Kyne waited in front of the security scanner. The stationmaster’s Lostolian valet came out to greet him and ushered him into the screening parlor.
He took care not to touch the creature. Lostolians’ personalities—along with their skin—were too tightly stretched and easily torn. Arrogance seemed to be their species’ default. They made great bureaucrats, always fussing over something.
Not that Space Station Leto was a place for species prejudice. Three hundred and fifty-four different types of sentients resided here. Tolerance was another key parameter for selection, and Kyne had rated highly on the species-empathy scale. He knew how to fudge a test. He’d designed enough of them.
“The stationmaster is waiting for you,” said the valet.
Kyne resisted apologizing. He’d come as quickly as he could. Instead, he walked straight-backed into the chilled inner sanctum.
Stationmaster Floraboden stood in between two nano-generators with his eyes closed. Kyne could see their little winking lights at work.
Other than that, the room was sparse: two kneeling chairs facing each other, a food dispenser, and a multidimensional picture of a cobalt-blue planet.
Please wait while Stationmaster Floraboden disengages from virtual, Kyne’s M-A told him.
Kyne sank onto the cushioned pad of one of the two kneel chairs. A trifle confrontational. Not all the species on this station would be able to fit on, or be appreciative of, the proximity of these chairs. Clearly the ergonomic designers hadn’t consulted a behaviorist.
“Welcome, Professor,” said Floraboden joining him on the opposite chair. “I know you don’t like to be disturbed when you’re working, but I have a unique situation and… an opportunity for you. However, this requires the highest security clearance. I would need certain assurances on your part.”
Kyne experienced an unsettling sensation in his stomach. “Is it dangerous?”
“Not inherently,” said Floraboden evasively.
Kyne observed the man’s movements and replayed the tone of his voice in his mind. The stationmaster was hiding something. “Why would you require me for this high security… situation?”
“Your research and your talent for interpreting voice are uniquely suited to the task.”
“Indeed?” Kyne’s curiosity was piqued, and he relaxed. He’d never had someone of the stationmaster’s status give kudos to his work before. Perhaps an opportunity had finally come his way.
“What’s required for me to gain clearance?” Kyne asked.
“Just a signatory assurance that you’ll abide by our protocols, and of course, a prosecutable declaration you won’t discuss your involvement with anyone.”
“And my recompense for such a commitment?”
Floraboden’s smile crinkled his face all the way to his ears. “I thought you might have some ideas on that. What would you like, Professor Kyne? What would be suitable reparation for assisting us to maintain the safety and wellbeing of your home?”
The stationmaster delivered the veiled rebuke with perfect good humor, as though it wasn’t really one at all.
But Kyne knew exactly what he wanted. “I should like to be moved to an office in the new science wing, next door to Dr. Dente Freeburg.”
Floraboden’s eyebrows shot upward. “Professor Freeburg is our leading physicist and astronomein. The new wing is for the hard sciences.”
“A profoundly ignorant decision, if I may say,” said Kyne.
“Aaah,” said Floraboden nodding his head. “You’re an activist in the war of the sciences?”
“I decry the physicists and astronomeins hegemony’s stranglehold on public perception. Yes.”
“Quite,” said Floraboden. “Well, let me see what’s available.”
He lifted a hand and wove a quick, new pattern with his fingers. His eyes glazed but remained open. The receptor implants across his forehead and down the left side of his face winked in a mesmerizing light pattern.
Most station operators could manage a decent load of procedures from anywhere on the station while still engaged in the real world. Floraboden, however, was renowned for his ability to compartmentalize and endlessly multitask. It was a stationmaster’s lot.
“I can agree to your request,” said Floraboden eventually.
“It must have an external view,” added Kyne. “I want to see outside.”
Floraboden scowled and twitched his fingers. Then he rose and returned to his command field.
The door opened behind Kyne, and Floraboden’s valet entered.
“Your request has been approved. Please follow me to give your signatory,” said the Lostolian.
Kyne glanced back at Floraboden, but the stationmaster had already resubmerged into station space, his eyes shut, and both hands conducting with fervor.
How annoying that the only person Kyne had spoken to in the last month didn’t have the courtesy to say goodbye.
It was a full day before Kyne found out what he’d signed up for. The guard escorts who came for him the following morning wore station insignia and armed-combat suits.
His stomach tightened. “Am I in danger?”
None of them saw fit to reply, other than to insist—with gestures only—that he should don a privacy helmet, so he remained blind in transit.
To allay his jitters, Kyne imagineered himself in his new office with his name plate outside on the wall next to Freeburg’s. He concentrated on picturing the physicists’ faces when a psycho-realist moved in among them. Sometimes, you have to fabricate your own success. Being in the hard-science wing would give his work some solid exposure. For one thing, it meant an automatic invite to the Scientists’ Union tri-cyclic symposium.
The very idea broke a fine sweat on his skin.
So deep were his contemplations that Kyne lost track of direction and time. He only roused from them when a guard tapped his shoulder and removed his helmet.
They’d brought him to a small room, even by station standards, which comprised an armchair, three gray titanium walls, and an interactive screen as the fourth wall. The screen was inactive.
The guard proffered him a tube of water. When Kyne accepted it, the guard left the room. The door shut after him with discernible finality.
Kyne stood, holding the tube. What next?
“Please be seated, Professor Kyne,” said Floraboden’s voice.
The screen flickered alive and the stationmaster’s head and shoulders appeared in sharp definition. The ridge of flesh along his hairline was stained from medical scans from the implants. Stationmasters were prone to cranial bleeds.
“On the other side of this screen we are detaining an A-Class alien. We would like you to begin some preliminary discourse with the creature. As your specialty is psychic interior realism, we believe that you can bring us some insight into the true nature of this creature.”
“That’s it? You want me to just talk to an A-Class?”
“Yes.”
“But I haven’t prepared. I need a profile tracker.”
“We’d prefer you did this on instinct and gave a spontaneous verbal report after every meeting.”
Kyne shook his head. This was most inappropriate. Most unscientific. “What can you tell me about the A-Class?”
“Our forward scout found… her—I use the gender tag in a qualified manner, for ease of discussion—in the brig of a JetShift trader. The humanesque crew were all dead. She seems to be able to communicate in our language and has chosen to be known as Sarin.”
“Sarin is the fourth brightest star in the Hercules constellation.”
“Indeed, Professor.”
“What does she look like?” asked Kyne, stepping closer to the screen.