2 #2
The receiving bay was very quiet. One of my guards cleared his throat, which among Velkorin was a sound that roughly translated to someone has made a catastrophic error and I do not wish to be associated with it.
"I see," I said, though I did not. "There has been a mistranslation."
"You think?"
"The Bureau's contract, however, is binding. Standard terms. Thirty days."
"Thirty—no. No, absolutely not. Send me back." She looked around the bay—at the dark metal walls, the weapons rack by the door, the guards who were both a full meter taller than she was. "Right now. This second."
I activated the Bureau's communication channel. The dispatcher materialized again, smile intact. "Commander Talon! I trust the acquisition was—"
"There has been an error. This human is not a military strategist. She manages a recreational facility for children."
"Hmm." The dispatcher consulted something. "The translation reads 'Commander of recreational combat simulations with expertise in tactical deployment, personnel management, and crisis resolution.' That matches the candidate's employment profile."
"She organizes birthday parties."
"Large-scale events requiring coordination of multiple hostile parties!
Commander, I understand there's been a slight expectation mismatch, but the contract has been activated.
Return transport is locked to the thirty-day cycle or successful resolution of the stated problem, whichever comes first. Budget constraints, I'm afraid. The beam costs are—"
"Unacceptable."
"—non-negotiable. But may I remind you that humans have an eighty-seven percent positive outcome rate? Earth-based resources consistently demonstrate creative problem-solving that exceeds predicted parameters. Give it a chance, Commander! You might be pleasantly surprised."
The dispatcher disappeared. The communication channel closed with a soft chime that sounded, to my ears, distinctly smug.
The human—Rory Sullivan, according to the contract documentation that had materialized on my data pad—crossed her arms over her feline-decorated sleeping garments and looked up at me with an expression I would later learn was barely controlled fury.
"So let me get this straight," she said.
Her voice had shifted. The initial shock had burned off, and underneath it was something harder.
"Your translation software glitched. You meant to grab a military genius.
You got me. And now I'm stuck here for thirty days because you can't afford the gas to send me back. "
"The Bureau's transport beam operates on a fixed cycle. It is not a matter of fuel."
"It's a metaphor." She stared at me. "Do you people not have metaphors?"
"We have metaphors. They are typically less casual."
She made that sound again—the sharp exhale through the nose.
Then she looked around the receiving bay for the second time, and I watched her do it.
Not the panicked scanning of a frightened person cataloging exits.
Something more deliberate. Her gaze moved systematically—the walls, the ceiling height, the door placement, the guards' positions, the weapons rack, the communications hub.
She was reading the room the way an officer reads terrain.
"Okay," she said, more quietly. "Okay. I need clothes.
Real clothes, not whatever you guys consider formal wear if it involves metal.
I need food—I'm assuming you have food that won't kill me?
And I need you to explain this war. The whole thing.
From the beginning. Because if I'm stuck here for thirty days, I'm not spending them sitting in a room staring at a wall. "
I had expected many things from this interaction. Weeping. Screaming. Perhaps an attempt to run, which my guards would have prevented gently but firmly. I had not expected someone in cat pajamas to start issuing logistics requests.
"You will be provided with quarters, clothing, and sustenance," I said. "Our atmosphere and food supply are compatible with human biology. The war briefing—"
"Tonight. Now. I can't sleep anyway. I was unconscious for however long that beam thing took, so I'm wired. Might as well use it."
"It is 0300 hours."
"And? You're awake too." She looked at me—really looked, past the scales and the claws and the half meter of height I had on her.
Her gaze settled somewhere around my eyes, and she held it with a steadiness that was either very brave or very foolish.
"You're losing a war. You called the alien temp agency.
You got me. So either we start figuring this out, or we both stand here wasting time we apparently don't have. "
The markings along my spine glowed. I dimmed them—not quickly enough.
"This way," I said, and turned toward the war room.
The soft pad of bare feet on metal flooring followed behind me. And something else—quieter, almost inaudible. The human was talking to herself.
"Giant lizard man with glow-in-the-dark tattoos wants me to win a war. Sure. Fine. This is fine. This is absolutely fine."
I had thirty days to win a war I had been losing for three years. My only help was a human in cat pajamas who talked to herself and issued demands in her bare feet and looked at a room full of armed aliens like they were misbehaving teenagers at a birthday party.
The markings on my forearms glowed despite my best efforts.