A long moment passed. I did not know the reason for the sudden tension I felt in the room. As I have said before, while I lacked the subtleties of speech, I could observe well enough. And not knowing a thing about Dalfaen custom or Amon’s usual mannerisms, I knew something was not right. Once again, I cursed my ignorance. It was not that I was oblivious—that might’ve been a blessing. It was that I was never privy to the one or two details that were essential to understand what was going on.

  I glanced up at Ingrish expectantly, hoping for answers. Instead, I saw her slowly shake her head at Amon. And then, pointing at the single Dalfaen who had drawn near, the one floating next to Amon, she announced clearly to the room. “That is not Adjudicator Laerad.”

  Another moment of frustrating silence passed, and had it not been for Ingrish’s iron grip on my shoulder, I would’ve interrupted with another of my endless questions. Instead, with her fingers digging into my skin, I was wise enough to remain quiet.

  The beguiling voice of Adjudicator Laerad spoke again. “Most honored one, you brought a Bakke into my court. Did you not think I might take a few precautions? There are few things more precious than the contents of one’s mind.”

  “The Bakke is for the child, as I explained to your Nekomata.” Amon’s gruff voice sounded like gravel. “I needed a translator for the boy. I apologize if you took offense.” The old man’s eyes searched the distant grey figures in the water, trying to figure out which one the disembodied voice came from.

  “And the pistol hidden in your evo-suit?”

  I knew not if the Dalfaen could roll their eyes—or even if they had eyes—but Ingrish perfectly captured the sarcastic inflection anyway.

  Amon froze and grew quiet, and finally, he gave up the game. “the pistol was for breaking the glass. That was not how I was going to kill you.”

  Ingrish hesitated to translate that final part, but when she finally relented, my eyes widened at Amon’s words. At last, the elusive detail fell in place, far long after I could’ve done anything about the situation. And even after it was over, I found myself wishing, as all the powerless do, that I could’ve said something, did something. Instead, I felt as though things kept careening towards disaster, though I knew neither the reason nor a way out. And in the moment, it was that fear of this unstoppable danger that paralyzed me even when I wanted to beg Ingrish to understand why.

  There was a terse laughter in the room. “While I honor the ground upon which you walk, you must forgive me if I do it from a distance.”

  Amon’s eyes kept searching among the grey figures, hunting after an impossible target. “I didn’t see a scanner anywhere. How did you know?”

  “Unlike our Nekomata servants, we are entirely capable of higher order thinking. But you should know this. We are your firstborn.” The last note rang with the touch of disappointment and anger, the same as a child bitter—but not surprised—by the betrayal of his father.

  “Did you really think you could walk into my own court and kill me?” Laerad asked, his voice a playful mockery. “Did you really think it would be that simple?”

  “I mean no offense against your intelligence,” Amon responded, “but this is not my first time. And if you think you are safe from me, you are wrong. I trust you also looked through my record?”

  “I did.”

  “Then I shall ask this once. Did you murder Feya or not? I’m done trading words.”

  Laerad’s voice seemed genuinely shocked. “And if I did, that would be your cause to murder me? Over such a little thing? You taught my kind that we were slaves. Why would you be so angry over the death of a Dalfaen?”

  Finally, at this juncture, I found something I could understand. Though Ingrish did not hide her horror at the Dalfaen’s words, I saw something entirely appreciable. Despite the worlds between us, there was a commonality between myself and these unknowable aliens. They thought quite like the Mantza did, with the same eye free from those considerations the rest of the galaxy would call sentiment.

  But even in this, Ingrish translated something for me I didn’t understand. In Laerad’s artificial speech, I heard the slightest tremor of anger—as if to be a slave was an insult and not simply what you were.

  “That is not what we taught you,” Amon growled.

  “Actions,” Adjudicator Laerad sighed, and he spoke again before Amon could argue further. “But enough! Since I would rather you not leave an enemy, and since I had nothing to do with Feya’s death, I shall present myself. And when you see I am innocent, would you listen to what I have to say?”

  “If you present yourself.”

  Laerad did not respond, and I looked around, wondering which of the distant grey forms would come closer. However, a minute passed, and none did. The Dalfaen of the Water Court waited and watched from the depths, and even the one who swam to Amon remained motionless, floating in the water.

  It was then that the doors crested open, and the Nekomata escorted a tank that hovered over to us. The glass and bronze sphere was blurred, still preventing me from seeing the true form of the creature inside. All I could discern was a grey body and tattered ribbons of flesh.

  Amon turned and crossed his arms expectantly, unimpressed by the gesture.

  Ingrish hesitantly let me go. Thumbing her hands and walking over to the tank, the whole room was silent for her unfalsifiable judgement. She peered close, and even though she had a cloth around her eyes, she seemed to study the blurry figure as if there were no impediment to her eyesight at all. After but a few moments, she straightened and looked over to Amon.

  “He’s innocent.”

  …

  It was not easy for me to adjust to the change in atmosphere. And I mean not only the uncomfortably thin air of the Water Court. Adjudicator Laerad seemed entirely cordial and even pleased to be talking to a human. If he held any serious grudge against Amon Russ, it seemed to be forgotten, or at least, put aside for now. And while Amon Russ was reserved as always, he seemed completely relaxed entertaining the Dalfaen, and I was even more surprised when he accepted an invitation to a meal.

  We were set at a long, white table. I discovered then that the Dalfaen do not eat as we do, as they are unrestricted by traditional dimensions. They take their meals in an upward spiral, each “seat” raised higher than the last. Although the Dalfaen do not sit, they take stations along winding feeding tubes which glowed with a soft, orange light.

  Along this spiral are a number of spaces for terrestrial beings. As following Dalfaen custom, those lower in the spiral are of higher status, and those higher in the chain are of lower station. As such, the bottom was a lavish dining room decorated with fire coral where the worlds of water and air met. The spaces higher and higher became less and less luxurious, with small air bubbles for terrestrials and less ornate feeding tubes for the Dalfaen.

  The “feast” was also separated into three segments where those at the lowest stations could speak to anyone at the table whereas the highest could only converse with themselves.

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  Ingrish was initially refused a place at all, but upon Amon’s demand, she was permitted to stand and listen to the conversation. However, she remained completely quiet. In fact, not once did Amon or Laerad beckon her to speak.

  And although I had been given a seat near Amon, I felt like another outsider who didn’t belong there. While Ingrish translated for me, I had no wish to follow the conversation. I just wanted to go home. Which I realized now, to my utter surprise, now meant my small quarters in the Aphelion. The place I yearned for was no longer Ghiza IV. And it never would be again.

  But in the meantime, I was distracted by my hunger. For although Ingrish had begun teaching me to use eating implements, she warned me not to eat as to avoid causing undue attention. I stared at my plate of cooked fish, wondering what was the point then, that I should have to sit here at all.

  Of the conversation that passed between Amon and Laerad, much was uninteresting to me. Ingrish translated Laerad’s explanation, the names and identities of those who were behind Feya’s death. Dalfaen society is used to many power struggles, and I cared for absolutely none of the politics.

  Amon announced that he wanted blood, and Laerad promised it to him. And as I set these words down now, I realize the anti-climax in this turn of events. As someone who sets words to holo-script, I confess I feel a strange obligation, that I ought to give you a resolution which did not historically take place here.

  There is much in our lives that are like the touch of a story, moments that seem to ring with meaning, glimpses where the author allows his characters to read the dry ink on the page and understand some of the import. And then there are other times where there is no discernible purpose, where the narrative you told yourself sees no conclusion.

  I do believe that is because we assume—quite wrongly—that the structure of events are for us and for us alone. We think the galaxy contrives its rules for the individual whereas in reality it orchestrates a chorus. And we should not be surprised when one part falls silent to allow another to rise.

  For myself, the story of the Torturer Jorra and Feya’s killers ended—at least it would not resume for many years. And at once, the story of Laerad’s offer to remake humanity began.

  “Much has happened in the past four months while you were in transit,” Laerad explained to Amon. “Crustakon Scavengers discovered the wreck of an Ark Ship in Far Space. They dated it back to the Fourth Aberrant War. It was orbiting a dying sun. The ship was evidently damaged, and since there were no habitable worlds nearby, the crew attempted to use the star to replenish their dwindling energy reserves. The shields failed just after exit of the solar dive.”

  “So what took them? The heat or the radiation exposure?” Amon asked that question while toying with his food, looking bored. Ingrish knew better though. She always knew better.

  “It’s undetermined, and we’ll likely never know the answer for sure. You know how the Crustakons are, a cold species if there ever was one. They stripped the vessel down to its bones, and melted down the rest. The markets briefly saw a bidding war for human technology. Much of it was highly advanced but unimportant to the Dalfaen. One piece of inventory, however, was worthy of our attention.”

  “What?” Amon glanced up at the blurry image of Laerad.

  “Breeding Arrays. Coupled with an independent power supply, they contained approximately ten thousand still viable embryos.”

  Amon suddenly became very quiet. “And did you purchase them?”

  “No, they were purchased by a Rhodeshi Trading Fleet before we even knew about it. As it stands, those embryos are now being put up as top prize for their infamous death games. It’s being hosted on their homeworld itself. The Rhodeshi are selling this as the spectacle of the century. They expect the galaxy’s deadliest inhabitants to be all making an appearance.”

  “And let me guess, you need me to fight?” Amon groaned and set his fork down on the table. “I fought the Aberrants, yes. But that was when we had functioning Grave-Suits. All I have now is second-rate scraps. Couldn’t even stand to a phase blaster.”

  “It just so happens my lineage has acquired an antique Generation Four Cataphract Armor—on loan, of course. All it needs is a human to operate it.”

  Ingrish was less confident with what she understood with the Dalfaen’s words. Instead of any specific meaning, the image she showed me was of her people’s stories of the Fifth Aberrant War, when humans wore armor that could let them fight even on the surface of magma worlds. But even as she emphasized the power of these armors, she relayed to me that she knew barely any more than I did.

  “And let me guess. You also happen to have a Zero-Sword?”

  “Another gene-lineage has agreed to offer two of the eleven hundred and ninety-nine still known to the galaxy.”

  Amon clasped his hands together. “Then it’s already decided. The only question is what is going to happen to those embryos.”

  “Restore your species, of course!” Laerad exclaimed, as if any other answer was out of the question.

  “Without any of your adjustments? Without your sponsorship?”

  Laerad became quiet. “Who else is suited to the task? Do you have the numbers to take care of so many? Would you entrust the fate of your kind to any other species in the galaxy?”

  Amon hesitated. “I wouldn’t—”

  “It is at great personal expense to my gene-lineage that we acquired the Cataphract Armor and the Zero-Swords. Promises were made. This is a matter of the collective interest of the Dalfaen people. I cannot simply renege on these agreements.”

  “How long are the contracts? How long will my kind have to work off this great debt? You hold each generation of the Nekomata children in perpetuity, but that’s because you made them personally. Will we get a better rate?”

  This time it was Laerad who was uncomfortable. “As I said, great personal expense—”

  “How long?”

  “We calculated out the cost of our sponsorship to be a period of five thousand years Terran Standard for your species.”

  Amon was silent for another moment. “We only held your species under stewardship for two hundred.”

  Adjudicator Laerad was firm. “For the salvation of your species, I would say it is a fair bargain.”

  Amon Russ’ eyes were black with bitterness. “I demand no genetic manipulation. Otherwise, I cannot accept these terms.”

  “It would only be for eugenic—”

  “No genetic manipulation. You’re asking me to submit my kind to stewardship for our survival. You would treat us as no better than children, a species still in genetic infancy, and I will accept. But only if I get a guarantee that humanity will still be humanity at the end of our repayment. This is non-negotiable.”

  Adjudicator Laerad hesitated. “The other gene-lineages will attempt to find another human to wear the armor.”

  “Good luck. I’m sure a species with your resources can find another human. But that armor is scrap in the hands of an untrained individual. All the protection in the galaxy is not going to stop another Zero-Sword. You need a veteran of the war, and I dare you to find another one before the games are over.”

  “I will need to make many calls.”

  “Make them. I will be back on the Aphelion.”

  It was at this moment I interrupted with a question, though Ingrish had to translate what I was asking.

  “He wants to know whether humans are honored ones to you or slaves. And if humans are honored among you, why would you want them as slaves?”

  That was a rough interpretation of my question. I was asking for clarification in the hierarchy, not making any personal insinuation that the Dalfaen were mistreating humanity. In fact, it did not matter to me what we were, one or the other. It made no difference, though I would’ve preferred the more familiar of the two.

  Amon turned to me shocked while I blankly looked at the blurry image of the Dalfaen without any clue of what Ingrish added to my question.

  Laerad turned his blurred face to me.

  “I was told you were an invalid. My deepest apologies for not including you in the conversation. Your kind would not be slaves. You would remain honored ones—only under our protection. And we would require you only for so long as it takes to make restitution.”

  Ingrish translated my response. “Forgive me. I was raised under the Mantza. I do not know if the word ‘slave’ has a different meaning for you, but that is the Mantza definition of the word.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. And it was very much later that I learned I had just compared the Dalfaen Ascendency to the Mantza—the lowest of the low species of the galaxy. And for this, Laerad had no response.

  Sensing I had said something wrong, I desperately changed tact. This time, Ingrish did not have to act as an intermediary. “Why can’t I see you? Why do you want not to be seen?”

  Again, no response. And I noticed that all conversation had fallen silent. The entire spiral all had their eyes upon me. Amon muttered something and Ingrish passed it along.

  “If he decides to show you, do not react.”

  Laerad eventually did indeed drop the blurred screen, and I screamed in fear.

  …

  Thankfully, I do not believe I hurt Amon’s chances of securing humanity a better deal. When the Dalfaen contacted the Aphelion again, saying that they refused Amon’s counteroffer, he did not seem angry at me. In fact, all he did was shrug his shoulders, heaving a disappointed sigh. Ingrish informed me that the chances had been vanishingly slim that they would’ve taken Amon’s proposal anyway, and all I did was throw things into stark clarity.

  I confess, I felt awful anyway. And especially, I did not wish to remain on Naiad any longer. My encounter with the Dalfaen destroyed any love I might’ve had for the planet, and although I could still appreciate its beauty, the idea that this could ever be a home—no. I was glad when the Aphelion took off again for its next destination, and as I stood at the viewport, watching the blue gem of Naiad fall into the distance, all I saw was the face of the Dalfaen looking back at me.

  And as I think now, it was not the awful disfigurement nor the rot which caused me to cry out in fear. I was not frightened by the surgical scars or the implants. In fact, with the exception of Tut, I was never perturbed by such things.

  What horrified me was that the face that seemed grafted onto alien flesh was so similar to mine.