evardsson.com: stuff that w0rks

prompt: Start or end your story in a bustling street food market.

available at Reedsy

The din of conversations in dozens of languages and hawkers, the scents of seared meat, vegetables, grains, and unknowable ingredients, together with the vibrant colors and varied body-plans of the multitude of species washed over Mara in a tsunami of sensory overload.

“Well?” Kintari asked. He was a munerin, a small, fuzzy creature with a segmented body, twelve compound eyes, a soft, beak-like mouth, and a pair of expressive anntenae. He stretched to move his head up to her waist level, antennae in a questioning pose.

“You were right, K.” Mara was average height at 165 centimeters, with the kind of long, thin build that came from a childhood spent in dance and gymnastics. Her orangish-red hair was pulled back into a wavy ponytail. She keyed a transaction into her comm device and sent it to his. “I love this. Worth losing a bet over, that’s for sure.”

“I haven’t fulfilled it yet,” he said, his antennae waving. “I promised the most memorable meal, and you haven’t even eaten.”

“Don’t have to. This is already it.” Mara scanned the stalls. She didn’t recognize a single item. “How do I know what’s safe to eat?”

“Follow me.” Kintari wove through the crowd with a grace that didn’t match his stubby legs and round abdomen. Mara found it hard to keep up with him in the crowd where bodies ranged from the size of Kintari up to behemoths that reminded her of feathered dragons, nearly three meters tall.

After working her way through the crowd, she found Kintari standing at one of the stalls. His antennae were swishing about in anticipation. “Mara! Look at these.”

The stall was serving what looked like a white carrot with an orange sea anemone where the greens should be. “Uh, what is it?”

“Riiki-tano. It’s a delicacy from my home world.”

“Animal, plant or fungus?”

“Kind of animal, kind of plant,” Kintari said. “It grows from a seed, sets down the big taproot in the arsenic-rich, hot volcanic mud. The top part is meaty, and what it uses to pull nutrients it can’t get from the mud in, including small creatures.”

“It grows in arsenic, and you eat it?”

“We do. We have an organ specific to filtering out heavy metals. But that’s not why I wanted you to see this. Put your ident chip close to the box there.”

She did as he’d said and the box displayed the menu, consisting of the one item prepared three ways. All three flashed deep red.

“The shorter the wavelength, the safer it is for your physiology. That way you know what’s safe based on the amount of risk you wish to take. This is…possibly fatally toxic for you.”

“That’s too bad,” she lied, “I wanted to try your home world delicacy.”

“If you still want to try something from my home world, I’m getting some tano-lokaro. It’s a plant, and no heavy metals.”

Mara followed Kintari to another stand where he picked up one of the dishes they offered. When the box responded in violet, she ordered two, one with a whitish sauce and the other with a green sauce. From there it was a weaving journey between the stalls, buying things that looked promising, until she realized she already had too much food.

They sat at one of the communal tables. Kintari had even more food than she did. She started with the tano-lokaro. The taste reminded her of kohlrabi and mushrooms with a hint of a peppery aftertaste. The whitish sauce was bland, but the green sauce had an astringent tang to it. “This is really good, but why didn’t you get the other thing?”

“The riiki-tano?” He shuddered. “I ate it once, and I never have to do it again. I think people eat it just for bragging rights or something. I refuse to believe any munerin actually likes it, but they’ll keep buying it and eating it forever.”

Mara noticed a fair bit of attention on her as she tried each dish. As perhaps the first human they’d seen, she was an obvious target of curiosity.

“I noticed that every stand makes only one thing. Is that just a traditional thing or…?”

“Regulations. Limiting each stall to one item spreads sales across more vendors.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

Much to Mara’s surprise, Kintari finished every bite of his pile of food. They dropped the disposables in the recycler and Kintari moved as if to leave, but Mara stopped him.

“I want to wander the entire thing,” she said.

They did, taking their time. Mara made a mental map of the market as they went, taking note of things she wanted to try. When they’d explored the market, they walked back out to the main station, where the quiet felt both comforting and overwhelming after the hubbub.

“Thanks for taking the time, K. You don’t mind me calling you K, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“Not many cargo pilots would take the time to lead a stranger around a station. Not to mention make good on a bet to a species you’ve never seen before about an unforgettable meal.”

“The most unforgettable meal.”

“You delivered.” Mara sighed. “I guess I should get my bags from the bay lockers and find a place to stay.”

“You’ve decided to stay on the station? I thought you said you were exploring — station hopping.”

“I was, but I think I found my new home.” Mara smiled. “I saw some empty stalls in the food market, and I want to set up a chippy.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I wish you luck.”

“When you come back to this station, look for me in the food market. If I’m set up by then, I’ll give you something truly memorable.”

By the time Kintari had returned to the station, Mara’s chip stand was in full swing. With every species that had come by — so far — the box showed anywhere from greenish blue to violet. As such, there were people of every known species stopping by for what had become famous by word-of-mouth.

Mara saw him waiting in the line, his antennae fluttering. She turned to the be-tentacled creature behind her that was operating three fryers and stuffing paper wrappers for two other orders at the same time.

“Hey, Lindl, do you think you can handle the crowd by yourself for a bit?”

“Yeah, boss.” One of her twelve eyestalks turned to look directly at Mara. “I’m in a rhythm now. Is that your pilot friend you were talking about?”

“Sure enough. I’m pulling two orders, one mayo, one red and one green chutney. I’ll be back after we eat.”

She took the paper cones and walked down the line to where Kintari waited. “Come on, let’s get a seat.”

“But I haven’t checked my ident for—”

“I have munerin customers every day. You have any unusual allergies?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s eat.”

“What are these?”

“Potatoes. They’re a tuber — a kind of node that grows on the root of a specific plant.”

He started with a plain chip and squirmed in his seat. He followed up with dipping a chip in the mayo. “This is rich. What is this?”

“Eggs and oil, mostly.” She explained the mayo, then the tamarind chutney and the cilantro chutney, and convinced him to try both together.

His first bite with the mixed chutneys made his antennae stick straight up and a shudder ran down his whole body as evidenced by the wave of fur standing on end and settling back down. He seemed at a loss for words, so Mara encouraged him to continue eating.

He’d finished both orders with no help from her in just a few minutes. “That’s…wow. No wonder your stand is so busy.”

“It almost wasn’t,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The first few days I didn’t get any customers at all. The only chips I made were for myself.”

“What changed?”

“I was ready to call it a bust, so I started frying up chips and offering them free. Before I knew it, I was out of stock and had to close until the next shipment came in. By the time they did, I had a line before I even turned on the fryers.

“Hired Lindl, the tentacle woman — I can’t pronounce her species — that day. She seemed fascinated with the process, so I offered her a job, and she’s rocked it ever since.”

“What are your shipping prices like?”

“Fair, I guess. I go through around a thousand kilos of potatoes a week — 1,644.87 standard cargo weights. And that doesn’t include paper, mayo, chutneys, ketchup, and so on. Call it two thousand every Earth week — so every nine unit cycles. And it’s all coming from Earth.”

“How much are you paying?”

“Four-thousand credits per week.”

Kintari’s antennae spread to the sides. “Hmmm. One of the small carriers?”

“Yeah, same one a lot of the stalls are using.” Mara shrugged. “I mean, there’s just not much call for Earth freight out here…other than me.”

He pulled out his comm and began scrolling through data screens. “I bet I can get your freight here, two-thousand weight, every nine cycles, for under two-thousand credits.”

“Really? You like to gamble, huh?”

“I do.”

“Fifty credits again?”

“No. If I can’t, I’ll pay your entire next cargo fee. If I can, a free order of chips every time I come here.”

“You’re on.”

Mara went back to work, sparing an occasional glance at the munerin pilot talking to several other hawkers. The food market closed for the cycle, and she sent Lindl home while she cleaned up and prepared for the next.

Kintari approached. “If you give me your shipment details, I’ll have your orders here for 1,800 credits every nine cycles.”

“How?”

“Larger ship, and instead of just picking up one order at Earth and delivering, I can pick up orders for twelve other stalls. Means I can run out here with a full ship and return with a full ship of ore every trip.”

Mara laughed. “Once again, I’m glad I lost a bet to you.”

His antennae dipped. “My pleasure.”

“Wait a minute…how many of the other twelve hawkers did you make the same bet with?”

His antennae bobbed up and down. “All of them.”

prompt: Set your story before dawn. Your character has woken up early for a particular reason.

available at Reedsy

Tara tied her hair into an afro puff. At least with her new job she wouldn’t have to try to corral her hair into a hat. She preferred the “no-makeup” look at work. Anyone who knows, knows what it takes to look “natural.”

Colored moisturizer, a bit of concealer matching her warm, light brown skin to hide the shadows under her green eyes from lack of sleep, a little mascara, and a light lip and she was ready. Her phone chimed and she picked it up.

The face on the other end had just woken up, thinning gray hair unkempt, the wrinkles around his blue eyes met with pillow lines that continued down his pale face to his permanently ruddy cheeks. Tara made sure she looked presentable in her camera before connecting.

“Dad, it’s two-thirty in the morning! Why are you calling?”

“I just wanted to tell you I love you, and I’m proud of you…and I’ll miss you.”

Tara smiled. “Dad, we said all that last night. You didn’t have to get up just to tell me that.”

“I know, but I wanted to see you before you left. Oh, and you said you’d send a picture in your uniform.”

She snorted. “You don’t have enough of me in my police uniforms?”

“This is different,” he said, “and I want to see your space suit.”

Tara shook her head. “It’s not like that, Dad. Here, I’ll show you.” She propped the phone against the wall and stepped back. She wore a black, long-sleeved pullover, black tactical pants, and her police boots.

“That’s just your police uniform without the body armor and jacket,” he said.

“One sec, Dad.” She picked up a vest from the dresser and slipped it on. It was neon chartreuse with several pockets, a name tape that said “Missions Tara,” and one below that said the same but in an alien script. She turned to show the back, where the word “SECURITY” in both English and the alien script made up the design.

“Wait,” he said, “you aren’t wearing body armor?”

“Dad, no-one’s going to be shooting at me on a spaceship.”

“I would just feel better—”

“I know. That’s why I’m bringing it anyway. At least while we’re in dock, I’ll probably wear it. Same goes for my sidearm.” She picked up the phone. “They’re letting me bring it, even though I won’t be able to use it on the ship…ever.”

“But if it comes down to it—”

“Dad, think about it for a minute. A nine-millimeter slug, versus the skin of a spaceship, in the vacuum of space.”

“Oh…yeah. So, what will you use?”

She strapped on her duty belt and pointed at the plastic device holstered near her hip. “Still have a taser and baton, and they have a beanbag rifle for the really tough cases.”

“Will that be enough for the aliens? What if you run into—?”

“The xenomorphs from Alien aren’t real. You know what the real aliens — the Elarians —  look like, they’ve been on the news for months.”

“I know, but I worry. And that thing in your head—”

“It’s just under the skin behind my ear, not in my brain, and it’s a standard translator. Dad, I’m not worried. Most of the aliens are from lower gravity worlds like the Elarians, meaning their bones are likely to be more fragile than ours, and we have them seriously overpowered in strength. You should worry about what Mom’s gonna do if you fall asleep at Meemaw’s birthday cookout today.”

“Oof, yeah. How’d you get so smart?”

“My cop father was just smart enough to marry a geneticist…so it’s mostly Mom, but I’ll give you two percent credit.”

“Brat.” He yawned. “Give ’em hell, Pumpkin.”

“Love you, too, Dad. Go back to sleep.” She ended the call and checked the time. Her ride to the space port would be pulling up within the minute. She rushed out with her suitcase, locking the door behind her, to meet her ride.

—

It took nine minutes to reach low-Earth orbit, and only six for the alien freighter to match speed with the shuttle and dock. Tara floated into the airlock and released the straps on her suitcase. One of the regular crew handed her the vacuum sealed bag that contained the clothes she’d been wearing.

“What about this?” she asked, tapping the helmet of the vacuum suit she was buttoned up in.

“You keep that,” the crewman said. “It’s included in the price your employer paid to get you here. Besides, you’ll need it for reentry when you come back, and you’ll have it just in case….”

“Right.”

The crewman locked the inside of the airlock, and Tara waited for the outer door to open. She didn’t know what to expect, but she was glad of the suit just in case it turned into an unplanned spacewalk.

The airlock on the other side of the door was too clean, too smooth, too perfect to be real. She held her suitcase and bag of clothes in one hand, pulling herself into the other airlock with a reverential slowness.

As soon as she was fully inside, the human shuttle’s door disappeared as the wall just…materialized…where it had been an open hole. A voice sounded in the airlock, “Disengaged from shuttle, prepare for gravity in 5…4…3…”

Tara scrambled to get as close to the floor as possible, only to bounce off the wall to the actual floor when the gravity kicked in, ninety degrees from where she’d thought “down” was. It wasn’t anything like the gee-forces she’d felt in ascent or even half of Earth gravity, but it did settle her nerves compared to weightlessness.

The inner door opened or rather, a hole appeared in the wall. Beyond was not nearly as spotless as the airlock had been. A well-worn path in the center of the hallway showed where foot traffic had passed for years. Small pads on the wall, about shoulder-height for Tara, showed the sort of burnishing that comes from years of hands or other appendages pressing on them.

She was trying to figure out how to remove her helmet when two of the Elarians approached. One stepped behind her and began by releasing the catch so she could lift it off. The other stood in front of her, two large arms shouldered behind two smaller, hands with four fingers and no obvious thumbs at the ends of each, though Tara had seen them on the news enough to know the outside digits could move into an opposable position.

It was a female of the species, slightly larger than the males, with pale, butter-yellow skin sporting light grey blotches. Four eyes that were mostly pupil, the two larger on the outside of the two smaller near the center of the face. No visible nostrils or ear holes, but a wide mouth with flat teeth in the front, and heavy grinding teeth to the rear.

She spread her two inner arms and gave a slight bow, still head and shoulders taller than Tara. “Welcome, Missions Tara, I am Prime Advisor Achilokila Priviiatik, but you may call me ‘Privi,’ short for my given name. May I call you Tara?”

Tara lifted off her helmet. “You may, Privi. So, uh…what is Prime Advisor?”

“I am second in command to the Ship Speaker…you call it Captain, yes?”

Tara nodded but was finding it difficult to catch her breath. “Yes. That would make you the First Officer or Executive Officer — XO — then.”

“Ah! That’s the term. As the Prime Cudgel — head of security — you will report to me.”

The one who had loosened her helmet stepped into view holding a small pack with a canula. Half a head shorter than Privi, with similar markings but a greener cast to his skin. “Put this in your nostrils. It will deliver oxygen at the level you need. I am Ship Medic Achilokila Proviatun, younger brother to Privi. You may call me ‘Provi’ if you wish.”

Tara took the offered tube and Provi helped her get it situated. Within a few breaths, she was feeling more normal. “Thank you, Provi. If one of you could show me to my quarters, I can get out of this vacuum suit and back into uniform.”

Privi nodded at her brother, and he said, “Follow me.”

With her first step, she fell forward and almost knocked the tall creature down. “Whoa! Sorry. It’ll take some getting used to,” she said.

After getting to her room, wriggling out of the suit, and getting dressed, she was getting a feel for how lightly to step. She stowed her gear, attached the small box-like device that delivered oxygen to her utility belt, and met Provi, still waiting for her in the hall. “Now we shall meet the…Cat-pin?”

“Captain.”

“Ah, Captain.” He led her to a common area that included places to cook, eat, and lounge. A female even larger than Privi was sprawled in a hammock, one of her small hands holding a device while the other small hand navigated the holograph above it. One of her large hands pushed off the wall in a rhythm that kept the hammock moving in a lazy swing.

“Hello, Cap—Ship Speaker. I’m Tara Missions…I mean Missions Tara.”

The hand that had been pushing off the wall grabbed it, stopping the swing. She sat up and looked down at Tara. “Welcome aboard the Full Pouch, Prime Cudgel Missions Tara. I am Ship Speaker Chiloka Chikurik. Your duties will be to organize and manage the station guards for the ship and cargo while in port, and provide assistance where needed around the ship. Beyond that, we hope to never need your assistance.”

Provi and another alien that had been silently eating in the room both shouted out, “Pirates be gone! Void take you!”

Chikurik laughed. “Correct. However, if we do need your assistance, I have it on good authority that you know how to use that?” she asked, pointing at an orange shotgun on the wall.

“Beanbag shotgun. Less-lethal weapon. Know it very well.”

“I used it once and damaged my shoulder. Humans call this a ‘less-lethal’ weapon?”

“Yes, ma’am. Although, if used improperly, it can still kill.”

Chikurik laughed again. “If used improperly, she says! This thing blows holes in the carapace of Gerlash pirates, but only dents the ship. Busts up the insides of Elarians and Salamars. It’s perfect.”

Tara cocked her head in surprise. “It…blows holes in them? I thought humans were fragile, but it almost never penetrates or busts up your innards.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Rarely, and only if fired too close. When used properly, it leaves a bruise, when used improperly it can break bones — or kill if hit in the head or neck for example — but unlike a regular round, it won’t go through a human.”

Chikurik crossed the room and lifted a flexible club with her large hands. It was obvious that it was heavy. “This is the ceremonial cudgel that is awarded to Prime Cudgel on each ship. Only the strongest could wield it effectively, but we have better tools now.”

Tara grabbed the handle of the cudgel and gave it a few practice swings with one hand. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it being floppy but hung it from her belt near her baton. “Thank you, Ship Speaker.”

“You aren’t expected to carry that ancient thing. It’s just a rite of passage.”

“Thank you again.”

“And that thing on your belt, what is that?” Chikurik asked, pointing.

“Taser, another less-lethal weapon. It shoots out two prongs that deliver fifty kilovolts — results in 1200 volts to the body at around two milliamps — so, twenty or so 100-millisecond bursts per second. It disrupts muscle signals in the body and hurts like hell.”

Chikurik’s hand flew over the holographic interface in front of her. “That’s…eighteen thousand four hundred…. By the First Mother’s pouch! That doesn’t kill you?”

“Nah. I’ve been hit with one of these bad boys twelve times now — every year during recertification — no lasting effects.”

“Well, Prime Cudgel Missions Tara, just don’t ever point either of those things at me…and keep that Taser thing away from the controls. I think we may just be safe from the pirates for sure now.”

“Pirates be gone! Void take you!” the two others called out again.

“Pirates flee! We have a human Prime Cudgel!” Chikurik called out.

“I’m curious, though,” Tara said.

“About what?”

“Why did you go out of your way to hire a human? I mean, we’re just now starting to trade for goods from you, and we won’t be accepted into your Trade Alliance proper until we develop our own FTL, now that we know it’s possible.”

The Ship Speaker stood tall above Tara and held her chin with one of her small hands. “Because, little one, I guessed that a creature from a high gravity world would be tough, and it seems I was right. You’re probably built pretty dense, too.” She grabbed Tara with her large arms and tried to lift her but could only get her to her tip-toes.

Tara laughed and spread her arms. “May I?”

Chikurik nodded, and Tara wrapped an arm around her hips and lifted her with one hand. In the light gravity on the ship, it felt like lifting a small child.

“Pirates flee! We have a human Prime Cudgel!” the two others called out.

“Yeah!” Tara yelled, as she set Chikurik down. “You pirates better run!”

prompt: Write a story about a character who finds guidance in an unlikely place.

available at Reedsy

Garal had often felt there were not enough hours in a day, regardless of the planet. She’d felt like the days had been close to long enough on Haror IV, where the days were close to twice the length of those on her home world. Still, it had only been close to long enough.

Now, though, she had no one but herself to blame. As the owner-operator of her own long-range freighter, she decided what a day was in transit. She stopped what she was working on to soak her aching tentacles. Her gripping surfaces were drying out and raw, and she still had so much work to do.

She soaked for hours, until her ship dropped from c-space into normal space. Garal was surprised to see that she’d already reached her destination.

Letting herself drip on the floor, she crawled out of the creamy liquid in her soak tank and headed for the bridge. On the way she grabbed a wrap with a much-relieved tentacle. Settling into the captain’s chair, she called the station ahead.

“Station GaiaNova-17 Dock Control, this is merchant vessel Shallow Pools, ident XM3279.43R, Captain Garal Eighth of Seventeenth, requesting clearance for docking, over.”

“Shallow Pools, GN-17 DC. I have your planet of registry as Kura II, your transit plan from Haror IV station, but no cargo manifest, over.”

“DC, Shallow Pools, all correct. My hold is empty, except for scrap fixtures and cleaning and repair supplies. I was remodeling, over.”

“Shallow Pools, DC; you are clear to dock in ring four, slip eighteen. Set nav to accept docking control GN-17-4, over.”

“DC, Shallow Pools. I copy ring four, slip eighteen, nav accept GN-17-4, over.”

“Shallow Pools, DC; good copy. The dock master will check your supplies for any hazardous materials and can direct you to the recycling center for the scrap. Welcome to human space. GN-17 Dock Control out.”

After the dock master confirmed that none of her cleaning supplies were hazardous, he took the time to get a freight pusher for her that she could load all the old fixtures on and haul to the recycling center, on ring five. She had loaded the pusher before she realized how quiet the dock was. She’d expected a lot more in the way of freight moving through the station.

The recycling center was busier than the freight docks on ring four. She thought that was odd, but she was in human space at an aging station. She guided the pusher to the next available slot.

“Ah, you must be from the Shallow Pools.” The human woman wearing a name tag that said “Lina” began to scan the cart with a hand-held device. “Some of these fixtures still look newish. Are you sure you don’t want to hold on to ’em and sell ’em yourself?”

“I’m sure.” Garal wrapped her tentacles around themselves. “So, how much to take all this off my back?”

“Huh? Well, we’ll probably salvage the light fixtures, and the…is that an anurian soak tank?” She tapped on the display of her hand-held device.

“Yeah. It’s like a human bath — I think that’s the word — except it filters and recirculates the dermis rejuvenation liquid.”

“Yeah, I kind of thought that’s what it was. I soaked in one of those, once. Never again. All my hair fell out, including my eyebrows and eyelashes, and all my nails got so soft I almost lost them as well. Except for that, it was great. My skin never looked better.” She laughed.

Garal continued soothing herself by wrapping and unwrapping her tentacles. “So…how much?”

“Best I can do is 150 credits. You could probably do better selling the soak tank in anurian space.”

“I—I didn’t expect it to cost so much. I can take it back and—”

“No! No, that’s not cost, that’s how much I can pay you for it.”

Garal’s four eyestalks shot up in surprise. “You’re…paying me for this?”

“Well, yeah. You bring scrap or items to be recycled, we pay you for the value…minus a little for overhead, of course.”

“Oh! That’s fantastic, then! Sold.”

Garal returned to her ship with a new swish in her slither. She’d already set aside enough for refueling, and had enough food to last a while, but had been worried that without a good-paying run out of GN-17 she’d be hard-pressed to continue on. While not a lot, a 150-credit buffer did feel good.

At the ship, she paid for refueling, and got directions to the outbound freight board. She waited until she was certain they were fueling the Pools correctly, then made her way to ring two.

Part of ring two was dedicated to passenger slips and transport to ring one, and the other was offices. She followed the signs in twelve languages to the Outbound Transport Office and let herself in.

There was activity at many of the offices she’d passed, but this one was quiet. She knew from past experience to press the button on the device beside the door to get a queue number and had a tentacle about to do so when someone said, “Don’t bother. You’re next.”

She turned to the counter where a bored looking human — she couldn’t determine whether they were male or female — motioned her up. “Hi,” she said as she approached. “I need an outbound cargo…to anywhere within a hundred parsecs…oh! And it has to fit in the Shallow Pools, and I can land at up to 2.6 standard gravities with 4.87 tonnes of cargo. … Can only take off from that empty, though.”

The bored human nodded, typed something into their console, and handed Garal a small, printed chip. “Take this to ring one. Information desk can point you in the right direction.”

“Wh—what? What’s the cargo? There’s only one?”

“It’s the only thing outbound that’ll fit in your ship. Going 40.237 parsecs to a 0.8 standard gravity moon. Cargo weight, less than 0.3 tonnes.”

Garal burbled, the anurian equivalent of a heavy sigh. Such a small load was hardly going to pay well, but at least she wouldn’t be using much in the way of fuel. “Thank you.”

Where ring four had been too silent, ring one was a cacophony of noise and color. Sapients from all over mixed and mingled in the shops and eateries. She made her way to the nearest information kiosk and showed the chip, where she was told to wait in the small dining establishment beside the kiosk.

She figured she might as well get a fresh meal, as it would likely be the last one for a while. Her ship had plenty of food stored up, but not the sort one would get at home…or in an eatery.

No sooner had Garal received her steaming bowl of ramen than she was joined by an elderly human male pulling a travel case, on top of which rode a large carrier containing some sort of Earth animal.

“You must be Garal, of the Shallow Pond?” he asked.

“Shallow Pools,” she said.

“Right, right. Sorry. I’m Frank. I’ll let you finish your meal, then I’m ready whenever you are.”

“You’re the one with the cargo? Is it anything dangerous?” she asked.

He laughed. “Do I look dangerous?”

“You’re…not cargo.”

“Technically, I am,” he said. “Whether I’m boarded as a passenger on a liner or as ‘cargo’ on a freighter. I’m just weight you’re moving around.”

Two of Garal’s tentacles wrapped around themselves while she continued to eat and tried to look unconcerned. “Where are you headed?”

“Going home to my moon, Spera,” he said. “It’s around Alnus — Silva VI.”

“Your moon? You mean, the moon you came from?”

“No, I mean the moon I bought.” He laughed. “I’m kidding. I’m settling into a retirement community there and didn’t want to travel with all the noisy people, so I figured I’d wait here on the station until a small freighter came available.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Seventy-nine standard days…about two months Earth — Sol III — time.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “That would be eighty-five or eighty-six days on Eklara.”

Garal’s eyestalks perked up. “You know the name of my planet, beyond just Kura II.”

“Of course,” he said, “I remember my stellagraphy classes. It was my favorite subject. Got a degree in Stellapolitics.”

She looked at him, then at the animal carrier. “That’s not venomous or anything, is it?”

“No. That’s a tortoise. Her name’s Celia.” Frank started. “Oh! Almost forgot. Payment up front.” He pushed a stack of credits across the table to her.

She kept eating while counting the credits with two other tentacles. Six thousand. “You could just rent a private transport for that. You’d be there in less than a standard day. The Pools isn’t slow, but it’ll take nine standard days to get there.”

Frank smiled. “That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks. I like to take my time. Besides, it’s a nuisance rate. There’s not likely any outgoing freight from Spera, so you’ll end up flying empty to the station at Quercus — Silva II.”

Garal left NG-17 with 6,141 credits in her satchel, a trunk of everything Frank owned in the hold, Frank, and his ‘pet.’ Once she entered c-space, she had time to go back to finishing up the remodel. The only thing left was wiring in the new lights in the galley.

She walked in to find Frank wiring up the last of them. The rest had been connected, sealed and seated, and were working.

“I—uh, thank you?”

“I see you’ve done a lot of work on the Pools, just thought you could use a break.”

She didn’t know how to answer, instead wrapping her tentacles around themselves.

He sealed and seated the light, which came on as it clicked into place. “Look, I can tell you’re the sort to work your fingers to the bone—er…work your tentacles to the nub? Anyway, you’re not one to slow down — ever — are you?”

“You are more correct than not,” she said.

“We have time,” he said. “I’m going to teach you what I’ve learned from Celia.” He pointed to the far side of the galley where he’d converted the carrier to a fence that hemmed her in. Small piles of fresh greens and fruit were placed in various spots within the fence.

Garal watched, mesmerized, as Celia moved with slow, deliberate steps to the next pile of food. Once there, she eyed it with a tilted head, then took a slow bite.

“I used to run at everything like I was tilting at windmills,” Frank said, “until I got Celia. That was forty years ago — roughly twenty-eight or so stellar revolutions for Eklara.”

“And she changed you?”

Frank smiled. “Not right away, of course. No. I used to get frustrated that she took so long to do anything. I’d want her to hurry up and eat so I could be sure she was properly fed before I left to work. Getting her to come out of her enclosure for cleaning was even worse.”

“What changed?”

“I did…eventually. I figured out that just because she was slow, it didn’t mean she wouldn’t get a thing done. Then I got the bright idea, that maybe I could slow down once in a while.” He walked over and scratched Celia’s shell. “She can feel that you know. She likes it.”

“So, why did you finish up my task?”

“Because, young miss, you are going to spend the next nine days learning how to relax, and Celia and I will be your teachers.”

“But there’s still so much to—”

“Nonsense. The ship is spotless, except for a few drops of dermis rejuvenation liquid in the hall that I already cleaned up so Celia wouldn’t get into it.”

“But there’s—”

“No buts. Is there anything on the ship likely to fail any time soon?”

“No.”

“Are there any pressure leaks, fuel leaks, or shorts?”

“No.”

“The air handlers seem to be working fine. Are the scrubbers and filters in need of immediate replacement?”

“No, they’re all new.”

“See. Nothing to do but relax.”

Her tentacles tightened around themselves. Frank just gave a kind smile, as if waiting for her to come around. She felt something inside let go. Everything that could be done by busy, was done. Her tentacles relaxed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” he said.

She spent the next hours watching Celia eat her spread out meal, sometimes stopping to nap in between. Frank surprised her with a hot bowl of ramen, before she even realized she was hungry.

She made a point of taking her time with it, as Frank did. They shared idle conversation about his past teaching Galactic Politics, her past as a mechanic until she saved up enough to buy the Pools and get it space worthy, and…in the best moments…nothing at all.

Without needing to rush from one task to another, the nine days in transit seemed at once never-ending and over too soon. The long meals, easy conversation, watching and stroking Celia as she maintained her own pace…then, back to regular space and time to land.

The landing pad on Spera was below ground, with a cover that sealed over once they settled. All the habitations were in domes, as the atmosphere was too thin and lacking in oxygen. Bioengineered plants covered the moon, though, making it look like a lush paradise.

Garal rolled Frank’s travel case down the cargo ramp and gave Celia a farewell rub on her shell. She walked with Frank through the airlock into the tunnels that connected the domes. Signs in Galactic Common and several human languages pointed the ways to the various domes. “Which dome did you say?” she asked.

“I didn’t. But it looks like it’s just a ten-minute walk from here.”

“Can I help you with your case?”

“If you want to. If not, I’m sure I can manage, and you can go find real cargo at Quercus.”

Garal stretched her tentacles. “I’m in no hurry.”

prompt: You’re awakened from your nap by someone asking, “Are you hungry?”. You fell asleep somewhere else entirely.

available at Reedsy

Something, a noise, probably, almost woke me from my nap. I took a deep breath to let myself fall back into sleep, when it came again.

A voice, right next to me, “Are you hungry?”

I jolted upright, hitting my head on the upper bunk, grabbed my head and rolled away from the source of voice only for my king-sized bed to come to a sudden end and I fell entirely too far to a hard floor.

What upper bunk? I wondered. Where is my carpet? Why is my bed so small and high?

My head throbbed, my right shoulder was bruised, at the very least, along with my right knee, and I landed with my hip on my right hand in an odd position. The sharp pain from my wrist, shooting into my fingers made me fear I’d broken something.

I removed my hand from under my hip — gingerly — and forced my eyes open to assess the damage. My knuckles were red, and my wrist made a painful sort of clunking as I tested out the range of motion. Okay, not broken, I just re-aggravated my carpal tunnel syndrome.

“Are you hurt?” the voice asked.

“Yeah! Shit!” I looked around. I was on a metal floor, a triple bunk bed next to me, and a speaker on the wall near the middle bunk.

Wait, this must be a dream. I must be laying on my hand weird and the dream is trying to account for the pain. But my head? Never mind. WAKE UP!

That didn’t work. I stood, saw my phone laying on the middle bunk, and grabbed it to check the time. It felt light, like the battery had been removed, but it was still working. Less than an hour after I’d lay down to nap, and zero bars.

It felt like I’d fallen off a roof, but the middle bunk was only shoulder height. I did a little jump and hit my poor, abused head on the ceiling and barely managed to stick the landing.

I was in too much pain now to think I was still dreaming. “Where the hell am I?”

“You are here.”

“Funny, asshole. You interrupted my sleep. I nap three hours in the afternoon and three at night. Now my schedule’s going to be all jacked and you better have a good reason.”

The wall opposite the bunk bed split open and sort of…disappeared. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what standing there. I wished — for a brief moment — that it was a prank, someone in a suit. It couldn’t be though, because the proportions were…wrong. Tall, stick-thin, two legs, two long arms with three-fingered hands coming from too far forward on the chest, two more, longer, coming from behind, ending in cruel, knife-like points.

What I guessed were mouthparts at the bottom of its face were surrounded by fractal-branched appendages that extended, waved in the air, then withdrew again, like a collection of tiny sea anemones. Apart from the weird, fractal organs, the only other visible sensory organ was the collection of at least a dozen compound eyes.

“What the fuck are you?”

Its chest vibrated and it made an odd, warbling whistle, followed by the voice coming from the speaker again. “I am an envoy from my people, the __, and we need your assistance.”

“The what now?”

It made a high, sustained whistle, and the speaker repeated it.

“Non-translatable, I guess. Do you have a name?”

A complicated whistle was followed by the same on the speaker.

“Is it okay if I call you Pat? I don’t know whether you’re male or female or neither/both, but it’s a name that works for any.”

“That is an acceptable moniker.”

“Cool Pat, nice to meet you…I think? I’m Justice, but I go by Jay.”

“That is also acceptable. My people require your assistance, Jay.”

I looked past Pat, the walking nightmare, to the area behind him/her/it. It looked like a spaceship set for a Cameron movie; everything made sense where it was, down to the smallest detail, and everything looked worn from use. The only part that didn’t jibe was the horror show in the windows…screens?…whatever. If that’s what faster-than-light travel looks like, we’ll never get it right in the movies.

“I, uh, shit. What kind of help could you want?”

“We need the assistance you have provided your own kind. Our war with the __ is not going well, and we are in danger of losing a key wormhole gate.” The little anemones around its mouth-parts waved in frantic spasms as it spoke those words, then retreated for several uncomfortable seconds.

I was about to ask again, when hundreds of social media and forum posts and comments began flashing in the air behind Pat. “How did you trace any of that to me?”

“Your networks are simple. We’ve been watching thousands of you, looking for the ones that can turn the tides of war.”

“What.The.Fuck?!” I shook my head. “Do you know what I do?”

“You influence others, build or destroy morale, often arguing with yourself, allowing one version to win over the other in order to show the superiority of the logic or morals of the winning position.”

“No. I shitpost. That’s all I do. I get paid to troll social media and forums, and I push whatever agenda I’m getting paid to push. That’s it. I don’t believe ninety-nine percent of what I post.”

“Jay….” Pat seemed to be lost in thought. Its knife-arms folded on themselves. “This is acceptable,” it finally said. “This reduces the need to show the morality of our position.”

I thought about it. I’d be missing some of my current jobs, but a few trolls, stalwarts, and social justice warriors disappearing for a while wasn’t a big deal. I’d have to come up with excuses for them and bring them back online at different times, but I had practice at that. While I was contemplating, my stomach rumbled.

“You know what, Pat? I am hungry. Show me to a computer, give me some food and caffeine and let me see what’s going on with your war before I get started.”

Pat led me to a chair in the cockpit-type area, that adjusted itself for my size and shape. A standard, QWERTY keyboard swung in front of me. It was a mechanical keyboard, not my favorite, but I could use it. I didn’t know what was involved in translating their language to English, and my input to their language, but their network was easy to navigate.

I knew Pat had been watching me for a while when he set a hot microwave breakfast burrito, a bag of extra-spicy tortilla chips, and a cold can of energy drink next to me. “Thanks, Pat.”

“Whatever you require for payment, we will gladly provide.”

I took a bite of the burrito, then stopped. “Wait. How did you get me here?”

“Your gravity is too strong for me to carry you, so I had to use a tractor beam to pull you aboard and put you in the bed.”

“Wait, how did you get me out of my house?”

“The roof lifted off easily in the beam. I am very sorry, but it did not settle back down properly. I fear your domicile is damaged. We will pay for repair, of course.”

“Of course.” I perused the network for a while longer, before pulling my wrist brace out of my waist band and strapping it on.

“What is that?”

“It helps with my carpal tunnel,” I said.

Pat seemed to either understand or just decided to let it go.

I cracked my knuckles — which made its little anemones spasm and hide again — then took a deep breath and dove into a forum to begin my new job. It was the official news run by the other side’s military and allowed public comments…stupid of them.

The keyboard clacked loudly as I typed up a rambling message about weak Pat’s people were. I hoped it was translating my misspellings and bad grammar as well, but had no way to tell.

By making the pro-enemy poster a total idiot, it would be simple for my next sock puppet user to tear down every argument with facts, backed by links, then follow up with some exaggerations.

“What is this?” Pat asked. “Why are you talking up the enemy?”

“Wait until you see the rebuttal,” I said. “This is just a shitpost.”

prompt: Set your story in a type of prison cell.

available at Reedsy

Lissette watched Igrud run around the track in his loping, knuckle-walking gait. The others of his kind engaged in various sport on the pitch surrounded by a track. For his part, Igrud had a standing race against one of the humans every Thursday.

His muscles sufficiently warmed up, he stood up in a bipedal stance, the foreign sun of this planet shining off his dark brown scales in shimmering rainbows. “Are you ready, Kel?” he asked the human.

Kelly Brady, former professional sprinter dressed in exercise shorts, a tee-shirt that said “STAFF” on the back, and running shoes, smiled at the maukan. “I won’t go easy on you, Ig. You going to win today?”

“I think I might,” he said. “400 meters. Let’s go.”

Lissette Deschamps, dressed in the polo shirt, slacks, soft boots, body camera, and utility belt with keys and a radio, that made up her standard uniform, stood by the starting line for the 400-meter dash. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this show on the road, so Kelly can get his skinny, glow-in-the-dark white legs back into a uniform.”

They lined up, and Lissette gave them the signal to go. The human, in his long-legged stride, led off the line. It took a maukan some time to build up speed in their quadrupedal, knuckle-walking gait. Once they did, though, they could far outstrip the speed of a human.

The conventional wisdom was humans win at 100 and 200 meters, they tie somewhere around 400 meters, then maukans win at distances up to five kilometers; the outside range for maukan endurance. At long distances, humans always the upper hand.

Kelly ran like he had the devil on his tail, head forward, arms pumping, back straight. Igrud built up speed like a locomotive, gaining on Kelly on the oval track. Lissette watched the finish line along with a few of the other maukans, most of whom cheered for Igrud, but Lissette noticed a couple of them cheering for Kelly.

 She positioned herself so her body camera was pointed straight down the finish line. It was going to be close. They came across the line, Kelly slowing after with the few long, arm-swinging steps she’d gotten used to seeing. Igrud, however, dove across the line so hard that he rolled into a ball on the other side and came to a stop in a heap.

Ignoring the question of winner for the moment, Lissette ran to his side along with Kelly. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

Igrud unrolled himself and they could see he was laughing. “That was my best run ever. If that didn’t beat you, I don’t know if it’s possible.”

A voice came across her radio. “Lissette, we’re watching the replay in control. Igrud won by about two millimeters.”

Kelly helped the exhausted Igrud to his feet and congratulated him before going in to prepare for his shift. Lissette finished out the afternoon with the maukans until it was time for them head back inside.

As they filed in, she greeted them each by name and they responded in kind. She had just stepped inside and locked the outside door when her radio chirped.

She put in her earpiece and set the radio to talk to send. “This is Lissette. All counted. Some of the guys are making a celebratory dinner for Igrud. Some variation of a traditional dish using local ingredients.”

Lissette nodded. “Yeah, I’ll handle it. I’m off tomorrow anyway, so I can handle staying a little late. … Will do.”

“Hey, Lissette, are you having dinner with us tonight?” Igrud stood tall on two feet, his long arms held out a bit from his body. That stance from a human, would be a warning that he was about to get violent. In maukan body language, however, it was equivalent to a human standing stock straight, their head high, their chest puffed out: pride.

“I bet Kelly will, when he gets here,” she said, “but I’ve got some other things to take care of. It sounds good, though. Could you save me a plate, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“We’ll make sure of it,” he said.

“I have to welcome a new guest, so don’t be too hard on Ivan and Waylon. I’ll be back later. You can be as hard as you want on Kelly, though.” She laughed and the maukans — and Kelly — laughed with her.

She walked through the common room where a large holo played a popular sitcom. Various board games were stacked on the shelves, along with a wide selection of books, both human and maukan in origin.

The open kitchen — with all the needed amenities — was a hub of activity as it seemed at least four of the maukans were all trying to make the same dish with a surprising lack of dissent or disagreement. The most common noise coming from the group in the kitchen was laughter, including from Ivan, who was helping out.

Lissette opened a panel near the elevator and turned her key in the recessed keyhole. The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped in. In the dormitory she’d just left, there was nothing that felt like a prison at all; nothing to suggest that entire dormitory was, in effect, a giant prison cell.

Stopped on the level where tunnels ran beneath the dormitories and sport field, that illusion was shattered, even without a single bar anywhere in the prison. She entered control, the literal and metaphorical center of the prison.

After finding out what time the new guest was due to arrive, she waited in the intake office just inside the outer walls of the prison.

When the maukan was led out of the ground car, hands and feet shackled, Lissette stood just inside the door, her arms crossed in a close approximation of a maukan greeting stance.

The military police unlocked his shackles, handed his file to Lissette, and said, “He’s all yours.”

Freed of his bonds, the maukan returned the greeting stance, seeming bewildered.

Lissette spoke to him in the most common maukan language; one that over eighty percent of the prison population spoke, and the only one she’d learned. “Welcome, Jigan Mantun. I am Lissette Deschamps, the man there is Jorge Mendez, and we will be handling your intake.” She offered a hand to shake.

Jigan looked at the extended hand and shook it in the human gesture he’d learned during his brief detainment. “You speak Hantu. This is not…the reception I expected.”

“I speak some, but getting better,” she said. “Do you speak Common?”

He made a fist with one hand held low, the sign for small. “I talks can little good-bad. I listens can big good.”

“We can teach you,” she said. “If you don’t understand anything I’m saying just stop me, and I’ll try to translate. First, though, we need to get you checked out by the doctor…and get rid of that silly orange uniform. We have a closet full of donated maukan and human clothes. Feel free to take anything that fits you.”

She led him to the elevator and Jorge followed behind, joining them in the elevator. They exited in the tunnels below the prison, where they went to another elevator to the assessment wing and exited right next to the doctor’s station.

Jigan selected three changes of clothes from the donations closet. After his physical exam, the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit was put into a box marked, “MP return” and he dressed in one of the new outfits. Lissette then led him back to the elevator and up to the dorm.

When they exited the elevator at the dorm level, she led him to his quarters and held the door for him. “This is where you’ll be staying. A counselor will be by tomorrow morning to learn more about you and figure out what we can do to make you comfortable.”

Jigan looked around the room as Lissette pointed out the bed, closet, desk, holoscreen, shower, toilet and sink, and the interior lock on the door.

“Any time you feel you need to be left alone, you can come in and lock the door. We can open it with a key, but we won’t unless it’s necessary. If you follow me, I’ll show you to the shared kitchen, where you’ll be expected to cook your evening meal for yourself and clean up after yourself. Morning and noon meals are delivered.”

She handed him a card with a matrix code on it. “Don’t lose this. This is your identification and how you can buy things you need from the store through that double-door there, when it’s open. It’s not required that you work, as you get a small daily stipend, but we encourage it, just to keep you occupied, and not molting on your own tail.”

Jigan titled his head at her use of the Hantu phrase that equated to going stir-crazy. He sniffed the air and pointed at the plate covered in foil that sat near the microwave. “What is that?”

Igrud stepped in, speaking Hantu. “It happens to be a ho-kun tapah, made with local ingredients. It’s missing that sharp tinganuru note, but cooking in human wine comes a close second. I saved it for Lissette, but if you’re hungry I bet she’d let you have it.”

Lissette nodded. “It looks good, but I doubt the MPs fed you very well. Go ahead, Jigan, I’ll try it next time.” She showed him how to use the microwave to reheat the meal and left him in Igrud’s care while she moved to join some of the others watching a holo.

She heard snippets of their conversation as Igrud replayed his racing victory over Kelly. After a few minutes, Jigan walked over and stood next to her. “I don’t know what to make of this. Guards and prisoners mingling, and you carry no weapons.”

“I get that a lot. I know you’re a prisoner of war, and you know it, but that’s no reason to treat you badly. Our job is to make sure you’re safe and comfortable, and well-cared for until the war’s over. We’d rather act like a helpful neighbor than an overbearing guard.

“That said, though, if you cause trouble, there will be consequences. There are 214 guests here, and 307 staff. We do everything we can to solve problems before they get that far, though.

“If you need anything tonight you can ask your dorm mates, the staff on the floor, or the intercom on the wall near your door. Just push the button to talk and let the staff on duty know what you need.”

Jigan relaxed his posture. “Good, no torture, but you haven’t even asked me any questions. When are you going to interrogate me?”

“Why would we do that?” Lissette asked. “Torture doesn’t work, and we can’t trust anything you might have to say about military plans or anything of the sort. Trust me, I would make up all sorts of wild stories to muddy the intelligence picture.”

“Then why do you take prisoners, if not for information? Why not just kill us instead?”

“Killing you is against the rules…our rules, at least. The war may still be going on, but it will end, and when it does, would we be better off having treated you with kindness, or with punishment and deprivation? One promotes the ability to someday live side-by-side, while the other promotes more hatred.”

“You speak the truth.” Jigan sat on his haunches, head bowed low, his long arms behind him. Lissette recognized it as a submissive posture, and one used during formal apologies. “I big sorry,” he said.

“For what?” she asked. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Our peoples are at war, but all you’ve done is be a soldier for your people. Look, you didn’t start the war, I didn’t start the war…nobody here started the war. Politicians did that, and no matter how mad we are at them, that’s not a reason to take it out on each other.”

“I big big sorry,” he said again. “On behalf of my people…I worked at a POW camp before I got sent to the front. Even the guard quarters were worse than this. It’s day and night lockdown and questioning. And even though I was shooting at your kind just two suns ago, you are treating me with dignity and respect.”

Lissette knew maukan body language and knew how to respond to a formal apology. She placed her palm on his forehead and said, “Your scales are clean, your blame molted. I forgive you, Jigan. Now you need to forgive yourself.”

He raised his head to meet her gaze, and the oily tears she saw often from some of the prisoners — usually when talking about family and home — gathered at the edges of his eye-pits. Many of the other maukans had stopped what they were doing and watched Jigan’s formal apology.

Igrud brought Jigan a cold beer from the fridge. “Your scales are clean, cousin. This will help.”

Ivan cleared his throat calling attention to himself, where he had been playing chess with one of the maukans. “It’s your move, man.”

Igrud laughed. “Way to read the mood, Ivan.”

Lissette joined in the laughter and the holo started up again as Jigan rose from his position. “I believe I need to sleep now, if I may be allowed.”

“Sure,” Lissette answered. “You don’t have to ask. We’re all adults here, so make yourself at home. I’ll be leaving after this holo and I’m off tomorrow, but when I come in on Saturday, I’ll check in with you first thing to see how you’re adapting.”

Jigan walked on three limbs, knuckle-walking with his left arm while he drank the beer with his right. “I don’t know what this is, but I like it,” he called out. “Big good. Big big good.”

Ivan called out, “Beer. Big big good!” and got a laugh out of everyone, including Jigan.