It was then he knew he’d been correct in assuming that she was the leader. He slipped on the translation glasses. The other pair awaited use, protected in its case. “I’m ready to talk,” she shouted down to him. Text scrolled in front of his vision: her words presented in his alphabet and language, Key, the common dialect of the Alliance. I am ready to talk. Her smile was false. But he read no threat in her eyes as she gestured for him to come up to where she waited. It made perfect sense; distance made it difficult to converse. Using aching muscles that disagreed with his demand for exertion, he wheeled the movable stand to rest against the vessel’s gray and blue fuselage. As he rode the ascending platform, a headache reminded him that after all the months in solitary confinement, his tolerance for being among people, interacting with them, talking, relating, engaging, all waned after a few hours. This never-ending day had called for a marathon of interaction. As soon as the refugees were tucked in their beds, he’d withdraw to the peace of the observation deck with its 360-degree view of the stars.
