> Jessica Richards

> Date: March? Who knows?

> Location: Still Freaking Outer Space

“Who died and made her queen?” Jessica asked no one, glaring at the German woman.

“I not think she used to people who say no,” Chris muttered. “She must be very rich woman.”

“Or she's a lieutenant.” Peter smirked. “I knew some butterbars like that.”

The German woman in the now-wrinkled evening gown, her hair looking equally disheveled, was Katharina Renata Wolter. They all knew her name, because she'd repeated it several times like they were supposed to be impressed. Currently, she was busy yelling at the big brown-skinned guy, but since she was doing it in German the only part that Jessica could understand was that she apparently thought he was Arabic and was calling him Achmed. He was being very polite about it, though, especially considering he was an Indian named Manjeet Patil and turned out to speak very good English with a British accent -- but not one bit of German. No one there did, in fact, except for Ms. Wolter; though apparently she thought the others would understand her if only she repeated herself a little slower and louder. She really seemed to like being loud.

The Hispanic guy, a stocky, scarred, and tattooed Mexican named Ignacio but who said to call him “Nash,” muttered something in Spanish. Peter nodded in agreement and said something back. It turned out he spoke Spanish even better than he spoke Japanese.

Jessica looked at him questioningly, and Peter just shrugged. “Nash says his hotel must have hosted her extended family a few times, because her voice is familiar.”

“Right.” Jessica eyed Nash for a moment. She didn't speak Spanish, but she could recognize a word here or there, and she was pretty certain he'd mentioned something about a knife in there. Speaking of which . . . “So, do we have anything we can use for whatever we're here for?”

“Anything to 'use,' huh?” Peter shook his head. “I already checked. They took my gun and mags and pocket knives.”

“You carry a gun? And more than one knife?”

“You don't?”

“Of course not!”

“Let me guess. Chicago, right? No, wait, you sound more like Sacramento.”

“Denver. What does that have to do with it?”

Peter laughed. “Yeah, that would explain it. Anyway, anyone who might have carried anything interesting already got them taken. Nash's knives and brass knuckles are gone. Thando had a blackjack, that's gone. Even Rick's rosary was taken. He's kind of torn up about that. Apparently it was special.”

“Knives and brass knuckles?” Jessica's eyebrows rose. “And a blackjack? What?”

“One cannot be too careful,” Thando Xolani spoke up from a few feet away. He was the biggest guy there, both in height and muscle mass. He spoke English slowly but fluently, with a heavy South African accent. “I occasionally had clients who wished to renegotiate the price to charter my plane. I had a very nice pistol as well, but I did not have it on me when I was taken.”

Nash just grunted. “Hotel. Many touristas.”

“Remind me not to vacation at your hotel, then.” Jessica looked the Mexican up and down. “Were you the gardener?”

“Que?” Nash looked at Peter, who provided a translation. The stocky man laughed, but it had an edge of mockery in it. “Mujer racista.”

Jessica certainly recognized those words. “Hey, no need to get nasty. It's just . . . your hands look like a gardener's?” She tried to hide a wince as she realized how lame that sounded.

“Yo era el cocinero, idiota Norte.”

“He says he was the cook,” Peter translated, helpfully leaving off the other half of what Nash had said. Nash said a few more words, and Peter added, “Actually, he was the chief chef at a resort.”

“A chef?” Jessica couldn't help but feel skeptical. Nash's nose had clearly been broken at some point, and he had several scars on his face and hands that didn't look like kitchen accidents.

“If you were in Japan,” Chris broke in cheerfully, “people not think you a gardener. They would think you Yakuza!”

Nash grunted. “No Yakuza. Chef. Bad . . . niñez?”

“Childhood,” Peter supplied.

“Si.”

Jessica eyed him skeptically, but shrugged. “I can't judge. I'm white. I don't know what it's like to be a disadvantaged Latinx. I'm sorry for assuming--”

“Mierda de toros.” Nash covered one half of his face and gave Peter a look.

Peter cleared his throat. “It's pronounced Latino.”

“What? No, the inclusivity standards at work--”

He raised a hand to interrupt. Jessica flushed, about to get angry, when she realized he wasn't stopping her. He was cutting off Nash, who had clearly been about to say something. And who was obviously ticked off.

"Le hago frente, Nash," Pete said out loud, not taking his eyes off Jessica. "Look, Jessica, this isn't a safe, comfortable place with lots of bureaucracy and defined rules. We're prisoners."

“What does that have to do with--”

“Because prison means all the old social dynamics are thrown out. Nash here? I don't know his history, but I recognize some of his tats. He's got way more experience with this kind of thing than you or me. What you're used to doesn't work here. We've got eleven people, all from different parts of the world, and we can barely communicate. That means lowest common denominator. We don't need what works on your college campus."

"From what I hear," Thando rumbled, "it is debatable that it works at all."

Jessica's face flushed. "I don't need to be lectured on--"

"Apparently you do." Pete's voice was firm, but not particularly harsh. "Look, just stop it with the assumptions, okay? Don't be like the German Sermon over there."

"What? I am nothing like her."

Pete shrugged. "Prove it. Dump the college standards and meet people where they are.”

Jessica looked away, gritting her teeth. How dare he?

Chris leaned into her field of vision. "You not going to start screaming, no?"

"What?"

"On Internet, American college girls start screaming when told no."

"Seriously? That is such a false stereotype--!"

Pete raised an eyebrow meaningfully, and Jessica broke off what she was saying. A fresh wave of embarrassment flowed through her. Damn it. She knew he was right . . . but what else could she do? How did she know how to act if she didn't know the rules? Jessica could feel the anxiety growing again.

"Hey."

Jessica felt a hand rest on her shoulder, and she looked up, expecting to see Pete. But to her surprise, it was Nash.

"Toma un momento, muchacha." His voice was gruff and awkward. "Sólo respira. Por qué no te enfocas ahora?"

"He said to breathe," Pete translated. "And focus."

Focus on what? She was a schoolteacher. Well, almost. She technically wasn't certified yet. But still, there weren't any kids here. What was she supposed to do? What good were any of her skills now?

Come to think of it, why weren't any kids here in the first place? Jessica frowned as she glanced around the room again. Eleven people. No one obviously older. Early thirties at most. The youngest person looked to be Chris, who had to be a teenager still. No one looked more than ten years older than her, and that was Katharina Wolter and Ricardo. That suggested something, but she didn't know what.

“So anyway," Thando continued, "we have no weapons, no tools?”

“Not even my house key,” Chris confirmed. “Still have wallet with cash.”

“Great, so we can bribe them.” Jessica shook her head, forcing down her uncertainty. It was just like taking charge of a classroom. Be firm, have a plan. “Okay, so what do we know?”

“Other than being trapped on an alien ship?” Peter shrugged. “Zero. Zip. Nada. We don't even know what the aliens look like.”

“Just that they not have artificial gravity.”

The others looked at Chris with confusion -- Nash because he had no clue what Chris said, and Peter, Jessica, and Thando for a different reason.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Peter asked after a moment. “We're in space, we've got gravity, so that's artificial, right?”

“Yeah, but the stars are spinning out there.” Chris pointed at the big door with its one window that showed the outside. “Plus, Ricardo say so.”

“Ricardo only speaks Portuguese.” Jessica studied him. “You speak Portuguese?”

“No, but I speak physics. Ricardo-sensei!”

“Sim?” The Brazilian looked up from where he was . . . studying his shoe? What?

Ricardo Guerra, who was only able to talk to the others through a painful game of multi-lingual telephone -- Nash was apparently able to get the gist of it, and then could translate it to Peter who could relay it to Jessica, Thando, and Chris -- was probably around thirty, but looked older due to premature balding. Had apparently been abducted when he'd been stargazing in the hills outside of Rio. He'd said he had been preparing a lesson for his students, who were either middle school or high school -- Peter said he couldn't tell.

Right now, Ricardo had his right shoe off, so he awkwardly limped over to the group. “Como posso ajudá-lo?”

“Rotating frame,” Chris said, smiling and pointing at the shoe Ricardo was holding in one hand. “Uh. Frame . . . reference? I not remember English exactly. But that.”

“No clue what you mean,” Peter grumbled. He sighed and started trying to translate it through Nash.

But Ricardo held up his other hand, shaking his head. “Olha para isto,” he said, smiling gently. He hefted the shoe, glancing around the room like he was trying to reassure himself where he was, then tossed it in the air. He caught it in his other hand, fumbling a little as he did so, then looked at the group expectantly.

“See?” Chris looked happy, like it was obvious.

Ricardo looked back and forth between them, like he expected them to get it too. When we didn't, he just shrugged and pressed his shoe into Jessica's hand.

“Ew.” She looked down at the footwear like it was contaminated. “What am I supposed to do with --”

She broke off as Ricardo motioned for her to throw it in the air. “Pegar, voce pegar.”

“Atrapas,” Nash supplied.

“He wants you to throw it up in the air and catch it,” Peter translated.

“What am I, a monkey?” Jessica grumbled, but did as she was told. She had to duck as it almost came down on her head, and flushed with embarrassment. Of all the things to screw up on . . .

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Outra vez.” Ricardo motioned for her to do it again. “Mas vire,” he added, turning ninety degrees and looking expectantly at her.

“He want you to face this way,” Chris said.

“Yeah, I got that one.” Jessica sighed, picked up the shoe, and rotated to face the big door before throwing the shoe, higher this time.

The shoe seemed to move on its own in mid-air, like it was steering itself . . . and landed in Ricardo's waiting hand.

“The fuck?” Peter asked rhetorically.

“Rotating reference!” Chris said proudly, then sighed as no one else got it. “Ricardo-sensei is physics teacher, remember? He noticed, I saw. Throw shoe up, it still move at same speed, so it move little to side in . . . um, spin direction.”

“Like on a merry-go-round.” Jessica understood. “Or . . . I guess it's a ferris wheel. The whole room is on a ferris wheel!”

“But why?” Peter squinted at the ceiling. “If they're aliens, why can't they just . . . you know, have artificial gravity? Like on Star Trek?”

“I not know,” Chris admitted. “Ricardo-sensei? Why spin?” He twirled his finger for emphasis.

Ricardo nodded to show he understood, and opened his mouth. Then he hesitated, thinking it over, and slowly grew frustrated. “Complicado.”

“He said--”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that one.” Jessica scowled. “Too complicated to translate. Is it important?”

“Importante?” Ricardo repeated. He spread his hands. “Possivelmente.”

“It mean alien not have Star Trek kind of technology,” Chris pointed out. “Not magic. And we maybe can figure it out.”

“No information on your captors is useless.” Peter nodded at Ricardo. “Gracias. We just need to know how we can use it. Back in SERE School --”

“Excuse.”

The six of them looked up in unison to see the Russian guy stepping closer. He was dressed in stained clothing, including a worn zip-up hoodie jacket; but the kind that looked like a set of well-used work clothing rather than indicative of a slovenly lifestyle. Jessica hadn't had a chance to talk to him yet, between Ms. Wolter jabbering at him in what even to Jessica sounded like broken Russian, and the guy himself mostly ignoring everyone else to wander around looking at the pipes and panels scattered around the room.

“Hi.” Jessica stuck out her hand. “I'm Jessica Richards.”

“Privet.” He shook her hand. “Nestir Volkov. Remontnik.”

“Remon-what?”

“Ispravit? Slysh, fixirovat? Fixirovat.” Nestir mimed holding something and twisting something else into it.

“Fix? Fixing?” Peter asked. “You're a mechanic?”

“Da!” Nestir grinned. “Mech-a-nik.”

“Nice to meet you, Nester.” Jessica said.

“Nestir,” the Russian corrected her.

“That's what I said.”

“No it not.” Chris shook his head.

“Whatever.” Jessica scowled. “I'm not great with languages, so what?”

Peter cleared his throat, giving her a meaningful glance.

Right. Pay attention. No assumptions. “What can I do for you, Nestir?”

Nestir waved a hand. “Ugol. Ugol?”

“What?”

Nestir frowned. “Slysh . . .” He pulled at his jacket so it lay straight, then pointed at the edge. “Ugol.”

“Seam? Thread?”

“Ugol.” He ran his hand to the edge below the zipper. “Ugol.”

“Corner,” Jessica guessed. She fished out her RFID card from her pocket and tapped the edge. “Corner.”

“Da.” Nestir nodded. “Kor-nor.” Then he tapped his right eye, followed by his right ear, then gestured at the room they were in. “Ugol.” He repeated the gesture.

“Eye, ear, corner,” Jessica repeated out loud. “Eye, ear, corner.”

“Eyes and ears,” Thando stated after a moment. He looked around the room. “Eyes and ears in the corners.”

“Da.” Nestir nodded.

“Cameras.” Peter looked around as well. “Of course. They're watching us. And if they're watching us, they're listening. Look, right there.”

Jessica followed his eyes and saw a small object in one of the corners of the room. It was so small she wouldn't have guessed it was there if she hadn't been looking for it. But Nestir was right; it even looked like a camera, lens and all.

Realistic technology, she realized. Just like Chris said. It wasn't magic. But what could they do with that?

“So they're watching us,” she said out loud. “So?”

“We don't know how good their cameras and microphones are,” Peter pointed out, lowering his voice. “We should assume everything we say is being recorded.”

“Good.” Jessica scowled and started marching to the closest corner of the room. “I'm tired of waiting.”

“Wait--!” Peter hissed.

She ignored him. He wanted her to be in charge, so she'd be in charge. Jessica was tired, scared, uncomfortable, hungry, and worst of all, she really needed to go.

“Hey, you!” she shouted up at the tiny camera. “Yeah, you, you bug-eyed ET freaks! Get out here on your slimy tentacles and give us a freaking porta-john or you're not going to like the result!”

There was silence in the cargo bay, as every human there not already watching her turned to see what was going on.

“Hey, ET, anyone home?” Jessica glared upward. “You know I know you're there. I don't want to be a Karen, but I'd like to speak to the manager!”

“Speak you for people yours?”

Jessica looked up at the camera incredulously. For a moment, she wondered if they'd been wrong, and it wasn't aliens after all. That voice was just . . . so cliché.

“Well, yeah,” she finally said, letting the sarcasm practically drip from her voice. “I mean, no one here wants a mess, right?”

She glanced around the room. Wolter yelled something incomprehensible in German. Most of the others looked as perplexed as Jessica felt. That included Chris, the resident science fiction nerd, which made Jessica feel a bit better.

Apparently, even he hadn't expected their first alien to speak using the voice of Microsoft freaking Sam.

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

> Chief Supervisor Holm Dar

> Date: 2.15.2623 HC

> Location: Librarian Survey Ship Curious Observer, transiting Sector E5J7

“Interesting,” Nna murmured.

“What is it?” Holm asked. On the monitors, the natives were still milling around, agitated but calmer than he had expected based on the thousand-cycle-old records from the previous Librarian expedition.

“The natives have ascertained not only the direction of our spin but also the strength of the simulated gravity.” Nna pointed one manipulator toward the In'kissh-speaking group. “I had not expected them to be so familiar with these concepts. None of the crude habitats in orbit over their world used rotation-simulated gravity. It is unusual for species at their level of uplift to be so practiced in advanced science.”

“Wouldn't they have noticed it from looking out the viewport? It is not as if simulated gravity is a secret.”

“Understanding the connection is one thing. Calculating it is another. Did you see how Subject Eleven was able to catch that foot-covering like it was instinct? That is an impressive display of mathematical calculation. My species can do that more easily than most, but it is based in our specific evolutionary advantages as ambush predators. All research from the previous expeditions indicate these natives evolved as pack hunters.”

“We still are not certain how long the Domination have been uplifting them,” Holm pointed out. “It might be a hundred cycles or more.”

“Perhaps.” Nna was noncommittal. “I shall require more time to develop a theory. The Domination is not typically so patient. It is not inconceivable that they would deviate from their expected pattern of only teaching useful education to a newly-conquered species after a generation or so of indoctrination and conditioning; but it is unlikely they would do so without specific reason. Their pattern is part of their superstitions, after all. We must be careful not to overlook anything.”

“If anyone can figure it out, old friend, it's you.”

“Perhaps,” the tsirlan said again. “Ah. They have noticed the cargo bay cameras. It appears I have obtained all the data I can without interference.”

“What is Subject Nine saying?”

Nna keyed the computer to play the translation out loud so Holm could hear.

“Attention, you. Affirmative . . . for you have insect eyes . . . and are not of my planet's norms. . . . Ambulate on your mucus-filmed tentacles and provide a . . . [error] [error] . . . or you will be displeased with such consequences.”

“The computer seems to be having difficulty,” Holm noted. “Didn't we get a language dump from their planetary datanet?”

“Ink'issh appears to be a language of some nuance,” Nna admitted. “Significant context is missing. It shares much vocabulary with other native languages, so much that if it were less complex I would assume it was an artificial language like Hegemony Standard. It certainly did not exist at the time of the survey a thousand cycles ago. However, it is too . . . messy to be a constructed language. And yes, even for the Domination's standards. Regardless, it will take the computer significant time and greater sampling to adapt.”

Holm squinted at the hologram, which was still berating the camera, her words amusingly at odds with the computer's calm tones. “Is it threatening us?”

“I believe she is attempting to warn us that they require a place to defecate.” Nna manipulated one of the readouts, which was offering alternate translations. “It appears the term she used was for an ambulatory waste-management collector.”

“Ambulatory?” Holm imagined some sort of robot going around collecting bodily waste from the natives. No, they were being groomed by the Domination; perhaps they had a caste of sentients whose job it was to collect such waste from their betters? “Hopefully that is a translation error.”

“Regardless, with them now clearly understanding that they are being observed, it is pointless to continue passive study. The knowledge will change their behavior. Fortunately, I already converted and installed an artificial human voice from their datanet into the translation computer.” Nna pressed a series of controls with two manipulators, then spoke. “Do you speak for your people?”

The primitives froze; a curious display for a Hunter species, Holm noted absently. Hunters normally bristled or otherwise expressed a threatening nature. These were members of a superstitious species, so perhaps the intercom seemed like the voice of their war god? They had satellites and radio, so presumably they were familiar with at least the concept of an intercom, even if it might be primarily used by their upper caste to issue orders to the lower; but surely simultaneous translation through directional speakers would seem like magic to such primitives.

“Affirmation,” Subject Nine said, after a few ticks of apparent thought. “None of us desire disorder.”

“Affirmation!” Subject Six yelled at the same time. “Without question!”

“It appears you were correct.” Holm flicked an ear at Nna. “Subject Nine is the leader. Even Subject Six confirms it, and you had said Six was too assertive to lead.”

Nna spoke into the computer again. “Waste management will be provided momentarily. Time was required to fabricate a copy of the equipment customary to your planet.”

“Who are you?” Subject Eight demanded after a moment. “Where are you taking us?”

“How forthcoming do you wish me to be?” Nna asked Holm.

“Any of them who are familiar with the Domination will already be aware that this must be a Hegemony ship,” Holm answered. “Those who are unaware of the Domination's influence will not likely be harmed by the knowledge, but a Librarian intelligence specialist may wish us to limit our interactions until a proper interrogation.” He thought about it for a few ticks. “Perhaps we should focus on the minimum necessary to prevent agitation.”

“Very well.” Nna keyed the intercom once more. “We are specialists from an exploration agency. We surveyed your system and found many discrepancies. You are being taken for examination regarding these discrepancies.”

“Insanity,” Subject One remarked in his native language, though Holm noticed this was flagged as a possible error in the translation software as Subject One's tone did not match the statement. This was compounded by his next words, spoken in Ink'issh instead of Gyp'aniss. “Lower temperature! The foreigners are speaking in all our languages at once, are they not? Similar to the reality-encompassing translator from Stellar Journey.”

“Are they already familiar with translation software?” Holm asked, after making certain his words weren't being transmitted to the cargo bay.

“The subjects used that term, 'stellar journey,' several times in reference to technology they considered impossible or beyond understanding,” Nna replied. “It appears to be a reference to a shared cultural element, possibly one of their myths.”

“Ah.”

Holm, oddly, felt a little disappointed by that. Not only would it have been good to confirm Domination influence so early, it was also saddening to see anyone in the grip of such superstition.

He genuinely hoped this species could be brought peacefully into the Hegemony, despite their Domination influence and distance from secure space. He hated the thought of such ignorance, and had always wanted to be part of a first-contact team. Simultaneous computer translation was common throughout the Hegemony; while the Standard language was designed to be universal, it was not easy for every species, and some, such as the tsirlans, physically could not speak it at all. It was Hegemony regulation that high-traffic areas of any ship -- like the cargo bay, which might see any number of individuals during replenishment or repair -- must contain directional speakers in case of a failure of any personal translation devices. It was hardly magical, simply practical. To think that sentients would treat it as something mythical was unfortunate.

“I demand you return me to [my planet] at once!” Subject Six strode forward, clearly angry. Holm could tell that even being so unfamiliar with the natives' body language. “I am the [bond-mate] of [error] [error]! You are guilty of [criminal offense]!”

Holm had to check the translation readout for the missing words, and saw the natives apparently called their planet Ground. That wasn't uncommon in the galaxy. His own homeworld's name translated into Standard as Shore, reflecting his ancestors' amphibious nature. He'd half-expected their name to be a poetic mess like the Domination's capital planet, Blue Flower Under the Stars.

Nna was reading the translation report as well. “It appears she is under a form of contractual reproductive obligation to a senior official in her tribe.”

“Excellent.” Holm nodded. “Perhaps she will be able to provide the interrogators with good intelligence.”

“How long will we be gone?” Subject Nine asked.

Nna keyed the intercom. “Indeterminate. You will be detained until the investigation is complete. Your status beyond that depends on the results of the investigation.”

Subject Nine looked around, as if examining her companions. “Why did you choose us?”

“You were subjects of convenience,” Nna told her. “Individuals easily retrieved in areas selected for closer study based on the technological status of each region.”

“To see if we're ready to join you?” Subject One seemed somehow happy at the thought. Perhaps there was hope for this species after all.

“No. For study regarding discrepancies.”

“What discrepancies?” Subjects Eleven and Seven asked the same question in what would have been unison if not for speaking different languages.

“That information would require significant explanation,” Nna replied.

Subject Eleven looked at Seven, though Holm couldn't understand the expression. Thoughtful? Annoyed? “Can you use your translation equipment to provide our own words to each of us?” he asked.

“I see no reason to forbid it,” Holm said in response to Nna's silent look. “We have examples of primitive audio output devices from some of the subjects. We could easily fabricate similar equipment that would have an equivalent level of technology and have that connect to the translation computer. It will also help us refine the program.”

“Personal translation devices can be arranged,” Nna told the subjects. The other subjects, not having understood the previous question even though the computer logged Subject Eleven's language as a complex dialect of Sa'pnissh, looked surprised at this.

“We also require food, water, and clean clothing,” Subject Eight added.

“And medical supplies.” This from Subject Four, speaking In'kissh rather than the native language listed for him -- Hin'dee, according to the translation software. “And our personal belongings.”

“The items confiscated from you shall not be returned.”

“What of [error - identification: Subject Eleven] [error]? It is merely a . . . [religious artifact].”

“Superstition shall not be permitted,” Nna said firmly.

Holm checked the translation record, but the computer had nothing. “What is the item?”

“The decorative garrote with the image of their war-god.” Nna flicked a manipulator dismissively. “An attempt to retrieve a weapon, crude and clumsy as it is.”

“The [unobstructed expression] of religion is a basic [species] right,” Subject Four insisted.

“Even if that were true, you are prisoners. Your rights do not apply.”

“Even prisoners have rights!” Subject Nine placed her hands on her hips and stared at the closest camera.

Holm flipped both ears in confusion, glancing at Nna. The tsirlan, of course, had almost no expression, but long cycles of experience told Holm that Nna was perplexed by that statement as well.

Nna keyed the intercom. “Perhaps I was unclear. You are prisoners of the Galactic Hegemony. You have no rank. By regulation, those without rank have no rights."