Rebel

Mazc cognition is unlike any other yet encountered. They don't see people, things, constructs: they perceive geometries, angles, multi-dimensional planes. Despite their exotic and distinctive physical appearance, they recognise each other by the tastefeel of each individual mind – a little like the Fohmatraan mentity, though of necessity on a far less intimate level.
It takes a determined, conscious effort for them to think down to the simplistic way most sentients perceive reality. And they don't like doing it. Unfortunately it's the only way they can communicate with the wider galaxy outside the confines of their homeworld...

Dwellspace at present was a small section of a clusterpod far out in what had once, millennia ago, been a living ocean but was now a clogged and toxic sludge. The domicile was shared by twenty-three others right now, making it cramped and usually too hot for comfort: as always there was no way to improve the situation, so everyone simply ignored it.
     A light touch on the shoulder pulled Faraa's attention away from the information scrolling across the small screens set into the wall. Turning, it found one of its temporary 'podmates behind it: nodding brusquely to indicate that 'pathing would be permitted, Faraa settled itself to hear what Gizar had to *say*.
     *I will be moving on in two days. Would it please you to accompany me?*
     Faraa *hid* its surprise with practised ease.
     *Why me?*
     Gizar grinned, and Faraa forced down a shudder. The emotion that spilled from these chag'an was uncomfortable at the best of times – this close it was almost unbearable.
     *It would be... interesting.*
     Faraa took as much of a step back as was possible in the tiny space. Gizar raised a hand, lightly brushing a bifurcated digit through soft, vivid crimson mane: Faraa, outraged at the uninvited touch but refusing to let the other know how much it was disturbed, stood impassively for a moment before turning its head, dismissing Gizar with a tiny shrug of one thin shoulder.
     *I think not.*
     *Why not?*
     Faraa cursed silently. Why did the chag'an always question everything?
     *I am not interested.*
     Gizar moved a fraction closer. Faraa stood still, refusing to give more ground. The chag'an ran another strand of mane through his digits.
     *But you are very interesting...*
     *And your intrusion is unwelcome. Go away.*
     Gizar stepped back, featureless grey eyes wide in surprise. Whether it was real or not Faraa neither knew nor cared.
     *Such... bluntness. So honest. So brutal.*
     Ignoring him, Faraa turned back to the screen and jacked itself back into the system. Gizar sighed and turned to leave. At the accessway he paused, glancing back over his shoulder to the vibrant red cheen.
     *If you change your mind...*
     And Faraa's inner vision was suddenly overlaid with a most extraordinary image, greens and blues, a multitude of different elements, blurring at the edges but each particle distinct and vivid, perfectly formed and proportioned, a latticework of extraordinary complexity and beauty. Faraa froze, then swivelled to face the chag'an.
     *... what was that...?*
     Gizar smirked.
     *Oh, just a little world I know...*
     *... where...?*
     *Not far.*
     Faraa turned back to the screen, digits poised over the touchpad.
     *Co-ordinates?* There was a long pause. Faraa looked over its shoulder to see Gizar watching, head tilted.
     *You're interested?*
     *Maybe.*
     The chag'an moved to stand at its shoulder.
     *Caelix Prime.* The name was followed by the abstruse form of co-ordinating information navigators used on 'skimmers: without even noticing Faraa translated it into a more familiar format, pulling planetary specifications from the system and stilling as imagesoundscent filled its forebrain.
     *Pretty, isn't it?*
     If 'pretty' meant redolent of complexity, order upon order, a perfectly regulated submolecular paradise in infinite shades and depths of colour and wavelengths – then yes, it was beautiful. Compared to this, Mazc was a film of mud over a solid ball of lead: functional but ugly, uninteresting except for the minute variations in consistency.
     There was no life here, except for the inhabitants. Faraa suddenly felt constricted, trapped as though on an endless loop of tedium. It turned to Gizar.
     *I am interested.*
     Gizar gestured to the accessway.
     *And you will be welcomed. Come with me?*
     Faraa took a long look around the cramped space, noting the piled sleeppouches doing duty as a seat for an exhausted taang back from a long shift at the water-processing facility, the ever-present grime on the floor, the faint smell of the bland food that was all that the recyclers could manage to produce out here... It wondered, for the first time, why it hadn't noticed the... squalor before. It frowned at Gizar.
     *They live differently?*
     Gizar reached forwards, tugging very gently on a lock of crimson mane.
     *They live, chalah. They live...*
     And we only exist... Mazc is dead. Why do we stay here? It had no answer – and more importantly, nothing to lose. It followed the chag'an from the 'pod and towards the Archyve terminal, almost curious about its future...