silent once more.
“Damn it all,” she says after a moment, pulling the netcord from her hand and socketing it into place. “Darren—be a dear and pick up the phone.”
Darren nods, and his eyes flash blue as he makes his own inputs. “Establishing connection… bridging our comms, and… done. You should be receiving their video feed now, Cap.”
“On the viewer,” says Tristynne, eyes focused on whatever interface only she can see. The image displayed on the huge window vanishes, and the screen flickers for a moment, before the blank pixels are replaced with what I can only assume is the bridge of a starship. It’s well-lit by strips of fluorescent paneling on the walls and the ceiling, and made entirely from grey metal, in stark contrast to the ship’s outwardly crystalline appearance. Like ours, it’s split into two levels, though unlike ours, there’s nowhere I can point to that someone actually sit.
Hmm. Seems these aliens aren’t particularly fond of chairs. Though there are of course plenty of consoles; twelve in total, and built like countertops, with a large holographic screen hovering just above. Stood at each is an individual, vaguely humanoid, though I can’t be completely sure—that’s mostly due to the suit of full body armor that every single one of them is encased from head to toe in. The suits are primarily grey, with very little color to them save for a single stripe over the left shoulder, which varies in color from individual to individual—marking their rank, I suppose.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Everything about this is so much weirder than I had ever expected. The glass hull, now these suits; there’s not even a viewscreen on the helmets. How do they see? I squint at the image, making sure I’m seeing things right, and after a moment I realize that there is something that could fit that description—covering the part of the helmet where a Human’s face ought to be is a sheet of fully opaque glass, colored the same charcoal grey as the rest of the suit. Though, if those are what they’re supposed to be able to see out of, I can’t quite tell how they’re supposed to work; they’re totally opaque, after all.
Maybe they’re… blind? Blind aliens? I guess that could make sense, though it feels difficult to believe that a species of totally blind aliens could make it to the stars at a level of advancement so far above our own. I guess they could have some other way of observing their environment.
The alien in the center of the bridge, stood with their hands clasped behind their back with no console before them and whose shoulder is decorated with a bright yellow stripe—the only one among the bridge crew, I notice—takes a step forward. “Askes,” says the alien, their voice deep and masculine and sounding as though it were amplified—perhaps the suit does that?
“Hello,” says Tristynne evenly, any indication of worry or stress now completely absent from her tone. “I presume what you’ve just said is a greeting, in your language?”
The alien turns their head, speaking a few unintelligible words to one of the others on their bridge, whose shoulder bears a blue streak, and silence rings out for a moment as the blue-shouldered alien moves their hands across their screen. They’re likely translating, I realize, but I can’t help but gawk at their every movement. Their motions are incredibly fluid, looking as though it’s gliding through the air, rather than being directed by commands issued to the muscles. Even their hand is bizarre; it possesses only four fingers, counting a thumb, which gives no indication of a finger being potentially missing. None of the alien bridge crew appear to have any more than four, as a quick glance-over of them reveals; seems their species simply doesn’t have quite as many fingers as Humans.
The blue-rank turns and nods to who I can only assume is their captain, and the yellow-shouldered alien turns their face back toward us, gesturing with their right hand with a brief sweeping motion over their marked shoulder. “It is,” they state, though the words seem to come from further back on the bridge, likely from some speaker overlaying them over the alien’s own words. A translator, then. I wonder how it is that they can translate English, a language which I can’t imagine they’ve had any meaningful contact with—that is, unless these aliens have been visiting us for hundreds of years, which could potentially make sense with their sudden, profoundly-unlikely arrival.
The alien continues. “I greet you. I am Kosarre Aetis Skorai, of Lattike vessel Kama Naeta. There is a prisoner of war aboard your vessel, one of the Ferrian race. We know you’re hiding them. And so, you may have a deal. You will return the prisoner to my people, or my ketilas open fire.”
. . .
AETIS
Their captain’s face is scared.
She does not know she shows it. And her crew does not notice. But her eyes, the slightest curl of her lips and the faint knitting of her brows—I have seen too many emakasas on the battlefield not to recognize it. Even if the emotions are present upon a too-round, too-pale face—fear doesn’t change.
Good. Now they have lost. If they cannot face their fear, they cannot face you. Twist the blade. Use their fear. Father’s words are with me, always, like a lantern by night on the streets of Kyabrasos.
Her fleshy face changes. I see it just seconds before it happens, the shift in her features as it morphs into a picture of confusion. Despite the minor loss in control, I can’t find myself feeling irritated; only… bemused. Her face is so… strange. She has fur falling down the back of her neck, it’s a dark brown and it’s… knotted, like some kind of rope. Pos eskeskas. Her planet must be very cold indeed.
“A… a prisoner of war? I… I don’t understand,” she says, finally speaking more than a singular sentence, and I’m taken aback for a moment at her voice. What sort of accent is that? It has so much… twang, and drag to the syllables. Like every word is a lazy stroll through a field. What strange people these are.
But she goes on in that strange, leisurely voice. “Which war? Thinkin’ you might have the wrong ship… ah, what’d you call yourself? Corsair?”
She is lying. The enemy lies. I allow it to simply glide past me, like water slides over skin. No lie can hurt me, if I refuse it the chance to take root.
And yet… her face seems truly confused, for someone attempting to trick me.
I put the thought from my mind. Scanners do not lie, certainly not the ones aboard my ship. “Kosarre,” I correct, my tone flat and measured. “I am called kosarre. It is like a captain, in your tongue. A ship-commander.”
This is frivolous. Ignore her pleasantries and find the blade.
“The prisoner,” I ask again, raising my voice. “You will cease this distraction and return them to their people. Or, if you wish, we may close this deal with blades. I have no problem with either.”
But the captain only shakes her head, her expression still so profoundly confused. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But we don’t got any prisoners.”
“Our scans indicate otherwise,” I reply, allowing a hint of my frustration to slip into my tone. Let her hear your rage. Let it fuel her fear. “Spectrographic analyses suggest that they are being kept in cryostasis, inside a singular active pod. Return them to us, and escape consequence. I have no desire to end your songs.”
Now she looks absolutely incredulous. “There are no remainin’ active pods, kosarre. My apologies, but your scans are wrong. I can have my officer check, if you want, but… we don’t have what you’re huntin’ for.” She turns to the man beside her, whose fur is flatter, neatly trimmed to only cover the very top of his head. What could be its purpose? Fashion? Do these aliens shape their hair as we change our shades? It is possible, I suppose. His eyes, too; they are narrower than the captain’s. “Darren,” says the captain, interrupting my internal musings. “Go see about the pods, just in case. If any of ‘em are active, you let me know. Clear?”
“As glass, Cap,” says the man—Darren, she called him; a lovely name. Strong, in Ferrian, though I suspect he was not named for that intent. He does certainly looks the part; he is easily the largest of the other ship’s crew. He practically towers over the captain. “I’ll be right back,” continues Darren, and stands from his chair, unplugging what looks to be an electronic cable from a port in his desk and sliding into the base of his… wrist? What?
I can no longer help myself. I offer a silent prayer to tehila, hoping the songs will carry my words. I’m sorry, Father. I wait for Darren to return besides; there is time to talk.
“That cable,” I ask, as Darren steps through a door at the back of the bridge. “In your officer’s arm. What is it? Speak quickly.”
The captain looks back at me, curiosity entering her expression as it begins to replace the confusion, bit by bit. “You… sorry, what, kosarre?”
“The cable,” I repeat. “He placed it inside his wrist. How? Why?”
“It’s… it’s an implant, kosarre,” she says, her tone cautious, as though she traverses a vocal minefield. “We all have ‘em, use ‘em to interface with our tech. Y’all don’t do cybernetics, I s’pose?”
I’m about to respond when Kumina looks at me sharply, swiping one finger down his neck. Silence.
He’s right. This is absurd; they hold a prisoner of war upon their vessel, and actively lie to us to escape punishment. I’ve fraternized with these emakasas quite enough.
“We will contact you within two pentae,” I reply gruffly, uncaring whether she knows what I mean. “Failure to respond will be acknowledged as declaring your hostility.” I gesture sharply at Utotos, and at once his hand goes to his touchscreen, making contact with only a single button. With a loud click, the feed switches off.
“Aetis?” says Kumina, his tone grave as he speaks in our own tongue, “What were you doing?”
“I… I do not know,” I answer. “Curiosity… seized my words, I believe. These… people, they do not match any race in our records. If they do, I do not recall. I… could not help myself.”
Kumina inclines his head. “That is concerning,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I answer.
I let out a sigh, putting two fingers to my forehead. “Utotos,” I say finally. “Call them again in two pentae.” The telun does as I ask, and I sigh again.
The bridge sits in silence for the pentae I ordered Utotos to wait, though my thoughts are anything but.
That was soft, Aetis. My father’s reprimand rings in my ears. You are better than that. You are not soft, but your heart will try to convince you otherwise. You must not listen.
Just like the captain’s lies—I must allow it to glide past me. No seed can grow without roots, and the same, I know, is true of this infantile softness. These questions are like lies—they distract from the truth, keep it hidden from my eyes. They are just as evil as the other ship’s treacherous captain. And so I put these questions—questions upon questions, without end—of the aliens’ nature from my mind. They are irrelevant. If they are smart, they will give to us their charge, and we will be on our way. No further contact is necessary.
And yet I cannot help but feel I am making a great mistake. For if the captain is so deceitful, where, exactly, does the evidence lie? Her face; it was struck with a true confusion. She sent an officer away from their task in order to check to see if our readings were correct, of her own accord. Why would a liar do such a thing?
I let out a quiet hiss. Even as I pull them from my thoughts there are more of these damned questions spawning in my mind. It is an infestation of doubt and naivete.
If there is doubt, then I must clear it away. So the captain is lying—I know this, but where is my evidence?
I allow myself a quiet chuckle. The evidence is aboard her ship. All I need to do is find it.
“Utotos,” I call, and my telun’s gaze meets mine. “Hail them again.”
“Kosarre?” his voice is questioning, unsure of my orders. “You asked that I wait—”
“I know what I asked,” I reply, smoothly cutting him off mid-sentence. “My orders have changed. Hail them again.”
He needs no more encouragement, and does as I say. Within moments, the pixels of the screen before me are populated by the image of the other ship’s bridge.
“Kosarre. S’pose it’s been two of your pen—”
“Captain Landmark.” I cut her off without a moment’s hesitation. “Your lies end here. Prepare for boarding.”
. . .
TRISTYNNE
They’re coming aboard.
The hell did that come from? He switches off the comms for a good minute or two an’ comes back about to board?
“Prepare… prepare for boarding… are you fuckin’ insane?” My voice is sharp, jagged and pissed as all hell. “How’re you planning to even do that? Not like we can just open the fuckin’ airlock, simple as that!”
“That is not your concern,” answers Aetis, and I simply can’t help myself. This has gone on long enough.
“Fuck that, it ain’t my concern! You—”
“SILENCE!” roars Aetis, and the sound practically shoves its way out of the speakers, so loud I’d have heard it over the din of the ISA commons. “I do not require your permission to come aboard your ship and take what is mine,” continues the kosarre, his voice a low, menacing growl, and I swallow. “What belongs to my people. Stand down, captain, or I will tear your legs from their places!”
I don’t speak for a long, long moment. Feels like it goes on forever, on and on and on further’n the stars.
“Fine,” I say, finally ending that eternity of a moment. “Come aboard, kosarre. Look for your fuckin’ prisoner. An’ when you don’t find him, I expect you to fuck right off my ship. We clear, metal man?”
Aetis chuckles, the sound low and metallic as it reverberates out of that stupid metal suit. “It will be as you ask, captain, should it be so.” He waves his hand, and with a click, the visual disappears.
“Prepare,” I say, shaking my head. “Prepare, he said.” What is that even supposed to mean? Fuck’s he thinkin’ we’ll do, lay out a red fuckin’ carpet?
“Is there… anything you’d like us to do, Captain?” asks Everie. I can only shake my head. I’m so fuckin’ tired. Still got a bit of a migraine from the cryopods. Wish we’d never stopped at the border at all, never come out of our pods. But then, I’m sure, they’d still have noticed us, wouldn’t they? Only that way we’d be dead, ‘cause they’d have stormed our ship while we were all asleep.
“Damn it all,” I mutter, glancing over my crew. Nikola—Nikola’s lookin’ through her scanners, distractin’ herself. Always get lost in her books, that girl. And Huhana, sitting in silence as she stares, eyes blank, out the viewer. Vista, she’s pale as a ghost and fidgetin’ with her hands, and… Everie just looks tired.
You and me both, kid.
I jack into my desk, mentally tapping into the ship’s intercom, and speak into it. “Darren Shang, please return to the bridge.” My voice is unsteady, but I don’t let my nerves set their roots too deep. No one needs the captain pissin’ herself.
Wonder what Xiaji’d say about this, whatever foul brand of lunacy this is.
The bridge doors slide open, and I turn to look just in time to see Darren step through. His face is exhausted, deeply confused, and the slightest bit angry. Though I don’t have a mirror handy, I suspect his expression closely resembles my own. “Hey, Cap,” he says. I can’t even work up the strength to reply. “Nothing in the cryopods. Obviously,” he continues. “They’re gonna fuckin’ kill us, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” My tone is flat as a board. “It would appear that they are.”
“Oi,” says Darren. “Bedside manner, Cap.” There’s that stupid fucking grin on his face for a second—that hyena smile, devil-may-care ‘bout the whole damn world. And I can’t help but chuckle, even if it is mostly out of surprise.
“S’pose you’re right, Dare. S’pose you’re right.”
“Captain,” says Nikola cautiously, like the air’s fragile and she’s tryin’ not to break it. “There are… strange readings. I believe the ship is not sure what it is seeing again.”
“They comin’ aboard?” I ask her. “S’pose by teleportation. How else, I guess; this keeps gettin’ better an’ better.”
“I cannot be sure,” Nikola answers. “But yes, I think they are.”
“Mhm. Well, y’all, I don’t think I hope I ain’t gotta tell you this, but keep your comments to yourselves. Wanna try to avoid declarin’ war against an alien species. Clear?”
“Like crystals, capitaine,” says Vista, and the silent assent of the remainder of the crew is clear in their faces.
I stop for a moment. Barely a heartbeat, really. Can’t really think of much to say. Guess we’re just… waitin’ for them?
I’m about to say something—dunno what, probably something tryin’ at being reassuring—when a wave of cold slams into me. Every square inch of air in the room around us drops by a couple dozen degrees, all at once. I jerk forward, practically lurchin’ out of my chair as the sudden cold hits me like a punch to the gut. “What the hell was that?” I shout, doing my best to right myself. The rest of the crew hardly seems to have fared better; Nikola’s all the way out of her chair and on the floor.
“I’m not sure, cap, there… there’s—”
A sudden pressure fills my ears, and I feel them pop. Either Huhana trails off, or I can’t hear her anymore; it doesn’t matter either way, because only a second later, they just appear. Four of them, in those stupid metal suits. Aetis, with his yellow stripe, and two others with blue, plus a final alien, whose shoulder is streaked with violet.
“W-Welcome aboard,” I stammer out, once the ringing in my ears has passed and I’ve pulled myself upright. I stand, holding out a shaky hand in greeting. “Cryopods are th—”
“We know where they are,” booms Aetis. I wince. His voice is even fucking louder in person, like a verbal cannon going off right in my ear. “Scans of your ship have detailed its interior layout. Your assistance is not required, Captain Landmark.”
“Right,” I answer, biting back a retort. “Have it your way, then.”
“Retha,” says Aetis, and the alien with the violet stripe steps up beside him. “Their weapons, please.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“Your weapons, Captain Landmark,” answers the kosarre. “I cannot be sure whether they would be capable of causing us harm. It would be very soft of me to risk them remaining in your possession. So, Retha—collect their weapons.”
The violet stripe, whose name is evidently Retha, nods, and approaches me, holding out an armored hand. “Please do not resist us,” says the alien, in a voice ever so slightly more feminine than Aetis’s. Maybe these aliens are dimorphic, then, like us. Retha continues—“we do not wish to harm you.” Her(?) voice is gentler than Aetis’s; more diplomatic. Ain’t that sweet. Seems they aren’t all raging psychos.
“Nor do we,” I reply, my tone clipped, and I pull my sidearm from its sheath. “S’pose they’ll be returned to us after y’all are done?”
“Should it be so that you do not possess our prisoner, yes,” answers Retha, and I nod quietly, taking my gun by the barrel and passing to her.
“Mind the safety,” I tell her. “Dunno if y’all have those. It’s this little switch, makes sure the gun don’t go off.” I tentatively point at the safety in question, and Retha looks down at the weapon, seeming to inspect it.
“Thank you,” she says, and takes the gun, placing it inside a long rectangular case.
“Yeah, well, don’t mention it. Just makin’ sure it don’t go off and get us all killed ‘cause you think we’re firin’ at you.” My tone is bland. If it were a drink, it’d be a glass of room temp water. Don’t have much emotion left in the bank, honestly. What a fucking day this is.
“Rest of y’all,” I say, turning to face my crew. “Let’s just get this over with, yeah? No fussin’, just hand over the guns.” I can see in their face—they ain’t exactly happy. But… well, at least they’ll be safe. Hope so, anyway.
Retha passes me, her metal boots clanking against the steel paneling of the floor as she approaches the crew. One by one, a string of guns passing into her hands and from there into her box. First Darren, then Nikola, then Huhana.
She comes up to Everie, and I can see ‘im swallowing. Looks scared more’n anything—the exhaustion I saw earlier is deader than a doornail. His pistol’s already out of his sheath, sat in the center of his palm, opened and facing up toward the ceiling.
“It will be alright,” I hear Retha say, and she reaches for the sidearm.
Her metal-covered hand brushes against Everie’s, and my ears pop again as the loudest crack I’ve ever heard shatters the quiet of the room into a million pieces.
. . .