The Squiver District has almost no surveillance installations. My view of it is limited to the exterior. The domes, hastily crafted though they are, remind me of home.

  Also lacking from the newest community are speakers. Some of the many arrays being inscribed by the thaumatists no doubt serve functions rendering those pieces of equipment unnecessary. A Pel would recognize the particular patterns better than one of my caste.

  My options are therefore limited to sending a surrogate or hiring a messenger. I do not believe this to be something another should be paid to do. I will still require assistance, however.

  Lucky for me, I see a familiar face patrolling the border of the enclave. Jetan looks striking in his black and gold armor. He's also young and impressionable enough that he should be more than willing to help me.

  Accessing his suits comm systems is done as easily as thought. "Young Jetan, I require your aid."

  One claw rises and makes contact with a control stud on his helmet. "What's going on?"

  An older voice, that of Donnan, answers him over the suit comms. "How many times do I have to tell you, kid? Stay off this frequency unless there's trouble!"

  "Right. Sorry," answers Jetan. He turns of his comm and kicks angrily at a dropped drink container. The discarded plastic bottle bounces down the stone path. "Whatever."

  "Can you hear me, Jetan?" This time I take the time to remotely disable his comm.

  He presses the button to no effect. "Very funny, sir. Razz the new guy." He clicks off.

  "No. This is Mos Denn. I need you to perform a labor in my stead."

  His ears flatten within his helm and his eyes widen. Armor clicks and whirs as he adjusts his stance, standing up as tall as he's able. Jetan's mouth, hanging open, reveals the sharp white teeth within.

  "Great Spirit," he whispers, awestruck. His eyes dart around looking for another with which to share this experience. The broad hallway holds none but him.

  I would find it humorous were I not attempting to fulfill a debt.

  "Denn is sufficient address," I assure him. "Unless formality is required, in which case you must add my caste designator."

  "Mos Denn," Jetan manages, nodding vigorously.

  "First, I need to know the details of your current assignment. I do not wish to further irritate your squad leader."

  "R-right. I'm, uh, s'posed to keep watch over the squirmers. Play escort when one wants to leave their area."

  Of course, I already know this. My clearance allows me to check the patrol assignments for each shift. Even alter them if need be. Asking is only to reassure him that I have his best interests in mind.

  "Excellent. Then this shouldn't conflict with your current duties," I say enthusiastically. I wait for him to nod uncertainly before I continue. "Your task is to enter the enclave and seek out the dust eater known as Jurer Noll."

  One lower claw seeks out his stunner, hanging from his hip. When he speaks it is quiet, voice devoid of emotion. "How did the squirmer offend you, Great Spirit?"

  "That is not for you to worry over, young one. Seek out the thaumatist."

  His face sets in determination before he turns and leaves the camera's view. "Right."

  I watch through his suit camera as he marches directly to the main entrance of the alien district. It would be easy to fool myself into believing I could smell the comforting pheromones of my own kind, but lack of olfactory receptors and nerves, let alone a brain to process their signals, keeps me firmly in reality. That and his odd gait, so unlike the smooth gliding motion Noll or another like her employs.

  A casteless worker stops young Jetan before he can enter the complex of overlapping domes. The worker is weaponless and wearing only a tan tunic of local material but still bravely raises himself threateningly upon his tentacles. The translator in Jetan's suit renders the worker's clicks and sibilants into Tserri speech.

  "For what purpose do you trespass upon Imperial stone?"

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Under guidance of a Mos," I announce from the suit speakers, before Jetan can cause an incident. "Move aside." It helps that I speak in my native language and accent.

  The worker lowers himself and slides out of the way. He even respectfully opens the entrance.

  "Woh, I thought I'd have to hurt the little guy," whispers Jetan. His training keeps his pace even and his posture upright. His quickened breathing gives away his excitement.

  Once inside he's treated as if he belongs there. Workers glide past him, gently running upper tendrils across his upper arms. Jetan flinches back at first, but eventually accepts the treatment as harmless. It is unavoidable if he wishes to cross the compound. The thin residue they leave behind flows off his suit's waterproof surface and onto the path.

  "Why are they doing that?"

  "Why wouldn't they? Careful, you almost stepped on her."

  He lifts the foot he was about to set down and the grelld glides obliviously past him in search of invading vermin. Jetan resumes walking with a nervous chuckle.

  "I thought you guys were given plenty of space. Why is it so crowded in here?"

  He's correct that most of the population of the enclave are in this central chamber. Other domes branch off from it, places where work can be done or possessions stored safely.

  "Most of my kind find comfort in being together. The instinct was bred out of certain castes, but you are witnessing normal behavior. Do not worry."

  "Whenever someone in a tri-vee says that-"

  "We are not in a tri-vee," I interject. "You are fine. Do nothing threatening and you will be unmolested."

  He asks in an abrupt change of topic, "Which castes?"

  "Mos and another caste that does not reside here." No reason to burden him with useless fears. The wild ones never leave the seas of Homeworld, anyway.

  "You're a Mos," exclaims the youth.

  "Yes?"

  "Doesn't that mean they should leave us alone?"

  "You know that I'm not actually there with you, right?"

  His slow nod moves the camera. "Just nervous, I guess."

  "Do not be. I'm trusting you to carry out this simple task for me."

  "Simple for you maybe," he mutters quietly enough that his suit barely registers it. "Not all of us are former warlords."

  I choose to let the remark pass. The youth is clearly operating under false assumptions. I'll need to speak with the Ship-Mother later about her repeated use of that horrid appellation. It's causing unsavory rumors to circulate regarding me.

  "Turn here, to your left."

  He follows my directions without question. His training really is exemplary. The chamber that the thaumatists use as their haven looms close. He raises one gauntlet as if to knock on the cloth flap that preserves the residents' privacy.

  "Just walk in," I whisper to him. "They are used to being disturbed."

  "Right."

  He does as I instruct, pushing the flap aside with one claw and walking through. Inside are the six thaumatists sitting close to one another. A green robed Somner rises from the huddle and approaches. Her movements swing unnecessarily from side to side. Is she mimicking the walk of a biped? Absurd.

  "Hello, stranger," she says, brushing the ends of her tendrils against the tips of his gauntleted claws. "This one's all mine," she calls to those behind her.

  "Wh-, uh?"

  "Mmmm, so cute!"

  The equivalent of giggling sounds from the pile of robes. I believe I recall some of the Tserri saying such things about each other's young. If this sterile thaumatist wishes to act out some maternal mockery that I do not understand, I cannot easily prevent it. She must grow bored of the affectation before she will drop it.

  Her tendrils enwrap his armored form. "Such a strong shell! So.. Thick." Another burst of giggles answers her.

  The young Tserri squirms uncomfortably but does not try to escape her grasp. He jumps slightly, though I do not know the cause. It is possible that it has something to do with the wet smacking noise that comes from behind him slightly before his start.

  "Great Spirit, help me," yelps the youth.

  "Ooh, he gave me a love name," quips his captor, tightening her grasp upon him. His armor whines against the mistreatment.

  "He addresses me, Somner," I announce. "For he is here upon an errand of my devising."

  "Is this the one," he asks, voice growing serious.

  "No, Jetan. You are engaging a Somner. The one we seek wears gray robes."

  The thaumatist holding tightly onto Jetan rocks back and forth blissfully. The other five grow silent. From the group, a gray robed figure slides forward haughtily. Noll has a high opinion of herself.

  Noll taps her companion's carapace, impatience clear in her tight movements. Reluctantly that other releases Jetan. The youth slumps gratefully and staggers backwards three steps. Noll advances but remains just out of range of touch.

  "Are you here to offer me more chastisement, dead one?

  Dead one? Fine. It is true enough, though I would prefer to be called by name.

  "No, Jurer. I wish to offer my gratitude. Preserving my existence, while perhaps trivial to you, means much to myself and the people of this place. Thank you, Jurer Noll." Then, inside the helmet and too quietly for any but Jetan to hear, I add, "Bow to the nice thaumatist, Jetan."

  His compliance is quick but ungainly. It will have to do. Better an army of tribals howling for my life than to anger the only people that could repair me were I ever to become damaged again.

  I expect scorn. She is obviously still angry at not being permitted to continue her studies. But I have to make the gesture if there is ever to be peace between us.

  She surprises me with her actual response.

  "My replacement will bring with him a compatible communication relay. Its use will be obvious." She pauses, then straightens her tendrils into smooth lines. "It is important that we speak with you. Already you are deeply involved in our plans."

  Then, as if dismissing us, she turns away. Both of the thaumatists return to the robed knot, Jetan's presence already forgotten.

  Such insults would be unacceptable from any others. But the dust eaters must be forgiven. They act in maddening ways but not because they choose to.

  "Am I not going to kill her?" Jetan, oddly, sounds relieved and disappointed at once.

  "No, Jetan. That was all I wanted. Thank you for helping me."

  "I'll just leave, yeah." He looks around, then turns back to the exit flap. As he walks, he mutters to himself, "Nobody's going to believe this."