3
My minimal clothing had made for a chilly ride over, but it paid off the moment I stepped off the tube and entered the Thuban sector. In keeping with being highly evolved reptiles, the Thubans liked things warm. When I left the transit terminal for their biodome, it was like walking into an open oven. No matter how many times I’d come here, leaving the overly air-conditioned public transport for desert heat made me swoon.
I shook off the lightheadedness and made my way to a pale yellow, one-story building of intricately carved stone with circular windows of variegated colors resembling stained glass. Tucked away among rock outcroppings of burnt ochre, it was built in traditional Thuban architectural style with an unmistakable Gliesan touch: more of the graceful swirls and swooping curves that made Wayside (Wa’xi’ya’de in the original Thuban) stand out while still looking as if it had sprouted from the desert floor. The soft tones of wind instruments drifted from Wayside’s permanently open doors, inviting me inside.
Chonk was waiting at our usual table, pouring a fresh drink from a pitcher of ka’vaa’ma’loi: Thuban tequila. I smiled inwardly at the lime green tint of the pitcher’s contents. After a lot of trial and error, I’d been able to get the nutrisynth to create close approximations of triple sec and lime juice, and had promptly showed Chonk how to make margaritas. He’d been so impressed that he’d shared the recipe, and now ma’g’ree’tahs were a favorite among Wayside regulars. I was just doing my part to represent the human race.
Chonk rose from his stool to tower over me at his full height. He flashed a toothy grin, the heavy ridges over his golden eyes lifting in an all-over smile that would’ve been terrifying to the uninitiated: Is he happy to see me, or am I on the menu? He wrapped me up in a bear hug. Or lizard hug, to be precise. Hugging wasn’t a thing in Thuban culture, but Chonk was always striving to make me feel at home. He let go to hold me at arm’s length and hissed joyfully.
“Mel! Has been much time!”
“It has.” I poked at the scales on his arms. They shimmered beneath the overhead glow panels, which told me they were fresh. “New skin?”
“Is. Have not been myself lately.”
It had been maybe a month since we’d last seen each other, which I’d assumed had been due to conflicting schedules. Nope, Chonk had been molting and adult Thubans tended to become reclusive when that time came. I reached behind him to touch the back of his head. “Are those feathers?”
He threw out his already prominent chest, filled with pride. “Is! First t’ann s’vaa! Am now ‘old,’ as you say.”
Thubans lived to well over a hundred years by our calendar, and the brightly colored t’ann s’vaa feathers didn’t appear until early middle age. They were the mark of a fully mature Thuban, which accorded great respect among their kind. The fine plumage sprouted from the crown of his head to hang down the back of his neck, reminiscent of a Native American headdress. Combined with his gray uniform tunic and violet combat medic sash, the feather mullet made Chonk look positively regal. He still proudly wore the old EMS pin I’d presented to him as a gift years ago, while the Thuban sash he’d given me back then still hung on a wall in my living room. The thing was almost as long as I am tall.
We sat and I nodded at his uniform. “You’re still on reserve with the fleet, then?”
“Am. Admiralty thought Med Corps experience was useful to others. Also short on fleet medicos.”
Chonk had been the first Thuban combat medic to cross-train with the Union Med Corps. Their border defense fleet had largely kept to themselves until Tanaan happened, and any skepticism the Thuban Admiralty might have held about letting Chonk work with Union civilians had been swept away by his actions in that disaster. The defense fleet had been forced into taking on more humanitarian roles (which again sounds species-ist, but it’s all I’ve got), and there’d been a steady rotation of Thuban “medicos” through the Corps’ training school ever since.
“You just instructing, or are you out in the field?”
Chonk’s flicked his tri-forked tongue at his drink. It was the Thuban equivalent of sipping. “In field much more than expected.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Been much busy.”
When someone in the military says they’ve been busy, that can hold a lot of unpleasant implications. “Are things getting lively out there?”
“Lively,” he repeated slowly. The translation implants didn’t always pick up on human idioms. “Am confused. You mean playful?”
“Not really. The opposite, in fact. More like threatening. Dangerous.”
“Ah. Word is fu’ku’pa.”
I stifled a laugh. Chonk, of course, had no idea why I found that term so amusing. “Has it been getting dangerous out there?”
Chonk fiddled with his sash, somehow not tearing holes in it with his claws. “Is danger. Always on alert for border incursions. You call ‘pirates,’ I think. Is . . . nuisance. More distress calls from colony ships transiting border sectors. Not real ‘distress’ but still need assistance. Busy.”
That was another byproduct of the 115 shortage. If a Union-flagged ship was having trouble, the closest vessel had to respond. Medical or mechanical, it didn’t matter. Used to be we’d dispatch a Med Corps heavy transport or a fleet tender, depending on the need. If it happened in the border sectors, that usually meant a Thuban frigate or patrol cruiser answered the call. No wonder the Admiralty had been putting so many of their “medicos” through our training school. Thubans in particular had been culturally averse to treating other species, but circumstances had forced it on them.
“How are your people holding up?” Again, species-ist, but he knew what I meant.
“Some good. Some not. Hard to know until they do job.” This time he took a long pull from his drink. “Much work for me. Much responsibility. Not time for other things.”
I nodded. He was overseeing a bunch of Thuban warriors who were all of a sudden being called into something way outside of their comfort zones. “That’s the job sometimes, isn’t it? Keep the new guys from screwing up.”
“Is so.” He put his drink down. “Enough me. How you? Still long duration crew?”
It was my turn to take a long sip of ma’g’ree’tah. “I am. And the last run took a lot longer than we’d planned.” The cauliflower-like auditory buds behind his eyes puffed up in rapt attention as I relayed the story of our rescue near Delta Pavonis.
“Black hole?” He pounded his chest in the traditional Thuban gesture of admiration. “Impressive. And much fu’ku’pa.”
“It was a big fu’ku’pa all right. I was scared out of my wits.”
“Needa is exceptional pilot. Am sure she would not risk lightly.”
I shrugged. “Even Karrak was a little anxious.”
“Karrak is very bold for Reticulan. Sometimes too much for own good.”
That drew a laugh. “What you’re saying is we wouldn’t have done it if we’d known better.”
“Perhaps. Must be just smart enough to do job, not think too much. Hesitate.”
He had a point. “Lately I’ve been thinking too much for my own good.”
“You very smart. Almost doctor on Earth.”
“Animal doctor,” I corrected him. Then again, out here it could be hard to tell the difference.
“Yet you do not hesitate. Opposite, in fact.”
That had been my shortcoming back home, and it had landed me in trouble more than a few times. Age and experience were beginning to temper that impulse. “Haven’t felt that way lately, and you’d better believe I was hesitant on that last run. Needa had us at a safe distance, but when we got outside the ship, with nothing between us and that . . . thing? I froze up like a deer in the headlights.”
Chonk flicked his tongue, a sympathetic gesture among Thubans. “Sometimes truth not matter. Some things hard to ignore. Gut take over. Primitive response.” He lifted the pitcher and topped off my drink. “Courage is when you go anyway. You have much.”
I twirled the glass between my hands. “Doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”
“You are. Courageous not think. Just do.”
“Just do,” I repeated. “That’s been the story of my life. I’ve been living for work, going on ten years now. When do I start living for me?” If that sounds petulant and selfish, that’s because it was.
“You not have much time off lately.”
“True, but I don’t know what to do with the time I have anymore.”
“How so? Much to do in capital.”
Chonk was mostly right, but he was missing one important point. “I’ve been to every sector of the Ring, and it’s all amazing. But I’ve mostly been doing it alone.”
He tilted his massive head, confused. “You have been welcomed, no?”
“For the most part. But I’m the only human here.”
His golden eyes narrowed. “Not only human.” Again, he was right, so far as it went.
“Gideon and I aren’t exactly on friendly terms.” Not that I wanted to be, either. If we were the last two beings left alive in the universe, I’d be happy to spend the rest of my days alone. A lot of Union folks felt the same way.
“That speak well of you. Others see that. Know what you did. Is why you are welcome.”
I didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but this had been weighing on me. “Human culture is filled with stories of extraterrestrial visitors. Aliens. Now I know those stories are all true.” Okay, mostly true. There were still a lot of nutballs out there. “Now I’m the alien. A stranger in a strange land. I’m comfortable here, but it’s not home.” I took another long pull from my drink. “And I’m not sure it ever can be.” The words had been simmering in my gut for a long time, I only needed a little liquid courage to speak them. To admit it to myself.
Chonk placed a claw on my arm. “You have many friends here. Many care about you.”
I gripped his claw with my hand. “I know, and it means a lot to me.” I’d felt out of place in my previous life, and for a while had thought I’d found home here in the Union and its many races. But the lack of human interaction had been taking a toll.
Human interaction was not something I’d been especially good at in my former life. Maybe I just needed to get laid, not that that was going to happen here.
What were my prospects, anyway? It was something I avoided thinking about, because doing so only drove home the sense of isolation. Interspecies relations were generally frowned upon, not that I was interested in getting frisky with a highly evolved dinosaur. The Emissaries were our closest cousins, but they were also so stoic as to be almost devoid of emotion. Not to mention they were my friends, and I didn’t do the “with benefits” thing.
I could tell this turn in the conversation was making Chonk uncomfortable, so I decided to lighten things up. “It’s also my birthday.”
“Birth . . . today?” Chonk’s brow wrinkled, rustling his feathers. His translator probably hadn’t encountered that term yet. “You not born today, born many years ago.”
Many years. Now that’s a way to make a girl feel old. I was about to explain the concept when he finally landed on it.
“Ah! You mean hatch day anniversary!”
Not quite, but close enough. “Yes, that’s it,” I laughed. “Where I’m from, we make a celebration of it.”
“Is strange, but not question other’s customs. Let us celebrate!” Chonk called for another pitcher and ordered us each a bowl of xa’fuun’to stew, their equivalent of good old human comfort food. As we dug into our bowls, the not-quite-familiar tastes brought back memories of my mom’s cooking. Indiana winters were incessantly dreary, and she’d always been happy to brighten things up with some chili and cornbread. That had been a long time ago, even without all of my warp-speed zipping around the galaxy.
As the spicy xa’fuun’to settled in my stomach, I likewise settled into a realization which had been simmering for some time, like the pots of stew in Wayside’s kitchen.
It was time to go home, before the Earth I’d known became unrecognizable. The question was, how?