The morning before the first trial, Zylar had to explain how to bathe.
Both Beryl and Snaps seemed overly startled by the steam and dry-heat sterilization technology that permitted perfect hygiene without wasting resources. But it was a little disconcerting how committed Beryl was to serving Snaps. She helped him through the process before cleansing herself. If others learned that she was a servitor, her fitness to compete in the Choosing might be questioned. Sometimes it felt more like he’d taken on a couple of unruly nestlings to raise, but then, Beryl would surprise him, as she had done when she impressed the Matriarch.
After their morning meal, the fur-person attempted to follow them, but Zylar firmly said, “You may not attend, Snaps. The Choosing is only for those who watch and those who compete. I do not believe you would sit quietly in the audience.”
“That’s true,” Beryl said, letting out a gust of audible breath. “If I’m not supervising him directly, there’s no telling what kind of trouble he’ll get into here, especially when I think about his close encounter of the electrical kind.”
She was showing her teeth again, and the threat appeared to cow Snaps, who sat down. “Fine. I’ll stay here.”
“Will Snaps be all right?” Zylar asked, as they moved off.
“Yeah, I’ve left him home alone before. The worst he’ll do is chew something he’s not supposed to. You don’t have any family heirlooms lying around, do you?”
“If you mean personal treasures, I have little. Ryzven has claimed most of Kith B’alak’s assets, due to his exceptional—”
“Whatever,” Beryl cut in. “I have no interest in Ryzven.”
Pleasure frilled up his neck ruff. Nobody had ever said such a thing to him, but there was no doubt how much he enjoyed hearing it. “I appreciate your loyalty, and I will repay it if we pass all stages of the Choosing.”
“This is all happening so fast.”
“Apologies. You must feel quite confused and overwhelmed.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Is there anything I can do to ease your path?” Zylar paused then, waiting for her reply. She gazed up at him for a moment in silence.
“No. But to be honest, it helps that you asked. I can’t remember anyone ever saying that to me before.”
“Then we’re attuned in that as well,” he offered.
“Attuned?”
“I thought the same in regard to your immunity to Ryzven’s legendary charm.”
She made a noise that the translator couldn’t interpret. “He’s not charming at all. He’s a tool. But never mind that. We should get going. Wouldn’t do to be late for such an important occasion.”
“That is true. This way.” Awkwardly, he added, “If you have questions, please ask. I suspect it would be a great trial to adapt to a strange world with unfamiliar customs.”
“You can say that again.”
“Did you not hear me?” Zylar asked.
“No, it’s an Earth expression. It means that you’re right.”
“Ah, you ask for repetition to emphasize the correctness of the point?”
“Basically. Also, I’ve been meaning to explain this to you. When I show my teeth, it’s not a display of power or dominance. I’m smiling. It means I’m amused or happy.”
“Truly?” That astonished him. He never would have made that connection on his own. “Would it trouble you not to clarify this to others? It makes you less imposing.”
“Uh, sure. They can keep thinking it’s a scary battle face, I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Terrible One.”
“What did I say about working on your endearments?” she snapped.
Zylar processed the reaction, but he didn’t understand her outrage. “It is a compliment. You will behold many fearsome competitors in the Choosing, but I do not believe anyone can best you.”
“It’s a cultural thing, I get that. But if you want to put a smile on my face, call me sweetheart or baby or…” She stopped talking, likely reading his horror.
“Why would I comment on the delectable nature of your organs?” Zylar shuddered delicately. “It’s even worse to infantilize you.”
She tilted her head. “Shit, since you put it that way, now I don’t like those options either. Then…just use my name, okay?”
“Yes, Beryl. That I will do gladly.” He set off again, pleased with how readily they’d reached a sensible compromise. “What does your name mean?”
“It’s a mineral found on Earth. A gemstone, to be precise. The best known types are emerald and aquamarine, but I’m honestly glad my mom didn’t get more specific.”
“These gemstones are valuable, yes?”
“Some of them. Why?”
Ignoring the question, Zylar churred in satisfaction. “You are well named, my unexpected treasure.”
“I…thanks.” She ducked her head, and the color of her cheeks shifted, darkening with what looked like it might be an injury.
“Are you well enough to compete?” he asked.
“We’ll find out.”
“Try not to be nervous. I know this must be very strange, and if you have any doubts, we can still withdraw.”
“No, I said I’d give this a shot. It’d be ridiculous to quit before I set foot in the ring.”
“What ring?”
“Not important. Just show me where to go.”
Despite Beryl’s profession of confidence, Zylar registered a distinct frisson of unease. This small being would be competing against Revak warriors, Xolani doomsayers, and the fittest prospects among the Barathi as well. Other than her sonic weapon, her stature didn’t offer much of an advantage for the challenges, but she did have experience as a nest-guardian, so he hoped that might give her an edge.
There was no point in puzzling in hypotheticals. Thinking too much; that was always your problem, he heard the Matriarch say as much in her supercilious tone. Too much fear, too much caution. Those would be his gifts to the next generation, and he knew that Matriarch had reservations about whether he could pass this final Choosing. If he failed, he could serve the kith faithfully as a drone without passing on his faulty genes.
He didn’t object to certain aspects of drone life, but for once, he would like for someone to see his merits and choose him. Beryl’s unexpected loyalty—even after an inauspicious beginning—might mean she could be that someone. After so many disappointments, hope was painful, fluttering to life inside him.
He didn’t speak as they passed from kith holdings to public passages. She was like a nestling, craning her neck to peer at everything with great interest. The other Barathi were staring at her again, and his spines flared, as their interest bordered on offensive. They were acting as if she was an oddity, not a person, and that, he would not tolerate. Zylar hissed in the back of his throat, and the kith nearest to him started guiltily and went about their business.
“This pod will take us to the arena,” he said.
“Arena? Hope I don’t have to fight to the death, gladiator-style.” She showed her teeth, so Zylar guessed she was joking.
“That would be barbaric. I cannot guess what may be asked of you, however.”
“You’re not reassuring me,” she mumbled. “How many rounds are we talking about in stage one anyway?”
“Five. Each challenge will test a certain aspect, such as strength, wit, resourcefulness, creativity, or problem-solving. The Council ensures that only the best and brightest are blessed to bond and become progenitors.”
“Damn. Back on Earth, it’s embarrassingly easy to have a kid, probably too much so, but I kind of think your people lean too far the other way, Zylar.”
“Perhaps this is true,” he acknowledged, “but we no longer struggle with overpopulation, and we have added the best of other species to our lineage by adhering to the rules set forth in the Choosing.”
The fur on her face came together in a pleat of skin. “You got me there. Overpopulation was a problem here too?”
“It is on your Aerth as well? But I saw no one.”
“That was a fluke. If you’d landed an hour earlier, the place would’ve been swarming with people in antiquated costumes.”
Zylar wished he understood her better. Sometimes the translator didn’t seem to grasp the nuances either. “Are they time travelers?”
“What? No. Some people have fun dressing up and pretending to fight old wars—” She broke off as the pod arrived at their platform, and they boarded along with ten other Barathi who were most likely headed to watch the Choosing.
“That is an exceedingly odd pastime,” he said. “Your people venerate war so much that they elect to relive old battles?”
She paused as she gazed out over the city view. As before, Zylar placed himself between her and the rest of the Barathi, blocking their curious gazes. Since she was the only one of her kind here, their interest was understandable, if rude and irritating.
Finally she said, “You know, that’s kind of…right. My people do glorify war.”
He thought she sounded sad about it. But the revelation comforted him. “If you share that disposition, you should do well today.”
Beryl stood in a room full of aliens.
They all had to be competing, and they all seemed to know what was up. Strange beings jostled around her, as the competition grabbed gear and strapped on armor. Holy shit, they take this seriously.
Five different languages buzzed around her, and it was so confusing with the translator whispering multiple translations at the back of her head. It became less useful and intelligible, the more conversations she was trying to track. Beryl figured that made sense if this tech was designed for beasts of burden. Normally, they’d just need to understand whoever gave them orders.
Since Zylar wasn’t allowed to accompany her in here, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be doing, and she didn’t read Barathi, so the signs that hung around the huge equivalent to a space locker room were totally useless to her. There were no lockers, per se, but rectangles scattered around the space could pass for benches, and others were pulling objects from octagonal storage containers. Maybe one of them even belonged to her, but damn if she could find it.
“Are you new?”
Beryl whirled to face the tall alien addressing her. The being stood over six feet with pale green, speckled skin. No neck frill or responsive spines, thinner than a Barathi, with a triangular-shaped head and impressive teeth, set in rows like a shark. No legs, instead the alien’s torso grew out of a stalk that had tiny cilia at the bottom and multiple fronds where human arms would be. She wanted to ask, Are you a plant? but that would probably be rude.
“Yeah, I just got here yesterday.”
“And you’re already in the Choosing? That’s…brave.”
“It just sort of worked out that way. My name’s Beryl.”
“Kurr.” The fronds fluttered, but Beryl didn’t think she was supposed to touch them, so she made an awkward half bow.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Ah, courtesy. You don’t see it often among competitors.”
“That sounds like you’re familiar with the Choosing.” It wasn’t quite a question, but she did hope Kurr would elaborate.
“This is my second time,” Kurr admitted.
“I thought you got to pick someone in the second round. What happened?” None of her business, really, but she was curious.
“We did not receive permission in the final phase. Since prospective nest-guardians may compete five times as well, I will try again. If I don’t receive approval, I will have to leave Barath, and I have no travel documentation for anywhere else. If I fail, I must return home.” The fronds trembled like that was a dire fate.
“Is home that bad?”
“Yes,” Kurr said simply.
Beryl didn’t pry into why that was the case. “Do you read Barathi?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
It was embarrassing, but she had to say, “No, I don’t. Is there technology that could teach me quickly? I’ve got a translator installed already.”
Kurr answered, “As I understand it, there is technology for those who are cognitively impaired, but it would essentially be an AI reading to you from inside your brain.”
“Yikes. I don’t want an onboard brain computer. I’ll learn the old-fashioned way, but that will take time. For now, do you see a container that’s marked for Beryl?”
In response, Kurr turned and scanned the room. “That one says ‘Precious Gem’ and nobody is touching it. Could it be yours?”
“Thank you so much.” She wished she knew the right way to show appreciation in body language, but she didn’t know anything about this bold new world, so she settled for offering another little bow. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
A frond curled around her arm, and it did feel like vegetation, not flesh. Kurr is a sentient plant? So freaking cool. “Are you proposing an alliance?”
She paused, eyes widening. “Is that allowed?”
“There are no rules preventing it, though ordinarily, competitors care more about personal success and building their own reputations to cooperate.”
“I would love to partner up with you. Since I’ve never competed before, I don’t know what to expect, but you can count on me to watch your back.”
Kurr took that literally. “Since I cannot see it, that could prove useful.”
“I’ll see you out there,” Beryl called, hurrying over to the unit that seemed to have supplies earmarked for her use.
It took her a few tries to get it open, then she just stared at the items. Okay, I was joking about the gladiator stuff. But it seemed like it might be for real since she was looking at freaking body armor, piled neatly before her, some cubes that she couldn’t identify, what surely must be a weapon, and small item that unfolded by segments into a stick with a hook at the end. She couldn’t imagine what any of this was for.
Still, she’d promised to do her best, so she fastened on the armor pieces and tried not to think about how terrifying what came next must be. The others were starting to file out, so she grabbed everything and rushed after them, her stomach knotted. Kurr must already be out there, not that Beryl could picture what out there was like. Taking a breath, she steadied her nerves and followed the last group of competitors down a long tunnel inset with round yellow lights.
She emerged just behind the others, beneath a tinted dome. The sky was visible through the rippled shell, but tinted gray. Barathi spectators filled rows of seats around the center field; it really was like a sporting event for marital purposes. People would love this on Earth. It would take The Bachelor to another level entirely. Though it was hard to count, it looked like there were about fifty of them on the field. She hadn’t asked Zylar about it, but now she wondered if only a limited number could pass to the second round.
Kurr came up beside her and whispered, “There, if you’re looking for the Chosen.”
She hadn’t been yet, but it was helpful having it pointed out. “Thanks.”
The Chosen were seated down front, cordoned off from the rest of the audience. Thanks to Zylar’s simple coloring, Beryl spotted him right away and she waved; when he didn’t respond, she wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand the signal or if she wasn’t supposed to acknowledge him during the competition. Either way, she settled down as a voice boomed all around the arena.
“Welcome to the Choosing! These prospective nest-guardians represent the future, so please welcome them warmly!”
In response, the crowd hissed and clicked. The sounds resonated to unnerving levels, likely the Barathi equivalent of applause. None of the contenders responded to the noise, no movement, no showboating. Very different from how athletes or performers on Earth would react. Beryl kept still and tried to ignore the churning in her stomach.
The unseen announcer continued, “When your name is called, step forward. You will have one interval to show us who you are.”
Panic spiked in her head, clear and sharp. What the hell does that even mean?
“Shumira of Beta-7!”
Her knees weakened a little in relief over not being first, as a tall, imposing alien strode forth in battle armor tailored for broad shoulders and multiple limbs. Though Beryl couldn’t be sure, it looked like Shumira was running martial arts katas, albeit unlike anything she’d seen. Yet she could easily picture how these gestures would decimate an opponent. Shumira moved with precision and grace, fighting an unseen attacker, then as her time was up, signaled by a shrill tone, she snapped back into formation with the sharpness of a trained soldier.
Oh shit. Why didn’t Zylar tell me I needed to prepare a performance? Fear blanked her head as other names were called, and the levels of skill displayed by her competition only freaked Beryl out more. One contender sculpted a model city out of dirt in what had to be under a minute, and the response to that show was overwhelming. Kurr stepped out next, doing a complicated frond dance, accompanied by a high-key whistle that occasionally became so high-pitched that Beryl imagined that Snaps must be howling along, back in Zylar’s quarters.
Zylar finally made eye contact. At least, she thought he was looking at her, and she tried to ask, What the hell? But he didn’t respond, just gazed at her steadily, and some of her nerves subsided. Kurr rejoined the lineup and one of the fronds brushed Beryl’s arm. She pretended it was meant as reassurance and focused on her breathing. In. Out. Keep calm.
I can do this.
All too soon, the announcer boomed, “Beryl Bowman of Aerth!”
The only damn thing she had in her head was the dance she’d done for the junior high talent show, a complete rip-off from Napoleon Dynamite. She took two steps forward, turned on Jamiroquai in her head, and proceeded to get down.