Archivists note to the reader: It seems you are viewing this item in the human language English. For this reason names have been transliterated, units have been converted, and the content has been ontologically translated. Apologies for any inconsistencies.
The volatus was immediately swamped with sensation and cacophony. Everywhere he looked there were vast oceans of vendors, yelling in a fruitless attempt to be heard over the hubbub, attempting to sell their wares. Food, art, technology, ideas… if the mind of any sapient race could imagine it, it was for sale.
Volati are fabulous information processors, if the information is presented orderly. With this chaos, however, almost any volatus would be utterly overwhelmed, as he was now. The human tapped him gently for attention. It was a normal gesture, even outside human circles, one of those universal solutions to universal problems, like two plus two equaling four, or using spears to stab your enemy.
The human bent down and whispered into his ear, pointing at a couple of goem.
“Look”
“They look normal.”
“My gut doesn’t like them.”
The volatus paused, confused.
“Your what?”
“Intuition, Instinct”
“Oh”
He thought briefly. Human instinct was quickly becoming a topic of rabid interest in the Galactic Assembly’s scientific community. Some part of the way they were wired could pick up small cues better than almost any other race. Given this information this situation might develop into something much less innocuous.
“Can you pick up anything?” his friend asked.
The volatus allowed his brain to start processing the thaumaturgic signals in the surrounding area, wincing at the noise. Too many people, too many thinking beings. Too much interference, as it turned out. He couldn’t pick up anything useful.
The tiny human yanked her fathers hair, pointing towards a vendor of trinkets. The group moved easily to the front of the small store, and the biologist lifted the girl down off his massive shoulders, and set her down in front of the booth. She immediately shrieked with delight, and grabbed two fistfuls of shiny rocks in her pudgy toddler hands.
Toddler, one who toddles. Good word.
The humans were talking. The vendor had approached the woman, and had launched into an elaborate sales pitch. The longer human had slowly placed himself between the vendor and his child. The child’s mother watched the vendor with dark, almost back, glittering eyes. The volatus could hear her heart and the signals given off by her neural circuitry. Both were speeding up.
The child moved along the stall, wreaking havoc on the carefully organised displays as she went, oblivious to the growing tension.
The vendor was talking, faster and faster. The volatus, acclimatised after years spent with these humans, could read the suspicion on their faces. The vendor, apparently, could not. Suddenly, his friend spun. Some deep spark of intuition programmed deep into his brain had understood the situation. The volatus turned, following suit, and froze with horror.
One of the goem from earlier held a gun levelly and directly at the larger human’s centre of mass. He stood very still. The hum of his brain grew, until the volatus’s mind was nearly deafened.
Far worse, however, was the other goem. He had snatched the humans’ child, and was slowly backing away. The volatus glanced at his friend's face, and saw the worst thing he had ever seen.
The human looked desperate.
The volatus felt fear shutting down his own mind, system by system. The child was lost, no doubt about that. The humans would probably be killed, and then they would kill him too.
No!
no…
please no.
He almost missed it. One moment the goem was holding a gun and smirking, pride nearly dripping off his bulky features. The next he was gripping the souvenir knife that had appeared in his midriff, face awash with what the volatus’ astute mind identified as shock. In that fraction of a second the volatus analysed the actions and events, and saw what had happened. The child’s mother, unobserved, had grabbed the knife, and thrown it, THROWN IT, perfectly into the attackers torso.
In a flash the big human went for the goem’s gun, but the electronic weapon refused to unlock for his biometrics, and he dropped it in disgust.
The other goem was running now, which in another context would be hilarious. Goem are not made to run. But this goem was dragging the human child.
The big human cast around in desperation, before grabbing a shiny hunk of tungsten-carbide from the rock selection. Rock indeed, the volatus thought wryly. The human’s eyes snapped to the retreating goem, both eyes, binocular vision, the volatus noted. Despite his fear, the volatus could not help but focus on the human.
The human raised the tungsten-carbide behind his head, and threw his body forward. In a flash the volatus finally understood the bizarre anatomy of the human arm. The muscle and bone placement, the tendons. A human’s arm, he realised with amazement and awe, is a trebuchet.
The tungsten carbide left his hand in a perfect ark. Almost perfect. It was going to miss, just a little too far to the left.
The goem saw the throw, and jumped away from the girl, a little too far to the left. The human had anticipated the doge, the volatus realised. The apparent imperfection had in fact been an adjustment which doomed the goem as soon as he jumped.
The volatus turned away the moment it struck. He didn’t want to see the death. The tall human ran to the girl, and swooped her up in his arms. He passed her off to his wife, grabbed the volatus, and set off at a jog away from the mall. Even as he bounced undignified under the human’s arm, the volatus marveld. Each stride was easily a metre, perhaps more.
Four minutes later the adrenaline finally ran out and left the humans' system abruptly. The larger human set the volatus down, and bent over the edge of the path, retching. His partner wasn’t much better. She set her daughter down, and heaved miserably. Adrenaline always has a price.
An hour later the group sat on some form of public transportation, shell shocked The biologist sat, one arm wrapped around his sleeping daughter, cuddled peacefully on his lap. The other arm was wrapped around his wife, curled against him. The volatus sat between the humans and the wall. He felt safe, guarded by titans.
The authorities would investigate the two deaths, but the security footage, and the recent crackdown on the trafficking of people would guarantee that there would be little retaliation.
There would of course be a resurgence of the “deathworlders are monsters” narrative, but the volatus knew better. Humans are loyal, and their bonds go very deep.
The volatus glanced at his friends. They look traumatised. Their minds sat empty, aside from a thick blanket of horror.
He checked his mobile device telepathically. His person had got back to him. He bumped the larger human. No response. He pushed harder. The human turned, slowly, as if through syrup. The volatus spoke.
“They didn't die”
The human looked at him with no comprehension on his face. The volatus tried again.
“The two goem. They were recovered and stabilised. You didn’t kill anyone.”
Both humans were staring at him now, eyes wide. The volatus suddenly felt very self conscious.
“They lived?”
“Yes”
“Oh thank you God.”
The volatus checked his device again. More data.
“They are in the hospital right now, but once they recover they will be shipped off world for investigation. Apparently this is a part of something much larger.”
The smaller human looked at him. She took a moment to speak, as if carefully considering her words. She looked at her daughter for a long moment, and then back at the volatus.
“So we are safe then?”
The volatus did the human nod again.
“I think we should be.”
No, the humans weren’t monsters.
Just good friends.