Our first observer, Jurer Noll, stays out of the way. Physically. Her physical form remains in a corner, far from the paths of the others in Eva's office. Eva and Desra avoid the dust eater easily.

  Jurer Noll also refrains from commenting upon anything happening within the confines of the office. Her silence is a mixed blessing. Who knows what the thaumatist could be learning. Her attention remains locked upon myself, watching. Often, the reddish flavored energy she employs washes over me, but never in a way I can declare harmful.

  The observer remains unobtrusive until the end of the shift, when the administrators outside begin readying their workspaces for the next to use them. It is then that Noll ventures an observation.

  "The specimen appears to be damaged."

  I don't think the Ship-Mother can hear the dust eater; she does not look up from the data tablet in her hands. Desra, happy for an excuse to set her own tablet down, looks over at the gray robed observer.

  "I'm sorry?" Confusion laces the Tserri's voice, and she tilts her head to one side as she speaks.

  "As well you should be," Noll replies acerbically. "Its crystalline structure is littered with tiny fractures. You have been abusing the specimen."

  Eva looks up at the accusatory tones Noll adopts. "Not possible," she declares. "He spends his time exactly where you see him."

  Noll's tendrils move in a silent insult. Eva does not realize the implications of the dust eater's rude motions, and her orders prevent me from informing her. I am to remain silent unless addressed directly or to communicate an alert, should the station be in immediate peril. But not to protect the dignity of the Ship-Mother. The insult must go unpunished.

  "Not that anyone can see much," mutters Desra quietly.

  She is only partially incorrect. Neither she nor the Ship-Mother can see me from my place inside the sealed niche in the wall. The thaumatist possesses senses the other two lack, however. Physical barriers are no impediment to a Jurer's senses.

  Senses that, in some small way, I too can use. Though, in all honesty, admiring my own appearance is not high on my list of priorities. I rarely, if ever, employ my esoteric senses to observe my own form. Perhaps I should.

  "If you do not believe me, take your own readings of the specimen." At the blank looks of the other two, Noll asks, "You do possess equipment capable of scanning the object?"

  Desra looks expectantly at her commander. Jurer Noll, noticing the Tserri, politely turns her body so that her central eyes directly face the Ship-Mother.

  "Well," begins Eva. "That's a small problem. I asked Yosip about it, once. He told me, and I quote," she lowers her voice into a deeper register and scowls for effect, "The equipment won't work on the stupid rock."

  Only because I do not desire them to. There is little that is truly my own, but I number my personal privacy among my few possessions. Or, at least, I used to.

  "Your devices must be quite primitive if they are unable to perform the simplest of scans."

  An opinion I no longer share. I now know from experience that the equipment the Selber possess is almost as useful as the runic arrays of my own kind. Almost.

  "More like the Jurer who put Denn into the crystal did a shoddy job," counters Eva.

  While Nuhst had his faults, I would not place poor crafting skills upon that list. I might lack certain things from my old life, such as a sense of smell or the ability to move myself, but the new faculties I possess more than make up for the absence of such frivolities. Best of all, I no longer have to suffer the embarrassment of regular examinations from the robed castes.

  "I wish to examine the specimen more closely," exclaims the robed one.

  Need she sound so smug when she says that?

  "Not possible," declares Eva. "We need him where he is. If you can't observe him well enough the way things are, perhaps you should let someone else have a turn watching."

  You tell her, Eva!

  Noll slumps in defeat, unwilling to concede her place to another. No doubt she wishes to gain favor from the Duv by being the first to bring them useful information about my functions. Another wave of energy surrounds and suffuses me. This probe is more invasive than any other she has yet attempted. The result is also more noticeable to the others in the room, though they misattribute the phenomena.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  My energy output, always outside of my conscious control, fluctuates wildly. The socket in which I reside draws power through me as needed, regulated by the demands of the systems attached to it. Whatever Noll attempts, it causes minor malfunctions in the program which regulates the energy flow. The lights in the room flicker ominously.

  "Might want to call a repair team to check out the wiring in here," observes Desra. At her superior's nod she taps commands into her tablet and a digital notification surges through the data channels. "I let maintenance know."

  It won't do much good but certainly cannot do any harm. As soon as Noll stops probing me, the flow returns to normal intensity levels. Activity within the office returns to normal levels, as well.

  Eva awaits word from a certain shuttle pilot that the dronefeathers are safely down on the planet. It seems that the planetary authorities are unwilling to let the pilot, a Tserri of no small skill, land their craft. Their excuse is a lack of clearance.

  Eva and Desra work to clear the way, providing authorization and overriding lower ranking officials to force compliance. It is a difficult battle, one that might prove to be too much for the diminutive Ship-Mother. They give their full attention to the confrontation of wills.

  While she taps commands into her tablet, manipulating events down upon Honus, a repair technician arrives. The Tserri worker wears regulation overalls with a heavily laden belt of tools around their waist. Scorched patches of fur on the worker's arms attest to their dedication to electrical repair and willingness to place themself in danger to accomplish their tasks. Already I like this worker.

  The technician greets the officers inside with quiet respect but ignores the thaumatist in her corner. I cannot blame them; a sulking dust eater is not something I would wish to acknowledge were I not so forced. The repair worker fully enters the room and my appraisal of them drops significantly. Hanging down their back by a thin cord is a wide brimmed hat. Orange ribbons decorate the garment in ways I am learning to dislike.

  The worker pulls a device from their belt and begins waving it around the room. After a few moments, they home in on my location. Not difficult, the panel that provides access is clearly marked. Ignoring the signs, the worker focuses upon their scanner, trusting it more than their organic senses. I believe that Noll approves of this behavior; her tendrils arrange themselves in a pattern indicating mild surprise. The specific movements are often reserved for when a promising pupil does better than expected.

  I cannot fault the technician for their behavior. At this point in time, due to constant repairs or upgrades, many signs around the station display incorrect information. Correcting these inaccuracies remains too low priority compared to keeping up with the constant malfunctions, so they must remain. The technicians know which signs to believe and which to disregard, after all.

  Noll rushes forward when the technician pops open the access panel. So close to the worker does she stand that when he takes a step backwards for a better view of the interior, he steps upon one of her tentacles. The screech she emits is delightful, though I might be the only one to appreciate it. Everyone else in the room covers their sensory organs with their manipulatory digits.

  Eva and the technician both apologize profusely though Desra's grin and the set of her ears make me think that only the high-pitched shriek keeps her from enjoying the thaumatist's discomfort. The Tserri have odd ideas about what they call personal space, being far less relaxed with physical contact than my own people. The silver furred administrator keeps her distance from the brief entanglement.

  "There! The fractures should be visible to your vision, poor though it is," announces Noll as she points her tendrils at me.

  With a short hop down from her seat, Eva approaches me as well. The technician, seeing his Ship-Mother draw near, backs away looking for something else to scan with his device. Eva reaches up to set a slim hand on his complex shoulder in passing, patting gently. Desra's ears become ever more active.

  The Ship-Mother leans closer, squinting her eyes against the glimmering refractions my form emits when struck by ambient lighting. Her eyes trace my form until something disagreeable falls under her gaze. Face hardening, she straightens, then turns to address the dust eater.

  "What could have caused this?"

  Does that mean that she can see whatever cracks this thaumatist claims exist? If I truly am damaged, this constitutes a threat to the safety of the station and thus would allow me to countermand the orders enforcing my silence. I debate silently with myself until I remember something which so often eludes my memory.

  Using one of the various radio emitters scattered across the command area, I send a brief transmission in the hopes that Bucket will receive it and open dialogue with me. Their response is slow in coming.

  "You have clearly been allowing the specimen to engage in functions outside its original design," lectures Noll. "These fractures formed in response to unforeseen stresses. Not just one set of fractures, but here I see evidence of two separate incidents of damage."

  Speaking in place of her friend and superior, Desra declares, "Denn's doing his job just fine. If this was going to be a problem, our systems would be registering fluctuations, anomalies." She gestures with all four arms, transcribing vague shapes in the air.

  A burst of radio waves, originating from the hospital serves to answer my query. Why it is Pale that responds eludes me, but I assume the contents of the missive might help to resolve that mystery. I access the file while the Ship-Mother and the dust eater argue.

  The contents, simplified enough that I might make some sense of them, are a comparative analysis of the biochemistry of the data from Gelly's missive and the samples in cold storage aboard the station. The newest sample shares many points of similarity with frozen tissues recovered from the deceased bioships. The data suggests a common origin.

  The information is useful, or might prove so in the future. For the present, the shuttle finally gains landing permission.