Chapter 9 - Prax
I watch Neela dart out of the washroom without even glancing back.
Too bad. I would've preferred her to own up to her desire instead of running away like that.
There's no way she could've hidden how she felt just moments ago. She liked what she saw. Her pupils were dilated, her breath shallow, her cheeks flushed... And that scent? She was dying for it, plain and simple. That’s why I invited her to join me—figured it was worth breaking my silence.
Alas, humans seem strangely uptight when it comes to basic needs. Or maybe it’s just her?
On Sadjim, my home planet, there’s no shame in survival instincts. Hunt, kill, and eat your prey. Groom your fur multiple times a day so it doesn’t get matted or infested with bacteria. Have sex when the opportunity arises or the mood strikes.
Eat, bathe, mate. Nothing indecent about any of it. And yet, every one of those topics seems to rattle my Purrsong little Human.
Oh well. I calmly finish what I started, letting off some of the tension coiled in my body. The memory of her hungry gaze trailing over me helps immensely. I get relief within seconds.
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 have water 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.”
She’s fired up now. She’d almost scold me for not sharing her rigid mindset.
“Everything is a matter of perspective. There’s no such thing as universal truth. And the Confed, for all its power, doesn’t have all the answers,” I counter.
“You say that, but you wear their clothes too!” she shoots back.
I glance down—bare chest, towel still slung low on my hips. I flash her a cheeky grin.
“Pfft—I meant the ones drying in the garden!” she says, voice strained. “I recognized the thermoregulated fabric.”
I chuckle at her obvious discomfort.
“Sure, their clothes are practical. But a beautiful woman in a stunning dress? That’s something the Confed doesn’t know how to make.”
She chuckles, and for a second her face lights up in shared mischief. For all her loyalty to her benefactors, she knows I’ve got a point.
Then she gets serious again.
“The Pact says water is precious. That’s why showers are limited to three minutes. You removed that setting, which is going to mess up the whole balance of the house. Prax, you need to put it back the way it was.”
She looks genuinely annoyed now. I stifle a grin and pick my next words carefully.
“Neela, surely you’ve noticed—you live in a snowy region. And snow is just frozen water. You’re not lacking it.”
“But the Polarians said—”
“The Polarians gave those guidelines when your colony first launched, years ago. Like on every terraformed world, water was scarce. But once balance is restored—like here, with plenty of snow and a huge lake nearby—you can ease the restrictions. I’m not saying waste it.
But you could double, even triple this home’s consumption without an issue. ”
“But the Pact says we must live with what was given!”
I sigh inwardly. Great—I’ve landed in the home of a rule-stickler. Me, a former Coalition operative turned Confed Sentinel. I’ve broken so many laws I lost count. And I can already tell I’ll need to keep that little detail under wraps—she’d probably faint.
Right now, she’s not budging.
“Your Pact was made under specific conditions. Those may no longer apply here. And we’re two people now—at least until my team picks me up. Plus, I’m Sadjim. I need to wash at least twice a day. Hygiene is crucial for my kind.”
“What? Others like you are coming here?” she asks, now focused only on that part.
“When I entered your atmosphere, I got shot by a Coalition ship. If you don’t know who they are—they’re enemies of the Confed.
One of them hit my craft, I crashed, you found me.
But before I blacked out, I sent an alert.
How long till someone hears it and sends help? No idea. But yes, someone’s coming.”
“You’re saying more from the Confed are coming—you’re sure?”
She doesn’t look scared—just laser-focused. Strange.
“Pretty sure,” I say cautiously. “Ideally I’d send another signal, but your comms are disabled. I checked.”
She looks disappointed, frowning, biting her lip.
“You won’t be able to send a new message.
In old Earth movies, people had fancy comm systems and satellites.
Mars wasn’t allowed any of that. The Confed gave us CCCs—Cydonia Colony Communication.
An old Earth tech—shortwave radios. No need for atmospheric relays. We use them for emergencies mostly.”
I’m speechless. After seeing images of their trashed oceans, I didn’t think they could pollute their skies too. These humans really wrecked their planet top to bottom. Maybe that’s why the Confed treats them like kids?
Still, the punishment feels harsh. Who wants to live their whole life micromanaged and treated like a child?
And the Confed could’ve given them safe tech. Why didn’t they?
“These CCCs you mentioned—I don’t know what they are.”
“Used to be called CB radios. Ours are stationary. Mine’s in the kitchen. Not many channels—one for announcements, one for gossip, and I stay tuned to channel 3: emergencies. Even when it’s not my week on call.”
“What’s the range?”
“About twenty miles.”
That’s nothing. Still, knowing the Confed, there must be a stronger emitter at one of the old terraform sites. I’ll need to find it.
But first, something else. I haven’t forgotten that movie projection she showed me yesterday.
“You showed me a Mars documentary. That means you’re receiving data somehow.”
“I don’t know how it works,” she admits. “We can access historical documentaries, music, movies. Also colony training programs—for kids, hydroponics, medical stuff. I’m a doctor, so I get extra access to medical files.”
I get it. The Confed didn’t just limit their water or their fashion choices. They cut them off from intergalactic culture. Knowledge helps people understand, compare, adapt. On the Bakartia, I could access anything—science, art, films—from any world.
Why isolate this species? It doesn’t fit the Confed’s usual approach.
“Your houses have no local storage,” I note. “If you’re receiving data, there’s a transmitter somewhere. I need to find it.”
“Should I call Kiran? My brother? Maybe he knows. I never thought about it.”
“I’ll leave that to you. What’s his opinion of me?”
I only met Neela and her brother so far. From what I recall, he wanted to tie me up just to be sure I wasn’t dangerous. Was that my appearance, or just brotherly instinct? And he didn’t know I understood him. Is he reasonable?
Neela stares into her empty cup, thoughtful.
“Honestly, you should stay hidden from the other colonists for now. It’s a tense time.
People will be suspicious of you. You need to know—Mars was Earth’s backup planet.
We called it Planet-B. The Polarians said our solar system would remain cut off from all other races.
But we recently found out that’s not true. ”
Now that catches my attention. She’s not talking about me—but someone else.
“Go on.”
“To make it simple: the Regent of Cydonia, Vassili Porkoff, is breaking the Pact. According to Kiran, something shady is going on at the Palace. Vassili’s doing business with a lizard man.”
Bully. I knew it! That’s why my old partner was snooping around here. Not one, but two viable planets in a quarantined system? Prime real estate for illicit operations.
My brain goes into overdrive.
I found Bully.
I may have found a new trafficking network.
I have no comms. No real weapons. And I’m surrounded by idealistic pacifists.
“Neela, I need to talk to your brother.”
She jumps up and pulls an ancient-looking device from a kitchen drawer.
I can’t believe this. The Confed left them with this relic?
Neela turns the dial, and a burst of static pops from the black receiver. After a few seconds, a voice comes through.
“This is a call for Kiran. It’s Neela.”
Moments later:
“Kiran here. What’s up?”
The sound is weak, choppy. Honestly, communication over millions of miles is clearer than this. It’s pathetic that the Confed gave them such junk.
“Kiran? It’s Neela. Can you come over?”
“You okay?”
“Yes. Please just come.”
“…Is it the cat? I’m on my way. Over and out.”
I like this guy. He’s fast, protective. And I remember how he wasn’t as squeamish as Neela about my diet.
“He’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” Neela says.
“Great. Think I could get one of my pants back?”
“They won’t be dry till tomorrow. Come—I’ll show you where they are.”
Seriously? No proper washer-dryer? I think longingly of the one back in the Bakartia’s belly. Compact, solar-powered, could clean and dry a full outfit in minutes.
Should I tell her about it? Maybe better to go retrieve it quietly…
For now, I follow her to the kitchen corner. She opens a panel leading to a three-yard-wide greenhouse that wraps around the house.
And there they are—my top and pants, dripping among the flowers.