She’s Just A Nurse, Said The Surgeon—Until A Wounded Soldier Whispered, “You Don’t Know Her”…

Harland Forge wiped the last traces of lubricant from his calloused hands as he glanced at his reflection in the polished metal panel. 23 years of service, 15 in the Galactic Defense Force and eight as the chief mechanic on Harmony Station, had etched deep lines into his weathered face.

His gray-flecked beard, once regulation trimmed during his military days, had grown fuller since civilian life, and his eyes still carried that quiet vigilance that never quite left veterans of the Proxima Centuri conflict. “Dad, how do I look?” Talia’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

She stood in the doorway of their modest quarters in the engineering sector, a nervous smile playing on her lips. Harlon’s stern face softened immediately. His 22-year-old daughter had transformed from the grease smudged assistant who helped him repair ion thrusters into an elegant young woman. Her dark hair was swept up in an intricate style that must have taken her hours to perfect, and she wore a simple but elegant blue dress that complimented her olive complexion.

“Like your mother,” he said softly, the words carrying the weight of 8 years of absence. Elena had been gone since the Sector 7 decompression incident, another reason Harlon had never quite forgiven the station’s administrative oversight. “She would have loved to be here tonight,” Talia said, adjusting the antique necklace that had been her mother’s.

“Do you think Professor Mendel will officially approve my xenobiology dissitation proposal?” “He’d be a fool not to,” Harlon assured her, checking his ancient mechanical watch. a family heirloom from Earth, five generations old. We should go. Orion and the others are meeting us there.

They made their way through the labyrinthine corridors of Harmony Station, the massive space installation that served as the diplomatic nexus for 17 different species in this sector of the galaxy. The engineering sector with its exposed conduits and utilitarian design gradually gave way to more polished environments as they approached the central hub. The celestial summit restaurant occupied the entire upper level of Habitat Ring 3, offering diners a spectacular view of the Cassiopia Nebula through its transparent dome ceiling.

It was the most exclusive dining establishment on Harmony Station, catering primarily to diplomats, corporate executives, and the occasional celebrity passing through the quadrant. Harlon felt out of place the moment they stepped off the lift. His dress uniform, the only formal attire he owned, was 9 years out of date, and despite Talia’s best efforts to press it, it still carried the faint scent of engine coolant. He squared his shoulders, reminding himself that he had every right to be there.

He had made a reservation 6 months ago for this night, paying nearly a month’s wages to secure it for Talia’s special occasion. The Acaronian hostess at the entrance looked up from her holographic reservation display, her four eyes blinking in an asynchronous pattern that humans often found disconcerting.

Her silvery skin reflected the ambient lighting as she spoke. Can I assist you? She asked, her translator giving her words a faintly musical quality that didn’t mask the condescension. Reservation for six, Harlon replied evenly. Under Forge, the hostess made a show of checking the system, all four eyes narrowed. I see no such reservation.

Check again, came a familiar voice. Orion Wells stepped up beside Harlon, his cybernetic leg making a faint worring sound as he moved. His dark skin contrasted sharply with the silver white formal jacket he wore. The confirmation was processed exactly 183 days ago. Reservation code echo7 delta 92.

The hostess bristled but checked again. There appears to be an error in our system. No error, said another voice. Beatatrice Jang joined them, her compact frame belying the strength that had once made her the station’s most decorated shuttle pilot before the incident at Docking Bay. 17 left her with burned scars across the left side of her face. I confirmed it yesterday.

Dexter Okonquo and his wife Amara completed their party, both dressed in their station administrative uniforms. A small act of solidarity with their friends from engineering. The hostess was about to respond when a commotion from the central dining area caught everyone’s attention. A loud, guttural voice was berating a server, the translator struggling to keep up with what sounded like a stream of insults.

Perhaps there’s space near the kitchen, the hostess suggested, clearly eager to keep them away from whatever was happening. Our reservation specified a table by the viewport, Talia said firmly. For the nebula observation, it’s essential for my dissertation on stellar radiation effects on Cassiopian microbial evolution.

Before the hostess could formulate another excuse, the source of the commotion rose from his seat. Ambassador Zordak Vexthul of the Draconian Confederation stood nearly 7 feet tall, his reptilian features accentuated by the ornate scales that covered his face and neck. The ceremonial robes he wore were woven with precious metals and embedded with status crystals that denoted his high rank.

His four-fingered hands, each digit tipped with a dulled claw, a concession to diplomatic protocol, gesticulated wildly as he continued to berate the hapless server. The entire restaurant had fallen silent, watching the spectacle. Ambassador Vex Thul was infamous throughout the quadrant for his volatile temper and disdain for other species, particularly humans.

Despite this, his position as the representative of a species that controlled access to 37% of the quadrant’s dithium reserves made him virtually untouchable. That is Ambassador Vex Thu, the hostess whispered urgently. He would not appreciate your kind of company during his meal. Harland felt a familiar tension build at the base of his skull. My kind.

Dad, Talia murmured, placing a gentle hand on his arm. It’s okay. We can come back another “No,” Harlon said quietly but firmly. “This dinner is for you, for your achievement. We’re not leaving.” As if, sensing the minor disturbance at the entrance, Ambassador Vexus Thu turned his attention toward them.

His vertical pupils narrowed as he took in the group of humans, and his translator emitted a sound that approximated a derisive snort. “What is this?” he demanded, his voice carrying across the now silent restaurant. “Since when does the celestial summit allow maintenance personnel to dine with civilized beings?” Arlon felt Orion tense beside him, but he gave his friend a subtle shake of the head.

He’d dealt with this kind of prejudice before, both during the war and after. Causing a scene would only give the ambassador the excuse he needed to have them removed. “We have a reservation,” Harlon stated calmly, addressing the hostess rather than the ambassador. “By the viewport,” Ambassador Vexthul let out a harsh laugh that his translator struggled to modulate appropriately. Oh, I see.

The apes think they belong among the stars now. How quaint. Several of the ambassadors aids shifted uncomfortably, but none dared contradict him. The other diners, a mix of various species, including a handful of humans in corporate attire, studiously avoided making eye contact with either party. “Ignore him,” Beatatrice whispered. “He’s just trying to provoke you.

Table 19 is currently occupied, the hostess said, gesturing vaguely toward the center of the dining area. By whom? Dexter asked, his background in communications making him particularly adept at detecting proarication. The hostess’s four eyes blinked rapidly in distress. By by the third secretary to the centuran delegation.

That table is empty, Amara observed, pointing to a vacant table by the viewport that was clearly marked with a holographic 19. The hostess was running out of excuses when Ambassador Vex’s thool decided to intervene directly. He stroed toward them, his massive frame dominating the space, flanked by two aids who looked thoroughly uncomfortable with the situation.

This establishment, the ambassador proclaimed loudly, caters to those who contribute meaningfully to interstellar relations, not to those who crawl through conduits and grease gears. Arlon remained impassive, though he noted Talia’s cheeks flushing with anger beside him. He had taught his daughter to stand her ground, but he had also taught her to choose her battles wisely.

Ambassador came a new voice, quiet but authoritative. Professor Mendel, a respected xenobiologist and Talia’s academic adviser, approached from a nearby table. Perhaps you’re unaware, but Talia Forg’s research on adaptive radiation in Cassopian extremles is being considered for the Galactic Science Academyy’s annual recognition.

We’re here to celebrate her acceptance into the doctoral program. Ambassador Vexthul’s scales shifted color slightly. A sign of annoyance, Harlon recalled from his cultural sensitivity training during the war. I care nothing for human academic achievements, the ambassador retorted.

Especially in fields where your species is centuries behind the draconians, Talia took a small step forward. With all due respect, Ambassador, my research incorporates the groundbreaking work of Dr. of Vex Mahal from your own science academy. I’m building on his foundation to explore new, you dare claim to understand the work of draconian scientists. The ambassador’s voice dropped to a dangerous register that the translator rendered as a menacing growl.

Vexmile was my clutch brother. His work is beyond your primitive comprehension. The revelation that the ambassador had a personal connection to the scientist Talia had been studying cast the situation in a new light. Harland sense there was more to the ambassador’s hostility than mere xenophobia.

My daughter meant no disrespect, Harlon said evenly. She has great admiration for your brother’s work. The ambassador’s attention shifted fully to Harlon now, his reptilian features contorting into what might have been a smirk. “And you are, Harlon Forge, chief mechanic, engineering section 7.” “Ah,” Ambassador Vexthul said, his translator giving his voice an oily quality.

“The hero of Proxima Centuri, if I’m not mistaken, the human who led the desperate last stand at outpost 12.” Harlon remained silent. He rarely spoke of his military service, and he certainly didn’t consider himself a hero. He had simply done what was necessary to save as many lives as possible during the final days of the conflict.

Tell me, Mechanic Forge, the ambassador continued, “How does it feel to know that while you and your kind fought and died, my people were negotiating the peace treaty that saved what remained of your pathetic colonies? A treaty, I might add, that has made you and your daughter little more than servants to those with real power. Orion took a half step forward, his cybernetic leg worring more loudly as his agitation grew. That’s enough.

Harland saved 27 lives that day, including three draconian civilians. At the cost of how many of my warriors, Ambassador Vexthul countered. It was war, Beatrice said flatly. Everyone lost someone. The ambassador’s scales rippled with color again, and he reached for the steaming beverage on his table. It was a draconian specialty, a thick coffee-like concoction that was served nearly boiling hot. Perhaps, the ambassador said, his voice deceptively soft.

Now, you need a reminder of your place in this station’s hierarchy. What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion to Harlon. The ambassador lunged forward with surprising speed for his size. The cup of scolding liquid aimed directly at Harlland’s face.

Decades of combat training kicked in, and Harland could have easily sidestepped the attack or deflected it. Instead, he held his ground, locking eyes with the ambassador as the hot liquid splashed across his face and neck, soaking into his dress uniform. The pain was immediate and intense, but Harlon didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink as the hot liquid dripped from his beard onto the polished floor. The silence in the restaurant was absolute.

“Dad,” Talia gasped, reaching for him. Harlon raised her hand slightly, stopping her. His eyes never left the ambassadors. “There,” Ambassador Vex’s Thu said with satisfaction, “I’ve improved your appearance, Ape. The stains match your station in life.” The restaurant remained frozen in shock.

Several diners looked horrified, but none dared to intervene. The hostess had retreated behind her station, and even the ambassador’s aids seemed stunned by the escalation. Harland slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew an ancient communication device, a direct link to engineering that bypassed the station’s main systems. He pressed a single button, still maintaining eye contact with the ambassador.

Forge to engineering, he said calmly. Initiate protocol. Omega. Ambassador Vexthul let out a harsh laugh. Calling for help, human. Going to have your maintenance friends come and protect you? Harlon slipped the device back into his pocket. No, ambassador. Just making sure they know what happened. Nothing happened, the ambassador sneered.

I accidentally spilled my drink on a presumptuous lowercast worker who forgot his place. No one here will contradict that account. He glanced around the restaurant and several diners quickly averted their gaze. Professor Mendel stepped forward again. I will contradict it. As will my colleagues from the science division. Science division? The ambassador scoffed.

Another group that exists only by the goodwill of the species that actually matter in this sector. Orion had taken out his personal data device and was manipulating it with quick practiced movements. Too late for revisionist history, Ambassador. The incident has already been transmitted to the engineering servers, 47 separate backup locations, and it’s currently being viewed by every engineer, mechanic, and maintenance worker on this station. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crossed the ambassador’s reptilian features.

A minor diplomatic incident. It will be forgotten by tomorrow. Perhaps, Harlon said, finally breaking his silence. He wiped some of the cooling liquid from his face with deliberate calmness. Or perhaps not. Talia’s communication device chimed, and she glanced at it briefly. “Dad, the live stream already has over 5,000 viewers across the station.

” “What live stream?” Ambassador Vexthul demanded, his scales shifting to a paler hue. Dexter smiled thinly. Station regulation 17.6 permits recording of any public incident involving diplomatic personnel for security purposes. As communications officer for sections 5 through9, I’m well within my rights to ensure this diplomatic incident is properly documented. The ambassador’s vertical pupils contracted to thin slits.

You’re recording this without my permission. The Celestial Summit is a public space, Amara pointed out, her legal background evident in her precise tone. Privacy expectations are limited by statute and treaty. The first signs of real concern began to show on the ambassador’s face.

This is a manipulation, a human plot, too. He was interrupted by the sound of machinery, not just from one direction, but from all around the restaurant. The distinctive hum of maintenance drones. the were of automated cleaning units, the soft beep of diagnostic tools, and beneath it all, a subtle, almost imperceptible change in the restaurant’s ambient sounds.

The environmental systems altering their output in tiny, carefully calibrated ways. “What is happening?” one of the ambassadors aids whispered, nervously, glancing around. Harland didn’t answer immediately. He simply stood, still dripping with the ambassador’s drink as the sounds grew more pronounced.

Then, one by one, the maintenance panels around the restaurant’s perimeter slid open. From each opening emerged a human engineer or technician, each wearing the standard engineering uniform. They didn’t enter the restaurant. They simply stood at the access points, silently watching. More remarkably, the service robots that had been attending tables suddenly paused in their duties.

As one, they turned to face Ambassador Vexthul, their optical sensors trained on him in eerie unison. “Protocol Omega,” Harlon finally explained, his voice carrying easily in the hushed restaurant. “It’s not an attack protocol, Ambassador. It’s a solidarity protocol.” The main entrance to the celestial summit slid open and more humans began to file in.

Not just engineers this time, but pilots, navigators, security personnel, medical staff, representatives from every section of the station where humans worked. They didn’t crowd the space or make any threatening moves. They simply entered, found places to stand along the walls, and observed in silence.

Ambassador Vexthul’s scales had now pald significantly. What is the meaning of this invasion? Not an invasion, Orion corrected. Just a show of support for a colleague who was assaulted. A small elderly human woman in a medical uniform stepped forward from the new arrivals. I’m Dr. Rivera, chief medical officer. I’d like to examine Mr.

Forge for potential thermal burns. I’m fine, doctor, Harlon assured her. Nevertheless, I’m logging this as an incident requiring medical attention, Dr. Rivera said firmly, giving the ambassador a pointed look. For the official record, Ambassador Vexul’s communication device began to chime insistently. He glanced at it, his expression darkening.

“What have you done?” he hissed at Harlon. “I haven’t done anything,” Harlon replied truthfully. But it seems the incident has been noticed beyond this station. Indeed, the central communication display above the bar area had automatically activated, showing a breaking news feed from the Galactic Information Network.

The headline scrolling across the bottom read, “Diplatic incident on Harmony Station. Draconian ambassador assaults human veteran. More communication devices throughout the restaurant began to signal incoming messages. The ambassador’s aids were frantically consulting their own devices, their expressions growing increasingly alarmed.

Ambassador, one of them said urgently, “The High Council is requesting immediate clarification. They’re receiving inquiries from 17 diplomatic missions, including the Centurion Protectorate.” Another aid leaned in closer. Sir, the Galactic Commerce Exchange has placed a temporary hold on all draconian transactions pending resolution of this incident. The diliththium markets are already responding.

The color drained entirely from the ambassador’s scales, leaving them a sickly white. “This is this is an outrage, a conspiracy.” “No conspiracy,” Harlon said calmly. just consequences. Talia’s device chimed again, and her eyes widened slightly as she read the message. Professor Mendle, the Science Academy is requesting your eyewitness account of the incident.

They’re citing potential violations of the Interecies Diplomatic Conduct Treaty, Articles 7, 12, and 23. Ambassador Vex Thul’s fury seemed to collapse into bewilderment. This is absurd. I am a diplomatic representative of the Draconian Confederation. You are You are nothing. Maintenance workers, support staff, replaceable components. Beatrice stepped forward now, her burn scars clearly visible in the restaurant’s lighting.

When docking bay 17 experienced catastrophic decompression 8 years ago, who contained the breach while the diplomats evacuated? When the primary life support systems failed in the ambassadorial wing last year, who worked 48 hours straight to restore them. When the artificial gravity malfunctioned during the Galactic Summit, who prevented 17 ambassadors, including two of your predecessors, from floating into space.

A murmur of agreement ran through the assembled humans. They weren’t shouting or making threats. They were simply standing together, a quiet but unmistakable demonstration of unity. The hostess had retreated entirely behind her station, and the other restaurant staff had positioned themselves strategically near exits. The non-human diners watched the proceedings with a mixture of curiosity and concern, clearly uncertain about the proper protocol for such an unusual situation.

Ambassador Vexul’s device chimed again, more urgently this time. When he checked it, his already pale scales seemed to lose what little color remained. “The High Chancellor,” he muttered almost to himself, demanding an explanation. “Harlen remained impassive. The hot liquid had begun to dry on his uniform, leaving dark stains across the fabric.

The skin on his face was red and beginning to blister in places, but his expression betrayed no discomfort. “Perhaps,” Professor Mendel suggested gently, “a public apology would be appropriate. It might help mitigate the diplomatic fallout.” The ambassador’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Apologize to a a mechanic? Never.

” One of his aids leaned in close, whispering urgently. The translator didn’t capture the words, but the ambassador’s reaction was visible. A mixture of disbelief and dawning horror. “Impossible,” he hissed back. “They wouldn’t dare.” The aid gestured frantically at his device, showing the ambassador something that caused his vertical pupils to contract to barely visible lines.

The ambassador looked around the restaurant, suddenly aware that he was effectively surrounded, not threateningly, but definitively. Every exit was in view of multiple humans. Every communication panel was being monitored. Every service robot was still locked on his position, recording everything. “What do you want?” he finally asked Harlon, his translator, giving his voice an uncharacteristic quaver.

Harlon considered the question for a moment. An acknowledgment of what happened here. An apology not just to me but to everyone you insulted and a commitment to treat station personnel with the respect they deserve regardless of their species or job function. Ambassador Vexathul’s scales rippled with color. A sign of internal conflict. Harlon knew.

The ambassador’s device chimed again more insistently. The markets continue to respond, sir, one of the aids reported nervously. Draconian diliththium futures are down 12% and falling. The high council is convening an emergency session.

For a tense moment, it seemed the ambassador might still choose defiance, but then his shoulders slumped slightly, and his scales settled into a dull, muted pattern, the draconian equivalent of resignation. I regret the incident,” he said stiffly, the words clearly difficult for him to pronounce. Harland shook his head slightly. “Not good enough, Ambassador. The truth, all of it.

” The ambassador’s jaw clenched, but another chime from his device seemed to make the decision for him. “I apologize for my behavior,” he groaned out. “It was unbecoming of my position.” Talia stepped forward. her expression determined. And the reason for your particular hostility toward my research, Ambassador Vexthul’s scales shifted again.

Your research contradicts some of my brother’s conclusions. Conclusions that have significant implications for draconian claims to certain resourcerich systems near the Cassiopia Nebula. A murmur ran through the restaurant. This revelation added a new dimension to the incident. It wasn’t just casual xenophobia, but a calculated attempt to intimidate a researcher whose work threatened draconian territorial ambitions.

“So, you threw scolding liquid in my father’s face because my dissertation might challenge your resource claims?” Talia asked, her voice steady despite her obvious anger. The ambassador didn’t respond directly. Instead, he turned back to Harlon. I have apologized.

Is that sufficient for you to call off your people? Harlon looked around at the assembled humans, then at the service robots still locked in position, then at the news feed still broadcasting the incident across the quadrant. They are not my people to command, ambassador, he said quietly. They’re my colleagues, my friends, fellow residents of this station. They make their own decisions.

But you can influence them,” the ambassador pressed, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. Harlon considered this. “Perhaps if I were convinced your apology was sincere, if I believed you truly understood what happened here today,” Ambassador Vex’s Thu’s device chimed yet again. When he checked it, a visible shudder ran through his massive frame.

My diplomatic credentials, he said, his voice now barely audible, have been temporarily suspended pending a formal review by the high council. I am effectively stranded on this station until the matter is resolved.” This news sent another murmur through the restaurant.

For a diplomatic representative to have their credentials suspended was virtually unprecedented, a sign of just how seriously the draconian leadership was taking the incident. It seems, Harlon observed, that your own government has a clearer understanding of the situation than you do. The ambassador’s aid leaned in again, whispering urgently.

Whatever news he delivered caused the ambassador to close his eyes briefly in what appeared to be pain. The Galactic Banking Consortium, Ambassador Vex Thu announced, his voice hollow, has frozen all draconian assets pending resolution of potential treaty violations. The economic impact is significant. He looked at Harland with new eyes, not with respect exactly, but with a dawning comprehension of the power dynamics he had so catastrophically misunderstood.

I didn’t understand, the ambassador said more to himself than to anyone else. How could humans have such influence, such connections? Harlon allowed himself a small, tired smile. It’s not influence, Ambassador. It’s interdependence. No species on this station, not even yours, can function without the others. The diplomats make the treaties, yes, but the engineers keep the life support running.

The medical staff keep everyone healthy. The service workers provide food and comfort. The scientists advance our collective knowledge. He gestured to the various humans still positioned around the restaurant. You saw us as inferiors because we work with our hands because we maintain systems and repair machinery.

But without us, without all of us working together, this station would be a lifeless hulk drifting through space. A somber quiet fell over the restaurant as the truth of his words sank in. Even some of the nonhuman diners were nodding in agreement. Ambassador Vex Thul seemed to deflate further, his imposing stature diminished by the realization of his error. “What would you have me do?” he asked, and for the first time there was no condescension in his voice, only weary acceptance. Harlon looked at his daughter, then at his friends, then back at the ambassador. First, he said, “A

genuine apology, not just to me, but to everyone you insulted with your words and actions today.” The ambassador straightened slightly, summoning what dignity he could. I, Ambassador Zordak Vexthul of the Draconian Confederation, offer my sincere apologies to Mechanic Harland Forge, to his daughter, Talia Forge, and to all station personnel whom I have treated with disrespect.

My behavior was unworthy of my position and contrary to the principles of interspecies cooperation that this station represents. It wasn’t elegant, but it had the ring of sincerity, or at least of genuine regret. Second, Harlon continued, I would ask that you reconsider your opposition to my daughter’s research. Judge it on its scientific merits, not on its potential political implications.

The ambassador hesitated, then nodded slowly. I will review her work with an open mind. Da. And third, Harlon concluded, “I would suggest that you take this opportunity to learn more about how this station actually functions. Perhaps a tour of engineering section 7 would be educational. A flicker of what might have been reluctant amusement crossed the ambassador’s features.

” “Are you inviting me to visit your domain, Mechanic Forge?” “I am,” Harlon confirmed. “At your convenience.” The tension in the restaurant had begun to dissipate, replaced by a cautious sense of resolution. One by one, the service robots resumed their normal functions. The humans stationed around the perimeter remained in place, but their posture had relaxed somewhat.

Ambassador Vexthul’s device chimed one more time. When he checked it, his scales shifted to a more natural hue. The High Council, he reported with what might have been relief, acknowledges my apology and commends the peaceful resolution of the incident. They are requesting formal documentation of the agreements reached.

Dexter stepped forward. As communications officer, I can prepare the necessary records. The ambassador nodded his acceptance, then turned back to Harlon. It seems, Mechanic Forge, that I have underestimated you and your position in the station’s ecosystem. Harlon shrugged slightly. A common mistake, Ambassador, especially among those who confuse status with value.

Orion had been monitoring his own device. The markets are stabilizing. Draconian assets are being unfrozen as news of the resolution spreads. The hostess, who had been watching the proceedings with wide eyes, cautiously emerged from behind her station. Perhaps I can arrange a table for your party now, Mr. Forge. Our finest viewport location is available.

Harland looked at his stained uniform and burned face, then at his daughter. What do you think, Talia? Still up for dinner? Talia smiled, linking her arm through his. Absolutely, Dad. After all, we have something to celebrate. My dissitation approval and a valuable lesson in interspecies diplomacy.

As they were led to their table, the very one that had been unavailable earlier, the humans around the restaurant began to disperse, returning to their duties throughout the station. The incident was over, but its effects would resonate for some time. Ambassador Vexul watched them go, still somewhat stunned by the turn of events. One of his aids approached hesitantly.

Sir, shall we return to the embassy? The high council will expect a detailed report. The ambassador considered this, then shook his head. No, I believe I shall remain and observe. There is much I need to reconsider about this station and its personnel. From their table by the viewport, Harlon and his friends could see the ambassador taking a seat at his own table, noticeably more subdued than before.

The other diners had resumed their meals, though conversations were animated as they discussed what they had witnessed. Doctor Rivera insisted on treating Harland’s burns, applying a cooling regenerative gel to the affected areas while he stoically endured her ministrations. You know, Professor Mendel observed, studying the Cassiopia Nebula, visible through the viewport. There’s something almost poetic about what happened here today.

The nebula out there, it appears to be a single magnificent entity, but it’s actually billions of individual particles all working together to create something greater than themselves. Like a space station, Talia agreed, her eyes gleaming with scientific passion. or a civilized society. Harland smiled despite the sting of his burns. Exactly.

Something Ambassador Vex Thu and his kind would do well to remember. As the evening progressed, an unusual transformation occurred. The barrier that had seemingly separated the diplomatic elite from the station’s support personnel began to dissolve. Conversations between tables that would never have happened before the incident sprang up organically. Several ambassadors from other species made a point of stopping by Harland’s table to express their respect.

One year later, on the anniversary of what had come to be known across the station as the celestial summit incident, a small ceremony was held in engineering section 7. Ambassador Vex Thu, who had surprised everyone by requesting to extend his posting on Harmony Station, presented Harlon with a formal commendation from the Draconian High Council for contributions to interspecies understanding. The ambassador had changed in subtle but significant ways.

He still carried himself with the dignity befitting his position, but the contemptuous edge was gone from his manner. He had become a regular visitor to engineering, and his genuine interest in the station’s operations had earned him cautious respect from the human staff.

Talia’s dissertation had been approved with honors, and her research had indeed challenged some of Vexmile’s conclusions, but rather than suppressing her findings, Ambassador Vexthul had arranged for her to present them directly to the Draconian Science Academy, where they sparked a productive scientific dialogue that benefited both species. In his modest quarters, Harlon kept his stained dress uniform hanging in a preservation field. He never cleaned it.

When asked why, he would say, “It reminds me that sometimes the most effective response to aggression isn’t more aggression. It’s simply standing your ground and letting the truth speak for itself.” The Celestial Summit Restaurant had changed its policies, officially removing any preference for diplomatic personnel over station staff.

The hostess, who had tried to turn Harlon away, had been replaced by a human Acaronian hybrid, who made a point of greeting engineers and ambassadors with equal courtesy. Perhaps most remarkably, Ambassador Vex Thu and Harlon had developed what might cautiously be described as a friendship, or at least a mutual respect that transcended their vastly different backgrounds and positions.

They could occasionally be seen sharing a meal in the station’s common areas, discussing everything from engineering challenges to philosophical questions about interspecies cooperation. And whenever a new diplomat arrived on Harmony Station, displaying the familiar signs of arrogance or disdain toward the station’s support staff, they would quickly be taken aside by their peers and told the story of what had happened when an ambassador threw hot coffee in a mechanic’s face, and how that simple act of disrespect had nearly triggered an interstellar diplomatic crisis. It was a

story that spread far beyond Harmony Station, retold in diplomaticmies and engineering schools alike. A reminder that true power doesn’t always reside where one expects to find it. And that dignity has nothing to do with status or species.

In the vastness of space, where survival depends on cooperation and mutual respect, it was a lesson worth remembering. and on Harmony Station. No one who witnessed that day would ever forget it.