From Afar - Chapter 2

From Afar

Chapter II

When Tag awoke, he was lying in a bed, a thin coverlet pulled over him.  His head throbbed, and the room didn’t look right.

Tag sat up, rubbing his forehead. This wasn’t his cabin shipboard. It was too large and too silent. Walls were thin on spacecraft to conserve space. The quiet whir of the environmental engines became the constant background noise. Here there was silence. 

Tag swung his feet over the side of the bed, finding cold concrete against his toes and staring at his pale knees and light fuzz of hair running down his calves. He’d been wearing his uniform. Where was it? He stood, spreading his feet for balance as the room spun. The lights became brighter, illuminating the bare walls, toilet, bolted bench, table, and a stainless steel box on the floor. It was a sterile emergency box that Tag had seen on evacuation drills. It would contain clothes, food, and water for a week -- all germ and contaminate free.

Tag rubbed his head again. He wondered if there were headache remedies in the box. He’d been at a meeting: admirals, diplomats, government types. Something about aliens, he couldn’t seem to remember. Tag swallowed the metallic taste in his mouth and tried to remain calm. He was safe at least for the moment. He had time to work it out. Find water first. That was the mantra of survival school.  

He opened the box and popped the seal over the vacuum packed containers. Food, water, clothing, and a handheld solar powered computer device. Tag held it up to the lights. There was enough power for the screen to come alive with the Alliance logo. Out of habit more than out of positive expectations, he typed in his user name and password. He was on the network wherever here was. Why couldn’t he remember? The stairs. Fatigues. A prick. He pushed down the loose fitting shorts he was wearing. There it was: a neat raised circle within a larger reddened area. His body always reacted that way to injections. He’d been drugged. 

Tag tried to focus. There had to be a first aid kit. Survival boxes always had a first aid kit. These computers were supposed to provide an algorithm for diagnosis also. He punched the on screen keyboard with one hand, while he rifled through the box with the other. No first aid kit. Tag rubbed the back of his neck, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the screen. No computer aided diagnostician. Only a screen with row and rows of black text against a white background.

Tag blinked and shook the thin tablet. He tried the key strokes again to bring up the diagnostician, not that he needed one for a drug induced headache, but it was part of standard operating procedure. Check yourself and then go to the medic if there was no improvement. Still nothing but a blinking logo and then a screen of text. Instructions.

Lieutenant Tag, you have been placed in isolation in preparation for your departure at 0700 two days hence. You have passed your medical, and all preparations have been made. Please try to relax and enjoy your enforced vacation. We wish you godspeed.

A list of electronic signatures followed the note: the president, several admirals, and his ex tutor. Tag rubbed his eyes. His vision was still off; those damn drugs. Wayne had been with him. Wayne was supposed to have briefed Tag about the aliens, but Tag had been shoved into a vehicle. Wayne hadn’t been grabbed; he’d walked away free and clear. He’d known they were going to kidnap Tag. Who had kidnapped Tag? This looked like a government building, and the MPs’ uniforms had looked genuine. Tag scattered the items around him that had been in the emergency box. They were all without logos: six meals vacuum packed, several gallons of water, and four sealed packages of clothes. He tore them open, shaking out the tunic and cropped pants. He touched his shirt, a thin, fine weave from the local fiber, the same material used to make uniforms. The cut wasn’t familiar, short with his knees and ankles exposed and a loose tunic that hung down over his hips. The colors of these clothes were different too, pale pastels and earth tones.

Tag walked around his prison, feeling the walls and the floor, searching futilely for an exit. He couldn’t find the recessed door. He banged on the walls, circling the room faster and faster. Well above his head was a single grate of a ventilation duct. The furniture was bolted; Tag couldn’t reach the vent. He ran a circle and jumped, his fingers scraping along the wall, slipping on the smooth cement. He tried again, missing by only a fraction. His fingers scraped along the edge of the metal. Tag threw himself at the wall again; this time his fingers caught the grate before sliding off. Tag landed hard on the floor, his ribs and head banging against the concrete.

He scrambled up and leapt again at the grate with increasing panic. He caught the edge, his fingers scrabbling for purchase as his body weight landed on his arms, sending a shock of pain jolting through his shoulders. He tried to cling to the wall with his bare toes, but he couldn’t hold and crashed back to the floor, his elbow bouncing along the wall the entire downward journey.

“Shit!” He hammered the floor in frustration. Blood seeped from the scrape on his elbow, small drops landing on his pale yellow shorts, vivid in the bright light that was now mimicking the noon day sun. Tag pressed on the scrape, flinching at the sharp pain. This was real; this wasn’t a dream. The blood was real, warm and salty when he licked his finger. Training exercises in alternate reality were supposed to be painless. He couldn’t remember ever hurting himself, but he supposed pain was possible. An instructor, all full of shout and bluster, had warned the young cadets that accidents could  cause real consequences and force the participants out of the alternate reality. Tag opened the bag of water, drinking some and pouring the rest over his head. Water dripped in his eyes and down his neck. It felt real. Tag shivered in the cold of his prison. 

Tag felt the floor. It was reacting to his shivering. He could feel the heat start to radiate off its surface. The lights were dimming and the sound of a waterfall touched the perimeter of his mind. Tag jumped, trying to override the muting lights. It wasn’t night; he’d just awakened. The light was supposed to react to his body’s rhythms, but it stayed the cool shade of twilight, a purplish glow diffusing across the cream walls. 

“It’s not night. I’m not ready to sleep,” Tag called, banging on the wall. “Fix the lights.”

Nothing. No increased light. No voice announcing the time, merely the faint splash of water and the semi-darkness.

“Stop. I’m not your prisoner. I’m Lieutenant Tag of the Alliance space service. My serial number is 865237. My name is Lieutenant Tag. My serial number is 865237,” he repeated.

The light dimmed more, and from somewhere Tag could here the calls of the auks, a night bird common in the skies over New Washington. 

“You can’t fool me. I’m in a concrete bunker. There are no auks or waterfalls,” Tag shouted to no one in particular. 

Tag sniffed the air. It smelled sweet, like the roses in the garden surrounding the assembly hall but different, sweeter, stickier. Tag coughed and covered his nose with his arm. Too late. It was an anesthetic gas. He tried to stand, search for a window, but his legs were wobbly. He crumpled and fell back against the warmed floor.

Tag blinked and ran his hand along the blanket. He was back in bed; he didn’t remember getting in bed. Cautiously he sat up, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat. A lingering sweet smell hung in the air.

Tag rubbed his eyes, shifting his bangs across his forehead. He’d missed his haircut in the scramble with his return to New Terra and the meeting with the admirals, a meeting where they’d discussed alien life, but instead of meeting the promised extra-terrestrials, Tag had found himself in a modern prison: coldly comfortable but bereft of life. The room was still the same, still the same cream walls and floors, still the same sterile emptiness.

Tag’s eyes stopped. On the floor sat a figure, silent and still, his bare legs folded against his body, his head down as if in prayer. Shoulder length auburn hair cascaded over his face, hiding his eyes and expression from view. Like Tag, he was dressed in the half length pants, but his were peach and his tunic was a pale lilac color.

“You’re awake? I feared the drugs might harm you in your agitated state.” The figure studied Tag, green eyes behind prominent brows set in a sharply defined face. “How’s your head feel?”

“Who are you? How do you know my head hurts?”

“I am Rast, the leader of the pod. I saw you rubbing your forehead earlier. I surmised the drugs must give you a headache. I didn’t want it this way, but I’m afraid I have little say.”

“Who are you?” Tag repeated. The man’s accent was strange. It wasn’t that Tag couldn’t clearly understand each word, but the rhythm was off, almost a singsong in a language usually spoken in flat, harsh syllables.

“I am Rast, one of the aliens you have been sent to study. You are our seventh.”

Tag stared. Rast looked human. He could walk down the street of New Washington, and no one would know the difference. His clothes weren’t a common style, but now Tag’s weren’t either. Rast skin was paler, and his legs were smooth without the fuzz that grew all over Tag’s limbs. Rast drew himself up, untangling long limbs. He stood with one leg in front of the other, no different than a human stance, and he smiled, the same expression Tag had seen on thousand of humans.

“I believe you postulated that alien civilizations would mirror human civilizations. Here I am. Do I fit your hypothesis?”

“You are human,” Tag said, trying to draw himself into a defensive position. He’d had self-defense training, not that he’d been very good at it, and now dizzy with drugs he probably couldn’t defend himself from a toddler.

“Look closer. I am not.”

“Why this elaborate trick? What do you want with me?” Tag contorted his body into what he could remember of defensive position one, hands in front stiff and sharp like planks. Drawing on vague memories of screaming sergeants, Tag bent his knees, ready to evade or pounce.

“Taga, I’m not the enemy.” Rast smiled again and laced his hands in front of his body. He walked slowly, inexorably toward Tag. “You are our seventh. Do not fight it.”

Tag could reach out and touch Rast if he wanted; he didn’t. Tag backed away, and Rast continued to inch closer. Tag took another step back; his calves bumping the bed. “Don’t come any closer. I will defend myself.”

“I won’t defend myself.” Rast lifted his hands, showed the interlaced fingers, and folded them behind his head. Rast moved a step closer.

Now there was nowhere to go. Tag could try to push by the man or to scramble up and over the bed. Neither was a solution. Bracing himself, he prepared to fight, his breath quick and short, the thud of his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The man, the alien, the whatever he was, stopped and slid to the floor in one liquid motion, his hands still clasped behind his head.

“I will not fight.”

Tag edged around the the bed, putting the most solid but still easily breached obstacles between himself and the still figure on the floor.

“And you do not want to fight either, or you would have done so,” Rast said, rolling on to his side and not making eye contact. “All your life you have dreamed of meeting aliens, and now you have fear, a natural emotion, practical and lifesaving from ancient times. The unknown means danger and death, a predator in the bush. I am sure our evolutionary histories are not much different. We have the same emotions. We are more similar than many can bear. I know your kind. I know they suffer from hunger, fear, insecurity, loneliness. All the same dark emotions that we too face.”

“I am not playing.” Tag slapped himself in the face with his own palm. This had to be a virtual stimulation induced with drugs and sensory deprivation. Genuine pain would bring the subject back to reality, or at least so he hoped. The slap didn’t work; Rast remained on the floor, his body so still that Tag had to look twice to see that he was breathing. Skirting the edge of the room, his shoulders pressing into the rough concrete, Tag walked to the evacuation box. The lid snapping down on his fingers would cause real pain and bring him out of this nightmare. Tag placed his left hand down against the smooth stainless steel and with his right hand slammed the lid down. 

“Ow!” Tag yowled in pain and jerked back. He could see the swelling already rising along his fingertips. Instinctively he cradled the hand against his chest as he swung back to the still figure on the floor.

Rast’s eyes were shut, and he was taking deep, slow breaths, the kind that meditation masters advised. He opened his eyes, his pupils now large black voids. “I do not understand.” Only those four words were spoken. 

Tag continued to cradle his hand against his chest. He’d broken his fingers and still the figure remained. If this were an alternate reality exercise, the safety checks had failed. The safety chief should have grabbed Tag before he could harm himself and if that failed, the pain shooting through his hand should have grounded Tag back into reality. Tag would still have a broken hand, but Rast should have vanished back into the shadows of Tag’s mind. “Who are you?” Tag gasped, backing into the farthest corner.

“I am Rast, leader of the pod.”

“You already told me that,”Tag snarled, trying to replace fear with anger. “What do you want with me? I am Lieutenant Tag, serial number 865237. My government will not pay ransom.”

“I am not interested in ransom, and I have no serial number,” Rast said, not moving from the floor. “May I see your hand? I have a small amount of medical training, and I believe our physiology is similar enough that I could treat you.”

“Who are you?” Tag studied the the man on the floor. The man looked like him, not in hair or eye color but certainly in general species. He had two legs, two arms and ten fingers and toes. He spoke the Alliance’s official language. His accent was strange, but Tag’s accent too was strange, and that didn’t make him an alien. 

“What have I told you?” The green eyes flicked to Tag’s face and then back to a point on the floor. Rast lay silent, waiting.

“Why this elaborate charade?” Tag asked, trying to pull his wits together. “The meeting, the kidnapping?”

“Your people are afraid, as are you. I am who I say. What is my name?”

Tag closed his fingers around his damaged hand. The pain was real. This was the most elaborate training exercise he’d ever seen, but he might as well play along. Maybe cooperating with this charade would bring it to an end?

“You are Rast, or so you’ve told me,” Tag said, keeping his voice flat and detached.

“Good, you have said my name.”

“Does your name have a special power?” Tag asked. He might as well pretend. If the brass wanted to see the correct anthropological approach to a new culture, Tag could do it. He’d studied cultures where the exchange of names granted power or familial rights.

“No, the exchange of names outside the seven is not uncommon. We value the exchange of information. Come sit.”

Tag moved closer. He didn’t trust the man on the floor, but this was a simulation. He needed to give something, to exchange information. Tag crouched, keeping just out of of arm’s reach.

“Let me see your hand.”

Tag eased himself closer, still crouched more in a sprinting position than the relaxed pose of Rast, and held out his hand.

Rast’s fingers were long and warm as he reached out to cradled Tag’s injured hand. Rast probed along the red and swollen fingers, and Tag flinched. “Is it common to cause self-injury in times of stress?”

“I thought this was a virtual reality simulation. Pain even under the influence of hallucinogens will bring the subject back to reality.”

“Do you still think I’m not real?”

Tag flinched as Rast’s fingers probed over his knuckles. “Unless they’ve perfected the technique, you’re real, but an alien--no.”

“Who are they?”

“The government, the military, the space service.” Tag shrugged. 

Tag would have expected a human to nod, but Rast stayed still, his eyes now focused around Tag’s knees. “You’ve broken three fingers,” Rast said. “I haven’t the expertise to set them, but Kip does. Do you have any techniques for managing pain?”

“I’ve never been any good at meditation or acupressure,” Tag said with a feeble smile. “I guess I suffer. My parents would be pleased at that idea.”

Rast rolled up to a sitting position, folding his legs into an impossible looking lotus position. “Sit, Taga. Your muscles aren’t designed for extended squatting.”

Tag sat; there wasn’t anything else to do. It wasn’t as if he could effectively fight with one hand out of action. He watched the wall, willing a door to slide open. This drill had to be over soon. Tag had proved he was entirely inadequate for alien encounters. He’d panicked, tried to hurt the pretend alien, and eventually hurt himself. Many in the space services looked at academics with disdain. He’d proven their theory correct--that he should stay ensconced in front of a computer screen and leave the real work to others.

“Good. I had not realized your species could be this emotionally frail.”

Tag studied his knees. It was odd to see his legs exposed. On Pastoral exposed flesh, except in the youngest children, was considered inadequate modesty and even after years living on New Terra, Tag  usually wore his long uniform pants, except for exercise. He tried to listen to Rast’s words. This was going to be the debriefing. Tag could never remember it happening while still in the alternate reality, but this alternate reality had been more complicated than any he’d ever seen before.

Tag sat and let the words wash over him, not hearing but occasionally making eye contact and giving the appearance of attention. This was a skill he’d learned years ago as a child under the pressure of long lectures from his father. His family hadn’t been unkind, at least according to Pastoral standards, but Tag had refused to bend to the ways of the elders. Tag avoided work in the fields and would spend hours down by the riverbank with any book available. Pastoral, as a declared low technology area, had real books with yellowing paper and a warm musty smell. Most of the available texts had been on practical matters: livestock husbandry, child rearing, and water management. He could still remember the elaborate diagrams for building irrigation channels. The dictionary had been his favorite reading material. He’d inhaled the words: the names of rockets, and lunar landers, incredible machines that Pastoral children never saw despite the knowledge that they originated on a far off world and belonged to an alliance of planets.

“Taga, do you have anything to say?”

“Sir, I will review the reports and strive to do better.” This answer usually would get the military types off his back.” Tag expected several uniformed comrades to enter the room and to start dissecting his performance. Instead, Rast slid toward Tag, moving in a crab like motion on bent knees and his hands. Tag felt a bump against his shoulder. Rast had sat against Tag, intentionally touching. Tag scrambled back and to his feet, trying to keep his space. Having Rast touch his hand while providing medical care was fine, but now the man was nearly sitting on top of him.

“No.” It was only a single word, not said with any harshness, but its bluntness froze Tag.

“Sir.”

“I am not ‘sir’. I am not your superior officer, but in my world and what is now your world I am pod leader. K’Rast would be the appropriate title if you desire words of respect. We have an agglutinating language. When I called you Taga, it was a diminutive, a sign of affection that any member of our seven would be entitled to, especially in times of distress.”

“I am aware of the definition of an agglutinating language. I may not be trained as a linguist, but I have done basic language study.” Tag struggled to his feet, his own breath harsh in his lungs. His hand hurt, and he was afraid. What did these people want, and who were they? He remembered the meeting with the admirals, their polished shoes and hushed voices. Had that all been part of this elaborate charade? A test to determine human adaptability to stress and unexpected parameters?

“Sit, Taga.” Rast rolled to his feet as Tag continued to stand. Rast was slim, his waist and hips narrow, and he moved with the easy grace of a dancer. He stepped effortlessly into Tag’s space, Rast’s shoulder bumping Tag’s back. “Sit.”

The voice was still singsong, but Rast’s presence raised the hair on Tag’s arms. At least among the people and norms that Tag knew, Rast’s behavior wouldn’t be considered aggressive. He hadn’t shouted; he wasn’t staring. In fact Rast’s eyes were still focused below Tag’s, a behavior that in human’s might be considered submissive or apologetic. Tag didn’t imagine Rast’s behavior was either. He was a great actor, displaying consistently different social signals. Tag would have to congratulate the developers of this scenario.

Tag spun around and grabbed for the back of his neck. This man had just flicked him hard with his finger. “Don’t touch me.” 

“Sit,” Rast repeated.

“Or what, you’ll flick me again?” It had been hardly hard enough to be considered torture; thousands of flicks would hardly be painful. Tag’s brain kicked himself for his sarcasm. This was a dangerous scenario, artificial reality or not. The normal rules weren’t applying. The exercise had not been cancelled when Tag became damaged. It was possible, but hardly likely, that artificial reality had been induced by an element other than the space services, but why go to this complexity? Tag knew from the instructional videos of basic training that the mind drugs themselves could be used to cause pain and disorientation. If extraction of information was the desired result, nothing this elaborate was needed; only the most basic drugs would be needed.

“Sit, Taga. You are frightened. Your pupils are dilated, and your respiration pattern has increased. I understand in your people that is a sign of stress. As pod leader, I should not be causing you stress. My apologies.”

Tag braced himself against the wall, determined not to sit. He was tired of playing whatever game was going on here. They couldn’t test him for whatever perverse study they were doing if he didn’t participate. He turned to face the wall, leaning heavily against it, cradling his injured hand against his stomach.

“It is frightening. I know. We our not all that different,” Rast said in that strange singsong voice of his. 

Tag expected a hand on his shoulder and sympathetic word that he failed some training exercise and should report for reassignment or discharge. He was surprised to feel Rast’s back against his own, a steady pressure, not painful but impossible to escape. Tag moved and the man moved with him. He was extraordinarily trained if he were inventing alien social mores.

Maybe if Tag’s head still didn’t hurt so much, he could play along. What did he always tell the enlisted men in those ridiculous lectures on discovering alien life that he was required to give? They were never well attended; the ancient vids on sexually transmitted disease were blockbusters compared to an hour pretending that alien intelligent life was just around the corner. Tag told people not to provoke, to withdraw, or if that wasn’t possible, to emulate. He couldn’t withdraw. The room was sealed, and he’d already provoked. He was supposed to be the expert. Tag sank to his knees and then sprawled across the floor, trying to lie loose limbed as he’d seen Rast earlier. Maybe this was the key to escaping this nightmarish training exercise.

Rast stepped back, no longer touching Tag, and dropped to the floor in a graceful swoop. “I would sit closer to my own kind, but you seem disconcerted by my efforts at physical contact.”

Tag nodded and then remembered that a nod might not be understood. If he were doing a mock up of an alien encounter, he wouldn’t give the culture identical body language. “We prefer more space.” Neutral, non judgmental, a statement of facts and differences--that was how he was trained to handle these encounters. Tag dropped his eyes, and looked sideways. Rast had never looked directly at him.

Fine, he could play this game. They hadn’t cancelled the mock-up when Tag resisted or even when he hurt himself; maybe the only escape was to comply. A test of him under stress. Tag could see the dry, cutting print of the report. The subject refused to accommodate and adjust to the alien's novel behaviors. In an attempt to end the study, the subject resorted to self harm, breaking three phalanges in his left hand.

Tag tried to concentrate. What behaviors had he seen? Rast, his subject, preferred to sit on the floor. From the clothing, the culture appeared to have no taboo against exposure of significant amounts of skin. Physical contact was expected and within the norm. Voices were kept low but at a higher pitch than average male human speech. Direct eye contact was avoided, or at least avoided among strangers. Tag hadn’t been able to observe Rast among his own people. To attempt to categorize behaviors in a subject population of one was impossible, especially a subject population removed from his environment.

Tag didn’t know if he should laugh or cry in frustration. It this were a test or a training exercise, it had severe design flaws. Subject populations could not be studied with only one subject removed from his environment. In a real situation, he’d have studied the geography, the climate, the architecture, even gone as far as investigating the society’s trash before trying to make contact. How was he to respond to this single impostor? He should ask questions. The man Rast spoke formal Alliance with only a slight accent and an odd singsong intonation.

“Where did you learn to speak our language?” If this was real, that seemed as good a first question as any. In most science fiction films, they never addressed the question. The mysterious aliens had mind reading skills or knowledge of a magic technology that translated grunts and chips into perfect native Alliance.

“From D’John.”

“He is an excellent teacher. And how did D’John come to speak my language?” Tag braced himself, expecting some fanciful explanation of listening to radio waves bounced off meteorites or other equally implausible explanations. After all D’John and Rast were playing the role of an aliens; they couldn’t just enroll in school.

“D’John was a citizen of Alliance. He was an excellent teacher. He died.”

Tag shuddered. No, this wasn’t real. He shouldn’t let his imagination run away with him. Rast didn’t look like a killer, but the chill in Rast’s voice cut through Tag’s bones. Rast’s culture could have ritual slaughter. Ever the predecessor of his own culture drank wine in symbolism of blood, sacrifice, and ritual slaughter, and they believed themselves civilized.

“Your Alliance is excellent.”

“D’John was a good teacher. He was a member of the Traveler program.”

Tag drew a sharp breath. “Creative,” Tag said dryly. “I see the brass had outdone itself with their creativity in developing this scenario. It’s a pity they would tarnish the memory of those who died searching for what is not there.”

“He found what is not there.”

Tag ignored that comment. “What is your own native language?” This was a safe question, a coward’s question.

“I speak two: Klaf, the language of my childhood and my province and Kwil, my language of work and adulthood. I have not spoken Klaf since I reached my age of changing at your fifteen.” Rast cocked his head sideways before making a gentle humming sound, almost a vibration in his throat.  He continued to do this for several moments before he spoke again. “This is not the question you wanted to ask. Who or what do you think I am?”

“A perverted training exercise of the high command,” Tag spat.

Rast made that strange humming sound again before rising to his feet and pulling his shirt over his head.

“What are you doing?”

Rast continued to be silent. He dropped his shorts in one motion. Tag caught only a glimpse as he whipped his head to the side and shut his eyes tight. Pastoral had strict taboos about the naked form that had never left Tag. He knew that most Alliance cultures didn’t care, women clustered at the beaches topless, and oiled men in the slimmest of loin cloths danced in the street festivals. However, Tag had never seen more than his parent’s ankles, wrists and faces. Outside they both still covered their heads, and it had taken years for Tag not to reflexively reach for a hat.

“Turn around, and open your eyes.”

“No, sir.” This was a test thatTag couldn’t pass. He’d given up the rules of Pastoral long ago, but to have his cultural mores flaunted like this was despicable. He refused to participate. He wasn’t a backwater bumpkin to be humiliated on a faceless bureaucrat's whim.

“The Alliance does not have a taboo against nudity.” Rast said in an odd downward dropping intonation that perhaps was a novel way of indicating a question.

“Pastoral does,” Tag said, keeping his eyes tightly shut.

“I will clothe myself, Taga, and then we will talk. I am dressed now; you may turn around.”

Tag turned slowly back, opening his eyes a mere crack. He was more than half expecting for Rast to have lied, but Rast was fully clothed and again sitting on the floor, his legs folded back into that impossible looking lotus position.

“My apologies. I was unaware that you had a cultural taboo regarding nudity.”

“All educated members of the Alliance are aware of Pastoral’s peculiarities even if they only use that knowledge for titillating gossip at cocktail parties.”

“I am not a member of the Alliance, Rast said, keeping his eyes well away from Tag.

“Liar!. I must applaud them on the development of this test scenario. I’ve now failed, so can we please stop this farce. I concede that Pastoons are too backward and primitive for the space service.” Tag swallowed and blinked. He could feel a traitorous wetness on his cheeks, and he wiped furiously with his one good hand. They’d proved their point after all these years. 

Tag heard the humming again and then Rast was sinking down next to him. Tag hadn’t noticed the man get up and move nearer. 

“On my world, leaving someone alone who is upset is a grave sin. I made that mistake once.” Rast bent his head and touched his knee in what might be a formal gesture of grief or apology. “I will not make that mistake again, Taga.”

“This is insane,” Tag muttered. He’d never been in a training program that ignored all the failsafes. “I resign. Send me home,” he said loudly. “You’ve won.”

“What have I won?”

“Everything. Stop playing me for a fool. They have what they want.”

Rast looked at Tag with that peculiar sideways glance that he seemed to have perfected. “In my world, we would touch someone who is becoming distraught. I will do so now.”

Tag didn’t move as the arm slipped around his waist and pulled him against the other man’s body. Nothing further happened for several long breaths until Tag felt a hand in his hair, picking through individual strands as if looking for insect pests. He’d seen something like that in a vid of ancient Earth creatures. Mutual grooming had been a sign of acceptance and affection. It wasn’t painful, but it was decidedly different. The programer of this scenario had been very skillful to come up with such an idea.

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Why?”

“Your body is so stiff that I can feel every sinew and bone. It is meant to be pleasurable.”

“Should I return the gesture?”

“If you wish?”

“Is it the custom?”

“Yes, but you are injured, afraid, and angry. It would not be required. I’m required to offer care. You may reciprocate when the time is right.”

“I see.” Tag didn’t see at all, but this wasn’t painful. The fingers in his hair didn’t tug or pull, and the arm around his waist was quiet. Rast was making a humming noise again. This time a little higher pitched and somehow lulling. 

“Who are ‘they’?” Rast asked, his hand still moving through Tag’s hair.

“The bosses of course.” Tag responded with more candor than was prudent. “The people who make all the decisions. “My captain and on up.”

“And how do you think I’m involved with them?”

“This is a training exercise. You’ve played your part brilliantly. Let me be the first to congratulate you. I’ve been a failure. Is this a debriefing, sir?” Tag tried to pull away. He should stand and face the shellacking he more than deserved. 

“Don’t struggle. You are required to yield to me.” Rast hooked a leg around Tag, effectively keeping Tag still. 

Tag’s hand hurt too much to fight, his head still hurt as well. Curse those stupid drugs! Maybe his parents distrust of modern medicine had been right. “I yield.”

“No, you are merely not fighting me. You will yield, but it will be your will, not only mine.

Fine. Tag had offered surrender, and still he was trapped in this exercise. Had the supervisor left? Tag made his body go limp. Maybe he had to offer physical signs of surrender. 

“You fake well, but it is not time yet, Taga.”

This had to be Wayne’s doing. He was the only person who could come up with something this diabolical and cunning in the guise of an educational experience. What would his tutor say? Find the information. Ask the questions. Analyze the results. Leave personal feelings and prejudices aside.

“Why do you call me Taga?” This was a safe question. The subject had stated he had two unknown native languages. Language was a reflection of culture. Tag had no other cultural references: no architecture, no cuisine, no literature, nothing but this single man talking, pretending to be an alien. 

“Is it offensive? I’ve already explained it’s a diminutive.”

“No, but it’s not a variation that a native speaker would use. The name Tag has no diminutives, and adults rarely address each other in such a fashion.” With a human, Tag would have expected a nod as reply, inoffensive agreement.

Instead, Rast made a brief flat, short humming sound.

“I am head of our pod or seven. It is common and expected for me to refer to the remaining members with terms of affection. I believe in your language you have similar terms of affection.”

“For children.”

“So it is an insult?”

Tag waited. The silence must mean that Rast had asked a question. He’d have to remember not to expect native intonation. “Only if it is meant to be,” Tag said cautiously. 

“It is meant to reflect your status and membership in the seven. Most members will use it among themselves.”

“Is it always formed with the addition of an ‘a’?” 

“Yes. Our language was formalized many years ago, and exceptions were eliminated in the adult language. The language of my childhood is different; it has many exceptions.”

“So you would be Rasta?”

“With those permitted to address me in such a manner.”

“I apologize.” Tag said quickly. “I didn’t mean to cause offense.”

“You didn’t.” There was a slight quirk of Rast’s lips. Was that a smile? Did this pretend alien smile? Tag thought he’d seen one earlier. The facial muscle were of similar construction, so a smile would seem logical, but it could indicate anger or sadness. “It is obvious that even though we made our customs available to the researchers, they were not passed on to you. You were completely unprepared for my arrival, and you even doubt that I am real.”

Tag shrugged before remembering that non verbal communication might be misunderstood. “I was told I was going on a mission to return to an alien home world. However, I wasn’t prepared to be trapped in a room in a virtual reality exercise with a man pretending to be an alien.”

“I am not pretending.” Rast rolled to his feet and stood, his legs splayed apart, his hands laced together in front of him, and his eyes on the ceiling panel. “I attempted to disrobe to convince you of that fact. Under my clothes, I am most clearly not human.”

“My taboos can be set aside for medical or scientific purpose.” Tag said, his eyes on the man in front of him.