FALCON STATION, EVE
Falcon Station eruptsaround me in a barrage of sounds, sights, and smells. A stark contrast to the calm corridors of the Imperial ship. Holographic signs flash in dozens of alien languages, none of which I recognize. Pungent alien smells assault me as I walk through the station, all undercut by what I assume is the odor of too many species breathing the same recycled air in one place.
Aliens of every shape and size move through the station with purpose. A group of tall, many-jointed figures glide by on personal hover discs, their limbs folded against torsos that glimmer with shifting bioluminescent patterns. Nearby, a creature like a sentient gas cloud within a glassy exoskeleton exchanges something with a security drone, its violet vapors drifting in and out of small vents.
Then my IC interrupts everything with a ping and a blinking alert:
I navigate through streams of aliens, following holographic directional arrows that appear to respond to my presence, similar to those on theIgo. At an intersection, I hesitate until a hovering information sphere detects my confusion and projects a path in human-readable script.
After about twenty minutes of walking, I reach my destination. Bio-Authentication Station 42. It’s clear when I arrive this is the equivalent to immigration at our airports, but obviously way more high tech.There’s acircular platform ringed with scanning pillars. Each visitor places their hand, tentacle, or other appendage against a recognition panel. I watch in fascination as a gelatinous being in front of me simply oozes part of itself into a specialized receptacle.
My heart is beating a mile a minute when it’s my turn, and I try not to think about all the bad things that could happen to me here if it decides I’m an illegal alien. Literally. I absurdly think about my state ID in my bag and wonder if that could help. I stand still and try to stay as calm as I can while the scanner pulses with a red light.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
It’s taking too damn long.
“Species: Human. Unregistered.” A subtle shift occurs in the atmosphere around me. Several nearby aliens turn to look. Their expressions are unreadable, but I can imagine they’re annoyed. I’m slowing down the line.
“Manual verification required for unregistered human,” the system announces, louder this time, to ensure everyone in the vicinity knows there's a problem.
What is going to happen to me now?
I watch with fascination as a hovering security drone detaches from its docking station and multiple sensor arrays extend from its spherical body as it approaches me. It feels surreal that this is really happening.
“Remain stationary,” it commands in a voice devoid of inflection. “Identity verification in progress.”
The drone circles me slowly, scanning from multiple angles. A thin beam of blue light projects from its central eye, passing over me from head to toe. I fight the urge to step away as the light feels like ice against my skin.I hope this is safe for humans.
“Extend dominant appendage,” the drone instructs.
I hesitantly raise my right hand, which seems like my “dominant appendage.”
A small compartment opens in the drone's body, extending a gelatinous pad. “Press your palm to the verification surface.”
When I touch the pad, it conforms around my hand, enveloping it completely. The sensation is unnerving. Beneath the surface, I can see tiny motes of light moving through the gel, traveling up my fingers and across my palm. It’s one of the strangest sensations and unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
“Cellular sampling in progress,” the drone announces. “Do not withdraw your appendage.”
The gel seems to tighten, and I feel a slight pricking sensation across my palm. The lights within the substance turn from blue to green and then back to blue.
“DNA profile extracted. Processing.”
After several uncomfortable seconds, the gel recedes, leaving my hand completely dry, but slightly numb. The drone hovers silently for a moment, its lights blinking in patternsI can't decipher.
“Subject: Human, female. Registration pending. Security clearance: Provisional. Purpose: Employment, Celestial Spire.” Its tone rises at the end, as though it's puzzled by its own findings.
A holographic badge appears above the drone, rotating my image beside words in multiple alien scripts.
“Temporary transit authorization granted,” it concludes. “Escort required. Please wait for authorized personnel.”
That's when I spot her. A woman standing apart from the crowd, with grey skin and wearing a Celestial Spire uniform. Relief floods through me at finding my contact, though it's quickly tempered by the intensity of her gaze as she approaches.
The drone acknowledges her presence with a subtle dip in its hovering height. “Reima Two citizen recognized. Authorization level: Celestial Spire Administrative. Will you claim responsibility for this human?”
