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Seeker

This is probably a poor choice.

With all those warnings, they might as well have bribed me to choose this place.

Forbidden? Challenging? I love those things.

I’ve never been good at following the rules, and I love pushing the boundaries of what’s possible, even when I’m on vacation.

It’s not even that difficult to travel between planets.

A small unit I carry tricks the brain and optical nerve, mirroring what different life-forms expect to see.

I adjust for the dominant being at each new destination, and if the locals have their own tech, there’s a complementary function that disrupts surveillance equipment.

This permits me to experience a different reality, albeit briefly.

The vacation to Planet 97-B was supposed to be a quick trip before I chose a course that would please my family, especially Oona.

When I realized I was marooned on this planet, I assessed my situation and swiftly assimilated what I needed to know about working in “web development.” It was simple to spoof credentials and receive digital payments with their basic security protocols.

Now I receive payment as a “contractor” and I’m constantly relocating my domicile.

There seem to be very strange regulations regarding who can live where and for how long.

Consequently, I’m packing up my belongings because this will be my last day here in this “studio apartment.” Which is entirely a misnomer.

There’s no studio; it’s a compact living space, similar to second-class accommodations on an interstellar cruiser.

Those alloys tend to be better quality, however.

This unit is substandard, but I received a discount for paying for thirty days.

That’s the local vernacular. For some reason, they demarcate time in a most irregular fashion.

The local calendar perplexes me, but I’ve learned to pretend that it makes sense.

A year is twelve months, which is an unusual number.

Multiples of ten divide more neatly. Then each month has a seemingly random number of days.

Some are thirty, others thirty-one, and one outlier has twenty-eight.

Or twenty-nine, every fourth year. It’s truly a remarkably complicated system.

And don’t even get me started on how there are twenty-four hours in a day, or sixty minutes in an hour. It all seems incredibly random.

But I’ve memorized the vagaries of the human schedule and I’m absolutely making the best of this.

Since I’m living among the locals like a research scientist, perhaps I’ll formalize my findings and get my name in the scholarly journals: My Time on 97-B by Tamzir Jaarn .

I can envision the academic accolades I’ll receive already, assuming I can make it back.

It’s not all bad here.

I created credentials on a platform called Aliens Among Us.

I thought I’d be quietly entertained by how wrong they were, but as it turns out, they were an incredibly passionate and earnest group, and I got drawn in.

At first, it amused me to offer “theoretical” answers about things I knew to be true in the larger universe.

But the thoughtful responses kept me coming back.

It staved off the loneliness. Before, I wouldn’t have understood the weight—knowing that I’m the only one of my kind on this tiny little ball of dirt and water.

When Jeneticist invited me to join a group chat, as it’s called, I accepted.

Because I’ve become curious about her. Perhaps even fond?

If it’s appropriate to use the word. I’ve never known anyone who shines so bright even at such a remove.

She radiates warmth like a star, and I enjoy sharing ideas with her.

The others, as well, of course, but there’s no point in pretending that I feel the same about everyone in the chat.

Enough reflection. I should get underway.

There are instructions for vacating the premises.

I was advised to put my towels and linens in the hygiene machine, which is not for biological matter, only inorganic material.

To me, it makes sense to cleanse everything at once.

But they use water on 97-B in unusual ways.

That resource is scarce on many planets and cleaning occurs through other means.

A final glance assures me I have left behind no traces in the small space I’m vacating. Nobody will be able to tell a nonhuman person was staying here. I hoist my belongings and make my way out into the city.

The stench is shocking. Too many bodies, actual biological waste, methane, carbon monoxide, rotting sweetness, and stagnant water.

Do humans have no sense of smell? I’m surprised one of them hasn’t invented tech to address this contamination.

I have ideas—bioengineered tardigrades who feed on specific types of pollution, for example.

I move past tall, crumbling edifices without drawing notice.

To avoid rigorous security checks, I’ve opted to travel slowly over land.

Ground transport here is inefficient, but air travel is worse.

And all the methods create toxins that further pollute the environment.

So many problems could be solved by joining the Galactic Union, but before that offer will be put forth, 97-B must develop reliable interstellar travel on their own.

It’s the minimum requirement, though there are rumors that certain planets have been helped along by collectives who wanted to open up travel to those destinations.

If 97-B was cleaner, it might earn such favor from the travel bureau.

Now, I use a token I spoofed to gain access to a local transport vehicle.

From there, I make my way to a larger staging area.

As usual, when I’m surrounded by humans I worry about the bandwidth on my personal camo unit.

Will it affect all brains equally? Or will someone see me as I truly am?

Sometimes it seems to falter where small children are concerned, possibly because their neurological functions aren’t fully developed.

And then the little one will say, “Mommy, that’s a monster!” and point in my direction. When the parental figure sees only a normal person, they shush the child and hurry them away with a mumbled apology. Sometimes they even lecture.

“It’s unkind to point, Abigail. We respect everyone, even if they look a little different. Remember what we talked about?”

Today, however, I stow my belongings in the underside of the vehicle, and everyone shuffles onboard without anyone glancing more than once in my general direction.

It takes twelve hours, and I change conveyances once in a seedy station in the middle of nowhere.

As I settle into my seat for the last part of the journey, an elder human settles into the space next to me with an audible groan.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I find it’s best to pick my neighbor before somebody unpleasant chooses me. If the bus doesn’t fill up, I’ll move over.”

I’m pleased with the translation device. When I first arrived, there were odd skips and colloquial failures. But I’ve trained it on entertainment programs until it’s no longer offering archaic idioms.

“You’re welcome to sit with me,” I say politely.

The elder spends a good deal of time arranging personal belongings and then turns to me with an expression I find challenging. Lips and eyes convey meaning, but not to me. I’ve done most of my communication remotely.

“Where are you headed? If it’s not too nosy. If it is, then never mind.”

“Rellows, Utah.”

“You’re going to that outer space convention? I’m visiting my cousin in Provo. I’ve been meaning to check on her, but traveling gets tough at my age.”

I make an encouraging sound, and the elder tells me about their life until the vehicle starts. Eventually, they taper off and begin making odd noises. It would appear they have fallen asleep in the middle of a sentence. How curious.

Four more hours, and I will finally meet Jen. One moment of connection in a desert of loneliness.

The others don’t know this, but this will be my first and last moment with all of them. Once the gathering ends, I have some plans percolating and I’m getting off this rock, one way or another.