The passenger projectile sank into the landing field of Shikaakwa International Airport with an electric hiss.

Bounce Nakmara Three-five-four leaned forward against the tug of deceleration, grinning out the window. There, beyond the crackle and flare of the landing field, the city of Shikaakwa glittered in the friendly northern sun. She had arrived on the other hemisphere of the globe.

"This is your captain speaking," spoke the voice in her earbud. "We wish to thank you for flying with North-West Railgun Airlines. Local time is 6:00pm, Smokey-Burning-Moon waning. Long Count Date is Tun 11 Uinal 3 Kin 8. For our connecting passengers, good luck on your next launch, and if this is your final destination, welcome to Shikaakwa, capital of the Ilinwa Republic."

They settled onto the tarmac, rocking slightly.

"We have safely landed, but please do not release your crash-netting. You will be free to collect your luggage and move about the cabin once the projectile has been completely degaussed."

Around her, Ilinwa and other Americans stretched their long limbs and fussed with their body-paint. Bounce's fellow Gondwanans stayed in their cradles, massaging silicone insulate onto their pigment-blotted chests and bellies. Most of them were just passing through the little Ilinwa Republic, and didn't like standing in any case. Bounce, though, sprang off of her cradle as soon as the netting fell away. She was the first person off the projectile.

The terminal was crowded and mundane. Yes, it was fall here while it was spring back in Gondwana, and yes, there were lots of North American decorations in black and red and tan. But Bounce still had to deal with customs inspectors, and a baggage claim, just like everywhere else in the world. She was practically vibrating with impatience by the time she finally got through the line, signed the waiver, and reactivated her com.

Bounce's hand went to the fat crescent of wood-patterned plastic hanging at her throat. She slid her fingers across the com's upper surface and held her other hand in front of its camera eyes. She waited until the com vibrated, then made a command gesture. The machine buzzed again, and her opticals flashed.

Bounce couldn't help but grin as her field of vision filled with messages and notifications, pings from her automated luggage, and augmented reality pop-ups. She was really here, on the other side of the world, logging in.

There, prioritized over the well-wishing texts from her family and friends, were the messages from the university.

Bounce's grin widened. She had a personal message from her adviser, a schedule of study and work prepared for her, a new country and culture to explore, a new life, full of opportunities just waiting for her to step up and seize them.

Her glee lasted right up until she actually called her adviser.

***

"What home-stay program?"

Blots of dark skin rose over Grandstand's eyes. "I thought you would be pleased, Bounce."

The professor of Eurasian Languages floated in the chat window projected by her opticals: blotted flesh, gleaming in the cup of a tastefully wood-trimmed cradle. Visible in the background were the workspace and windows of the university office that Bounce would not see today, squatting as she was in the cradle of an automated taxi, rushing through the air toward some family of total strangers.

Bounce focused on the positive. "I suppose it'll be a good opportunity to improve my Ilinwa language."

"Ilinwa?" Professor Grandstand blinked golden eyes. His Gondwanan bulk combined with his chocolate-colored facial blotting to give the man the look of a confused pudding. "Oh, I see." He signed the negation in hand-talk.

<'No' what?> Bounce responded.

"You won't be with an Ilinwa family. You're staying with the," . Grandstand closed his eyes and enunciated the foreign name with a philologist's relish. "You're staying with the Miller family."

Augmented reality images flickered as Bounce squinted. "Mii-what?" The streets rushing under the taxi were getting steadily seedier. "That doesn't sound—I mean, what kind of name is that?"

"An English one." Professor Grandstand settled his manifold bulk more comfortably in his cradle. "English. You've never even heard of it?" The professor's facial blots outlined a neutral expression, but his hands twisted to sign,

"I guess it's some Eurasian language?"

Why obviously? Bounce nervously patted her ochre hair-beads and smoothed the silicone insulate over her breasts. She'd prefer to meet her host family after she'd had a chance to freshen up. "Do they at least speak Ilinwa?"

A pause. "You know I am a professor of the Languages of Eurasia."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Yes, and what on earth was a Eurasian language specialist doing in North America? Because Professor Grandstand couldn't hack it back in competitive Gondwana, Bounce worried, and the real Native Eurasians would have eaten him for breakfast. Maybe literally.

"English," Grandstand repeated. "It isn't North American. It's the language of one of the indigenous peoples of the island of Great Britain, in the North Sea State. They had a reasonably developed civilization before the discovery of the Northern Hemisphere, although never so technologically proficient as the Han or the Arabs..."

Bounce closed her eyes. The twenty-hour projectile flight settled on her like warm plastic wrapping.

"… but a large group was relocated to North America back in the tenth Baktun to work in the Centralized timber plantations in what is now East Algonquia."

Bounce flailed weakly. "I don't know a word of Ing…Inglits"

"English," he corrected, moving his fingers into a sign. "It shouldn't be difficult for you. You've studied the Germanic Languages."

"I've studied a Germanic language." There had been a Gothic guy, back in Gondwana.

Several uncomfortable seconds clomped by before Professor Grandstand cleared his throat. "Well, you're still the best qualified of anyone else who applied for position. Not that Gothic is particularly similar to English."

Bounce opened her mouth, but Grandstand was already signing, "Here are the documents about the program," he said. "Your schedule is on top, then the contact information for the Millers."

That wasn't much. No com ID, no social media profiles. Just a map-pin in an area of Shikaakwa called Waapilookinki.

Bounce forced her tired brain to parse the Ilinwa locative phrase. "White-Town?" she said.

"That's a reasonable translation. It's a—well, you'll see when you get there, I'm sure."

"What about their com ID?" Bounce pressed. "Can I call them before I get there?"

"They don't have a com. The Millers aren't really on the Grid."

Bounce's hands twitched. Not that she held any prejudice, but even hobos were on the Grid.

"Don't worry," said Grandstand. "I've even appended an English phrasebook to the materials I'm sending you."

A red light blinked in Bounce's lower vision. The file size was minuscule.

"And of course I would be delighted to begin English lessons with you as soon as possible."

On top of the Gondwanan classes she was supposed to teach? With no dorm, no room-mate, no networking for the job she might eventually want to get. Just an expensive and time-consuming commute between campus and the ominous-sounding "White-town."

Bounce put her hand on her belly and whispered Best Practices to herself until she felt better.

What are you feeling? That's fear. There are better ways to keep safe. Count the grass stems. What are the shapes of the clouds?

Bounce could see no clouds through the taxi's windows. The glass pyramids and geodesics of downtown Shikaakwa had been replaced by squat structures of brick and concrete-board, weirdly rectilinear. Trash swirled across badly-laid pavement, and thin, cloth-shrouded children turned pale, blotless faces up toward her.

Creepy. But why was Bounce here if not for new experiences? And what could be more exotic than actually living with Native Eurasians? The Gothic boy had been pretty good. You got used to the blank expression.

Professor Grandstand signed his approval. "You should be excited about this opportunity." "You're almost at the Miller family's residence, so you'll need to change."

Her adviser's blots furrowed over his eyes. "Change into some more modest clothes, I mean. The Millers, like most of their community, are superstitious—part of the international cult of Iesous Khristos." His eyes went to her bare chest. "You did bring a shirt, didn't you?"

"A what?" Bounce blinked into her opticals, still processing that thing about international cults.

"A shirt," Grandstand repeated. "It's the English word for the Chemise. Did you pack one?"

"Of course I didn't. I didn't know any of this until just now." The alarm caught up with her. "They force women to wear the Chemise here?"

A blot over Professor Grandstand's right eye twitched. "I expect my advisees to be more open-minded, Bounce. You will be living with these people."

Living with Native Eurasians? Native Eurasians steeped in traditional superstitions. Women in the Chemise. Men in the Chapeau. Cults to this or that ancient charlatan. Bounce remembered news videos about bombings in Massadchuset and Turitg. Riots in Nanjing. And, more to the point, bare-chested female tourists getting beaten to death in Ruum.

"I'm sure I mentioned this in the documents I sent you," said Professor Grandstand, "You don't have time to stop to buy something now. You're already late to their evening meal, and they'll be upset if you make them wait further. Hospitality rituals."

"Hospitality rituals," Bounce felt dizzy. "Right. You aren't going to introduce me, at least? Nobody here is on the Grid."

"And I think it's best to avoid my physical presence in Waapilookinki at this time," said Grandstand. "I may have somewhat overstayed my welcome the last time I was there."

No, Bounce didn't know, but the taxi was already slowing. Stray dogs wandered between the wooden structures. A single, undersized energy pylon stood not entirely vertically on a field of littered concrete, broadcasting barely enough Grid to support Bounce's vehicle. A shrouded figured scuttled across the square, its gender impossible to distinguish under folds of choking fabric.

"Have fun," Professor Grandstand said, "and…" Bounce focused on the chat window and saw that he was signing at her. But it wasn't any hand-talk she knew.

Professor Grandstand's fist was clenched, stretched out at her as if to punch her through the virtual window. His thumb popped up out of the fist. He said two words in English, followed by the translation: "Good luck."

Meaning she was going to need it? Bounce signed the taxi's payment confirmation with numb fingers and stumbled out of it into the night, followed by her luggage. Dogs barked at her. The smell of burning garbage filled the air. Bounce swallowed, and tried not to imagine the reaction of the barbarians to her nipples.