The maids went about their work as I showered and changed into gym wear. It wasn’t hard to imagine why they kept eyeing me, why one kept blushing as the other kept giving me a knowing look with a collected expression, and why neither of them said anything beyond pleasantries.
Before they shooed me away, I tried asking where I could find the washer and dryer, or a wash room. Not having the right vocabulary for their tongue made the charades entertaining for them, frustrating for me, and having gotten nowhere I went and did the usual workout.
Maybe Pyria will know… if she shows up.
Strange she didn't show up yesterday… Maybe Nabe told her not to.
Cardio had dragged on longer than typical, not in any sense of lacking motive or tiredness, but from the distractions outside.
I could see them beyond the gym’s crystal clear smart glass, like a sci-fi movie, or one of those endless, looping videos that put you to sleep, the scene under morning radiance and the blue gas giant. More of those quad copters–7 of the greyish, militaristic ones, 2 of the white ones with their heart signs, and dozens of the smaller mosquito drones–had been flying about, as though patrolling or ferrying goods and people to where the smoke was yesterday, to distant fields, or to the nearby forest. There would be faint pops and flashes of light, then nothing for a long while, and then it would be me going back to a set of dumbbell thrusters or mountain climbers (among several others) before another copter took off or landed in the span of 30 minutes. Of the women that loaded and offloaded, half appeared tall, some wearing that power armor I had once mistook as a heavily armored robot, alongside others wearing what appeared to be green-blue(?) kevlar and body vests, with gear on their backs, and distinct helmets. Those without the helmet on, most had the unmistakable hue of red hair, others black, grey, or white.
If I had binocs…
As things were, I was mildly concerned, certain that if there was danger I would have been told or escorted somewhere else. But there was the question of what caused yesterday's fire, and what exactly warranted the use–of what would have been the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of dollars–of military personnel and equipment.
I wonder if the local news will report this…
Wait… what even is their news station?
The activity hadn’t stopped at the end of my routine, and neither when I had showered (again), and changed.
It was the afternoon, within the confines of the dining area, sitting at a table of remarkable wood and shine, the gleam which appeared subdued, making the reddish brown and curving lines evocative, covered in the usual notes, writing utensils, a few books and gadgets.
“[You… do not… know?]” I asked.
Pyria sat beside me, her usual work station professionally arranged against my chaotically organized pad of notes and drawings, alongside metallic pens and mechanical pencils. A carefully neutral expression was what she wore as soon as she entered, clearly bothered by something, likely the subject of my question.
What a mess of charades and questions that was…
Her fingers tapped on the not-iPad–the name of the device still a mystery–in a way of drumming up thoughts rather than with purpose, eyes narrowing. “[No,]” she finally answered with a sign, “[I… No, I do know.]”
I FUCKING KNEW IT! “[Ali-ens?]”
She pursed her lips, her eyes darting away as though in thought, looking toward the window behind me (it seemed), then lightly exhaled. “[It is complicated,] Thelamein. [They are of a… children's tale to scare girls to bed.]”
“[Com-plac-cated?]” It doesn’t seem like they’re fairy tale creatures if they’re burning farm fields.
There was a giggle before she answered. “[I am just surprised you do not know about them.]”
“[I have… help with that.]”
She couldn’t suppress the smile even as she turned the pad toward her, tapping away at its touch-screen, light from its screen gleaming off of those half-frame, reading glasses.
On this occasion, she wore a black sleeveless top of some kind of wool and a belt-tied skirt that reached to just above her knees, made of a linen material dyed purple like her eyes, and thin, white, see-through socks reaching above her calves; with brown, leather strapped high heels that covered her toes. Curiously, around her neck, she wore a pendant with a blue gem (sapphire?) with intricate silver etchings along its face, the chain of the same metal. Also curious was how noticeable the scent of chamomile was, how it wafted from her hair and hands, the perfume performing its purpose.
Maybe it was me, but something about her appearance made her more fit than before, almost youthful.
With a final tap, she turns the pad to face me. “[They call themselves] Suh’ons.”
I stared intently at the image, seeing tall, reptilian creatures–there were two, both clearly male and female (and you can tell)–, beings of less scales and smaller claws bearing leathery grayish, reddish skin; with heads of shorter snouts, the humanoid nose and ears missing; standing on long hind legs and clawed feet of four, large toes, and hands with longer digits, giving a human-hybrid appearance. The scales were along their backs, partially covering their arms and legs, shining as though they were a prismatic shell, thick enough that a pocket knife wouldn’t penetrate with bony protrusions along their scalp and neck like calcified, horny hair. Something of their form implied a great strength with the way their skin rolled over dense muscle, the female larger than her male counterpart, but it was their solid, green eyes which took me, the pupil a narrow slit as though blind, like a snake’s but not, bearing a natural intelligence and zen. By all appearances, they were lizard people, nimble, athletic, and dangerous looking.
Nothing was said for a long moment. “[This… at-tack us?]” I asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lean back into her chair. “[One of their] spaygiec. [They've been…]” Pyria trails off.
“[They look… like us.]” It was hard to ignore the obvious similarities, not to mention the sexual dimorphism: the more pronounced curves and bust of the female and broader chest of the male not unlike normal, human dimorphism. The reptilian women and this humanity’s women seemed almost identical in body shape (disregarding size and heads).
“[They] dphes [be us,]” she said with a trace of contempt.
I look at her intently. “‘Dphes?’”
“It means ‘might.’”
“[… And?]”
“[When we arrived to] Kessithi, [The First thought us alone, with the] rayml [and plant life so…] vpaydryobiersam.”
Seeing my confusion, she clarified. “[The world was different.]”
“[They were… not…?]”
“[They did not] iejayam, exist, [not for years. Not at first.]”
“[Where did they… come from?]”
She shrugs again, smiling. “[Hell. They came from Hell.]”
An incredulous look left me.
“[It is a popular idea,]” she elaborates.
“[Are they… that bad?]”
“[I would be careful about who you show sympathy too, my dear] amoliers.” She gestures to a window at the far corner. “[You saw what happened.]”
Pyria relented as I kept my curious gaze. “[Our] wayamryoe… history, [suggests they were made. Imagine you are one of The First Fathers and Mothers, you bring with you… toys that can change you, your children, to]… xiypayry, survive, [the kind of changes before] Amsa [and her] baytiur.”
“‘[Toys?]’”
“[… Perhaps…] ayrampodiersc, instruments, [is a better word.]”
I kept staring at the image. Forced evolution, or ‘guided?’ And just how different was Kessithi that they needed to mutate into Dragonborn? For all it seems, the planet is fairly habitable to us… at least now it is.
“[Who made?]” I blurted.
“[That secret was burned to ash and buried eight] xiyaaracsarl [years ago. Ignorance, madness, or rogue CMs are likely, but the favorite seems to be the] msasadp… the latter.”
“... Xiya-ara-casarl?”
“It means ‘thousand’.”
Eight thousand years ago… Wait… was Dara off on her timeline?
I’m getting sidetracked. “[Why would… fa-thers and mo-thers need… to chan-ge?]”
“[Kessithi was more than an oasis in the universe, a difficult place. Food was rare, sickness was common, and the lands] ayrnaacvayssagmie, inhospitable. [The journey already took many lives, so they wanted an answer. They were given one wrong answer.]
“[You do not like them?]”
“[No. They killed family and friends, women that I loved. They are monsters.]”
The matter-of-fact response had me pause, and rather than press her on a sensitive topic, I simply nodded. “[I am sorry.]”
Shaking her head, I hear her mutter, “Rauiry,” then grabbing my hand for a gentle squeeze.
Our lessons went on for the better part of another hour, stretching into later into the afternoon.
As she packed her belongings, and as I readied myself for homework, she gave me a curious gaze.
“[... What?]” I asked.
She gives a knowing smile. “[Who was that voracious to give you those] gayad dylorc?
“...?”
“Bite marks… hickies?” She leans forth, her finger brushing the still painful wound on my lip (which took considerable effort to resist flinching). “[Or did you just fall?]”
“Oh… [It was] Saevel [and] Naberoa. [Why?]” It normally wasn’t a detail I’d willingly share, not with strangers (at most).
Standing, hefting her suitcase and bag, her smile turned suggestive. “[Nothing. Good afternoon,] Thelamein~”
My jeans suddenly grew a bit tight. You horney bastard… bitch.
I gave her a curious glance, my eyes catching a subtle saunter as she was about to leave through the entrance, the double-set doors parting to an audible roll.
“Pyria?”
She stops, looking over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
“[Do you know… where I can find… the… lawn-dairy room?]”
It was later that evening, the foreign sun setting behind and beyond distant hills and over farm lands with crops bluish green which their scent of honey nuttiness and earthy fertilizer tinged the air. The haze so common with the Central Valley was completely absent for the horizon seemed crystal clear, with only a thin, veil line of blue and mixed purples that seemed to bend yellow and orange light and emit wispy trails of mist, and it seemed as though the world itself breathed. Yesterday’s skirmish, and today’s events, played at odds with this peaceful scene, with the muted roar and thrum of quad copters still in the background.
Noone else would be visiting, for the usual window passed. It did not seem likely.
With time to myself, and having done sufficient study for the last 3 hours, I had the idea of revisiting literature given by Pyria and Nabe: ‘Euphates, the Road from Sol, and Beyond Alpha Centauri, by Therik Laerson.’
The book seems so old and fragile, the pages colored that beige yellow associated with age, that I feared reading the title would crumble it to dust. Even wearing the gloves, and having dimmed the light beyond the windows–I had asked aloud as though speaking to someone, the smart glass having adjusted the shading on their own–still didn’t seem enough.
Regardless, in lying against the head board of the bed in the master bedroom–whose mattress and sheets I started appreciating more and more as heavenly and silky smooth, qualities that seemed only affordable to rich and affluent–, I carefully pried open the book, reading from the fifth page its first passage:
“How easy it is to be lost in space.
Tens of thousands of rockets and spaceplanes, the vibrations of space elevator cabins rising and falling, all guided by advanced systems and Artificial General Intelligences. Many of these brought young minds and wise elders to the very edges of the final frontier who have never felt zero gravity and a complete lack of control, hoping to find fortune and adventure, but for most escape. Landon Holder, a founder and reformer of the Euro Space Alliance, posted to his followers, ‘It is amazing to see so many fleeing from the protections of Earth, a flight from one certainty to the uncertainty that a vast universe offers, willing to work within alien ships under foreign stars.’ The men and women were of such character and change–the likes which bionics and gene editing offered–that the demands of STEM seemed an afterthought, and they searched for work as lowly technicians, secretarians, engineers, deck hands, agri specialists, chemists, astronomers, whatever the needs of low orbital flight to interstellar travel demanded. Those that would hire them were, mostly, morally just, of sound mind and code. This was not always the case. A general warning had been issued by the Trans Pacific and Atlantic Space Confederacy, urging these individuals to remain aware of bad actors, of unregistered ships and captains, web pages with creation dates less than a year old, emotional pressure techniques often used by scammers, and communications registered with the IP addresses of any Kingdom in the Middle East, Eastern Nations, and of certain provinces within the United Americas.”
That paragraph alone drew me in as a recovering alcoholic to a bottle of port. For hours I read, the sun disappearing for a clear night sky–one of still new constellations and faint, wondrous nebulae–, mapping out in my head a timeline of events with those given by the book, from Taylor’s memories, and from guess work. It eventually led me back to the dining table, back to my study, writing it all out on paper.
If anyone is curious, the above passage I made with direct influence from The Devil in the White City's own. It's worth a read when you have a few weeks or so.