pa·ra·trep·sis noun
from para, imperative of parare “to ward off,” from parare “make ready” (from *pere- “to produce, procure”) + from trep root meaning “to turn,” + from -sis denoting action, process, state, condition. Distraction displays, diversionary displays, attract attention away from something
My body sways gently, compensating for the trembling shuttle all around me. I shift my weight in an attempt to get comfortable on the hard metal bench.
It’s not helping.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t select this transport or its starship for comfort, after all. I needed a way to get to this world, and it provided that. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for the other passengers, for the awful conditions they believe they must endure. Even after four centuries, I am unable to explain why terrans feel this kind of hardship is necessary. The shuttle’s interior hull is clearly visible, without even a cursory attempt at disguising the fact that only a foot of metal alloy separates its passengers from the vacuum of space. It’s no wonder the people around me are on edge.
Someone is watching me.
I lift my eyes to meet his. His stare is obvious, but I can’t say whether he just noticed me, or if he’s been letting his attention linger. He is sitting and leaning forward on the bench, swaying uncomfortably, his hands resting on his thighs. His faded pants, loose shirt and worn woollen gloves are patchy and unkempt. Pale brown hair reaches his eyes and down to his shoulders, matted with dirt and sweat. A single, sad looking bag rests in between his muddy shoes. He watches me curiously—a spark of interest in an otherwise dead expression.
I inhale sharply and look away. I scoot back on my seat, being careful not to disturb the other passengers on my seat. I adjust my hood to hide more of my face.
I know I can’t really hide my relatively alien features from the terran. I just hope the social cue is enough to dissuade him. I know I look as alien to him as he does to me. From experience, I know terrans find my people’s skin and hair tones to be exotic, with my own pink skin and violet-pewter hair bringing particular, unwanted attention. Terrans lack our visible, stringy muscle commissures, such as the ones that span the area between our cheekbones and jawline—the most striking part of our facial features, or so I’ve been told. In fact, terrans look closer in appearance to the aeyen than us, though without any grooves to line their muscle groups. I’m sure to this terran—like all terrans—these features are strange and otherworldly.
My anxiety dissipates. He’s stopped staring.
I exhale softly.
The only other non-terrans on the shuttle are the aeyan couple, settled in the corner, facing away from everyone else. However, all the other passengers resemble each other in appearance, with very little in terms of possessions except for small bags of luggage.
The constant rumbling of the shuttle’s engine subdues. A small viewscreen near the door to the cockpit displays a low-quality display view of the outer edge of a settlement on the moon’s surface, quickly approaching. An electronic pop rings out on the bare shuttle walls, followed by nearly indistinguishable, crackling static as a voice begins to speak in Terranglo, heavily distorted by the sound system.
“Valued Customers, EIT welcomes you to Korefield. The local date and time is 9.12.01.11. Please note that New Kiplar’s day cycle is fourteen hours long, with occasional eclipses caused by its orbit around Taeria. You will be experiencing gravity one forty-second the strength of Plumeth’s once you disembark from the shuttle. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain seated and keep clear of the exit ramp until the shuttle has come to a complete stop, and the exit light turns green. Please use caution when exiting the shuttle.”
Another electronic pop, and the intercom’s static goes silent.
My fellow passengers begin to stir, but another loud pop followed by crackling static drowns them out. A different voice comes through the intercom, just as heavily distorted, though speaking much more quickly than could be considered reasonable.
I can’t know for certain, but I believe the core message is that the transport company is not liable for the safety of its passengers once they disembark the shuttle. None of my fellow passengers seem bothered by this as they gather their few possessions or eye the exit ramp in anticipation.
Sadness washes over me as I take in their destitute expressions. Even the aeyan couple seems confused and anxious as they follow the lead set by the terrans. Well, to me, they seem confused and anxious—as lost and desperate as everyone else on the shuttle. To terrans, I’m sure they look haughty and a bit arrogant, as both men have their heads held high and their backs straight, poised and proper despite their downtrodden appearances. If I didn’t know any better, I would hold the same assumptions.
Another wave of emotion washes over me. Why are people like this? I bow my head down. Heat rises within me, boiling my blood, forcing me to take deep, ragged breaths. I bring my hands to my temples, feeling my blood pounding underneath my fingers. I anchor my elbows onto my thighs and my head weighs down on my forearms.
This kind of posturing always frustrates me. It’s not the aeyen—at least, not just them. Terrans, my people, and yes, even the T’av—they’re all guilty of it. Everyone is scared and lonely, yet no one is willing to do anything about it.
But who am I to talk? I’m not any better.
A metallic clang resonates throughout the shuttle. I lower my arms and force myself to breathe normally. Everyone’s attention remains on their things or on the exit ramp as the shuttle’s thrusters roar and the main engine powers down. My ears sting from pneumatic hissing, mixed in with the sound of metal scraping against metal. I feel vertigo for just a moment and everyone jostles in place. Pistons slide out of view—a sickening, metallic sound—and dry, sweet-tasting air rushes into the cabin. Tension is released in every muscle in my body, and I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my entire body—the moon’s gravity.
Relative quiet fills the shuttle, punctured by the occasional whispered conversation and the beeping of various consoles lining the walls.
The overhead lights extinguish and the cabin falls into darkness, leaving only a red light near the exit ramp to bathe the shuttle in an eerie, red glow.
Just as my eyes start to adjust, green light replaces red, and a loud hiss breaks the silence. Bright, almost blinding sunlight seeps in from the edges of the exit ramp. I squint painfully and hold up my hand to shield my eyes. I quickly look away and lower my hand as the people around me stir.
Many pairs of feet make their way towards the exit, shuffling eagerly in anticipation. A loud metal clang followed by a cacophony of whistles and hisses. Everyone is once again jostled, though the line of passengers moves slowly forward, their footsteps ringing out loudly against the metal floor.
Their voices are full of bright optimism as they take in the sights of this new world. While it’s difficult to make out exactly what they’re saying over the ruckus, many of them are apparently amazed by the simplicity of the settlement and the dry heat in the air. Some look forward to visiting the sights and shops the moon has to offer. One even suggests renting a personal ground transport for their travelling party. I can feel the party's reluctance, though they do not voice it.
The aeyan couple are the last to leave, walking with mindfully graceful steps. One pauses to look at me.
The other calls, and they both continue on. They speak in whispers as they exit the shuttle.
I listen to the shuttle idling, of civilization outside and—much further away—the sounds of nature, embodied in the howls of small reptiles, the creaking of dry wood, the chirps of insects, and the howling of wind.
Their presence fades.
I stand up and wrap my cloak around me. I keep my head down as I make my way out of the shuttle, my own footsteps making little noise on the metal floor. I stop midway down the exit ramp and lift my head up.
Once again, I use my hand to shield my eyes as the light of the twin suns of Huk’Va hits my face. A landing platform stretches out before me, made up of metal grating supported on metal beams. Two other landing pads lay empty on the platform, and another ramp leads down to a dirt path. The path goes to and through a terran colonist settlement, its modular buildings oscillating in the dry, hot air of the desert floor. The town has been around for a significant amount of time—in terran standards, at least. Most of the buildings near the centre of town are worn down, their corners and crevices rusted, the walls polished smooth by sand and their paint faded from exposure. Small sand dunes have formed at the foundations, where deep scratches in the paint and metal tell me the terrans have repeatedly tried in vain to remove the dunes. Various pieces of clutter are strewn about, including old, rusted machinery, discarded electronics, unusable furniture and miscellaneous refuse. There are even a few abandoned speeders, their ravaged skeletons half covered in sand.
Signs and sand-worn posters cover the outer walls of almost every building, reaching up to the second or third story in some cases, each one advertising a different product, service, or event. Most look in need of maintenance, putting their relevance into question. One sign nearest to me stands alone, around a hundred feet ahead, a metal sheet held up by two metallic poles. I descend the exit ramp, still holding my hand over my eyes protectively. The sign reads Welcome to BEAUTIFUL New Kiplar, Interstellar Traveller!, along with a collection of smaller blocks of text underneath I can’t quite make out. I recognise the symbols though—they explain the moon’s day cycle and gravitational index, its local laws and jurisdiction, as well as suggestions on what settlements, establishments, or attractions to visit. The words New Kiplar have been added after the fact using a small strip of adhesive material.
I’m surprised the local government didn’t put more effort in the sign. Reclamation was an important event for terrans, after all.
The remaining buildings on the edge of town are in much better repair, with only a fraction of the wear and tear of those near the town’s centre. The area also looks much more tidy, with barely any clutter or rubbish. The outer walls of these buildings are mostly free of advertisements or any adornment at all.
The military propaganda, though, is everywhere—painted on walls, flying on flags and posted on large signs, each one presented with passion, often associated with military imagery and messages like Drive Them OUT!, Take Back What’s OURS, If They’re Not With Us, They’re Against Us! and Reclamation NOW!
I let out a long sigh, exhaling slowly through my nose. I stop at the edge of the landing platform.
So, it’s the same here, then. Nationalist sentiment turned into violent rhetoric, inferring a deep sense of injustice at the crimes committed against the people that lived here, manifesting as xenophobia and a demand for the return of property. I have never seen such blatant terran propaganda. I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for the people living here when the megor invaded, their homes raided, prized possessions taken away, and lives ended without mercy. I can understand feeling a need for retribution—for justice—after what had been done. No war crime on the level the megor performed should go unanswered. But this kind of hatred will only lead to more violence and hatred, forever spinning in an endless cycle. The prisoner of war camps being constructed on the Republic’s core worlds is evidence enough of that.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, and walk down the ramp.
My feet make contact with the cracked, dry dirt, and the collective essence of the moon’s biosphere hits me in full force. Its flora and fauna connect with my own essence and fill me with their existence. Primal energies flow through me, dangerous and wild.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
So deep it hurts.
Awareness rushes into me. The flora of this world is sparse, reliant on ancient root systems spanning miles below ground that reach underground pools of water, which are populated by ancient organisms living in nearly-closed ecosystems. Fungi and nonvascular plants dominate underground caverns, reliant on the moisture there that the surface lacks. The fauna on the moon is primitive, mostly small reptiles and flightless birds, who take advantage of the hot and dry temperatures, and subsist on seeds, nuts, berries, and insects. As always, insects overshadow every other living thing—with the exception of microscopic entities, of course. The majority of the insects are from the orthoptera order.
So that explains the chirping, then.
I feel something, something wrong—something unwelcome and unnatural. I know this feeling. It’s something I’ve experienced countless times before on other terran worlds. The world is in pain, and the terrans are to blame. The world knows it, I know it, and I think, deep down, the terrans know it.
I feel the world’s collective essence washing over me as a slow tide of primal energy.
I take another deep breath. There would be time enough to interface with this world’s Æther later—just not here.
I open my eyes slowly, lifting myself out of the shallows. Industry and civilization slowly fade back in, drowning out the sounds of nature further out. A couple of terrans stand on a porch nearby and look at me with concern. Or just simple curiosity—I can’t tell. One of them locks eyes with me. They gasp, eyes wide, and turn away. They motion to their companion, and they both stumble back through a nearby doorway.
I straighten my back rigidly. I’m being careless. I shake my head softly and continue my trek toward town.
The propaganda and the graffiti is even more oppressive up close, silently judging me from above for my implied inaction. A specific piece of graffiti catches my eye. It depicts a megor, its predatory features exaggerated to make it look more aggressive—whoever painted the caricature took some artistic liberties. It has far too many horns, far longer and sharper than any megor I know. Its mouth is also overflowing with pointed teeth, more than would be reasonable for any creature to have. Spikes protrude from its shoulders, along its spinal column and limbs, ignoring any impact having such dangerous implements on one’s body would have. The caricature has long, sharp claws extending out from massive fists as it towers over the audience, its eyes blood-red—the same colour as the liquid pouring from its gaping jaw. There is nothing to identify the creature before me. No title, no message, though the image itself is poignant enough.
Although, some of the megor I know would most likely take the caricature as a compliment. At least, the more martial ones would.
“So this is how they see us, huh? Let them be afraid!”
Of course, that might just be posturing. After all, the caricature is definitely problematic and xenophobic, not at all indicative of who the megor truly are. I almost feel insulted for them, though of course, terrans have always been strange when it comes to aliens—just never on the level that I’ve seen with the megor. Yes, open hostility is different from just having different political ideals, but that doesn’t mean they have to be so openly bigoted. Right?
I don’t know. Do I lack the empathy necessary to side with the terrans on this? The megor were the original aggressors, after all. They invaded terran Republic space, mercilessly killing and taking whatever they wished without remorse. Should I not hate them for that alone?
And I did, once. I think. I’m not sure. Maybe I was simply shocked such violence was possible, on such a large scale, and I wanted to direct my strong emotions somewhere. But now—it’s difficult to reconcile how I felt then with how I feel now. I wouldn’t say I’m apathetic. I care deeply for anyone caught in this useless conflict. Perhaps a better way to describe how I feel is—annoyance. I just want everyone to put the past behind them and move forward. There’s nothing to be gained with open conflict now—only more pain.
Unfortunately, my way of thinking is an anomaly.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be too critical of myself. It’s not as if my people, the Erelan Empire, has really extended any adequate sympathy to those involved in the conflict. They’ve provided troops, yes, but nothing to help those who suffer as a result of war. And there are so many people suffering—I should know. I have eaten with them, slept under the same roof, and even had to make crucial life-saving decisions with them. Is that not enough in comparison? Or am I no better than the Empire as I wander between worlds, claiming impartiality whilst people all around me lose their lives, their families, and their homes?
I reach the centre of town, its colourful propaganda leering down at me. I try very hard to feel what I think these people feel. Should I feel rage at what was done to these people? Enough to stir me into seeking justice, revenge, or whatever is necessary for my rage to be quenched?
But I can’t. It’s too much. I feel for these people—how can I not? But maybe not in the way they want me to. Justice is a loaded term, something people use to justify cruelty and actions that would normally be considered unjust. Justice is just a way for someone to give credence to their hatred, to their violent acts.
Is there just something wrong with me, with the way I think? There must be something, a trigger of some kind, which pushes people into taking action, one which allows them to set aside any doubts, to have answers to these questions. I’ve certainly seen others of my kind answer the call to action, some without any direct stake in the outcome of this conflict. Do they not question what caused the megor to invade in the first place? What terrible things must we do to provide equal retribution for the harm caused? Would we not, then, become monsters as well? The people here, like on so many terran worlds—with their righteous indignation and drive to do what they see as right—have answers to these questions, answers that are satisfactory and rectify any ethical quandary.
That has to be the case. Right? Otherwise, I can’t reasonably understand why someone would advocate for violence, knowing all the harm it does.
I sigh softly.
I stop and survey the area. Stores are set side by side, selling everything from clothing and food, to electronics and decorations. Next to a food vendor is a small, two-story building. Two large bay windows flank a cosy looking door, above which reads Hazelnut Inn in bright neon colours, along with the minimalist representation of a tree nut. The silhouette of a person leans against a countertop in the lobby beyond the glass.
I make my way to the inn’s entrance. The door slides open and a pleasant chime rings out as I cross the threshold. The clerk behind the countertop looks up. She is clearly terran, with light-coloured skin with patches of ruddy, freckled skin on her cheeks and forehead. Her blonde hair is cut into a ragged bob, and her worn out uniform is made up of a vest, shirt and slacks, all of which are coloured in earthy, hazel and beige tones. The countertop under her is made of painted metal, the design evocative of wood. However, the paint has begun to peel, revealing patches of rust underneath. A datapad rests on a small pedestal facing the clerk. Behind the clerk is a large painting depicting rolling, green hills under a cloudy blue sky, illuminated by a yellowed light set above it. Flanking the painting are two cabinets, each one filled with curiosities, such as rocks, statues, and dolls.
A rubber carpet snakes its way from the entry door to the counter, then continues on to a hallway and some stairs further away. Opposite the countertop is a small waiting room arranged around an extinguished electric fireplace. Three lounge chairs face the dead logs, their fabric torn and stained. The far wall has a modest coffee station, above which smaller paintings hang, each one with a small yellow light illuminating them. An air conditioner pumps cool, dry air into the space from above the windows. Grime covers everything in the small room, though in a way that indicates age, and not uncleanliness.
The clerk eyes me warily.
I make my way toward her. She squints, and her eyes dart around, searching me. Her expression brightens, and she quickly bends down to open a drawer in the desk. She rummages for a moment before bringing out a small device, which she quickly hooks onto her ear. The translator is dated, but sleek and colourful. She straightens herself up as I reach her station. A tentative, wary smile stretches across her face.
“Hi there! Can I…can I help you?” she asks in Terranglo, her voice a little strained.
A young adult, perhaps younger. Her sun-baked skin makes her look older.
“Yes. I’d like a room, if any are available,” I respond in erelan imperial.
She stares at me, eyes darting around frantically, a nervous smile on her lips. I can barely hear the mechanical whisper of her translator’s bone conductor.
“Oh, yeah…yeah, of course,” she says.
She continues to smile nervously as she looks down at the datapad in front of her and taps the surface. She deftly navigates the interface. Her fingers pause suddenly midair, and she frowns, looking up at me.
“…how many—wait, just so you know,” she says, her expression pained, “I don’t think that, your empire covers this, well, just from experience…”
She trails off, her smile fading. I smile widely. I lower my hood and fish out my waist-length hair from under my cloak. Her eyes widen.
“Thank you for letting me know. But it won’t be a problem. I have my own credits.”
I open my cloak and take a credit chip from the pouch attached to my belt. I set it on the counter in between us. Our eyes meet. I smile again. She smiles back, sincerely this time, I think, as her shoulders and stance visibly relax.
“Alright, well, that’s great then!” she says as she returns her focus to the datapad. “How many nights can I put you in for then?”
“I’m not sure, actually. Is it possible to keep a room indefinitely?”
She frowns.
“I don’t expect I’ll need more than a week, but I can’t say for sure. In Plumeth time, of course.”
She nods and makes an affirmative noise.
“Well, as long as you have the credits, then…”
She looks at me. I smile back at her.
“I’m sure I will.”
Her smile widens and she nods. She returns her attention to the datapad. The world’s essence ebbs and flows below me.
“Oh, and would it be possible to have a room on the ground floor?”
“Yes, of course,” she replies without looking up. “To be honest, we have quite a bit of vacancy at the moment.”
She chuckles, her eyes flicking up to look at me. I smile back in response. Her eyes sparkle, and she once looks back down as her fingers flash across the datapad.
My eyes wander to the room again. Do terrans really find this kind of interior design appealing? Or is it a failed attempt at whatever it is they were trying to accomplish? I return my attention to the clerk as she speaks.
“Okay then, it’s ready to go. The rate is 9050 credits per night. Usually we can offer discounts for long stays, but since you don’t know how long you’re staying, I’ll need to talk to my manager to see if we can refund you later”, she pauses to look at me, “If that’s okay, of course.”
I nod. She smiles and takes the credit chip off the counter to put it next to the datapad, which she continues to work on.
“You know,” she says, without looking up, “usually when I see some of your—uh, your uh…”
Her eyes flick up.
“My kind.”
“Uh, yeah, that,” she says, looking back down. “Don’t usually see y’all around here, and when I do, things always get a bit weird.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
I already know the answer. But the girl wants to talk about it.
“Well, yeah, you see, most of us here are terrans—as you might have guessed already,” she chuckles, picking up my credit chip and inserting it into the datapad. “Everyone else just kind of keeps to themselves, or they stay to Starcaster, for the most part.”
The datapad emits a pleasant, digitised chime. The clerk removes my credit chip and hands it to me.
“Mostly ones we get around here are traders or pirates. Or maybe a bit of both.”
She laughs again—a pleasant, bright sound that reverberates quietly on the metal walls. I store my credit chip back into my pouch.
“Or, I guess, some of your greenhorns, or whatever you call them. They’re a trip and a half—or at least, that’s what I hear.”
She performs a few more definitive taps on the touchscreen. She looks up at me, beaming.
“Alright! It’s all squared up. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“I’m sure I will. And I hope I may see you again.”
She flutters her eyelashes and smiles brightly.
“Oh, oh yeah, me too. Oh!”
Her eyes widen.
“I guess I should tell you—I work here pretty often, but if I’m off work, and you know,” she says softly, “you want to talk…just ask for Thia. They’ll get a hold of me.”
I smile and nod.
“Thank you, Thia.”
“It was so nice to meet you.”
“Same here.”
She stares at me, smiling.
She starts and bends down below the counter.
“Ah shoot, I—I guess I need to give you this.”
She rummages for something, then comes up, holding a small key fob.
“Your key, ma’am,” she says, handing me the fob. “Oh yeah, that reminds me. I never got your name,” she says, leaning forward on the counter. “I’m sorry, I usually ask when I book the room, but I guess, I don’t know…”
She chuckles, her face reddening.
“Divine, I feel like such a hick,” she continues.
“It’s okay, child. I understand.”
She smiles back.
Knowing that her translator will mangle my name—but also knowing there’s nothing I can do about it—I say, “My name is Luna.”
The sliding door shuts behind me with an audible rush of air, blocking out the strong fluorescent lights in the hallway. My eyes adjust almost immediately to the small space, helped by the dim light filtering in through the metal shutters on the outer wall. The room is decorated in a similar manner as the lobby, though the layout follows terran standards for these kinds of establishments. A short entryway empties out into a multipurpose space, with a streaming station set on a dresser next to a small refrigeration unit and a coffee machine. Opposite the dresser and table is a large bed with far too many pillows and blankets. The far wall is covered by windows obscured by the metal shutters, which can be opened by way of a lever. An air conditioner in the top right corner hums continuously. To my immediate right is an open doorway to a washroom.
I make a sharp turn to go into the washroom and activate the faucet in the small sink. Water sputters and shakes, spraying out randomly before flowing in a steady stream. A pump struggles somewhere in the walls. The lukewarm water is refreshing on my face and hands. I look at myself in the mirror. Water drips down, bringing dirt and grime with it.
I look tired. Tired and worn out.
I dry myself on the worn but clean towel hanging on a stained metal bar near the sink. I don’t know how Thia was so easily charmed by my presence, given my current appearance. Her warmth was refreshing, but unexpected—or perhaps I’m just used to how cold and detached terrans are most of the time. When was the last time I had a positive interaction with someone? It feels like ages. I sigh deeply, hanging the towel back on the bar before exiting the washroom.
The metal walls of the room are covered in a thin layer of wallpaper, similar in style to the lobby, periodically broken up by cheap paintings. The bottom shutter on one of the windows is loose, flapping randomly in the wind and flashing light from outside with each flutter. Sunlight dims quickly outside.
Dusk falls.
I shake my head softly and rub my eyes. How long has it been since I last slept? I must have slept at some point on the starship, but—
Does it matter? I let my hand drop back to my side and exhale a shuddering breath. I still have work to do. Thankfully, though, I can do it while I sleep.
I ensure the door to the room is locked, then take off my cloak and lay it on the bed. The hard metal floor is cold on my skin as I sit cross-legged in the centre of the room. I shiver, goosebumps along my arms.
The moon’s essence below me beats at a steady rhythm.
I close my eyes. Primal magic flows through me, starting in my chest and flowing outwards, toward my hands and my head. It infuses my entire body. A rising tide of consciousness rises to meet me. I take a deep breath.
The steady hum of the air conditioner fades into nothing. The creaking from the flapping shutter, gone. I no longer feel the cold beneath me—or really, anything at all. The world’s essence crashes against me. I wade deeper and deeper. Pleas of anguish rise up to meet me. And swallow me whole.