The Watchers: A Space Opera Novella by Jeffrey A. Ballard Page A

come to stand over me, all five-foot-two of her. “Try hundreds of thousands, millions, skimming along top of them all, looking for that one thought that could lead to Unification.”
    “My head … ”
    “You went too deep. What happens when you go too deep?” She had switched to her lecture voice, the light from overhead reflecting off her white, bald scalp.
    I hate that voice. “My neural patterns mix with the subjects’ and … ” Damn, that hurts—a particularly brutal throbbing digs in behind my left eye.
    “That is right—!”
    Oh, god, she’s shouting. I clamp my hands over my ears, her lightly tilted voice burrows through, amplifying the migraine.
    “—Your neural patterns mix with theirs, and when your head tries to stitch your own back together, it has to work for it!”
    “Stop— Stop shouting. Triptanites please.” I lay curled on the floor in the fetal position, eyes closed, my hands still over my ears.
    “No. This is your punishment, remember this next time. We’re to meet with the Regency Ambassador at sixteen hundred. I expect you there.” She leaves, the sliding doors giving their pneumatic hiss and ka-tish seal. If it were possible, I’d say the door just sided with Joslyn.
    I check my forearm display: sixteen hundred, three hours away. Three hours of throbbing, three hours of pain building to a crescendo.
    At least she had stopped shouting.
    ***
    “Ambassador Elkier,” Joslyn says. “We welcome you to Watch Station. May your stay be fruitful and comfortable.”
    The three of us stand in a conference room on the edge of Watch Station, on the side that faces toward the Saera system. The viewing port captures the vastness of space, the closest planet only a little larger than the surrounding stars. I think they put Watch Station in the middle of nowhere because of our nature. But leave it to Watchers to use that to their advantage, to remind diplomats how very far away they are from anything.
    But we’re not without kindness. Space is a vacuum, the air from the oxygen generators is dry and tasteless in a space station. This can cause anxiety in some and discomfort in most. So we flavor the air with scents from the visitors’ home world—in this case, the Regency capital planet Elang. The smell is almost musty, more dried plant matter on the air than others I’ve sampled; it smells of heat and metal.
    Thankfully, I can savor the scent. Renya, an acolyte and good friend, took mercy on me and snuck me some triptanites. The searing migraine has receded.
    “Thank you, Watch Director Joslyn, Watcher Emre. May my stay be fruitful for all of us.”
    Outwardly, Joslyn continues in that calculated posture of greeting someone from the Regency, pleasant, controlled. Inwardly, I know she has turned wary. He didn’t complete the standard greeting. In the subtle language of diplomacy, he had just told us that this meeting would contain an unusual request and a bribe—not good for a first meeting; they generally try this on the third or fourth.
    The Ambassador Liaison is new—they almost always are when a new Regent is elected. His skin is a darker mocha then mine, perhaps coffee with only one creamer instead of two—from Easbei perhaps. It didn’t matter once he was in the official Regency role, kind of like us. But Easbei is one of the planets I had narrowed down to be my home world.
    Easbei’s air had smelled sweet to me, like a morning walk through the arboretum and botanical park in the fall, when the air was dry, and the plants had not yet cycled but were close. But it doesn’t have that sharp, spiced floral scent I had to come to associate with home. That floral scent was my only memory of home really.
    “As you wish Ambassador,” Joslyn says. “Please have a seat.” We move toward the oval table in the center of the room. There’s a light swish from the fabric of our pants as we move. Joslyn and I wear simple, comfortable clothes, black loose-fitting slacks and full-length