‘Thanks, Lili.’
‘You got it. If you come by Jojo’s tonight, I’ll get you a drink.’
Tessa laughed dryly. ‘I just might take you up on that.’ The vox switched off. Tessa sat on the desk. She set her lunch down and studied Sahil, her hands folded between her legs. His sinuses roared. She thought about wiping up the drool, but no. She did enough of that kind of thing at home.
She glanced up at the clockprint on the wall. Ten minutes, tops, dispatch had said. So, rounding up to ten, that meant it was in her best interest to wait five minutes before calling Eloy, who would take twelve to get from home to work. Technically, she was supposed to call the supervisor the second something like this happened, but Tessa found the idea of delaying the inevitable headache until she had patrollers there much more palatable. Eloy was easier to deal with if another person of authority was there to balance him out.
One minute passed. Tessa opened her lunch box and removed the cake she’d packed for the afternoon. It was only eighth hour. It was warranted.
Four minutes passed. The cake had been pretty good. A little stale, but then, it was two days old. She brushed the remaining crumbs off her knee. Sahil snored.
Five minutes passed. She took a breath. ‘225-662,’ she said to the vox.
A second went by. Two. Three. ‘Yeah,’ Eloy’s marginally awake voice said. Great. Just great. This was the start of his day.
‘Eloy, it’s Tessa,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a break-in.’
‘Ah, fuck,’ he snapped. She could practically hear him rubbing his hands over his face. ‘Fucking again?’
Sahil shifted in his sleep, his lips folding unflatteringly against the desk. ‘Fucking again,’ Tessa said.
Isabel
When dealing with other sapients, issues of compatibility were difficult to anticipate. Isabel’s go-to example of this was the first meeting between Exodans and Aeluons. The Exodans, overjoyed by what felt like a rescue, exhilarated by the confirmation that their species was not alone, predictably assembled in their festive best, and decorated the shuttledock in streamers, banners, bunting. There were recordings of the scene in the Archives – an overwhelming array of every colour the dyeworks could cook up, hung and layered like confetti frozen in time. To Exodan eyes, the display was ebullient, effusive, a celebration like no other (not to mention an extravagant use of cloth). To the chromatically communicative Aeluons, it was the equivalent of opening a nondescript door and finding a thousand screaming people on the other side. The Aeluons, well familiar with the more colourful habits of other species, dealt with it as gracefully as they could, but as soon as some Klip/Ensk translation wrinkles had been ironed out, a gentle request was made to please, please put the flags away.
Such misalignments were unpredictable, and blameless. Nothing that could’ve been foreseen. Nothing that could’ve been prevented. Isabel told herself that as she stood helplessly at the transport pod platform as . . . something nearby kept shutting down Ghuh’loloan’s cart. She’d been fine on the elevator, fine as they crossed the platform. As soon as she approached the transport pod, though, the cart stopped in its tracks, as if someone had thrown a switch. Isabel had tugged her backward, and the cart had come back to life. But as soon as Ghuh’loloan drove herself across some invisible line, the wheels froze and the engine audibly slumped. None of her colleague’s increasingly agitated flicking of switches had any effect.
‘Weird,’ the transport attendant said in schoolroom Klip. He scratched his head. ‘It’s got to be . . . I don’t know.’ He switched over to Ensk and gave Isabel an apologetic shrug. ‘Some kinda signal interference from the pod. I’m sorry, M, I don’t know where to start.’
Isabel glanced around as she mentally scrambled for a solution. A small crowd had gathered, because of course they had. They kept their distance – out of respect and wariness in equal measure, no doubt – but their interest was unapologetic, and anything but subtle. How often did you get to go home and tell the dinner table about the alien you saw stuck on the transport deck? Isabel was aware that they were watching herself as well, the obvious responsible party, the one who would come up with something clever.
She did not.
‘I do not hold you at fault,’ Ghuh’loloan said to the attendant. ‘Nor you, dear host. These things happen!’ Her tone was bright, but her tentacles still flicked switches in fading hope. She pulled in her tendrils, and her eyestalks shut for a moment. ‘M Transport Attendant,’ she said, perking back up. She had yet to get a proper hold on honorifics, and the overdone result was often charming. ‘Do you think you are capable of carrying my cart? It weighs approximately sixteen kems.’
The transport attendant – clearly tickled at being called ‘M’ by an alien visitor – nodded. ‘Yes, I can lift. But, um . . .’ He paused, searching for words. ‘I’m not sure I can carry it and you same. Together?’
‘Together,’ Isabel said.
He nodded again. ‘It and you together.’
‘Oh, you won’t need to worry about that,’ Ghuh’loloan said. ‘Isabel, would you—?’ She gestured at her cart, and Isabel caught on. She grabbed the edge of the cart and dragged Ghuh’loloan a short ways backward. Right on cue, the cart hummed to life again. Ghuh’loloan pressed a few controls, and a compact ramp extended slowly from the side.
Understanding her colleague’s intent, Isabel looked at the floor. Smooth, dry metal plating, just like everywhere else. Clean, but hard to say what had been on it, or what it had been cleaned with. A bit of solvent residue, a bootprint with traces of fertiliser, or an unseen patch of spilled salt were all enough to make a Harmagian itch for the rest of the day. Isabel frowned with concern. ‘I’m sure one of us can carry you.’
‘No,’ Ghuh’loloan said. ‘You can’t.’ She angled her eyestalks toward Isabel’s bare forearms. Right, Isabel thought. Soap. Skin oil. Lotion. And you couldn’t forget the clothes, either, undoubtedly still dusted with detergent. Stars, but Humans made a mess of getting clean.
Isabel looked to the crowd. ‘Does anyone have any water with them?’ she called out in Ensk. ‘A canteen, or . . . ?’
The faces in the crowd looked surprised to be addressed, as if they’d just discovered they were playing a sim instead of watching a vid. But they responded to the question, opening satchels and digging through backpacks. Bottles, bags, and canteens were raised up.
‘I’m sorry to ask this,’ Isabel said. ‘But we need to rinse off a path for her.’
Ghuh’loloan wagged her facial tendrils. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m asking them to clean off the floor for you.’
‘Oh, dear host, I’ll be all right, really—’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Isabel said, and turned again to the crowd. ‘Any volunteers? Clean water only, please, no tea or anything flavoured.’
Isabel hadn’t expected differently, but was pleased to see everybody with water come forward to help. She knew a good deal of the motivation was self-serving – not only did they see an alien in a pinch on the platform, but they got to help. Still, the unquestioning willingness to pitch in made her proud. The onlookers emptied their drinks, tossing the water in forward-moving splashes. One small girl upended her equally small cup straight down in front of her. It did little for the task at hand – most ended up on the girl’s shoes – but she got the point. Every bit counted.