Refugees

Jordi held open the door. “Welcome to the cat shelter.”

“Knock it off,” Pen said. “I hear anyone, including you, refer to the Strallins as ‘cats’ again, they’ll be relegated to the loading dock.”

Jordi led Pen to her new office. “What about the Strallins that refer to themselves as cats — or as nekomimi?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When they first got here, a Strallin found an old manga somewhere. They thought it was some sort of prophetic thing that we would have drawings of them.”

Pen stopped in front of her desk and rubbed her temples. “What have I gotten myself into? I’m supposed to be overseeing humanitarian aid for alien refugees, not creating superstitions or religions.”

“I don’t think they’re getting religious about it. They already have a belief that future events will show themselves to artists, whether they know it or not.”

“Good, I wouldn’t want them to think we’re gods or prophets or saints or something.” She took off her overcoat and tossed it across the empty desk.

“Um,” Jordi looked uneasy, “I don’t think we need to worry on that front.”

“Why? They get here and the first thing they see is…wait a minute. What kind of manga was it?”

Jordi looked away. “Well….”

Pen groaned. “Great. We offer refugee assistance, and the first thing they see gives them reason to believe we have perverted motives for doing so.”

“I wouldn’t say they think we’re perverted, but they think we are strange, and they are…uh…curious.”

“About what?”

“Don’t be alarmed if one of them asks to see your body.”

“They what?!”

“They find it odd that we wear clothes regardless of the temperature. They only wear clothes when they need protection of some sort; warm clothes when it’s cold, camouflage or armor when they fight, and so on.”

“Have you—”

“Hey! Give me a break, here! None of us has done anything of the sort. These people are traumatized, and we’re here to help.”

“Sorry, that’s my own bias leaking through.” Pen took a deep breath and looked Jordi straight in the eye. “I apologize for equating young man with sexually irresponsible.”

“Apology accepted. And I apologize for immediately thinking you were a ball-breaker. It’s awful to say, but I should be honest with you; that’s what I thought when you first responded to my welcome. By the way, quite a few of the Strallin refer to the ORC as the ‘cat sanctuary.’”

“Ugh. Now that we’ve both embarrassed ourselves, why don’t you show me through the facility and introduce me to some of the refugees. I especially want to meet those with infants and young children to see what other resources we might need for them.”

“Through here.” Jordi led her through a door that opened to his badge. “I’ll get your badge to you in a bit. Got behind today’s schedule sending the supply truck off to San Diego.”

Jordi hadn’t exaggerated. There were a few Strallins wearing a light blanket wrapped around them, a couple wearing trousers with a hole cut out for their tail, and not much else in the way of clothing apart from what the humans wore.

They were shorter than the average human, and looked finer of muscle, yet the way some of the young ones jumped she got the impression they were stronger than they looked. She had to admit to herself that they were a near perfect match for nekomimi.

They had a semi-feline face, large, triangular ears that twitched and turned, a long tail they used for balance, and a covering of fine vellus hair in colors ranging from pale to deep blue, matching the skin color beneath. Eye colors ranged from pale gold to deep green. The females had visible mammaries, two at the top, two smaller below them, and pair of supernumerary nipples below those. The males, like earth-based mammals, had the same number of nipples without any mammaries.

Pen felt uncomfortable. She knew they were aliens, yet something in her mind was on the verge of panic.

“I know that look,” Jordi said. “Uncanny valley, huh? You get used to it.”

A Strallin woman walked toward them, waving.

“Who’s this?” Pen asked.

“Aritarila,” he said, rolling the r’s, “but she goes by Rita.”

“Aritarila,” Pen said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Penelope Watkins, but just call me Pen.”

“Good meeting, Pen. Please, calling me Rita.”

Jordi said something to Rita in her own language and she laughed. “Close. Riquat being early morning, now being raliat…late morning.”

“Who’s teaching us their language?” Pen asked Jordi.

“I teaching humans,” Rita answered. “Norman teaching Strallin Englishes.” She struggled with the pronunciation of the “r” in Norman, and with the “ng” sound in English. Her pronunciation of the word “Strallin” was difficult for Pen to wrap her tongue around, but she’d heard Jordi doing it, so she knew it was possible.

“I would very much like to meet with mothers and families with small children and infants. It is important that we get the supplies they need.”

Rita called out a what sounded like a chirp, and a young Strallin child ran to her side and hid behind her leg, standing only as tall as her knees. “This being my…parap…”

“Son,” Jordi offered.

“Yes, son. Peter, saying hi.”

He peeked his head around her leg. “Hi, miss. Hi, Jordi. Can I go play now?”

Rita knelt to his level and whispered in his ear. He bounded off to play with the other children. She stood and faced the humans again. “Sorry, he being shy.”

“That’s fine. He has no accent. You said his name is Peter? Is that just his name here? Does he have a Strallin name as well?”

Jordi cleared his throat. “Peter was born here. Rita was one of the first refugees.”

“He’s only six months old?”

“They mature physically a lot faster than we do. Not in size, but in coordination and the ability to walk, run, jump, and so on. At least in the first year. From what I understand, they mature on par with us after that. A one-year-old Strallin is equivalent to a five-year-old human in terms of physical development. Mental development is more equivalent, but Peter is…exceptional.”

“Peter saying Englishes and Strallin before Peter eyes opening.”

“I apparently have a lot to learn about the Strallin,” Pen said. “If it’s okay with both of you, I’d like to spend the day with you, Rita; get a feel for what works here and what doesn’t.”

“That’s fine with me,” Jordi said. “Rita, feel free to show Pen around, and don’t be afraid to complain about anything you don’t like.”

He turned to Pen. “I’ll get your keycard ready, and forward all the medical info we have on the Strallins to your comm.”

“Thanks, Jordi.”

“Yes, thanking.” Rita linked her arm with Pen’s. “Walking with me.”

“Of course.” Pen noticed how warm and soft Rita’s arm was, and how steely were the muscles beneath whenever she shifted.

As Rita led her to the area where the children played, Pen asked, “Are there toys from your world we don’t have?”

“We making toys,” Rita said, pointing to the pile of feathers, beads, sticks, and strings. The children were playing with a broad array of different sorts of toys, made from those same four components. Some flew their spaceships, others baby-talked or scolded dolls, others played a game that reminded Pen of a cross between hacky sack and badminton.

“Is that what you have always done?”

“Yes. We making own toys. Making-places…uh…facter—”

“Factory?”

“Factory making ships and armor and tools and dertilara,” she said, making a brand, dismissive motion. “Sorry, not knowing this in Englishes.”

“I think I understand.” Pen’s comm chimed and she checked the message. It was a long one, but she skimmed it and got the broad points.

“Rita,” she asked, “have you had any fresh fruit since you’ve been here? What about vegetables?”

“Sorry, not knowing those Englishes.”

Pen opened an image browser on fruits and vegetables. She showed Rita as she scrolled through them. “Have you seen any of these since you’ve been here?”

“They being foods?”

“Yes.”

“We eating this foods,” she said, lifting an empty emergency ration pack from the trash.

“Okay, that’s the first thing I’m fixing.” She leaned in close to Rita and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Do the children like sweet things?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll try to have a surprise for them in the morning, early morning, what was it…riquat?”

“Yes.”

Pen sent a message from her comm:

FROM: Penelope Watkins, Director, Oceanside Refugee Center.

TO: San Diego Refugee Coordination Warehouse

Add to required provisions, in amounts to match ORC population:

Daily: Fresh, in-season fruits and vegetables. Eggs. Honey. Bread. Butter.

Weekly: Extra strawberries. Extra Butter. Maple syrup. Blueberry syrup. Waffle mix or base ingredients for waffles.

Extra requisitions, one time: Twelve double waffle irons. Lego classic 1000 pcs or more.

Any item unavailable from SDRCW, have driver comm ORC Director for purchase on the economy at Director’s expense.