“Hysteria all around me. Class A shuttles outbound, Class B’s. No class in the chaos, ma’am.” Sweat formed on Illian’s forehead. He was eighteen and fresh to intergalactic summons. And oh, did it show.

A shimmering female alien failed to keep face at Illian’s testimony. She and her fellow tribunal sat atop white-glossed pillar podiums well above the pit where the boy stood. This courtroom speared upwards as an iridescent spire glassed in translucent ivory hiding wire frame branches. Above the council hung effigies to sacred idols; within them, Illian could feel something watch. Today, they would decide whether or not this vessel is worthy of being called Messenger. Few have proven so successful, and Illian with his scraggily slacks and helmet-pressed hair lacked that christened sheen. But he knew what he saw, what he heard. He was in tune with Gaia.

A natural glow emitted outside of the Rayvine’s hull, perfectly placed as to showcase the nebulous theatrics of System B-3: Purple Haze. Those who attended this, a final test for a boy who’s gone so far, weighed down curious speculation upon him; jury with an abundance of peers. They couldn’t have asked for better lighting.

It reflected from a clear layer fitted over this alien’s entire body. Illian could swear it was beaming directly in his eye. He had to squint.

Silent delegates observed from the court’s outer-most rafters. Their bodies collaged strangely, shadowed to where the boy could only vaguely guess at what they were. Despite his years outside of human sect space, their kind were still strangers. All the questions in the world from a hundred orifices, a hundred appendages. And no one had anything to say. But her, the most alien. The most skeptical. The most … testing. “Continue.” She granted Illian—in English tongue—the Gods’ permission with a hand raised, seemingly speared on their behalf.

Illian’s mind cried, Shit.

Maiorians have that way, that passive aggressive nod of their shiny, amphibious layers tensing to judge. Unlike humans, you can make out the muscles that flexed and ebbed to speak. Illian had heard their kind are terrible liars spoiled with trust no other bipedal possessed this side of the Terminoux galaxy arms. She showed no signs of budging.

She expected nothing less, nothing more than the essentials from first contact, and how it came to be.

It was then that Illian realized how much he longed to do the talking. He swallowed, wandered his gaze down to cold chrome floor panels, raking his feet back to an able-bodied authority. His lips dried before giving his recount.