Page 6

Seeker

I’m always nervous when entering a new environment.

Will technology keep me safe?

And where is the nearest exit if it malfunctions?

Pausing, I memorize the escape route before I move away from the front of the diner.

The other humans have shared identifying markers about themselves in the communication hub, and I recognize SquidHead first, exceptionally tall and entirely lacking in cranial fur.

He lifts an appendage tentatively as I thread my way toward them.

Two female humans are present. Based on qualifying characteristics, one of them is JazzyPlum.

She is slight with short cranial fur. The other woman is Jeneticist. There is no explanation for my certainty, but she feels familiar, possibly because we’ve been chatting privately outside of the group.

She is the smallest of three, but also the roundest. Humans come in all shapes and sizes.

As I move toward them, I ready my explanations.

I don’t have any belongings other than what I’m carrying with me, but I have gleaned enough of their consumer culture to grasp that they will find that strange, so I should dodge any discussion of what I own and refer to a practice called “minimalism” if they become insistent.

“You must be…” The male hesitates, tilting his cranium to assess me thoroughly.

“Seeker.” The one who isn’t Jen seems to have no doubt who I am, which I find curious.

In our chats, I’ve given no clues regarding my appearance, mostly because the technology I developed is inconsistent.

Due to differences in brain chemistry, I might look different to Jeneticist, JazzyPlum, and SquidHead.

If they compare notes, they’ll find it strange.

The camouflage isn’t meant to withstand prolonged scrutiny; that’s why I’ve spent the last 363 days in relative isolation.

And why I’m risking my safety to meet the beings who kept me sane and grounded during the loneliest and most difficult period of my existence.

“And you’re Jeneticist?” I guess.

“Jennette. Jen works.” She gets to her feet, showing teeth.

Human smiles are deceptive. Some Terran mammals display teeth for aggression, but that’s not the human custom.

It’s a welcoming demonstration, a promise that they won’t use those teeth in a hostile fashion.

Not that I think they could do much harm with them.

Their chewing apparatuses are generally blunt and square, more akin to the mouths of herd-grazing herbivores than dangerous predators.

“And I’m Jaz,” the other female says.

“Sit down, take a load off,” SquidHead invites. “I’m Tad, by the way.”

“Tamzir. But you can call me Seeker. I’m used it.”

Everyone settles at the table. The vacant seat is across from Jaz, between Jen and Tad, who studies me with an expression I can’t scan. “Is that derived from Arabic?” he asks.

“I have no idea how my parents found my name,” I say truthfully.

That’s because there is a consecration ceremony and then the gestational parent embarks upon a period of isolation and deep meditation so that their subconscious mind can provide the answer.

What they experience during those moments is private and sacred, and they emerge like an insect from a chrysalis, profoundly changed by the experience.

I can’t share any of that information or a single true thing about my lived experience.

I suffer a surge of wrenching melancholy.

Ah. It seems it’s possible to be lonely among other beings as well.

“Well, I like it,” Jen says. “It has a lovely ring to it.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?” Jaz asks. “We already ordered, but—”

“I’m fine. I ate before I came over. I’m here because I wanted to be social.”

Dodging meals with humans will prove difficult. I’m subsisting on protein drinks I’ve sourced after carefully analyzing the ingredients and contents. It’s suboptimal, but I can’t be too selective. My own food ran out a long time ago.

“Some water then?” Jen offers.

I incline my head gratefully. Intensive study of humans via their entertainment programs has taught me the basics of their body language, though I still don’t understand how, when, and why I should move my appendages when I speak.

There doesn’t seem to be a standard in this regard.

Gestures are personal and instinctive, it seems.

“So where’s everyone staying?” Tad inquires.

“I’m at the Rellows Inn,” Jen says at once. “In the Jupiter room.”

Jaz displays excitement in the form of a controlled twitch movement. “Wow! I tried to reserve there after you invited us to meet you here, but they were already booked up.”

“I got lucky,” Jen admits. “There was a cancellation and I snagged it.”

Tad says, “I borrowed my brother’s camper. Hooked it to the back of my car and brought my lodgings with me. I’m out at the RV park outside town.”

“That’s genius,” Jaz says. “I’m at a standard motel, but I felt fortunate to get a room at all. I had no idea the competition was so fierce! It’s worse than Comic-Con.”

Jen turns to me, seeming intent on including me in their conversation. “What about you, Seeker?”

I refrain from acknowledging that I don’t plan to stick around. In the most literal sense, I am passing through. My emergency beacon ran out of power a while ago, and I haven’t been able to adapt it to communicate with local tech. So far, anyway. I’ll keep trying.

To leave, I may have to repurpose technology from 97-B.

Some asset hoarders are trying to assemble ships capable of reaching the lunar surface, but their designs are lackluster, and they seem to explode more than successfully launch.

It’s a baffling waste of supplies, but it might be my only hope.

According to my research, there will be an attempted launch on the coast in four days.

With such a concentration of technology and resources, perhaps I’ll be able to scavenge something I can use.

I am weighing my options, but I cannot tarry indefinitely, simply hoping that my situation will improve.

But they’re all staring, waiting for an answer. “I found a tiny place online, but it’s only for a couple of nights.”

Put kindly, it’s more of a storage facility than a residence. There’s no area for food preparation and the sleeping area is elevated, tucked beneath the roof. Hygiene facilities appear rudimentary. But it doesn’t signify. I’ll be leaving soon anyway.

“It must be grim,” Tad says. “Well, you can crash with me for the rest of the week if you want. If this is like other cons I’ve attended, we’ll only be there to sleep and wash up.”

Jaz asks, “Do you have an extra bed?”

“I do! The dining table turns into a bunk.”

“How fascinating,” I say.

“Oh, it’s a clever design.” Tad shows enthusiasm, judging me interested in mobile lodgings such as the one he’s using.

The conversation hits a lull when another human trundles up, overladen with a shocking number of dishes.

I would help her, but my companions show no willingness to assist. Their customs seem strange to me.

One can only provide aid if there will be compensation involved? I don’t understand that mindset at all.

They do appear to appreciate her service, at least.

“This looks fantastic,” Jaz says.

“Thank you so much,” Jen adds.

Tad can’t tear his gaze away from his meal. “You’re an angel. I’m starving.”

She pauses, taking a second look at me. “Whoa. I can’t believe you’re here. In person! Batman is my favorite superhero!”

I’ve had this happen a couple of times before. Usually, they think I’m some celebrity. And if I let her continue, she’ll make the rest of the table overly curious. “I’m not famous. I just look like…” Whoever you think I am.

“Oh. Sorry about that. Anything else?”

“Just some water,” Jen says quickly.

Kind of her. Since I don’t eat in public, I wasn’t certain of the request protocols.

I can safely consume water, and hydration is important for many body types.

In fact, I have only encountered one being for whom water was toxic.

On an interesting evolutionary track, he was.

It would be incredibly difficult for him to find pure liquid hydrogen.

Of course, he wouldn’t have been able to adapt to the levels of oxygen in this environment, even with respiratory therapy.

“Coming right up!” the server says.

“I wonder which Batman she thought you were.” Jen frowns, tilting her head. “You don’t look like any of them, to be honest.”

Tad glances up from his plate. “Have any Black actors played Batman?”

Jen blinks, seeming confused by the question. “Uh—”

“So we’re missing FarfromHome and Stargazer,” Jaz cuts in.

I have the feeling she interrupted to save me, but I’m unsure why I have that impression.

Tad returns to eating as if he hasn’t received sustenance in a long time.

Since he’s quite elongated, perhaps he metabolizes food more rapidly than a smaller being.

“I wonder what they’re like,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food.

“Chew and swallow before you speak,” Jen suggests.

“Oops. Sorry. I didn’t have lunch. Or breakfast.”

“Why not?” Jaz asks.

“I was driving.”

Jen laughs. “Oh, you’re one of those men.”

“What sort?” he asks.

Jen and Jaz share a look, then Jen does a low, gruff voice. “‘Can’t stop. Driving. Can’t eat. Driving.’”

Tad grins a bit, showing only a hint of teeth. “That checks out.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that about you,” Jaz says.

“How well do we really know each other?” I ask, conscious that I’m keeping a huge secret. It felt ironic at first. Now I’m just a bit sad that I can’t tell the truth.

“Everyone wears masks,” Jaz puts in.

She nibbles at the edges of her meal, seeming…

hmm. I don’t know how she seems. Human faces are interesting to me and mobile, certainly, but I don’t always understand what I’m seeing, despite many hours logged studying them like an observational scientist. But now that I’m paying closer attention, Jaz doesn’t appear as emotive as Jen or Tad.

Jen nods. “It’s because we want people to like us and not realize that we’re all secretly bundles of hidden anxiety.”

“What are you anxious about?” Tad asks. He’s devoured most of his food already.

I sip my water. It has an unusual tang, metallic.

“I was so nervous about meeting all of you in person.” For some reason, Jen glances at me when she says this.

If I’m reading the situation correctly, she wants reassurance. Which means I only need to be honest. “Truly? But I’ve wanted to meet you for a while. And you’re everything I hoped you’d be and more.”