The Outworlder

vhariar stirred floatfruit soup in a big bronze cauldron.
It was my favorite dish after Chaarite red stew. Sweet and thick, almost like a mash, pairing perfectly with spicy and sour pickles. My mouth filled with saliva, my ears with a sweet song of a wooden spoon on the sides of the cauldron. For a moment, the whole world ceased to exist…
And then I realized I didn’t have time for this. The portions were usually generous and steaming hot; eating one properly would take at least fifteen minutes, and by then I should already be on my way back. Gnashing my teeth, I resorted to buying a jar of pickled cabbage lotus. Maybe if I got some milkseed and cooked it to a pulp, I would get a similar experience.
But at least I found myself in the right part of the market. Firstly, I bought some freshly steamed milkseed buns for supper and a little roasted thing, a long fish or snake, I wasn’t sure—one could find all sorts of things in the market. The meat was tender and doused in just the right amount of spices. I savored every bite as I gathered bare necessities until the alarm spell I’d set told me it was time to go.
* * *
It seemed the entire depot had been seized by Mespana. Two ssothians, each twice my size and covered in bright orange fur, stood at the entrance and wouldn’t let me through until they have confirmed my identity. I cut my thumb on the obsidian blade provided and spilled my blood into the bowl of moonwater. The liquid swirled, blood dark against its bluish gleam, then calmed abruptly. The Dahlsian woman who held her hand submerged nodded at the guards to let me pass.
After crossing the threshold, I froze.
The hall was the biggest room I’d ever seen, but it was filled to the brim with a sea of black and white with occasional bursts of color from the outworlders and the nonhumans. There were three cohorts stationed in Sfal, around one-hundred-and-forty people each. Most of them were there.
And those closest to the entrance turned toward me.
My body tensed and my palms grew sweaty. All around me, I saw eyes grew large and mouths hung open. A Xzsim man curled his painted lips in a predatory smile. A miyangua’s fleshy whiskers twitched nervously.
I ducked my head, clutching my bag tighter, like a shield. Dahlsi made up some ninety percent of Mespana, and their meager size allowed me to take up the entire room. But even without that, I knew there were no other Tarvissi in Mespana.
No other Tarvissi in Meon Cluster.
Two days ago, in retaliation for the rebellion on Maurir, the Directory ordered all citizens of Tarvissian origin be deported. I was the only one left.
It seemed surreal. There had been a couple dozen of us here in Sfal, but a few thousand lived in farming colonies like Maurir, Eben, and my homeworld, Nes Peridion. The thought that less than a thousand Mespanians rounded them all up and escorted them out in one-hundred-and-twenty hours—two Dahlsian days—was ludicrous.
But it was true.
My skin prickled. Suddenly I felt very exposed. Clutching my bag tighter, I scurried away, heading to the wall, trying to find a quiet, sheltered spot where I could pretend I didn’t exist. The crowd parted before me, making my insides twist painfully. I dropped my head even lower and swore not to lift it… until I bumped into the only person in the whole depot too distracted to get out of my way.
“Sorry,” I murmured, then froze. My gaze fell on a familiar broad face with green eyes, which, if possible, grew bigger than usual.
“It’s all right,” muttered Saral Tal. We worked together a couple of times in the past, including the last mission. And sure enough, when I lifted my head, I saw the rest of our team: Malyn Tol with one arm wrapped around Vareya La, and Argan Am, his cleft hand frozen in midair in some interrupted gesture. They all looked equally surprised.
And I felt like the ground had opened beneath my feet. Up until then, I could push the dark thoughts away and pretend nothing had happened. I knew things went to shit, but I ignored that. I shopped, I moaned about the heat. People stared, but I was always getting weird looks, and even if not, my brain was pretty apt at conjuring reasons to be anxious. But now, facing people who knew me, who worked with me, look at me in shock and fear, I had no choice but to admit that things had changed; perhaps irrevocably. My life was no longer as it had been before.
Malyn Tol was the first to regain her footing, unwrapping herself from the other woman and rushing to grab my arms.
“Are you all right?” she asked, looking at my face with worry. Deep lines sprouted from the corners of her eyes and mouth, the kind formed from frequent smiling. Now, however, she was somber.
My throat tightened, and I realized I wasn’t able to say a word. How could I be all right? My entire nation was gone, and we were heading toward the first major conflict in Dahlsian history.
“I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around me, but what would be a comforting gesture for any other person, only made me even more tense. Tarvissi weren’t big on physical contact and most Dahlsi kept their respective distance, so I never got used to being hugged. At best, it felt awkward, at worst—like this moment—it became oppressive. Luckily, she seemed to realize that, because she quickly released me.
“Where are you gonna go?” asked Argan Am.
He was an unusual sight for a Dahlsi, with a reddish-brown skin, dark eyes, and a completely bald head. I thought he must have a drop of alien blood in him—possibly Chaarite—but never got up the nerve to ask. He also had three fingers on his left hand and four on his right, all apart from