When I step out, fur dry, still wrapped in the same towel around my hips, she's gone. Probably bolted to the kitchen.
Bingo. That’s where I find her—busy fussing over an infusion, two steaming bowls already set out.
“I’m listening,” I say after a moment, to kick things off, while her eyes flicker nervously away from mine.
She inhales sharply, then finally meets my gaze.
“You understand and speak French!?” she blurts out, half-accusing, half-inquiring.
“I don’t know the name of the language you’re speaking, but yes—I understand it. I’m fitted with a cerebral implant that adapts to any spoken communication. After a few days of exposure, I can grasp and speak any previously unknown language.”
It’s a half-truth, really. She’s too rattled right now to hear why I chose not to speak earlier. Technically, I’m not lying. I do have the implant. And yes, I can learn unrepertoried languages. But French? Already been logged and archived in the Confed’s databases long ago.
“An implant?” she asks, curiosity piqued. “How does that work?”
“It’s critical for first contact with other worlds. Sure, you can get by with five hundred words, but full fluency takes closer to five thousand. The human brain can learn that many—it just can’t sort, analyze, and retain them quickly. The implant handles that. Within forty-eight hours—provided there’s enough conversation or audio—it can fully map a new language. After that, it’s second nature.”
Her expression turns to awe. I get it. This thing is light-years beyond the basic Coalition translator that only handles the top five languages.
“How do you get one?” she asks.
“I got mine when I joined the Intergalactic Confederation a while back. They didn’t offer you one? Not even an older-gen model? You’ve got Confed-standard infrastructure, after all.”
“It’s complicated. Let’s sit—I’ll explain.” She motions to the couch.
I don’t hesitate. Frankly relieved she’s not pressing the whole “why didn’t you talk sooner” thing. I follow her to the couch and sit at one end. She brings over the two bowls. The scent’s strong—fresh, earthy.
“I’m all ears,” I say.
“All Mars colonists are from Earth. The Polarians handpicked a few humans to resettle here. They’d already brought over animal and plant species that could handle Martian conditions. Then they offered a fresh start to tens of thousands of us. We were placed in limited zones—areas with the most stable weather. The shared language is English, but I speak French with my brother. It was our parents’ language. As for implants—no, we weren’t even told they existed.”
“Only members of the Confederation are implanted, that’s true. But I thought maybe you were affiliated. After all, the Polarians gave you tech that’s clearly theirs,” I say, gesturing toward the house.
“You’re right. The Confed left us with ready-made homes for all the settlers.”
“Yeah, I know. Same model used on other terraformed worlds.”
“I don’t know what they do elsewhere, but here we had to sign a Pact in exchange. We’re limited to what we were given.”
“What do you mean? I’ve never heard of this kind of restriction. What Pact?”
She’s perched on the opposite end of the couch. Not quite far enough to be totally relaxed around me. Her fingers keep twitching in her lap.
Am I making her nervous? Or is it just the topic?
“I don’t know what other homes are like, but ours are energy self-sufficient—lighting and heating on demand, thanks to Polarian tech. We’re safe, with basic equipment. We each grow our own garden in the greenhouse around the house. We havewater to drink and wash. We’re issued three outdoor outfits, and two indoor. All the same cut, all thermal fabric. I’ve heard that back on Earth, there were millions of clothing styles, colors, materials. All of that was banned here.”
“Sounds like a real thrill,” I say.
“But you’re with the Confed!” she says, surprised.
“Yeah, but I’m not Polarian. Those guys don’t get the concept of pleasure—only efficiency.”
“That’s the word, alright. Efficiency. The opposite of anything frivolous or superfluous. So we eat what our bodies need, nothing more. Resources are precious. We consume with care.”
“I hear you. I’ve lived most of my time on the Bakartia—well, I used to, before it sank into a lake. Everything on board was calculated for peak efficiency. But I didn’t have a choice. You folks don’t have to live like that anymore.”
“You don’t get it. Our ancestors drained Earth dry. Poisoned it. So when the Pact says eat only what’s needed, I follow it. When it says clothes are only for protection, I believe it.”
