The Outworlder

The minister of immigration is going through the paperwork from the last couple of cycles. Before he comes back to us, your guess is as good as mine.” His speech slowed with each word, and at the end, he was almost reciting, quietly, uncertainly, “maybe even better.”
My body tensed. I should have expected it, though. I should have been surprised it took him so long.
Still, hoping it was not what it seemed, I swallowed heavily and asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean…”
From the corner of my eye, I saw him fidgeting. He was a decent guy. Very careful to never insult anybody. He was almost like a father to me, though of course I would never admit that. But now the situation has changed.
He breathed out through clenched teeth. “You are Tarvissi.”
A pit opened in my chest. It took me a moment to collect myself enough to form a reply. “I was born and raised in colonies; I’m as much Dahlsi as I’m Tarvissi.”
I’d also received Dahlsian education, meager as it was, and joined Mespana as soon as I was able to. The only thing connecting me to the rebels was the blood in my veins, but there was no helping that. So, why was I being punished for it? Why were any of us punished for it? I was not assertive, but at that point, the stress of the last few days had become too much. Before I could stop myself, I asked caustically, “Unless my citizenship has been revoked?”
“It hasn’t,” he assured me. “What I mean is your ancestors came from Tarviss. Perhaps you’ve… heard something.”
“Laik Var.” I spun on my heel to face the man. Though relatively muscular, he was smaller than me and the size difference was never so obvious. “I’m a member of Mespana. For cycles, I’ve been spending most of my time among Dahlsi.”
“But you do keep in touch with your people.”
“Your people”. It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.
“I write letters to my mother and sister, and I assure you neither of them had anything to do with this.”
And yet they were punished, deported, kicked out like mere criminals—for nothing but being the wrong nationality!
“All right, I believe you!” he cut in, lifting his hand in a placating gesture. “Look, I had to ask. Surely, you understand.”
I huffed, still angry. But as much as I hated to admit it, I did understand. However it hurt, however unfair it seemed, those assholes put us all in a bad light. Not so long ago, they were no different from me or my family, just ordinary people trying to get by. Now they’d fucked up, and we had to pay the price.
My eyes drifted toward the burned farm. Compared to some, I got off easy.
“It’s a difficult time,” said Laik Var. “For everyone. But I trust you, Aldait Han. I wish things could be different. For your family, your entire nation. I just hope this mess will be over as soon as possible, and we can all start healing.”
I had no answer to give.
Laik Var sighed again and turned away.
“I’m not here to chat,” he admitted after a brief pause. “The kar-vessár wants to see you.”
My stomach dropped. Another thing I should have expected, though under normal circumstances there would be no reason for the highest commander of Mespana to even acknowledge my existence.
“What may he want from me?” I asked, hating how hoarse my voice sounded.
“I don’t know, but it would be rude to keep him waiting.” He gestured toward the camp, “shall we?”
* * *
The vessár-ai tent was the biggest in the camp. It was made of pristine, white plastic and decorated with alternating banners: one with entwined lines of dull red and cobalt blue—colors of Dahls—and the other black, embroidered with silver-green threads forming the logo of Mespana.
When I entered, the tingle of a decontaminating spell washed over me. It was like stepping through the merge, and what I saw inside only exacerbated that impression. Spacious, bright, and clean, it clashed with the tent’s outer shell, and the air reverberated with a subtle hum of ventilation and smell of disinfectants. A piece of Dahls in this faraway land.
I’d never seen Myar Mal-Maomik, kar-vessár of Mespana, before, but I had no problem recognizing him. He was probably the first thing anyone noticed when entering a room he occupied, his sheer presence filled it to the brim. He sat sprawled like an emperor from an old legend—right elbow propped on an armrest and left hand outstretched, fingers drumming on the table in a way verging on impatience, making me instantly ashamed of making him wait.
What surprised me the most was that he wasn’t much older than me. Short, like all Dahlsi, but perfectly proportional, with neatly combed dark hair and eyes a color I couldn’t determine: a particular shade of gray that could appear green, blue or even purple, depending on the lighting. His gaze was incredibly sharp and piercing, and I felt like it was drilling straight into my soul. He had a narrow face with a tall forehead and an aquiline nose, suggesting some percentage of foreign blood, but so distant it was impossible to discern its source. His skin had a healthy sheen, and I thought he must’ve been born in the colonies. Still, he looked like what every young Dahlsi man aspired to look like; they should have put his portrait on recruiting posters.
There were other people, too, almost invisible in Myar Mal’s dominating presence, despite wearing silver sashes of vessár-ai.
One thing was plain, though. Small and pale, they were all native Dahlsi.
Now their eyes were on me, and all my will and purpose drained from me. I became an empty shell, existing only to be scrutinized. And there was a lot to scrutinize—my peasant’s tan, my large, heavy body, perfectly exposed by the skintight uniform, my bulging stomach; even my height.
I was a stranger here. An intruder.
I let out a long, painful breath. It was alright,