James Scotson - Planets Falling

Perhaps the closest sentient to Gorian on station was her colleague, or perhaps friend, known by everyone as Iggy. The origin of the moniker was long forgotten. No one knew Iggy’s real name, although rumor held that it was impossible to pronounce or comprehend for that matter. The staff was even uncertain about what pronoun to use. Iggy’s species — nauron — was hermaphroditic, containing both sex organs. So, to the crew, Iggy was sheit — a unique pronoun that Iggy did not seem to mind. Iggy did not possess vocal cords and communicated via pseudotelepathy. An implant in sheit’s brain transmitted vocal signals via radiowave. These were then translated into understandable English — most of the time.

A crackle on the communications speaker from Iggy, “Verat and Grey, are you certain that the anomalous patterns were geothermal in origin?” Sheit was eating a bar of chocolate and staring at Verat with his or her large grey eyes. Thick lids slowly closed and opened over two broad, glistening orbs. “Could climate be interacting with biologics in some way?” Sheit took another bite if chocolate, the bar snapping in his/her mouth.

Grey shook his head. “I don’t think so Ig. Storms are rare on Nine. When storms do happen, they’re localized and never generate much electrical buzz. As you all know, Nine was selected because it’s boring. Lots of water in the air but not much thermal differences around the globe. Nothing to make bad weather. As for biological activity, there’s been some evidence on other planets that pockets of growth of plants can begin to kick up storms. But nothing is advanced enough on the surface yet. We’re still in the primary developmental stage — just a bunch of goo and simple vascular plants sorting themselves out on the surface.”

Verat sipped his tea, which was perking him up nicely. “Thanks for the enlightened comments, Grey, my buddy. So geothermal is what we’re thinking. Of course, all of the geological surveys suggest that this hunk of rock hasn’t as much as belched over the past ten thousand years. So, that’s a bit puzzling. That’s one of the reasons we didn’t place many seismic detectors on the surface. If there was an earthquake or some sort of outgassing from the subsurface or even a volcano, the nearest detectors were too far away to pick up the activity. Basically, we blew it. Or more appropriately the surveyors who worked on this rock a hundred years ago were idiots. I’m sure if Grey or Gorian were in charge this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Verat, we don’t need the historical commentary. But thanks for the confidence in our current staff.” Grey glared.

“Fromer has been consulted, correct?” Iggy sounded as if sheit was talking through a muffler.

“Yup, my amphibious colleague.” Verat replied. “If it was bad guys, the sky net sensors in infraspace would’ve picked something up in that quadrant. All that was bouncing around out there were a few stray asteroids, a routine maintenance mission, and one of our supply vessels. Fromer is certain no one is mucking about the surface making campfires or whatnot.”

Gorian was giddy. “I’ll start designing some seismic probes. We can deploy them on the surface and let them disperse. When they skim through the atmosphere, they’ll route data back to a bunch of autonomous watchdogs in orbit, directing their movement if anything interesting kicks up. I can design these things to go supersonic if need be. They can respond in a flash. I have this great new propulsion design—”

“Slow down there G,” Grey interrupted. “We’ll need to consult the Council. But it can’t hurt to start some preliminary designs. Keep me updated.

And with that, the meeting was over. The crew filed out of the conference area with the exception of Grey who stood motionless, staring at the fuzzy brown ball. Here he was, Science Commander Commons, at a strange place in his career. The next steps were in his control. Nothing would happen until he could figure out whether he should tell the Families what happened or simply blame the event on a malfunction, letting things slide on calmly.

Fromer was drinking again. Alone. Glowing slightly in his dark quarters. His unique physiology made alcohol particularly fetching to his human side. Just a thimble of a clear spirit like vodka would send his senses tingling. His zenatan side, however, did not appreciate the drink. He suffered immensely when the euphoria waned. Fromer was a hybrid and because of this he often escaped the conflicts of his dual heredity by letting his defenses slip away for a short break. Some distilled fermented potato starch from old earth did the trick.

When humans first encountered the zenat species in deep space, it was a strange, tense time. The zenats were profoundly suspicious and not at all driven by the same wanderlust and curiosity that afflicted humanity.

However, the zenats were suffering from many of the same troubles plaguing the intelligent hominids from earth. The zenat home planet was overcrowded, resources were declining, and quite frankly their world was wearing out — just like earth. They needed room to grow beyond their boundaries. After decades of strained diplomacy, the two species agreed to create a small cadre of intermediaries, not of both worlds and of both worlds. Hybrids would be created that had no preference or allegiance to either species. These individuals would serve the diplomatic and security needs of both races, saving the zenats the discomfort of directly interacting with humans.

Fromer’s first memory was a whirl of lab coats, bright light, and a strange whirring, which turned out to be his breath. He was about four years old and being cared for by a zenatan nurse named Darce. Darce looked somewhat similar to Fromer. He had dark black eyes, with no whites. When the nurse rolled up his sleeves, Fromer could see that Darce’s skin was hard and tough, and when he held Darce’s hand on walks outside, it was very cool to the touch. While Darce’s skin was deep green, Fromer wondered why his skin was pale brown and slightly thinner. Darce was completely hairless, while Fromer had a nub of brownish hair growing on the top of his head. Darce was the kindest person Fromer ever met. When Fromer was five, he never saw Darce again.

At age six, Fromer was integrated with a group of other hybrid children. These were his first friends and they were a ragged lot. Well fed, surly, and exceptionally bright, the boys scuffled constantly, competed over the best desserts, and loved to play soccer during their short breaks from study. The Quarters was the name of the compound that harbored them — home for the penultimate bastard children of the galaxy. Throughout his life, Fromer never learned where in the galaxy this planet he called home during his short childhood was perched. He was certain it was neither earth nor zenat. The sky did not match those in the astronomy publications he scanned each night by the light of his viewing screen. The planet had to be far from the galactic center because the stars in sky were distant and sparse. Their surroundings were comfortable enough, but still sterile and cold, lacking the trappings of a culture to anchor them. Looking back, Fromer recalled the many nights where he and his bunkmates would stay up late speculating about things most boys must dream about in the galaxy.

One quiet evening Fromer and his close friend Mup were whispering to each other between their beds. Insect-like creatures were whirring outside the window, doing what organisms on countless planets were designed to do except for them — attract mates and reproduce. The light of the triple moons flickered on the walls like ripples on a pond. The pair of hybrid children could have been easily mistaken for two human boys staying up past lights out during a camping trip, except for their slighty luminescent skin, deep, black eyes, diminutive noses, and exceptionally long fingers. A closer examination would reveal that no air was moving past their lips. Rather, they respired through small holes in their abdomen. Spiracles, Teacher called them.