Page 39

Seeker

I share Jen’s delight over our outing encompassing only the two of us, though I’m less transparent about it.

She drives us to the UFO Museum, housed in what must be a historical structure.

Not hundreds of years old; this nation doesn’t possess many such edifices.

I estimate that this place dates back perhaps fifty years, and is a square, stoic place built of red brick.

There is a nominal admission fee, which I cover using my card.

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Jen whispers.

They herd us into the gift shop first, both the initial and last stop on the tour, where they vend models of flying saucers and alien creatures from various human creators.

Even at this hour, there’s a small crowd, some wearing T-shirts emblazoned with little green men.

I overhear snippets of conversation with humans arguing the credibility of abduction stories.

Jen slides me a measured look. She might be wondering if those tales hold any truth.

But I cannot claim to speak for all interstellar travelers.

My only certainty is that my people would never remove other sentient beings from their homes without consent.

The same cannot be said of humans, who quarrel over territory more than most beings I have encountered.

Perhaps that is why humans always think they’re being stolen by others from beyond; it shifts the blame away from their home planet.

The news reports I’ve scoured while learning the customs of this world indicate that humans who go missing have probably been taken or harmed by other humans.

97-B can be dangerous. I was fully apprised of the risks before I ventured forth.

Jen heads toward the first exhibit, a timeline etched into aged wood. “It looks like Rellows started as a makeshift camp along the river.”

“Resourceful,” I comment.

“Jedidiah Rellows must have been quite a character. Imagine packing your stuff and deciding to start a town.”

“Twelve saloons and fourteen liquor stores,” I read from a nearby display.

“Work hard, play hard?”

My concept of recreation doesn’t align with the human penchant for inebriation.

I find it baffling that humans choose to consume toxins in limited quantities, though it is akin to the religious rites of beings I visited on another world.

But the denizens of that planet do it to prove devotion to their goddess, who is said to devour those who displease her.

“That is the goal, I suppose.”

Jen smiles slightly. I’ve become attuned to minute shifts in her expression, and I wish I dared to study her secondary colors in this setting. But someone might notice the nictitating membrane, and no costume is that complete.

Toward the heart of the museum, the walls are adorned with newspaper clippings and personal testimonies, the ink faded but the stories vibrant as ever.

I scan the headlines: “ Mysterious Lights over Green River ” and “ Rancher Sees Unexplained Phenomenon .” Jen points to a black-and-white sketch of a man with weathered skin.

Below it, a caption reads: “ J.J. Martinez—First Witness of the Mountain Lights .”

“J.J. Martinez ‘didn’t know what to make of those lights,’” Jen reads. “He saw them slicing through the night sky, too fast for anything back then. What do you think they were?”

Perhaps one of the agency’s shuttles. But I can’t say that. Not here.

She gives me a look that seems to suggest she knows what I’m thinking.

It’s an unusual sensation, but everything has been different since I trusted her enough to share my secret.

Rounding a corner, I take in a diorama depicting a scene from Rellows’s history.

A human vehicle sits next to scattered debris that looks nothing like terrestrial machinery.

“Clarence Banner found the wreckage in 1938,” Jen says. “But the military stepped in. They claimed it was an experimental plane.”

I speak quietly, but it’s a pity she can’t hear the subharmonic frequency I use with Jaz and Ravik. “If I had a data uplink, I could check if any shuttles went missing from the Galactic Union. I’d be able to address your question.”

Jen turns to me to whisper, “But then you wouldn’t be stranded. You could call for help and arrange a pickup.”

How interesting that her mind went immediately there while I was only thinking about pleasing her by satisfying her curiosity.

Clearly I need to ponder the implications of how precious and vital she’s become to me in a relatively short time.

That might be the first time I didn’t envision leaving 97-B at the first possible opportunity.

I still miss my family. Sometimes the regret is so strong that it mirrors pain. But I have only myself to blame for those choices. I thought time and opportunities were infinite.

It’s impossible not to sound a trifle melancholy. “True.”

There’s a small kiosk devoted to newsy facts regarding the start of Space Con.

Jen lingers, silently reading all the related materials.

For the next fifteen years, people came to ask questions and interview Deputy Banner about what he’d seen that night.

In 1952, the pharmacy owner, Frank Ogden, decided to grant a discount to anyone who spoke the catchphrase “meet outer space fellows here in Rellows” in his store.

Jen laughs. “It doesn’t say what percent he offered, does it?”

I read the last few lines of the narrative. “‘Soon other merchants followed suit, promising out-of-this-world bargains. A summer sale focused on the anniversary of the crash date became a tradition, and tourism tripled in the fifties.’”

“Town planners suggested Space Con in 1977, leveling it up from a merchant-only sale, and started contacting entertainment agencies to add programming and appearances from minor celebrities,” Jen adds.

“It’s become quite a spectacle,” I say with full candor.

“Have you experienced anything like this before?”

“Not exactly like this.” While I have encountered beings who camouflage themselves for various reasons, it’s usually not a recreational pursuit. I add the next part in a quiet aside. “But I did vacation on a world that built its entire culture around trade.”

Jen’s eyes kindle with wonder, sparking gold in deep interest. “Will you tell me a little bit about the place? In the movie you watched.”

I realize she’s saying that so anyone who might be taking undue interest in our conversation will conclude that I’m describing a sight from an entertainment I viewed.

She’s quite a clever human, allowing me to share without the need for secrecy.

I could speak in great detail on the structures of Belacor, their craft guilds and the artisan hierarchy, but I suspect she’s more interested in the tactile description of the market itself.

“Yes. The bazaar is the size of a city, stalls draped in iridescent fabrics that shift color with your gaze. And the tech sector—there are no shelves. Gadgets float in artificial pockets of zero G, encased in golden force fields.”

“Oh wow, so they create energy-based display cases, basically.”

“The smells can be…overwhelming. Sweet, pungent, metallic, earthy… It really depends on who is visiting on any given day, but the diversity is astounding.”

“Sounds incredible.” Her tone is distant, as if she’s trying to build a mental image of the scene I describe.

“The more interesting part of Belacor is that goods aren’t simply purchased with currency, as occurs here.”

Jen tilts her head, a sign of renewed interest, if I’m reading her body language correctly. “Oh? How else do they buy things?”

“With exchanges of service, time, even memories or emotional attachment.”

“That’s fascinating. I love that, but the implications are rather haunting. Under hardship, you could sell feelings of love or precious memories to survive.”

“Beings do,” I say.

“It’s tough here, but we haven’t reached that point yet. Where to next?” she asks, seeming like she wants to move on from the weight of that topic.

“The ship, obviously.”

Jen finds a direct route, following a herd of other enthusiasts.

I gaze at the centerpiece of the museum—a replica of the ship that allegedly crashed in Rellows long ago.

It’s a pale imitation of functional technology, all sharp angles and garish lights.

Standing before it, I ache because it’s an empty shell.

It can’t carry me home or allow me to contact my family.

“Let’s look inside?” Jen offers her hand.

I take it, conscious that the lengths and shapes don’t interlock, and my additional digits wrap around hers in an awkward fashion. She doesn’t seem to notice. Others circle outside; I hear their voices. But inside, we’re alone, insulated by thin walls designed to mimic metal.

“Seeker?” she murmurs.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thank you for making me feel…” Like I have a place to belong. Finally.

That feels like too much, too soon. I remember how I thought of her before my family, and I cannot parse the implications. I cannot speak the words aloud or make myself vulnerable in this way. Not yet. She traces her fingers over mine, lightly, delicately, and the sensation is unexpectedly intense.

I find rare sanctuary in her company, and for a fleeting moment, I’m no longer a seeker—I’m found.