Big Alien is watching you. That isn’t creepy at all.
Hef’Mrnan doesn’t fly, so we have to take Kyros City’s version of public transit, a mini-bullet train — one cylindrical car about the size of a school bus that travels along a monorail-style track at terrifyingly high speeds. The weirdest part of riding this thing isn’t that I don’t feel it accelerate or decelerate at all; it’s that the riders don’t keep shoving themselves in once all the seats are filled, and they don’t hog two seats when one will suffice. Even more amazing? Not a hint of manspreading to be seen. This is truly a highly advanced society.
We arrive at Training Commons One within minutes. It’s another city-within-a-city where novice Vanguardians converge for meals and prepare for the day’s exercises, Hef’Mrnan says, and there are other such complexes for the full-fledged Vanguardians scattered throughout Kyros City. The higher-ups don’t fraternize with the rank-and-file, huh? Interesting. Maybe the Alliance isn’t as advanced as I thought.
Hef’Mrnan escorts me to a dining hall the size of an airplane hangar. Some of the seating arrangements have been customized to accommodate the non-humanoids in the room, which are numerous but, curiously, not the majority; mostly I see large round tables with attached benches. It’s like a cafeteria for a high school the size of Rhode Island.
“Take a seat and an attendant will bring you breakfast,” Hef’Mrnan says. He follows me as I wander through the mess hall, looking for a free seat. A few of my fellow Vanguardians give me a quick once-over as I pass, but they’re the exception, and they don’t look too long or hard. I am not the novelty I thought I’d be.
At last, I find an empty seat among an otherwise full table. “Morning,” I say. They turn. One of the Vanguardians squints at me. “Mind if I join you?”
Squinty — a being with coarse skin and the face of an angry gorilla — snorts. “You’re the fargirl,” he says.
“Uh, yeah...”
He snorts again and turns away. His buddies laugh. What was that I said about this place being like high school?
“OOOH! CarrieHauser! CarrieHauser!”
I scan the crowd and see a big squishy hand waving to me, a hand attached to a body that kind of reminds me of Patrick from SpongeBob SquarePants.
“Zqurrl?”
“Hello again!” Zqurrl chirps as I approach his table. “Come sit with us! This is the one I was telling you about,” he says to his immediate neighbor, a slender being with delicate features, pale skin, and long pale blond hair. I honestly can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. Tilda Swinton would die of envy over the nearly godlike level of androgyny he/she has going on.
“You’re the fargirl,” he or she says.
“Everyone keeps calling me that,” I say. “Is it supposed to be an insult?”
“The word is not in and of itself an insult. No word is inherently offensive,” says a rail-thin being with knobby joints and a pensive expression, “therefore it would depend on the intent of the speaker.”
“CarrieHauser, this is Erisia, Mells, and Pardo-En,” Zqurrl says, gesturing at, respectively, the androgynous one, the skinny one and, no kidding, a human-sized dragon. “This is CarrieHauser of Earth.”
“Never heard of it,” Pardo-En says.
“It’s in the Lehzutan Arm.”
“Really. Hm.”
I take a seat between Erisia and Mells, who bows and touches two fingers to his forehead in greeting.
“So, what brings you to this side of the galaxy?” Erisia says.
“Oh, jeez, where to begin?” I say.
“The beginning is customary,” Mells says.
“Let me guess: he’s the funny one.”
“He is, actually,” Erisia says. “Doesn’t mean to be, but he is.”
An attendant comes over carrying a pitcher in each of his — huh. Four hands. That’s convenient. “Beverage?” he offers.
“I don’t suppose you have coffee in one of those pitchers?” I say. He looks a question at me. “Hot beverage, slightly bitter, full of caffeine? A stimulant?”
“I’d suggest the dammas,” Erisia says.
My VA isn’t telling me to avoid it, so, “Okay. Dammas me up.” The attendant pours me a cup. It’s black like coffee, that’s a good start. It smells okay. I take a sip, and oh my God, it tastes like dark chocolate — dark chocolate with a spicy zingy aftertaste, as if it’d been spiked by cayenne pepper. “I think we have a winner.”
“If only the food was on par,” Pardo-En mopes, jerking a clawed thumb at an approaching attendant as he wheels over a cart carrying several large, shallow bowls filled with a steaming oatmeal-like glop.
“What is it?”
“A protein-rich grain-based slurry enhanced with wide-spectrum nutritional enhancements,” Mells says.
The attendant passes out the (shudder) slurry. I pick up my weird rectangular spoon and, throwing caution to the wind, scoop some into my mouth.
“This has absolutely no flavor whatsoever,” I say, unsure whether I should be relieved or disappointed.
“It is a very equitable food,” Mells says.
“Equitable?”
“Yes. It nourishes everyone but pleases no one.”
I laugh. “You’re right,” I say to Erisia, “he is funny.”
“Will you be training today?” Zqurrl asks. “Do you know who your training officer will be?”
Hef’Mrnan answers for me. “She has been assigned to Commander Dorr,” he says. Right, Mr. Cheerful. I bet he and the Entity would get along famously. “And the commander plans to assess her this morning. Afterwards I’ll escort her to Plaza North so she may purchase whatever she needs for her quarters.”
I’m glad one of us knows what’s going on, but, “How am I going to do that? I have maybe twenty bucks on me,” I say. Not that I expect anyone around here to accept American currency.
“Your initial purchases will be covered by the Vanguard,” Hef’Mrnan says. “After that, you’ll receive a weekly stipend to cover any personal expenses.”
Free shopping spree and I get a paycheck? This job’s looking better and better all the time.
“You’re with Dorr? So are we,” Erisia says, gesturing at the other cadets. “Hm. Interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Dorr is one of the few training commanders with any say in who joins his squadron, and he’s especially fond of two types of cadets: those who think they’re something special and those he thinks are something special.”
“Do I want to know which category I fall into?”
“Doesn’t matter. Either way, he’ll push you to your breaking point and beyond. Don’t worry. It may feel like he’s trying to kill you but he isn’t.”
“Don’t listen to hyer. Hye’s just trying to scare you,” Pardo-En says.
Wait, what? Did I hear that right?
“Why are you striking your own head?” Mells asks.
“I think my translators are glitching,” I say. “Does that happen?”
“Not that I am aware of. What is more likely is that someone said something that does not have an equivalent in your language.”
Which is the case, as it turns out. Hyer (pronounced yer) and hye (yee) are gender-neutral pronouns, Mells explains, and are applicable to individuals like Erisia, who is, no kidding, hermaphroditic. Breathe sigh of relief here. For a moment, I was worried I had a head full of malfunctioning biotech, and I really do not want to find out how their version of an IT guy fixes something like that. One trauma at a time, please.
As we eat, my new teammates ask me a bunch questions about me and my homeworld. I answer their questions and throw out a few of my own. I’m surrounded by literally hundreds of foreign cultures, so I better start learning about them, right?
“Fargirl!” someone shouts. I look up to see my playmate from yesterday, Gaartiin, striding over with purpose.
“He doesn’t look happy,” I say.
“No he does not,” Pardo-En says.
�
��To be fair, you did smack him around pretty good,” Erisia says.
Gaartiin looms over me. “I hear you’re part of Commander Dorr’s squadron now,” he says.
“Looks like, yeah,” I say.
He bends down. “That technique you used on me. The Stinging Orbit?”
“The what?”
“The one where you —” He spins his finger around. “— did that to me?”
Oh, my invisible bursting trick. “Yeah?”
“That’s an advanced combat tactic. Where did you learn it?”
“Oh, uh, I sort of figured it out on my own.”
“You did?” He frowns, then asks, “Could you show me how to do it?”
“Could I —? Uh, yeah, sure, but I don’t know when I’ll have any time. I’m still settling in, and Commander Dorr is going to —”
Gaartiin holds up his hands (all four of them) in a say no more gesture. “I understand completely. We’ll find some time. See you on the field.”
Well. Wasn’t that a pleasant surprise?
Breakfast ends, and I start to head out with my new friends — and they do already feel like friends. As we make our way toward one of the exits, another Vanguardian cuts across my path and shoulder-checks me, knocking me off-balance.
“Hey!” I say. He stops and whirls around like he’s ready for a fight. He’s nothing remarkable in terms of physique, but he radiates hostility. His face is covered in scars, and I don’t mean of the old war wound variety; these were self-inflicted — or he allowed someone to inflict them upon him. Symmetrical patterns start at the brow line and flow down to surround his black eyes, follow the contours of his cheekbones, and come together at the point of his chin. It’s Maori warrior culture gone cosmic.
“Carrie,” Erisia says, a warning in his — I mean, in hyer voice.
Got it. This guy is a badass, or fancies himself as such. Either way, getting all up in his scarred face is not the way to go. I didn’t come all the way across the galaxy to get into a pointless fight with someone I don’t even know.
I hold up my hands, offer an apology that sounds sincere enough, and turn away — and then Erisia shouts out to me in warning. Mells slips out of the way as something hits me in the back and launches me off my feet. I manage to avoid going splat face-first on the floor, but that’s only because I crash headlong into poor Hef’Mrnan and knock him flat.
“Back off, Grun!” Erisia says, putting himself — er, hyerself in-between me and Scarface. He glowers at hyer and bares his teeth like an animal. Erisia doesn’t back down an inch. He bristles, literally; his entire body clenches and short, needle-sharp spikes sprout from his head and along the backs of his hands. Erisia doesn’t flinch.
“Cadet Grun!” A Vanguardian steps out of the gathered audience, a member of Pardo-En’s race. “Are we going to have another problem, cadet?”
Erisia tilts hyer head, subtly and silently repeating the question for Grun. He backs up a step and raises both hands overhead, one wrapped over the other, which is balled up into a spiky fist.
“No, commander, we aren’t,” Grun says. He fades into the crowd without turning his back to me.
“Move along, cadets,” the commander says with a sweeping go away motion.
“And who was that delightful ray of sunshine?” I say.
“Grafton Grun. He’s Etrojian,” Zqurrl says as if that’s supposed to explain everything.
“Very aggressive culture,” Erisia clarifies. “They respect strength and despise what they consider weak, submissive behavior.”
“Like apologizing?” I say.
“Like apologizing.”
“You made it worse by turning your back to him,” Zqurrl says. “That’s a big insult. It’s basically saying you consider him harmless. He had to attack you as a matter of honor.”
“Of course he did. That makes perfect sense,” I say. “Jeez, there’s a whole planet of people like him? It’s a wonder they haven’t killed themselves off.”
One of Mells’ eyes widens, a bewildered eyebrow raise without the eyebrow. “What makes you think the entire planetary population of Drakkir is like Grun?”
“It isn’t?” I say, which gets a laugh. Not the good kind, though; the Oh you poor ignorant girl kind.
“Etrojia is only one small nation among many,” Pardo-En says. “Is everyone on your world exactly like you?”
“Not exactly like me...”
“I’d be amazed if that were the case. There are only three Alliance worlds with completely homogeneous global populations, and maybe another two known non-Alliance worlds,” Zqurrl says.
“Do you also think there are civilized worlds with a single uniform ecosystem and a consistent year-round global climate?” Pardo-En teases.
“No. Pft. No,” I lie. God, I feel stupid — stupid and a little peeved at the entire science fiction genre for filling my head with ridiculous ideas about alien worlds and cultures. Screw you, Gene Roddenberry. You too, George Lucas.
“Oh, fargirl,” Erisia laughs, wrapping a friendly arm around my shoulders. “You do realize we’re never going to let you live this down, right?”
“Never,” Pardo-En confirms.
“Yes, I expect we will regularly remind you of your embarrassing statements for our own amusement,” Mells says.
“Yeah, I think she gets the idea,” Erisia says.
I totally get it; they’re busting my chops.
Somehow, that actually makes me feel a little less alone.
SIX
Before parting ways with Zqurrl at the edge of Training Commons One, he tells me the recovery team has returned with the Nightwind. Commander Do wants him there for the reclamation, and he promises to let me know if he hears anything interesting. Bless his squishy heart.
You know, assuming he has one.
Erisia, Mells, and Pardo-En fly with me to the training field. Sorry, I should say that I fly with them. Like I know where anything is. One more thing for me to learn, I guess, but my to-do list is getting crazy long. Forget about more immediate concerns like remembering names and figuring out how to best avoid pissing off my future comrades; it strikes me as I fly over Kyros City that I’m going to have to unlearn a lot of basic human knowledge like how to measure distance and time. Words like hours and miles might translate, but that doesn’t mean the specific concepts and definitions attached to those words will.
We touch down on the training field, and it looks like we’re the first of the cadets to arrive for the day. Commander Dorr glances at us and then goes back to his conversation with another Vanguardian who looks astonishingly human. I can’t really say why, but the distinctly humanlike beings like this guy and Commander Do weird me out more than any of the other races I’ve encountered so far. Sure, I’ve seen a lot of humanoid beings in my short time here, but to find any who could walk around on Earth like they belonged there? Seriously, what are the chances of that?
Dorr joins us. “You’re early,” he says, which sends me into panic mode. Did I screw up again without realizing it? Is punctuality insulting to his race?
(Mental note: when I get back home, write a book about my experiences. Call it Sorry about That — An Idiot’s Guide to Interacting with Extraterrestrial Cultures.)
He’s staring at me. What do I do? Do I apologize?
“Yes?” I say, braced for the worst.
Dorr grunts. “Cadets, Lieutenant Commander Havven will lead the squadron in drills this morning while I assess the fargirl.”
“I have a name.” Dorr squints at me. “Sir,” I add sheepishly.
“I am aware of your name, Carrie Hauser. I chose not to use it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait here.”
“Yes, sir.” Dorr strides off and rejoins Havven.
“You’re making friends all over the place today,” Pardo-En says.
“It’s one of my special skills,” I say, “but I’d rather deal with Commander Dorr a million times before dealing with Grun again even once.”
“What about me?”
I turn as Grun lands near us. Oh, please don’t tell me he’s in our squadron.
“Did I mention Grun is in our squadron?” Erisia says.
Of course he is.
Grun makes a slow pass, a challenge in his eyes. I hold my ground. He stalks off to a private patch of the grounds to pace in a circle and throw punches at the air. I catch bits and pieces of a chant as he performs his little warm-up ritual, much of which comes through as a series of nonsense noises. Only a few words translate: fear, pain, honor, glory, death. Yeesh. A Klingon would tell this guy to take it down a notch.
Dorr returns. “Follow me,” he says, and then he rises into the sky and heads out over the ocean.
“Wish me luck,” I say to the others.
“Would it not be more sensible to express a sincere desire for you to perform admirably rather than appeal to a theoretical universal force and ask for its favor?” Mells says.
“In other words,” Erisia says, “good luck.”
I lift off and chase after Commander Dorr, my assessment beginning right off as Dorr breaks the sound barrier and streaks away. I crank it up and close the distance. He starts to pull away. I catch up to him again. Without my headset, I have no way to gauge our speed, but it feels like I’m flying faster than I ever have before.
We pass high over a landmass, smaller than Kyros City but as densely and thoroughly developed, and then we’re back over the ocean again. A few minutes later, we streak over Kyros City and back out across the water. It took us maybe fifteen minutes to orbit the entire planet. Holy freaking crap.
Dorr comes to a sudden dead stop, so sudden that I don’t realize he’s done so until I blow past him. I swing back around, but I approach cautiously, suspecting a set-up. Dorr strikes me as the kind of hardcore drill sergeant who’d take a cheap shot at me to see how well I’d react to a surprise attack. He doesn’t try anything, though; he just stares down at a small island.
“Commander?” I say.
“Look,” he says, pointing toward a mountain with a wide, sprawling base jutting out of the water. The peak of an underwater volcano, maybe?
Action Figures - Issue Seven: The Black End War Page 5
