20
Needa had us back at our sector’s hospital in minutes; she must have put the pedal to the metal, or whatever one does with a gravity drive. She pulled us up alongside a docking bay, flashing yellow and white to announce our arrival. I barely felt us make contact and it wasn’t long before the main door opened up into the GU’s version of an emergency room.
There was no guessing where to take our patient. As soon as the lift doors opened, a luminous red line appeared in the white floor ahead. An unseen force actually pulled the floating gurney along for us, tracing the line; all we had to do was follow. Along the way, I got a good look at their ER.
Like so much else in the Union Med Corps, it seemed immaculately sterile. But there was a difference that stood out, which made me smile inside: The place was chaos. Magnificently controlled chaos, like a trauma center ought to be. Despite the wildly advanced technology, there were more than enough similarities to make the place comfortably familiar. Beings of every GU race were here in various states of activity. Some ran between bays, others huddled in consultation, a few were slumped dead-tired in chairs tailored for their body types. If anyone who works in trauma says they don’t get a charge out of it, they’re either lying or they need to find another job before they hurt somebody.
If anyone noticed the new human running past in Med Corps green, they did a superb job of hiding it.
Our trail ended at an open receiving bay, where two Grays and a Chalawan waited for us in sterile bodysuits. As soon as the gurney stopped, they removed our monitors and began placing more of the little black discs at strategic points around his body. Xeelix motioned for me to brief them, which seemed to catch them off guard. I hoped my translator was fully calibrated by now.
“Patient is male, age estimated one hundred and nine annums based on shell layers. Left quadrant lower extremities are broken below both stifle joints. Second-degree burn injuries to his lower lung folds; airway was opened with a ten-millimeter breathing tube, inserted through the forward quadrant.” I pointed to our homebrew tracheotomy. “Oxygen saturation was at sixty-four percent, restored to ninety-two percent after we connected the respirator.”
The Grays looked back and forth between me and Xeelix. The Chalawan clicked at him as the others attended to the patient. It sounded rapid, urgent. My translator picked up a little of it: “This . . . assist . . . you?”
I heard Xeelix’s reply through my translator. “Correct. This is Melanie, the human female recruited for our emergency response teams. Did you not see the notification?”
Didn’t you get the memo? Awesome. The speed of bureaucracy was a universal constant, like the speed of light.
“Did see.” The Chalawani doc studied me with his four crimson eyes, then turned to our makeshift tracheotomy. “This . . . unusual. Severe.”
Xeelix tilted his ovoid head in my direction. “It was her idea. I approved of her actions. The patient would not have survived otherwise.”
The doc gave me another look, this time with an appreciative nod. He turned back to his patient, which was our cue to leave. Our part was finished, so we headed back to the lift.
Xeelix was silent until the doors closed. He clasped his hands behind his back. “You comported yourself well, Melanie. That was rather intense for a first run. You maintained composure under pressure, and took appropriate courses of action. However, I am curious regarding your understanding of their cultural norms. You recall our classroom discussions?”
When you’re a trainee, any praise is always followed by, “You did great, but . . .” He’d suggested I missed something important, and was giving me time to think about it. I was still pondering Chalawani culture when we arrived back at our ambulance bay.
“The exoskeleton,” I finally said. “They’re proud of them.”
He nodded. “Our patient was a fully mature Chalawan, so he will carry that scar for the rest of his life. They avoid intentional modifications in all but the most severe cases.”
“By ‘modifications,’ you mean repairs.”
“Correct. However, I fully agree that your solution was the proper course of action. The Chalawani physician needed to hear that from me.”
“One doctor to another,” I said. “It’s the same way on Earth.”
It’s hard to describe, but there was a kind look of understanding in his black eyes. He placed one of his elegant hands on my shoulder. “As you’re seeing, the practice of medicine varies greatly with species and technology. However, many truths remain constant.” He looked ahead toward our transport and motioned me to follow. “One of those is cleaning the vehicle at the end of a shift. Come.”
I’d been thinking about cultural differences a lot as we prepped our ship for the next crew. Alleviate suffering to the maximum extent possible. That was the motto, but the “maximum extent” part promised to be a moving target.
Would remembering the Chalawani obsession with their shells have influenced my decision? The way I’d seen things, he would’ve been a goner if we hadn’t cut through it. The alternative would’ve been removing the damaged lung tissue to expose the inner folds, which to me had seemed much more radical. Xeelix had clearly decided the same: We’d have been doing surgery at a crash site with potential toxic fumes in the air. Our patient may not like the permanent scar it would leave, but it was better than being dead.
I put that out of my head for the moment, busying myself with restocking supplies and making sure all the equipment was in working order. While I did that, Needa inspected our rig from nose to tail in a routine that was indistinguishable from the way I’d seen air ambulance pilots preflight their choppers.
Cleaning an ambulance at the end of the day could be a real chore, wiping every surface down with disinfectant and hosing out the back if it’s messy enough. Here it was much simpler. Once we’d finished our inventory and tested every piece of gear, Xeelix motioned me over to a locker embedded in the floor of our ambulance bay. He removed a large transparent tube, mounted to a pedestal that unfolded beneath it. “This is a sterilizer boom,” he explained. “It will remove any foreign particles and contaminants.”
Together, we fed it through the main door and centered it inside the ship. We stepped back outside to what Xeelix explained was a safe distance, and he pressed his ring against a small control screen on the pedestal. The tube flooded our rig with a luminous, pulsating blue light that hurt my eyes. This went on for several minutes until it turned itself off.
I looked inside as we removed the sterilizer. The back of our ambulance was spotless, as shiny as it must have looked coming out of the factory. The purple Chalawani bloodstains were gone, as were our handprints on the cabinets and footprints on the floor. It smelled pristine, and I couldn’t see so much as a mote of dust. “Did this vaporize all that crud?”
“Atomized it, to be precise.”
I looked around our squeaky-clean rig with amazement. “The guys on Earth would love this.”
“Your race is closer to this technology than you may realize. You are already using ultraviolet light as a sterilizing agent for certain applications, correct? This is a more energetic version. And quite precise.”
Energetic. As in, don’t get too close. I stepped back out into the bay as the next crew made their way toward us. Another Gray pilot conversed with Needa, while a pair of insectoids clambered up into our rig. “Is that it, then? We’re done?” By now I’d normally be sweaty and up to my elbows in antiseptic wipes.
“Our shift is complete,” Xeelix said. “You did well today. As we already discussed, I would suggest you spend some time studying cultural differences. Be here at the same time tomorrow.”
That’s the way I liked shift debriefs. Short and sweet. I spotted my classmate Chonk striding away from his rig, and started thinking about cultural studies again. No better way to learn than by being in person. I waved him down. “Wait up!”
***
The other universal constant is trainees commiserating about their first live runs. We parked ourselves on a bench along the back wall of the ambulance bay, watching the activity and trading stories. As we talked, our translators seemed quicker to catch up. There were fewer awkward silences as they worked to turn Thuban hissing and human babbling into recognizable words. Judging by Chonk’s reaction, I’d had a more exciting day.
“Chalawan skimmer crash?” He seemed jealous. “Exceptional. Our runs . . . dull. Sickly Reticulan infant. Much coughing. Administered steroid vapor. Parents worry much. Then called to Th’u’ban suffering lo’to’oh. More steroids.”
My translator skipped on that. “What’s ‘loto-oh’?”
Chonk tugged at his abdominal plating. “Skin condition common to molting Th’u’bans. Can develop if old skin shed too soon.” He nodded at a row of succulents sprouting from pots along the wall. “Used to treat with te’mau leaf. Better medicine now.”
“She called a squad for a skin rash?”
His vertically slit eyes rolled upward, showing his exasperation. “Preceptor say this one call often. Little complaints.” He reconsidered his words, calibrating to my language. “Small stuff.”
I laughed. “Where I’m from, we call those ‘frequent flyers.’”
Chonk’s trident tongue darted in and out, which I think signaled that he was amused. “Good word. Will remember.” He paused. “How . . . familiar . . . this? Like Earth?”
I folded my arms and studied the bay. Other than the technology and the various skittering, chittering aliens, it was a lot like the firehouse back home. Just bigger. With spaceships. “More familiar than I expected. Once we were on a run, the old reflexes took over.” I pointed toward the lifts nearby. “And I’d have recognized the ER for what it was, even without our training.”
“ER?”
“Emergency Room. Trauma center.”
“Ah. Understand. Your . . . slang . . . sometimes difficult.”
“Sorry. We tend to use a lot of acronyms. Initials. Makes some things easier.”
“Easier if knew language. Knew culture.”
“Yeah, I’m learning that the hard way. The Chalawani doc upstairs seemed a little put out with us drilling into that guy’s shell.”
Chonk shrugged, his emerald scales rippling with his massive shoulders. One clawed hand traced a line across his thigh, where his scales had once been broken and patched. There must have been a good story behind that. “You did right thing. Better to have scar than dead.”
“Exactly!” I said, a little too loudly. “Sounds like not everyone sees it that way.”
“Do not,” he agreed. “Benefit of not having war. Narrows choices.”
“I have a lot to learn about cultural differences.”
“Same.” He patted his chest. “Am Union citizen whole life. Still feel . . . outside.”
I stole a glance at the scar on his thigh. “Because you’re from a warrior culture. The others can’t understand, can they?”
Chonk nodded with a faraway look. “Cannot. Believe violence not necessary.” He turned to me and thumped his chest. “Our kind know better.”
This was taking a somber turn, and it felt like both of us needed to let off some steam. “Tell you what. Maybe we can help each other out with ‘cultural studies.’ It’s been a long day and I need a drink. Food, too. Where’s a good place around here?”
“Now talking!” He slapped my knee with one of those massive, clawed hands. I tried not to wince, but damn. “Come! Know good place.”
Chonk led me to a transport tube, essentially a subway that traveled the full length of the capital ring. We were surrounded by representatives of most every race in the Union. It was noisy, crowded, and filled with the scents of individuals going about their daily lives. So a lot like a human subway. It wasn’t filthy like New York subways are said to be, but it definitely wasn’t up to Med Corps standards of cleanliness.
Grays huddled together silently. Insectoids clung to the walls, which was apparently more comfortable for them. Chonk nodded at a pair of Thubans who gave him a questioning look as he moved past with me at his side. In the corner, an Emissary sat reading his data crystal, oblivious to his surroundings.
I tugged at Chonk’s tunic. “Where are we going?”
“Place called Wa’xi’ya’de, in Th’u’ban sector. Believe you call it ‘bar.’”
An actual bar, in Thuban territory. This was going to be interesting, maybe a little dangerous. But if I wanted more cultural acclimation, it was hard to think of a better way to get started.
I tried to repeat his pronunciation and stumbled over my own tongue. “Wayside,” I finally said, contracting it into something I could remember. Sounded enough like a bar, too. “They have food?”
He patted his stomach. “Much good food. Very satisfying. Excellent drink.”
I was all about an excellent drink at this point. It wasn’t long before our tube came to a stop. The pair of Thubans made their way out, and we followed. A wave of arid heat washed over us and I could tell Chonk was loosening up already. He let out a deep, satisfied hiss. “Like home,” he said, and stripped off his temperature-regulating pack. He was about to place it in a pouch on his waist, but something stopped him. He turned and offered it to me. “You want use? Climate not comfortable for many others.”
I rolled up my sleeves and unzipped my coverall as far as prudence would allow. “I’ll be all right. We have some pretty hot places on Earth, too.” Without a word he stuffed the regulator into his pouch, looking glad to be free of it.
We walked up a broad, short flight of stairs into the Thuban sector. Like the one where I lived, it was a massive transparent dome, but instead of being filled with extraterrestrial vegetation, this one looked more Earthlike. It reminded me of Arizona, all hues of burnt ochre with sprinkles of sage where extremely hardy plants grew. Bulbous cacti and squat paddle-leafed palms surrounded fields of pointed succulents that resembled aloe and agave.
“This is what your home world looks like? We have deserts on Earth that are almost identical.”
“So have been told,” he said. “You like?”
“I do. It’s hot, but I’ll manage. I need to stay hydrated.”
“Hi-drayt? Ah. Water. Yes, much water at Wa’xi’ya’de. Come.”
I followed him to a low-slung building of sculpted stone. Its outside walls were decorated with gracefully cut swirls; its windows were circles of multicolored glass that changed with perspective. Lilting melodies from wind instruments emanated from its open doorways. It was beautiful and inviting, almost making me forget that it had been built by highly evolved dinosaurs.
The music might have been calming to me, but to the Thubans it must have been like death metal. The inside was as intricately decorated as outside, but the activity within reminded me more of a roadside bar. The whole place was one big exercise in contradictions.
Thubans huddled around tables, either quietly nursing drinks or raucously playing a game that looked like a cross between backgammon and chess. I didn’t try to get my head around that one.
It was a pair of Thubans along the back wall that captivated my attention. They stood about fifteen feet apart, each in front of a target circle, throwing knives at each other. Imagine axe-throwing with the stakes being a bit more personal. Apparently whoever got closest without hitting his opponent earned the most points. Warrior race, I reminded myself.
I must have been staring at the dueling pair for a while, because Chonk felt the need to lean over and explain. “They play ta’au’ae’he’lee. Game of skill.”
My implant translated that simply as “knife fight.” I was about to turn away when one of them caught one square in the chest, the blade stuck in one of his scales. I was about to run over to render aid when Chonk stopped me. He seemed amused. “Wait. Watch.”
The injured Thuban held out his arms and roared, and I thought for sure we were about to get caught up in an alien bar fight. I was hopelessly vulnerable. Here I was, barely five feet tall, surrounded by warrior lizards that stood a good two feet taller.
It turned out the roar was laughter. The other Thuban hung his head in dismay.
“Th’u’ban who caught knife just won. Body hit automatic victory.”
I watched in amazement as the “victim” pulled the blade free and handed it back to his opponent. They each sheathed their knives and returned to their table, where their companions raised their drinks and roared in unison.
“This is normal?” I wondered.
“Believe you call ‘letting off steam.’” Chonk pointed to the knife-throwing pair. “Soldiers on leave from border patrol. Hard work. Hard play.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I studied the plated scales on my companion’s chest. They did appear pretty thick, and those knives looked to be surgical-quality sharp.
Chonk found us an open table and held up two clawed digits. Soon a female Thuban barkeep came over with a pair of small clear glasses filled with golden liquid. “You enjoy this.”
I was a bit more circumspect, having no way of knowing if this stuff would kill me. My eyes fluttered as I mentally searched the files on Thuban physiology; for all I knew they could drink radiator fluid and be just fine. After a moment I was satisfied that methanol was as deadly to them as it was to humans. I took a sniff, and it smelled strangely familiar. “What is this stuff?”
“Is called ka’vaa’ma’loi. Made from ka’vaa nectar.” He pointed to one of the same type of succulents I’d seen outside, the ones that looked an awful lot like agave.
No way. Throwing caution to the wind, I took a sip. Light, a tad fruity . . .
“Holy shit! It’s tequila!”
“You familiar?”
More than I should be. I was grinning like an idiot. “We have this on Earth! Very popular.”
Chonk held up his glass in a satisfied salute. “Ah! To good day.”
“To a good day,” I said, and we downed our drinks. It went down smooth, but the warm sensation welling up inside me was a warning to be careful. Thuban tequila promised to be potent.
Chonk smacked his glass on the table and waved for the barkeep, who brought over a whole carafe of the stuff. “Will be good night too.”
It was indeed a good night. For being a race of hard-ass warriors, the other Thubans were decidedly less aggressive when it came to checking out the human chick carousing with one of their own. One or two made their way over to say hello to Chonk, eyeing me cautiously. Their back-and-forth hissing was too much for my translator to keep up with, until I heard Chonk introduce me and explain that we were in training together. That’s when the dam broke.
More of them surrounded our table, pulling up stools and peppering me with questions. They’d heard of Earth, but had never been anywhere near our vicinity as it was one of the quieter parts of the galaxy. That was good to know; whatever threats these guys protected the Union against apparently didn’t have their eyes on my home planet. It made me wonder what else was out there, beyond the Union’s borders.
“Earth like this?” one asked.
“Some places are exactly like this,” I said, and explained deserts. “Others are jungles, very humid. Lots of vegetation, filled with other creatures. Much of Earth is like the Emissaries’ old world, or at least that’s what I’m told.”
They paused to consider that. “Is mostly cold, then?”
“Cold” was relative. Room temperature to a human would put a Thuban in torpor without a regulator pack. “Parts of it would be to a Thuban, I guess. Some regions are very cold, but many humans still thrive there.”
“Humans strong, then. Much good.” They celebrated human tenacity with another toast of ka’vaa’ma’loi. I took a small sip, afraid to drain my glass. Judging by their size alone, these guys would put me under the table if I wasn’t careful. They seemed amused by my moderation.
My stomach growled, a reminder that if I was going to keep this up I’d need to get some food in me soon. The smells wafting from behind the bar suggested they were actually cooking back there and not simply giving commands to a food synth. I began scrolling through the menu on a data crystal embedded in our tabletop. It helped that each description was accompanied by a picture, like a Chinese restaurant, because it wasn’t translating well into English. I pointed to one that looked promising. It resembled a burrito bowl. “What’s this—la’mo’a’pini?”
“Tasty. Much popular,” Chonk said. “Much spicy.”
That sounded like a warning, which I of course ignored. A quick press on the menu made the item glow, then disappear. That apparently meant I’d ordered it. A few of the Thubans lifted their heavy eye ridges, either surprised or impressed. “Fa’ka’apa!” they shouted in unison as they lifted their drinks in another toast. “To humans!”
“To humans!” I repeated. This time I downed the whole thing.
***
Chonk and his buddies all ordered the same dish as mine, which was their custom for welcoming new friends.
And it did feel friendly. There were a lot of “last things” to expect when I was inserted into this world, and partying with a bunch of giant warrior lizards was absolutely near the top of the list. Pleasant as Xeelix and Bjorn had been, this was the first time anyone had made me feel like part of their group. I hoped for more opportunities like this with others in the future, but right then it was a joy to feel like part of their tribe.
It wasn’t long before one of the barkeeps arrived at our table, deftly balancing three hot bowls of la’mo’a’pini on each of her scaly arms. The dish was pungent in a good way, reminding me of peppers and cumin. Alien Tex-Mex. We each took one, and the Thubans waited on me before digging in themselves.
The la’mo’a’pini came in an enormous (for me) dish, definitely not sized for a human. Maybe next time I should look to see if there was a children’s menu, but then I’ve always been one of those fortunate few who can down a double-patty chili cheeseburger with a basket of fries and burn off the excess calories by just existing.
It was a mishmash of what looked like sweet peppers, little glistening orange balls in a reddish-brown sauce over a bed of something akin to long-grained rice. It was topped with chunks of segmented meat similar to lobster.
I poked at it with a broad-handled ceramic scoop that approximated a spoon, again meant for Thuban hands. To me, it was about the size of a serving ladle. “What’s this?” I asked, picking up a piece of the mystery meat.
“Pa’lop’a’le m’aka,” Chonk explained. It translated as stone bug. “Most popular delicacy. Hearty. Easy to harvest.”
Bugs? That was a mite revolting, but I was careful this time to not let my expression give me away. Plenty of human cultures used the bigger ones for meat; thankfully mine hadn’t been one of them. Closest I’d ever come to eating bugs was dishing on crawdads in New Orleans once, but they’re in the same family as lobsters so they don’t really count.
Not wanting to be rude, I finally dug into my bug burrito bowl with a comically small bite at the end of that absurdly large spoon. My Thuban companions watched with great interest. Judging by their expectant looks, I waited for it to feel like a volcano erupting in my mouth.
It was good. Very good. It’s a cliché that any unusual meat—possum, rattlesnake, you name it—tastes like chicken, but this did taste exactly like blackened chicken. The peppers, meat, and grains swirled together in a mix of smoky sweetness and spice, almost like curry. There was a bit of heat to it, but nothing like my new friends had warned me about.
With my taste buds and stomach ringing their approval, I dug in with gusto for another, larger bite. Around the table, my companion’s golden eyes widened in surprise.
Chonk leaned back on his stool. “You like?”
“I like. Very good,” I said around a mouthful of stone bug and peppers.
“Not hot?”
I wiggled my hand in a so-so gesture. “A little. I’ve had worse.” No doubt our taste buds were attuned quite differently. What must have tasted like liquid fire to them was sweet as honey to me. If anything, I’d have liked it to be a little hotter.
They chattered amongst themselves, their quiet hissing once again confusing my translator. In the end, they acted surprised and impressed. They lifted another round of drinks in salute before digging into their own dishes. “To humans!” they shouted. “Much strong!”
It was a long night of raising toasts and telling stories. They were fascinated with my tales of Earthbound medic runs and humans in general, while I was eager to learn more about their culture. As I fished for stories of their exploits along the Union frontier, I began to pay more attention to them as individuals. Each bore scars that spoke to a dangerous life of keeping nastiness at bay, and wore crimson sashes decorated with badges which were equivalent to our military insignia. They were the apex badasses of an already badass race, the Special Forces of the Union, yet they were more interested in hearing my stories than sharing their own.
They were not unlike the soldiers I’d met back home. The ones who’d seen the worst were circumspect about it; it was the ones on the fringes who usually wouldn’t shut up, like they were trying to cover for their own shortcomings. “In the rear with the gear” was how one former combat medic had explained it.
The largest Thuban, their leader, leaned against our table while nursing his drink. “You were”—the translator scrambled to interpret—“animal doctor?”
“We call them veterinarians.” I waited for their translators to catch up. “My father was, and I was in school to become one.” I left it there, not wanting to dig too deeply into my own story. In that, I shared some commonality with soldiers. Some things are too unpleasant to relive, no matter how much ka’vaa’ma’loi they put in front of me.
“Why animal school?” another asked. They seemed fascinated with the concept; veterinary medicine was not a common practice in the Union.
“Animals are important to our culture.” I lifted a piece of stone bug meat from my almost empty bowl. “You raise them for food, right? Keep some as pets? Our culture thinks it’s important to care for creatures who can’t care for themselves.”
They exchanged looks, trying to comprehend what I’d said. After a bit, I could tell the thought was revolting. “No. Animals not food. Not slaves.” He pointed at my nearly empty bowl. “Harvest only non-sapient beings.”
Sapient? Slaves? I recalled what Bjorn had told me about the different types of intelligence that weren’t obvious to us, particularly some of Earth’s sea mammals. “So you also believe that all animals harbor some form of intelligence?”
Chonk interjected, shaking his head. He put a clawed hand on my arm, and I wondered if that was a native gesture to their culture or if he was mimicking ours. “Not all. Some. Others potential. Not interfere with evolution.”
I took a sip of my drink, slightly chastened. I’d loved every animal on our farm, from dogs to dairy cows. That the Union considered keeping them to be slavery was an unsettling reminder of how far we had to go before they considered Earth worthy of membership. We might never get past that particular hurdle. “I had no idea,” I mumbled over the brim of my glass. “It’s not like we don’t take good care of them.”
The lead Thuban also placed a claw on my arm, so apparently this was a native gesture to them. “Not worry. You are excellent human.” He thumped his chest. “Strong heart. Take care of others. That why you . . . leave animal school? Go to human school?”
And here we were, back to that thing I didn’t want to talk about. I certainly didn’t feel it was due to any altruism on my part. It was more like shame. I took a slug of ka’vaa’ma’loi. “I left for . . . many reasons.” I prevaricated, as I had with Xeelix. “Where I’m from, we had more than enough veterinarians. What we didn’t have enough of were emergency medics.” Which wasn’t entirely true, we just hadn’t had any close enough to do any good. My friends thought ditching a university veterinary program for community college paramedic school was nuts, but there are times in life when you can’t live with the alternative.
Chonk gave my arm a squeeze. I tried not to wince. “This why Union recruited you. Also have not enough medics. Union growing . . . busy. Much activity. Expanding.” He seemed to be looking for the right phrase. “Spread thin.”
That explained things a bit. It also put Thuban activity along the Union’s borders in context. Probably getting too tipsy for my own good, I pointed my drink at Chonk’s buddies, happy to redirect the conversation. “Is it the same for you guys? Spread too thin?”
The subordinate Thubans looked to their leader. He set down his drink. “Union not hostile. Is how it . . . sees itself. Does not mean others not hostile.”
I’d heard enough hints of problems along their frontier. “What’s causing you trouble?”
He ran his tri-forked tongue across the ridges of his mouth, which I gathered meant he was considering how much to tell. “Much . . . nuisance. Raiders.” The translator skipped a beat. “They not big problem. We handle.”
I imagine they did, but that didn’t feel like the whole story. “What else is out there, beyond the borders?” Images of marauding aliens filled my head.
“Not beyond. Within. Through. Underneath.”
Underneath? I tried to picture what he was talking about. “Does the Union have trouble with . . . insurgents? Rebels inside its own borders?”
“Not only union. Whole galaxy.” He spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “Universe.”
Chonk’s translator had spent a lot more time with me, so he tried to explain further after giving the leader an inquisitive look. The leader nodded his approval. I could see my friend was choosing his words carefully. “Are more . . . manifolds. Dimensions most races not perceive.” He pointed to his snout. “We perceive. Use heat. Cannot see with eyes. See with nose.”
Now I was confused. “You’re at war with a race of invisible bad guys?”
“Not war. Defend. Is different.”
If it involved shooting, knives, and claws, it was hard to see how that was any different. I didn’t know much about military campaigns, but it seemed like one man’s defense was another’s offense.
He continued. “Also not invisible. Underneath.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean by ‘underneath.’ Underneath what?”
“Underneath space. Underneath universe.” He seemed frustrated, like he’d reached a point in our language barrier the translator chips couldn’t overcome. “Best speak with Emissary. Can explain better.”
It was a long night, but thanks to the insanely long Union standard day, there was still time to get in a few hours of sleep before the next shift. As Chonk escorted me back to my quarters like a true gentleman Thuban, I mulled over their talk of invisible troublemakers. What could be “underneath” space?
Safely back in my suite, I took several drinks of cold water to flush out the haze of Thuban tequila and collapsed into my bed. Any lingering worries I might have had evaporated as I drifted off to sleep.