'So what's he like, Dad?'

'Who?'

It was the end of the second day of their stay; they were sitting in their tiny living room, having eaten their fill of dinner. Matilda's World was a dark disc edged in deep red, the sun almost the other side, a tiny, brilliant fingernail peeping over one limb.

'The alien. The one you are treating. The ambassador.'

'He's not an ambassador. He's supposed to be a sort of a priest, an important one at that; but he doesn't behave like any I've met, miserable git that he is.'

'But he's an alien! How would you know?'

He smiled.

'Before I met Mum, I went to University in the Telemar system. Only a few dozen light years away is a slinth colony, and they had a nasty little civil war while I was there; a revolution because the slaves wanted better rights, or similar. I saw a lot of refugees, and then wounded. There is a hospital like this one orbiting Telemar Second, and I worked there patching up slinth.'

She considered this. She couldn't imagine her mild father in a war.

'Was there any fighting?'

'No. This was before the UPN was formed, and the senate of Telemar decided to remain neutral. The whole thing was a foretaste of the war, really. But, it meant I treated refugees from both sides; initially, the ruling classes, and then when the empire really stamped down, the slave leaders came seeking asylum.'

'Oh. I wish I'd done history, now.'

'This isn't history! It's current affairs. At least I don't think I'm that old...'

She laughed, 'I didn't mean that, Dad!'

He laughed with her. 'That's OK, Clara. I'll enjoy my revenge when you are my age. How's your revision coming along?'

She pulled a face.

'There really is nothing to do here, is there? Yeah, I'm doing well. I've mostly been doing maths and physics; I've taken a couple of little mocks and I'm passing already, so that feels pretty good. Dull, though.'

'Well, it is, but these exams...'

'Are important, yeah, I know... I'm complaining having done the revision, rather than having not done it. Still... The computer here must be like, ten years old? You can't use it for anything! And the net connection is really unreliable.'

'We are on a space station, Clara. It amazes me that it works at all.'

'We were making jokes about you being old?'

He smiled, tiredly this time, and yawned.

'Maybe I am, after all. I think I may turn in; I'm still rather lagged. I can't keep up with you children any more.'

They both stood, and she pecked him on his cheek.

'Night, Dad. You're not old, you know.'

He looked at her, kindly. 'Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it. Goodnight.'

She picked up the dishes, and carried them into the kitchen. It was early, really, and her father had not been joking about not being able to keep up; she had acclimatised to the time difference far quicker than he, and she was wide awake. Station time was just before nine; that made it one in the morning at home, and she had the advantage of getting up when she wanted.

She wondered if there was anything to do.

She tapped the terminal in her room; the net was down again, because of a solar storm. She had purposely not brought any distractions; so the only thing on her own computers were textbooks, notes and mocks, of which she felt she had had enough of for one day. The idea of lying in her bed and staring at the ceiling until sleep overtook her did not appeal at all.

She called through the bathroom door, 'Dad, I'm going for a walk'.

'Don't get lost,' was the cheery reply.

She slid the door open, and stepped into the corridor.

This was not the first time she'd left the apartment. There was a small store room some way along, which was stocked with non-perishables; there was a gym and a café towards the centre of the station which she had also been to, however, she wanted to explore some more, and so she took a different direction at the first major junction she found.

The smell of the place was just like she remembered it as a child; sterile, and very slightly musty, as if she was in air that had forgotten what it was like to be breathed. The noises she could hear were a sort of quiet symphony of machines: the low drone of the aircon, the rattle of the belts and escalators, the sighing of automatic doors, the gentle beeps and chimes of slumbering computers. Once she passed a robot delicately restocking a store cupboard, its long skeletal arms pushing toilet rolls into their little rack.

Everywhere she went there was remnants from the war: emergency medication stations, posters with symptoms of known viral agents, recruitment adverts for the navy. It all looked as faded and forgotten as the rest of the place. She shivered, glad that the conflict had never reached Matilda's World.

Eventually she reached the end of the belt she was on, and there was no more to replace it; as she stepped off she found that she was just outside a small, well lit atrium, with sofas and – astonishingly – a small indoor fountain that burbled happily away. She walked in, and looked around; there was an empty desk, a snack machine, tables; the carpet was the most plush she had found so far, and the light was coming from some kind of mock chandelier, hanging from a delicately arched ceiling. Like everywhere else, she was the only person there. It felt like an abandoned oasis of light and comfort in the middle of a dark desert.

It was warm, far warmer than anywhere she had been on the carefully temperature controlled station, and she took off her jacket and slung it over her shoulder; then she passed her hand through the fountain to establish whether it was real, and the water splashed on her fingers.

She pulled out her phone, and looked at the map of the Hospital. She seemed to be maybe a quarter of the way around the circumference of the station from the apartment; her location was labelled 'Non-T Quarters', which didn't mean much. She put it back in her pocket, and wondered where to go next.

There were a number of corridors leading away, all but one dark; the lit one ended in a large door. Curious, she walked towards it, wondering where it would lead to, feeling slightly guilty that she was trespassing.

The door was closed and unmarked, and there was no other way forward; and so when she reached it she felt slightly foolish, as it seemed like the short walk had been pointless. She was not so nosey as to try and open it; she knew that doors that she was allowed to walk though would automatically open, and the fact that it remained mutely closed was enough of a hint.

She stood for a second, shrugged, and turned.

'What is it?'

The voice was hoarse, and petulant, and made her jump. She whirled to face the door again, and was surprised and slightly disappointed to see that nothing had changed; it was still closed, bathed in a pool of white light.

The heat was making her sweat. A tiny rill of perspiration trickled down her temple.

'Hello?'

This time, she was prepared for the voice, but not its message.

'Oh, for fuck's sake, stop being stupid. I'm on the other side of this door, and I can see you through the monitor. Now, what do you want? I'm not due for pills from that quack for at least half a day, so it can't be that.'

Clara was now tired; she had had a long day of boredom and frustration, and the surprise and the rudeness was all it took to push her into anger. So, she drew herself up to her full height, and snarled back, 'well, fuck you, too. I was just on a walk, dickless; If you can't be civil, shut your shitter.'

There was a silence, while she glared at the door.

'Thank you,' she continued, with barbed civility. 'Now I will take your leave. Goodnight.'

Suddenly, there was a sort of rasping cough, and the door faded to transparency, and she was standing face to face with her interlocutor.

Her first thought was that he was a huge, dark brown frog, with twin yellow eyes fixed upon her. As she took in details, though, she realised that he was far more substantial than a frog, with strangely jointed legs that were not for jumping, crawling or walking, but possibly managed all three; at the moment he was partly standing up, partly crouched. He was wearing a sort of pale pink shift that fell to his thighs, and had some kind of crown or head band around his wide, round head. As she stared, a long pink tongue darted out of his mouth and licked his eyes.

'I haven't been spoken to like that in decades. You are by far the most entertaining of my visitors so far. I would like to apologise for my tone; please don't leave.'

She was momentarily lost for words; the alien seemed to take this as a sign that the apology was accepted, and continued, cheerfully.

'You're a female, aren't you? And either stunted or a juvenile. I didn't realise that they could be so aggressive. How marvellous you are!'

'I can look after myself, thanks, buddy. And you're a male slinth; I didn't realise they could speak English.'

More coughing; she wondered if it was laughter or some kind of illness.

'But, of course! It's not exactly complex, is it? I thought it was a trading argot the first time I learnt about it; I can't believe you speak it as a primary language. Still, I expect it has some advantages, otherwise you wouldn't use it.'

She shrugged.

'Yeah, it's OK. Easier than Mandarin, I suppose. I gave that up last year. What are you doing here then?'

This time, no coughing. It must be laughter, she thought.

'I find myself a guest here. I was somewhat inconvenienced when your soldiers shot me in the side; apparently your rather limp justice system requires me to be well to stand trial.'

'So you're a prisoner of war.'

'I think that's a touch indelicate of you, but, yes. That broadly describes my situation.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. It looks comfy, though.'

It did, too; the apartment beyond was much bigger than hers, and she could see another fountain and various pieces of furniture that looked like huge bean bags, as well as beautiful wall hangings covered in patterns picked out in dark red and blue.

'It will do. And what, may I ask, are you doing outside my bedroom?'

'Oh, I was just going for a walk, found myself here. It was pretty, so I decided to have a look.'

'How delightful! I'm privileged to make your acquaintance.'

He made a strange sideways sweep of his head. Clara wondered what it meant.

'Now, it is getting late; I am afraid I must ask to take your leave. I don't know much about the habits of young female terrans, but I suspect that you will be required back in your domicile given the hour. Certainly, I have a packed day of being imprisoned tomorrow, and need to get some sleep. Before you go, though, one question: what is your name?'

'Clara. And yours?'

'Mine is unpronounceable given your tongue length, so I have chosen an English name for you terrans to use. This is the first time I have seen fit to mention this to someone, so I think you should consider it something of an honour.'

'Thank you. So what is it?'

'It is... Basil.'

She snorted with amusement, before immediately realising what she had done; and tried to turn in into a cough. The alien clearly misunderstood her reaction.

'Yes, it's a good name, isn't it? A fragrant plant that originates on a far planet; not so very dissimilar to me... Well, good night, Clara.'

He made the same head movement.

'And good night, Basil.'

She managed to merely smirk as she said this.

* * *

The next morning, she told her father. To her surprise, he was furious, far more angry than she had ever seen him; he threatened to send her home on the first flight, to ground her until university, disinherit her. As always, though, his rage was short and sharp, and dissipated quickly into gloom.

'What were you thinking, Clara?', he asked for the ninth time. 'You could get me fired. Or worse.'

'Dad, it was just an accident. There were no signs or locked doors or anything. If it was such a big deal, why were there no guards? I only found out he was locked up half way though the conversation. The very short conversation.'

'I don't know, Clara. I don't know; there are always soldiers with me when I go. I'll have to tell someone. I'll call when we're both dressed and ready.'

As it was, there were no recriminations: as Clara had guessed, the wing was considered secure enough that guards were not posted.

'And,' said her father, rather more cheerfully, 'where's he going to go? We're on a space station, after all. Even so, don't do that again.'

Eventually he left and she settled down with her notes; but, bored, she worked as long as she thought was decent then flipped the machine onto the net. This time it was up, so she searched for what she could find about the slinth. She remembered that her father had said he was a priest, so she started there.

She quickly discovered that actually priest was a misleading translation, and that the order was more like a civil service with some kind of spiritual mandate, headed by the emperor himself. She happened upon a page on ceremonial robes, and noticed that headbands featured pretty prominently; she tried to find the one Basil had been wearing, but couldn't find it, although it looked like a high-end one. She started to read about their religion, but it required so much social context to understand that she gave up pretty soon, and moved to their politics.

She knew about the war, of course. The final, formal cease-fire had only been called six months or so ago, although most of the fighting had finished a couple of years before that. She had remembered the victory parades and fly bys, and the endless speculation about the whereabouts of the ousted slinth emperor; but the build up to it was something she was mostly ignorant of. The whole story took almost a decade – hmm, she thought, I was two, no wonder I wasn't that interested at the time – and a bewildering list of planets and people. She noticed the Telemar revolt mentioned as a kind of prelude, although that had happened even longer ago. She started digging further, ignoring the descriptions of warships and battles (smiling as she thought that her little brother must know this stuff already) and instead focused on the trade and power as it flowed through and between the squabbling terran colonies and the Perseuan slinth empire.

The story was dense and complex, but she was sucked in; she read one extremely vivid account of very early trade interactions, and then watched a deeply unsatisfying documentary about the eve of the war itself. She was just fast-forwarding through the anodyne presenter's introduction to the second half when her phone alarm beeped, indicating that her break time was up. She sighed, switched off her net connection and returned to revision.

She worked for the rest of the morning, filling in holes in her understanding, committing mnemonics to memory, copying out diagrams until she could reproduce them blindfold; finally, she was satisfied with her progress and decided to walk to the café to get some lunch.

She was just strolling down their little residential corridor to the main junction when her phone buzzed. Surprised, she pulled it out from her pocket and answered it. It was her father.

'Hey Dad; what's up?'

'Well, I've had a rather unusual request. The prisoner would like to see you again, and has asked if that would be possible.'

'The prisoner? Basil?'

'Basil? Is that what you call him?'

'It's what he called himself. Sounds like he's got the hots... Better phone Mum and tell her I've pulled, eh?'

'Clara, I'm not sure...'

He sounded strained. She remembered this morning and bit her lip.

'Sorry Dad. I just thought it was a stitch up. It's not, is it?'

'No, it's not. Completely serious.'

'Oh. What does your boss say?'

'They don't really know what to make of it; they decided to ask you, because if you said no that would be the end of it, I think.'

'I see. What would you say if I said yes?'

'I'm not sure. Is that your answer?'

'Yeah, why not? If I'm allowed, obviously... He was sweet. Almost.'

'Clara, I don't understand you, sometimes, I really don't. OK, I'll tell them that.'

'Thanks! It's because I'm the rebellious new generation, Dad. Now I'm off to drink too much fizzy pop and trash the canteen.'

He snorted, despite it all.

'Fine. Just don't end up in the cells with – what did you call him? Boris?'

'Basil.'

'Basil. OK, I'll call you back and tell you what gets decided.'

He hung up, and she imagined him shaking his head with a bemused smile on his face.

About half an hour later, just as she was clearing her food away in the almost deserted canteen, he called. Yes, she would see the prisoner this evening; she would accompany her father as he did his evening check up; there would be guards there so she shouldn't worry; yes, the slinth was a cantankerous old bastard, and if she was offended by him she could always simply leave. She assented to it all and smiled at her father as he talked earnestly down the phone, trying to tell her things she didn't consider important.

'Hush, Dad. He just wants a chat.'

She went back to the apartment, and revised for the rest of the afternoon; then, after a brief shower and clothing panic (which ended when she realised she really had brought nothing beyond slobby revision clothes and had to make the best of a bad job) there was a polite ping, and the door informed her that her escort was here.

He was a young looking soldier. He smiled when he saw her, and the two set off together, making small chit-chat until they reached the non-T quarters. This time it was populated: there was another soldier – an officer of some sort – behind the desk, who looked up and grunted a greeting to them as they entered the atrium. They headed down the corridor to Basil's cell, passing two more soldiers who waved them on, and through the open door of the cell itself.

Her first thought was how warm and humid it was, even more so than in the little atrium. The temperature hit her like a wall, a wet heat that clung to her clothes and throat. As she went further into the room, she suddenly felt heavy; the gravity was somehow higher than on the rest of the station, and her limbs felt like they were made of lead. Thanks to the humidity and the weight, breathing was surprisingly hard.

She glanced around; there, supine on a bench, was the alien, and kneeling next to him was her father. He was tending to the thing's wound, and she could see great strips of flayed flesh lit by a brilliant lamp; a small surgery robot floated next to him, and the two were working methodically together.

'Sit on the blue couch. I can see you, and the gravity there is terran normal.'

'Sure.'