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

lightweight shirts. Hers is an off-white and mine is sky-green—my favorite color for as long as I can remember. Besides our bald heads, there’s nothing to signify that we’re Watchers.
    The Ambassador takes a seat in the middle of one side of the oval table. The red robes of his office rustle and catch on the metal arms of the brown, natural leather chair. He is still getting used to the robes and his office—sitting where he did is a mistake if he wants something from us. If there was only one of us, the most natural place to sit would be across from him, confrontational.
    Joslyn gracefully sits at the apex of the oval facing out toward the stars to try and mitigate some of that, while I take a position roughly across from him so he has to turn his head to see either me or her. Thus, either of us can observe him, while he can only observe one of us at a time.
    I think he realizes his mistake as soon as we sit, but doesn’t take any steps to correct it. For an awkward twenty seconds, no one says anything. Joslyn holds a serene face of polite interest—a face I try to emulate—while the Ambassador’s eyes glance here and there, the only sign of his discomfort—not too bad.
    We have learned that the first to speak in these situations immediately puts the speaker at a disadvantage. So we wait. We are Watchers. We are used to waiting—there’s a reason we’re called that.
    And so we wait, and I continue to study the man. He is bald by choice, while we are bald by necessity in order to attach the neural patches of the consciousness projectors. His ears tuck close to his skull, and the main lobe droops. His nose is narrow and flares out at the end, much like mine. It’s almost like looking into a foggy mirror; I want to ask him if he can roll his tongue to see if we are related. But that’s forbidden.
    His left thumb twitches. “Regent Teife sends his regards. He regrets that he could not come himself.”
    “We warmly accept his regards,” Joslyn says, “and wish him well in lawfully guiding the Galactic Regency to continued prosperity.” A subtle reminder of the laws we are bound to, the laws the Regent and his staff were thoroughly briefed on when he took office.
    “I will pass along your kind words.” He hesitates half a second before continuing. “Although, this business on Atainun troubles him.” Awkwardly done.
    Joslyn answers, “Child mass murders are of great concern to the Regency and the Regency Investigative Unit. It is unfortunate that he should have to face one so early in his tenure.” I nearly smile. She just told him it's not in the jurisdiction of the Watchers, such things have always happened and Regent Teife has a shelf life. These discussions come naturally to Joslyn. The rumor is, she is—or was—a daughter of the Royal Family—diplomacy hardwired into her DNA. The Ambassador is severely outmatched.
    He licks his lips in the intervening silence. The low hum from the air ducts snaking their way around the station bounce across the glass tabletop. He sighs and says, “Indeed. Indeed.” The diplomatic speak is over. He sits forward and sighs again. “The Regent would like you to—”
    “No,” Joslyn says politely but firmly.
    “He is not asking—”
    “No. We operate independently and we do not Watch on our own Universe. It is against our purpose—”
    “You do not understand.”
    “I do not need to understand. We have a singular purpose that we have executed for over three thousand standard years. We monitor the Ancillary Universe for signs of Unification and take steps to prevent it if necessary.”
    “The request has to do with the Ancillary Universe,” he cuts in. When Joslyn doesn’t speak right away, he continues. “He is not asking you to violate your charter and Watch on our own Universe. In a report three standard months ago, there was mention of DNA profiling legislation on a planet called Evaga.
    “As you mentioned, Atainun is not a unique event. These awful