When I awakened ten hours later to the clanging of my phone alarm, it was with a raging thirst and a nearly complete sense of disorientation. I fumbled for my water bottle, which I found on the floor next to the bed. For a couple of minutes I just sat there in the dark. More than anything I wanted to pull the blankets over myself again and go back to sleep. Some of yesterday's naïve excitement had dissipated, and in its place came apprehension. I now knew that even the simplest task—in this case, checking the time on my bedside display—would be dauntingly hard. Break it down into steps, I told myself. Turn on your phone light. Find your notebook. Find the page with the clock words. Turn on the panel. Figure out what time it is.

It took a few minutes, but eventually I established that my hasty mental calculations of the night before had been more or less correct; my phone alarm had woken me about an hour before the morning briefing was due to start. Today I would have to learn how Vardeshi alarm clocks worked, assuming they existed. It would be more efficient to set a recurring alarm tied to shipboard time than to continue relying on guesswork, with its inherent risk of error. I washed up, dressed in the same uniform as yesterday—another item on today's list was procuring more uniforms—and went to the mess hall in search of a hot drink. There was no one in the galley, but a little judicious poking around revealed the same carafe Ahnir had shown me the day before, half full of recently heated water. I mixed up an instant cappucino and headed for the axis chamber. I'd decided that I didn't care whether the Vardeshi gave me odd looks. On Earth we drank coffee at morning meetings, and as Dr. Sawyer had reminded me, the cultural exchange went both ways.

As soon as I entered the axis chamber, I saw that it wouldn't be a problem. At each seat around the table—except for mine—was a small rectangular tray carved from a dark stone that looked like slate. On the tray was a tiny cup and plate and a delicate silver spoon. The cup and plate looked as fragile as eggshells, and their iridescent surfaces caught the light and refracted it in tiny rainbows. I leaned closer for a better look. They appeared to be made of blown glass. I saw that each plate held a few round pastel-colored pellets. Candy? I wondered. Or medicine? I heard the door hiss and looked up to see Zey enter the room carrying an elaborate silver vessel that reminded me of a Russian samovar. "Wow," I said. "What's all this stuff?"

He placed the silver vessel carefully on the table beside the seat that belonged to Khavi Vekesh. "The morning senek ritual."

"Senek?" I'd heard the word on Dr. Sawyer's recordings. We knew it was something edible, but not much more than that.

"It's a drink. Like coffee." He nodded to my thermos.

"It wakes you up," I said.

"The opposite, actually. It calms us down."

"Why?"

"Our ancestors were predators. Their most active times were dawn and dusk. Twice a day our brains still release a hormone that makes us restless and hyperalert. Good for hunting, not so good for sitting in a meeting. There's a chemical in senek that counterbalances that hormone. It helps us relax."

"What about those?" I pointed to the tiny pastel balls.

"Those are just sugar. The different colors are for different flavorings."

I scanned the table and saw that no two assortments of sugar pastilles were alike in number or color. "You know everyone's preferences by heart?"

"Of course. The senek ritual is novi work. I do it every morning. Tomorrow I'll show you how to do it, and then we can take turns." Now that I was listening for it, I could hear that there was something odd about the cadence of Zey's words. They sounded clipped, hurried, as if he were feeling anxious—or as if he'd had one too many cups of coffee.

"Aren't you going to have some senek?" I nodded to the silver container.

"No!" He sounded shocked. "It goes in order of rank. The khavi is first. I'm last."

Once again most of the meeting's discussion was lost on me, and I passed the time by drinking my cappuccino and watching my crewmates serve themselves senek. The liquid that issued from the silver spout was pale green, the color of absinthe, and accompanied by plumes of steam, but I was too wary of an allergic reaction to breathe deeply when Zey served himself on my right. When I got around to sending a message home, I would have to urge our doctors to put senek at the top of the list of Vardeshi foods to be tested for safety. The ritual was clearly a significant one. And since preparing it was apparently one of my novi duties, I needed to know whether contact with the substance posed any risks. For the time being, I'd have to wear gloves.

That day passed as quickly as the one before it. Our first stop of the morning was Requisitions. "Is that where I get more uniforms?" I asked Zey.

"Yes. And, more importantly, it's where you get your flexscreen."

"My what?"

He showed me the tiny screen on the underside of his left wrist. "Your portable tech. We use it for calls, messages, small-scale work. Every flat surface on the Pinion is an interactive screen, but it would be a waste of time to pull up a display on the wall every time you need to send a text."

"It's a phone," I said, relieved. "I knew you guys had them."

"Of course we have them. But it's more than a phone. You'll see."

When we had obtained my flexscreen and its strap harness from Rhevi Khiva, who supervised equipment requisitions, Zey said, "Here. I'll show you how to log in." With a few quick confident strokes of his fingers he called up an array of shimmering orange and white symbols on the little screen. "You just log in with your passcode—the same one you used to unlock your quarters—and choose from a standard menu of options. Messaging, video calls, schedule, status reports, ship's systems . . ." He went on to name a few categories I couldn't translate.

"All right, slow down," I said. "Let's see if I can even do that first step."

I couldn't, or at least not immediately. It was difficult to manipulate the tiny screen, which was feather-light and semitransparent, about the size and thickness of a credit card. "It's so small," I said. "I know our Earth tech is obsolete and all that, but how can you even see what you're doing?"

"Like this." Zey slid the tiny screen free of its harness, then pinched its corners with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled. To my astonishment, the screen expanded until it was about the size of a standard laptop screen.

I stared at it. "You can't be serious."

"You try it. Make it smaller—just push on the corners."

Disbelieving, I did so, and the screen shrank by a couple of inches on each side. "This is insane," I said. "It's magic. It has to be."

"Not magic. Just tech that's a little ahead of yours."

"I saw these last night," I said, enlightened. "At the briefing. I thought they were tablets."

He shook his head. "Just flexscreens. You can make them any size and orientation you want, but the largest dimensions are the ones I showed you at first. You can bend them and even fold them if you want. See?" He took my screen and folded it briskly in half. I winced, expecting a crack, but none came. When he unfolded the device again, I looked for a mark or a crease. It appeared intact.

"So if everyone has these flexscreens," I said, "why make the whole ship a touchscreen? Isn't it redundant?"

"Some work benefits from a larger display. If Vethna needs to work on an engine problem, or Hathan needs to do long-range mapping, they'll use a table or a wall. It's good to have options."

"It sure is," I said. "Here's the real question, though. Which one do you guys use for an alarm clock?"

Zey explained that the Vardeshi had no need for alarm clocks as such, but that it was possible to program my flexscreen to play an audio file at a given time each day. Once we'd set that up—and he'd promised to call me over the shipboard communications network the following morning to check that the alarm had worked—we returned to exploring the different functions of the flexscreen. Before long I had more or less grasped how to send texts and make audio and video calls to the various members of the crew. The only adjustment I needed to make—which Zey, for some reason, found hilarious—was to wear the strap on my right rather than left wrist. "I don't get it," I said. "If you guys are ambidextrous, why does it matter which hand I wear it on?"

He shrugged. "I guess it's just convention."

"Well, the convention isn't going to work for me. I'm left-handed."

"Left-handed? What does that mean?"

"It means that my left hand is dominant."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." I gestured vaguely. "It just is. It's how my brain is wired. It'll be easier for me to use the flexscreen with my left hand."

Zey frowned. "So one of your hands is . . . better than the other?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

He laughed. "And all humans are like that?"

"Almost all of us, yes. What about Vardeshi? You don't have a dominant hand?"

"No, of course not. That would be like . . . having a dominant foot!" Another wave of hilarity claimed him.

"Yeah," I said, smiling in spite of myself. "Crazy."

Thus forewarned, I wasn't at all surprised by the amused glances cast at my right-side flexscreen during lunch by Ziral and Daskar, who were sharing our table, along with Vethna. For my own part, I was concentrating so hard on watching the others at my table eat their meals that I nearly forgot to eat my own. Zey had been right. They all used their left and right hands with equal dexterity.

I was trying to be unobtrusive about my investigation, but I knew I'd failed when Vethna snapped, "What are you staring at, Novi?" He spoke loudly enough that the conversation at the khavi's table faltered. I didn't glance in that direction, but I knew Vethna's exclamation must have drawn the attention of the khavi, as well as Saresh, Hathan, and Khiva, who were sitting with him.

"I was just . . . Zey said your people use both hands interchangeably. I was trying to see if he was right."

"Humans don't use both their hands?" said Vethna. The words themselves were inoffensive, but the tone was caustic, as if he'd never heard anything so ludicrous.

I looked at Zey, who quietly summarized our conversation from a few minutes earlier.

"So you can't use your flexscreen with your right hand?" said Vethna.

"Well, I've had it for about an hour, so I wouldn't call myself an expert no matter which hand I use." I could hear the edge in my voice. I could also hear that my accent was slipping. Stay calm, I told myself. He's trying to provoke you. Don't make it so easy.

He nodded at my fork. "Can you eat with your right hand?"

Silently I transferred the fork to my other hand, stabbed a penne noodle with it, and held it up for his appraisal.

"Well," Vethna said dismissively, "your people eat with shovels anyway, so it's not much of a test."

I brought the fork to my mouth and chewed methodically until my anger began to subside. Zey, Ziral, and Daskar returned to their own meals. I heard the murmur of conversation begin again at the far table. When I dared to glance that way, only two of its occupants were still looking in our direction. Saresh was watching Vethna, his expression thoughtful. Hathan was watching me. I couldn't read anything in his face at all. He held my eyes for an instant, then looked away. A wave of helpless frustration washed over me. Last night, in the lounge, I'd thought I was beginning to gain some ground with the suvi. Now I didn't know what to think. He must have heard Vethna baiting me. Had I won points with him for standing my ground? Or lost them for showing disrespect to a superior—or, bizarrely, for having a dominant hand?

In the afternoon I met with Rhevi Daskar at the medical clinic. Our stated task was to go through my medical supplies so that she understood what they were used for, but when we'd finished the inventory she said briskly, "If you don't object, I'd like to take this opportunity to give you a complete medical examination as well. You're my first human patient. I won't be much use to you as a doctor until I know what you look and sound like when you're healthy. I take it you're presently in good health?"

I nodded. "Yes, Rhevi."

"Remarkable." She produced a slender wand-like scanning tool and waved it over my forearm. "Are all human heartbeats so rapid?"

The examination, which proceeded from the instrument-based to the physical, proved instructive for both of us. I learned more about Vardeshi physiology from Daskar's observations than I had in my training. Vardeshi bodies seemed to operate more efficiently than human ones. In addition to the slower heartbeats and lower body temperatures, they took several fewer breaths per minute. Human senses were a little duller than Vardeshi; she informed me that my hearing and vision tested on the extreme low end of her scale.

"And that's with corrective lenses," I commented.

"With what?" I understood her confusion—I'd finished the sentence in English, as I knew no Vardeshi translation for the last two words. I explained. Daskar looked closely at each of my eyes. Then she watched in faintly horrified fascination as I removed and reinserted my contact lenses. "Barbaric," she murmured.

As the examination progressed, it revealed a few interior differences as well; some of my organs didn't seem to be quite where Daskar expected them to be. However, she was quite unruffled by what was revealed when I removed my uniform and undergarments at her request.

"Outwardly, you're very similar to us," she commented. "Just built on a larger scale. And your sexual characteristics are exaggerated. Wider hips, fuller breasts."

I looked down at my modestly endowed figure and laughed. I thought I saw a glint of answering humor in her dark eyes. Maybe there were some jokes that crossed the cultural abyss intact.

The examination concluded shortly thereafter, and Daskar said I was free to dress again. As I did so, the question I'd been weighing for the past few minutes found its way to my lips. "So, from what you've seen, do you think our species are sexually compatible? Hypothetically, I mean," I added hastily as her expression changed. "I wouldn't . . . I mean, I have orders not to . . . I'm just asking."

Her face relaxed a little. "I can't speak with any certainty without a more thorough examination than this one—and, of course, corresponding access to a male specimen. Based on what I've seen, though, I'd imagine that humans and Vardeshi are physically compatible. Whether a cross-species coupling would be mutually pleasurable is another question. And one I hope you don't propose to answer."

"God, no," I said with conviction.

"Good." She turned my right hand over to inspect the back of it. "I don't know how your people signal their marital status. Are you unattached?"

"So far." I smiled. "Twenty-six and single. And on the shelf now for at least another year. I think my parents are getting a little nervous."

She looked directly into my eyes, her clear dark gaze holding mine, and said, "Eyvri, I can promise you that at this moment your parents are a great deal more than nervous."

My throat tightened, and I had to look away. At last I said, "I had to go. They know that."

"They know," she said. "That doesn't make it easier."

I looked down at her hands, which were clasped right over left, the double sigil clearly visible. "You have a family."

"A husband," she said. "On Evrathi Starhaven. A son on another ship. And a daughter on this one."

"Here? On the Pinion? Who . . .?"

She smiled. "Sohra."

I pictured the dark-haired Systems specialist. Certainly their coloring was entirely different, but now that I thought about it, the two women were alike in demeanor. Each of them radiated a calm steady certainty that made me feel instinctively that I could trust them.

"Zey told me families tend to ship out together," I said. "But the Takheris all have the same last name."

Daskar nodded. "Sohra and I share the same rank, so she goes by her first name. Her full name is Sohra Daskar."

"Are there any other families on the Pinion?"

"Just the two." She paused, then added, "But Ziral and Ahnir are engaged."

"Everyone's engaged," I muttered.

"Take heart," she said encouragingly. "By the time you return home, your parents may have found a suitable husband for you."

"Yeah, maybe," I said dubiously. "But I wouldn't put much faith in their taste."

After my medical appointment I spent an hour or two organizing my food and cooking supplies in the galley. Ahnir was in and out, absorbed in his own tasks. He was civil but brief, and I wondered how he felt about the intrusion of a foreigner into his space. As stipulated in the exchange documents, he'd cleared a workspace and some cabinets for my food and cooking gear. I unpacked the crates containing my first month's supply of food. I set up my camp stove and screwed the fuel canister into place, breathing a sigh of relief when the Vardeshi fuel source ignited as promised. I turned it off at once; I wasn't planning on doing any actual cooking, merely verifying that my equipment worked. When I'd finished up in the galley, I returned the empty food crates to the cargo hold.

As I was walking back from helix one, my flexscreen chimed. I stopped and fiddled with the screen until it displayed an incoming message from Saresh. Earth would like you to check in. Can you meet me in the axis chamber to record a message?

My first reply was the Vardeshi equivalent of [email protected] On the second attempt I managed to write Yes. Then, belatedly realizing that I was probably in violation of Fleet texting etiquette, I sent a third message that said simply Hadazi. I hoped Saresh would recognize the attempt at courtesy for what it was. Barring that, I hoped he had a sense of humor.

When I arrived at the axis chamber, I found him seated at a workstation on the upper tier. "Novi," he said by way of greeting. "I see you've learned to use your flexscreen."

"After a fashion," I said. "As you saw."

He didn't smile, but I saw a glimmer of restrained humor in his blue eyes. "Don't worry, you'll have plenty of chances to practice." He indicated the display on the workstation terminal. "We've received a transmission from Earth. I thought you'd like to see it."

"Please," I said, and leaned in over his shoulder as the message began. It was a video transmission from Councillor Seidel, predictably succinct, sending greetings from Earth and requesting confirmation that all was well aboard the Pinion.

"I could send a written reply," Saresh said, "and in fact I've already done that, but they'd prefer to hear it from you. And I thought this would be as good a time as any to show you the basics of the communications network."

"Is that your specialization? Communications?"

He nodded. "I coordinate all incoming and outgoing transmissions. The Pinion is in more or less constant contact with Vardesh Prime—and Earth, now—as well as any nearby ships and starhavens, and I'm responsible for maintaining those connections."

"Something tells me that's more complicated than just clicking Send on an email."