On my third day I began to do what I viewed as my real work aboard the Pinion: carrying out my novi duties. These began early in the day. Zey and I met an hour before the morning briefing to prepare the senek. This wasn't as difficult as I was anticipating, as senek was a steeped beverage like tea. We brewed it in the galley, then carried the silver senek pot to the axis chamber. After arranging the trays, Zey went over to a cabinet and opened the door. He removed several gray stoneware jars and placed them on the table. "This is the important part."

"The sugar," I guessed.

"Right. People get irrationally angry when you get it wrong. You'd better write this down."

"Way ahead of you." I smoothed down the page of my notebook.

"There are six different flavors. It would help if you could taste them, but for now I'll just tell you the combinations." He rattled off the personal preferences of each member of the crew with such practiced ease that I stopped writing and stared. He grinned at my expression. "Remember, I've had six months of practice."

After I'd assembled the various combinations, I replaced the jars in the cabinet. As I did so, I noticed a seventh jar, smaller than the others, with a matte black finish. I lifted it inquiringly. "What about this?"

Zey took it out of my hand and replaced it on the shelf. "Not that one." It was unlike him to be so abrupt, and I could see that something about my question had unsettled him. He turned away from me, ostensibly to double-check the arrangement of sugar pellets on each plate. I had the feeling that he was deliberately avoiding my gaze. Discomfited, I went to my seat and pretended to look over the notes I'd made until the others began to arrive a few minutes later. I hoped I hadn't inadvertently hurt his feelings. I had no idea how I could have done so.

When the senek ritual began that morning, I watched anxiously as each crew member in turn poured out a measure of delicately green liquid and stirred in the tiny sugar tablets. Zey's comment about irrational anger was still fresh in my mind. When the silver vessel had traveled the full circuit of the room and Zey was serving himself, I began to relax. The rest of the meeting passed without incident until Hathan asked for Zey's report on our training. Zey said that I was adapting well—which I appreciated—and was ready to assume my formal novi duties.

"And when will she attend senior officers' dinner?" asked Khavi Vekesh.

"Tonight, sir," said Zey. "Just to observe, of course."

The khavi nodded. "Good. While we're all assembled, I'd like to amend our expectations of Novi Alkhat." I looked at him, startled. He continued, "It will be in your best interest to practice your Vardeshi as much as possible. As of this moment, your command of the language is passable, but no more. I expect more from my crew than minimal competence. Until you attain full fluency, you will restrict your communication to Vardeshi only." He looked around the table. "This policy applies to the rest of the crew as well. No crew member will address Novi Alkhat in English without my permission." He looked back at me. "I trust that's sufficient motivation to make your language skills a priority."

I knew I had to say something, so I said, "Yes, Khavi." My mind was whirling. Could he do this? Did my contract allow it? I reached back in memory to the conversation I'd had with Councillor Seidel on the night he informed me of my change in role. You have the right to refuse any command that violates your ethical obligation to Earth. Being required to speak only Vardeshi didn't conflict with my ethical obligation. But there was no question in my mind that it violated the spirit of the exchange.

The meeting had moved on without me. I said tentatively, "Khavi?" half raising my hand in a gesture I knew looked as awkward as it felt.

Hathan, who had been speaking, fell silent at once. The khavi's dark eyes narrowed. "Yes, Novi?" he said coolly.

From the looks on the others' faces, it was clear that I'd spoken out of turn. I forged on without looking at Zey. "About the language policy. I just have a question. If the purpose of my being here is to represent humanity in a cultural exchange, doesn't that . . . infer . . ."

"Imply," murmured Saresh.

"Imply that both cultures should be treated equally? And doesn't that include speaking both languages?"

"Are you under the impression that the members of this crew are deficient in their English?" the khavi inquired.

"No, sir," I said.

"Neither am I. Your Vardeshi, on the other hand, is inadequate. I haven't placed any restrictions on the content of your interactions. You should feel free to discuss Earth culture with anyone on the ship who shows interest. But until future notice, you will do so in Vardeshi. The matter is closed."

So, it seemed, was the meeting. As the others moved on to their various responsibilities, I helped Zey collect the senek dishes. Saresh lingered after everyone else had gone. "Novi," he said, "if you have questions about your orders, it's standard procedure to bring them to me. Or to arrange a private meeting with the khavi. In general, I'd advise against challenging him directly in front of the entire crew."

I winced. "Is that what I just did?"

"In essence, yes."

"That sounds really bad."

Zey said, "It wasn't great."

"Do I need to apologize?"

"No. He'll make allowances for your inexperience." Saresh paused. "Once."

"I won't do it again," I said quickly.

"I didn't think so." The hadazi turned to go, then added, "I thought you expressed yourself well."

"Tell that to Khavi Vekesh," I said, but I waited until he was gone to say it.

Zey was uncharacteristically quiet as we finished cleaning up. I sensed that he was hovering on the edge of saying something, and when I moved to pick up the carrying tray, he stopped me with a hand on my arm. "Eyvri . . . I know this new rule seems unfair. I don't like it either. But try not to let it bother you too much. It won't last forever. Your Vardeshi is going to get better. It's already getting better."

"That's not the point." I had to stop to frame the words, and he waited patiently for me to put them together. "Learning Vardeshi is the whole reason why I'm here. I don't need any more motivation to work hard. Khavi Vekesh didn't give me anything I didn't have before. All he did was make it impossible for me to relax. I need—humans need—to be able to talk without having to think so hard about it. Not all the time. But sometimes." I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. "He's never going to reverse that order. And don't tell me I'm wrong, because you know I'm right. It doesn't matter how much better I get."

"But you have a whole year to practice," Zey said.

"Exactly. A whole year with no English. I have to be on all the time. It's only been three days, and I'm already exhausted. I don't know if I'm going to make it."

"Well," Zey said slowly, "if you want, you can speak English to me. When no one else is around. Like right now."

"But isn't that against orders?"

"Who's going to know?"

"I don't want to get you in trouble," I said uncertainly.

He shrugged. "So don't get caught."

For the remainder of the morning I shadowed Zey as he went through the daily housekeeping tasks assigned to the novis. Only now did I begin to understand why the rank of novi was designated as "essentially a service role." According to Zey's explanation, novi duties were another manifestation of the intensely hierarchical nature of Vardeshi culture. Much of the work could have been engineered away from living hands, and after three years of intensive training, any Institute graduate was wildly overqualified for it. However, some menial work was deliberately preserved in order to enforce the separation of lower and higher ranks. The dynamic reminded me of the squires and knights of medieval Earth, or the age-based stratification of some Asian cultures.

Zey and I spent the morning cleaning the common spaces and ensuring that the mess hall was stocked with clean dishes and the laundry with clean linens and uniforms. After the noon meal there was an hour's respite, a concession to the fact that a novi's day typically began early and ended late. In the afternoons, Zey said, he observed one rhevi or another as they went about the tasks specific to their fields. This was the mechanism by which he was to narrow down his area of interest and eventually choose a specialization.

"You're exempt from that part, of course," Zey said. "Since you're not an Institute graduate, you'll never be promoted beyond novi, so there's no point. You're expected to spend that time making word lists or writing essays about culture or . . . whatever Earth wants you to do."

"Oh, good," I said. "I was wondering when that was supposed to happen."

Zey explained that the next round of novi duties took place after dinner, when one of us would go to the lounge to prepare the evening senek. "It's the same as the morning ritual," he said, "just in the lounge. That takes about an hour, and then you're done for the night. Unless there's senior officers' dinner that day."

"That's what Khavi Vekesh was talking about," I said. "What is it?"

Once a week, Zey said, a formal dinner was offered for the three senior officers as well as any rhevi favored with an invitation. The dinner consisted of several stages; from Zey's description it sounded like a three-course meal with coffee and brandy to follow, or, in this case, senek and some concentrated spirit I didn't yet have a name for. Ahnir served as steward, but there was always a novi present to help serve and clear, refill glasses, and prepare the senek.

"It doesn't sound that bad," I said. "Kind of like waiting tables. I was a waitress in college. I bet I'll be OK."

"It's not hard; it's just really, really boring. Basically you stand in one place for a couple of hours and try not to fall asleep. You have to watch what everyone's doing without looking like you're listening to their conversation. Which you are, obviously, because how could you help it? It's not a very big room. The most important thing is to do whatever Ahnir tells you. And keep quiet. No matter what they're saying. Even if they're talking about you, that doesn't mean they're talking to you."

"Seen, not heard," I said. "Got it."

"This is serious," Zey insisted. "Khavi Vekesh might overlook what happened this morning, but he won't overlook it if you speak out during officers' dinner. Or drop something. Or do anything to draw attention to yourself. You have to disappear."

"I understand. Really."

He still seemed anxious, despite my reassurances, and once I'd been standing beside the door of the officers' dining room for an hour, trying to disappear, I had to concede that he'd been right to be worried. Officers' dinner was a challenge unlike any I had faced thus far. More than anything, it was a test of my patience. And endurance; I was bored, thirsty, and restless, and the effort of remembering not to clear my throat or shift my weight from foot to foot occupied all of my attention. As for listening in on the conversation taking place around the table, I understood the temptation, but I was immune. The simple fact was that I couldn't follow it. I caught an isolated word here and there, but no more. A very few minutes into the hour it had become clear to me that, much as I'd resented his choice of phrasing, Khavi Vekesh had been entirely correct. My Vardeshi was . . . inadequate.

I hadn't realized until then just how consistently the Pinion's crew had been adjusting their pacing and word choice downward to accommodate me. The conversation that ricocheted between the khavi himself, Saresh, Hathan, and Sohra, punctuated by laughter, was impenetrable. They might as well have been speaking Korean—or, more aptly, Klingon. I had never felt so out of my depth. A sense of despair washed over me, made all the worse by the fact that I couldn't move, speak, or in any way distract myself. This is impossible, I thought bleakly. I'm going to fail. I am failing. What colossal arrogance I had shown in thinking that I, out of seven billion humans, was an apt choice to represent our species. A phrase Dr. Sawyer had used more than a year ago came back to me. The great vanity of my life. Was this mine? Thinking I could do the impossible? Thinking I could ever truly understand these people, these elegant strangers in whose company I felt continually awkward and wrongfooted? Tears stung my eyes. I looked resolutely up at the lighting fixtures above the table until I finally fought them back. The only thing that could possibly make my predicament worse would be to start crying in front of the Pinion's senior staff. If that happened, there would be nothing for it. I would have to go home.

When Ahnir finally signaled to Zey and me to clear away the dinner things, I could have flung my arms around him in gratitude. Instead, I focused on stacking plates as quietly as possible. Here, at last, I was on familiar ground. My waitressing experience stood me in good stead, and I didn't clatter the silverware any more egregiously than Zey did. Preparing and serving the senek went smoothly too. Saresh was in the middle of narrating a story—I could tell that much, although I couldn't have guessed what it was about—and the others were too engrossed to notice when I gave Sohra the wrong flavoring. To my human eyes, the two canisters looked identical in the dim light. Fortunately Zey caught the mistake before she did. After the senek and spirits had been served, Ahnir dispatched me with the senek vessel to the lounge. The remaining members of the crew—those who wished to partake, anyway—would be gathering there. When I was safely out in the corridor, I leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief.

Zey came to find me later as I was collecting the senek dishes in the nearly empty lounge. He picked up the senek pot, tilted it to gauge its fullness, then poured a little into a clean cup. "So, how was it?"

"Let me ask you this. If I happen to . . . I don't know . . . spill something on the khavi, or accidentally stab him with a fork, do you think he'll take me off dinner duty for a while?"

Zey looked alarmed. "For a while? Try forever."

"Yeah, I might do that next time."

He laughed. "I did warn you."

"Well, you were right." I checked the time on my flexscreen. "Are you just finishing up now?"

"It ran a little long. This is good, by the way." He saluted me with the cup.

"Great. When the khavi fires me and I'm too embarrassed to go home, I can go wait tables on some backwater starhaven."

"You'll have to go home eventually. You didn't bring that much food." Zey took another sip. "What's wrong? You did well in there. No one's talking about firing you."

"I wouldn't know. I couldn't understand anything. Not one word." My throat tightened, and I had to stop.

"Oh." Zey looked at me doubtfully.

I waved a hand. "I'm fine. I get like this when I'm tired. What's next?"

"Nothing. We're done." He nodded in the direction of the door. "Go get some sleep. You're off duty until morning briefing the day after tomorrow."

"Great," I said. "Good night."

I made my way slowly down the corridor from the lounge to the crew quarters. I wasn't sure I'd ever been so tired. Alone in my quarters, I more or less fell into my little slanted shelf bed. I'd thought I would fall asleep instantly, but I didn't. Every time I started to drift off, I was jerked back into wakefulness by a sound like a cacophony of voices all shouting simultaneously in Vardeshi. I'd experienced something similar during the first few weeks of my term abroad in China, and I knew what it meant: my brain was taking advantage of idle time to process the language it had absorbed that day. Unfortunately it wasn't waiting until I was fully asleep to do it. Eventually I got up, found my laptop, powered it on, and selected a random episode of an old sitcom. I set the laptop on the floor next to the bed. The images weren't important, only the sound. I needed to hear voices speaking English. The khavi's announcement that morning hadn't included a prohibition against watching English-language media, and anyway, there was no one here to report me. I listened through the opening of the episode and heard only a few notes of the familiar theme song before sleep overtook me.

I slept for nearly twelve hours. When I did finally wake, I lay in bed for a while longer, reveling in the luxury of not having to race through my morning routine. Eventually hunger propelled me to get up and dress. I'd been instructed to wear Earth clothes on my days off—part of my role as cultural ambassador, I assumed—so I left my uniform on its hanger and put on jeans and my gray Institute sweatshirt. It had struck me as funny that the word Institute served as shorthand for both the Vardeshi Fleet Institute where my crewmates had trained and the graduate school I'd attended in California. I also put on a vest. Vardeshi bodies might run only a couple of degrees cooler than human ones, but by my standards, the Pinion was cold.

Because the crew were between meals, the mess hall was deserted. I cooked an elaborate brunch—coffee, orange juice, toast, hash and eggs, granola and dried fruit—and took my time over it. Then I cleaned my dishes and workspace, made more coffee, and carried it and a book to the lounge. The rest of my day off passed swiftly by. I read, worked out, took another blissful shower, and spent a desultory hour drafting my report for Earth. I ate a leisurely dinner—alone, again, because I'd misread the clock in my quarters—and then decided to make my way to the lounge and see how my companions were occupying themselves. I'd heard mention of an event taking place there tonight, but that much was drawn from an overheard fragment of conversation between Ziral and Khiva in the corridor, and I hadn't caught any details.

When I stepped into the lounge, an unexpected sight met my eyes. What looked like all the members of the Pinion's crew were kneeling in a circle around Ziral, who was seated on a stool. All of them, including Ziral, had their eyes closed. Ziral was speaking—I could hear the murmur of her voice from the doorway, but couldn't make out any of the words—and the others appeared to be listening intently. The preternatural calm on their faces was like nothing I had ever seen. They seemed to be in a trance. No one stirred or shifted. The stillness in the room was absolute. My gaze traveled slowly from one tranquil face to the next, lingering longest on Hathan, who looked startlingly young in repose. I had no idea what I was witnessing, but I was instantly certain I had violated some deeply private—and deeply alien—ritual. The sense of transgression was overpowering. Whatever this was, I wasn't meant to see it. I backed slowly toward the door. When I touched the control, it opened with a hiss that seemed impossibly loud, but none of the assembled Vardeshi responded in any way to the noise. I wondered if they were even conscious.