Resurrection Log: Ź̷̼͖ý̶̧̡̩̫͉͔͇̓̈́̋̎̽̌͐͛̈́̎̒́̐̍͠r̴̢͓̖̲͙̲̮͋̉̓̾͒̑͜͠ͅa̵̡̨̦͍͉̳͎͕̞͔̲̺̰̩̩̽͑̆̈̌́̏͝g̵̼͈̟̗͔͋́̈́̀͆̀̚ą̸̯̽̈́̑͒͑́ṙ̷͙̝̥͔̳̜̗͖̦͉͓͕͗̈́̇̇͂̐̍̒̍̔d̸͇̞̥͓̠̈́͒͋̌̐͝ ̶̨̧̛͔̲̻̖͚̠̣͔̻̰̫̒̇͐͜͠T̴̠͓͔̦̩̻̼̖̽͆̍͆̓̊̽̔̚͠ơ̷̶̵̸̸̸̡̛̛̬̖̰̦̦̮͚̗̞̻̻̞̻̙̘̘͈͈̭̲͙̪͍̭̭͉͚̤̅̾̽͋̀̑̋̆̍̉̇̉̈́̿͋͒̇̊̓̂̿̿̑̈́͆͑͌̂̌̑̆̉͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ţ̷̢̢̛͙̩͎̥͈̝̖̈̄͛̄͊̆̓̈́̊ͅͅȩ̸̠͍̱̖̺̣̖̄̉̔͜ņ̷̡͓̘̥̠̖̝̺͈̥͔̲͊k̴̛̯̫̪͑̽̔́̅͂̿̂͋̉̂̕͘͠y̵̟̟̰̪̻̼̖̌̽̇̓́̍̃͒̾̕̚͝͠r̵̢̨̠͉̼̲̲͛͒̂̽̄͐͌̏͘͘͝a̴̛̰̙̫͂͐̓̐ḿ̷̡̛̤͙͕̼̱̻͙̔͌̓̈̏͑̔̈́̓͘̚ą̸̧̧̯̺̫͈̞͎̻̤̫̂͐̐͘ņ̷̨̱̖̟͖͚̣̂͌͗̌̾̔́̕ ̶̨̨̲̘̭͚̣̝̞̲͔̦̽̾̏̄̒́̚͝K̷̖̻̘̣͐̽̀̅͛͜͜͜ṟ̴̛͇̺͈̲͉̤̰̰̥͉͓̜͑̈́͌̔̍̓́̕ą̷̼̄̾͊̓̽̾͊̈̒̍̍́̉̚͝l̸̨̞͇͈̖͔̘̜̱̦͈̊

Year 76,589 of the —Mother of Ruin—

M:6 D:18

Day 974 of Cycle 3

[transcribed memory/thoughtstream generated by Ṁ̵̢̘̭̬̙̘̦̳͓̺͈̪̒̂ǫ̵̨̛̠̫̻̐̋̓͗͗͗̏̎͂̿͌̕t̴̜̪͇͕͚́̓͐h̴̯͍̼̦̯̝̜̝̤͂͋͆͌͗͝ę̸͉͖͕̜̤̘͙͎͚̈́̏͒̒̄̏̃̋͘̕͘͜ȓ̸̢̨͍͉̱̮̞͔̋̇ ̴̡̛̱̳̘̠͎̫̩̪̦̠̦̣̀͒͛͊̚͠G̷̰̹̝͆̈͜į̸̧̟͙̰͖̳̯̈́̒͜͜g̶͉̗̹̻̟̰̞̭̠͉͙̈́͊̌̈̈̓̐̒̕ạ̵̧̧̘͖͔̟̝̳̅̇̂̂̅̓̇͛̓͋̊̏̇̕t̵̮̉͒̋̄̑̇̌̀̅͑̋͋r̶̻̟͗̋̀̆̿̃̔̄͒̎̊̈́̚o̵̪̦͇̫̾̋̊̾̋͗͗̊͊̄͜͠͝ḡ̵̛̰͎̇̐͒͋̊̀͝ẗ̶̡̮̠͈̗̗̃͛̈̊̾ḩ̴͍̖͖̥͈̻̪̖̤̰̥̣̋͌̚ř̵̝̤̩͈͎̤͎̯̤͔̝̬̖̓̏͐̀̿̊̂̈͋̕͝͝ĭ̴̡̡͙̺̪͕̻̺̥̫̭̜̺̳̃̂͊̓́̅̈́̎̀̽̀̚ͅṃ̵̨͇̺̪̤̄͜ȧ̵͓̟͖̞̩̤͙̩̖̠̝̣̔ź̶̡͇͍̝̳͚̱͖̳͖̬͓̋̂͜ ̸̢̺͚̍̎̈́̂͛̂̐͐̊̕̚͜͝͝Ȉ̵̢̹̜̞͆̃͗̅̈́̋͒̅͝Í̶̡͓͓̰̥̤̗̱̀͛́͆̒͋̂͠͝I̴̟̞̪̯͍̟̿̂̐̌͑̎̅̋͐͆̍́] [cont’d]

The man just stared at me for a moment, and I stared back. He had what the humans call a hawkish nose, and his lower face was hairless, revealing a cleft of the chin. The relatively short hair atop his head was swept back from his face, and his eyes—pale blue, much like mine—had a hardness to them as he regarded me. But then he seemed to catch himself. Slowly, deliberately, he blinked, and his lips split wide in a dazzling smile.

“A pleasure, Mr. Zyr. A pleasure,” he said, accepting my proffered appendage and gripping it firmly. “Of course.”

I made at once to put my hands upon his shoulders—but he brought his own up, almost forcefully, settling one upon my own shoulder and taking my left hand in his right. I was forced to place my remaining hand on his waist. Peering into his eyes, I attempted to discern the intent behind his expression.

It was almost as though he knew what I meant to do, and deliberately sought to thwart me.

The song had a faster tempo than the previous one, and despite the placement of his hand, the Deputy Prime Minister managed to lead the dance. And he lead well—moving with a deliberate sort of elegance. It made for a strange contrast to the rigidity of his face.

“Tell me, Mr. Zyr,” he queried. “Are you enjoying your time on the Griffin?”

Ah, small talk. I can do better than that.

“It is a magnificent vessel,” I enthused. “Almost as magnificent as your eyes, Deputy Prime Minister!”

Deputy Prime Minister Haldeman had not blinked for some time. He blinked again then, slowly. And again he deployed that glossy smile.

“Well, thank you, Zyr.” he said, sweeping me away from him in a sudden spin. As we came back together, I brought my tentacles forward with the momentum, hoping the movement would seem natural. But the muscles around Haldeman’s eyes tightened as the appendages curved through the air over his shoulders, their tips hovering close to the back of his neck. “You’ve got a damned fine set, yourself.”

And then his grip on me released, and he was stepping away from me.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m being buzzed.”

He tapped at his ear, and I caught a glimpse of a comms bud within. Dipping his head and the upper part of his body in my direction, he spun on his heel. He made a hasty, albeit polite retreat—excusing his way past dancers who’d already made a path for him.

Perceiving my surroundings, I noticed Tursa’s darkly shining eyes fixed on me once more…but her attention quickly turned back to Rin. The huntress had managed to reclaim her for a dance, although already others hovered on the margins, prepared to snatch the Scions of Lutra away from one another again.

I waited until the deputy prime minister was an adequate distance away from me. And then I followed—taking an alternate route, of course, careful to stay out of sight behind clusters of people wherever possible.

I noticed her scent and other bio signatures even before I heard the pattering of her tiny feet on the frosted-glass tiles. Shosho had vacated her spectator’s post to trail me.

The gla’cui was about a quarter of her usual size—with the top of her head reaching the middle of my calf—and still quite vividly blue. I slowed, allowing her to catch up with me.

{Hey,} she said. {Pick me up.}

Careful to hold Haldeman’s position at the forefront of my awareness, I bent to scoop the little creature into my arms.

{You think he’s one of the parasitized, don’t you?} she chirped as she thought the words to me, craning her neck to peer up at me and tilting her head.

{Yes,} I replied, turning my eyes toward the individual in question as he shut himself inside the restroom. {I do.}

Weighing my options, I chose to sacrifice subtlety once again and take the best opportunity I was likely to get to acquire the material evidence I sought. After all, I’d as much right to use the restrooms as anyone else, and it would not be so strange if a stray tentacle were to brush against him as we passed one another in so close a space.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The restroom was unisex, sectioned off into a number of small interior rooms to one side and lined with sinks and a broad mirror on the other. It was also quite crowded. As I entered, Haldeman, who was washing his hands, stiffened, but he did not look up. Still carrying Shosho, I progressed toward the far end, as though I meant to enter the very last of the little rooms. But before I could reach him to brush past, Deputy Prime Minister Haldeman ducked into one of them.

I suppressed a growl of frustration. No doubt he would stay there until I’d left. His deliberate avoidance of me, however, was telling in itself. Does he know I suspect him? That seemed nearly impossible. It was more likely he was simply aware of my capabilities and taking pains to prevent any accidental discoveries on my part.

The gla’cui still in hand, I too stepped inside one of the sub-rooms, shutting the door behind me. It would have been too suspicious had I merely turned around and left. And sure enough, it was only after I had washed my hands (again, for show) and vacated the restroom entirely that the deputy prime minister himself emerged.

Shosho scrambled her way up to my shoulder, speaking in the barest of whispers beside my ear.

{I think you’re onto something,} she said.

“I know I am,” I growled the words out loud. Shosho tsked.

“Grumpy."

“That,” I said. “Is a stupid word.”

My eyes were fixed on the deputy prime minister as he schmoozed his way through the clusters of humans occupying the outer ring of the first level.

{You know,} said Shosho. {You’re not in this alone.}

I twisted my head to look sideways and down at her, though I continued to monitor Haldeman through my many other senses.

{What do you mean?}

{I mean you should ask for help from someone who knows what she’s doing when it comes to getting what she wants from people.}

I blinked.

{Maye?}

{No, fool!} The fleshy seam in her throat split open, and a tentacle-tongue curled upward to shove at my cheek, directing my view to the right. To Rin, where she snort-laughed at some joke as she danced with Allico, both their faces flushed with drink. I had never heard her do that before.

“Oh,” I said. I took a step in her direction.

{Don’t ask her directly!} exclaimed Shosho. {I will tell Tursa, and Tursa will ask her. It’ll look suspect otherwise, on the chance he’s paying attention.}

{Very well,} I said. {Thank you, Shosho.}

She blinked up at me, cocked her head again to one side, and chirped.

Two songs later, and Rin was rotating across the dance floor with the Deputy Prime Minster, her hands resting upon his shoulders. Shosho and I observed from above, a few paces back from the railing so as not to be too obvious. The song was a slow one, and Rin’s movements seemed natural—fitting, even—as she brought her hands up to twine together at the back of the Deputy Prime Minister’s neck. Gracefully she spread her fingers up to brush the skin. Spread them wide until they dipped just below the collar of his suit.

“Told you,” said Shosho.

I could not help but smile, and not only because of Rin’s success. I found myself imagining, not for the first time that night, myself in the place of Rin’s dancing partner. Rin circling her arms around my shoulders, snort-laughing at something I had said as our bodies moved more and more closely together.

The captain was careful not to touch anything else as she climbed the stairs to join us. Grinning, she held her hands out to me. Extending two tentacles, I curled them about her fingertips, absorbing the genetic materials clinging to the surface of her skin.

“I didn’t feel anything strange,” she said as I withdrew my tentacles. But then she paused, appearing thoughtful. “Might have been a little smoother than usual older-man skin, I suppose.”

“My pseudo-brains require time to analyze the material,” I informed her. “I will…let you know…when the task is complete. I appreciate your assistance.”

For a moment she lingered, looking up at me. Her smile faltered and then recovered.

“Well, guess I better get back to schmoozing,” she said at last, slapping her hands together.

“Very well, Rin. Please enjoy your schmoozing.”

Still sitting on my shoulder, Shosho fluffed her feathers against my face as the captain made her retreat.

“She wanted to dance with you, dummy,” she said. “Now she feels rejected.”

I gasped.

“I did not reject her, she did not ask!”

Shosho made her strange, multi-layered laughing sound, her tongue-tentacles flaring out.

“Have you learned nothing from Real Domicile-Mates? Sometimes, a person wants to be the one who’s asked.”

For a moment, I fumed. I had learned much from Domicile-Mates, a fact I clearly exhibited with every social interaction.

“Why?”

“To feel wanted.”

I watched Rin descend the stairs as I attempted to make sense of Shosho’s inference. Did she believe the captain was attracted to me, and if so…why did she believe so? What had the gla’cui observed that I had not?

Ambling over with a whiskey in his hand and shadows beneath his eyes, Jack C nodded to Shosho and then to me.

“‘Ey. What’s up? I’m bored as fuck.”

“Get over here!” replied Shosho, fluffing her feathers some more. The instant he was close enough, she launched into a carefully veiled recounting of our recent endeavors. His eyes—whose irises were a golden-brown shade, and quite striking—went wide as he listened.

“No shit?” he replied under his breath as Shosho completed her retelling,

Shosho chirped.

“The god-damned deputy prime minister?”

She chirped again.

“Fuuuuck.” He took a long draw of his whiskey. Looked at Shosho.

“You know there’s a smoking room, right? It’s packed with pretentious assholes, but…” he shrugged, gesturing with his glass to the hall at large. “What can you do?”

Shosho emitted a brief sort of cluck. A sound of disappointment, I think.

“No sex or drugs for me until my body’s mature."

“Doesn’t mean you can’t just chill,” he argued, looking from the gla’cui to me. “Zyr, you smoke?”

“I smoked a fat one, once,” I said.

“Nice,” he replied, tilting his head toward a door at the other side of the second level and gesturing for us to follow. “Lesgo.”

Surprised and pleased that the reclusive pilot had chosen to interface with me at all, I followed readily. Shosho sighed.

“Jerks. I hate being a baby.”

But she did not hop off or ask to be let down, instead settling in closer to my neck.

As we stepped into the smoking room, nearly everyone inside it looked up at us. They were seated in leather arm chairs and on fur-hide ottomans, awash in the green glow of lumicell panels that made the room seem like an open-air lounge at the heart of a dripping rainforest. Some of the occupants held objects in their hands which dwarfed Rin’s fat one, dark and bulbous things which I later learned were called cigars. The smoke, while fragrant, was not overpowering, for it was sucked swiftly away by hidden vent-slats as others pumped the chamber with purified air.

But several of those in the room—middle-aged and elder human men, mostly—were not smoking at all, but instead bent over a transparent central table and the many little rows of pure white dust which adorned it.

“Er,” said a silver-haired human with a wizened face and a curl-tipped mustache, looking from the table and then back up to us. “Want some?”