- May 5th, 3186 -

Dawn passed. A wakeup call screeched through earbuds, shocking the boy into his usual schedule, starting at 7:00am.

Illian dragged his rebelling body out of bed. He checked his monitor before folding his slate into a more portable form. After a brief once-over of his report, he swiped through his coat frame functions. He’s woken up at this time for years no matter how little he slept. Hell, he was still running early. But he could taste curiosity polyp his parched throat.

What was Shaintro saying?

He brought the coat frame down, nabbed it rougher than normal, slipped his arms through as he headed out.

Illian’s groggy eyes were skewered by the bright, artificial glow of this cylindric corridor. Dock convergence to his left, newsies to his right to ley the Delegate Commons. Still no traffic, at least indoors. A thorn white frigate crossed through a ringed conduit in a whir; their trajectory saluted the atrium crossing when it stabilized for dock protocol; to Illian, it was as though the many Hayvrn aboard were throwing him the bird.

This morning called for a pit stop. Just past the atrium, heavy struts hibernated down a naked sector. Pylon after translucent shelling walled the corridor still under construction. And near the crew’s quarters lied a Boros favorite: a coffee vendor.

He waited for his cup to fill. A diamond cutter peaked his interest and brought him to wonder if he could be the only one capable of lying. Shaintro’s words invaded the boy’s mind again and again.

Roacivi, Roacivi.

If Illian couldn’t swallow this sensation, he was going to burn it off, instead. He played with the notion what games Shaintro was conjuring next.

“I—can trust him,” he said, to which no wind came. Then, a bioluminescence. Blue light but blinked past the boy’s periphery; he had to look, had to find out how deep this station ran beyond the skeletal, tungsten hull.

Piping hot coffee then pooled, spilt over his hand. Agonized, he chucked the cup and moved on.

His stride teemed against an onyx floor, against all odds. The office halls lied beyond a blast door. A parting whir conjured attention; Hayvrn were headed his way.

After two years, certain faces had a way of sticking. Through reflection, the floor sneered with ugly Havyrn bills passing by, though covered by sharp helms. Illian couldn’t help but take victory in their sour faces. To survive the Rayvine intact, one ought to learn to savor the small victories in intergalactic politics.

He stole a smile from System B-3 when he passed the next window.

Illian came to a bend which yawned into a wider, more ornate avenue. Some Maiorian delegates were crossing through, speaking of the Naides Channel back home on Maiora. He remembered his late-night Maiorian lesson.

Roacivi? Nah. Roa. Ku—ah, forget it …

Syllables scattered around nothing short of a jigsaw puzzle. He might have to resort to his notes.

“Pleasure, Sol,” said Shaintro in passing.

By chance, the boy caught his white whale early, causing him to spring up at the sound of that sweet, sweet Mai-sol English. The blue man resembled some plastic entity in his clear bodysuit; his bald dome—though capped—bent back with a single fin line bristled in gold feelers. Shaintro treated it as a second skin, but he did not compromise his Messenger coat. From a glance, his neckline always shimmered a veteran’s rainbow of different necklaces. Each string commemorated a charity event, a grand opening or visiting a spelling bee. Anything goes, really. All that’s required is being present. Though, Shaintro had always, always been more than present.

“Morning, Shaintro,” he said, until he noted their paths begin to fork. “H-hold on!” reining in his chance.

“Yes?”

Illian stammered. “What’s up?”

Shaintro stared blankly upward.

“No, no. I mean, how are you?”

“I see.” He smiled. “I am doing well,” he answered, beginning to wander.

Illian now followed. With investigative bulbs, Shaintro scanned Illian’s insistent pep. Hard to hide his suspicion through his membrane. Illian wagered he might not have long to chat. “I trust you have prepared your report,” said Shaintro.

“That I have.”

A pause, like tasting air. “Confidence.” Shaintro looked down to Illian and said: “I think well deserved. Sol, have you any more questions before meeting the Madame?”

Fuck yes, I do.

“Actually, now that you mention it, could you tell me more about that strange premonition I met in the cove?” Shaintro probably smelled his investigation. They came to a slow saunter.

“Not enough. Running into a summon is a personal experience. You said it was a man, correct? Commonly, a deity will ascribe such things for which speak to us the most. In your case, you respond to your fellow species.”

Illian’s face slumped, tired of textbook niceties. “Yes, but—not just anybody.” Shaintro stopped.

“Then, who was it?”

“It was another Messenger who guided me. Something about him—he, his coat was older, all patched up but he knew his way around. He must’ve been—“Illian’s eyes wowed—”my predecessor.”

Shaintro didn’t bask in the feeling. Not one bit. “I see.” He craned his neck to face, ready. “I apologize, but I request you keep that incident off the record. The Courtship frowns upon such interference with outworld affairs.”

“Duh, of course I left Mechais off the books, but-“

“Please trust in me, Sol. It would be wise to omit the finer details.”

Illian wanted to continue, wanted to know so badly who they could be, but he knew when Shaintro was done talking.

Not a single twitch out of place. He’s not lying.

But the boy needed more. “Look,” said Illian, “I swear you can tell me anything. C’mon, lay it on me!”

Another blank stare. He turned forward, nodded as to pardon himself down the upcoming corridor. “You need to sleep more.”

Well. He’s not wrong.

Illian lulled into the coming crowd of diplomats, made his business as redundant as theirs—inconspicuous. He shut his eyes momentarily. Across the black fringe, he could see a shimmering blue manifest through his perception. In that, he no longer felt alone.

This blue tint followed him the distance to her Courtship, Madame Quella’s office. When Illian stood outside her door, an epiphany raced through his head: the strange Messenger, he’s been here before.

Silence drowned an office suite. Mocha wood segmented white metal faces every two feet across the walls. A meek rivulet pooled into a sleek fixture; and there, Illian happened upon his reflection.

Quella suspected greatness, descending down her promising prospect’s first contact with Gaia.

“Absolutely vivid, Illian,” she said. Her delicate phalanges placed the parchment down on her clear desk not unlike a silver sill with two rails propping a glass surface. “It seems Gaia has rubbed off on you”—her bulbs perked up—“as anticipated.”

Staring at her now drove the boy crazy.

How the hell am I going to pry her?

He allowed too much dead air to pass.

“So. How’s the coat treating you?” she asked.

“Fits like a glove, Madame,” he said. He’s never felt so uncomfortable.

“Good. How would you like to give your speech in front of the Courtship?”

“So soon?”

“Yes,” her tone now like slinging a gun. “In fact, you can present it to the Maiorian embassy, too; since you’re studying my people’s tongue.”

Oh no …

“I have taken an interest, yes.”

“And I appreciate your enthusiasm, Illian. But if you must, please don’t afford your sleep schedule to accommodate.” Her words were acidic, and just as corrosive to the boy’s investigation. She was looking for an out, maybe running late for another meeting. Or something else.

“But, I-“

He halted his advance at once; Illian knew where the line was drawn. And he’d never live down speaking out to a council member.

“You are dismissed.”

“May I ask you something first, Madame Quella?” She gurgled under flushed cheeks, sat back down in her chair with clasped fingertips.

“Pertaining to what?”

Pertaining to everything. Illian wanted so badly to pry her on “Who was the Messenger?” and “Do you know why Shaintro’s brokering deals with fucking metropolitan superpowers?” and most importantly, “Why the hell are you walking the dorms so late at night?!” Alas, these stayed swirling in his head.

Illian adjusted in his chair and said, instead: “I’ve heard—talks around the Rayvine. Is there something strange going on?”

“Well, we have another Kale incursion fleet causing trouble near Wormhole Harlot, but nothing we can’t handle.” She managed a smirk, no signs of lying still. “You worry yourself, Sol. Sais shuramafa.”

The words came out unfiltered, as though Illian’s uni-translator were compromised for a brief moment. “Excuse me?”

“That means ‘get some rest.’” She offered the words smugly. “I’ll send you details about the sanctum meeting ruxu.”

“Tomorrow?” Illian bit.

Quella cocked a bulb eye and smiled. “Yes, tomorrow.”

Illian departed from his chair, bowed to the Madame. “Thank you.” He swallowed. “Sorry to have—wasted your time.”

Quella slyly hummed, detracting back to her work as an invisible display alit. Silver keys on her keyboard were glazed in Maiorian characters—akin to waveform encased in hieroglyphs. He didn’t envy learning their vocabulary.

Turning aside, he remained unable to shake his feeling.

Illian had been accustomed to zoning out traffic through the vast outer rim, bustling outside window fixtures with several different ships, several other lives charmed to the Rayvine’s call.

Not this time. The delegates never appeared so like ravenous beasts. Something unsung filled his heart: a conniving rhythm hostile to his being there. These onyx floors contorted, now shined critical faces which knew Illian didn’t belong.

Then, one stranger’s passing eye slits ran through his body and chilled him to the bone. Their form was a mystery, but he swore, swore again that he had passed through a Dyre’s hungry gaze.

Illian kept his eyes to the floor.

I have to get to the bottom of this.