The thing that hadn’t changed was the smell, an overwhelming perfume that shot straight to his soul. The air was humid – deliciously, ideally, correctly so – and within it danced the scents of sun-warmed ponds, hosed-out fuel lines, the cabal of food vendors he knew to be waiting around the corner, and the pheromones of countless members of his own species, both fresh and fading, telling him stories about people nearby and already departed. He had run into other Quelin from time to time in the past eight standards – exiles like him – but never more than one or two at once. Never in a way where they were the majority within a social space. Roveg hadn’t been in an environment populated by Quelin and only Quelin since his last time at Noble Harbour. He’d forgotten what it was like to not be the odd one out.
Except that he was, of course. He could smell the disgust rising sharply off passersby who saw the ruined branding on his shell. No one else landing at Noble Harbour that day had a pair of Enforcers awaiting them on the other side of the hatch. At least he’d been downgraded to only two Enforcers, Roveg noted with grim humour. There had been four escorting him on his way out.
It was time for this unpleasant business to begin. He spread his thoracic legs, preparing to be searched. ‘Enforcers, I humbly submit myself to the will of the Protectorate and to your authority,’ he said. Every word felt rotten as he formed them in both mouth and throat. Their taste lingered even as the sounds left him. ‘I am Roveg, and I have an approved appointment with the law office.’
One of the Enforcers marched up and scanned his ID patch while the other wasted no time in opening the satchels strapped around his abdomen and on the front of his thorax. The first Enforcer looked at her scrib as the patch scan completed. ‘Your appointment was scheduled for 14:00,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Roveg said.
She looked him in the eye. ‘You are late.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I apologise, there was a—’ He stumbled. Oh stars, oh fuck, he couldn’t remember the word. It had been so long since he’d had a formal conversation in Tellerain that he couldn’t remember the fucking word. ‘—a disaster along my route and I was delayed. I have arrived as quickly as legally possible.’
Roveg spoke the words with grovelling inflection, but the Enforcer made a note on her scrib, undoubtedly marking both his tardiness and his rusty Tellerain. Roveg’s heart sank. He’d been here barely a minute, and already he had the heavy sense that this trip would be for nothing.
Dammit, he had to try.
The Enforcers escorted him to the law office, one on either side, neither touching nor speaking. Roveg could feel the stares of the crowd as he made his way. He was accustomed to being stared at by other sapient species, and no longer paid them any mind. These stares, though – issued forth from eyes just like his own – these chipped away at his shell, carving out tiny pieces of himself and leaving them to bleach in the sun.
He was here for Boreth, he told himself. He was here for Segred, and Hron, and Varit. He repeated their names in his mind, over and over, a chant of courage to carry himself forward.
The law office was stark and far too bright, like all institutional facilities were. It was incredible how a nearly empty room could feel so much like a threat. The only thing present was a circular workstation in the dead centre, staffed by a lone legal officer. Roveg replaced the chant of beloved names with a nervous review of all he’d prepared for.
They’ll ask you about your work, he thought, and you have nothing to fear about that. Be clear that you only make vacation sims. They’ll ask you where you live, and whether you live with other species. You live alone, and they can hardly fault you for living in a mixed city – where the hell else would you live, if you can’t live here? They’ll do a hemolymph scan. They’ll probably check your bots. They’ll go through your scrib, and that’s fine, there’s nothing untoward on there. You triple-checked. If they press you on being late, press back about why you’re here. You’re for tradition. They love that. Play it up. You remember how. Boreth. Segred. Hron. Varit. You can do this.
You have to do this.
The officer looked briefly up from his workstation, smelling as though he’d never laughed at a joke in his life. ‘You must be my 14:00,’ he said, gesturing commands at a terminal.
‘Yes, I’m Roveg,’ he said. ‘And I apologise. There was an accident—’ he’d had time to remember the word ‘—and it resulted in an unavoidable delay.’ He opened a satchel (the Enforcers watched intently as he did so) and pulled out a carefully wrapped bundle of pixel prints and info chips. Evidence of his home, his work, his finances, his medical history, his travel route, his entire life. He’d spent tendays putting it together, and even though he’d gone through it over and over to ensure that every single box had been checked off, his spiracles flared at the thought that he’d forgotten something. The Enforcer who had scanned his patch looked at him, and Roveg didn’t have to guess why. He knew he stank of worry.
Roveg presented the bundle to the officer courteously, holding it with four sets of toes. The agent looked up at this. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said.
Roveg felt as though every one of his knees was about to buckle inward. No. No, they had to give him a chance. They couldn’t turn him away without
