Something popped out of a machine at the workstation – a label, of some sort. The officer picked it up, burned six different stamps into it, and handed it to Roveg. ‘Affix this to your torso, as close to your face as is practical. The glue on the back will break down after a tenday.’
Roveg picked up the label. It was made of stiff plex, and the text on it was bold and ugly.
TEMPORARY TRAVEL PERMIT
EXPIRES: 277/307
WEARER IS A KNOWN CULTURAL DEVIANT AND MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY A LAW ENFORCEMENT ESCORT AT ALL TIMES.
Roveg stood silent, staring at the most precious object in the galaxy, now resting in his toes. To say that he was confused was an understatement. Surely there had been some mistake, but he wasn’t about to stand there and tell them that perhaps they shouldn’t let him in. ‘Do I … not need to give an interview?’ he asked with caution.
The officer flexed his legs no. ‘According to our sapient immigration agreements with the GC, the fact that you are currently contracted by a parliamentary employer, were convicted of a non-violent crime, and have served the first eight standards of your life sentence means that you are exempt from the interview requirement for a temporary travel permit.’ The officer’s scent burned with disapproval, but his inflection indicated he had no choice but to comply. The law, after all, was the law.
Roveg did rapid calculus. There had unquestionably been a mistake. He had no idea what contract or employer they were referring to. But should he voice that? Would it be worse to ruin his chances here and now, or for them to find out after the fact that he’d taken the permit under false pretences?
Boreth, he thought.
He peeled the backing off the label and stuck it firmly to his torso, straight below his head. The glue smelled atrocious. He did not care. ‘Thank you,’ he said, putting every ounce of energy he possessed into sounding and smelling calm. ‘You have my assurance that my behaviour will be exemplary.’
‘That’ll be for your escort to gauge, not me,’ the agent said. He pointed across the room. ‘You may stand in the waiting area over there until she arrives.’ He picked an info chip up from his workstation and handed it to Roveg. ‘Your employer’s letter of sponsorship made a request for us to provide you with this upon arrival. The contents, of course, have been reviewed.’
Roveg took the chip, no less confused but very ready to end the conversation before further questions were asked. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. He headed toward the waiting area, and the Enforcers departed, their disapproval more potent than the agent’s.
Once all eyes were off him, he took his scrib from his satchel and plugged in the info chip, trying his best to look nonchalant even though he was desperate to know what the hell was going on. The chip contained two documents, one of which indicated that it was to be read first.
Dear Roveg,
How delighted I am that you have accepted our contract to create environmental sims for the Galactic Commons’ cultural education archives! There are woefully few materials of this sort featuring Quelin locations, and I am delighted we have found a talented native citizen such as yourself to help us fill this gap. After all, the Quelin are an enormously valued member of the GC, and we are eager to properly celebrate your species’ rich culture and complex history.
We can discuss the particulars of payment and deadline once you have returned to Central space. On this chip, you will find a list of the public sights we hope you will scan and map for your eventual sim, provided that access to these areas is allowed under the rules of your permit. Given your delicate legal situation, I am including this information with your sponsorship letter rather than messaging it to you directly, in the interest of complete transparency. I also request that you capture imagery from your sons’ First Brand ceremony, which I understand is serendipitously happening during this assignment. It would benefit our citizens greatly to better understand this fascinating tradition.
As a personal aside: our mutual friend Gapei Tem Seri sends you her warm regards. She and I both wish you the best of luck with this project. I can’t wait to see the end result.
May you enjoy the safest of travels,
Kalsu Reb Lometton
Second Deputy Director of the Export Oversight Office, GC Department of Border Regulation
Confused was no longer the appropriate word for what Roveg was feeling. He was totally, thoroughly stunned.
He remained that way even as his escort arrived – a sturdy-shelled woman who he would’ve found attractive had she not smelled as though she were looking for any excuse to throw him in a prison pit. ‘My name is Officer Greshech,’ she said, her inflection as icy as her scent. ‘I will be your escort during your temporary stay on Vemereng. You are not permitted to go anywhere without me. You are not permitted to enter any building without my approval. You are not permitted to engage in any conversation topics that have not been expressly approved by me. You will provide me with a detailed proposal for your activities by 06:00 each day. Failure to comply with these requirements will result in reversal of your permit, as well as …’
Roveg fixed his eyes on her as though he were listening with all the focus in the world, and let her bureaucratic droning wash over him. He took his mind happily elsewhere, and began entertaining the first glimmers of something he was going to make. It would need an immense amount of work, but he could already picture the colours, the shapes, the way he wanted it to feel. He was sure it would be beautiful, but he tucked that imagining away for a later time. First, he would meet his sons. He would see their faces,
