Chapter 15 Falcon Station, Eve
FALCON STATION, EVE
Falcon Station erupts around me in a barrage of sounds, sights, and smells.
A stark contrast to the calm corridors of the Imperial ship.
Holographic signs flash in dozens of alien languages, none of which I recognize.
Pungent alien smells assault me as I walk through the station, all undercut by what I assume is the odor of too many species breathing the same recycled air in one place.
Aliens of every shape and size move through the station with purpose.
A group of tall, many-jointed figures glide by on personal hover discs, their limbs folded against torsos that glimmer with shifting bioluminescent patterns.
Nearby, a creature like a sentient gas cloud within a glassy exoskeleton exchanges something with a security drone, its violet vapors drifting in and out of small vents.
Then my IC interrupts everything with a ping and a blinking alert:
I navigate through streams of aliens, following holographic directional arrows that appear to respond to my presence, similar to those on the Igo. At an intersection, I hesitate until a hovering information sphere detects my confusion and projects a path in human-readable script.
After about twenty minutes of walking, I reach my destination.
Bio-Authentication Station 42. It’s clear when I arrive this is the equivalent to immigration at our airports, but obviously way more high tech.
There’s a circular platform ringed with scanning pillars.
Each visitor places their hand, tentacle, or other appendage against a recognition panel.
I watch in fascination as a gelatinous being in front of me simply oozes part of itself into a specialized receptacle.
My heart is beating a mile a minute when it’s my turn, and I try not to think about all the bad things that could happen to me here if it decides I’m an illegal alien.
Literally. I absurdly think about my state ID in my bag and wonder if that could help.
I stand still and try to stay as calm as I can while the scanner pulses with a red light.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
It’s taking too damn long.
“Species: Human. Unregistered.” A subtle shift occurs in the atmosphere around me. Several nearby aliens turn to look. Their expressions are unreadable, but I can imagine they’re annoyed. I’m slowing down the line.
“Manual verification required for unregistered human,” the system announces, louder this time, to ensure everyone in the vicinity knows there's a problem.
What is going to happen to me now?
I watch with fascination as a hovering security drone detaches from its docking station and multiple sensor arrays extend from its spherical body as it approaches me. It feels surreal that this is really happening.
“Remain stationary,” it commands in a voice devoid of inflection. “Identity verification in progress.”
The drone circles me slowly, scanning from multiple angles. A thin beam of blue light projects from its central eye, passing over me from head to toe. I fight the urge to step away as the light feels like ice against my skin. I hope this is safe for humans.
“Extend dominant appendage,” the drone instructs.
I hesitantly raise my right hand, which seems like my “dominant appendage.”
A small compartment opens in the drone's body, extending a gelatinous pad. “Press your palm to the verification surface.”
When I touch the pad, it conforms around my hand, enveloping it completely. The sensation is unnerving. Beneath the surface, I can see tiny motes of light moving through the gel, traveling up my fingers and across my palm. It’s one of the strangest sensations and unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
“Cellular sampling in progress,” the drone announces. “Do not withdraw your appendage.”
The gel seems to tighten, and I feel a slight pricking sensation across my palm. The lights within the substance turn from blue to green and then back to blue.
“DNA profile extracted. Processing.”
After several uncomfortable seconds, the gel recedes, leaving my hand completely dry, but slightly numb. The drone hovers silently for a moment, its lights blinking in patterns I can't decipher.
“Subject: Human, female. Registration pending. Security clearance: Provisional. Purpose: Employment, Celestial Spire.” Its tone rises at the end, as though it's puzzled by its own findings.
A holographic badge appears above the drone, rotating my image beside words in multiple alien scripts.
“Temporary transit authorization granted,” it concludes. “Escort required. Please wait for authorized personnel.”
That's when I spot her. A woman standing apart from the crowd, with grey skin and wearing a Celestial Spire uniform. Relief floods through me at finding my contact, though it's quickly tempered by the intensity of her gaze as she approaches.
The drone acknowledges her presence with a subtle dip in its hovering height. “Reima Two citizen recognized. Authorization level: Celestial Spire Administrative. Will you claim responsibility for this human?”
“I will,” she responds, not looking at me.
The drone deposits a small metallic disc into her outstretched hand. “Temporary tracker assigned. Return upon delivery to destination.”
She places the disc on my shoulder, where it attaches instantly to my clothing, and I feel a faint vibration as it activates. Am I a prisoner? Or a dog? But I let those feelings slide off my back. I want to make a good first impression.
I extend my hand in what I hope is a universal greeting. “Hello! I'm Eve Eden from Earth.”
She stares at my outstretched hand with something between confusion and distaste. “Eve,” she says. “Welcome to Falcon Station. From here, I'll escort you to the Celestial Spire. When we arrive, you'll see our physician first and be fitted with a proper translator.”
Although I've been surrounded by grey-skinned Imperials for the past week, Rae's presence feels fundamentally different, and not because she’s an alien woman.
Because she's beautiful in a way that unnerves me—sharp, angular features offset by the asymmetrical cut of her straight black hair, which falls to her chin on one side and barely covers her ear on the other, revealing a row of luminescent metallic implants along her scalp.
But it's her eyes that really hold me. They're grey too, like polished hematite, but without any warmth in them.
She looks at me as if she's appraising livestock, and I can't help but feel that I've been found wanting.
As she speaks, her gaze drops to the necklace Clay gave me. The look of disgust that crosses her face is fleeting, but unmistakable.
“I already saw a doctor on the ship,” I say. “He was quite thorough.” I don’t mention the orgasm.
She turns to walk, expecting me to follow.
“An Imperial male doctor.” She says the word Imperial as though it's a mild obscenity.
“They can't be trusted with sensitive matters and definitely not with women’s bodies. The Celestial Spire is owned and operated by Reima Two citizens. We do things properly.”
The computer in my guest quarters onboard the Igo told me enough about Reima Two to know it's a major economic powerhouse in the galaxy, but nothing prepared me for this thinly veiled hostility toward the Empire.
“Fine,” I say, and follow her through the bustling port, struggling to match her measured pace.
The station is teeming with activity. Some aliens move on all fours along specially designed walkways, while others float above the ground entirely.
A massive being with transparent skin towers over a merchant stall, jewel-toned liquid flowing through visible channels beneath its clear epidermis.
But what strikes me most is that none of them look remotely like Rae and me.
They're utterly alien, while she could almost pass for human. Almost.
I catch her glancing back at me more than once, her gaze lingering on my hands, my neck, the way I walk. Each time I feel the weight of her assessment. On the third look, I can't stay silent.
“Is something wrong?”
Her step falters slightly. “Why would anything be wrong?”
“You keep looking at me,” I say, trying to sound casual but failing. “You've seen a human before, haven't you?”
“Of course I've seen a human before. Just not one without a neuro-leash around its neck.”
I'm certain I must have misheard her. “Excuse me?”
She repeats herself, her tone flat, as though she's merely stating an unremarkable fact.
I instinctively touch my translator, wondering if it's malfunctioning.
“Neuro-leash,” she says again, this time gesturing around her neck as if pantomiming one. “Behavior modification collar. Standard for human companions throughout civilized space.”
“Why would you speak to me that way? I’m an employee of the Celestial Spire, just like you.”
She turns to face me fully for the first time.
Her expression is one of disdain. “Did you speak with any of the human pets on your journey with that guttural Earth language you use?” She makes a harsh sound that I assume is her approximation of human speech.
“All those primitive consonants and base biological urges barely concealed beneath your so-called communication.”
“Our language isn’t—”
“Did you mate with anyone during transit?” she interrupts. “The Imperial crew? Perhaps the Commander? Or do you need to visit a hygiene station to attend to your base biological compulsions before we continue?”
“What?”
“Do you need to masturbate, or will you be able to control yourself for the next thirty minutes?”
The question is so inappropriate, so utterly demeaning, that for a moment I can only stare at her in shock. “That's not…humans don't just—” I struggle to maintain my composure. “No, I didn't mate with anyone. I’m not an animal. I’m an employee with rights under the IGC.”
“Ah,” she says. “The illusion of rights. How quaint.” Her head tilts, reassessing me. “The Commander of the Igo obviously let you see just enough to prepare you, but not enough to terrify you into remaining on your primitive world at the edge of the galaxy. Quite calculating of him.”
“Are Reima Two women ever kept as pets?” I ask out of spite.
She snorts. “No. We are fully sentient. Our neural architecture supports abstract thought and advanced technology.” She gestures to her implants. “These are processing enhancements, not ornaments. They’d probably give you brain damage.”
I feel my face flush with anger. “Humans have complex societies, art, literature—”
“Charming achievements,” she interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “Like the clever tricks of a trained animal. No one disputes that humans can be taught to mimic sentient behavior. That's what makes you such prized companions and good breeders… with the right interventions.”
Breeders with the right interventions? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It appears that Rae is not just racist against Imperial people.
She strides off before I can reply. We go through another security checkpoint where a drone scans us.
Her implants glow in response, while the drone lingers on me with suspicion.
Finally, we round a corner, and I see the Celestial Spire’s insignia, a tall silver tower set against geometric starbursts.
“Is this it?” I ask, my voice thick with relief.
She shakes her head. “No, this is just the employee transport hub.
The Spire itself isn't apart of Falcon Station.
It operates as its own orbital platform, but it doesn't have galactic clearance to accept Class Three or higher vessels.” She says this as though I should obviously understand the distinction.
Then she opens a door, and we step into a transport with smooth, flowing seats. It slides away from the station almost instantly.
“No pilots?” I murmur, feeling the sudden motion.
“For short-range routes, none are required. Did you have a pilot from the Igo? Of course not.” She taps a panel, and her implants connect briefly, confirming something on a display. She points out the window at a large, glittering shape. “There. The Spire.”
Before us is a massive structure of twisting metal and glass, lit in dynamic patterns that make it seem alive.
“It’s extraordinary,” I breathe.
“It's the premier luxury destination in fourteen sectors,” Rae responds, a hint of pride entering her voice for the first time. “The Imperial ship you arrived on would barely qualify for docking privileges at the maintenance levels.”
I’m shocked by her rudeness, but remind myself that hierarchy is everything here. So I say nothing.
“Do people keep their ships there too?” I ask.
“Only those who book private suites. Surely you read your handbook?” she says with an irritated sigh.
“I did,” I answer. “But reading and seeing are different. On Earth, space travel isn’t—”
The transport docks with barely a sensation of movement, and Rae steps out with practiced grace, ignoring what I was saying.