Josh Arant as Irix a'Vi

“A man named Cary Tyler has boarded and is asking to see you, ivosch.”

“Tag him.”

The young, dusky woman paused to read from her wrist-comm. “Earth-born. Thirty-six. Clean record. Very, very blessed.” She paused and looked up. “He has a prominent position with Isely.”

The chuckled reply was one of curiosity, not awe. “I’ll see him.” The man pushed out of his chair and stood, and walked down the short metal corridor into the ship’s receiving area. There were several visitors here, most browsing the kiosks and talking with members of his anvoi, but the man who rose from her seat only had eyes for him.

“Mr. Tyler?”

Tyler nodded. “Thank you for seeing me, Irix a’Vi kah Oortin.”

The taller man’s surprise was evident. “An Earth-born who knows how to greet a Vosch formally? If you’re attempting to intrigue me, you’ve succeeded. Come. I’ll see you in private.”

In a few minutes, they were both comfortably settled in the front room of Irix’s quarters, and sipping from glasses filled with a honey-infused wine. “Your hospitality is appreciated,” Tyler said sincerely. “The drink is very welcome – I’ve exhausted myself hunting you down.”

“Good,” Irix chuckled. “It should always be a challenge to locate a Vosch flotilla on your own.”

“It seems a little counterproductive for a nomadic merchant ethnicity to not want to be found,” Tyler ventured. “Doesn’t that hurt business?”

“You answered the question with your own words,” Irix chuckled. “We’re nomads. That means we go to the customer, not vice versa. And keeping our whereabouts a mystery ensures we don’t have too many people flooding our ships constantly. When we go dirtside or dock, we have no trouble making sales.”

“I admit to knowing little about the Vosch,” Tyler said, smiling ruefully.

“You knew to add the name of my ship when you addressed me by name,” Irix noted. “That at least shows you did some research.”

“Well, I studied up a bit, but…it was so muddled with rumors and hearsay…”

“Such as?” Irix leaned forward, interested and delighted, grinning.

“Your people’s proclivity for violence and debauch.” He ticked off on his fingers. “Your seemingly-supernatural ability to procure amazing goods. Your isolationist traditions. Just to begin.”

Irix laughed, and the sound filled the chamber. “A good beginning! Well, Tyler of Isely, I am happy to debunk or lend credence. First of all, we are a people who believe in living life to the utmost. Life, as with goods and money, must be put to fullest use. Just as credits are rendered useless if they do nothing but sit in an account, life is useless if you do not experience anything. Sometimes that is a well-placed punch; sometimes, yes, it is the feel of a heated mouth on yours. But we’re not drunken psychopaths. Not at all.

“As for procuring our goods, it is hardly supernatural. We are simply expert merchants and, adding to that the ability to travel all over the galaxy, it ensures our wares are always varied and impressive. It’s all about knowing what to sell, where. An apple on Earth isn’t too impressive, but take it to Almina and suddenly it’s worth its weight in gold.

“And, finally – we aren’t isolationists. It would be hard to be merchants if we were. We simply have a vitally strong cultural identity. Our race has only been officially recognized for a little over a century, and we came from the humble beginnings of three small colonies. But from that we built the Five Fleets, and an empire of merchants. We have our culture to thank for that.”

“What were the colonies?” Tyler asked.

“An Arabic prison colony, a Greek and Sicilian mining camp and a small group of UK political refugees,” Irix answered. “A Russian shipping convoy joined with us almost immediately after we had assembled the Five Fleets, but they were not the founders. But enough about my people – why did you come to see me, Cary Tyler?”

“Isely is putting together a crew for a quiet mission to the Norma Arm, and I want you aboard as ship’s security.”

“Most prominent and blessed Tyler of Isely, I am an ivosch – captain of a ship and councilman for a Fleet. As tempting as it might be to step down a rung, or several, on the ladder, I have no incentive to abandon my people and my station to go gallivanting about for an Earth corporation.”

“I do have some incentive,” Tyler said mildly. Reaching into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket, he withdrew a datapad and offered it to Irix, who accepted and looked down at it. For a few moments, nothing. Then, slowly, he raised his head, expression unreadable. “Is this a joke?” His voice was quiet.

“Not at all,” answered Tyler smoothly. “She accepted the contract a week ago. And,” he added, “she asked for you specifically for the post. She said no one could protect the crew on a mission like this better than you. I’m inclined to believe her. Before you were made ivosch, you were High Khan for your fleet, yes?”

Irix nodded, still a little distracted, a little blindsided. “She saved my ship, you know,” he murmured.

Ori Alon. Captain in the Royal Air Force. He never cared about Terran politics, but no-one could have ignored the Galactic Campaign, that ridiculous war when Earth’s governments decided that they wanted to divvy up the galaxy and smash heads with those who wanted the same piece of space. What a laughable debacle, watching them ram their ships into each other, seeing them blow up colonies they’d spent fortunes and decades to build. Of course, the Vosch stayed out of it all. They’d renounced their Earth citizenship the second the last earth-born in the Fleets died and they could legally claim interstellar origin. That was over a century ago. So when the Terran in-fighting began, the Fleets unanimously decided to sit back and wait for the explosions to finish, and reassess from there.

Only, it hadn’t gone that smoothly. Countries from all over Earth tried to recruit them onto their side. Some were very persuasive. Some succeeded in seducing younger Vosch into battle, promising fortune and honor, challenging their strength and bravery. Finally, a decision was made to hide the Fleets where Earth’s insidiousness couldn’t find them. They’d scattered, planning to reunite after the Campaign was over.

The Oortin took refuge on New Ford, a very sparsely colonized planet. They built a temporary village, on the opposite side of the planet that was already inhabited. All seemed to be going well, until the Americans arrived.

Their proposal was simple - join the United States in its efforts against its ‘enemies’, help secure the planet, sell the military supplies at a ridiculously cheap rate...or be wiped out wholesale. The Vosch were accomplished warriors, but not against the firepower the U.S. carried. It wasn’t going to end well.

And then, Captain Ori Alon aboard the Insight arrived. She chased off the Americans with the help of the Vosch. And when it came time for her to do as ordered, to make the same demands of the Vosch in the name of the Queen of England and the Royal Air Force...she refused. Instead, she gave the Oortin a head start, told them which planets were least likely to be surveyed and fought over, and wished them luck.

Irix never forgot.

“I won’t stay beyond the mission. Not unless there’s very good reason,” he stated flatly. “But yes. I’ll go.”

Tyler smiled. “I’m glad. Port Alhambra. Two weeks.”