"Come again?"


    "I need you to kill me."


    I blinked, drummed my clasped fingers on my knuckles, then pointed to the chair opposite mine. "Have a seat - oh, if it''s safe. I''m not sure, I haven''t tested it yet to see if it''s stable."


    Xen stepped forward, tested the black metal chair''s seat with an elegant long-fingered hand, then gingerly sat down. "Seems safe enough."


    I moved my bag off my desk where I''d dumped it on arrival so I could see Xen unimpeded. "So, killing you, huh? What''s the story there?"


    "Not kill me completely dead. I''ve been waiting for the right sort of person to come into the station, and I think you might be the one." It was hard to know whether to bristle with pride or wariness at such a strange compliment. "I need someone with the skills to help me fake my death, so I can escape my pursuer."


    "Ah." I rested back in my chair. It gave off a dangerous creak as I did, so I sat up again. "Well, that''s much better. The galaxy would be a lot poorer if it lost your charms." Had I said that out loud? I probably coloured in the cheeks, but Xen simply smiled, eyelids lowered. I scrambled for business to put between us. "Can I get you a drink? All I have is -"


    I yanked my bag open and brought out a half-drunk bottle of Ligistrian bourbon. It had been a going-away present, which was perfect really, because I needed nothing more than to drink myself into oblivion after my unceremonious exit. "Cups, cups," I mumbled, drumming the desk in front of me, and rising carefully from my possibly untrustworthy chair. "Be right back."


    Tearing through my back rooms like a tornado, I caught my reflection in the dull grey of the chipped and cracked bathroom mirror. It was a little too high for my short stature. I smoothed my unruly short hair back away from my face with a splash of water. Since it was autumn back in my part of Gerondia, my hair was russet for now. Would it change with the seasons anymore, now that I was off-world? I''d never thought to ask anyone before I left. There was no helping the bruises or balling tarnishing my skin, but I straightened the collar of my coat, as if that minor improvement might make a difference.


    I found two dusty old metal tumblers in one of the cabinets and brought them through. Xen''s smile was polite and patient, for now. I poured a stiff measure for each of us, and pulled out my digipad to take some notes.


    "So, Xen, tell me... why are we faking your death? What do I need to know?"


    My second question gave Xen the grace of answering with as little detail as needed. It would behove me to protect myself, sure. But unless there were some truly monstrous reason not to, I was going to help Xen.


    Xen sipped the drink, and had no reaction to its kick whatsoever. As if I needed the confirmation, Xen began, "By now you can probably see I''m a gynoid." I had thought cyborg at first, but the lack of reaction to one of the galaxy''s most bitter liquids told another story. I took a sip of mine, winced, and nodded for Xen to continue. "So by extrapolation, since I am a fully synthetic being, you may have also assumed I have an owner."


    "The proprietor of the cafe?"


    "That is what many would assume. However I was owned by another, before being liberated by the Synthetic Collective just over a year ago. I am, by some jurisdictions'' definitions, a free person."


    "By some jurisdictions... but not on the Thorn?"


    "Not quite. The Thorn has a charter which covers many of the basics of law. Station security can, for example, arrest someone for murder, theft, battery, any number of standard crimes individuals can commit against other persons or property. Here in the station, I am considered an individual. However, the Thorn is lacking in laws governing business, or more complex cases involving off-station jurisdictions, such as extradition, or what to do if someone is successful in kidnapping or trafficking people off the station before security can intervene."


    I knew all this of course, but I wasn''t going to stop a pretty gynoid from explaining it to me in a voice like liquid sunlight. Between Xen and the bourbon, I was beginning to feel pleasantly warm.


    "It was the safest place for me to hide, I thought, because it was so far from my previous owner''s home world. But I have been warned by the Collective that he is on his way to search here. I have seen the ship''s manifest, and he is due to arrive here in a few days. I could hide during that time, but I can''t swear everyone who has ever seen me to secrecy, so I am sure he will figure out I am here. I suppose I could flee too, but this would leave me open to future pursuit. This leaves faking my own death as the best course of action, I believe."


    I tipped my head in a half-nod. "Sure, makes some sense. Have you envisioned this faked death taking place in any particular fashion?"


    "It is not my area of expertise. However, I hope you will be pleased to know, I have been making preparations towards this event. I have collected my old sheddings of synthaskin, which with some careful rehydration, we could fashion to look like fresh skin. I have also been spending my wages on recycled gynoid parts."


    "So you have the pieces to put together a convincing corpse, is what you''re saying."


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    "I have, though I have not had a secure location to put them together yet."


    "Let''s get them and bring them here. You can put it all together in the back rooms, such as they are." Awful generous of me, I know, given how little space I had to work with back there. But I''d already decided I was going all in with Xen, so the inconvenience was nothing compared to the opportunity to be close to Xen.


    Xen''s face lit up with a bright smile, paling the honey colour of Xen''s synth skin with the light projected behind it. "You mean it? You''ll help me? I haven''t said yet... I don''t have a lot to give you. I''ve only been making wait staff wages this whole time, and on top of paying rent, buying synthaskin refills, and grabbing up whatever junk parts I could find, I haven''t a lot of credit saved."


    "I''ll take a token payment from you. The real boon for me will come after your old ''friend'' has left the station and you come out of hiding, and everyone has to acknowledge how skilled I am. I''m sure to get further custom out of the exposure."


    Xen''s smile crept up on one side, becoming a smirk. "Follow me." Xen got up and swayed towards the door, then paused just before I joined Xen. "Fascinating. There are many such panels around the station, but I didn''t know they were inside offices too."


    "There are more?" I started, following Xen''s eyes to the woven panel running floor to ceiling. "That''s strange. This is a Gerondian style of art, called root-stem weaving. I never expected to see them here, so far from home."


    Xen offered an arm again, and I took it, while Xen led the way through the station''s myriad corridors. "Ah, so you are a Gerondian. I guessed as much. Explains this." Xen touched my hand which was tucked in Xen''s arm. Though my skin was browning at the edges and curling up from the balling, under Xen''s gentle fingers I felt like the most precious creature in existence. Of course, now would be one hell of a mood-killing time to bring up how my skin was all part of a problematic cultural orthodoxy, and the mere fact that Xen associated this type of skin with Gerondia was an unhelpful stereotype, but... such thoughts were far from my mind at the time. Xen''s synthaskin was lighter and smoother than most species'' epidermis, but nowhere near as delicate and temperamental as my skin. Still, it felt good to the point of distraction where it touched my skin.


    Xen snatched Xen''s hand back. "Sorry, I -"


    "No, it''s fine. More than fine."


    "It''s extremely gauche of me, actually. Nothing worse than satisfying one''s curiosity on another sentient being."


    Perhaps Xen wasn''t reading how very enthusiastic a participant I was. I placed my hand back under Xen''s. "What does it feel like to you?"


    Xen hesitated, then stroked a finger once more down the back of my hand. "Like the petal of a flower."


    "Exactly so."


    At some point, we''d stopped walking. I looked up at Xen, a head taller than me at least, and Xen looked down at my face, then to where Xen was cradling my hand in both of Xen''s. Xen dropped my hand gently and pointed down the corridor. "Not long this way." If Xen were blushing - if Xen were even capable of blushing - I didn''t see it. There just weren''t as many cues to read on that simulated face as an organic one.


    We resumed walking, and Xen asked, "So, what brings you to the Thorn?"


    This was decidedly a less pleasant topic to chat about than the friendly talk we''d had on the way to my office. But damned if I wasn''t going to tell Xen every detail of my life Xen wanted.


    Every Gerondian kid can recite you the history of the most recent civil war by the time they''re fourteen. Maybe younger if their parents are some form of fanatic, be it for peace, or for further war.


    There''s not a single person on Gerondia who doesn''t know the name Lisia Astrantia Helianthe, and there are only a few who say it without having to spit the poison from their mouths after speaking of it.


    Helianthe ascended to power on the tide of a deadly pandemic which swept my birth planet when I was still a baby. The disease showed up out of the blue. From similarly azure origins, L. A. Helianthe graced the populace with a cure. By the time it was found out she''d created the virus in the first place, the planet was already deep in the throes of civil war, with Helianthe having declared herself President, and a few holdouts from the previous government looking like the bad guys until the truth was unearthed.


    But there was no closure for my people. Helianthe vanished into the vastness of the celestial flowerbed, leaving the great tree of state rotting from its wounds.


    I grew up feeling the bleeding sap like it was my own. The grievance was personal: my father had been killed in the war, my mother lost and presumed dead. I was raised by my grandmother, Sophora.


    I explained all this to Xen, filling in anything Xen cared to ask about, and ending with the fact that I was here to hunt down Lisia, when I wasn''t earning an income through private investigation.


    What I didn''t tell Xen yet was how I''d lost my job and been forced to leave Gerondia because of this obsession of mine. Xen didn''t need all that burden yet, not with Xen worrying about their former owner showing up.


    We came to Xen''s apartment, which was just as closet-shaped as my own. Worse for Xen, there was no bed at all, but perhaps a synthetic didn''t need one. We checked over the small battered cases containing the necessary materials, then picked up two each and started back towards my office.


    "Every other Gerondian I''ve met has a three part name," Xen began. "Like your world''s great villain, Lisia Astrantia Helicanthe. So why are you just A. Sophora?"


    "We don''t usually jam them all together like that back on Gerondia. That''s more a concession to make us relatable to the Terrans, so that our passports go through their identity checks more easily. We''re known by our personal names first, then our mother''s name second, our grandmother''s name last."


    "So your mother is Sophora?"


    "Grandmother."


    "Then you should have another initial in your name, in the Terran style?"


    "That''s right. Another A. But I was raised by my grandmother, so I just leave my second name out by choice."


    "A. A. Sophora. Except, once again, I raise the point that Marys doesn''t begin with A. So what''s your real first name?"


    I smirked and opened my mouth to speak as we went through the door to my office, but a deep voice cut in between the two of us.


    A heavyset man with a face like a walrus, teeth and whiskers to match, stood in front of my desk, wearing the station security troops'' uniform. "Greetings, Amaryllis Aracea Sophora," he said, reading my name from his digipad. "Welcome to the station. I am Constable Frod, Head of Station Security. I''m afraid you''ll have to come with me."


    The grin on his face suggested he was rather pleased, and not afraid at all.