I am.
I am alone.
This planet doesn’t taste right.
Wait, haven’t I said that before?
Haven’t I lived this before?
On second thought, I’m not quite alone. There’s a building not far from here, from the foot of this enormous tree. There are six people in the building. Four of them are anxious. I can smell it. One of them is angry, very very angry. I can smell that too. It’s a fiery scent, like ash blown from a campfire. Fear is different; fear smells stale, like swampland.
The sixth one is triumphant. He smells like hyssop and cold steel. I feel that I should know him.
He’s saying something. If I listen closely, I can hear it. He’s saying, “I knew it.”
“I don’t understand how she got by us,” one of the nervous men is saying.
“Are all the colonists back at the base camp?” asks another. This man’s scent is distinctive. The word “K’ntasari” floats into mind, accompanied by a mental image of a body taller, stronger than mine – one with golden skin and two eyelids.
“Her Eminence is safely on the flagship,” says a third, a female this time.
“Pig,” says the angry girl.
“How did you know?” asks the final anxious man. He seems to be in charge, except that the triumphant man is really in charge. Their vocal patterns of dominance and submission make that quite clear.
“Her eyes,” the triumphant man says. “They’re dead. Don’t you think I’d recognize my own kind?”
The nervous man says nothing, but gets more nervous.
“It will go easier on you if you cooperate with us,” says the woman. She must be the good cop. I feel that I should know her also.
“Die,” says the defiant girl.
“Don’t bother,” says the triumphant man dismissively. “She won’t say anything interesting.”
“We need to find out as much as we can,” says the leader. “We need to know if this was organized…”
“She was working alone. I guarantee it. This was altogether too stupid to be the work of a cartel.”
“Die, fucking Skarsian pig.”
“I’m not a Skarsian,” he replies. “I was born on Earth.” He’s honestly offended.
The angry girl reacts with surprise. “Then why are you here? With them?”
The triumphant man shrugs. It’s the sort of deep emotional shrug that can be felt even through the walls of a building. “Why did I fuck the Matriarch, back when she was Marquesa of Dolparessa? It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Suddenly, I’m shaking all over, and I feel like throwing up.
There’s something in my eyes: a brittle man; a woman made of ice and honey, ivory and carnelian sunset. They’re sitting in the back corner of a low-lit bar, kissing. Tommy is positioned so that he can’t see them, but he can see them. Tommy is crying.
It’s gone.
“You can’t understand,” says the angry girl.
“We’d like to,” says the good cop.
“No we wouldn’t,” says the triumphant man, in rather ill-humor. “It will be the same tedious rhetoric spouted by all these types. The real question is whether it’s best to make a big show of her trial and execution, or whether we should just strangle her and dump the body now. Both courses of action have advantages. I’d like to consult with Lord Danak.”
“Fuck you!” screams the angry girl. And begins to talk. Which was what the triumphant man intended all along. He’s smiling a hidden smile.
Here’s what she says: