- 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 it into a more portable slate device. 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 this time, he awoke with a tangible curiosity: what was Quella saying? He brought the coat frame down, nabbed it rougher than normal and slipped his arms through as he headed out the door.

Illian’s groggy eyes were skewered by the bright, artificial glow of this cylindric corridor. Still, he continued to walk.

His stride teemed against an onyx floor, against all odds. After two years, you never forget certain faces, Illian thought. Through reflection, the floor sneered with ugly Havyrn bills passing by; Illian couldn’t help but feel responsible. Though, he noticed their posture slack; they had to be more sleep-deprived than himself. To survive the Rayvine intact, Illian learned to savor the small victories in intergalactic politics. He stole a smile from System B-3 when he passed the next window to the bigger picture of space.

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-sera? Nah. Roa. Civi—ah, forget it …

Syllables scattered around nothing short of a jigsaw puzzle that had essential pieces cut down to ‘fit.’ 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 was always, always more than present.

 “Morning, Shaintro … H-hold on!” Illian stammered, his chance saved by a hair.

“Yes?”

“I heard something last night. Something strange.“

Shaintro laughed with all the answers under his belt: “Those premonitions are natural, Sol.”

“No, no.” He noted Shaintro’s insistent legs begin to wander down the hall, so he went ahead and lead the walk first. “Last night, I heard you and Madame Quella talking. You didn’t seem satisfied with what she had to say.”

Now, Shaintro appeared eager for new company, averting his attention, speaking slurs through telling muscles. “It’s really nothing I should discuss, Sol.” He craned his neck to face, ready. “I apologize.”

Not a single twitch out of place. Dammit.

“Look,” said Illian, “I swear you can tell me anything with full confidentiality. C’mon. Lay it on me!”

Shaintro stared blankly. 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. This daze followed him the distance to her Courtship, Madame Quella’s office. When Illian stood outside her door, an epiphany raced through his head: they were finally on the same level, with something to hide from the other.

Silence drowned an office suite. It was homely with a foreign, dark-chocolate wood segmenting white metal faces every two feet across. Quella suspected greatness, descending down her promising prospect’s first contact with Gaia.

“Absolutely vivid, Illian.” Her delicate phalanges placed the parchment down on her clear desk; it was 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’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.” She arose from her desk slightly, ready to leave. “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.” Quella stood up.

“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?”

“I’ve heard … talks around the Rayvine. Is there something strange going on?”

“Well, we have another Kale incursion fleet causing trouble, but nothing we can’t handle.” She managed a smirk, no signs of lying. “You worry yourself too much. Sais shuramafa.” The words came out unfiltered, as though his 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 culled to life. 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, Illian shined on Quella. He was unable to shake the feeling there was some unsung conniving against him.

How could he have been so careless?

They have every piece of prospect tech bugged and monitored. He couldn’t move one step without them moving two ahead. Not only that, another gut feeling tugged at his nerves like a famished beast. Nameless eyes then tore at the Messenger, lurking just around the corner of these tubes. He couldn’t bring himself to turn back and instead clung onto blind faith that nothing was scheming to stake his heart from behind.

Nothing new.

He’d usually zone 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. Prowlers were never so eager.

Illian had a way of feeling out whatever crossed his path. So far, it has been invaluable. When he felt this stranger watch, he could practically manifest their hunger. The boy immediately paced for his dorm to avert their gaze. He didn’t dare give them the satisfaction they so ravenously desired; he kept to his business, gaze to the floor.