"'Fresh for facts', I said," Marvus mumbled into a cup of cloudy chestnut simmilan tea. "While I feel like a beat up old carpet."

He scanned the crescent-shaped venue of the museum's Welcome Lounge, an open space, not unlike a theatre, highlighted by alabaster walls illuminated by olive lines and ornate copper light fixtures hanging overhead. An automat with digital controls allowed patrons to select from over one hundred meal types, seven hundred and thirty beverages. Young people from multiple nations sat together, drinking, laughing, hands crossing tables to point out the correct answers to questions in workbooks. Brown skin. White skin. Orange. Friends. Acquaintances. Romantics. Community. Quiet pictures of organized chaos, whispered tones, the latest fashions, a rising debate over whether or not the Forgault Chasm Sea Wisp should be classified as endangered or not.

Marvus tired of the scene, no matter how inspiring it was to witness youthful minds at work and play. It began to remind him of the struggle with his unwelcome guest. For every win, two losses, or so it seemed. Fatigue wore heavy, made the body ache. Although he advised his class to take a sabbatical for refreshment, Marvus found it did him no good.

Let's take a walk.

He got out into the back corridor, little used except by museum staff. Private. Cozy, with a few small wooden chairs and square tables for sitting, hidden behind a verdigris valance of exotic flora. Marvus paced, at first, before pulling up a chair. He found breathing easier here amongst the tropical greenery. No people. No auras. No confusion. Just himself and his wild barometer of jumpy emotions.

Marvus received five minutes of absolute composure from the universe. Then, his speaker beeped.

He fumbled for it, dropped it, recovered and pressed the button to open the call, all of this seemingly in one fluid motion of foolishness.

"H-h-hello?"

"Marv?"

Salima? Oh, good grief, not now!

"Salima? It's great to hear from you! Where are you? Have you landed yet?"

"I'm almost there. I thought I'd be on a classic flight, but my director upgraded me to the suborbital. Marv, you cannot believe how gorgeous our world is so high up! So much green and blue below, pink and saffron in the sunrise sky. Endless hues! I took pictures, and will send them to your computer."

Of course she would. Marvus always got the first pics from Salima. First connection. First smile. First hugs. First laughter with a snort she wasn't embarrassed about. He knew. He knew she more than liked him. On a good day he would admit that he felt the same. But whereas her imagination foresaw a triumphal romance for them, Marv's technical view and agamic vibe noticed nothing more than a great beginning, marred by a tragic middle and desolate breakup his friends and the world would blame aromantic Marv for.

No. Not having it. But her voice wipes away the grime of the day.

"Sure. Thanks. So...how was the trip? And were you greeted by the Premiere Elder? I hear he welcomes every flight."

"It was a chance for me to get some sleep," she chortled, and Marvus added to her laugh with a slight one of his own. "And yes! The Elder was there, in full leather garb draping down to the tarmac. He offered me five feathers from the sillish bird. You know? The one that came back from the brink of extinction?"

"How could I forget? We protested outside the Natural Rights Committee offices for weeks." Marv relaxed into the chair more, exhaled. The past came calling. "Remember the shouting match Daya had with that politico? The tall one with the bushy eyebrows?" More laughter, but from Marvus, a full blown eruption born out of recalling Daya's petite face grow as red as a supernova.

"Yes, how could I forget that! I still remind her of it! Oh! That's my boss! We have to register at the inn and then rush over to the meeting for the Historic Reclamation Symposium. I just wanted to hear your voice, Marv!"

He choked. "Ah, thank you. It's great to hear you. Too. Always, I mean. Right."

"I know how you feel."

Somehow, Salima's words were an electric shock through the miniature speaker. Emotion, raw and pure, charged across spacetime, puncturing the eardrum, defibrillating a troubled heart.

One swallow.

Two.

Marv stared at his shoes and the universes between fabric weaves.

"Yes. I have...feelings for you." Lit bitten until it lost the pink hue. Was that me?

From the speaker, an illuminated wave of relief soothed him.

"A foundation. Perfect. Call you tomorrow night?"

"Of course."

"I love you, Marvus."

...

"Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night, Salima."

***

Marv stepped into the Welcome Lounge as if it were made of labyrinthine angles and wicked shadows reaching out for his soul. Slow, deliberate footsteps to avoid being seen. He found the tactic to be a waste of time, as the lounge had by now cleared out. Students vanished, off to other classes or back to the auditorium to await their beleaguered instructor. Only a single student immersed in the music playing through wireless earbuds remained, and a cook wiping down a chrome countertop.

Aware of the foolishness of his failed stealth moves, Marv returned to his normal gait and moved on.

To the auditorium! He intended to get the lecture over with, keep Dearkind from sucking his students dry. He pushed off terrible imagery of young people, their spirits deadened by the ambassador, committing suicide by various means in the confines of their dorms.

He shoved open the doors to the auditorium, entered like a king. Salima on his mind, self defense as well. The students seemed more alert. Eating, drinking, time with friends did the job.

He stepped into the center of the space, turned off the holos, clapped his hands.

In the stands, no sign of the ambassador and his minions.

"Now then," he let out the loving calm Salima granted him through the speaker, amplified it, hummed an old tune Marv's grandmother used to sing to him, and relaxed. Everyone sat up in their seats. Happy. Resolute. Ready for academic attainment.

"Where were we?"

***

Keys in the dish. Coat on the rack. Shoes off, kicked out of sight. Without hesitation, a pot of simmilan tea was set to boil. The computer, turned on. Outside, the rain and cold decided with some reluctance to let the sun shine through, irradiating the apartment in bright light just before the darkness would dawn.

Marvus Blackenwhite had arrived home, victorious.

"Ah!" The tea warmed the gut as Marv thumbed through digital pages of the Masara Informative, an afternoon print neighborhood news journal publishing events in the burghal. Feet propped up on the kitchen counter as all around, music blared, a fusion of orchestral horns, cymbals and synthetic heavy bass with rhyming lyrics by an old singer from the Arch Nation. Neighbors, most of them Marv's age, rarely complained since the soundproofing was installed.

He reveled in the day. As pages made of light turned, making the sound of real paper against paper, Marv recounted what he called victory. Students in jubilation at the end of his lecture. Young minds leaving the auditorium, talking out loud about joining the Junior Green Upbuilding League to push new ideas for an even better tomorrow.

Not a mention of Ambassador Klavin Dearkind. Depression, gone. Happiness, restored. He had stood back as the auditorium emptied out, chest puffed out with pride. The tide turned, Geome Harvest came down, double handshake and congratulations for a great first day's work.

Marvus went out, wrote up n outline for the rest of the week, held a brief meeting with his fellow historians, read fifty pages from an illuminated manuscript, The Sonnets of the Mithonians, stored in the basement of the museum. And then, he grabbed the coat and exited, no sign of the dark beast from Gem Estates.

Now? Home. Confident. Progressive government and positive upbringing won again.

The computer's ethereal buzz took his mind away from the simmilan tea high.

On the screen, a three-dimensional set of words:

                                                                          ONLINE VIDEO CALL-

                                                                                        SALIMA

That old uncomfortable feeling arose, worms in the veins, wiggly. He told Salima he liked her, so why were the nerves fragile as aged parchment?

Deep breaths, historian.

He stared at the screen. Eyed its bluish beams. An ecstatic finger reached out to press ACCEPT.

Her face, tan, lush, welcoming. Straight hair blowing in the wind. She was on a balcony, and Marv could see behind her a glimmer of the fabled Synchim Tribal States. Barren trees. Desert wind blowing sand. A curtain of multicolored fabric coming and going in the scenery. But in the chaos, Salima sat, staring into the image of Marvus as if he were the sole thing in existence.

"Hi." He breathed it out, a kid seeing candy.

"Hi," she responded, massage tone, harmony in the storm.

"So...how's the weather?" Marv knew the look on his face must be as awkward as the words that tumbled out of his mouth.

Salima broke into laughter. "You're so funny! How do you do it so easily? Gosh, I swear I can never be funny, no matter how much I prepare." She tried to fix her hair in a hurricane, failed, her lips pulled into a goofy smile as she turned her head and viewed Marv from a sideways glance. "I needed to laugh. Today started out so well and then..." She listened to the dire wolf howl of the wind.

"Bad news?"

Salima looked into him as was her way. Impossibility was Salima interacting with another person and not affecting them emotionally from expression and aura. Eyes glistened wide, degraded from joy to all sadness. "Weather. You know how it affects me."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, love." He let it out, not thinking. But her eyes, close to crying. Salima had the most amazing persona to Marvus, though he tried so hard to hide from her. But her pathos had such an effect on people, especially him. But the eyes, close to tearing. The lips a quiver. Her, sitting in the middle of what looked like disaster, trying to grip sanity with both hands.

She swallowed hard, like he usually did. "You mean it?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes!" Each affirmation increased, having begun at a whisper before ending in a soft yell. How does she radiate even when down in the depths? I can barely get up in the morning on a good day. Salima glows, skin as new as the dawn of the world even when desperate.

Salima moved just offscreen. He knew she was wiping her eyes. Meanwhile, the wind roared. Marv heard a clamor, a click, and the sound of the wind died out, replaced by a sifting noise, sand on glass.

She returned, tear streaks in immaculate skin, the smile fuller. "I made the um, there were some officials who made comments about my dress, my figure. My boss chastised me..." Her eyes dropped, rolled left into a well of lost thoughts.

"Wait," Marv leaned forward. "You..okay. Hold on a minute. Your boss said it was your fault some Tribal officials couldn't keep their eyes on business and their flesh thoughts to themselves? Is that what I'm hearing?"

"Yes. I said sorry. But he kept going on. Like, forever. And then the storm came and..."

Is she blaming herself? Daya would tell her it's not her fault, and to not define her look and behavior by male standards. Right. Right! I should call her and...wait.

"You aren't blaming yourself, are you?"

That look. Hurt. Longing. Confusion. Inquiry. Melancholy. Love. All there, grapeshot fired out from her soul. Marv shook.

"I knew it would be hot. The women here wear tight dresses, but longer, and with headwraps. I studied it."

"I remember." Marv recalled Salima not only studied the attire of the Synchim women of every tribe, but aced her thesis on it and developed a clothing line based on it, with the tribes' permission "But it isn't your fault. You know me. I love to show off the old abs. Sometimes, it got me chided by teachers. They were right. Sometimes. You dress impeccably, Salima. Your boss is a jerk. He doesn't want to ruffle any feathers, too scared the Tribes will toss him on the next flight back to Masara."

"You think so?"

"I know it. And you need to know it, too. Own it. Do your job, and stay focused. They'll see what you're made of, and the stupid boss will either learn or get replaced." He felt wrong, to a degree, giving Salima a speech about empowering herself free from the opinions of men when he was, after all, one of the breed himself. But no one else was around, and, truth be told, he knew. He knew she wanted to hear his thoughts on the matter.

"Tomorrow, I intend to wear a similar dress, but brighter," she giggled, a little. "And put forth a proposal to interview the women here. There are so many cultural details changing here. I'd love to document the--"

The screen fluttered, a swarm of insects distorting a once clear image. Marv snatched the computer from the counter, shook it, tapped RECONNECT over and over. Nothing.

                                                                       CONNECTION DISABLED

After the bold declaration, a statement rolled over the screen from the National Weather Center that the storm in the Synchim Tribal States had reached Category Four, and satellites were having trouble getting signals. It estimated the weather would continue to increase until morning.

"Salima." Marv whispered her name. Twice. Seven times. Computer dropped softly to the floor.

"Salima?"