Lurnik Log 001 — Arrival
I made it. A whole planet.
This is my Arcday journey, the first question I have chosen entirely for myself.
“Go see what you need to see,” my Tarin told me when he gave me the Nakaru.
He did not tell me how long.
We return when the question begins to ask back.
I chose Lurnik, the stone that sings late. It has been sitting in the dark, humming to itself, waiting for a listener.
My friends did not understand. They laughed and asked what I expected to find on a world so young and unformed. Salaris has mapped half the galaxy. Why choose the one corner everyone forgot?
“Too much weather,” they warned. “Primitive.”
I told them Lurnik might test me. Salaris keeps everything balanced, even the air. I wanted to step outside that balance and let an untamed world press against the edges of Circuit One. Perhaps, if I listened properly, it might move me closer to Circuit Two.
They seemed satisfied with that answer. I was not. There was more to it, but I did not yet know what.
The only problem is that no Salaran has visited Lurnik since Thalara made the crossing. No updated field harmonics, no navigation lattice, not even a working Drift-mesh map. I had to rely on the lone Drift anchor she left behind.
The anchor must have shifted. Or perhaps the ground beneath it had not stayed where it once was. I emerged from the jump too high. The Nakaru did not react well, and I came down in a field.
So yes, I crashed. At least it was not water.
The Nakaru is stable now.
The hatch opens.
I step outside. Gravity presses its hand on my shoulder, firm and unsmiling.
The grass reaches my waist. It surrounds me in every direction, thick and soft, rising and falling like waves. When I move forward, the grass parts and stays parted behind me, a faint path pressed into the field, remembering the contact.
Somewhere close, something brushes past the stems. Something chirps, sharp and quick. Farther away, something splashes. The sounds overlap without order. I cannot tell what is small, what is fast, and what might be watching.
I suppose I should stay alert. A dinosaur might jump out at any moment.
As the sun falls, true darkness comes. It is a rare thing for a Salaran; our twin suns and the glow of our gas giant keep us in a state of eternal half-wakefulness. But the night here closes its hand completely.
I sit on the roof of my ship and watch the stars return one by one. The spiral arm glows like a river of fire pinned to black. Somewhere among those dots lies Salaris. I am out of signal range, alone in the dark.
My explorer friends say every planet has a voice. If Salaris hums like a choir, then Lurnik murmurs like a crowd that has not decided whether or not to welcome me.
My head hurts. I cannot tell if it belongs to this planet, or if I brought it with me.
Lurnik Log 002 — First Contact
Last night, I fell asleep inside my Nakaru before switching off transparent mode. Sleeping inside a fully see-through shell on foreign soil means the local sun decides when you have had enough rest.
Light spills through clouds that drift wherever they please. It is strange, waking under a foreign star.
I run a quick atmospheric scan.
Atmosphere: Within tolerance. Pressure: Within tolerance. Temperature: Within tolerance. Verdict: The air will not kill me. Or at least not quickly.
The manual strongly discourages what I do next. It lists risks in agonizing detail: microorganisms, particulates, unknown biochemistry. With the biosuit active, every breath of Lurnik arrives filtered and adjusted for Salaran biology. Safe, but dull.
Curiosity wins. I let the suit peel away.
The world sharpens instantly.
I take my first direct breath of Lurnik. It burns slightly. Dust, likely. The second breath goes down easier.
Then I kneel and touch the soil. It is darker than Salaran sand, damp and stubborn. I almost lick it. This is a standard field-research temptation, or so my explorer friends say. I resist.
A small creature, six legs and translucent wings, lands on me. I hum a friendly, low-frequency greeting. It flies directly into my face. First contact achieved, I guess.
I consider naming this spot “Base Lurnik-1,” but eventually settle on the more honest “Miscalculation Valley.”
The Milky Way History Lessons suggest that once a species reaches the Milky Way Milestones of consciousness, intent, and fire, it begins changing the face of its planet. But my last jump was a star-step out, and I emerged too close to the surface to see Lurnik as a whole.
I need to see more. I have not seen any dinosaurs yet. I steer the Nakaru low and chase the sun’s fall in a straight line. Land blurs into water, then more water, then land again.
Then I see them. Straight lines. Straight lines mean somebody has intent.
I drop lower. The surface is marked with structures of stone and glass. Then I see upright creatures moving between them. They look startlingly like us, though their ears lack our elegant points.
I was prepared for dinosaurs. I am not prepared for this.
For now, I call them Lurnikans, the “Singers of the Late Stone.” If I meet another intelligent species, I will call them Lurnikans Two.
I activate the manual on my Orrin Lens. It tells me that early explorers have caused a number of wars and panics simply by opening with the wrong gesture. The Interplanetary Etiquette section is quite specific:
Upon encountering intelligent life, proceed to their central gathering zone and perform a gesture of peaceful resonance, ideally a mutual embrace.
My instincts tell me this is a terrible idea, but manuals exist for a reason.
I land at the edge of a nearby crowd. Before stepping closer, I let the neural translator listen. It drinks in fragments from every direction. Language begins assembling itself in the corner of my vision.
Local speech field: partial.
Intentional frequency map: forming.
Broadcast confidence: 64 percent.
Excellent. More than half.
I look for what the manual calls a “central gathering zone.” A bronze figure stands above the crowd, frozen in some permanent struggle. A hero, perhaps, or a very specific punishment. Musicians play rhythmic, bright sounds nearby. It feels like the perfect stage.
I climb onto the statue’s pedestal, switch the translator to broadcast, and announce, “Hi! I’m Keel’varak Eluran! I come from the planet Salaris! Shall we listen to each other’s heartbeat?”
Silence.
Then one of the musicians plays a triumphant chord, and laughter ripples through the crowd. A few people shout, “Free hugs!” and run toward me with open arms. I follow the manual and embrace them. It is warm, if a bit disorganized. Others point glowing rectangles at me.
Small, round metal discs clink into the musician’s box. After a while, he waves me over and hands me a few. They feel heavy and significant. I store the metal discs in my field toolbox.
“Yo, I’m Joe,” he says. “Great performance, dude. Unbelievably believable!”
I do not fully understand what he is saying, but the resonance feels positive. I am glad I listened to the manual.
Lurnik Log 003 — The Interplanetary Etiquette Manual
Refrain from excessive enthusiasm.
When in doubt, fly.
The manual keeps repeating both instructions. Personally, interplanetary peace seems much simpler than the manual makes it sound.
I still wonder who wrote it. Possibly someone who never actually met another intelligent species. Some sections read like guesses. Others read like instructions written after something went terribly wrong.
Once the hugs are over, I decide to explore. A proper Lurnik Strategy can wait until tonight. For now, I will walk and observe. Observation rarely leads to explosions.
The longer I walk, the more strangely pleasant it becomes. Feeling the friction. Thinking with your legs. I wonder if Salarans rely too much on Driftfold and the Lattice. Then I remember that walking only works when a city is connected by land.
Outside a small building marked with a pink circle, several Lurnikans stand one behind another. One by one, they approach a small window. Some hand over green paper, while others offer small metal discs. In return, each receives something warm and round.
I want one immediately.
I do not understand this ritual of standing in sequence and exchanging shiny objects, but it looks simple enough. Exchange, receive, rejoice. And I have some of those metal discs in my field toolbox.
I take out the toolbox.
Immediately, a small Lurnikan in a pink jacket points at me and shrieks, “Alien!”
Then a larger Lurnikan rushes forward, grabs my toolbox, and shouts, “Suspicious box! Call the police!”
I assume he wants to examine it, since it looks nothing like their local technology.
By the time I understand that he does not intend to return it, he has disappeared into the crowd.
I try to explain, but several Lurnikans begin talking to me louder and louder.
Not long after, a metallic vehicle screeches to a halt, flashing red and blue lights while emitting a rhythmic, anxiety-inducing sound. Two Lurnikans in matching dark uniforms jump out.
I open my arms and smile, waiting for the greeting ritual.
Instead, they shout, “Freeze!”
Oh. They want a phase-change demonstration.
A strange request, but a simple one. Luckily, I brought a matter-energy converter.
I pull out my Sorevin. It is usually a slender clear rod. Now it has turned translucent bluish-purple, probably reacting to Lurnik’s atmosphere. The soft cells within drift behind the new color.
“Get down!” they scream.
My Orrin Lens marks the black metal tubes in their hands as weapons. That cannot be right. They asked me to freeze something. Why threaten the person performing the demonstration?
One of them raises a tube. A sharp crack splits the air. My Orrin Lens tracks a dense metal object propelled by a small chemical reaction.
The object rotates once as it crosses the space between us.
A demonstration cue.
I activate the Sorevin, extending a static field. The output is slightly higher than intended.
The object stops.
So does everything else.
The two uniformed Lurnikans, the surrounding crowd, and a bird in mid-flight remain suspended in place. After a moment, the field disengages and the metal object falls to the ground.
Then everyone moves at once. Toward me.
The manual’s advice surfaces immediately: “When in doubt, fly.”
Sound advice, except my Levra is still inside the stolen toolbox.
I run.
Hands reach for my arms. I adjust my center of gravity and accelerate through the gaps.
From above, I probably resemble a blue magnet dragging loose metal beads across stone. A surprising number of Lurnikans seem strangely excited by the chase. Together, these chaos enthusiasts and I form a choreography without direction.
The manual warns: “Do not activate the Nakaru inside a city. It is rude.”
I try to disappear into the crowd chasing me by copying their behavior. Random shouting. Waving hands. Saying “Oh my God!” several times.
For a moment, it works.
Then someone yells, “He’s still here!”
I do not have a choice. I duck into a narrow alley and tap my wristband. The alley is below the Nakaru’s minimum forming space, but it begins to take shape anyway. Its hull pushes outward toward its full size, scraping both walls with a metallic sneeze and showering me in dust.
I dive inside. The hatch seals. The shouting outside fades into a dull hum.
I take one last look through the hull. The alley walls hold two perfect imprints of my ship. It looks as though the planet tried to give us a parting hug.
Outside, flashing lights multiply. Lurnikans point glowing rectangles toward me. One of them shouts into a lens, “We’re live!”
We are live.
The words feel powerful. A young species, shouting its own existence into the dark between stars.
I Driftfold out of sight.
I check the manual again.
Next step: Reflect on your mistakes.
Lurnik Log 004 — Reflecting My Mistakes
I am currently “reflecting.” To be fair, no one was actually harmed.
The Tally of Errors:
1. Landing Proximity. The manual said, “Pick a scenic orbit. Observe first. Descend later.” I got impatient. I wanted to see their faces. I underestimated how much a blue-skinned Salaran stands out in a crowd of beige Lurnikans.
2. The Familiarity Trap. They looked enough like Salarans that I expected them to behave like Salarans. I forgot they had probably never seen anyone from beyond their own sky. I was close enough to be recognized, and wrong enough to be feared. Not creature. Not kin. Something between.
3. The “Police” Misunderstanding. I have concluded that police are professional panic coordinators. They provide the lights and the noise necessary to ensure everyone knows exactly when to start screaming.
4. Deployment Timing. I activated the Nakaru too late. I blame the manual for that. Its obsession with politeness kept me on the ground until Lurnikans were grabbing my arms. I am more certain that it was written by someone who never had to run.
I am hovering high above the city, within its charged upper air. From here, the city is a Vel-nara, a layered hum of intersecting lives and light. Streets dotted with lights. Buildings growing straight from the soil. It looks peaceful again, which seems unfair given what just happened down there.
Salarans are not supposed to interfere with developing worlds. Yet here I am, hiding in the clouds, and I notice something: I am not debating whether to stay. I made that decision somewhere between the chaos and the alley, and it did not feel like a decision. It felt like a fact I was catching up to.
Despite everything, every part of me feels awake. Lurnikans are unpredictable, emotional, and louder than any reasonable species should be. They are far more interesting than dinosaurs. Dinosaurs just stomp. They never try to steal your toolbox.
Reflection complete.
Next step: Attempt reentry after reflection.
I am adding a note to the margin of the manual: The ritual hug is a trap. If people start screaming, do not explain. Just leave.
Lurnik Log 005 — Trying Not to Be Blue
Calm down, Keek. Think.
The manual had advice for all kinds of situations: tone, posture, and how not to turn first contact into an interplanetary incident. But it never mentioned what to do when someone points at my head and shouts, “Alien!”
I appear to have reached the point where the only logical next step is to pretend I am someone else.
I check the manual’s section on Concealment and Adaptive Presentation. It suggests full biosuit disguise, neural-field projection, or remaining very still near large rocks.
My biosuit is in the stolen toolbox. The Orrin Lens can alter the visual fields of only four observers at once. I counted sixty-seven Lurnikans chasing me before I stopped counting. That leaves the rocks.
The rock strategy raises several questions, especially whether I am meant to stay beside the rock forever or bring the rock with me. The manual does not clarify.
If I still had my biosuit, this would be simple. A few taps, and I would have a perfect Lurnikan face. Unfortunately, the biosuit is with whoever ran off with the toolbox. And the shiny metals Joe gave me are gone too. So I have no toolbox, no biosuit, no metals, and no idea how Lurnikans operate beyond the fact that they are loud and gather quickly when alarmed.
Any sensible Salaran would insist I return to the ship and wait. Not yet. Not until I understand Lurnikans a little better. If I perish here, at least history will remember me as Keek Eluran, the Great Fool of Salaris.
I eat my energy cubes first. If I do not, my thoughts get wobbly. And if my thoughts get wobbly, I might start listening to the manual again.
Good. I have an idea. It is desperate. Desperate ideas tend to work.
Based on my brief study of Lurnikans, they appear to come in a standard configuration: broad shoulders, small eyes, round ears, and skin tones spanning a narrow gradient. Many maintain a facial expression that suggests a low but persistent level of dissatisfaction.
The ears are a separate problem. First I need to stop being blue.
I open my Nurin Hollow and check what I have: travel gear, spare parts, sealed items from home, and a single pod of Le’rivhh fruit that I am absolutely not converting into disguise material. Then I spot a small pile of dry leaves I gathered earlier, intending to bring them back to Salaris as a botanical collection. After careful consideration, I decide that integration takes priority over botanical preservation.
I feed the leaves into Sorevin. The cells under its bluish-purple skin darken one by one, digesting the material.
“Surface concealment medium,” I say. “Temporary. Flexible. Matte. Safe for skin.”
It extrudes a ribbon of pale beige gel. Promising. I squeeze a little onto my wrist and spread it over the blue.
The result is unfortunate. Instead of becoming Lurnikan, I become green.
“No,” I tell the device.
I adjust the tone darker. Sorevin pulls the remaining gel back in and extrudes a second batch, warmer and more yellow. I try again.
Worse. I now resemble a decorative fruit.
The problem is obvious. The blue underneath is still affecting the surface tone. I stop aiming for accuracy and start aiming for coverage.
“Black,” I say.
Sorevin gives me what I should have asked for in the first place: a dense black gel with fine suspended grain that dries to a dull matte. It will not survive close inspection, but it is excellent at suppressing blue.
I coat my face, then my neck, arms, and hands. The gel goes on cold and smooth and sets almost at once.
For the ears, I layer the broadest leaves from the collection into a rough cap, then use Sorevin to seal the contact points with binding gel, just enough to hold.
I put it on and inspect my reflection.
I do not look like a Salaran explorer. I look like someone who has encountered significant difficulties but refuses to go home.
I hold my own gaze. The face looking back is not mine, exactly. Not theirs either.
This will have to be enough.
Lurnik Log 006 — Blending In, Attempt One
Today is the field test. Disguise attempt number one. Lurnikan resemblance: 78 percent. Risk of unwanted intervention: hopefully zero, realistically above zero.
Best case: a mildly suspicious Lurnikan. Worst case: run away again.
I choose a quieter area this time. Most Lurnikans carry a beverage, a glowing rectangle, or both. The rectangles appear biologically attached. I keep my movements smooth and scan each passing face for alarm. No one screams. No one points. Success appears imminent.
Ahead, the street opens into a park. The entrance is broad and quiet. Trees line both sides of the path, their branches reaching over it and meeting somewhere above. They hold a large quantity of yellow leaves. Some leaves lie flat on the ground. Others are still in the process of falling.
This appears to be a designated area for not panicking.
I walk deeper in. A Lurnikan sitting alone on a bench. Her hair is almost entirely white. Her skin is very light. Fine lines cover her face.
A dark bag rests beside her on the bench. When she sees me approaching, she quickly lifts it and settles it on her lap.
I interpret this as making space. An invitation. So I sit down.
Her shoulders draw inward around the bag. I smile and wave at her.
“What do you want?”
“I want to enjoy my stay on this planet peacefully,” I say. “So far, the results are encouraging. No one has screamed at me today.”
She holds the bag closer. “No one has screamed?”
“Yes.”
“Why would they?”
“There have been issues with my appearance.”
“Well,” she says, staring ahead at the path. “At least they notice you.”
Several yellow leaves detach from the branches at once. They do not fall together. Each finds its own way down.
“My husband used to bring me here,” the woman says, loosening her grip on the bag.
“Used to?”
Her fingers make a small movement.
“You will have to excuse me.”
She stands, adjusts her coat, and walks away. I watch her disappear down the path. A yellow leaf lands where she had been sitting.
I do not fully understand what happened.
I continue walking.
Lurnik Log 007 — The Alien Buys an Alien
The black coating is beginning to separate where I bend. A fine line has opened across my elbow. Another has formed near my cheek. The blue beneath is starting to show through.
The disguise is workable, but unstable. If I must reapply surface concealment every morning, I will spend most of my life preparing to be seen instead of actually seeing.
I need a sustainable alternative.
A chaotic spectrum of light pulls my vision to the left.
The sign above the structure reads: COMIC PLANET.
Lurnikans are dressed differently here. They stand in loose circles outside the structure.
Two Lurnikans swing glowing sticks at each other, one red and one green, striking them together with considerable enthusiasm. I pull out my Sorevin, just in case. Then I notice they are both smiling. Nearby, one Lurnikan has purple hair defying gravity, while another wears a green suit with enormous black eyes. No one appears alarmed.
I observe.
Blending does not appear to reduce attention. Small irregularities draw extended examination. Large irregularities draw none.
I note this in my manual: On Lurnik, the camouflage of the fool is the armor of the wise.
A young male steps directly into my path. He holds a short black stick near his mouth. Behind him, another Lurnikan aims a rectangular device at my face. I am not sure whether this is a ritual, a warning, or a very small weapon.
“Excuse me, sir!” he says. “We’re asking people at the event. If you died tomorrow, what is the one message you’d leave for the world?”
Died tomorrow?
I glance back at the Lurnikans fighting with glowing sticks. Perhaps their smiles were tactical. I choose a message intended to reduce hostilities.
“Sing,” I say. “But keep it down.”
He blinks. “Keep it down?”
“Yes. You are very late to start singing, so you should sing often. Sing even if you are bad at it. I am only suggesting volume moderation for communal harmony.”
The young Lurnikan lowers the black stick. “That is… surprisingly wholesome.”
They thank me and move away to question someone with wings.
I step inside the structure.
The walls are covered with visual noise. Drawings of Lurnikans flying, mutating, and wearing external underwear. Shelves hold objects whose purpose seems to be admiration alone. On the far wall, hanging from a hook, is a green costume like the one I saw outside.
I walk over to inspect it. It stares back at me with oversized, unblinking eyes.
A voice to my right says, “Man, that outfit is insane.”
I turn.
A round Lurnikan in a shirt that says EAT. PLAY. SLEEP. is looking directly at me.
He points at my sleeve. “Dude, your shirt looks like moving water. Is that some kind of smart fabric?”
I look down at the garment. Only now do I notice the second flaw in my plan.
I corrected the face. I concealed the ears. I reduced the immediate risk of panic.
But I forgot that I am still wearing Salaran clothes.
“It is for travel,” I say.
He pinches the sleeve between two fingers. “Wait. Is this from TGD’s Voidwalker line? The collector’s edition jacket?”
This appears to be praise.
His attention drops to my shoes. “And those are crazy too.”
I decide not to explain further.
Instead, I point at the green suit on the wall.
“What species is this?”
He looks at me, then says, “An alien, obviously.”
Obviously.
Imagine landing on a planet and discovering how the locals imagine intelligent beings from beyond their own world. Why the giant eyes? Do they think intelligence improves in darkness? Why no clothes? Do they think interstellar travel develops faster than fabric?
Still, I want it.
The idea pleases me. An actual alien pretending to be a fake alien in order to pass as a Lurnikan.
I take the green costume off the hook and prepare to walk out.
“You haven’t paid,” says the round Lurnikan.
I look at him. I infer that he means the exchange of shiny round metals with faces, which I do not possess. Why does a piece of metal persuade one person to release an object?
I eat an energy cube to accelerate my thinking.
“Yo. Is that candy?”
“Condensed sunlight,” I reply honestly.
His cheeks lift into a grin, and his eyes almost disappear. “Hardcore. Molecular gastronomy, right? Like forcing photons into a solid state? I read about that in Sci-Tech Weekly. Can I try one?”
“Sure.”
I hand him a cube.
He puts it into his mouth and chews. His expression changes immediately. His eyes reappear. His pupils widen. I worry I have overloaded his nervous system.
Then he grips the edge of a shelf. Air leaves him before language does. “Hh… dude.”
His chest rises again. The next words come out unsteady. “That tastes… like lightning pudding.”
I look at the green suit in my hand. Then at him. “I can give you more,” I say. “But I want that suit.”
He looks at the cube, then at the suit, then back at me. “Deal.”
I hand him five cubes.
This may have been the first interstellar trade on Lurnik. It should have felt historic. I wish it had involved something more dignified than a green suit.
On Salaris, trade is reserved for things that cannot simply be made again. The first dust harvested from Yavraun was once traded for a song composed by two storms. This is not that kind of exchange. I have yet to determine who got the better end: manufactured light, or a rubber version of how Lurnikans imagine visitors from the dark.
“I am Keek,” I say, because this seems like the stage at which names are exchanged. “What is your name?”
He grins. “Baxley. Nice to meet you.” He lifts one of the cubes. “Where can I get more of these?”
“I can…” I begin.
I almost tell him, then remember that explaining Salaran technology to a Lurnikan does not count as blending in.
“I can get more,” I say.
“My friends would lose their minds,” he says. “We should do something with this. You get them, I’ll sell them.”
A good idea. With the Sorevin’s basic matter-conversion function, I can make as many as we need.
“I am new to this,” I say. “I will follow your lead.”
“Perfect,” he says. “Here’s my number.”
He writes a series of symbols on a piece of paper and hands it to me, then grabs a stack of colorful books from a nearby shelf and stuffs them into a bag with the green suit. Finally, he drops several shiny metals into my hand.
“Goodwill,” he says.
I am not sure what goodwill is, but it appears to fit in my hand.
Lurnik Log 008 — Blending In, Attempt Two
I wake inside my Nakaru and switch the hull to transparent. Cloud fills my view. I steer into open air, and the city spreads below like an Omnisimulator, full of constraints that reveal their function only after you fail.
I reach for the bag from Comic Planet and retrieve the research materials. The colorful books inform me that people here call Lurnik Earth. The shiny metals are coins. Lurnikans call themselves humans, men and women, though they sound a little uncertain about that part.
I take out the main attraction: a bright green, full-body alien suit. Smooth. Tight. Questionably breathable. I hold it up. The tag says, “One Size Fits All.” A bold claim.
I crossed two thousand star-steps, dodged magnetic storms, landed on this planet, and the first thing it asks of me is to climb into a stretchy green sock with two dark viewing panels. Fine. Research requires humility. I tell myself I am studying local imagination.
I start putting it on.
Leg one: acceptable.
Leg two: less acceptable. It compresses regions not designed for compression.
I pull the hood over my head and examine my reflection.
If my Tarin could see me now, he would probably whisper, “Pride is the gravity of the soul, Keek.”
To which I would reply, “I broke free of that pull, and now I cannot find my way back.”
The manual’s Lurnik record currently ends with Thalara returning home with dinosaur eggs. The next entry will be me stepping outside in a stretchy green sock.
Next question. Do Lurnikans wear clothes on top of this?
The Lurnikan outside Comic Planet wore the suit without additional layers. My Tarin once said a single specimen, properly observed, can reveal more about the whole than the whole intends.
I am here to integrate, not to judge, so I adopt the “forgot pants” configuration.
Judgment happens when I look down. Salarans resolved body-display anxiety several eons ago, yet I feel… overshared.
I adjust the zipper. Curiosity always ends somewhere undignified.
Around noon, I descend behind a building and step onto the main street.
Instantly, a shout rings out.
“Mom, look! An alien!”
I turn toward the voice. A small Lurnikan is pointing directly at me. Heads turn. For one terrible moment, my body prepares to run.
Then the Lurnikans turn away and continue walking. No one chases me.
I follow the smell of fried sugar and find another building marked with the same pink circle. The symbol has reproduced. This time, I have coins and know what waits at the front.
I join the line.
The man in front of me turns around. His eyes are small, but they carry violence. “Stop breathing into my neck, you weirdo.”
Ah. A proximity miscalculation. I step back to correct the neck-breathing situation.
I step back to what feels like a peaceful distance. But the gap behaves more like a black hole, immediately sucking two other Lurnikans into it.
The Lurnikan behind me releases a sharp breath through her nose. “Are you even queuing?”
I want to tell her it is my first queue, but I also want to appear non-alien. Difficult, considering I am dressed as an alien.
After several corrections, two intrusions, and one accusation, I attempt to determine the purpose of waiting in physical sequence. I can think of only one explanation. This must be Lurnik’s form of collective punishment.
“Next!”
The female Lurnikan behind the counter is looking directly at me. I conclude that “next” means “me.”
The coins Baxley gave me are still inside Nurin Hollow because the alien suit has one critical design flaw: no pockets. I reach into the fold beside my thigh and pull out the coins. Space bends briefly around my hand.
I expect the dimensional distortion to concern her. Instead, she rests one cheek in her palm.
“I’ve seen better magic tricks. Order, then wait at the collection point.”
I place the coins on the counter and point at the sugar ring.
A moment later, I am holding it. Golden and arrogant. I lift it toward my mouth and meet green fabric.
The suit allows vision through two dark panels but provides no opening for food. I guess Lurnikans expect their imaginary aliens to see, but not eat.
I use the Sorevin to separate a small section around my mouth.
The sugar ring appears engineered to vanish. It does. I need another for research.
After queuing again, I carry my second sugar ring to a table by the window.
All around me, Lurnikans stare into glowing rectangles. Outside, others march past carrying large paper bags stamped with bold letters. My neural translator renders the text as: “I exist. Please notice.”
“Mom, look! The alien’s eating a donut!”
“Let him, honey. Everyone needs something.”
At the next table, someone leaves behind a pile of crumpled receipts. I fold them into small triangles and stack them carefully.
An older male Lurnikan drifts into my field of view and stops beside the table. White growth spreads from his cheeks and chin in thick, weathered coils. His clothing is layered, padded, and uneven. A portable signal machine hangs from his neck.
He lowers himself into the seat opposite mine and gestures at the folded receipts. “And what exactly is that supposed to be?”
“The most stable shape in an unstable world,” I say.
He leans closer, the white coils on his chin nearly brushing the receipts. “Huh. Makes more sense than most things.”
Lurnik Log 009 — The Campaign of Suspicion
After three too many sugar rings, or “donuts,” as the locals call them, I decide to walk off the energy spike before meeting Baxley.
For the first time, I can be noticed without preparing to run. I can simply observe. Quietly. Quiet, at least, by Lurnik’s standards.
Back home, sound curved inward. Salarans understood the art of not talking. Not me. My friends once ran experiments on how long I could go without speaking. Maybe that is why the Quiet Revolution happened, to get a break from people like me.
But here, everything pushes outward, demanding to be heard. Every leaf has an opinion, every door has a temper, and the machines never stop complaining. Everything is trying to get the last word, trying to make its echo last a little longer. It is hard not to admire that. Lurnikans really try.
I watch the leaves argue with the wind.
I begin folding the fallen ones into small triangles as I walk back to Comic Planet. Each is a little “please calm down,” a tiny shelter meant to keep the noise from escaping.
I am still trying to understand the rules of this world. Baxley wants to sell more of my condensed light cubes, and I need more money to buy sugar rings and other Lurnikan curiosities. I write a new pattern in the margin of my manual: Sell brightness to buy sweetness.
When I step inside, Baxley waves from between several unstable towers of colorful books. “Yo, Keek! You came at the perfect time, brother. We’re gonna make serious money with those lightning puddings.” Instead of coins, he hands me a stack of small paper rectangles with Lurnikan faces on them.
“Demand’s insane,” he says. “The gaming guys claim one cube keeps them powered for three days. They skip meals and sleep and just fight bosses. I keep raising the price and they keep buying. No one else can make these.”
The cubes are meant to spark new ideas, to fuel creation. I am not sure that is what Lurnikans are using them for. Fighting bosses does not sound like creation.
“Are you sure that is safe?”
He waves a hand. “They’re fine. Gamers are built different.” Then he looks around and lowers his voice. “But man, have you seen the news?”
I shake my head.
He pulls out his rectangular device and swipes. “It’s crazy. The government has launched a new national security campaign: ‘If You See Something, Say Something.’”
People with rigid hair speak over clips of crowds shouting in the streets, pointing fingers, dragging strangers by the arm. Someone screams, “She’s not human!” Another yells, “He never blinks! Look at him!” One particularly agitated person shouts, “That guy uses ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ way too much. Shady as hell!”
Baxley pauses the video. “The government claims it’s not about aliens, which is the international code for ‘it’s definitely about aliens.’ Denial is confirmation.”
He asks if I have seen anyone suspicious. I look at the cubes, then at him, then down at myself.
“Yes. Saw one this morning. Beautiful creature.”
He laughs and shows me his thumb. Naturally, I lift my thumb and touch his.
“It’s not just the news, Keek,” he continues, his smile fading. “It’s three blocks from my house. The whole neighborhood has gone full detective. Old Mrs. Tang accused her yoga teacher. The yoga teacher accused the dog walker. The dog walker accused the dog. Total madness.” He pauses. “Honestly, though, the dog did look a little suspicious.”
I look at the screen. At the faces. I might have started this.
Baxley pats my shoulder. “You okay, man? You look pale.”
The “alien” suit is bright green. Under it, I am arguably pale blue, but Baxley cannot see that.
“This is wrong,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “Yeah, but what can we do? Humans, man.”
“Baxley. Tell the people who get the cubes to sleep and eat actual food. And tell me if anything goes wrong. If you cannot promise that, I will not give you the new batch.”
He looks at me, then taps his fist lightly against my shoulder. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll tell them.”
I hand him the new batch.
I head out.
The next person who yells “He’s not human!” might accidentally be right.
Lurnik Log 010 — The Logical Surrender
If everyone is shouting about aliens, I might as well show up and say, “Correct. Present.” Then they can calm down and return to whatever they were doing before one blue fool crashed onto their planet and asked for hugs.
So I go looking for the panic coordinators.
I locate one near a street corner. Tall. Hands resting on his hips. Wearing dark lenses. He is chewing something with rhythmic aggression and keeps tapping a device on his shoulder.
“Copy that,” he mutters.
I approach him using my most nonthreatening posture. Hands folded under my armpits, shoulders raised to my ears.
To reduce my presence further, I tiptoe.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m the alien everyone’s looking for.”
He snorts. “Nice suit, kid. Comic-Con is three blocks down.”
Ah. Right. I am still wearing the green alien suit from Comic Planet. I remove the hood.
His chewing slows, then stops.
I smile to reassure him. “See? Alien. No need to panic.”
He panics.
He grabs his shoulder device. “Dispatch, I’ve got a… I’ve got a ten-ninety-six. Scratch that. I’ve got the real thing. Sector four.”
Before I can explain anything, he pulls out two shiny metal loops joined by a short chain. “Hands up where I can see them!”
“Of course,” I say. “They are already quite visible.”
He snaps the circles onto my wrists. I examine them with interest.
“A primitive restraint device. Very low comfort index. You might consider internal padding to improve the user experience,” I inform him.
“Stop talking.” His voice trembles.
I stand still. Cooperation seems the optimal path to clarity.
He ushers me into one of the white vehicles used by panic coordinators. Its red and blue lights begin their familiar anxiety-inducing rhythm.
We drive through the streets. People outside lift their rectangles and point them at me. I wave enthusiastically with both hands. Some wave back. Good. They understand that I am friendly.
We stop before a tall rectangular structure covered in identical narrow windows. More panic coordinators surround the vehicle, along with several Lurnikans in dark suits. Their faces suggest they operate at a higher level of panic management.
“Hello,” I say as they pull me from the vehicle. “I have arrived voluntarily to assist in restoring calm.”
One of the dark-suited people says, “Move him to Secure Interview Three.”
I am placed in a transparent box containing a metal table and two chairs. I count ten cameras. Possibly more.
They remove the cuffs. I rub my wrists.
A man in a gray suit sits across from me. He does not smile. “Let’s start from the beginning. Who are you really?”
I brighten. “Excellent question. I ask myself that sometimes too. Do you prefer the short version or the comprehensive version?”
“Full version.”
“Okay,” I say. “Open your mind, and I will share my thoughts with you directly.”
I release a Logic Seed.
I wait for the usual response, the soft change in the receiver’s eyes.
Instead, his body locks in place. His breathing accelerates. A thin layer of moisture forms on his forehead. It gathers into droplets. One begins its slow journey toward his nose.
Then he jerks backward.
“What did you do to me?” he shouts.
“I sent the full version. The Seed reached you, but you did not open it. Your mind appears to be closed.”
He strikes the button beneath the table.
“Do not move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Why do they all want to look at my hands?
I spread my fingers and move my hands closer to his face so he can see them properly. He jumps out of his chair.
The door opens, and several panic coordinators enter. The man backs through them and leaves without taking his eyes off me.
The room does not change, but the people watching me do. One group leaves. Another takes its place.
Eventually, the door opens again.
A silver-haired woman walks in carrying a folder. The coordinator nearest the door straightens so quickly he appears to grow an extra vertebra.
“You can go,” she says.
The coordinators leave without meeting her gaze.
She sits across from me, places the folder on the table, and looks directly at me. “I’m Christine Aveline. Director of the Office for Extraterrestrial Affairs. Sorry to keep you waiting. I just flew in from Washington.”
“You have an office for that already?” I ask.
“Contingency planning.”
Salarans also plan for what we have not yet seen. Maybe that is why we still exist.
She opens the folder and uncaps her pen. “Can you tell me why you’re here? Are you on a mission?”
“Yes,” I say.
“What kind of mission?”
“An Arcday journey. It belongs entirely to the traveler.”
The pen hovers above the page.
“Who assigned it?”
“Myself.”
“You just said it was a mission.”
“Yes. But the sender and receiver are both me.”
“So no one sent you.”
“No one sent me. But I am still trying to arrive.”
“Why should I believe that?” she continues. “How do I know you’re not here to contain us?”
“Oh,” I say. “We do not usually offer containment to other species. We reserve that difficulty for ourselves.”
“I mean containing our progress,” she says. “Our science. So we never surpass you or threaten you.”
I look at my wrists.
“If we needed to contain a species, I think we would begin with its causal lattice.”
“Causal lattice?” she asks.
“The architecture beneath cause and effect.”
We stare at each other.
I remember what my Tarin used to say about depth of reality: a civilization can only think from the layer of the world it has learned to notice.
I try numbers.
“We are harvesting about one percent of the energy released when a star ruptures. We were at zero point one percent when the last Salaran came here.”
Still nothing.
I clear my throat. “She took back some dinosaur eggs. Does that help?”
For the first time, a flicker crosses Christine’s face before she smooths it away.
My Tarin told me that story when I was young. Thalara crossing the dark. The eggs. After enough tellings, Lurnik stopped being a coordinate and became a myth.
I did not expect to explain that myth back to someone who lived inside it.
“You’re telling me your species crossed interstellar space over sixty million years ago?”
“I have not figured out your Earth year conversion yet.”
“But you do not behave like someone from a civilization that advanced. If you were, you would not have been seen. Or caught.”
“Technically, I am not caught. I came here voluntarily.”
Christine leans back. “How far is your planet?”
“About two thousand star-steps.”
“Star-steps?”
“One fold. One star. One step.”
She makes a note in her folder.
“How long do you intend to stay?”
“Until the question begins to ask back,” I say.
“That is not an answer I can file.”
“Maybe a quarter of your planet’s orbit around its star?”
She writes something in the folder.
“Do you have enemies?”
“I do not, personally. But my Tarin mentioned a bridge being built from a neighboring galaxy. Generally, one does not build a bridge of that magnitude to deliver gifts. It is a concern for the future.”
She laces her fingers together. “I feel like a caveman asking you to explain Wi-Fi.”
“Not sure what that is,” I say, smiling, “but it sounds like a challenge.”
She asks about Salaris, the Five Circuits, Driftfold limits, the Quiet Revolution, and why a species capable of building Akk’lun Hora would send someone like me to Earth.
I remind her, again, that the sender and receiver are both me.
Then she asks whether more of us are coming. I tell her I have no access to other Salarans’ travel plans, so I am not sure.
This does not calm her.
“So,” I ask, “am I free to go?”
“I have no intention of provoking a species that can cross galaxies,” she says. “But I need a favor in return.”
“Of course. I will help. But to be precise, we do not actually cross galaxies.”
“I would like you to continue your disguise. As you have seen, Earth is not ready for this yet. The public response has been less than ideal. We will provide you with a provisional ID, clearance, and your confiscated property. In exchange, you will stay in this facility for a few days while we coordinate a narrative.”
“No problem,” I say. “Observation without interference. That is our standard protocol.”
She stands. “I will have my team move you to more comfortable quarters.”
“That is very kind of you, Director Christine.”
She pauses at the door. “Do not thank me yet.”
The door seals with a heavy metallic thud.
I look up at the camera in the corner and give it a wave.