For You have been a defense for the helpless, a defense for the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shade from the heat; for the breath of the ruthless is like a rain storm against a wall.
Like heat in drought, You subdue the uproar of aliens; like heat by the shadow of a cloud, the song of the ruthless is silenced.
—Isaiah 25:4-5
Date Point: 14Y 4M 2W 1D AV
AEC Command Center, Camp Outfield, Lavmuy Spaceport, Gao
Colonel Martin Schul
The morning status meeting was a somber affair; enough attendees had gotten the same flash alert that Colonel Schul had, so his opener surprised few.
“We’ve failed to contain the infection, and it’s reached the general population outside the quarantined zone,” he said bluntly. Those that hadn’t heard looked around the table to those that had, and there was a collective intake of breath.
“What’s our next step, Colonel? Gimme some idea where things go from here,” said Great Father Daar, who was for once actually physically in the room.
“So far, I don’t believe there have been any deaths. Yet. We’ve managed to catch most of the infected at this point early in the onset of symptoms, and we’ve been prioritizing them and their immediate social circles for evacuation to Cimbrean. I think that’s slowed things down…but this is going to change things,” Martin said, reflecting.
“This is going to make dealing with the biodrones a bigger problem,” Regaari said thoughtfully.
Great Father Daar just cocked an ear at him, inviting him to go on.
“The sickness will get into the population of biodrones, and there is little we can do to prevent that,” Regaari went on. “They will be an additional vector for disease with any un-implanted they come into contact with who survive.”
A wave of reactions went around the table. Martin himself was under no illusions about the prospects of what would happen if…when…the wave of infection hit the ‘drones.
“They won’t take precautions to avoid infection, that much is certainly true. They’re every bit as susceptible as our own people—more so, in fact, since they’ll try to keep functioning regardless of their condition,” Martin said thoughtfully. “I think we need a new protocol—any troops coming in contact with the enemy from this point on need to go through a bio-field before they’re allowed back in camp. Actually, that’s not a bad idea for the relief workers, as well, of both races. The last thing anyone needs is re-infection.”
There was murmured agreement around the table.
“How fast is it spreading, Colonel?” asked Great Father Daar.
“Our projections put the onset of the infectious stage at about 3 days after infection, and a typical, fairly healthy subject, starts showing symptoms at about seven to ten days,” Martin replied. “Once actual symptoms start, the virus tends to almost overwhelm the immune system’s initial response. We’ve seen some promising results from the secondary stage after that, though, and I…think…that we’re going to weather this with most healthy Gaoians that get infected surviving.”
“That’s the trick, isn’t it? Healthy Gaoians,” said Dr. Marsh, from the CDC’s Xenobiology team. “There’s nothing about a refugee camp that promotes healthy living.”
“On Earth, that’s certainly true,” returned Martin. “Fungi and killer bacteria are in everything, and it’s everywhere; Gao doesn’t have the same kind of extreme micro-life. It’s a much less densely living world, more analogous to Antarctica on Earth than anything else. Their new deathworld rating, in fact, is largely determined from Gao being barren, cold, and inhospitable as cradle worlds go. As long as nothing else comes along… although there is going to be the problem of re-infection for Gaoians that weather it.”
“How so?”
“For the most part, their immune systems don’t do antibodies anywhere as well as ours does. And of course, this is the cold we’re dealing with.”
“How are we coming on the evacuation portals to the new camp on Cimbrean?” asked Great Father Daar. “I want that to remain top priority—‘till our healthy breeding population is safe, we’re still facing extinction.”
“We’re almost finished with all five of the new jump portals and power supplies. The cycle rate remains about ten minutes, so if we’re staggering them every two minutes, we’ll have a pretty steady flow. At our max capacity, I think we can manage nearly a half-million refugees per day. We’ll have to send supplies through as well, of course, but that’s our only real bottleneck,” said Captain Scharff, the CO for the 37th Engineer Battalion.
“We’re still going to get overwhelmed,” Martin said. There was no escaping that fact. “Even if we adopt a lot of the same measures they’ve done on Cimbrean, our footprint here is just too small to make a measurable impact on a population this size.”
“First priority is gonna hafta be the Females and cubs still,” said Great Father Daar. “Nothin’ there has changed. Next is gonna be the Army training camps. After that…prolly the critical infrastructure teams—people on dams, power plants, that sorta thing, and after that, general population.”
“I’ve been in communication with the Israeli teams on the other side. We’re going to do a double bio-field screen, one going into the jump portal on this side, and the other coming out of it on the other side. They’re almost ready as well,” Captain Scharff said.
“Good. Soon’s you can get started, start movin’ ‘em through, fast as you can, safely,” said Great Father Daar. “Everythin’ else comes second to that.”
“We should be ready within the next few hours, Great Father.”
Date Point: 14Y 4M 2W 1D AV
Tiritya Island Refugee Camp, Tiritya Island, Cimbrean
Rav Simel Moshe Haran, IDF
The IDF troops had been busy to nearly the point of breaking, building the foundations, daisy-chaining power supplies and generators to banks of capacitors, putting up the framework, painting the safety lines, and then double checking to make sure they hadn’t missed anything crucial. For a task like this, the military good enough to get the job done…wasn’t, and everybody knew it.
At last, final checks were done, the test jumps with inert objects had been done, the receiving areas and bio-field gates to control foot traffic flow were erected, charged, and turned on, and they were ready. The violet lights came up indicating danger, the warbling hoot sounded, and…
With a pop, that eye-bending blackness formed and then dissipated all at once. The IDF planners at their end had communicated the layout where refugees would be coming through and their plans for handling it, so everyone had been told before embarking to orderly and quickly file from the platform, form a neat queue going through the bio-field, and then they would get direction on arriving, on where to go next. Nearly five hundred Gaoians stood on the platform, and as instructed, filed quickly off, double-file.
Two minutes later, the next one in the series of portals fired, and another five hundred joined the first. Two minutes later, the next one, and then the next, then the next. The first group had cleared the platform only a few minutes before, when the next arrived.
It was well-planned out and well-executed. The Clan of Females already on Cimbrean had contributed more than enough Mothers and older cubs to guide everyone through, even the little ones who were a mixture of terror, excitement, exhilaration, sugar, and staving off fatigue. They were guided out through the grid painted on grass and shown where to pitch tents.
The press of refugees only intensified as it went on, and on, and on.
“On you come. Don’t slow down, please. Don’t stop,” Moshe found himself repeating. It seemed like almost every Mother had at least two or three little ones in tow; some cubs were old enough to be hanging onto younger, and any time a little one got separated, the cubs around them sorted it out almost before the frazzled Mothers could even notice there was a problem.
All in all, the endless tide of exhausted refugees was well-behaved and orderly. Moshe reflected to himself that they’d probably had lots of practice recently at moving from one place to another. As the day went on, he made the rounds of his people making sure water breaks were taken and food was eaten.
Finally, he had time for his own lunchtime break. A dozen or so Israeli nationals had set up a makeshift food court a short distance away from the main refugee station for rations; mostly for the use of the soldiers, as what they were stocking was Human food that wouldn’t necessarily agree with Gaoian digestion. The entrancing scent of roasting gyro meat wafted past his nose, and his feet found their own way.
The basic gyro—tzaziki sauce, some veggies, a few strips of deliciously roasted meat and a flour flatbread wrapping it all together—was all they actually were serving, apparently. He got up to the counter, standing in a surprisingly short line, and was face-to-face with a harried looking young woman in her late teens.
“So, basic gyro?” he asked lightly.
“Nah. We have basic gyros, too. What’ll it be?” she shot back sarcastically, already putting one together for him.
“Guess I’ll go with the basic gyro, then, but could I get one with extra basic?”
“We don’t do specialty orders, man. Sorry.” She handed him his, wrapped in coarse brown paper that crackled a little, with a little bit of a faint smile. “Next!”
Chuckling, he wandered away from the cart, in the general direction of what sounded like music of some kind. He tried not to wolf down the surprisingly good food and found himself licking the sauce off his hand before it was even half gone.
The music, he found, was being produced by an older IDF soldier on an instrument he belatedly recognized as a hurdy-gurdy to an utterly entranced group of other soldiers and an even larger (and growing) group of cubs, with a few Females keeping a sharp eye for shenanigans. The cubs were wide-eyed, and one or two of the older ones were busily talking in hushed voices about whether that was a string instrument that they could try to play too.
The musician apparently heard some of this, because as the song ended, he opened his eyes and looked at the cubs who suddenly looked both quite guilty about something and excited to be spoken directly to.
“Would you youngsters like to try this?” he asked, holding it away from himself a little.
The cubs looked at their accompanying Mothers, who hesitated and then nodded a little. One took a step towards the man that had been playing for them, and shyly raised her hand about halfway.
“Well, come on then,” the man said, motioning her up. He sat behind her, showing her where to put her fingers and how to turn the crank, and what keys to push. She tried it, producing a horrific squawking noise that was reminiscent of geese with flu having marital relations, and hid her face in embarrassment when the others started chittering at her.
“Now now, none of you would do better. I certainly didn’t, the first time I tried this. Let’s give her another try, and then maybe one of you can show us how it’s done, mmm?”
Moshe wandered away, munching on his gyro, listening to the sounds of Gaoian cubs playing mere hours after they had come walking, stunned-looking and helpless through the jump portals. Life, it seemed, was reasserting itself just fine, with a little help.
They’re going to be okay he thought, for the first time since his boots had hit Cimbrean soil.
Date Point: 14Y 4M 2W 2D AV
Capitol Building, Washington DC, United States
Esther Blum
Getting the tax measure that her employers wanted passed through the House of Representatives had been uncharacteristically easy. There had been the usual unending policy meetings, the planning sessions, meetings about both the planning meetings and planning sessions, and then meetings about that…but in terms of pushing a major tax incentive for US heavy industry through the United States Congress…it was like someone had pushed the Easy Button at some point. The usual hand-wringing for the cameras had happened, been dealt with, and now all that was left were the various floor speeches and debate in the Senate, which was expected by both parties to pass handily once the requirements of legislative kabuki had been satisfied.
It hadn’t hurt that the President was solidly behind the measure, either. He had made a number of personal phone calls to key opposition leaders, employing his characteristic mix of bombast and charm to court the last stragglers into the fold.
The real surprise had come from all three of the Representatives for West Virginia before it had passed in the House. The three of them, despite all being from the same party, could rarely agree on anything and were as contentious a lot as one could find anywhere. When an amendment had been proposed by the three of them in unison at the 11th hour to make the tax benefits retroactive to the beginning of the Gaoian Crisis, it had sent a shock wave around the room. Talking heads on the various TV channels had proclaimed that the bill had just been killed, and the country had watched the drama unfold over the weekend.
Monday morning following, though, it had been adopted with some minor modifications, and public debate on the bill overall had resumed as though nothing had happened at all. The rest of the world shook its collective head at the schizophrenia of American politics on display, and that was mostly that.
At the behest of her employers, Esther sat in the gallery watching the circus below play out. Her assistant, an intern from Columbia was busily taking notes, but it was probably not needed. This was all but a done deal at this point.
She was joined by the Representative who had been the original sponsor, the Majority Whip from Georgia that had piloted that first meeting a month prior. He slid into the seat next to her and leaned over.
“A month, start to finish. How about that?” he asked with a grin.
“For a tax measure like this, yeah. That’s pretty fast,” she said, smiling back.
“Something about never wasting a good crisis comes to mind,” he said, leaning back in his seat and stretching an arm out across the narrow chair on the other side of him.
“I prefer to think of it as an opportunity seized, Congressman,” she returned coolly. “This will not only put extra jobs into my employer’s sector, it’s long-term stability for exoplanetary construction.”
He shook his head a little, mindful that there was probably a camera somewhere pointed at them. “The Byron Group and others are already slobbering at the idea of further tax incentives for stuff like colony building.”
“That may not be such a bad thing, Congressman. At some point, humanity is going to need to leave Sol, and the more incentives there are to support quick development of that effort, the better.”
“I guess we’ll find out, Ms. Blum.” They sat and watched. Below, the last of the speeches had been concluded, and the vote was being called.
Another minute or two, and the Senate President’s gavel came down. It was a done deal, and the bill would be heading to the White House for a signature.
Date Point: 14Y 4M 2W 3D AV
Tiritya Island Refugee Camp, Tiritya Island, Cimbrean
Sister Naydra
It had been so long since Naydra had received an actual message from anyone that she’d almost forgotten the ding sound of her communicator delivering a priority message. She’d had nobody to receive priority messages from until she’d been brought to Cimbrean, and in the camp, things just didn’t really work that way.
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw who it was from. She opened it, and frowned; it was empty, except for a photo attachment. Confused, she clicked on the attachment to open, and got the usual loading swirly thingy, which then disappeared and gave her the dialogue box of a secured document.
To open this document, answer the following security question: What did we eat on our picnic?
She typed out pot stickers in the text window, and it went away, opening up the picture, finally. Naydra chittered despite herself. The big fuzzy oaf. He’d written her a letter by hand, taken a picture of it, and emailed that. Then again, maybe it was more secure this way. She settled in to read.
SisterNaydra,I hope my precautions in sending you this don’t seem too much. I had Regaari do some of his Whitecrest
shistuff to make sure you were the only one that reads this. I couldn’t type out an email. Stoneback pawsainaren’t the best for banging on a keyboard. This is more personal anyway, I never liked using email.When I said before that I can’t share this, and you don’t know what you’re asking, I meant it. I’ve sired hundreds of cubs over the years as Stoneback’s Stud-Prime. Better you find a younger Male.
It
ain’tisn’t just that though. Being Great Father means I have to keep the focus where it has to be, to save us all, and that don’t make much room for anyone, or anything, else in my life. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but Stonebacks don’t quit.Daar
Of course they don’t, you furry lummox. You’re about to find out we have that in common.
She bent to her communicator, and began to compose a response.
Date Point: 14Y 4M 2W 5D AV
Wi Kao City, Gao
Biodrone
The mission given the biodrone had been a little more complex than some. This particular unit had been one of a few given specialized instructions; stash themselves in hidden stasis containers for a preset time period, and when it woke up, seek out and kill non-droned Gaoians.
When it awoke, the stasis pod it had occupied told the biodrone that it had been in stasis for 10,512,052 seconds. Its default programming queried for an update of instructions, but nothing was forthcoming, so it first sought out the others and then, reunited, selected the first task.
If the drone had had the ability, it might have wondered why the Controllers had no further instructions, but that ability was unnecessary, and so it did not.
On its first look above ground, it might have wondered what had happened to the landscape, as much did not match with its preexisting internal maps. Instead, it simply made a note of it, updated the current information, and moved on.
The drones had kept to the shadows, and struck only at night. They lost only one or two of their number for several days, ambushing small groups in simple, but effective traps. If the drone could have felt anything, it might have felt satisfaction at following its programming so well, but it did not have that ability. Inside, the suppressed mind of the Gaoian it inhabited began to wither away.
The last week had been…different. The biodrones had, in their decision-making tree, arrived at the decision to clear several buildings of civilians. Inside of each, it had found several hundred living Males who were lying down during the day and did not fight back.
If the drone had been given the ability to recognize illness, it might have balked at the task of going in, unprotected and exposed, but that ability was unnecessary, and so it did not. The sick were efficiently and effectively dispatched, each with a single shot to the head, and the task was complete.
The minimal self-care that the biodrone was permitted did involve rest, even if it wasn’t actual sleep. It had noted a decrease in optimal functioning, faster than was normally expected without a Controller making adjustments. It ate when it registered hunger, it eliminated waste when the urge presented itself, rested when it registered body fatigue, but that was largely the limit.
This particular morning, it noted that its pulmonary functions were significantly impacted by something; its nasal cavity was clogged with mucus, and the body felt the urge to cough, repeatedly. Vision was impacted as well, and it was registering joint pain from odd places.
The anomaly of data presented the biodrone with a problem its creators had not really considered and probably would not have cared much if they had. The data presented enough of a threat picture to the ‘drone’s programming that it triggered an analysis reaction to figure out how it would impact functions. This, in turn, led to the drone remaining unnaturally still while its limited capacity to determine its situation wrestled with the problem. Remaining utterly, totally still resulted in the problem getting worse, as the Terran virus overwhelmed the body’s immune system and it developed something that few Gaoians ever had.
Pneumonia.
This resulted in a fresh set of data that also wasn’t in the biodrone’s reference library. Trapped in a feedback loop of inadequate data or resources, it eventually registered pulmonary obstruction/failure imminent and as its last action attempted to record the death of the drone in systems that were no longer connected or listening.
Date Point: 14Y 4M 2W 5D AV
Tiritya Island Refugee Camp, Tiritya Island, Cimbrean
Mother Kyrie
The soft glow of a holo-display lit the inside of the large tent currently being used by the Mother-Supreme and her staff as an office and conference room. Outside, the constant bang and whirring of machinery and construction heralded the creation of hardsided shelter/warehouses that were intended for multipurpose use. Inside, a clever usage of some forcefield buttressing attenuated the noise to something far more manageable.
The Mother-Supreme, Mother Ginai, and the delegation of Mothers from the Meeting of Mothers sat in a loose circle around the low display. Along with the Gaoians were a delegation of Humans from a heavy construction and mining conglomerate from Earth.
Mother Kyrie, having been an Ironclaw Associate specializing in architecture and design, facilitated. It was her plan that was being displayed in a wireframe diagram for everyone to look at.
“Lots of digging there,” commented one of the Humans. It was true. Much of the primary design was underground—huge amounts of living spaces in multiple levels, carefully overlaid one atop another to provide mutual structural support from all sides, above and below.
“The material mined will be used for building additional structures on the surface.” Mother Kyrie clicked a control, and dozens of wireframe buildings materialized at the top of the diagram. “It will be reconstituted into stone blocks, using the Dark Eye facility—you mine it out, we’ll send a load over, and then deliver it to the surface for building at the top as well.”
“Slick,” said another of the Humans.
“The test boreholes…here, here, and here,” Mother Kyrie said, indicating several spots on the wireframe, which obligingly zoomed in and highlighted the places in question. “These will get repurposed as conduits for power and waste.” The display zoomed back out, and then back in on another spot.
“Since we’re going to have to depend on desalination for the bulk of our water anyway, it made sense to locate those closest to the waterline. This level here is mostly industrial—waste treatment, water purification, desalination, that sort of thing.”
The Human engineer that hadn’t spoken yet rose and inspected the display at close range.
“Yeah, I don’t think this’ll be much of a problem. Boring machines have come a long way just in the last coupla years. Ours all use fusion bits now, they never need changing out and can chew through, probably a hundred meter length of rock a day, easy. If we use the taillings like you’re talking about for tunnel supports, this’ll go pretty fast.”
Mother-Supreme Yulna spoke up, for the first time since they had all been introduced and seated in what was, after all, her office.
“Mr. Cooper, how quickly can you get started?” she asked.
“As soon as there’s a local jump portal with adequate power supply, Mother-Supreme, we have all of the equipment ready to send through from the New York and Tel Aviv portals. We’ll stage it on the other side until we’re ready to bring it in, of course, otherwise, it’ll just get in the way.”
Yulna looked around the room at the other Mothers. “Understand, Mr. Cooper, what we want here is for the Clan of Females to be doing the work. Inasmuch as we can—your expertise, tools, and assistance are valued beyond our ability to say, but this very much needs to be…our place…from the beginning and throughout.”
The engineer inclined his head. “Of course, Mother-Supreme. We’ll do this legally for our company as an equipment rental of sorts, with our engineers, architects, and so on providing training and assistance.”
Yulna, Ginai, and the other Mothers exchanged a look. It was a pivotal, historical moment, and all of them knew it.
“Let’s get started.”
Date Point: 14Y 4M 3W 1D AV
Secure Dataspace, Office of the Great Father, High Mountain Fortress, Northern Plains, Gao
Daar,
I apologize for the delay in responding. It’s been busy here, as I’m sure you can imagine. I can only guess at the demands on your time, and hope you are well.
I’m pleased to tell you that the primary excavation for the Grand Commune has started! Mother Kyrie’s design met with the Mother-Supreme’s approval, and with the approval of the rest of the Mothers here. Everyone is very excited about it, even if the only thing we’ve done so far is move some heavy equipment through the construction site gate and bore some test holes. Thus far, the column of basalt that we picnicked on seems to go down well below sea level, and we have an estimate on where it’s edges are—in short, it’s very stable, very sturdy, and very big. I’ve attached a quick video sim of what the finished product might look like.
We will very soon need authorization to begin using the Dark Eye nanofactory for materials conversion. Initially, the plan is to use the tailings from subterranean construction as above-ground building materials, and it won’t take much to convert rubble back into stone blocks. Along with that will be timber, from Earth and some of the Cimbrean timber from further along the coast—you may remember the really big trees we overflew?
We’d like very much for you to come see the construction site when you have time. I know you had hoped to assign some Ironclaw or Stoneback construction supervisors to us, but I think what we have already will be sufficient. There’s a strong feeling among the Females here that we ought to build this ourselves—perhaps a break with the past traditions of depending on the Male clans for support, and perhaps it’s simply that we know the effort can’t be spared. Whatever the reason, the interest from Females among the refugee population has been startling, and it’s encouraging.
I spoke with a Human mining supervisor yesterday, who told me an interesting story about her own country’s history. I don’t know Human history very well, of course, but apparently there were two worldwide conflicts about one generation apart, about a century of their years ago, in which the population was mobilized—something like what you’re doing now, I think. There was an advertising campaign that had a female working in shipbuilding, I think, as a central image. It inspired Human females that would never have done that work before to do so, and she credited that image with being one of the reasons she went into mining to begin with. It was a challenge.
Anyway, as that campaign said, “We can do it.” I believe that’s true, and I believe you do as well, for which I think all of us owe you an enormous thanks.
For me, of course, that thanks is much more personal, and in a way, I suppose I see your need for a Female in your life as being a darkness of your own that I can rescue you from, and I can no more ignore your pain than you could have ignored mine.
Naydra
Date Point: 14Y 4M 3W 2D AV
Folctha, Cimbrean
Nofl
The room of human teens was boisterous. Nofl paused before going in; even to his limited nose, the scent of human teenage boys fresh from the field was a little overwhelming. He made an adjustment to the room’s ventilation and went in. The noise subsided, and he suddenly had the room’s attention despite being a third the size of everyone else.
“Good morning, darlings,” he said, flapping his hands a little. “Oh my, this is so exciting. Welcome, welcome.”
Nofl settled onto a chair at the front of the room, which promptly rose on kinetic levitators and put him at eye level with the roomful of kids, who were suddenly much more interested in what he was about to say. Time to get down to business, as that charming Human aphorism went. He tasked a part of his consciousness to cataloguing the humans by apparent height, weight, general health, gender, and extrapolating from there what roles they were likely to be best suited for.
And maybe, just maybe if this went well…
“Well, now,” Nofl said to the room with an attempt at a prim smile. “Everyone ready to talk frisbee?”
“So, you’re wanting to sponsor a team?” asked a fuzzy-cheeked kid with a head of hair that looked like a miniature Vgork on his head.
“Oh my yes. Yes, indeed,” Nofl replied. “And one with a bit more…shall we say…refined taste than the other teams being formed?”
The kids all looked at each other. “Yeah, man, I dunno what you mean by that,” said another boy. “This is, like, frisbee, not a trip to the opera or some shit.” He was cuffed upside the head by a much larger male adult Human standing behind him. “Sorry.”
Even with the occupants of the room being almost entirely juvenile Humans, it was still a little unsettling to be sized up by them like a predator with a snack.
“What I mean is, my team will have better equipment. Better sense of style, certainly. I could never have a team wearing some of those atrocious jerseys I saw the other day…goodness no.”
A ripple of chuckling went around the room, although Nofl noted that it was mostly the kids laughing along. Most of the adults were still inscrutably serious-looking.
“Well.” Nofl said into the silence that followed. “How about you discuss the idea and all of that, while I talk with the adults in the other room. I’m afraid I’ve never sponsored anything like a sports team before, so this will be a learning experience for all of us.” He giggled a little.
The discussion with the adults wasn’t nearly as pleasant. He led the adult Humans into the second small conference room that he’d rented for this occasion and sat. The door had hardly closed before they rounded on him.
“What exactly are you playing at here?” demanded one. “Sponsoring a youth league team, my arse, what are you really doing?”
Nofl winced a little. “I understand your skepticism. Your people and mine have not always gotten along productively.”
“Oh, productively is it? I have a cousin I found out was vivisected by one of you. I got your productivity right…” the man trailed off at a restraining touch from the female standing next to him. Nofl’s quick glance at their hands confirmed the presence of wedding rings.
“Dale, please,” she said. “Mister…Nofl…I think what we’re all concerned about is that you want to experiment on our kids.”
“Oh goodness me, no,” Nofl said, flapping his hands again. “Perish the thought. I will admit, my motives aren’t completely altruistic. I do, in fact, have an ulterior motive, but it has very little to do with children, yours or anyone else’s.”
“And what,” asked another adult male, “might that ‘ulterior motive’ be?”
“For reasons of my own, I appear to be a resident of Folctha for the long term. Becoming a more contributing member of this community is, therefore, in my own best interest.”
The adults all looked at one another, and shared that eerie non-verbal conversation that all humans seemed to be able to do, and which all of them denied doing. Finally, the last man that had spoken spoke up.
“Look. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, Mister Nofl…but the fact is, none of us trust you not to have another motive here, and these are our kids.”
Nofl sighed, having known that there was a high probability of this from the beginning. “As you wish. I will explain to the children that my sponsorship has not been approved. They need not know by whom, yes?”
The group filed back into the room where the teenagers had been spitballing ideas back and forth with gusto. They took the news well, fortunately, or at least they accepted his word on it. The room was empty within a few minutes, the last children leaving having given Nofl a goodbye wave.
Well. That didn’t work. He left the rented conference room, trusting the automated systems to reset both rooms to their default configuration, and lost in thought, wandered in the general direction of his own shop.
Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks, having had an idea hit him hard enough to derail both of the two thought processes he was working through.
Nofl hurried back to his shop. He had begun over the last year or two to correspond again with a few Directorate contacts with whom he’d worked while developing the original Cruezzir, and one of those was in a unique position indeed…
He hurriedly composed a message and sent it.