I entered first and scanned the room. There was a lot to see, and at least 30 people representing around 20 different alien races. Nobody was taking cover, pointing anything at me, or otherwise doing anything resembling hostility. I walked about four yards down the wall and took a knee, scanning for threats.
Most of the people ignored us, but a few appeared to be vaguely interested. They chatted among themselves and glanced at my team as if we’d tracked in mud and were getting it all over their imaginary carpet. I was surprised they didn’t seem frightened when a small army appeared in their midst. I wondered what kind of reality they lived in where we weren’t a threat.
Reaver had followed close behind, and I saw her kneeling about the same distance down her side of the wall, but she had to stop short or she would be kneeling in a stream that was bracketed on both sides by short, leafy plants with little pink flowers.
The rest followed, doing their best to imitate our movements. I made a mental note to practice it with them after we were done. It was a good skill to know, and I suspected there would be a time I’d have to send them out on their own missions while I took care of other tasks. I needed to train the future trainers.
The room I found myself in was not what I’d expected. From the outside, the building looked like it was ten or fifteen stories high. I’d expected to enter a well-lit office environment, the breeding and hunting grounds of every beaurocrat I’d ever met. Instead, I found myself in an oasis right in the middle of a fancy garden, complete with statues on pedestals, gazebos, several small streams, fountains, and tiny pinpoints of light in nearby trees, and bushes along the walls.
It was late in the day, but there was light pouring in from huge openings at the top of the dome. They looked like someone had cut concentric circles from the dome, added three-foot-wide supports between, and called it art. With everything else I’d seen so far, I suspected the openings were only there to allow light to pass through. There would be active shielding, and in case the shields failed, doors to close the oasis off from the rest of the world.
The soil I was kneeling on was covered with a thick, well-manicured grass. It was soft to the touch, unlike Martian groundcover, which had been genetically designed to help prevent erosion. Being comfortable to sit or walk on came in dead last when compared to the groundcover’s ability to survive the harsh climate and lack of water.
The walls and ceiling of the dome were expertly painted to resemble a cloudy day outside. A skilled artist had also managed to get the perspective right, so that the clouds at the top of the dome, roughly 50 yards overhead, looked like they were the same size as the rest of them.
I’d also expected I’d hear the sound of gunfire, shuffling feet, and panicked orders shouted into various communication devices. Instead, my ears were greeted with the gurgling of the streams, trickling waterfalls, and happy talking.
The one sense that dominated them all, though, was the smell. The air was humid, and carried with it odors I hadn’t expected to encounter. There was food, and lots of it. The smell of damp soil after a good rain, and flowers.
I started looking at things closer to me. There were little lawn ornaments, most of which appeared to be made of the same concrete as the rest of the structure. Some of them were painted and resembled the two-legged rabbit-like aliens called shiggits. Another looked like a steakapede playing with—or more likely, preparing to eat—a kakul.
Further out, I noticed food piled on little plates around a statue standing on plinth. At first, I didn’t recognize what the carved white figure represented, but when I squinted and turned my head a little to one side, it struck me like a sledgehammer to the chest. It was a statue of a Xeno holding a hand out as if it were pleading to be someone’s friend. Xeno were nobody’s friend. They destroyed everything they touched, and no matter how the day turned out, I swore to myself that the statue would be broken before I left.
I found my attention turning from the things nearby to the details of the people. They had all lost interest in us. Most were lavishly dressed in gold or red robes, gowns, and what I could only describe as togas. I found it peculiar that none appeared to be dressed in both red and gold, though. Tortengar, it seemed, kept that privilege for himself.
Then, I noticed the slaves. They were all vrak, and they were all dressed in toga-like robes that looked like they were made of some kind of gauze, and they all had the same stupefied look in their eyes. I had no doubt why.
The vrak were serving drinks, cleaning up after the 30 or so finely dressed slavers, or stood around with their arms dangling at their sides as they waited for orders.
Whoever the slavers were, they were obviously important enough for Tortengar to spare no expense spoiling them. They had everything they wanted, while their average citizens languished outside the oasis with barely enough food to survive.
A moment later, the door behind us opened, and Skrew stomped in, followed closely by Timo-Ran and Nyna, who was looking proud of herself. She turned to me, smiled, and walked over.
“So, Skrew was having all kinds of issues,” she said in rapid-fire speech. “He didn’t know what the red lights meant. He thought they were pretty, you know? So, I told him red is bad. Green is good. Other colors,
