The Galaxy, and the Ground Within Read online

  She opened her eyes, and looked at her reflection. There were many colours present in her cheeks, but overwhelmingly, the dominant hues were red, yellow, orange. Fear. Dislike. Discontent.

  The sight made her shaky, but there was no surprise in it. Some part of her had known this was exactly what she’d see.

  She shut her eyes hard, balled her fists in tight. With clear intention, she shifted her thinking elsewhere.

  She thought about Ashby. She thought about his homely, janky ship and the good people who lived on it with him. She imagined meeting them properly this time – no pretence, no half-truths, no holding her colours rigid through every interaction so that her crew wouldn’t notice how she felt when he stood close. She thought about what his bed might be like. She’d never been in his bed, his private space. How would it feel, to exist with him for a while in a context that wasn’t secret? She thought, funnily enough, about Dr Miriyam, and how just a few syllables of Klip flavoured by Exodan Ensk had given Pei the irrational sense that this was a person she could trust. She thought about cheese and waterball and hairbrushes and grasshopper burgers and goosebumps and crying and all the other batshit Human ephemera that occupied space in her head now. Every bit was truly fucking weird, but she loved knowing it all the same.

  Improbably, she thought of Speaker. She remembered what the Akarak said to her in those long hours on the shuttle, watching over Tupo.

  You don’t want to, Speaker had said. That’s it. That is all it ever needs to be.

  Pei opened her eyes, and she saw two things.

  She saw the bluest blue, dark as the sea, shifting in currents that carried nothing but love.

  She saw orange, sharp and sorrowful. This was not incongruous with the other hue. Sorrow was the right thing to feel when there were two doors in front of you and you knew that one of them was going to stay closed.

  The decision solidified. It should’ve felt frightening. It should’ve felt wrong. But the longer Pei let it sit, the more she realised that all she could feel was relief. This one choice didn’t answer everything for her, not even close. How could it? Life was never a matter of one decision alone. Life was just a bunch of tiny steps, one after another, each a conclusion that lead to a dozen questions more. She still had no idea what she was going to do about her job, or her crew, or anything else. But she knew where she was headed now, and that wasn’t nothing.

  She brought the message field back up. Once more, she began to write.

  Sorry about the delay. There was a huge mess at Gora, and I was stuck there for five days. But I’m fine, and I’m on my way now. I’ll tell you the whole story once I’m there.

  Can’t wait to see you.

  She sent the message before she could change her mind. Her blood practically fizzed as she did so.

  This was the right thing.

  She shook out the last scraps of tension in her hands, and put in a voice call to the TA orbiter.

  An Aandrisk man appeared on her screen, his scales green as laughter and his feathers a riotous argument. ‘Hey there, I’m Agent Siksish,’ he said. ‘What’s the issue?’

  ‘My name’s Captain Tem, I’m ship ID number 9992-3-23434-7A. I’m currently in the queue for tunnel number four, but I need to change my course.’

  The TA agent gave her a look. ‘Cutting it pretty close there, Captain.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Agent Siksish punched in rapid commands with his claws. ‘You said your ship number is …?’

  ‘9992-3-23434-7A.’

  ‘Okay. And which tunnel do you want to take instead?’

  ‘Tunnel number one.’

  He studied his monitors. ‘Since you’ll be reentering a queue, that’s going to tack another hour onto your departure time. Is that going to work for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pei said. At this point, an hour was nothing.

  He entered more commands. ‘Okay, there’s a guideship coming your way to lead you out of your current queue and over to the next. Just disengage your autopilot and follow when ready.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Pei said. The call ended. She flashed her commands, and the shuttle pulled out of the lane. She leaned back against the headrest, flicking her inner eyelids.

  Holy fuck, she was doing this.

  The guideship arrived in minutes; Pei followed steadily along. As her ship swung around, Gora came back into view. The past days there began to mull together in her mind – the people met, the conversations had. An idea began to form. It was a long shot, but … hmm. The more it developed, the more she liked it.

  She turned once more to her comms monitor and brought up her lengthy list of work contacts. She scrolled through, not entirely sure who she was looking for. She needed someone with the right kind of influence, someone who liked her, someone who – yes. She pointed at the monitor as she saw the name Kalsu Reb Lometton pop up. Yes, she’d be perfect.

  Kalsu, bless her heart, picked up the sib call within minutes. ‘My dear Captain Tem!’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’ The Harmagian woman sat in the ornate office Pei had stood in a few times before, on work trips to the Capital. Pei didn’t regularly take contracts that needed Kalsu’s stamp, but when she had, the experiences had always been … lively.

  ‘How goes it on Hagarem?’ Pei asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, weather’s fine, beaches are lovely, politics are a hellscape. The usual.’ Kalsu glanced at the lower corner of her display. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re in the neighbourhood, so I assume this isn’t a social call.’

  ‘You are correct, as always,’ Pei said. Kalsu never missed a detail, which was precisely why she was great at the job she never stopped complaining about. ‘I was hoping to ask a favour.’

  ‘For you? Anything, anytime.’

  ‘Well, wait until you hear it. I don’t know if this is something you’ve got the pull for.’

  Kalsu’s tendrils curled with intrigue. ‘A challenge! How exciting.’ She leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘It’s nothing improper, is it?’

  ‘Kalsu, come on, it’s me,’ Pei said. ‘Of course not. And actually, that’s exactly why I called you. This one’s no good if we can’t do it above board.’

  ‘A legal challenge. My favourite. Come, come. I want all the details.’

  Pei smiled blue, and continued to nudge her ship in the right direction. Strings could always be pulled.

  Day 267, GC Standard 307

  ROVEG

  They’d changed the archway.

  When you landed at the Noble Harbour Spaceport, and you exited your ship, the sight that greeted you was that of a decorative stone archway, dripping with vines and crowning the walkway to the customs building. Roveg had seen it dozens of times, on everything from childhood vacations to his state-mandated departure. But this time was different. He couldn’t see the archway this time, because they’d removed it and replaced it with some garish light installation instead. Roveg had braced himself for a return to a place he thought he’d never set foot in again; he hadn’t been ready to see it move on without him.

  The thing that hadn’t changed was the smell, an overwhelming perfume that shot straight to his soul. The air was humid – deliciously, ideally, correctly so – and within it danced the scents of sun-warmed ponds, hosed-out fuel lines, the cabal of food vendors he knew to be waiting around the corner, and the pheromones of countless members of his own species, both fresh and fading, telling him stories about people nearby and already departed. He had run into other Quelin from time to time in the past eight standards – exiles like him – but never more than one or two at once. Never in a way where they were the majority within a social space. Roveg hadn’t been in an environment populated by Quelin and only Quelin since his last time at Noble Harbour. He’d forgotten what it was like to not be the odd one out.

  Except that he was, of course. He could smell the disgust rising sharply off passersby who saw the ruined branding on his shell. No one else landing at Noble Harbour that day had a pair o
f Enforcers awaiting them on the other side of the hatch. At least he’d been downgraded to only two Enforcers, Roveg noted with grim humour. There had been four escorting him on his way out.

  It was time for this unpleasant business to begin. He spread his thoracic legs, preparing to be searched. ‘Enforcers, I humbly submit myself to the will of the Protectorate and to your authority,’ he said. Every word felt rotten as he formed them in both mouth and throat. Their taste lingered even as the sounds left him. ‘I am Roveg, and I have an approved appointment with the law office.’

  One of the Enforcers marched up and scanned his ID patch while the other wasted no time in opening the satchels strapped around his abdomen and on the front of his thorax. The first Enforcer looked at her scrib as the patch scan completed. ‘Your appointment was scheduled for 14:00,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Roveg said.

  She looked him in the eye. ‘You are late.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I apologise, there was a—’ He stumbled. Oh stars, oh fuck, he couldn’t remember the word. It had been so long since he’d had a formal conversation in Tellerain that he couldn’t remember the fucking word. ‘—a disaster along my route and I was delayed. I have arrived as quickly as legally possible.’

  Roveg spoke the words with grovelling inflection, but the Enforcer made a note on her scrib, undoubtedly marking both his tardiness and his rusty Tellerain. Roveg’s heart sank. He’d been here barely a minute, and already he had the heavy sense that this trip would be for nothing.

  Dammit, he had to try.

  The Enforcers escorted him to the law office, one on either side, neither touching nor speaking. Roveg could feel the stares of the crowd as he made his way. He was accustomed to being stared at by other sapient species, and no longer paid them any mind. These stares, though – issued forth from eyes just like his own – these chipped away at his shell, carving out tiny pieces of himself and leaving them to bleach in the sun.

  He was here for Boreth, he told himself. He was here for Segred, and Hron, and Varit. He repeated their names in his mind, over and over, a chant of courage to carry himself forward.

  The law office was stark and far too bright, like all institutional facilities were. It was incredible how a nearly empty room could feel so much like a threat. The only thing present was a circular workstation in the dead centre, staffed by a lone legal officer. Roveg replaced the chant of beloved names with a nervous review of all he’d prepared for.

  They’ll ask you about your work, he thought, and you have nothing to fear about that. Be clear that you only make vacation sims. They’ll ask you where you live, and whether you live with other species. You live alone, and they can hardly fault you for living in a mixed city – where the hell else would you live, if you can’t live here? They’ll do a hemolymph scan. They’ll probably check your bots. They’ll go through your scrib, and that’s fine, there’s nothing untoward on there. You triple-checked. If they press you on being late, press back about why you’re here. You’re for tradition. They love that. Play it up. You remember how. Boreth. Segred. Hron. Varit. You can do this.

  You have to do this.

  The officer looked briefly up from his workstation, smelling as though he’d never laughed at a joke in his life. ‘You must be my 14:00,’ he said, gesturing commands at a terminal.

  ‘Yes, I’m Roveg,’ he said. ‘And I apologise. There was an accident—’ he’d had time to remember the word ‘—and it resulted in an unavoidable delay.’ He opened a satchel (the Enforcers watched intently as he did so) and pulled out a carefully wrapped bundle of pixel prints and info chips. Evidence of his home, his work, his finances, his medical history, his travel route, his entire life. He’d spent tendays putting it together, and even though he’d gone through it over and over to ensure that every single box had been checked off, his spiracles flared at the thought that he’d forgotten something. The Enforcer who had scanned his patch looked at him, and Roveg didn’t have to guess why. He knew he stank of worry.

  Roveg presented the bundle to the officer courteously, holding it with four sets of toes. The agent looked up at this. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said.

  Roveg felt as though every one of his knees was about to buckle inward. No. No, they had to give him a chance. They couldn’t turn him away without even giving him a chance. ‘But – please, I—’

  Something popped out of a machine at the workstation – a label, of some sort. The officer picked it up, burned six different stamps into it, and handed it to Roveg. ‘Affix this to your torso, as close to your face as is practical. The glue on the back will break down after a tenday.’

  Roveg picked up the label. It was made of stiff plex, and the text on it was bold and ugly.

  TEMPORARY TRAVEL PERMIT

  EXPIRES: 277/307

  WEARER IS A KNOWN CULTURAL DEVIANT AND MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY A LAW ENFORCEMENT ESCORT AT ALL TIMES.

  Roveg stood silent, staring at the most precious object in the galaxy, now resting in his toes. To say that he was confused was an understatement. Surely there had been some mistake, but he wasn’t about to stand there and tell them that perhaps they shouldn’t let him in. ‘Do I … not need to give an interview?’ he asked with caution.

  The officer flexed his legs no. ‘According to our sapient immigration agreements with the GC, the fact that you are currently contracted by a parliamentary employer, were convicted of a non-violent crime, and have served the first eight standards of your life sentence means that you are exempt from the interview requirement for a temporary travel permit.’ The officer’s scent burned with disapproval, but his inflection indicated he had no choice but to comply. The law, after all, was the law.

  Roveg did rapid calculus. There had unquestionably been a mistake. He had no idea what contract or employer they were referring to. But should he voice that? Would it be worse to ruin his chances here and now, or for them to find out after the fact that he’d taken the permit under false pretences?

  Boreth, he thought.

  He peeled the backing off the label and stuck it firmly to his torso, straight below his head. The glue smelled atrocious. He did not care. ‘Thank you,’ he said, putting every ounce of energy he possessed into sounding and smelling calm. ‘You have my assurance that my behaviour will be exemplary.’

  ‘That’ll be for your escort to gauge, not me,’ the agent said. He pointed across the room. ‘You may stand in the waiting area over there until she arrives.’ He picked an info chip up from his workstation and handed it to Roveg. ‘Your employer’s letter of sponsorship made a request for us to provide you with this upon arrival. The contents, of course, have been reviewed.’

  Roveg took the chip, no less confused but very ready to end the conversation before further questions were asked. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. He headed toward the waiting area, and the Enforcers departed, their disapproval more potent than the agent’s.

  Once all eyes were off him, he took his scrib from his satchel and plugged in the info chip, trying his best to look nonchalant even though he was desperate to know what the hell was going on. The chip contained two documents, one of which indicated that it was to be read first.

  Dear Roveg,

  How delighted I am that you have accepted our contract to create environmental sims for the Galactic Commons’ cultural education archives! There are woefully few materials of this sort featuring Quelin locations, and I am delighted we have found a talented native citizen such as yourself to help us fill this gap. After all, the Quelin are an enormously valued member of the GC, and we are eager to properly celebrate your species’ rich culture and complex history.

  We can discuss the particulars of payment and deadline once you have returned to Central space. On this chip, you will find a list of the public sights we hope you will scan and map for your eventual sim, provided that access to these areas is allowed under the rules of your permit. Given your delicate legal situation, I am including this information with your sponsorshi
p letter rather than messaging it to you directly, in the interest of complete transparency. I also request that you capture imagery from your sons’ First Brand ceremony, which I understand is serendipitously happening during this assignment. It would benefit our citizens greatly to better understand this fascinating tradition.

  As a personal aside: our mutual friend Gapei Tem Seri sends you her warm regards. She and I both wish you the best of luck with this project. I can’t wait to see the end result.

  May you enjoy the safest of travels,

  Kalsu Reb Lometton

  Second Deputy Director of the Export Oversight Office, GC Department of Border Regulation

  Confused was no longer the appropriate word for what Roveg was feeling. He was totally, thoroughly stunned.

  He remained that way even as his escort arrived – a sturdy-shelled woman who he would’ve found attractive had she not smelled as though she were looking for any excuse to throw him in a prison pit. ‘My name is Officer Greshech,’ she said, her inflection as icy as her scent. ‘I will be your escort during your temporary stay on Vemereng. You are not permitted to go anywhere without me. You are not permitted to enter any building without my approval. You are not permitted to engage in any conversation topics that have not been expressly approved by me. You will provide me with a detailed proposal for your activities by 06:00 each day. Failure to comply with these requirements will result in reversal of your permit, as well as …’

  Roveg fixed his eyes on her as though he were listening with all the focus in the world, and let her bureaucratic droning wash over him. He took his mind happily elsewhere, and began entertaining the first glimmers of something he was going to make. It would need an immense amount of work, but he could already picture the colours, the shapes, the way he wanted it to feel. He was sure it would be beautiful, but he tucked that imagining away for a later time. First, he would meet his sons. He would see their faces, learn their adulthood scents, maybe even touch them if allowed. He had never seen them with hardened shells, and had spent tendays steeling himself for the possibility that he might not recognise them. As he stood there with a garish legal document glued to his thorax, this idea no longer troubled him. They were his boys, and however they looked, they, too, would be beautiful.