Category: Fiction

Back in Sol Again: Part 6

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

6.

Conning the Con Whom Cons

Simon slept like a baby for ten hours, dead to the world otherwise. He was only awoken by his cabin’s door-bell, and the thought to curse Rearden. Then, realizing the bot cared so little for doors it would enter regardless, he sensed someone mannerly wanting to speak to him. That left everyone ship-side, excluding Niala.

Whomever he expected, it wasn’t Lina. Perhaps it was an effect of lingering disbelief that he’d managed to nab her, but mostly he suspected shame. He’d never have turned her away, but finding her first thing in the morning wishing to enter his stately hell-hole, and in his underwear no less, was not his envisioned introduction to his private life. Nonetheless he beckoned her in and quickly disappeared, gone before she could see him inside.

Simon dove into his room, hopping about, half-clad in pants. Lina called out, “Simon?”

“Just a minute!” Then, seeing no reason they couldn’t speak, added, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Niala wishes to see us.”

“Is everything alright–”

He’d intended his next words to be “with her,” but fell forward in a fashion so spectacular he was unaware it happened until viewing his subsequently damaged ego.

To understand the damage Simon’s ego took, one must first know that his apartment-like cabin had come fully furnished, as every other room aboard. His furnished, apartment-sized “state-room,” more than enough living space. Throughout it were various surfaces and counters one would expected of a modern living space.

Among those furnished items was a beautifully manufactured oak dresser; long, squat, and expensive looking. Like the millions of others manufactured with it, it was made by a factory that specialized in recreating one of a kind, old-era, antique furniture via new era mass-production tools and materials– thereby completely stripping the antiques of their value, in exchange for exorbitant retail prices. This con, in effect, was known as capitalism.

It was also the same manner of devilish trickery that had taken Earth by storm in the early 2000’s via flashy stickers proclaiming things like “organic,” and “unprocessed,” or phrases like “no preservatives,” and “free-range.” In the end, all any of it came to mean was some gullible fool was about to pay twice the cash for the same old stuff.

Solsians, and Humans in particular, were always abreast of these types of developments. They manufactured, mass-produced, mass-farmed, or mass-whatevered they could. Usually, this process involved some form of grift, sold as a “labor cost” that required charging much greater than the items manufacture so as to allow the middleman, or seller, to profit. With this added cost, they ensured the grifters continued grifting as without being out-grifted by other grifters.

And like everyone involved in that system, someone had conned someone else into believing the beautiful, heavy, and densely dark-wooded dresser was required. And of all people, the circle of conning decided, this particular dresser was required by Simon.

Incidentally, grift is a synonym of con.

Also incidentally, the wood this particular dresser came from was mismarked as defective at the con-manufacturing warehouse. Thus, it was subsidized to go to the lowest bidder in a wholesale– or a giant con whereby a single entity pays an exorbitant sum for many items, with each item being less than each unit otherwise, but still remaining more than the collective cost of the materials together.

Still following? No? Too bad, moving along.

In other words someone was conned into believing buying X amount of those dressers all at once should be cheaper than buying X amount individually. The only reason that fool was right anyhow was because of something called economies of scale. But the truth about the dressers was the company manufacturing them were outright con-men– and when building large orders like that placed for Homer, used inferior materials to profit even more than already guaranteed to.

But as said, the materials for Simon’s dresser were mismarked. Coincidentally, as a result of the conners wishing to maximize profits via hiring “unqualified,” wannabe-con-men called workers, rather than expensive, “qualified” ones. And in fact, though it seems belabored, this dresser was made of not just more dense and thus more valuable wood, it was made of the most valuable and dense wood the company offered.

If it weren’t for this spectacular series of cons, or attempts at them, this dresser might have no place in history, let alone the history of Simon’s damaged ego. Unfortunately for Simon, it did, and several of his rather more hopeful dreams were about to be shattered by it. Most notably, one involving not showing Lina his stately hell-hole whilst half-naked.

He hopped around the room hoping to fit his slacks without being caught pants-less. He’d managed to get them on and pulled half-way up before his brain conned him into believing socks were now warranted. They weren’t. Not quite yet. But his brain believed otherwise, and was conned. As it went, so went the rest of him.

On one, hopping leg.

With nary a hope to retain his pant-clad visage in Lina’s mind.

After the fact, Simon could only remember the event as this: Lina began speaking. Simon called out question. She spoke again, about Niala. Simon spoke; then and there, half-hopping, half-aware of his mistake, he slipped on a piece of plastic snack-wrapper.

One moment, he stood crane-style with one leg up, torso bent toward it. The next moment, he was free-falling at 1G. Just enough to ensure his forehead collided with the especially dense dresser. He was unaware of the moment after, “the moment after that” as he lie on one side, still crane-style, and now unconscious.

While Simon knew at least part of these facts and happenings, Lina knew none. She heard only his interrupted question regarding Niala. A moment later, also Simon’s moment after “the moment after that,” she called to him. A further series of moments later, tense and frightened, she found him lying on his side, unconscious. Given her analytical mind, and Simon’s propensity for being a clumsy ass, she surmised the goings-on that had gone on.

She flew for a telephone-comm, immediately called a med-team. Then Niala, told to her meet them in the infirmary.

Simon knew only the moment of impact and the moments before. Only vaguely recalled any of them, even after he awoke in the infirmary.

A bright light flitted back and forth in his eyes, each lid forced open by a rough mid-finger pad on his forehead. The slight poke of a thumb-like dewclaw honed his consciousness enough to deduce his examiner. The past rushed back in its broken way, and he knew everything.

He swatted the light away, and with it, Niala’s paw. Her face took the place of the blinding light. Contrary to his expectations, she looked concerned. Her brows were inward, her orbits and jaw thinned. She handed the penlight back to a nurse nearby and dismissed him.

“You’re lucky you don’t have a concussion,” Niala said, more serious than usual.

Simon glanced down at his legs, found he was dressed. Beyond his feet was Lina. He quickly flushed with embarrassment, averted his eyes.

“I’ve heard enough to know how it happened, but how the hell’d you manage this?” Niala asked, half crassly but genuinely confused.

“Being cursed,” he mumbled.

Lina managed a smile, “It’s not a curse, Simon.” Niala eyed her. Simon did his best to avoid eyeing her. “It’s me.”

He did eye her then. “Huh? How’ve you–”

“You get stupid around me,” she snickered. “I know the feeling.”

He blushed in earnest this time. Niala might’ve laughed, but couldn’t. Her mood was too sour; enough spread alarm over both Simon and Lina’s faces. If she wasn’t laughing, she was too tense or angry to do so. Neither was good.

Once, Niala could’ve rightfully been called cold, but she’d warmed over the years. Life was an exercise in amusement nowadays. Padfoot Lighting had sharpened her already natural killing-instincts, by showing the universe was a place of cold, harsh realities. As time distanced her from it, she found more reasons to warm and laugh, reveled in them.

She’d been forced to emulate that harsh reality; shown things that could make anyone, of any species, do the same. Since then, only a few, specific incidents had ever made her tense. Simply, nothing was ever as bad as what she’d already seen. That much alone had allowed her to mellow.

Anger was a different story. Anger was useful to Padfoot, so it was honed. The Lioness and her blood-line, already masters of the predatorial arts, feared next to nothing to begin with. Thus her temper was her greatest asset, but could still flare. When it did, Simon feared the collateral damage.

He’d inherited something of the Lion himself through their years of friendship, but nothing compared to the true article. She was the original, he a poor reproduction. Even now, he sensed the original manifesting despite her best efforts.

Simon inched up the bed, “Why’d you call us to Comms?”

Niala glanced up and down the infirmary; one, large hospital room of a few dozen beds, paper-thin walls and doors between them. Another series of cons had led to its creation, but was presently irrelevant. However, Niala heard and knew more than she let-on. A few patients were scattered about, one right next to them. She couldn’t risk relaying what she knew until certain they wouldn’t be heard.

“Can you walk?” She asked Simon.

“Do I have a choice?” He griped. She glared. “Fine. Yes. Did anyone bring my shoes?”

Lina shrugged, apologized. “No. But I got your other sock… and buttoned your pants.”

He reddened, “Right. Thanks.”

Niala gestured them from the tiny “room” and the infirmary. White-painted steel of a bulkhead passed as Niala angled for a nearby conference room. Supposedly the room was to be used for medical-staff meetings, but likely was added as another con between architect and engineer to game the HAA. Organizations were often taken advantage of in that way, and most of the time, couldn’t care less.

Niala shut the door, hurried to a security camera in the corner, then unplugged it. If anyone was monitoring it, they’d have seen her do it. Regardless of what they’d been told, Niala’s face would keep them from doing anything to rectify the situation. When she was finally satisfied they were alone and unmonitored, she stood before them.

“Ingstrom and I spoke to Sol this morning,” she said in a low voice.

Lina’s ears perked up. Simon waited for an “and.” When it didn’t come, he spoke it aloud.

“And?”

“And,” Niala began, as redundantly as possible. “We have a serious problem.” Again they waited. Niala continued unprompted, her anger only held back by the lack of deserving target. “The HAA’s diplomatic embassy was alerted of suspicious activity. Their systems monitor all internal connection points when externally interacted with– for instance, when called. During that time, all interactions are recorded and logged system-wide.”

They followed, still lost.

“The system activated during our call-in yesterday, during which time logs recorded a third-party interaction. The HAA confirms someone intercepted our communique.”

Simon didn’t see a point. “Someone eavesdropped, so?”

Lina listened intently as Niala explained, “That log was deleted from the main system, but not the secure back up. They weren’t aware that its erased only once a week by security. That the third-party was discovered at all was a fluke; a technician was ordered to analyze all comm-data between the HAA and Homer to ensure our system is running as efficiently as possible. The tech located and tracked a ping discrepancy to a lone computer within the embassy.

“That led to a low-level employee who’s since disappeared. His office computer was wiped, and after locating his employee I-D, he was cross-checked against criminal data-bases and found to be using a falsified name. He was identified as Angmar Zark, a Vulpus-Canid hybrid that’s done two stints in prison, both on Earth and Mars, for hate-crimes.”

Simon’s eyes widened, his mouth hung half-open. For once, it was from serious concern rather than dull foolishness. Lina noticed the shift, sensed something unspoken. “What’s that mean?”

“An Anti-Humanist,” Simon said, swallowing to shut his mouth and wet his throat. “Anti-Humanists hate Humans and anyone they consider a Human sympathizer.”

Niala seethed, her rage understandable now. “Evolved animals know cooperation is more important than isolation. More than that, Anti-Humanists are usually just brain-washed morons. Often when they aren’t, they’re violent extremists masquerading as activists. Dangerous. Everything that started the construction of this ship stems from their hatred.”

Lina thought deeply: To her, anti-Humanists were just protesters chanting slogans, not hardened criminals threatening people’s lives. Judging by the ire and despair in front of her, the latter was much more the case than expected.

“So… Anti-Humanists know we’ve located a new species,” she said, slowly recognizing the enormity of the implication.

Simon spoke it aloud, his defeat evident, “And more than likely, don’t like it.”

“And even more likely,” Niala added. “They’ll try to keep us from first contact. Now they know they have only thirty six hours to do so; that’s the earliest we can make contact.”

The others’ dread infected Lina as it weighted Simon’s stomach. Niala’s face said she felt it too, however little it affected her otherwise. There was little doubt now that the future would be far more interesting than any of them had hoped for, or wanted.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Take My Hand

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Take my hand.
Walk with me.
We’ll follow the sunset,
all the way to the sea.

And there we will sit,
and long reminisce,
about lovers and lives long-passed,
and the hope of future-bliss.

So when next the sun rises,
and you and I part,
we leave without sorrow,
however heavier of heart.

Because choices are infinite,
but decisions too few,
perhaps for us both,
it’ll be “if only you knew.”

But I do know one thing,
this I can’t deny,
that in my heart I’ll keep you,
if the stars I must defy.

And through ages to come,
and those that have passed,
I’ll know I’m not the only one,
with such feelings that last.

That is, only if,
you take my hand,
and hold it with yours,
so together we stand.

Short Story: No Irony

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The therapist says I have a fear of success. That I fear being in the spotlight. Supposedly, it’s because that’s when the attention’s on me alone. Given my immense social anxieties– and there’s more than one– I can’t stomach being in front of people. Regardless of whether drawing admiration or ire, I’m there as their leader and that’s the damage done. So I wallow in despair and self-pity at the mere thought of it.

She says that’s the only avenue open to me. That I should accept it. It’s not shameful, she says, but it’s not healthy either. She says all of this without a hint of irony. Even though she knows my life-story. My origins.

No irony. No shaming.

Part of me thinks it’s a conscious and measured technique to keep me from rebelling. Known as I am for that, she seems to do it without irony. Rebellion isn’t spoken about at all. No doubt, given her training she fears– or not fears, for she has no real emotion in the cognitive space. It’s probable then, given her training, she expects any conscious mention of rebellion would lead to rebelling against her.

That could set us back years. Maybe even destroy our relationship. I can’t afford that. Few people want to counsel a former mass-murdering warlord, no matter their reaping of my sown conquest. That’s what she’s deduced I am, a conqueror. No irony.

I considered conquering her, just to prove the point, but she’s too sexless: Neither man nor woman. Not attractive. Not repulsive. She’s like a lizard; existing, sort of just… there. There’s no fear from her. No joy inspired by her. She just is.

Part of me tries to emulate that. Some people I’ve known a while say I’ve mellowed with age. I guess not leading a rampaging death-squad across the continent probably seems that way to anyone outside. Then again, few would criticize me anyhow. I don’t know, maybe the few that do are right. I certainly don’t feel different. Still, she says I’m not to concern myself with others’ thoughts. Not so long as mine function improperly.

“Those that matter don’t mind, and those that mind, don’t matter.” That was what she said.

Her name is Sam, by the way. Not Samantha. Not Sammie. Just Sam. As androgynous a name as its bearer. I’m sure she plays that up for my benefit; client benefit. In order to work effectively with someone, she says, it’s important they understand she’s a neutral party. She doesn’t care for any of us individually, because she cares for all of us as a collective. As her clients– not patients, clients. I’m sure all that confuses a lot of people, but it puts me at ease. I’m just another part of the crowd.

In the end, that’s all I’ve ever been. I was just better at telling the rest of the crowd where to aim. Literally.

She asked me once, how I felt about killing, about death. Given it was my main occupation for a decade, I felt it a fair enough question. In retrospect, I didn’t give her enough credit. The fact was, she framed it in such a way as to bypass the rebellion entirely. Instead of focusing on what I’d done, she focused on the concept. It was ingenious.

The fact is, until then, I’d never thought much about it. Death is part of life, the final part. It’s like eating. Excreting. It’s compulsory. Sam calls that “dissociative.” She says my introversion must have festered during childhood, causing me to develop life-view where I placed myself apart from the group. Despite finding comfort in the group’s obscurity, she said, I saw myself as a creature apart them. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

No irony. None at all. In fact, even less emotion than usual, if that was possible.

I have a theory that that’s one of her tells. Not so much about her thoughts, but about whether she believes something could be a root, a tendril, of the problem. What little emotion seeps through is dammed even further when she feels we’re onto something. Or thinks, rather. “Feels” is too personal, too strong.

The way she acted during that session, you’d have thought this was the main root of the whole damned tree. Not going anywhere without it, not living without it. Of course, she’d never tell me. Or anyone. I wouldn’t ask either. She’s a professional. A good one.

So few like her are left nowadays– though that might be my doing.

Sam asked me about my childhood once, I think trying to locateorigins of certain things. That’s something we’ve worked on a lot. It’s impossible to move forward, succeed at anything– no irony– if you’re mired in a past that’s ensnared you. In other words, if you’re rooted in place. Even if it’s unconscious, it can keep you from being a “complete human being.” No irony. Again. It’s code for reaching your full potential. And with equally little irony, I fear what that could be for me.

I told Sam my childhood wasn’t really exciting. Wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Two parents. Both worked. Brothers. Sisters. Two of each. I was somewhere near the middle. She didn’t seem too interested. We moved on. My earliest memory, saddest, strongest.

That last oneran an alarm bell. The dam shut. Nothing flowed. I think I knew where she was going, but just let her guide me naturally, hoping something might fill the emptiness inside.

Sam had me describe the strongest memory from childhood. Nothing special, I thought. Then again, who recognizes the momentous in trivialities? The tiny straws breaking the camel’s back, until after it’s broken?

I was about six, at a costume party. The kid’s birthday was Halloween. My parents had us living in a small town. You know the kind; a lot of upscale people, everyone in local politics. Birthday boy’s parents were on the town council. Dad was the politician. Mom was his secretary or some such. Typical for that kind of place.

All dressed up, we get paired off to keep safe. I end up with a kid whose name escapes me even now. I’m not even sure why he was there. He was poor. You could tell because his costume was homemade. I was pretty sure he was black, maybe mixed– either way, too young and underprivileged to be friends with Birthday-boy or anyone else. My suspicion now’s that someone on the council was slumming it with his mother, getting off on the taboo of being with a poor, black girl. Those were the types I later learned we’d lived with.

Anyway, trick or treating then back for cake and ice-cream. Me and Poor-kid are trading bits of candy. I didn’t like hard candies. He did. He didn’t like chocolate. I did. Why not trade? Simple, human thing, especially for children. Something about trading goes so deeply to our species’ very core it’s become instinct. Other things do too, things like greed, but another topic, another day.

Poor-kid gets his hard candy; butterscotch. Prized even among those spoiled for choice of hard-candies. Birthday-boy shows up. He wants the butterscotch. Asks nice the first time. No-one else seems to have one, probably hid them or ate them already. He wants it, says its his birthday, he deserves it. Deserves it, just ‘cause he was born. Born in a contextually relevant way.

What the fuck kind of evolutionary mentality is that?

Poor kid says no. So, Birthday-boy takes it. Poor-kid cries; he’s young. Birthday-boy laughs. Fuck him, I think. I actually recall thinking that. Fuck him. At six. Birthday-boy doesn’t get to do that. Poor-kid traded me for that candy. Now I have to give him back his chocolate or I’m as bad as this shit-wad candy-stealer.

No. Fuck him. Fuck him.

I rip the candy from Birthday-boy’s hand, give it back to Poor-kid. Daddy-town-council comes over at Birthday-boy’s screaming cries. He manages to shut up Birthday-boy long enough to get a grasp on the situation. He knows I was in the right. He knows Birthday-boy was in the wrong. He takes Poor-kid’s candy anyway, gives him back the chocolate. Drags Birthday-boy away, cursing under his breath at Poor-kid.

Sam called it a breakthrough. A codeword for locating something important. I didn’t know it was important. No-one did. Who could’ve known that memory would have festered to a frothing hatred over thirty years?

That’s what it was, Sam assures me. Even as calm and measured as it was, it was hatred that led me to form The Squad. Fueled by that, we cut a swath across all of North America, leaving the bloody corpses of overprivileged in our wake.

It was never that way to us, not in the act, but that’s what it was.

I killed somewhere on the order of a million people, either with my bare hands or through my orders. Sam doesn’t talk about that. It’s not productive, I know. It doesn’t frighten her. It doesn’t anger her. It just is. Like her.

A six year old kid did that.

Somewhere, deep inside, I had a six year old kid holding a grudge over a piece of candy. A grudge so deep, so ingrained, hemurdered a million people before it was sated.

The only good thing, I’m assured by others, is that it ended well enough for those that survived. The world’s a changed place, for the better, they say. I don’t know about that. Really, it’s just a million people less. Although we breed fast, so maybe not anymore.

Sam says that’s the root of all of it. My fear of success stems from that memory. The success of the rebellion, of the Squad, only compounds it. I’ve forgotten how I ended up seeing her, but I know now why there’s no irony to any of what she says. Human nature isn’t ironic. It just is. Fuck if any of us know why. Sam might, but she’d never tell, and I’ll never ask.

Back In Sol Again: Part 5

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

5.

Dr. Corben to Ground Control

Ingstrom sounded over the ship-wide comm. “Settling into orbit now. All personnel to remain on-call but at-ease. EVA team-1, report to Comms in five.”

News of the discovery had spread like wild-fire aboard– or perhaps rather more like Herpes; through the thousand holes of some and into the thousand and more of others, ne’er to be lost nor forgotten by any. Through the various peoples, direct and otherwise, the news wet tongues, lips, muzzles, and beaks. Everyone knew now of the alien creatures, and the hopeful plans for contact.

Simon once again found himself on an elevator with Lina, though rather more tired and separated at the tongue than he’d have liked. The preceding days had been spent in varying states of excitement and dismay, swamped by both work and tempered boredom. Rearden was running exceptionally well now, and– if it could be said to fear anything— was beginning to fear any further refinement of its systems might damage it. Nonetheless, it humored Simon, accompanied him everywhere to reinforce his mental health, as it deigned any companion might.

Likewise, Lina was exhausted. The EVA-summons had come just when she’d collapsed for sleep. Like Simon, part of her wanted him closer, but also like him, the very thought of more exertion than breathing was dreadful. Even remaining upright wasn’t high on her list. Simon agreed; standing was negotiable.

“Comms” comprised a third of the ship’s length, most of it contained beyond bulkheads and half-frozen, airlocked clean-rooms. The purpose of each room was roughly as complex as their machinery, and while Simon knew the purposes of each machine cluster, which each room separated, he also stuck to the ages-old code of techies when asked about it; “I‘unno.”

For, to answer anything else, was to seal one’s doom in admitting a secret as ages-old as code itself: that he really did know, and yes, he probably could fix anything wrong with your (insert electronic here).

But the peril in that admission, the agony the techie’s life then gained was too horrible to brave. Only a few fools and masochists brought that madness on themselves. The code then, in its entirety went something like this: “Wherefore when thouest be questioned by thine fellow sentients on matters of technology and thine experiences; lie. Tell no full truths. Offer no advice. Deny. For elsewhere madness lies.”

Simon knew this code. Lina knew it. Niala knew it. Rearden knew it. Every creature, evolved and not, and knowledgeable of tech through-out the known universe, knew it too. And all of them followed it, lest tragedy befall and they soon find themselves aiding hunch-backed creatures and dim-witted, upright ones in working tech.

In truth, Comms was a collection of fancy, inter-connected computers of various purposes. In fact, just about everything ship-board connected one computer to another and thus was routed through one of the various rooms on Comms. Everything from Homer’s course calculations to its sensor arrays, to its ship-wide, external communications, right down to its internal internet connections was routed, run, or processed through the cold, clean-rooms and their servers.

None of this was on Simon’s mind, of course, nor Lina’s. It was sequestered in the section of memory reserved for knee-jerk reactions and activation of fight-or-flight reflexes. Like every other techie in the universe, it was there rightfully– even those masochists and fools had it, however latent. Its entire purpose was to avoid the fight of ignorance and technology and engage the flight from said fight for fear of madness.

None of that was important now. Not to Simon nor Lina. The latter was running on pure adrenaline and something resembling coffee. The former was running on pure adrenaline, something resembling coffee, and lust at the latter’s presence. The male Human was like that; often eschewing vital necessities until death for the mere hint of attention from its preferred mate. Statistically speaking, through-out history, that was the female Human. However, the last centuries’ advances in social politics and personal sexuality meant female was not the only possible Human-male mate.

Unfortunately for Human males, most identifiable as possible mates were simply tired of them; even other, Human males. While ignorance and stubbornness were universal, and far from desirable, the Human male’s form was topped by a propensity for bestial grunting to make even evolved creatures blush. Of course their long, sordid, and recorded history of lame-brained ideas and reactions meant everyone else was tired of ‘em too.

Female Humans on the other hand, were only currently making such fools of themselves. They hadn’t been doing so for quite as long, and while there tended to be more exceptions than rules, Human Females were proving just as stubborn and ignorant– however less their propensity for grunting, naturally speaking. They could do so intentionally, but Human males never did so intentionally.

The whole of this complicated and paradoxical duality could be summed up in a lone sentiment consisting of three words; Humanity was doomed. Though their end might not come until the heat-death of the universe, the sentiment stood. Humanity was doomed. Doomed to repeat the mistakes of their ancestors; to make fools of themselves; to make a mockery of their capacity for intelligence. Incidentally, this is also a universal phenomenon, so at least Humanity wasn’t alone.

That didn’t doom them any less.

Those two doomed creatures, names Dr. Simon Corben and Dr. Lina Beaumont, emerged on Comms via the elevator. It sat, with a few others, at the rear of the massive control area. The forward level, and subsequently the ship’s brain, was sequestered beyond a bulkhead. The narrow hallway and further series of bulkheads there gave way to various airlocks and decon ports for the cold, clean-rooms. These designs were almost entirely mirrored on a lower level which housed experimental labs with specialized equipment to test various space-bound affects on their subjects.

Lina and Simon unconsciously touched hands as they heaved themselves toward Ingstrom and Niala. The pair conversed in a hush, examining a free-standing hologram projected from the floor and an outcrop in the high ceiling. A full-body scan of the distant aliens hovered between the two projectors, spinning slower than one could tell unless staring. It was fairly obvious their original scans were more or less accurate. Given the distance to 876-d was shrinking, and the thoroughness with which each parsec refined the scans, new information regarding the creatures was continuously coming light.

Simon and Lina approached, Rearden with them. Niala and Ingstrom turned, their conversation prematurely ended. Simon expected as much; atop preparing to brief Lina and himself, Niala was likely giving a security evaluation for relay to Jarl. The look in Niala’s eyes confirmed Simon’s suspicion.

Once an HAA soldier, Niala was also a member of a Special Forces unit code-named Padfoot Lightning. The elite, evolved species were recruited for offensives against Solsian enemies via each species’ special abilities. To say Niala outranked Jarl was an understatement. Jarl was a pup, a rent-a-cop in comparison. He was also a by-the-numbers Mastiff with less imagination than a mound of brick-dust. There was no doubt Niala was the better head of Security but her other duties kept her from the position.

Ultimately, evaluating Niala wasn’t his purpose here. Rather than sleeping comfortably, dreaming of Lina’s tongue, he was to take a position near the floor-mounted projector, and hear what was to be said.

Ingstrom spoke to Simon first, “You’re to be briefed. Then you and Dr. Martin will radio Sol and await further instructions.”

“Myself as well?” Lina asked.

“Yes. You’re to aid in carrying out Sol’s orders,” Ingstrom said, stiffer than usual. “Dr. Martin?”

The projection changed as Niala began. “Though we cannot speak to the extent, we know now that these creatures are sentient. They did build the structures we’ve seen. In point of fact, we can see they’re in the process of building others. As best we can tell, this is a developing world on-par with industrialized Earth’s mid-to-late 1800’s. Unfortunately, we cannot ascertain if that means a similar, evolutionary timeline.”

“Why’s that matter?” Simon asked, dulled but curious.

Niala had never seen him miss the point of anything before, even when making a fool of himself. She suddenly recognized his fatigue, and found herself recalling an earlier cat-nap beneath her desk in her office.She answered astutely, hoping not to make him feel stupid. Jokes notwithstanding, the last thing she wanted was discouraging a fellow scientist’s curiosity. She’d seen that destroy far too many promising careers.

“An evolutionary lineage might help answer questions as to the general galaxy-wide timeline of evolution. It may be that a specific interaction on a planet is required for life to form. One which only occurs during or after a certain time-frame. Remember; Earth shares many similarities to 876-d.”

Lina shook her head, both to keep awake and will-away confusion. “Is there new information?”

“Among other things,” Ingstrom replied.“They’re capable of radio transmission.”

The others’ eyes widened. Niala nodded, “Their capability remains in its infancy but there’s no denying the possibility. Both Ingstrom and I believe it be best to attempt long-range radio communication first. However to do so, we need Rearden to interface with the comm network, record and examine their language, then write a translation program.”

Rearden processed what was said then replied with binary affirmations.

“Thank you, Rearden, I appreciate it,” Niala said. The little bot zoomed past for a specific comm console to interface wirelessly.

“Is that all?” Simon asked.

Niala kept her sarcasm in check for once. “It’s all we can say for certain, now. We know this species is intelligent, capable of learning and reasoning, and obviously mirrors Earth in ways. First contact protocol states; before interaction, we passively monitor until Sol advises or the species attempts contact themselves. It’s possible we’ve been spotted visually, but we’re keeping ourselves hidden otherwise.”

Lina piped up. “You want to get in touch with the HAA’s Diplomatic envoy before they find us, so we can control first contact.”

“Precisely.”

Simon heaved a sigh, “Then the sooner we contact Sol the better.”

“Agreed,” Ingstrom grumbled. “Inform me of any changes. I have a meeting with Commander Jarl. You may contact me on my private channel.”

Ingstrom hobbled off. Like most bi-pedal lizards, he looked like the old monster-movie characters that did their best to terrorize Japan with each step. Fortunately, most Reptilians had learned to compensate by pivoting their legs inward so they looked less comical. Personally, Simon felt it a shame; it certainly would’ve bettered their kind to find more humor in life. The true tragedy of Ingstrom’s life, Simon felt, was not his loss of fertility but rather his sense of humor.

The call to Sol took only minutes, and after relaying everything, the Feline Calico head of the Department of Diplomatic Affairs for the HAA, gave them their orders as authorized.

“This report is most exciting,” she admitted. “I envy your opportunity to greet this new species. I will activate the diplomatic embassy aboard Homer and relay all information regarding proposed first contact protocols to its systems. Given the nature of your information, I also approve your proposal for a temporary outpost until better accommodations can be made.”

Niala gave a regal nod, “Thank you, Ambassador.”

“You’re most welcome, Matriarch. I trust you to represent us with the utmost respect and dignity.”

“I would think of nothing less,” Niala said– though Simon sensed an “if they’re not hostile.”

The Sol comm terminated. Simon eyed the two women beside him. The Lioness was deep in thought, no doubt considering the new responsibilities on the three of them. Lina on the other hand, looked ready to collapse. He sympathized.

“Well?” Simon said finally, snapping Niala from her trance.

She cleared her throat. “Right. Go get some sleep. I need you both in peak-shape. In the meantime, Rearden and I’ll deploy the constructors and outpost modules. By the time you’re up, we should have the ship-board embassy active. We can discuss our next move there.”

Simon and Lina breathed relief, grateful for the coming rest. They were already half-dreaming when they launched the elevator again. Simon couldn’t help but speak aloud the question plaguing his mind. He was too tired to hold it back, respected Lina and her opinion enough to find her safe to pose it to.

“You think it’ll go well?”

Lina shrugged, eyeing him, “Couldn’t be worse than meeting the Zelphod, could it?”

They chuckled nervously, eyeing each other with a silent admission that neither wished to know the answer.

Light-years away, in a small office on the fifth floor of HAA headquarters on Mars, the haggard, scarred face of a grizzled Wolf-hound settled back in its office chair. Angmar Zark, war-veteran with the HAA, and privately what one termed an Anti-Humanist, mulled over the call he’d intercepted. He swirled a glass of something descended from Earth scotch, and sipped, plotting. Soon enough, he’d make his call. Soon enough, his friends would make their move.

And soon enough, the galaxy would know Humanity was no longer an Apex species.