Page 12 of Blightfall

“Good,” Gilaf said. “Apparently the diplomatic team is providing dinner. Among them is a xenoanthropologist who is sharing the ancient cuisine of your forefathers.”

When our ancestors crashed on Detritus, the Superiority had destroyed most of our original ships and killed everyone who was in command in the Defiant fleet. Because of that, we’d lost a lot of knowledge of our history. Some of the alien peoples we’d met knew more about Old Earth culture than we did, hailing back to the days when humanity had conquered their planets. “Ancient food doesn’t sound very appetizing,” I said. “But probably the food isn’t ancient, right? Just the recipe?”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take your share,” Gilaf said.

“Oh, I don’t care if the ancient cuisine is putrefied rat dung,” I said. “I’m trying it.”

“Is that a delicacy among your people?”

“No,” I said. “Not even in the Yeongian caverns.” I’d grown up in the farming areas beneath the surface of Detritus, where we grew algae and other foodstuffs in vats beneath full-spectrum lights. We ate a little better than the average citizen, since we also farmed the specialty food that only the rich could afford.

Together Gilaf and I headed down the narrow corridors of Platform Prime toward the flight meeting halls. I knew this place had been built for functionality rather than design, but the ancient humans who built it could have used a little more color. It was a giant platform in the sky! They could at least have painted some cool space stuff on the walls. I wasn’t an artist, but I wondered if our flight could requisition some paint to do it ourselves. We were in the special forces division, after all. Our quarters should look a little more special.

We reached the conference room, where an assembly of taynix crowded on one of the round tables. Nope was already there, curled up with Naga and Squeeze, our red-and-black flight boomslug. At the edge of the table perched Bob, our purple-and-orange commslug. I moved over to give Bob a scritch along his spines and was immediately interrupted by Wham, the concussion slug, who rolled over to me and nuzzled my hand. His whole body was a deep blue-black color that shimmered with iridescent sparkles. Wham’s concussion blasts left inorganic matter alone but knocked people unconscious, so in addition to having incredible sparkle, he was also a total badass. A badass who liked scritches right under his chin—or where his chin would be, if he had a jaw.

Gilaf joined Alanik on the far side of the room, where she had set up two chairs woven from tree branches. The rest of the decor was plastic and chrome, but Alanik had brought in special chairs so she and her brother would be more comfortable, more reminded of home. There was something so extra about that, it made me giddy.

Against the far wall, several kitsen hovered on acclivity disks over a low table, grinding a flaky red substance over the top of trays of food with tiny electric pepper grinders. Like the UrDail, the kitsen were one of the species who allied with us in the fight against the Superiority. They were only a handspan tall and resembled foxes who walked on two legs and wore cute little robes or sometimes power armor, but according to our recent sensitivity training, we weren’t supposed to call them foxes or squeal at them or tell them how cute they were. This would be doubly hard today, because half of them were wearing tiny aprons to keep their robes and fur clean while they cooked.

The food they were preparing looked like giant, fluffy pancakes smeared with a red paste and frosted with an oozy substance. It smelled like baking bread and some kind of tangy element that never grew in an algae vat. The pancakes were three times wider than the kitsen were tall, so they used their saucer-sized disks to travel over the food as they worked.

“What is that?” I asked, coming up behind Nedd and Arturo, who were seated around a table with three people I didn’t recognize.

“Something that smells delicious,” Nedd said, twisting in his seat to give me a wide grin. He wore a prosthetic on his left arm, attached just beneath his bicep, which was still pretty defined even after his accident. I’d seen him in the workout room, doing resistance training on his injured arm with large rubber bands instead of weights, and I might have stared a little longer than was socially appropriate. It was enough to make a girl drool, especially when he was shirtless and sweaty.

“Sadie,” Arturo said, motioning across the table, “this is Ferret, who will be piloting the passenger ship that will carry our diplomats. And these are the human members of our diplomatic team, Dasha Farion and Katri Amsel. Everyone, this is Sadie Chay.”

The diplomats both reached across the table to shake my hand, while Ferret, also a human, leaned back and observed. Katri was a stout woman with dark hair, and Dasha was thin and lanky, with light hair worn in a thick braid down her back. On the table rested Twist, one of the diplomatic crew’s hyperslugs, and Ferret stroked Twist’s spines absently with the back of his hand.

“Ranger Flight couldn’t join us,” Arturo said, “because they’ve been out on assignment today. But two of their pilots will also come with us.”

“I hear we’re trusting your flight to keep us safe on this mission,” Katri said to the group of us.

“Your safety is our first priority,” Arturo replied. “We’ll try to stay out of your way, but I hope you’ll also listen to our recommendations while we’re in unfamiliar territory.”

“You mean you don’t want us to run off unescorted among the unknown humans?” Katri asked with a wry smile. “Don’t you know that’s what the diplomatic corps does for fun?”

Dasha looked alarmed at the sarcasm, as if Arturo could miss it.

“Hey,” Nedd said, “if you start an intergalactic incident, our team can do what we do for fun: shoot everything that moves.”

Dasha shook her head so hard the tip of her braid whipped back and forth like a lion tail. “We’ll all do our best to avoid trouble,” she said. “This is a peaceful and careful approach. No shooting necessary.”

“We’re going to approach with caution,” Arturo assured Dasha. “No firefights. No intergalactic incidents. My team is good at what they do, and they’ll keep you safe.”

“It’ll be a barrel of laughs,” Katri said.

“Barrel of laughs!” Twist said.

“We’re not going for laughs,” Dasha insisted. “This is an important diplomatic—”

Katri smiled through Dasha’s lecture, as if the real fun of her assignment was baiting the other diplomat, and Ferret watched the whole thing like it made for great entertainment.

I liked these people already.

One of the kitsen, wearing a green velvet robe over her grey fur, floated over on her hovering disk.

“Have you all met Suki?” Dasha asked. “She’s a xenoanthropologist who’s been working as a liaison with the diplomatic corps. She’s an expert in alien cultures, including ours.”