jeriendhal | RVA: The Exchange Student, Chapter Two

Relevant points: I make several errors in judgement. I am welcomed by new friends.

I remained in my seat as Bihaar guided the shuttle towards its parking spot. I was distracted by the odd feeling of weight on my body, as if I was wearing a bodysuit with iron fillings between the layers, weighing me down. While I had felt earth’s slightly higher gravity visiting the lower sections of the habitation wheel of the Columbia, I and my fellow foxen had our quarters in the upper levels, where the gravity was closer to Motherhome normal. I took a moment to admonish myself. The gravity of the planet was not going to change for my benefit, and I was going to just have to get used to it.

Finally, the shuttle came to a halt, and Bihaar began shutting down its systems. I unbuckled my safety harness and stood up cautiously, keeping one paw on arm of my seat, while I peered out the cockpit window, watching as a large conventional aircraft rose into the air on multibladed propellers.

“Okay, I’m all done here for now,” Bihaar said, standing up and stretching, bumping his knuckles briefly on the cockpit’s ceiling. “I have to set up transport for the cargo pod to FIH, and then we can go together on the vac track to Baltimore.”

“The what?” I asked, watching as a ground truck with an open cargo bed approached the shuttle from across the tarmac.

“High speed railroad,” Bihaar explained. “It’s a maglev that runs in a tunnel with the atmosphere evacuated, so there’s no air friction to slow it down. There are stations all along a corridor running from Los Angeles to Baltimore and New York, and from there you can transfer to Trans-Atlantic Rail to London.” [1]

I retrieved my leather satchel and trunk from where Bihaar had stored them, tugging the latter towards the hatch, and wondering how its weight could have doubled even though the gravity of Earth was only a tenth greater than that of Motherhome.

“Hold on,” Bihaar warned me. He stepped ahead of me and undogged the hatch, pulling it open. A wave of cold air washed over me, and I took in a deep breath, feeling a chill enter my lungs. Raw, unfiltered air, the coldest I’d felt since spending the past two year in Columbia’s climate-controlled corridors. The air of an alien planet. Then I coughed and sneezed as I was overwhelmed by the smell of hydrocarbons from the aircraft and fuel storage containers around the airfield.

“You okay?” Bihaar asked in concern, as I regained her breath.

I assured him that I was fine, and only mentioned that it very different scents than from home. I rubbed my arms briefly, pondering the wisdom of delaying by opening my trunk and retrieving my winter jacket.

The truck that had been approaching stopped below us, and a clever autonomous machine detached itself from the truck’s frame and raised a folding stairway to allow us to step down to the ground.

A human tech hopped down from the truck’s cab as we disembarked, giving us a wave as Bihaar carried my trunk in his arms as if it weighed no more than my satchel. “Evening! You down from Leonov, right?” His eyebrows rose in surprise as he saw me “Hey, aren’t all you foxen supposed to touch down in Geneva?”

“I’m heading to the east coast,” I explained. “I decided to save some time and arrive here.”

“We were supposed to land in Baltimore, but the weather said otherwise,” Bihaar added. He zipped up his jacket and pulled its hood up, his ears popping out of the two holes at the top. “Can we get inside before I freeze my ear tips off? I have to arrange transport for our cargo pod to Bethesda.”

“Sure thing,” the tech agreed. “Hop in the cab and keep warm while I get the pod.” I followed Bihaar into the truck’s cab, and the wazagan wasted no time in cranking up the heat to full blast, obliging me to loosen my cravat to breathe easier. I watched in fascination as the tech opened the shuttle’s bay doors, using a remote controller to grab the pod with a crane mounted behind the cab, dropping it neatly onto the cargo bed.

Meanwhile Bihaar was tapping furiously on his palm comp, muttering the occasional “Bismillah!” and other words in Arabic that I wasn’t familiar with, but were definitely spoken with annoyed fervor. “Is everything all right?” I asked cautiously.

“Eh, paperwork,” Bihaar said, flicking his ears back. “The pod is full of alien biologicals, which means I’m going to have to arrange special transport.” He then muttered something that sounded like bara nik ommek! A phrase which I had heard exactly once, when another wazagan crewmember on the Columbia had dropped their toolkit, spilling its contents over the deck in front of the chief engineer. “Which is not available directly from the airport. I’m going to have to clear it through customs, since we weren’t supposed to land it here.”

The cab’s door opened, letting in a blast of cold air as the technician sat himself in the driver’s seat. “All secure, lieutenant,” he said to Bihaar. “I’ll run you folks over to the customs shed, and then drop the pod off into the hazardous cargo section.”

“Shuran,” Bihaar told him.

As the truck began moving along an access road next to the runway, I asked, “Why is it being treated as hazardous material? It’s just plant and animal samples from Motherhome.”

“Anything from offworld that isn’t pre-cleared is treated as hazardous, ma’am. Especially when it’s coming from a world that hasn’t been completely cataloged,” the tech explained. “You never know what kind of alien bugs might unfreeze and start eating the native wildlife.”

I agreed that was sensible, having never considered the hazards of such things. Most of the sharing from Motherhome’s perspective was the other way, as scholars and industrialists thirsted for information on human technology, particularly their advanced knowledge of electronics and spaceflight.

The truck stopped in front of the customs shed, which was really an enormous warehouse built from the ubiquitous concrete and steel, which seemed to be the most common building materials I’d seen from my examination of the airport. I do wonder if humans even used wood for construction anymore. Certainly, I’d seen none in my time aboard the Columbia.

We expressed our thanks to the technician, then rushed inside the customs shed, the pilot nearly striking his head on the sill of the human sized door. I found herself in a waiting room with some not terribly comfortable looking chairs and furniture, which somehow looked alien and exotic while simultaneously worn and tired. A woman at a desk looked them when we entered, her eyebrows rising in that familiar human expression of surprise upon seeing me. “What’s a foxen doing here?” she asked. “Aren’t y’all in Geneva?”

I explained my intent once again, adding, “I need to arrange transport to Westminster.”

“The one near BWI-A,” Bihaar added.

“There’s more than one?” I asked in surprise.

“There are a lot of Westminster’s, not all of them on this continent,” he said. “But we’ll get you where you need to go.”

Bihaar then turned his attention to the woman at the desk, displaying his palm comp and starting and animated conversation with her about arranging transport for the shipping container. This seemed to involve a great deal of arm waving on the wazagan’s part, as the conversation descended into a barely comprehensible technical details that I could only partly follow, but seemed to involve several forms that should have been filled out before we had landed.

“This is going to take a while,” Bihaar said, coming to where I had seated myself. He glanced out the window, where the sun was dropping towards the horizon. “Look, we may not be able to out of here before tomorrow, and I need to finish this paperwork. Did they set you up with a Human Federation bank account before we left the Columbia?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’m supposed to have a stipend to pay for expenses, but I think they were going to arrange that…”

“In Geneva, right,” Bihaar chimed in. “All right. Let me set you up with a little spending money, and then I’ll help you get a hotel room.”

I began to protest at this unexpected generosity, but Bihaar was having none of it.

“I’ve got five years of accumulated pay in my local account,” Bihaar reassured me. “Trust me, I can cover it.”

I thanked him for his gift and assured him that I would pay him back at a later date.

“Tch! Don’t worry about that. My religion is big on charity,” Bihaar said. “Look at it this way, you’ll be helping me build up some good karma.”

I waited as Bihaar left the warehouse, to return a half hour later with a small plastic care held between his fingers. “For you,” he said, handing it over. It was bright red with Money on the Run! printed in large white letters across its face. I confessed my confusion about its nature to him. It certainly didn’t look like Mother Country polyhedrons. [2]

“Money hasn’t looked like money for more than a hundred years on Earth,” Bihaar said. “Back home I’d be giving you a bundle of trade rods. This is the same thing, just a lot more portable. There’s a little chip embedded in it that holds the record that I transferred a thousand noras, North American Universal Credits, from my account into it.”

I gasped at this. My father and mother might earn a thousand silvers in two years of service!

“Trust me, it isn’t that much when you compare it to prices around here,” Bihaar told her. “You’ll see soon enough. But first let’s get you some…” He was interrupted by the warehouse supervisor calling to him in irritation, and Bihaar finished with, “Sorry, give me a minute.”

He went back to the supervisor, commencing their argument once again, while I marveled at the little red card holding such wealth within it. Then my stomach began to grumble, and I remembered I had not eaten the midday meal aboard the Columbia. I fear I had been far too excited about arriving on Earth to consider food at that time.

There was no one else here in the custom shed’s office besides myself, Bihaar, and the supervisor. While I didn’t want to leave my satchel unattended, I didn’t think that anyone here would take my trunk. So, I hefted the satchel’s strap over my shoulder and stepped outside into the cold once again. The main airport terminal appeared to be within easy walking distance, and I thought it would be no trouble to simply walk over there and find a vendor willing to sell me something to ease my empty stomach.

Reader, I acknowledge the folly of my actions. The only defense I can offer is the one that seems universal between foxen, wazagans, and humans which is “Das hrura ra ranun tia/Hassabtahaa ha tishtaghel/It seemed like a good idea at the time.”[3]

I began my walk towards the terminal. My first inkling that my idea might not have had the best merits was the realization that the terminal was much larger than I realized, and therefore was a much longer distance away. Worse, there was a dearth of footpaths, forcing me to walk along the edge of a service road towards the terminal. After perhaps two kilometers of travel, my footpads freezing and my lack of coat feeling like an increasingly foolish choice, I finally reached the terminal building and stepped inside.

I had thought I had been prepared to face humanity without a social filter, but experience with my tutors on Motherhome and the fifty or so crewfolk aboard the Columbia proved woefully insufficient for what I faced next. Stepping into the terminal’s high ceilinged, three-story main lobby, I found myself facing a veritable wall of humanity, hundreds of individuals, all moving about or standing in lines, chattering to each other or on their palm comps. I confess for a moment that I was completely overwhelmed, the scents and sounds flooding my senses, leaving me stunned as I pressed myself against the wall.

I stood there for several moments, my eyes shut tight, and ears flattened in a pathetic attempt to reduce the level of noise. Then I heard a diffident cough near my elbow, I opened my eyes again to see a young human woman standing nearby, looking at me in concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I assured her that I’d just been overwhelmed for a moment, and then she continued, “Aren’t all of you foxen supposed to be in Geneva?”

I explained my arrival from the Columbia, and my intention to reach the East Coast this evening, concluding with, “I was going to get some food and then return to my friend Bihaar.”

“Oh, I can show where the food court is,” she said brightly, then she asked, “But could I have your picture first? I’ve never met a foxen before.”

I thought it was an odd request, but I could hardly refuse given her offer of guidance. She took out her palm comp and leaned in uncomfortably close to me, taking a snap of herself and I. Then she led me to across the lobby towards the food court, though we were stopped several times by other curious humans, several of which also wished to take my picture. By the time we reached the food kiosks I confess my stomach was growling loudly and I was feeling increasingly overwhelmed.

Reaching our destination, I looked at the prices of the meals on display and felt my heart sink. Bihaar’s generous gift seemed considerably less generous when I compared the listings with the amount of money on my card. Why this would barely keep me fed for a tenday! I expressed my dismay to my guide, but she only laughed and explained that airport prices tended to be outrageous, since they catered to a captive audience of travelers.

I chose to make do with a pastry from a coffee shop, having become fond of the nilberry tarts that the Columbia’s kitchen made with the native ingredients that had shipped out with us on the return journey to Earth. Alas, the strawberry stuffed donut I received was not up to the Columbia’s standards. Also, eating at the coffee shop’s counter resulted in more interruptions as I acquiesced to several more requests for my photograph. I left quickly, still somewhat hungry, but at least sated for the moment. I retraced my steps to the customs shed, but to my surprise I found the lobby now empty, my luggage missing, and worse, Bihaar and the warehouse supervisor nowhere to be found.

I was alone.

###

I did not immediately panic. That they were not where I expected them to be did not mean they weren’t in the general vicinity. I called out for them several times without success, then attempted to open the doors leading to the custom house’s storage area. Alas, it was secured with an electronic lock, and the was no response.

Next, I attempted to contact Bihaar with my palm comp, only to make the discovery that it was set to interface with the Columbia’s infonet, but not whatever service was available at the aerospaceport. I was on my own.

Reader, I understand what I did next was foolish, but please bear with me. I was alone on an alien planet, my only companion from my journey to Earth missing, and without any luggage save for my leather satchel, which only contained my papers and writing implements. Anxiety began to sweep over me, and to be frank, a fear of failure. I had been so certain of my path, coming down to the Earth on my own instead of with my fellow foxen. I should have stayed put until Bihaar located me, or contacted the aerospaceport’s administration for assistance, but that seemed like a humiliating defeat. I needed to get to Westminster, where I was expected. My trunk could follow on in time, but I was going to be expected and needed to do something other than flag down a guardsman like a lost child.

I straightened my shoulders and ventured once again out into the cold. The sun was setting, bathing the tarmac in blood red light. I needed to be on my way before it grew dark at my destination.[4]

By the time I reached the terminal building again I was shivering, and grateful to be inside. I made my way to a kiosk and obtained a cup of tea, and after assuring the attendant that I didn’t want to be in Geneva at the moment, I received directions towards the maglev station, which was located in the first sublevel of the terminal.

There, I had my first bit of luck that evening. The maglev schedule was posted on a display board, and I could see that a train was scheduled to leave in less than ten minutes for Union Station in Baltimore, which I knew was the closest major city to Westminster. From there I was certain I could arrange transportation to my final destination. I quickly located a kiosk to purchase a ticket, only to be taken aback at the price of my journey. It drained my funds to just under one hundred remaining universal credits, nearly everything that Bihaar had so generously given me.

Stubborn determination pushed me forward. I was to be expected in Westminster. Once I got there, I would be in the hands of the college’s administration, and I’d be able to work out the problem of my missing luggage while I began my classes. And, I will admit, I feared I might otherwise have to beg the aerospaceport’s administration for assistance in contacting the Foxen consulate in Geneva for aid.

Time was wasting away, and I could delay no longer before I missed my connection. I walked up an automated kiosk and managed to puzzle out how to purchase a ticket (actually an electronic facsimile that was passed to my pocket comp when I laid it on the kiosk’s scanner.) I winced as I saw the total on my card dwindle to less than a tenth of what I began with, but I soldiered on.

I ran quickly to the correct platform, presented my “ticket” to be scanned at the gate, assured the attendant that I did not wish to be in Geneva, and boarded the maglev just ahead of the closing doors. Qapla’! [5]

I should describe the interior of the maglev. It was a tube some fifteen meters long and perhaps four wide, packed with well over a hundred humans. It, more so than Columbia or the busy interior of the aerospaceport, smelled very human, a mixture of sweat, human scent maskers, and other less familiar smells. Also, unlike a train on Motherhome, there were no windows.

I sat down in my assigned seat, the row empty save for myself, only to discover that it lacked a port for my tail such as was on the shuttle. I made do, sitting somewhat uncomfortably a few centimeters forward to allow my tail to curl over my lap. Within ten minutes an automated announcement requested that all passengers remain seated while acceleration commenced. Shortly thereafter I felt myself pressed into the seat, my tail joint aching as it was caught between the back of my seat and my body. Though the acceleration was nowhere near as heavy as I experienced when flying to orbit two years previously, it continued for quite some time, almost ten minutes. A quick check of my seat’s entertainment monitor revealed the reason, we were travelling at two thousand kph! Why I would be at my destination in a little over an hour![6]

I perused the monitor, intent on seeing what victuals might be available, as the doughnut I had consumed earlier did keep me satisfied for very long. Unfortunately, the prices displayed were little better than at the aerospaceport and were mostly confined to pre-packaged snacks. Mindful of still needing to hire transportation from Baltimore to Westminster, I decided my stomach would have to suffer deprivation a little longer.

I found myself growing more anxious as we approached Pennsylvania Station. Which despite the name was not in the state of Pennsylvania.[7] Overall it had been a very disconcerting ride. Between the times of acceleration and deceleration, the maglev didn’t feel like it was moving at all, a sensation exacerbated by the lack of windows. Only the map display on my seat’s monitor and periodic announcements by the maglev’s crew gave any indication we were going anywhere.

Eventually the maglev came to a stop, I retrieved my leather satchel from the overhead compartment, and we exited the train into the station. Which was simultaneously comforting and alien, as I found myself in a tall atrium supported by marble columns that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Mother Country rail station. It was so wildly different from the aerospaceport that I thought for a bewildering moment I’d somehow traveled back home. Fortunately, a nearby display dispelled my confusion. The railway station had been built almost three hundred years ago prior to the human discovery of spaceflight, and had been in continuous use since that time, albeit with several major renovations since it opened.

The station had clear signage to the regional transportation hub, housed in a newer wing of the station. Though a Mother Country station would have narrow gauge railways and galvanic trolleys available, the local equivalent was an aboveground maglev supporting small, automated transports, large enough to fit perhaps ten people at a time, that could be routed directly to individual destinations.

I found the kiosk to order a transport to Westminster and blanched at the cost. It would use up the remaining funds on the little card that Bihaar had given me, leaving me penniless. But if I could get there, I was sure I would be fine. The college had a library after all, and libraries never really closed. If I could get there, I could find a friendly face on the staff, perhaps a cot in the visiting officer’s quarters to sleep in, and in the morning, I could contact the college’s main administrative staff and prepare for my classes. All would be well.

I stepped onto the transport and took my seat, pressing a button in front of me to indicate I was ready to proceed. In a moment an automated announcer cautioned me to remain seated as it accelerated out of the station. I gasped as we exited, getting my first glimpse of a human city, all tall glass and steel buildings, with lights everywhere in the darkness, clearly visible even through the substantial snowstorm still falling around my little private railway car. The acceleration continued, until we were travelling a brisk 80 KPH. After searching through the menu controls on the display in front of me, I persuaded the car’s lights to dim, allowing me to enjoy the snowy scene outside my window.

City soon transitioned to suburbs, and then to my delight to hilly fields and woods, everything covered in a glowing white blanket of snow. I looked out the window in fascination, drinking this alien, yet still familiar world. All the pictures and videos I had seen of Earth could not prepare me for the reality of humanity’s homeworld. It was a real place, not merely a distant, cold fact in my mind. And I was here, granted an opportunity to experience it, when three billion foxen back on Motherhome would never get the chance. Humbled by the thought, I sat quietly and continued to watch the scenery pass by, until the maglev car began to slow, passing a series of three-story brick buildings as we entered the center of what the automated announcer informed me was historic downtown Westminster.

I grabbed my leather satchel and stepped out of the maglev car onto a raised open platform, shivering as a blast of cold air hit me. The platform was deserted, save for a squat robot that was determinedly cleaning away the drifting snow with a small plow. There was a lift down to street level, and I exited onto the sidewalk, rubbing my paws together as I stepped into the lee of a building. Bracing myself against the cold, I turned onto Main Street, looking up the hill towards Northern Maryland College. Visible even through the snow I could see the tops of the library’s dome, and the spire of the college temple, both of which I recognized from my research when I was choosing what institution to attend. I felt my pace quicken as I walked towards them. My goal was in sight!

Then my foot pads went out from under me as I skidded on a patch of black ice. I fell forward, ripping the knee of my uniform pants as I landed on the unforgiving concrete. I stood up again carefully, cursing as I favored my injured knee. My previously pristine uniform was now dirty and completely soaked, and I felt a wave of shame wash over me. My first day on Earth, and I looked like a vagabond soldier from a war tale. What a sight I would present when I arrived at the library!

I stripped off my now wet linen gloves and stuffed my freezing paws into my armpits for a bit of warmth. The snow was still coming down and the streets were deserted. There was no hope for it but to move forward. I began walking much more carefully up the hill towards the college campus, praying that I might find a warm tea at my destination.

The main gate of the campus was a large stone arch flanked by low stone walls. To my surprise the walkways weren’t cleared, leaving me to step with care through snow that was now reaching a height thirty centimeters. Though I could have gone to the main administration building, my first thought was to angle towards the library. I wanted to see the human version of the warm book sanctuaries I had grown up in, and to meet the librarians who serviced it. Eagerly I climbed up the stone steps to the doorway, grabbing the door handle to push it open.

It was locked.

I stood for a few moments in front of the locked glass door, not comprehending what I was seeing. There was a plaque beside the door, noting the library hours, which I took to mean when it would be reasonable to request a librarian’s aid in a non-emergency. But it was locked. How could it possibly be locked during a storm, especially during a storm, when Commoners caught out in the weather might need shelter? Further, there was a printed sign taped inside the door, explaining that the library was closed for the winter break, with a date indicating it would not open again for three days.

Stunned, I trudged through the snow to the central administration building. It was also locked, with a sign stating it was closed for the duration. The halls of the student dormitories were all dark, not a light to be seen. And if there was one thing I understood about human and foxen academic life, it was that students could carouse at all hours when not in class. Especially when not in class.

It was then that I looked around the empty campus, devoid of life, the awful realization of my situation dawning on me. There was no one here. There wouldn’t be anyone here for three days. I had not a penny to my name to rent a room at an inn or buy a meal for myself, and my palm comp was not connected to the local infonet to allow me to call to help. And I was increasingly aware as I stood still that I lacked a winter coat, or foot protectors, and that I had not had a substantial meal since I’d left the Columbia.

I was utterly alone.

###

For the record, I did not immediately start crying. I am Service Caste. We do not let obstacles prevent us from carrying out our duties. I could have, if it had proven absolutely necessary, started walking back into town and knocking on doors until I was able to find a domicile where there might be someone willing to take me in and help me contact the necessary authorities. But the very idea of such a thing felt utterly humiliating, and I could just imagine the snide remarks that Lord Kerrick would make about my poor decisions. Which would be doubly humiliating since on at least some level he’d be right.

I was still standing there considering my options, shivering in my wet uniform under the minimal shelter of the administration building’s portico, when I heard voices shouting in the distance, and an oddly distorted sound of swords clashing. My ears perked up at this incongruence, given that from what I knew of human cultures sword duels were anachronistic at best.[8]

I started moving towards the sound of the clashing blades, in the hopes of finding someone willing to help me. I came upon two young humans and a female wazagan, the two humans dressed in heavy cloaks, the wazagan in a full body snowsuit suitable for someone more used to a desert climate. The humans carried play swords, which projected glowing plastic rods from the hilts, and were battering at each other with cheerful enthusiasm, the swords making dramatic electronic clanging noises with each blow.

“Curse you, Richelieu!” the first human, a young man with light brown skin and bright blue eyes, shouted. “I’ll have you for what you did to my beloved Constance!”

“The wench meant nothing to me, Monsieur D’Artagnan!” “Richelieu” a slightly younger woman with skin almost as pale as the snow, with short, deep black headfur, replied. “Your treason against the Crown shall be your undoing!” Their swords clashed again, until D’Artagnan’s toy blade succeeded succeeding in touching his opponent. “AH! I am slain!” Richelieu declared, falling backwards into the snow with a dramatic death rattle. Whose effect was spoiled a moment later when she began giggling.

So involved were they in their play, that it was another moment before the wazagan glanced over in my direction, the hood of her snowsuit slipping back from her head as her ears rose in surprise. “Hey, you’re a foxen!” she said in surprise.

Cold and weary as I was at this point, the only thing I could say was a quiet, “Yes, I am.”

“Are you guys all supposed to be in Geneva?” she asked in perfect innocence.

Reader, at that point I reacted in a manner most unbecoming as an ambassador of goodwill between the people of Earth and Motherhome, for which I must apologize.

“I know I’m supposed to be in bloody Geneva!” I screamed at the poor wazagan. “If I had any sense I would be in Geneva! But I wanted to be here! I wanted to see what ordinary people were like! I just wanted to be another student, but everything is closed, I’ve lost my luggage and I’m out money, my uniform is ruined, I haven’t eaten a decent meal in almost a day, and I feel like such an utter fool…”

At that point I began sobbing incoherently, which prompted the late Richelieu to rise from her snowy grave to join the others as they gave me a spontaneous hug. “Hey, it’s okay,” she said. “You’re the foxen exchange student that everyone was talking about coming here at the start of the spring term, right?”

In a few moments I was able to calm myself sufficiently and I admitted that I was. I explained my intentions to travel independently from the Columbia to Westminster, and my missteps along the way. In between my rambling, the others introduced themselves. The pale black-haired girl was Renee, the young man was Thomas, and the wazagan was Farida.

“We’re all here because we’ll be starting the optional Jan term next week,” Renee explained. “Everything is pretty much closed until around Sunday afternoon.”

“I didn’t realize,” I said weakly, rubbing my arms to warm myself, still feeling like a damnable fool.

“She’s freezing,” Farida said with worry. “We should get her back to your place, Renee and get some food in her while she warms up.”

“All I’ve got at my place is a box of sugar flakes,” Renee admitted. “I was going to go grocery shopping tomorrow.”

“Let’s get her to Harry’s then,” Thomas advised. “We’ll get Willah a warm meal and then she can sack out at your place tonight.”

Farida said a rather colorful wazagan expletive, and then added, “C’mon! We are not having North Maryland’s first foxen student have her first real meal on Earth at Harry’s.”

“Is Harry’s a dining establishment?” I asked.

“Technically,” Farida said with evident reluctance.

Thomas added, “It’s the only 24-hour place in town.”

“Then it sounds wonderful,” I said. “Lead on, please.”

Shortly I was bundled into Renee’s cloak, and we drove in Farida’s vehicle to the grandly named Harry’s 24-hour Fine Dining. In truth it was a rather humble place, on the level of an economical public house for Commoner laborers back on Motherhome, with linoleum floors and countertops, and cheap wooden paneling. But it was open, and it was warm, and I cared for little else. After assuring the surprised wait staff that I was supposed to be here and not Geneva, they insisted on providing everyone’s meals gratis. [9]

“Congratulations,” Thomas said, as I eagerly dug into a flat cake smothered in butter and a locally produced sweet syrup. “You’re now the biggest celebrity in town.”

Renee chuckled in amusement. “Well, that finally lets you off the hook.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thomas said, waving her comment away. My ears pricked up in curiosity, but I held back my questions, not wanting to press my generous rescuers.

“I still need a place to stay,” I noted between bites. “I do hate to beg, but is there any sort of cheap hostel I could stay in tonight? If you could loan me a little money perhaps, I could pay you back when my stipend is sorted out.”

“I don’t think dropping you off at a cheap hotel during a snowstorm is a great idea,” Renee said. “Look, I share a garden apartment with three other students, but they won’t be back until the start of the Spring semester. You can stay with me until you get your housing sorted out.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose…” I began to demur, but Renee was insistent. And in truth I was beyond exhausted at that point. I finished my meal and was persuaded to allow myself to be photographed with Harry’s staff. Then we bundled back into Farida’s vehicle and arrived at a courtyard enclosed on three sides by small two-story residences. The apartment was dark when I entered with Renee, and she guided me to a small bedroom that smelled of a strange human. I quickly stripped out of my dirty and damaged uniform and down to my smallclothes, and then burrowed under the thick coverlet.

Feeling very welcome, I fell immediately asleep.

[1] “Maglev” is short for Magnetic Levitation, a method of making a passenger train float in the air, allowing it to obtain unimaginable speeds without the interference of friction. -BB

[2] Prior to the adoption of the Universal Stellar Credit system, “cash” on Motherhome was usually represented by small metallic polyhedrons, originally cast in precious metals, and later in sturdier and cheaper alloys. Their resemblance to the traditional dice used in human board and roleplaying games was cause for some amusement among early human visitors. -Ed

[3] The most accurate translations of the Mother Tongue and Arabic phrases are actually “I thought the idea was beautiful” and “I thought it was going to work” but we can forgive Lt. Bookbinder’s favoring the spirit over a strictly technical rendering of the phrases. -Ed

[4] Yes, I realize now that sundown in Houston meant the sun had set hours before in Westminster. In my defense I was genuinely beginning to panic, and the North American Union is ridiculously large compared to the Mother Country. -BB

[5] Translation: Success! Though there are several suspects among the Human Federation consulate on Foxen Prime and the crew of the Columbia, it has yet to be determined who taught Lt. Bookbinder to speak Klingon. -Ed.

[6] Though mostly superseded by more efficient reactionless thrust transport systems, for those interested in the subject, several maglev lines are maintained by transportation heritage groups on Humanity Prime, most notably by the North American Corridor Transportation Museum and the Trans-Pacific Railway Museum. -Ed.

[7] “States” in the vernacular of the North American Union are similar to a Mother Country district, though lacking the continuity of a ruling countess and her heirs. -BB

[8] Duels of honor were still legal, if uncommon, in the Mother Country at the time of Lt. Bookbinder’s journey to Humanity Prime, though the last was on [DATE], a good fifty years prior to them being outlawed. -Ed

[9] While (as far as scholars have been able to discover) Bookbinder was never formally instructed in Latin, no doubt she picked up the word whilst learning English. Please see the famous Nichols quote as to the reason why. -Ed