Powdered Sugar and Intragalactic Relations

“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.” The words tumble out of a face that’s suddenly too close to mine, along with the tang of Double IPA breath. “That’s where I’m headed.” The intrusive young man looks up at the ceiling, pointing a poorly shaved chin in my direction. “Up there.” Bright blue eyes come back to me, again too close for comfort. “Into the unknown.”

I swear, they teach this line to every student at NNILA. They go on their morning run, sit through a lecture on military history, have a quick lesson on Seducing Civilians, and then spend all afternoon hacking and humming their way towards a conversational grasp of whatever intragalactic language they’ve been ordered to learn this time. Most of the service members understand personal space, though.

“Nautilidan?” I ask Mr Pickup Line. “Psitaciforma sounds nice, but Skyland has a lot of rules concerning manners and you haven’t grasped Earth’s yet.”

He assumes the standard “Who, me?” expression of a cad who has been called out.

“They’ve got you learning Suedanian,” I conclude. “So you can snort and squeal at the unarmed locals, ‘for their own protection,’ while Earth Mineral Management fracks under their rainforest.” I punctuate my point with a sip of bourbon.

“They aren’t unarmed,” the boy says seriously. “United Earth is there to help the Democratic Republic of Sueda process their natural resources, but there are some terrorist factions murdering their own people and ours.”

Arguing with him would be even less pleasurable than sleeping with him. “Right, okay,” I say. “Try out that screaming-in-space line on the Suedanian women. Maybe they’ll go for it.”

His face twists with disgust. “If I wanted to fuck a pig, I’d ask you out!”

If he had just been a standard youth, looking for casual sex, I would have let it end there. If he had just been a freshly minted young officer who truly believed his jingoistic propaganda, I could have respected our differences. But no, he had to be the kind of misogynist who, after rejection, pretends he is too good for the woman he had just attempted pursuing.

So I lift his wallet as he walks away.

The bartenders on duty giggle as I dump the credit slips into their tip jar. The Earther’s nametag reads Jenna. Her blonde hair and freckled face could easily win her a Miss Nebraska pageant. The Squamatese bartender, Agaga, is equally lovely with violet scales and black horns.

I glance at Mr Pickup Line’s ID and I can’t help laughing, too.

“What?” Jenna asks, tossing her hair to one side. “Who is he?”

“Second Lieutenant Richard Greene,” I say, showing both bartenders the ID. “Roll call. Is Green-comma-Dick here?”

Agaga laughs so hard that she grabs a napkin and holds it up to her scaly lips. “Goodnesss,” she hisses. “You’re ssso bad my venom leaksss.”

Jenna reaches over with the bourbon to pour me another but I shake my head. “Thanks, but no. I’m actually on my way out.

“Before you go…” Jenna hesitates.

“Yes?”

“You’re Ellen Dallas!” she exclaims.

“Yes.”

Most eyes in the bar turn in my direction.

“By the moonsss, you are,” Agaga says. “Can we get a ssselfie?”

When did I last glance in a mirror? Probably sometime before the Newt docked on Earth’s moon. I took the shuttle to Los Angeles and the magrail to Monterey. NNILA sent an autonav pod for me, but I changed the destination from “NNILA Commandant’s Mansion,” to “Firefly on Lighthouse Ave.” There’s no way my curls have stayed obedient in their chignon this whole time. I probably have bags under my eyes, too.

But the girls look so hopeful.

“All right.”

They rush around the bar. I stand and throw my arms over their shoulders. Agaga, taller than Jenna and me, holds up the phone for our pic. I think the phrase “Green Dick” again, so my smile shows amusement instead of how tired I am.

The bartenders thank me, and I wish them well. Second Lieutenant Richard Greene gives me a confused look as I pass by him, heading out the door.

As an official guest of NNILA, I have a suite in the Commandant’s mansion. As Colonel Devin Maguire’s ex girlfriend, I spend as little time in his home as possible. It's awkward enough to feel awkward, but not awkward enough to break with tradition.

The Commandant of NNILA has hosted a civilian lecturer every semester for a hundred and twenty-two years. I’ve been the spring semester lecturer for eight years, and Devin has only been the Commandant for three. So, we make do by spending as little time alone together as possible.

I could order an autonav pod, but the walk is short and my bag is light. The scent of cherry blossoms wafts around me on Pacific ocean breezes. I pass people, many of them NNILA students, as they walk to and from their Tuesday night social engagements. A gaggle of teens hangs out in Sister City Park, teasing each other and laughing comfortably. Two missionaries from one of the strange sects on Araneae hand out pamphlets on a street corner, their brown exoskeletons shining marigold in the streetlights.

I turn onto Reeside Ave and my heart jumps into my throat. I’m face to face with the Grim Reaper. Two glowing cerulean eyes stare at me from under a large black hood. The figure stands almost two heads taller than me, and appears rail-thin.

It’s gone.

I must be tired. The human brain gets oddly suggestible when it doesn’t have enough sleep.

I have walked on thirty-one planets. I’ve met at least one member of every known sapient species in the galaxy. I know there is no real being that resembles Earth’s old mythical personification of “Death.”
I walk to the mansion, willfully ignoring the fluttering anxiety in my chest.

A domestic assistant in dark gray slacks and a black collared shirt greets me at the front door. She informs me that the Colonel is in his study, but she would be happy to announce me.

“Thanks, but I’m beat.”

“Shall I draw a bath for you?”

A bath. An entire tub of warm water, existing for the sole purpose of one person’s hygiene and relaxation. No communal shower, the standard accommodation for space stations and human colonies. No Nautilidan-made Scrubber, like the ones I’ve got on my ship. A bath.

She may as well have offered me a diamond tiara. “No, thanks. Have a good night, Miss Limón.”

“Good night, Captain Dallas.”

Even showering in private strikes me as luxurious.

My head hits the satin-covered pillow. Before I know it, my watch is buzzing to rouse me.

The staff and students of NNILA will all be in dress uniform today, to honor the recipient of the Birch Shield—the highest medal United Earth’s Defenses can offer a civilian. I can clean up nice, too, when occasion calls for it. I’ve got a few slinky dresses tucked away, and high heels which, yes, I can walk in. I think the troops take me more seriously when I wear my usual workaday clothes, though. I put on comfortable leggings and one of my wraparound tunic tops with visible pockets at the hips and hidden pockets in other strategic places. My feet are in practical boots and my hair in its customary bun. I strap my twin tau-wave pistols to my thighs.

I take only one unusual step for my appearances at NNILA: the bright blue ribbon around my neck, displaying my ostentatious Birch Shield medal.

Devin has invited a social buffer for our breakfast: Sergeant Major Dalton. This gray-haired academy provost fills the air between our coffee and croissants with stories from his service on Skyland.

“…What I didn’t realize is that the Psitaciforma word legkrampt means, ‘sexual fetish,’” Dalton says, waving his jam-speckled butter knife in the air as he tells his story. “So when I complained that I suffered from a leg cramp, the pharmacist directed me to the family planning aisle!”

The morning flies by. In no time at all, Devin and Dalton escort me to the Valentina Tereshkova Auditorium for my lecture. I lean against an open door frame as Devin stands before the lectern. The staff sit in the front rows. Most of then wear decorated uniforms, but some have civilian suits and dresses. The students occupy every single seat behind them, segregated into four blocks of colored uniforms on the basis of their service. Navigation and Accommodation wear brown; Technology and Maintenance, gray; Research, white; and Defense, black.

Devin raises his hand. The obedient crowd falls silent. “Good morning, Nichelle Nichols Intragalactic Language Academy,” he says.

“Good morning, Commandant,” the crowd replies in crisp unison.

“Thank you all for attending the spring semester Guest Lecture,” Devin continues. “It is my great pleasure to introduce to you Captain Ellen Dallas of the ECS Newt. I believe that by now, all students present have had a chance to hear Dr Butler’s lecture on the Agaricalesian First Contact Incident nine years ago. Surely, you even remember the news—many of you were in middle school at the time.”

Many students nod.

Devin says, “Or you watched the blockbuster thriller based on the true story, First Contact: The Spore Girl.”

Everyone nods and smiles in recognition.

“The short version of the story is: we failed. The UES Beagle surveyed the Agaricales system and reported that it was unclaimed by sentient life, with a planet suitable for Earther colonization. Left unchecked, this misunderstanding would have led to widespread pathogenic warfare against Earth. We owe our safety, our lives, and our diplomatic relationship with Agricales, to a freighter’s cook.”

Applause fills the auditorium.

Devin continues: “Since receiving the Birch Shield, Ellen Dallas has risen to the captaincy of the ECS Newt, which continues to facilitate trade among Earther colonies and our neighbors here in the Milky Way. Without further ado: Captain Dallas.”

Applause sounds again. Devin sits in the front row, and I step up to the lectern. I wave, and the applause doesn’t die down until I start talking.

“In private, Colonel Maguire calls this my Civilians-Can-Be-Heroes-Too speech. I can’t call it that because I don’t think of myself as a hero. Heroes rush into burning buildings. They donate their kidneys. They teach children to read. Me?” I hold up Mr Pickup Line’s wallet. “I pickpocket Dicks.”

“Hey!” Second Lieutenant Richard Greene clamps a hand over his mouth and flushes tomato red as the audience’s eyes all turn towards his seat in the sixth row.

A young man next to him, probably his friend, snickers. This sound tacitly bestows permission on the whole crowd to crack up. Even Greene relents, laughing and shaking his head.

Devin glares at me.

“The Commandant thinks I said a naughty word,” I tell the audience. “The guy’s name really is Richard. Here, pass this back to him, he’s been a good sport after all.” I hand the wallet to Dalton, who passes it on to the woman behind him, who passes it backwards, and so on.

“So, yeah. I’m no hero. I just have a very strong sense of justice. This sense of justice frequently aligns with local jurisdiction and intragalactic laws. But, every once in a while…” I shrug and smile at Greene. I hear a few more chuckles in the crowd.

I get to it. “Twelve years ago, I graduated from Andrea Hairston University with a bachelor of science in business management, a yearning to travel offworld at least once, and a deep appreciation for baking. Raise your hand if you’re following Season Thirteen of the Great Felidish Baking Show!” A third of the crowd raises their hands, and many others nod. “I’m still obsessed. And back then, my greatest dream was to travel the galaxy, befriend new people, and bake with their favorite ingredients.

“Idyllic, I know. Naïve, even. Not everyone wants Earther friends.”

My lungs freeze mid-breath. Goosebumps raise on my arms and neck. The Grim Reaper is back. It leans against the frame of an open door at the top of the auditorium, copying my posture from before. Its uncanny eyes twinkle down at me. I’m too scared to blink.

My eyelids refresh my dry eyes against my will. The Grim Reaper is gone. I can breathe. The audience is completely unaware of interruption.

This isn’t some half-awake hallucination. It’s a mystery… one that I can start solving when my speech is done.

“So I took a position as a cook on an intragalactic freighter, the Earth Commercial Ship Newt. For two years, my life went exactly according to plan. Then we heard the distress call from the Beagle.

“That Spore Girl movie got the basic plot right: United Earth Ship Beagle set adrift, crew picked down to their skeletons, people on the Newt started getting sick. Movies do embellish, of course. I did not have a love triangle with the first officer and the quartermaster. And Captain Avery was from Araneae. I guess the producers thought Earther audiences would forgive a feminine protagonist more easily if they saw her answering to a big strong Earther man.”

About three-quarters of the students and faculty at NNILA are big, strong Earther men. Most of them chuckle a little. Greene’s friend nudges him. The non-humans and non-men cover their mouths to stifle more genuine laughter—except for one Earther girl in the middle of the Navigation students. She throws back her head and guffaws proudly.

I like her.

“The Beagle’s crew had their tragedy almost figured out. They realized that the glass encasing one of their mushroom samples from Agricales had shattered, and the sample released previously unobserved spores. A fungal infection ravaged the crew. Before he died, the Beagle's chief medical officer noted that the spores traveled the ship’s corridors ‘like a cohesive purple cloud,’ and ‘responded to sound.’

“Captain Avery followed procedures to the letter. He could quote the subsection of intragalactic trade law that obligates civilian ships to aid any vessel belonging to, or acting at the behest of, an allied state. I’m positive that his strict adherence to quarantine bought us all the time we had against the spore cloud.

“I am a so-called hero, with a ship captaincy, a bestselling cookbook—” Here, my new friend in Navigation hooted at me. “Thank you; and movie royalties, because I figured out to which sounds the spore cloud responded. It infected anyone who said, ‘Get the flameflowers,’ ‘eat bleach,’ and ‘die, mother…’” Devin catches my eye from his seat in the front row, so I pivot to, “Fornicator.”

I jump back into my rhythm. “But the spore cloud passed over the passengers who curled up in their rooms and said, ‘Please, no.’ It ignored people who cried wordlessly, and the medic as he comforted them. And. When our overzealous quartermaster knocked over one of the pallets of Nautilidan clay we were transporting, accidentally pinning me to the wall? The spore cloud heard me say, ‘Help.’

“It understood our language.

“The little Agricalesian girl had been abducted from her home, tortured in a laboratory, lost in space in a vessel she couldn’t fly, and attacked by a second ship’s crew. Of course she defended herself against fire, bleach, and the monsters who tried to kill her.

“The realization of her sapience, her personhood, hit me like a tau wave to the gut. She helped free me from the heavy sacks of clay that were crushing my legs. In turn, I threw myself between her and the quartermaster’s flamethrower.”

My arms open wide as I relive the moment. “‘It’s a person!’ I shouted. ‘It’s a person from Agricales! This is first contact, and we didn’t even know!’”

I breathe for a moment. I have to drag my mind out of the memory and back to my body. I’m currently standing in the Valentina Tereshkova Auditorium, giving my First Contact speech to an audience of NNILA’s finest… and to the spectral figure lurking at the back, apparently unnoticed by everyone else.

“In the movie, the quartermaster relents right away. As the highest ranking officer still alive, he orders the Newt to return immediately to Agricales. The audience quickly sees the ‘spore girl’ reunited with her family. Friendly white text then explains that Agricalesian law dictates the ‘cleansing’ of all superspeed-capable races who do not recognize Agricalesian sapience.

“In reality, the quartermaster refused to listen to me. I convinced the Agricalesian girl not to kill any more of us while we committed mutiny and brought her home.

“I had no idea what the stakes were. I didn’t realize that bringing her back to Agricales alive was the necessary step to prevent Earther genocide. I just had a strong sense of justice…” I look straight at the spectral figure. Its gaze pierces me with almost tangible force. My gut trembles. My hair stands on end. “…And the desire to befriend new people and bake with their favorite ingredients.”

Devin and Dalton begin the round of applause, but it’s cut short by gasps and shouts. The Grim Reaper walks down the auditorium steps, a horrifying vision of skeletal limbs and flowing black robe. NNILA students edge away from it as it passes. Some even leap into their neighbor’s laps or crawl under the seats for cover.

I am frozen in place. I wonder if everyone feels as if those glowing eyes can devour their souls, or if that intense stare has singled me out.

The electronic lights flicker. An oppressive silence fills the auditorium. The specter approaches me. It reaches inside its robe and produces a pouch. It places the pouch on the lectern before me and tugs it open.

The contents look like raspberries: glistening red fruit, each as large as my thumbnail, with a sweet, fresh scent. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

“These would make the most amazing tart!” I exclaim. I look back up at the cerulean eyes, and they twinkle.

The alien nods its head. It extends a gray, bony hand. An airy groan issues from somewhere under the hood. I don’t recognize the words, but somehow, I know exactly what she's saying.

“Nice to meet you, Melody,” I say. I shake her hand. Her touch sends a shock of chill up my arm and down my spine. “I’m Ellen Dallas. Welcome to Earth.”