Chapter Text
Neural Testimonial of Designated Subject:
ORIN MESOVA
Testimonial Location:
MDF SPACEPORT, EARTH
Testimonial Start Date:
11/23/2043 (TERRAN CALENDAR)
Testimonial Requested By:
JUNIOR ARCHIVIST NATALIE SWASON
Testimonial Purpose:
Historical documentation
Testimonial begins
A newswoman sits by herself in the middle of one of those massive semicircular news tables. Blaring music counts her down, preparing her to speak. She fiddles with a massive stack of papers in the precious few seconds before she has to talk. With one more tap of the paper against the desk, she straightens up and gives the camera a cold, professional look.
“Good morning, and welcome back to The Lowdown Newsroom. Today’s top story- The Zeforah: space-faring friend, or foreign foe?”
The video feed cuts from the stoic newswoman to various photos of astronauts, spaceships, and data files.
“Four months ago, astronauts returning from Mars on the space shuttle Fervor received a strange audio signal from an, at the time, unknown source. This source was, as we know now, a deep space Zeforah data probe. Two-way contact was soon established using Zeforah communication technology, and humanity saw, for the first time, the face of an alien.”
Another change in video. Instead of a stern news anchor, there now is a video I’m sure everyone on Earth has seen a hundred times already: the first ever video of a Zeforahn.
The Zeforah have a fascinating appearance - many people have compared them to bipedal foxes, which I guess is true. The individual in this ‘reveal video’ has rust colored fur with a white streak running from under the snout to the chest, long pointed ears, and two brilliant yellow eyes. Their body is thin and long, giving them an elegant disposition, accentuated by the many silver bands pierced through their ears. The only visible clothing is a silver cloak covering most of their body. The cloak gives the Zeforahn an air of wisdom; like a venerable elder with flowing robes as a sign of status.
The video’s short, so the news plays the whole thing. Once you get over the initial shock of seeing the first alien ever seen on camera, there’s not a whole lot to the video. The Zeforahn waves their hand, bows, and speaks a few sentences in a foreign language. Then, they lean forward with an outstretched arm and an awkward smile as they attempt to turn off the camera. A couple seconds later, the video ends. Back to the newswoman.
“Since this video was first received, scientists have been in continuous contact with the Zeforah to translate their language and establish true communication. Two weeks ago, the scientific community announced they had a functional understanding of the Zeforahn language, leading to Earth’s first cross-species conversation. Although the full conversation log continues to remain top secret, here’s what we do know.
“The Zeforahn who first contacted us, Myavrin Ifa, identified herself as a diplomatic ambassador for her species, and wished for further communication. She has agreed to meet with a small selection of human diplomats here, on Earth. This will be humanity’s first in-person interaction with another species. The date of this meeting had been kept hidden from the public until last night: during a short-notice speech, the press secretary for the International Bureau of Offworld Affairs announced the time of this history-making meeting. Tonight.”
A short silence seeps into the broadcast. The newswoman lets that final word hang in the air, to make sure we know just how important it is.
“Tonight, at 8pm Eastern, in an undisclosed location, Earth will receive its first ever extraplanar visitor. Myavrin Ifa and her compatriots will be invited to a diplomatic dinner to discuss interaction between our two species. The IBOA has stated that intended talking points include the permissions of interplanetary travel, negotiations for faster than light travel technology, and a potential non aggression pact with our interstellar neighbors. We will continue to provide insight on this story as it breaks. For now, all I can say is good luck to the brave individuals in that meeting tonight. The fate of our species may well be in your hands.”
Thank god I’m not one of those brave individuals. I turn off the TV with the remote as I finish buttoning up my coat. I open the front door of my apartment.
Let’s see…
Keys? Check!
Phone? Check!
Wallet? Check!
Restaurant key?
Uh.
It’s…
Hm…
Somewhere around here.
I didn’t drop it in the couch, did I?
Did I leave it on the table? No…
Oh, the bowl! Yes, the bowl! The bowl I explicitly wanted to use to store my keys. That bowl. There we go.
Restaurant key? Check!
Out the front door and into the world.
Or, well, ‘world’ might be a stretch.
Out the front door and into the spaceport.
The hallways of the MDF Spaceport are as sleek and futuristic as a sci-fi nerd could ever hope for. Silver panels line the walls, with the occasional blue stripe running through just to break up the monotony of the color. There’s not many in this section of the port, but as I leave my apartment, I’ll occasionally walk past a super-duper-ultra-reinforced window. Beyond that window is space. Pure, true space. I get to walk past the stars and the planets on my way to work - or, if I’m unlucky, I have to walk past the sun.
I possibly have the greatest job ever.
I leave the block of the port aptly named ‘apartments’, and find myself in a massive interconnected web of hallways. The MDF is absolutely huge - over 2 square miles of walkable space - and I can’t help but think how lost a new guy would get if they were subjected to this shit. There’s three four-way crossroads within a hundred feet of each other, and each split leads to a completely different block. Wanted to head to the recreation center but you took the second left instead of the third? Tough shit, buddy! Guess who’s going to waste reclamation!
It’s like an airport from hell.
Although, I usually don’t see much of anybody traveling these hallways. The MDF is still in its infancy; which is to say that Earth has just 2 active spaceships, so nobody ever needs to come here. Everybody knows where those two ships are at, at all times, so unless one of those two beautiful ships is returning or heading out on a mission, there’s not really a need for people to be here. Hence, the MDF is running on a skeleton crew for now. It’s not exactly the hub of extraplanar exploration the U.S. thought it would be.
Although, that might change soon. Depends on how that chat with our good friend Myavrin the fox alien goes.
That stern-yet-polite lady on the news said the location of the Zeforahn diplomat dinner is undisclosed. That may technically be true, but from where I’m standing, that location is looking pretty disclosed.
You see, the port isn’t quite as inactive right now as I originally claimed.
As I come across an intersection, five people with immaculately clean suits come rushing through from the other direction.
“COMING THROUGH! MOVE IT!” One of them roars.
I stop myself before I walk into them, and watch in wonder as they run past. It feels like I’m witnessing a wildebeest stampede.
They’re really in a rush now, huh?
It’s been like that all week. Dozens of new people I’ve never seen before have been riding up the shuttle and dashing around the port like madmen. All the tables, chairs, and silverware they ferry with them makes it quite clear what they’re running around for - we’re going to meet the Zeforah here, in the port.
It’s not really my problem, though.
I mean, it is my problem, in the same way it’s the problem of every living thing on this planet, but I’m not part of the event. All I have to do is clean up well after work so our new friends don’t see grease stains everywhere. Then I’ll go home and hope all these men in suits do a good job.
I really hope they don’t screw this up.
I break my way through the labyrinthine hallways and into one of the largest rooms in the port: the food court.
Seeing as there’s only twenty-odd people that work up here, there’s only one restaurant in this food court that’s actually open: My restaurant.
Well, not my restaurant, the restaurant I’m the head chef of. The food court, and all the restaurants in it, are owned by the port itself. You get it.
And while we’re at it, calling it a restaurant is ambitious. It’s more like a cafeteria: we get our supplies for the day, and cook whatever we feel like out of those supplies for breakfast, lunch and snacks - another team does dinner. Nobody has to pay for their food; we get paid directly by the government. And it’s pretty good pay, frankly.
Well, time to get to work. Let’s open up the kitchen and get some breakfast going.
An hour later, and work is running smoothly. We’ve had to make more food than usual recently due to those new people setting up the diplomatic dinner, but it's still an easy gig.
I’m working a pan of eggs as I look over my shoulder to call out to my staff.
Even with only three of us in the kitchen, the noise can be deafening, so I have to shout to be heard over the ruckus.
“Eric! We need some more steak! Fridge is out. Can you grab some from the larder?”
Heeding my call, the weasley face and curly auburn hair of one Eric Izka peeks around the corner. The rest of his body is soon to follow.
He gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
“On it, boss! Grabbing that for you right now! Be right back!”
He scrambles his way out of the kitchen and into the hallway, almost falling over himself as he turns to the right and runs down the corridor.
Food storage is to the left.
To tell the truth, I don’t know how Eric got this job. Not that I don’t like him - he’s a saint, truly - but he’s young and inexperienced. I can tell he’s only been in a kitchen for a couple years at most. For a three-man operation, you kinda need all the skill you can get. Not to mention the clearance you need to work on a goddamn space station.
My running theory is that he’s some government big wig’s son. Eric expresses interest in cooking, and this hypothetical ultra-powerful government dad says “Of course, son. I love you, so I will help you fulfill your dreams. You’re going to the spaceport, and you’re gonna learn how to cook from the greatest, most awesome chef alive. Learn and grow, my beautiful but slightly anxious son.”
Or maybe he just got lucky.
Either way, I’m glad Eric’s here. He’s a refreshingly honest kid, and really cares about doing things right.
Back to breakfast.
“Hey, Mel! How’s that bacon looking?”
“30 seconds, chef!” Mel fires back.
She’s a fierce worker, Mel. Always bringing her absolute A game. She worked at a Michelin Star restaurant in France before coming up here, and it shows. She’s constantly on top of things, and has the type of discipline only a truly experienced chef can have.
But it’s also a bit much for me.
“Hey, Mel?” I call back without looking up from my pan.
“Yes, chef?”
“You don’t have to call me that. Just Orin is fine.”
“You’ve told me that before, chef.”
I sigh.
“Yes. Yes, I have. And you’re not gonna do it, are you?”
“Not on the clock. I was taught to always show respect for the head of the kitchen. And I intend to continue to do that, even with you, chef.”
I chuckle to myself. “Fair enough, Mel. Bacon ready to plate?”
“Yes, chef! On your left!”
I lean to my right as Mel comes by with a pan of fresh bacon and places it down.
“Thanks, Mel!”
I grab the bacon and start to plate it next to a huge pile of pancakes and eggs.
“Anton is probably on his way here about now,” I say while moving with the plate, “why don’t you get started on his potatoes? You know, the weird way he likes ‘em.”
“Yes, chef!”
God, that still bugs me. It wouldn’t kill her to call me Orin every once in a while.
Oh well.
I walk out through the kitchen, past the food bar, and place the plate in front of a very large, very bald man. I don’t know his name yet - he’s part of the muscle they hired to set up the dinner of destiny here. He peers over the mountain of bacon on his plate and gives me a grunt of approval. I grunt back, thanking him. Conversation finished.
As I’m heading back to the kitchen, I hear someone shout behind me.
“Orin, hold on!”
Ah, there he is!
I turn around to find Anton Aubert, overseer of the MDF and overall good dude, rushing towards me in a frenzy. His blonde hair is a mess, his glasses sit crooked on his nose, his tie is crooked, and he generally looks like he woke up seven minutes ago.
“Woah! Anton. You, uh, don’t look so hot”, I admit. “Everything alright?”
Anton doubles over when he finally gets to me, hands on his knees and panting.
“I, hah, I, uh, hah… Give me… a moment… what a run…”
I hand him a glass of water.
“Take your time.” I declare, while sitting down at a nearby table.
Anton nods and follows my lead, sitting across from me.
He takes a long swig from the glass.
“Okay,” he gasps. “I’m better now.” He does a sweeping gesture with his hand. “No.”
I tilt my head. “No?”
“To answer your question; no. Everything is not alright.”
“Ah. Wanna talk about it?”
“Yes. Yes, very much so. Or, uh- no, actually. I can’t. It’s classified stuff. Suuuuper top secret. Can’t share it with you.”
“It’s about the diplomatic dinner, isn’t it?”
Anton crumbled instantly.
“It’s about the diplomatic dinner.” He sighed.
“Well, what’s the issue with the dinner? It’s only the deciding factor of how aliens will treat our species for years to come,” I tease. “What’s with the worry?”
He chokes down some water before glaring at me. “You’re not helping.”
He takes a deep breath before continuing.
“The kitchen crew dropped out.”
Oh, shit. That’s bad.
“What? Telard won’t cook?”
The head chef of dinner service here on the MDF, Fiona Telard, is a legend. She’s got three restaurants and all of them have crazy accolades of some form or other. Michelin Stars and the like. She’s an actual head chef. Like, celebrity chef tier. As soon as she got offered the MDF spot, she jumped on the opportunity - not sure why. She really knows her shit. I’m just the guy for breakfast. If her crew isn’t cooking for tonight, then…
“Nope,” Anton continues. “Took all her staff with her, too. Said she didn’t want to cater for, and I quote, ‘mother fucking bitch little green men who want to stick a rod up my ass’.”
“Whoa. Didn’t take her as a turbo-racist.”
“I think the correct term would be turbo-xenophobe.” Anton scratches the back of his head. “But, yeah, it’s a problem. A huge problem. Between the time it takes to get a shuttle up here and prep time, we need to find a kitchen crew in the next two hours. And, unsurprisingly, no head chefs are willing to abandon their restaurant on a Saturday night for a job we’re not at liberty to tell them anything about.”
I shrug. “Surely you can grab an army chef, right? There’s gotta be an open crew around somewhere on the east coast the government can loan.”
Anton shook his head. “Horrible idea for a bunch of reasons. Imagine you’re a journalist parked outside the shuttle station, trying to see if anything is going on in the MDF. Just a regular day, little to no ferrying. Then, you see a gaggle of military personnel run up there in a rush. What would you think?”
“I would think the aliens are meeting you up here and you’re panicking to get shit ready. Totally unprepared.”
“Yeah. So, we can’t do military. We need someone who can respond fast, and someone we already know the credentials of. As far as I see it, we’ve only got one option for kitchen crew.” He leans forward as he finishes talking.
I’m not sure what the body language is here.
He’s staring at me. Really intently.
Am I supposed to say something?
Do I recommend a crew here?
I can’t think of any kitchen team that would be able to get up here in time other than-
Oh.
I open my mouth slowly.
“Ah.”
I am very articulate.
Anton reaches over the table and places his hand over mine. He understands that I understand.
“Orin. I need you to cook for the Zeforah.”
Ah, shit.
No. No, no, no, no. I can’t. Absolutely not. There’s no way. I am not going to be responsible for fucking up the most important dinner in our species’ history.
“I can’t.” I declare.
Orin leans forward. He’s got a cold seriousness in his eyes that I’m unaccustomed to.
“Why not?” He presses.
“I’ll fuck it up.”
“Orin. Firstly, you won’t. Secondly, I don’t care. I’m not in a position to care about you fucking up right now. You and your troupe are the only professional chefs we can get our grubby hands on, so we need you. And I know that you know how to cook well, because in 5 minutes you’re going to hand me the best steak and eggs of my goddamn life. So, just cook. Like normal. You don’t need to worry about aliens, or diplomacy, or any of that political crap. All you have to do is sit in the kitchen and make good food. Hell, you won’t even have to see a Zeforahn! Just cook. That’s it. We’ll do everything else.”
Hmm…
I mean…
Fine.
There wasn’t really another choice, anyways. Either I cook, or the diplomatic dinner doesn’t have dinner. And everyone on the MDF gets court martialed or something.
“Alright”, I announce. “I’ll do my best. But we’ll need extra time to prep. Can you set up, like, sandwiches and salads for lunch so we don’t have to cook it? Should give us plenty of time.”
Anton looked relieved. “Sure! No problem! Thank you so much, Orin. Seriously. You know how important this is, and I trust you’ll do just fine.”
“Yeah, yeah. Save the praise for after. I still have a chance to give an alien food poisoning. Hey, do you know what Telard was planning to cook for them?”
Anton frantically pulls out a yellow legal pad and flips through it. “Yes!” he declares, “She was gonna do steak - filets, specifically. We have a whole freezer of them heading up here right now. Don’t recall what the sides were, but I’m sure you can improvise - As far as we know, Zeforah can eat all Earth foods except for peanuts.”
I shoot up a quizzical eyebrow.
“How’d you figure out their allergies? They haven’t even been here yet.”
“Biological exchange data.” Anton sighed. “Three hundred scientists spent weeks combing through terabytes of Zeforahn biological data, anatomical diagrams, and genome data to find out what they can safely eat. It was an absolute bitch.”
“Well, tell those scientists thanks. I better get to planning.”
“Of course. Good luck, Orin.”
“Yeah. You too. And, uh, enjoy your breakfast.”
Neural Testimonial of Designated Subject:
MYAVRIN IFA
Testimonial Location:
ZEFORAHN FRIGATE-CLASS STARSHIP "PATIENT HUNTER", UNAFFILIATED SPACE
Testimonial Start Date:
11/23/2043 (TERRAN CALENDAR)
Testimonial Requested By:
JUNIOR ARCHIVIST NATALIE SWASON
Testimonial Purpose:
Historical documentation
Testimonial begins
To say I am nervous would be an understatement. No, actually, that would be a lie. I am not nervous. Far from it. I am terrified. Truly, completely, terrified.
A new, sapient species has not been discovered in more than five hundred cycles. The art of neo-post-terrestrial diplomacy is old and unpracticed - why should one bother to learn how to talk to a species that just recently learned they are not alone? Such a scenario has not happened in seven generations. Thus, most of my literature from the past few weeks has been composed of ancient tomes documenting the first contacts of many other species. The trepidatious first contact with the ufrin, the infamous hundred-day festival with the natiti, and, yes, the somewhat violent first contact with the western zeforahn monarchy.
They were enlightening reads, if not mind-dullingly archaic.
‘Most, if not all, of the universe is known to us’. That is what the scientists always say. Anytime an expedition is proposed, or a new probe is set to be flung into deep space. ‘The universe is known to us’.
Why bother with more exploration? We know what the rest of existence looks like, and it is boring. There is nothing there. And certainly, no people.
‘The universe is known to us’.
They never doubted their assertion for but a moment. Confidence is the Zeforahn way, after all: doubt yourself and others will, too.
They never thought they could have missed something. Something wedged just perfectly in between the trajectories of those centuries-old satellites they adore. Something fantastic.
I cannot help but wonder what all those geniuses will think about the Humans.
In a corner of the universe where no life should have been, via a probe that was never supposed to launch, we found them.
I was… eager to make first contact. Perhaps too much so - many of my readings since first contact have suggested how colossal of a mistake my eagerness could be. But, thankfully, the Humans responded with the same kindness we introduced ourselves with. And, now, we are hours away from meeting each other in person. And…
I cannot do it.
I simply cannot.
I understand that I was the selected diplomat, and I am likely as well trained as we will realistically achieve, but…
I could make a mistake. A grave mistake. Some sort of social faux pas or insult so horrid they will regard our entire species with contempt for cycles on end. The worst part is, I do not know what their culture is like.
Whether they chose not to, forgot to, or simply do not have the technology to do so, the Humans have neglected to send us any sort of information regarding their culture and society. All we have is the few videos they have sent us.
In an effort to treat them with respect, we have mirrored this communication style, and have broadcasted only a few short videos to them, plus the requested dictionary for language translation, and anatomical data.
I am entering the most important meeting of my life blind. In a society where up could be down, left could be right. I will not understand anything that unfolds before me.
I will be helpless.
This feels terrible. Very, truly, supremely terrible.
Alright. Calm yourself, Ifa. You control your mind and body. Do not let them wander from under your claw. Confidence and pride.
I lean back in the chair I am currently lounging in. I procure my data pad for the hundredth time today, bringing up the current flight statistics. Current Earth time, relative to the East Coast, USA, is 11:53 AM. Our vessel will land at 5:00 PM. Less than six ‘hours’ remain.
The end is in sight.
I absentmindedly drum my claws on my desk.
Just five hours, Ifa. Five hours until you make a fool of yourself.
. . .
I should practice my opening speech again.