RVA: The Exchange Student, Chapter Three
May. 22nd, 2024 07:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalJanuary 8th, 2203
I awoke the next morning, luxuriating in the comfort of a full stomach and a warm bed, only to become aware of a persistent weight on my chest unrelated to the heavy comforter laying over me. I opened my eyes, to find myself nose to nose in my first encounter with native Earth wildlife.
A small furry quadruped with a white pelt marked with black blotches was sitting on my chest, bumping its nose against my muzzle, a loud buzzing noise emerging from its chest. Evidentially dissatisfied with my non-plussed reaction, it raised one paw and batted at my snout, mewing softly. It was a cat, I remembered from my studies,[1] a domesticated animal that humans chose to allow into their homes, originally to hunt for vermin. What it was doing on top of me I had no idea.
“Monty? Monty!” I heard Renee call softly from the hallway. She poked her head through the door. She said an expletive and then apologized profusely, telling me the door must have been left cracked open when retrieved my uniform to place in the wash. Renee then stepped into the bedroom and attempted to pick up the cat, which dug its claws into the comforter as it made an annoyed growl.
“It’s all right,” I said. “It isn’t dangerous, is it?”
Renee laughed. “Only to a bowl of kibble. Go ahead and scratch him under his chin, he loves it.”
I did so, and the cat began buzzing more loudly, rubbing its cheek against my fingers, and then flopping down to seemingly melt against me. Its fur was very soft, and the buzzing was very soothing somehow. Renee then explained that pets such as Monty weren’t permitted in student quarters, and she was highly concerned about him being discovered. I assured her that I would not betray her trust and generosity, even if it was a violation of standing orders.
As my uniform pants and blouse were in the wash, Renee generously offered the loan of one of her shirts and a robe for me to wear temporarily. She then inquired concerning my uniform, “Is that something you wear every day?” I assured her that my duty uniforms were much more suitable for a work environment.
“No, I mean when you’re not doing your job,” Renee said. I went on to explain my off-duty clothes were more casual, but that they were packed with my fatigues in my trunk, which was presumably wherever Bihaar was at the moment.
“Okay, we have to get you some regular clothes.” Renee eyed the tip of my tail, which was peeking out from under the hem of my borrowed robe. “You can’t wear human pants, and the only pants with tail holes that I’ve ever seen are for wazagans.”
This was a serious problem, as a wazagan sized pair of trousers would hang on me rather comically. Fortunately, Renee assured me she had a solution, and left to seek it out. I meanwhile sat in at the desk in my room, working on my diary entry of the previous day’s extraordinary events, the window shades raised so I could enjoy the reflection of the morning sunlight on the blanket of snow on the ground.
An hour later Renee returned in the company of a cheerful, portly man with a strip of fur between his nostrils and lip that some human males favored. Renee introduced him as Mister Steve, and she informed me that he was the head of the costuming department of the college’s theater.[2]
Setting a portable sewing machine down on the kitchen table, he assured me that he could put something together for me with a few hours work. When I protested that he was going to far too much trouble, Mr. Steve assured me, “I’m a costumer. This isn’t my first fashion emergency.”
Reader, miracles were performed. Shortly Mr. Steve had taken my measurements, expressing some concern over foxen body types compared to humans, but confident he could provide for me.[3] By late-afternoon I had a blouse, a pair of denim pants, two skirts, and a promise to have a new pair of uniform pants once Mr. Steve was able to find a suitable fabric to match the original.
Around luncheon there was a knock on the door, and Thomas and Farida entered, enquiring as to my health. I assured them I was doing well and accepted their generous to take me to luncheon. I quickly changed back into my uniform; the knee of my pants having been sewn shut by Mr. Steve and was escorted back to Harry’s for a meal of marinated beef tips over noodles. When I expressed some interest in seeing a farm where the beef cattle were raised, both Thomas and Farida expressed disgust at the very concept.
“We don’t raise animals to eat anymore,” Thomas explained. “That beef your eating was printed from vat protein at a biological cultural facility.” He went on to explain that as Earth’s population had expanded, the biological waste and greenhouse gasses generated by the process of raising animals for food had resulted in a severe strain on their world’s ecosystem. This had been alleviated some two hundred years earlier by the perfection of 3D printed biological materials, producing meat that had never really been “alive” in any sense. There were also cultural issues involved, with the concept of so called “factory farms” being considered cruel to the animals raised there.
I could only raise my eyebrow at this odd quirk in human culture. While I supposed one could become fond of such a delightful creature as Renee’s cat Monty, feeling empathy towards something raised to ultimately eaten was inexplicable. I kept my opinion to myself however, limiting my comments to the quality of the meal I consumed.
With the circumstances being less fraught than the night before, I took this opportunity to learn more about my new friends. Farida was, to my surprise, not an exchange student like myself, but a native of Earth, born into a small wazagan immigrant community in the North African Economic Zone. Her course of study was historical in nature, as North Maryland had once featured courses specializing in deaf education. Though advanced medical techniques had eliminated that particular affliction among humanity, it was still an issue among wazagans. Farida’s goal was to compare ancient human skills of sign language with similar adaptations among her own people. I expressed some interest in her findings, and she eagerly agreed to share them.
Renee was a theater major and was going to spend her January term studying a specialized course in commedia dell'arte. Some conversation revealed that this is similar to the foxen comedy traditions of using stock characters and situations and weaving them into an improvisational play, which Renee was delighted to discover. We spent several minutes eagerly comparing character archetypes, such as the Harlequin vs. the Necessary Rogue, and we agreed to try arranging for me to audit the course.
Thomas was a history major, studying the history of human spaceflight, beginning with the experiments in both solid fueled rockets over a thousand (!) years ago, and more relatively recent advances in liquid fueled and more exotic forms of propulsion, including the relatively recent discovery of the superluminal drive, which allowed practical interstellar spaceflight and contact with both the wazagans and my own people.
It was only when the discussion of the superluminal drive entered the conversation that I learned of Thomas’ extraordinary background.
“So, are you going to tell her or am I, Tom?” Renee asked him.
A displeased expression crossed the young man’s face. “I kinda was hoping not to,” he admitted. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”
“Not a big deal he says!” Renee exclaimed. She turned to me and said, “Don’t mind him, he’s suffering from Famous Mom Syndrome.”
“Really? Who is your mother?” I asked.
Poor Thomas grimaced and replied, “Vice Admiral Alesha Jackson.”
Reader, I fairly swooned! To meet the son of the human who had led the expedition which had made first contact with Motherhome was a privilege I could never have imagined happening. I fear I made a right fool of myself at that point, stammering that I hoped I could meet her someday, and how grateful all foxen were for being introduced to the Human Confederation.
“She must be an extraordinary person,” I continued to gush.
Thomas shrugged. “She’s just my mom. Honestly, I think she’s kinda pissed off at me, because I’m going to North Maryland instead of the Stellar Academy.”
“You don’t want to follow her footsteps? I asked.
“No. I mean, I like the idea of exploring space. It’s how we met you guys after all. But the idea of spending years trapped inside a tin can to get anywhere makes me want to break out in hives,” Thomas said. “Even Mom says she’d rather not make the trip to your world again.”
Farida, who had been half-listening to my conversation with Thomas while looking at her palm comp, widened her eyes, lowered her ears, and interrupted our conversation. “Hey, Willah. Were you able to hook up your palm comp to the com network yet?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “I was going to try to arrange it this afternoon.”
“You might want to do it now, and then call somebody in Geneva.” She held up her palm comp, allowing me to see the news article on the screen, which declared Foxen Goes Missing After Arriving on Earth!
It took me a moment to realize my error. At some point someone had noticed that I had left the customs warehouse and failed to return, and started searching. Unfortunately, the most logical place to begin searching was around Houston Aeropaceport, well after I had left. And with my use of the card Bihaar had provided me, I hadn’t even registered my identity at any of the kiosks I had used. Which now lead, judging from the article, to the Foxen Consulate in Geneva and several Earth based government agencies entering an absolute panic as I had apparently disappeared into thin air.
“May I use your comp?” I asked Farida weakly. She handed it over, and after a few moments searching I found a link to the Geneva consulate. The very aggrieved foxen in a consulate uniform at the other end at first took my call as a prank, even as I displayed my video image to her, having apparently been subject to several hoax images in the past few hours created via AI’s. It was only when I mentioned corroborating details of Bihaar’s name and the use of the credit voucher that she realized she was talking to the genuine article.
“Where are you?” she cried out. “Have you been kidnapped?”
“I’m right where I’m supposed to be in Westminster,” I replied, feeling my ears color in embarrassment. “I apologize for not informing you-“ I was interrupted by the official telling me to be quiet, and a moment later I found myself conferenced in with the foxen ambassador general, her assistant an ambassador colonel, and three different uniformed human officials whose names and ranks were not adequately provided to me in the rush to demand that I explain myself. I proceeded to do so, interrupted several times by the ambassador, who grew even more irate when I attempted to be helpful and correct his translation of my responses for the benefit of the listening humans.
“Does your home language normally sound that, uh, growly when you talk?” Renee asked in concern, during a pause while the ambassador exchanged terse words with the officials.
“Not normally,” I admitted. “I’m afraid there’s a lot of, er, emphatic use of verbs at the moment.” Which made everyone around the table giggle.
“So, to conclude, you are in Westminster,” the ambassador general said.
“Yes, Ambassador General,” I said.
“You are safe?”
“Yes, Ambassador General,” I agreed. “Though I am still in need of my trunk with my spare uniforms.”
“That should be delivered to you this evening, now that we know where you are,” the ambassador general stated. With Renee’s assistance I gave them the address of her apartment and was assured that my luggage should arrive shortly.
“Oh, and could you please contact poor Bihaar and let them know I’m safe. I imagine he must be frantic by now,” I said, feeling increasingly awful at leaving him without so much as a note as to where I was going.
“Lt. Bihaar is still in Houston, waiting for permission to leave from the police, as he was among the last people to speak to you before you disappeared,” the ambassador general said cooly. “I should hope you provide him with a formal written apology for you action, along with one to be sent to our office in Geneva.”
“Of course, Ambassador General,” I agreed, wilting inside.
“Good. I expect any further conversations with you to involve much less dire,” the ambassador general said. “Or better, that no further conversations will be necessary at all.”
“Yes, Ambassador General,” I repeated, and then the conversation mercifully ended.
January 10th, 2203
Relevant Points: I am properly clothed and housed. I take a tour around the campus. I compose several apologies.
A very busy day today. My luggage was delivered on the morning of the 9th, and I dove into it eagerly to change into my undress uniform, which was more comfortable and practical than my formal uniform. Renee was fascinated by Mother Country styles of dress, and I was obliged to change outfits several times so she could compare my civilian dress with my uniforms.
“Do all foxen wear uniforms?” she asked, as I twirled for her in my undress blue tunic and skirt.
“No, I’m wearing one because I’m Service Caste,” I told her. “Commoners dress as they please, and of course Nobles do as well, though more formally. Don’t you wear uniforms on Earth?”
“If someone is in the military sure,” Renee replied. “But no one would expect a librarian to.”
“Then how would you know they were a librarian?” I asked.
Renee appeared non-plussed. “Because they work in a library.”
“Yes, but how would they understand their place in the hierarchy, who was in charge and who are subordinate to them?”
“Uh, it’s a library,” Renee said, sounding confused. “I think they would just know that.”
Our conversation was tabled when my palm comp, which after some effort I had connected to the local communications network, chimed with an incoming call. I answered it and was requested to report to the college’s administration building at my earliest convenience.
It was only a brisk (and quite comfortable now that I had my coat) ten-minute walk to the administration office. Upon entering the building, I was escorted by the receptionist to the office of the “dean” of the college, an administrative position roughly similar to that of a scholar colonel as I was able to puzzle out. The dean was a tall male with blond headfur, who introduced himself as Harold Vowles, and immediately apologized for no one being available when I arrived so unexpectedly two days ago. I stated that no apology was necessary, and that my untimely arrival was the fault of my eagerness to begin my studies and a misunderstanding concerning the hours that the campus kept.
He then personally gave me a tour of the campus, which was a mixture of modern structures and ones that had been in existence almost since the college’s founding three hundred years ago. Aside from the student housing, which was scattered throughout several buildings, there were of course the library which had thwarted me on my first arrival, the dining hall at the bottom of the student center, the academic centers where classes were held, a separate theater building, and a non-denominational temple.
“While normally first year students would be in Englar Hall, we’ll of course be giving you your own garden apartment such as upper classmates share, so you have a greater measure of privacy,” Dean Vowles explained.
“I’ve lived in student barracks before, sir,” I said in surprise. “I have no problems sharing a room with someone else.”
“Yes, but not with another human being,” Dean Vowles said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “We don’t really know what your needs are, er, how you’d get along.”
“I’ve been sharing space with Miss Renee at her garden apartment,” I explained. “She seems pleasant enough.” Then a thought occurred to me. “I’m not starting my own classes until Spring Semester. Would it be acceptable for me to stay there until her roommates return, to see if I’m comfortable with that?”
The dean considered that and agreed that it was a good idea. “What about food requirements?” he then asked. “We consulted with your Geneva embassy about any possible conflicts with food grown on Earth, but they haven’t gotten back to us yet.”
“I don’t believe that will be an issue,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything about any of your food being poisonous to foxen in my briefings before I left Motherhome.” Prudently, I kept more personal opinions about Earth food, like manufactured meat, or the consumption of dairy products by adults, to myself.
“Well, we’ll deal with that as it comes,” the dean agreed. He led me back to the administration building where I was given an identity card, a data chip with more information about the campus and available classes, and codes for a personal bank account. “Just contact the Foxen Embassy and give them your account numbers, and they can deposit your stipend directly to your account,” Dean Vowles explained. “Given you have a full scholarship covering room and board, that should be more than adequate for your needs.”
“I imagine so,” I agreed. “Thank you so much for going to so much trouble for me.”
“It was no trouble. Having you here with us is a historical event. I only hope we live up to your expectations,” he said. Dean Vowles’ expression then turned more serious. “Oh, and if you have any trouble with people from Fox Watch, please let my office know immediately.”
“Forgive me, ‘Fox Watch?’” I inquired. He went on to explain that Fox Watch was what was referred to as a Social Media website [4] which was devoted to tracking the movements and activities of the small foxen population on Earth.
“It’s more for indulging people’s curiosity than anything else,” the dean continued. “But there’s always idiots who think it’s a good idea to get in some ambassador’s face when they’re appearing in public. Given you’re quite far away from Geneva it might not be as much of an issue for you. I mean, you haven’t been posing for pictures, have you?”
My ears and tail must have betrayed me, for Dean Vowles pulled out his pocket comp and quickly brought up the site. There was the picture of myself with the woman who aided me at the aerospaceport, along with those taken by others who had accosted me, and several from afar. There were also the ones taken by the staff of Harry’s, all with geolocator data to track my movements. It made me wonder why the embassy in Geneva hadn’t used it as a resource, or perhaps the posting of the photos had been delayed until after they had finally tracked me down. “Right,” Dean Vowles said wearily. “I’ll put out a notice to Campus Security to be watchful of non-students on campus.”
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized. “I’m not trying to make things more difficult for you.”
“Not a difficulty, just a complication,” he replied. “We are happy to have you here, and we hope you have a positive experience to tell your people back home about.”
I could agree with him at that point, though the issue with Fox Watch still troubles me.
The rest of the afternoon was spent composing an apology letter to the Foxen Consulate for worrying them so badly. I went through several drafts attempting to explain myself, before I finally gave and penned a simple two paragraph apology, careful to stick to the facts and minimize justifications for my behavior.
The second apology letter was for poor Lt. Bihaar, whom I’m certain was frantic over losing his charge. For this I went into considerably more detail about my misadventures, essentially repeating my diary entry. While I was embarrassed about my behavior and understood the consulate’s upset, the lieutenant was a friend and fellow shipmate, and I truly felt remorseful about upsetting him.
Halfway through the former Renee returned from her own errands, not the least of which was acquiring groceries to feed us both without resorting to either Harry’s or the communal dining hall. My task was interrupted by her expressed fascination with my handwriting, and I was obliged to demonstrate the proper mixing of powdered ink and water into my inkwell and refilling the reservoir of my pen. When I asked her to reciprocate and demonstrate human handwriting, she responded with some embarrassment, borrowing one of my sheets of paper and writing out a very crabbed sentence in block lettering.
“We use computers and keyboards for most of our writing,” Renee admitted. “Some people learn calligraphy, really fancy handwriting, as a form of art, but almost no one else uses it except for maybe quick notes that aren’t worth typing out.”
“But how do you write a formal letter like I’m doing now?” I asked.
Renee shrugged. “I’d probably just send in an email or a text.” Her face scrunched in a very human way indicating she was thinking about something. “In the old days before computers and literacy were widespread, illiterate people used to be able to hire someone to write letters for them. I wonder if we shouldn’t bring that back in a way, to write out something manually like you’re doing so it’s more… I don’t know… meaningful?”
“An intriguing idea,” I agreed, and returned to completing my letter[5]. And then calling Bihaar with no small amount of embarrassment to ask him where I should mail it so it would reach him. He took the request with good humor, accepting my more casual apology over the comp and assuring me that he was just happy that I had arrived at my destination safely.
Note to Self: Must finally visit the library to formally introduce myself to the Library Commander.
January 11th, 2205
Relevant Points: I mail my letter, I explore the library and become confused.
A very busy day today. In the morning Renee said farewell to me to attend the first class of her January term, leaving me to my own devices. I resolved to mail my apology letters and finally introduce myself to the resident librarian commander, or whatever the equivalent title of the college’s library administrator was.
I should explain the geography of the student center for clarification. It’s a terraced building built into a small hillside, consisting of three levels. At the top is a large open area with a reception desk where visitors might check in, and several cleverly designed conversation nooks set in a circle around an artificial fire pit, where students might chat or work together. The fire pit is heated electrically, with faux ceramic logs that appear to glow and radiate heat nicely.
Below that level is the post office, and a store where students may purchase physical books or other items required for their classes, and various other necessities of life such as fang cleanser and fur soap. Across from the store is a small pub, offering food and drink in a more intimate setting than the dining hall and including a small stage for performances.
At the bottom is a large dining hall with angled windows on two sides, offering a sunny venue to dine for students living on campus. I’m informed by Renee, Thomas, and Farida that the food offered there while perhaps uninspired is plentiful. I am hoping for a wider variety of meals than were available aboard the Columbia, which out of necessity were composed of items offering the highest nutritional value for the minimum of space. Also on this level are various meeting spaces of varying size, which can be used by student groups for meetings and presentations.
My primary concern today was the post office. Mailing my letters proved somewhat complicated, as the majority of “letters” on Earth were handled electronically. While this is considerably faster than physical delivery, it does lack a certain intimacy that my apology letters required. Fortunately, the practice of exchanging greeting cards existed among humans as it did on Motherhome, so after some negotiation with the postal workers (who actually were in uniform, much to my relief) I sent my apologies to their intended destinations.
My next destination was the library, which I had been looking forward to since my arrival on campus. Given the rather casual nature of human interactions I’d experienced so far on Earth, I eschewed my formal uniform in favor of my undress blues, with just my rank insignia and shoulder braid for decoration.
I steeled myself before the door that had so led to despair upon my initial arrival to North Maryland. This was a library. Whatever differences between Humanity and Foxen, this was a place of scholarship and charity, where the ordinary masses of Commoners may benefit from the generous largess of their betters. There would be books, and there would be people who loved books.
Nodding firmly to myself, I pushed open the door and stepped inside, to be temporarily overcome by the scents that came to my nostrils. I had lived in the sterile environment of the Columbia for two years, where the only scents were that of my fellow passengers, the crew, and recycled air. Even after spending almost three days on Earth, my nose was not prepared for the overwhelming sense of nostalgia that overcame me as the warm familiar scent of the library, a mixture of wood pulp, binding glue, and the omnipresent battle against dust. I very nearly sobbed as I was struck by a moment of densickness like I’d never felt all during my journey to my destination. This place was a library. This place smelled like home.
A voice at my elbow jolted me out of my reverie, asking if I was alright. I turned to find myself facing an older human woman with greying black hair and deep wrinkles in her round furless face. I told her I was fine, simply overwhelmed for a moment, and she introduced herself as Julia Arkwright, the head librarian. I was unsurprised at this point that she was not wearing a uniform, though at least she had a nametag confirming her name and administrative rank. Given the size of the library and its importance, I would have pegged her for a Librarian Lt. Commander in my own culture.
Julia, as Administer Arkwright insisted I call her, took me on a tour of the library. I should preface this by stating while electronically transmitted books are the preferred format used by human readers, physical volumes have not completely gone out of fashion. Sometimes printed books are read for sentimental reasons, other because they were never scanned into an electronic format, and sometimes because it’s just easier to flip to a page in a reference tome rather than run a search on one’s e-reader. Suffice it to say there were a great many books in the North Maryland campus library, well over a quarter of a million, not to mention a treasure trove of historical documents.
I was taken on another tour, starting at the checkout desks at the front of the library and then a circular information desk that sat at the bottom of a three-story circular atrium topped by a translucent dome. On this level towards the rear were stacks devoted to popular fiction, and to either side were access to electronic research terminals for more comprehensive searches than one’s pocket computer permitted. The two levels above the ground level were devoted to collections of printed research materials. Below were two lower levels, the first devoted to meeting rooms and archival materials, and the lowest level to physical documents far too old to permit casual handling by the public.
I expressed my eagerness to peruse the stacks, and asked what limitations the local government placed on what materials the general public may be permitted to access. Julia explained to me that the library was open to all students and faculty, and citizens of the local county were permitted after providing their personal information for a library card. I then clarified, asking her who in the government approved what books could be provided for which levels of patron authority. At this point Julia got a very peculiar look on her face and asked me to elaborate on what I meant.
The conversation proceeded to go downhill from there. Apparently, the government provides no guidance on what its subjects, citizens rather, may or may not read, beyond a very mild admonishment to avoid providing sexually explicit materials to immature cublings. Indeed, when I explained the normal Mother Country way of doing things, Director Arkwright became highly offended at the idea of restricting any form of information, as if a librarian had no business deciding such matters.[6]
At that point I made an excuse that I had another matter to attend to and took my leave. This matter requires further research on my part. Though I suspect it would better if I consulted other resources than the campus library.
[1] And by studies, I must qualify as “Watched a considerable number of short cinemas on my palm comp while in transit to Earth.” They really were interesting creatures. I just didn’t anticipate meeting one in person so soon. -BB
[2] Steven Miller [birth-death], eventually became head of NMC’s Theatrical Studies program, serving in that position for fifteen years. -Ed.
[3] Roughly: Human torsos are shorter, and their legs are longer than foxen. In addition, human pants lack the need to accommodate our much higher ankle joints, given their plantigrade stance. -BB
[4] Social Media is a concept that is difficult to explain within the restrictions of this narrative. Imagine ordinary Commoners having the ability to transmit information instantaneously and with the reach of a newspaper or wireless broadcast network, but with no filters to prevent the propagation of harmful or misleading ideas. As horrifying as the concept sounds, for the more academically minded that are interested in studying the concept, I suggest looking up Professor Colonel Angila Blackrock’s paper entitled Promise and Peril of New Means of Information Transmission, Green River Academic Press. -BB
[5] How little I knew at the time what this suggestion would lead to… -BB
[6] Suffice it to say at that point in her life Lt. Bookbinder was a product of her time. It would not be until the Library Wars some fifty years later that her attitude would change to a more open way of thought. -Ed
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Date: 2024-05-23 01:11 am (UTC)