Not Fidele takes a big bite out of his block of cornbread. He gestures for me to join him on the other side of the wooden park bench.

I keep my rifle trained on him.

 

If he seems nervous at all, he's good at hiding it. But something does seem to be causing him to choke up. He coughs into his arm, bits of food falling onto the table. His lower jaw works in circles like a cow grazing. After a few fitful moments of this, he leans his whole head back and gulps down the remainder of his mashed cornmeal.

 

“Sorry,” he manages in between coughs. Not Fidele looks up at me. “As you can see, not everything comes naturally at first, but—”

 

“Let go of him,” I say, setting my rifle from stun to heated plasma.

 

“I was so worried about how I might sound,” Not Fidele says, ignoring me. “I spent hours practicing your language, hours rehearsing what I would say. I neglected going over gross motor skills. You’ll have to—”

 

“Now.”

 

Not Fidele holds his hands up in a show of surrender. But it just looks wrong. His hands go straight up instead of out and up. “This is not how I wanted us to meet. Our species I mean.”

 

I do a quick check with my thermal scope. Nothing in his chest or upper torso is out of the ordinary. “You already met one of us.”

 

“That… that doesn't count.” He drops his arms and sighs. “It’s always a bit messy the first time we meet someone new. But I made sure to activate his dopamine centers afterward. Now quit that, the cornbread is getting cold.”

 

I aim and fire. The remaining cornbread melts under heated plasma. Bits of molten glass from the dish spray everywhere. But the park bench just shimmers. For a moment, it looks grey and metallic before returning to its previous form.

 

A look of rage passes over Not Fidele’s face before it is wiped away. All he says is, “That was real, Lori.”

 

“And you baked it using a box you stole from the mess hall,” I say. With a quick glance, I survey the room. The park bench sits atop a grassy mound. Dandelions sprout from underneath one of its legs. Above is an aqua-blue, cloudless sky. “What does that mean for the rest of the room?”

 

Not Fidele looks around the room. “Oh, this? Klin-Calris design. For anything else, you need to ask yourself. After all, this room was designed to reflect the perfect environment for our guests. To put you at ease.”

 

I send another bolt hissing past his right ear.

 

“You found us easily enough,” Not Fidele says, his right eye twitching but the rest of his face staying unfazed.

 

“I used the tracker.”

 

“The one hidden inside our left wrist, underneath our skin?”

 

“His skin,” I grit my teeth.

 

“You almost caught a glimpse of our ship leaving right as you came back from your supply run. And you found us quickly,” Not Fidele says. “Not surprising given our past intimacy.”

 

“I don’t know who or what the hell you—”

 

“Captain Fidele Moore of the Integrated Systems Alliance.”

 

“NO. YOU. ARE. NOT!”

 

Not Fidele just smiles. “The difference is negligible now. But that’s not why we’re meeting today. This is an important day - for you and for your species. And we are honored to extend this invitation personally.”

 

“What invitation?” I lower my rifle instinctively, taken aback by his words.

 

“To join the Galactic Chorus!”

 

As Not Fidele gets up from the table, fireworks erupt overhead. Day quickly flicks over to night. From somewhere out of sight, the sound of hundreds of hands, tentacles, claws, pincers, and God knows what else rings out in a thunderous cacophony.

 

“Why on Earth would I want that?” I say when they start to quiet down.

 

“Because you’re not on Earth anymore,” Not Fidele says. “You’re at the nexus of all intelligent life in the known universe. You’re knocking at the door of the galactic community, and we are here to welcome you in.”

 

The unseen chorus falls silent. Whoever or whatever they are, they are waiting on me.

 

Not Fidele breaks the silence. “Just imagine it: complete harmony. Total bliss. Perfect efficiency.”

 

I consider its words.

 

But only for a moment.

 

“I don’t know how you got inside his head,” I say, raising the rifle again. “But however you got in, you can find the way back out."

 

Not Fidele glares at me. “You don’t understand the opportunity th-th-that you’re throwing away.” His body shakes. “We don’t understand. What went wrong? We speak your language. We greet you with your own personal paradise.”

 

Not Fidele’s body shakes. His hands open and shut. When the tremor travels down his torso, he kicks out at the table in front of him. As it falls over, it morphs back into its sleek, strange, chrome form.

 

“Let him go,” I say as I advance slowly.

 

His body shudders — one final spasm. Not Fidele’s head tilts up, as something like a long, silver millipede trails out of his nose. As it trails out, Fidele falls to his knees. The alien skitters off, bobbing and weaving in serpentine fashion to avoid my plasma bolts.

 

I rush over to check on him. Tentatively, I put my rifle down. Blood trickles down Fidele’s nose, but he doesn’t try to wipe it off.

 

“L-L-Lori,” he stammers.

 

“I’m here,” I say. “I’m here now.”

 

“Where is it!” he screams. Pushing past me, he crawls on all fours. His chest heaves sporadically. He twitches. “I can’t... I can’t,” he huffs. “I can’t — without — please…”

 

I want to help him, but all he does is scan the room for something crawling in the dark. Meanwhile, the grating sounds of the unseen chorus fill the room. I don’t need a translator to know they’re laughing.