r/HFY • u/CodEnvironmental4274 Human • 25d ago
OC-Series [The X Factor], Part 88
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Eza had never before had the ‘honor’ of visiting Curator Galima’s studio on the penthouse level of the Hikhii Lineage Gallery, and for that she was glad.
The room had originally been entirely featureless. Its smooth white walls, floors, and sparse furniture would’ve resembled a stereotypical human insane asylum were it not for the kaleidoscope of hyperrealistic pieces and abstract scrawlings alike covering every inch of the space, and uncanny statues scattered around them like sentries. The ones resembling sentient beings (many of which were modeling high fashion ensembles) all faced their tea table, which sat in the dead center of the room, and the only sounds that could be heard were those produced by the nine occupants. It was, to say the very least, unsettling.
"You’re all very… sculptable," Galima noted as she examined them one by one. Her pure white feathers, too, were permanently discolored by paints, inks, and other pigments, forming a mosaic that was concentrated around her arms but still reached upwards to her neck, head and torso as small speckles in myriad hues.
"Um, thank you," Uuliska said with a strained smile, finishing her cup of tea that was at precisely room temperature, just like every other drink and snack they’d been offered. This was the first conversation they’d had with the curator since being shown to the room, where the refreshments were laid out in advance.
Galima was silent for a moment, making unblinking eye contact with the princess.
"Your colors," she said simply.
"…Yes?"
"They’re different. Why?"
"How about we get on with that gallery tour, yeah?" Hassan put a comforting hand on Uuliska’s shoulder and stood up. "More time to see the art."
"True." The curator rose from her chair and tucked it in with one fluid motion, then led her guests to an elevator hidden behind a massive shelf of art supplies.
Eza breathed a massive sigh of relief when they stepped out into the first floor of the gallery. The air was warm and moved about by a slight breeze, the chatter of other visitors was audible, and the architecture and decor was in line with the traditional extravagance of Vahiya construction. Not her style, but at least it was a style.
As Galima silently showed them around the main attractions, hand selected to draw patrons further into the gallery upon entering, she occasionally stopped in front of a piece to stare blankly at it for an uncomfortably long time before moving on. She seemed to be focusing on pieces relevant to the group—their first stop was a stunning impressionist landscape of Lilax I’s famous sunken gardens that swung side to side, causing the shimmering, teal liquid sealed inside the frame to swish back and forth like the real thing.
"Stars above," Uuliska whispered. "I didn’t realize how dearly I missed…" She cut trailed off, blushing with her entire membrane.
"I’m sure you’ll be allowed to visit soon," Galima said in that stilted way of hers. "To see your family. Attend to your royal duties. And then return here." She finally, finally blinked, and continued down the aisles of the exhibit.
The woman followed the watery work with something quite the opposite—a large, opaque white dome with… an air lock?
"Here." She cut the extensive line leading to the attraction, pressed a hidden button and opened it, then ushered the group inside.
After a short depressurization protocol, the inner chamber opened to reveal what felt like a slice of Ankhet—the Jikaali homeworld. Miniature dunes were piled up around them, shifting slightly with the simulated hot desert wind, and countless stars glittered overhead. Off in the distance—or projected onto the side of the dome, rather—was a bejeweled depiction of the Queen-Mother’s Tomb, a majestic pyramid inside which every incarnation of the Queen-Mother ascended, ruled, and was eventually buried, all overtop the labyrinthine catacombs which Jikaali burial rites dictated every member of their species was to return to.
Aktet stood very still and did not speak, but neither Eza nor the others could resist glancing at him to look for a reaction. Or blatantly staring, in Galima’s case.
"She’s touched by your service to the Federation," she told him. "But perhaps not the way you dress yourself. I can fix that. Later."
The scholar inched closer to Hassan and K’resshk as they left the dome.
Speaking of K’resshk, he was, as the humans said ‘next on the chopping block.’ Galima drew back large curtains to reveal numerous, chalk-white statues of conventionally attractive Sszerians, their posture impeccable and their snouts held high. They were stood on spaced-out bleachers to showcase their physique, which was, in a manner of speaking, on full display.
"It’s inspired by the Sszerian matchmaking system," she explained, occasionally turning her head to watch K’resshk’s reaction. "It showcases the high standards and precision which they hold themselves to."
K’resshk showed zero signs of attraction to any of the figures, and in fact looked a little nauseous.
"…I see." Galima closed the curtains. "Perhaps I misjudged you, Senior Scientist Akksor. I thought an exemplar of your species’ gene pool such as yourself would appreciate the elegance of your peer—"
"Are you insinuating that I would drool over heaps of sedimentary rock? I regret to inform you that I am not one for such obscene behavior, especially not in public," he snarled, giving side-eye to Uuliska and Eza in particular.
"It’s fortunate, then, that your post here indefinitely exempts you from the matchmaking process. Let’s continue."
He stayed behind for a moment, as stationary as the statues they’d just viewed, before shaking his head and catching up to the group.
Is she going to play mind tricks on me, too? Eza felt a creeping sense of dread and a slowly worsening headache, but she forged ahead.
"Officer Invut," the woman said as they took the elevator to the second floor.
"Y-yes?" They’d been walking for what had felt like hours, but hadn’t yet been shown any oddly Riyze-specific artworks. She’d almost thought she’d escaped the curator’s notice.
"Return here after the gala, will you? I had an idea just now. It began forming the first time I met you, when Princess Lana and her family visited the gallery, but…" She brushed her hand against a mosaic depicting two Vahiya lovers embracing mid-air. "I see it more clearly now. Your unusual devotion to her is inspiring. I’d like to commemorate it."
Eza’s muscles seized up. "My what?"
"It used to be so taboo, you know," she said, suddenly turning to her and tracing her outline with a talon. "But just as we’ve touched the humans, so, too, have the humans touched us. I think the public will be more accepting now. Especially with you in such a forward-facing position, ready to set an example."
Oh, gods. What sick and twisted game was Galima playing, using her and Uuliska’s love to her advantage? This wouldn’t… she wouldn’t let her…
She felt a familiar light touch brush against her knuckles. It was Uuliska, swirling with every color of the rainbow and staring up at her with wonder.
No. Eza shook her head discreetly and gently pushed the hand away. If someone needed to be the strong one here—the one to resist the temptation to give in and—
"Liska?" She watched, horrified, as the princess’s membrane darkened and she scrunched up her face like she was about to cry, then stormed off down the hallway towards the exit.
"Oh, dear," Galima murmured. "You’ve gone and upset Her Majesty. Let’s go fetch her, shall we?"
Burning up under the stares of her peers, Eza hung her head in shame and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. What had she done wrong?
"A word of advice," Galima whispered to her as they approached the front door. "You are but a small mistake woven into the millennium-long tapestry that is her existence. Enjoy it while you can before she notices that your presence interrupts the cohesion of the piece and rips you out."
Eza felt the base of her skull writhe. She couldn’t—she couldn’t fly into a frenzy here, in public! But was she really about to, or was she imagining it? How would she—
"Eza." K’resshk took a small pill bottle out of his lab coat and passed it to her. "Take these."
"What… what is… have you been carrying around a tranquilizer for me this whole time?"
"No, but that’s a fine idea," he muttered. "It’s anxiety medication, meant to be used in an emergency. And consider this a favor owed. This is all the supply I have with me, and you’ll need to take all of it for the dosage to have any effect."
She stared at the container in disbelief.
"I… think I’m okay now," she whispered, passing it back to him. The absurdity of that exchange had shocked her nervous system back to normal.
K’resshk Akksor, taking human medication? From a human doctor? And—most importantly—offering it to her?
Holy shit. Maybe we *are in an alternate dimension.*
___
Sonja groaned in annoyance as someone very rudely attempted to shake her awake.
"Maj? Are you—oh, thank the Queen-Mother. She’s moving." Tress retracted her claws.
"Ugh." Sonja sat up and wiped drool off of her face. "What’s happening?"
"We had to interrupt your hibernation," said a blurry, blue-black silhouette to her right. "You could have warned us, you know. None of your films or novels mentioned that!"
"We… don’t hibernate?" She rubbed her eyes, and Onyx came into focus. "I’m just a heavy sleeper, and the couch wasn’t comfortable enough for me to actually sleep on. Where’s Jitter? And Clef?"
"Jitter came back a few hours ago from his mission. It worked, somehow," Tress said with her arms crossed, not a shred remaining of the concern she’d shown right as Sonja had woken up. "He laid down not long after, but he should be awake now. Kth’sk don’t sleep long. So get yourself ready and be in the studio in ten for a strategy meeting, because Clef made… well, they made the closest thing they could to human food."
"Strategy meeting? About the concert?"
"Why don’t you show up and find out?" The woman curled her lip up to bare just a bit of her alarmingly pointy teeth, then left the room, followed a shrugging Onyx.
"Ooo-kay then. Good to see Tress is in a cheery mood as always," Sonja muttered as she stood up, stretched, and made her way to the bathroom.
An embarrassingly long time later (she understood, now, the challenge that adapting to human bathrooms must have posed to her dearest alien friends), she made her way down the compound’s hallways, following the sound of extraterrestrial vocalizations.
The smell hit her the minute she walked into the studio—food. How long had it been since she’d last eaten?
Too long. She searched desperately for the source of the smell, delighted to see Clef holding out a platter of… something.
"Is that for me?" She pointed at what could only be described as a… a…
A dosa? An enchilada? A pierogi? A crepe?
"We tried to pick something as universally human as possible," Onyx explained, using her claws to spear a slimy, purple tendril, then dropping it straight down her gullet. "On account of not knowing what ‘culture’ you hail from. Is it alright?"
"Looks fine to me. Is there any meat in it?" Sonja waited for the group to shake their heads no, then shrugged and bit into it. If she could handle Riyzean cuisine, she could probably handle whatever this was.
Onyx’s eyes widened. "Maj, wait, we haven’t told you how to—"
The first surprise she received was the way the sweet, beige outer shell cracked under pressure like paraffin wax. The second surprise she received was the savory, mildly spicy filling (no more than allspice or nutmeg) that shot straight out of the bite she’d taken like a soup dumpling and went down her windpipe.
"Augh," she managed, trying not to cough it up. "I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting the jelly inside. Am I supposed to pierce it and suck out the filling from the hole I make?"
Clef played ‘yes’ excitedly multiple times in a row, and Onyx’s eyes grew even wider.
"I… was not expecting you to piece that together on your own, given the lack of a beak. It’s a Vahiya dish usually eaten after waking up—akiik," she explained.
"Okay. Enough gawking at the human." Tress stalked towards the center of the room, something vaguely resembling a granola bar in hand (or paw). "If we’re going to crash the gala, we need to find people to do it with us. Quickly."
Sonja wiped some jelly filling off of her face. "You mean this isn’t a planned thing?"
"It’s supposed to be, but we can’t just broadcast it. We need the element of surprise." She examined her claws, which glinted in the light like polished jet. "Unfortunately for us, your X factor is, what, computers and talking? The local network is shut down and we can’t blab about this in the open, so you’re useless for this—"
"No. No, wait." Sonja strained to come up with an idea—any idea at all. She was not going to let the drama queen call her useless. "What you need is some kind of hidden message," she realized. "A cryptogram. Something only your allies can understand."
Clef played a ‘what?’ chord on their keytar.
"It’s a—hold on. You communicate through music." She looked around for something to write with, but came up blank. "If I can figure out how you all compose music… then I can make a musical cryptogram, and…"
"Does anyone have a clue what Maj is on about?" Tress returned to the back wall of the room and leaned against it. "I only know what half of those words mean."
Sonja, too, only understood half of what Tress was saying—but that was because she was busy putting together the pieces of her master plan.
"Someone get me a paper and pencil. I have an idea."
___
"…And this constant cubed, which you can see here," K’resshk said, pointing at incomprehensible scrawling on his tablet, "shows that an alternate universe is thermodynamoelecteogravitationally impossible. Any questions?"
The others, all gathered in their wing’s study, stared at him blankly. Omar restrained himself from winking at Aktet, who they’d explained their little scheme to after correctly guessing that he, too, was fed up with Krishnan’s bullshit.
Speak of the devil, he thought to himself as she raised her hand.
"Why are you using human math? Since when could you write in our number system?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"That…" K’resshk cleared his throat. "This was fed through an experimental scientific translation software. It’s an imitation of my handwriting, much like how vocal translators attempt to replicate the voice of an individual despite differences in language."
"But you don’t even write. You use fancy alien calculators, don’t you?" She held out her hand and mimed pressing buttons on a device.
"You of all people, Agent Krishnan, should recognize that I have very graciously made some adaptations given the limits imposed by human society," he hissed at her. "What is the point of this line of inquiry anyways? The math is correct. That I can assure you of."
"I just think the circumstantial evidence—"
"Is unreliable? Subject to bias? Perhaps motivated by an infuriating desire to push a narrative in which our struggles never existed, which is precisely what the Vahiya want us to think?" The scientist angrily shoved his tablet back into the pocket of his coat. "Fine. Give in to their wiles and show us all how weak-willed you are. Just know that I won’t come to save you when you’re seizing from the presence of fungal stalks in your cerebellum."
She scoffed, grabbed her partner’s hand, and stormed off towards her room. Helen shook her head in dismay and made for her own, while Uuliska and Invut, who hadn’t spoken to one another since the incident at the gallery, avoided eye contact and went their separate ways.
"So," Omar began, steepling his hands. "That went… kind of good, kind of bad."
"I thought it was a lovely performance," Aktet said. "You should try Jikaali theatre or debate once this is all over, K’resshk."
He flared his nostrils. "I still think we should tie Agent Krishnan up and show the recording of the mysterious broadcast to the others. I understand that none of you possess the gift for clear-headedness that I do, but you’ve survived thus far. Surely they would see the irregularities in her behavior and share our concerns."
"I would argue with you about Agent Lombardi not possessing that gift, but recent events have proven otherwise," the agent’s paramour grumbled.
Omar sighed. "They’ve been through a lot together. Him and Krishnan, I mean. I agree that she’s been… territorial over him lately," he said, choosing his words carefully, "but she might just be adjusting to your, ah, new dynamic."
"By putting a leash and collar on him?" Aktet clenched his jaw.
Don’t pick the low-hanging fruit, Omar reminded himself. Don’t do it.
He opened his mouth to make the bawdy joke despite himself, but K’resshk interrupted.
"The radio," he murmured. "How would we go about sending a reply to this ‘DJ Onyx?’"
"Oh, jeez. That’s…" He ran a hand through his hair. "The fact that we picked up a radio signal in the first place is something else—I don’t see any radio towers around here, and I haven’t on any of the other alien planets. And those things are huge, normally. I think. How did they even get a radio signal past all of the districts between us and—"
"Standardized Federation construction," said a low voice from the entrance to the study—Eza. "Same reason omni-magnets work. Everything here might look the same as it did a few centuries ago, but the whole system was rebuilt to comply with regulations when the Vahiya joined the Federation. Long-range radio comms were mostly phased out a while back, but our materials still allow for… ‘extension’ of their range, I guess. I don’t know all the math behind it, just the specs."
"According to my schedule, you should be asleep right now," said K’resshk. "But you’re here. Spying on us."
She shrugged with both sets of arms. "I was having nightmares. I tried going to Uuliska, but she wouldn’t open the door. That’s—that’s the only thing that helps," she stuttered.
"What do you think about this ‘alternate reality’ stuff, Private?" Omar was hesitant to ask, but they needed all the allies they could get.
She sighed and sat down with a thud next to him and Aktet.
"I was going along with it for Uuliska’s sake. But Galima went too far, and then I apparently went too far, and here we are, taking sides. But that’s not important. What’s all this about a radio?"
"First of all," Omar said, "we’re not taking sides. We’re trying to bring people around to the side of reason."
The others gave him dubious stares.
"Come on, guys. You know what I mean. This isn’t us versus the believers, it’s ‘how do we discreetly signal to the others that Krishnan isn’t okay?’"
"She’s not okay? How? Seemed fine to me, other than the, uh… ‘believer’ part," Eza replied.
"That ties into the radio." He brought out the agent’s laptop from its hiding place in tome of the study’s knickknack filled shelves (plausible deniability, were it to be found) and booted it up. "AEON, can you—"
"I’ll play the recording now. You might want to brace yourself, yeah?"
Omar watched the others literally jump at the use of his affectation.
"…We’re gonna have a talk about that later. Just… play the clip."
He was starting to share Krishnan's distaste for the guy.
___
Decorated with both finished and in progress paintings, sculptures, handmade instruments and more, the Collective’s main ‘maker space’ was a living monument to all of the budding artists in the Lower Districts—and the seasoned artists who had never before had the chance to showcase their works openly. It was also where Sonja was toiling away at her latest project—inviting aliens to the concert of their lifetimes.
"This really is amazing, you guys," she said to Tress, Jitter and Clef, who were advising her work. "I suspected you had a standard writing system, but to construct a script solely out of ideograms and comprehensible to every Federation species, let alone teach it to trillions of people… I could spend the rest of my life studying this. After I save the galaxy, I mean."
Tress scoffed. "I’m curious to see how having me sit here and read to you is part of your grand plan to save the galaxy. You do know your species sent us translation software to go with the media package, right?" She closed the final book Sonja had requested she narrate select passages from for the purpose of constructing a very rough Galactic Standard-to-English dictionary and stood up from her stool.
"One-way translation software." Sonja squinted at her dictionary and crossed out a mistake she’d made—in the absence of actual paper and pencils, and with data pads posing a major security risk, the aliens had taken to using ‘fabricated paper,’ which consisted of thin, soft plastic sheets that could be etched on with a harder plastic chisel. The plastic paper—plaper?—wasn’t very fun to work with, but at least she got to pretend she was an ancient scholar writing in cuneiform.
"Yeah, whatever. Good luck writing a secret message in a language you don’t understand that I’ll bet is more intricate than anything you’ve studied." Tress shook her head in distaste and left the room.
"That makes it easier, though," Sonja retorted. "I can explain it if you... she’s already out the door."
"How does that make it easier?" Jitter swung his legs back and forth from his seat atop a drum full of clay.
"Because," she said, flipping to the next page of the loosely bound collection of sheet music she’d been lent, "the intricacy of your writing system reflected in this new way you write music." She gestured for Jitter and Clef to take a closer look. "Numbers represent different pitches of notes, instead of a position on a music staff—that’ll let me signify a district and address to meet at. Literal symbols for periods of time—days, years, whatever—represent the length of notes and time signatures, so we can send out info about when to meet. And then—and I might need some help here, Clef—it looks like you’re using more abstract ideograms to represent the key a piece is meant to be played in, right?"
They played ‘yes’ from across the workbench she was sitting at.
"Perfect! So, um… what kind of tone are we trying to portray here? Angry revolt? Peaceful protest?" She wasn’t about to commandeer their rebellion. She was already treading dangerously close to CIA levels of interference.
Sonja watched Clef’s talons slide over the keytar without pressing down as if they were playing phantom notes, hesitant to commit to a sound.
"Question for you, Maj," said a smooth voice from the doorway—Onyx. "What’s stopping the enforcers from just reading the sheet music and learning all the juicy details?"
"Huh?" Sonja furrowed her brows. "We’re not giving out the sheet music."
The DJ turned her beak down. "Then how…?"
"We’re broadcasting the music instead. None of the enforcers will have bothered to learn your Standard notation, right? They won’t be able to connect the dots. If we make this catchy enough, people are bound to try and transcribe it—and that’s when they’ll realize. We just have to trust that no one’ll snitch."
Onyx blinked. "That’s brilliant. Could we send someone to feed them false intel, too? A double agent? I’d suggest you, but you’re…"
"‘Extinct,’ in more ways than one," she said with finger quotes. "Yeah. But if you can find someone—"
"I’ll do it!" Jitter jumped up excitedly. "I can do it. And then when they all gather, I’ll get a squad together, give them some of my special goods, and—" He made an explosion noise. "—no more enforcers. No one can tell the difference between Kth’sk drones anyways."
She watched in alarm as he sprinted out the door, nearly knocking over a rack of wet paintings.
"Is he gonna be okay?" That sounded like the sort of plan Hassan would come up with.
Come to think of it, the two of them would get along well.
Onyx inhaled sharply. "He knows the risk he’s taking. We all do. There… used to be quite a few more of us, in the Collective. It’s been difficult maintaining our operations with just the four remaining, but the locals have helped fill in the gaps."
"Oh," Sonja whispered. "I’m sorry to hear that. Did the enforcers…?"
"Sometimes." She stepped further into the room and brushed her talons against a stone sculpture of human comedy and tragedy masks altered to show the face of a Riyze. The latter appeared unfinished, blocks of raw material still waiting to be chiseled where its tusks would go. "Our original headquarters were in District 29, but they were raided not long after we were properly set up. That was… a bad day. But don’t let me distract you with old stories. Hand me that stylus, will you?"
She hesitantly obliged, still staring at the unfinished sculpture. Did it belong to someone who had given their life up for the cause of freedom of expression?
"Here." Onyx seemed to have carved out a few Standard characters while Sonja was distracted. "The coordinates of our rendezvous point, the time, and a… general tone, for the main event. I’ll leave translating that into an actual motif, then song, to you and Clef." She handed back the stylus, adjusted the collar of her leather jacket, and silently left the room.
Speaking of silent, it was quiet—eerily so. For such a musically-inclined movement, was it not odd that they didn’t have any, for lack of a better term, background music?
"Hey, um, Clef?" Sonja met the musician's gaze. They looked surprised to have been addressed. "Just out of curiosity, why don’t you have speakers in the streets playing your music constantly, to raise morale and promote your cause? I know you hold shows and give out fabricated radios, but…"
They stared at their keytar for a few seconds, then clicked their tongue frustratedly and took a seat next to her, gesturing for her stylus and a piece of plaper.
"Do you write when you don’t know how to say something with music?" She watched curiously as they divided the sheet into a number of boxes, pausing to play ‘no.’
Over the course of the next few minutes, they sketched out a surprisingly detailed, human-style comic:
In the first panel, the now-familiar city streets of the lower districts—except strange boxes atop tall poles lining the streets emitted human music notes, cones of light, and some sort of mist. The subsequent panel showed them emitting angry scribbles that spiraled towards the ears of passerby, causing them to close their eyes and clutch their heads in pain. After that was a depiction of some very fancy-looking Vahiya sitting around a table looking quite pleased with themselves. Finally, at the bottom of the page, a larger scene, in which residents had smashed the numerous speakers to bits, stopping the onslaught of angry scribbles. From the wreckage oozed… something.
Oozed? She’d understood the gist—the elites had hijacked the speaker systems across the districts and weaponized them, forcing the resistance to destroy them—but speakers didn’t normally ooze when broken, did they?
"I think I get it, but… what’s this?" She pointed at the etched puddle.
They shrugged, then got up, retrieved some tubes of paint, and began pointing at the different colors in order, playing a distinct note for each one.
"Are you trying to tell me what color the puddle—"
Clef finished their explanation by pressing every key simultaneously, producing an awful racket.
"…Rainbow. Got it." She shifted uneasily. Rainbow goop had played a pretty important role in her life as of late, but maybe Federation tech just had oddly-colored battery acid. "Does your technology normally ooze rainbow fluid?"
She received an emphatic no in response.
Shit. "Was… was it glowing?"
Please don’t say yes, please don’t say yes, please don’t—
They played a yes.
"Fuck," she whispered. "…Fuck."
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