When his eyes next sweep over the wall of his apartment, he sees a door that wasn't there before. A well-made door of wood, painted a dark green with a round brass doornob. For some reason, Fiadh has a good feeling about this door. It feels like escape.

Ah, yes, of course. He's asleep, actually, this is a dream. Very well. Let us see where this one takes us? Maybe it will be nice before it is inevitably awful.

He opens and goes through the door.

Inside is a room, mostly empty but for a few unused coat racks and what look like covered gas lamps mounted on the walls. The soft sounds of distant conversation and the flickering of fire light emanate from the bend in a hallway that connects to the opposite end of the room. The door closes quietly behind him.

Here is a room. It's a lovely room, really. More spacious than his own. Distant conversation. Soft luxurious lighting. One entrance. How about he sits here, in his armor as always, gun in his lap because some things are sheer instinct, and just breathes slowly and deeply and enjoys the dream so long as nothing is actively horrible.

Hmm. His implant is saying 'network connection lost'. Thank you, dream, for not fucking around with fake orders and ghost radio calls.

He won't be interrupted for a while.

If he's paying attention to the sounds coming from the other room, he still can't quite make out what anyone is saying, only the soft crackle of a fire, the familiar tones of human voices and something more resembling... the vocalizations of a medium-sized mammal?

Fiadh... Drifts for a good while. Useless thoughts. Things he should have done different. Anger at the brass, at the aristocrats. His death-poem, repeated often enough in expectant preparation to become a mental rut. At some point he drifts off to a deeper layer of sleep, because the dream changes, the usual confused mash of yelling and combat, until he jerks awake feeling isolated and looks around in panic for his current batch of faceless squad mates, or orders from the AR system-

He kicks over a coat rack with his boot and curses quietly, scrambling to stand and listen and orient.

Shortly after he knocks over the coat rack, a woman walks in from the hallway. Muscular, olive-skinned, she's wearing a cream-colored dress and a veil draped over the top of her head. She is trailed by a slender green-skinned man, seven feet tall or so, with pointed ears, six fingers on each hand, and covered in tattoos. He wears colorful clothing that bares his arms and features rather a lot of painted wooden beads.

"You do not seem entirely sober. Are you able to assess your current state of cognitive impairment?"

She's definitely not speaking any language Fiadh knows, but her words are entirely comprehensible nevertheless.

That's just more evidence that this is a dream. Things just make sense in dreams, except when they don't.

Gun held ready but not actively pointing at anyone. He glares at the possible-Sallie suspiciously. No, Sallies are shorter, and scaled. And tailed. Still, the guy is suspect. They look unarmed. But he knows how dreams are. He'll lose his weapon and they'll have guns of their own if he stops paying attention for even a moment.

"Che! I am sober, and that's the problem, lady. Not that it matters. I'll wake up from this dream to a boot in the face eventually, so you might as well be a kappa, jotun, mimic, or a banshee for all I care."

The tall man speaks, lazily, relaxedly gesturing every so often as he talks. When he opens his mouth to speak, it reveals his teeth are pointed.

"If you were sober—perhaps I should clarify. If you were in an approximately baseline mental state—sleep deprivation, stress, neurological and psychiatric disorders, etcetera, can be as impairing as drugs—if none of those things were affecting you, you should not have trouble telling that you are not dreaming. Humans rarely do. You are human, no? Try counting your fingers."

"Human? Not anymore, no, figment. We fixed those failings a century ago. I suppose I'll indulge you. One two three four five," he singsongs - pass the weapon to the other hand- "Six seven eight nine ten! Like being in Faine Mulle schoolyard again, wow!"

The guy is probably just one of those weirdos who go for cosmetic mods. Probably. Not that it matters.

"Ha. Sleep deprivation, stress, neurological issues- By those standards I'm utterly shitfaced. But I can still hold a gun and that's what matters when the Bugs are beating down the door, right? I got orders to do just that right before I started dreaming this place up, even. Boy, new CO is gonna be pissed."

"I am entirely capable of defending this place from anything that threatens it. Do not shoot anyone you meet within these halls, as they are my guest. And do not pass through any red doors, unless you wish to exit my refuge. There are, in fact, monsters out there."

"Do you understand?"

"If I shoot people, you'll kill me, got it."

"I do not need to kill you to prevent you from harming people."

"In any case, welcome to my refuge. I am called the Hearthkeeper. This is a place for those in need of sanctuary, who have nowhere else to go. I did not bring you here, nor is it by my will that you are unable to return to wherever you came from, but I do endeavor to make this place hospitable for its inhabitants. If there's anything you need, you can ask me, and I may be able to help you."

"It seems that you may be in need of medical attention"—she glances towards the tall man, who offers an impressively indifferent shrug—"though probably not immediately. Ton'guni can see to you when you're ready." She gestures towards the tall man to make it obvious that he, and not someone else, is Ton'guni.

"If you want food, we have hot stew and rice tonight, and a well-stocked pantry. If you wish to claim a room, I can show you where to find one. The beds are more comfortable than sleeping on the floor in the entrance hall, or so I'm told. It is customary, if you have any books, periodicals, or other written media, to lend a copy to the printers for them to make copies, although that is not urgent."

"Do you have any questions?"

This is lasting surprisingly long as a particular element of a dream sequence.

...Chow, rack time, sure, but what's the most important question...

"...Who fights the monsters?"

"As I said, I am entirely capable of defending this place. I have lived here for a very long time, and my power is deeply rooted. No one else fights the monsters unless they wish to leave my refuge. Few do, as it's rather dangerous, and difficult to find your way back."

He relaxes, a bit. "So you've got some sort of high-end security... Thing. Automated defenses. And they're not in danger of failing or anything? No infiltrators, spores, psychic attacks...? Okay. Right. Secure perimeter's a must."

Okay. So. No combat. No fighting. That's certainly a relief. He holsters the gun into an armor slot that is specifically designed for this, with magnets and everything.

"...Uh, if you're busy I won't keep you. Ma'am."

Ton'guni chuckles.

"Yeah, automated defenses. It's magic, boy."

"I am not busy, nor is my attention as constrained as yours."

"Fucking magic. Sure, whatever."

This is getting unnerving. He wants things to make sense again.

"I am not a very good guest right now. Probably do a little better after sixteen hours sleep and a few good non-chalk-based meals."

And his last baggie of Glitterdust. Then again, maybe better save it for when he REALLY needs it if, what, he's been magic'd away from his home planet entirely?

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you where to get food and a room."

She turns and exits down the hallway, Ton'guni following after.

...Yeah, it'll hit him for real later. If this is still a dream keep it going. If not... Well, deal with that later.

He makes sure to follow last and check corners, head on a swivel, as he follows.

She leads him through the hall into a large room with wood-paneled walls, high coffered ceilings, and a large fireplace. It's lined by comfortable-looking couches and armchairs, with round tables in the middle. Most of the tables are unoccupied, except for one where an old man plays cards with two cats and a scaly snake-headed humanoid. She leads him through a door into a large kitchen. (Ton'guni exits through another door.)

"A few people like to cook and make food in large batches when it's convenient, so you can usually find hot food in here." She gestures towards one of the stoves, where a few pots are on a low simmer. "Tonight, Amarine made a lamb stew and rice. It's only a little spicy. You can also find raw ingredients, if you want to cook yourself or eat food that does not require preparation. The pantry should be capable of providing anything you're familiar with, but it's not always cooperative. If you're unable to get something specific you want, ask me and I can help. Dishes are usually in those cabinets, and utensils in those drawers. If you find anything you really like, you can keep it."

If he doesn't want to get food right now, she'll lead him out of the kitchen and through another hallway. So far, none of these rooms have any windows.

...Does the pantry happen to contain a "Beef Stew with Chili" flavor MRE?

Yes! It contains a small selection of MREs he's used to, in fact.

(And an abundance of fresh foods that would probably be very expensive, back home.)

His implants even recognize the RFID tags. Okay, those are going into pouches. Only the best flavors. He doesn't care if the "magic" made them, they're convenient and keep well and "spicy beef stew" is the very best kind.

Also into pouches, uncaring if he squishes them: Fresh fruit (various), several breadlike objects, handfuls of nuts. There are really quite a lot of pouches one can fill. Is there bottled water or other drinks?

No bottled water, but there is an icebox with some milk, fruit juices, alcohol, and probably a few other beverages Fiadh has never heard of.

(He can also find bottles in one of the cabinets, if he asks about that, and fill them from the sink.)

He'll fill his canteen from the sink, but not actively ask about more liquid receptacles. He stands at loose attention, pouches and pockets bulging, after a minute or two. No wasting time, not him, nope.

Once he's ready, the Hearthkeeper will lead him out of the kitchen, back through the great hall, and down a hallway, lit by more of those lamps, which seem to be the preferred method of illumination. (There is no evidence this place has electricity.)

"The reason why it is dangerous to leave my refuge is that I carved it out of something else, that was here before I arrived. It is most often called the Eternal House. Perhaps the greatest reason why it is unsafe to travel there is that things tend to move around when you aren't looking. If you travel far enough, it will become functionally impossible to return to where you started. When I created my refuge, I exerted my power over it to make it safer, more predictable, more hospitable. But the house still has a will of its own. I haven't stopped it from moving things around entirely, but within my refuge, that tendency is... benign. The further we travel from the great hall, the less consistent the layout of the rooms and halls will be. There are tricks you can learn—certain furnishings or decor that point you toward major landmarks like the great hall or cat garden—but wandering around with your destination in mind will usually bring you there without too much delay."

"All of which is to say: do not expect that you will always or even usually take the same path between two places. But you almost certainly won't get lost."

As she speaks, she leads him through a series of rooms and hallways, some of which do have windows. It's dark outside, but Fiadh's superhuman eyes can make out some foliage, outdoor furniture, and paths—the spaces outside the windows appear to be gardens. Eventually they reach a large sitting room with five closed doors.

"This room is new. Most of these doors should open to bedrooms or suites. Claim whichever you like and you'll be able to keep it; rooms don't go away if someone is using them. Although, as mentioned, they do move around. None of the doors in my refuge have locks, but people won't be able to open the door to your private spaces without your permission."

...Gardens, like in some rich fop's preserve. Huh. This is feeling more and more real; Longer and more consistent than a dream should be. It brings the sick dread up to the top again- Except it's hardly worse than the trenches, is it? There have been no signs of combat so far, just odd magic. He's tense, twitchy, and still sweeping rooms and checking his six constantly.

"...Understood, ma'am. Infinite chaos magic house. Do not rely on mapping."

The order to report to a reorganized Light Infantry Division is still hovering in the top left of his vision; He can't clear those with a grunt's account, but it reminds him.

"If I may ask, what will my duties be once I'm fit to work?"

"You must not harm any of my other guests. You do not strictly speaking have a duty to be courteous to anyone, but if you wish to have a social life I very much recommend it. And, although it is not required of you, I do encourage you to lend any books you have to the printers. They're always quite excited to get new texts."

"There is an economy for various luxury goods and services, but participation in it is entirely voluntary. There is no shortage of food or shelter, and I compensate Ton'guni for his medical work—you don't need to pay him anything. You are entirely free to do whatever you feel like doing all day, for the rest of your life, if you so wish."

That doesn't make any sense.

Oh, of course, they're doing the invisible social rules thing. Incomprehensible to outsiders. Right, he'll have to figure it out the hard way.

"Yes, ma'am."

If Fiadh doesn't have any other questions, she'll wait for him to find a room he's happy with, then depart.

Are they even meaningfully different?

The five doors in this room (excluding the one they came in through) open to:

- A small bedroom with no windows

- A larger bedroom with two beds, a couch, some armchairs, and a coffee table, still with no windows

- A suite with a small bedroom, a sitting room, a bathroom with a shower but no tub, and windows in the bedroom and sitting room (currently too dark to see outside)

- A palatially large bedroom with the biggest bed Fiadh has ever seen and several large windows

- A small kitchen with a collection of cast iron cookware seasoned to a mirror finish

(Outside the windows are, again, gardens. It's not clear if he's seeing the same garden outside all these windows or how these scenes relate to one another spatially, although the windows within a single room all appear to be facing the same place.)

The gardens make him... Almost curious. Not much grows on the surface anymore, what is it like? Still, he doesn't give them more than a glance. Peeking out of windows is asking to get your head shot off. Maybe tomorrow he can see them.

The suite is a little unnerving for the multitude of chokepoints and possible-entrypoints. As is the large, windowed room. Windows: Not even once! The kitchen is just weird. It and the suite do, however, represent an assured supply of fresh water. Because magic. Between the medium bedroom and the large bedroom, he might as well pick the larger one.

So. Kitchen or large bedroom. Perhaps the magic will be pleased if he makes regular use of the kitchen, and keep it? He doesn't know how to cook...

Well, anyway, the second room it is.

He doesn't have much but his armor and backpack, but he's still exhausted and overwhelmed enough to fall asleep straight away after taking off some of the more easily removed pieces of armor.

He can sleep as long as he likes, undisturbed.

He sleeps for four hours, mounts a short expedition to where the kitchen was, and also that ensuite bathroom (and looks around a bit more if either has vanished), and then sleeps for ten hours.

The nightmares are still the same. The withdrawal pangs are still the same. Being awake... Is not. He can just... Lie here, having made a very nice bed filthy (and quite possibly damaging it a bit with his extreme soldier-modded weight).

Everything he knows says that he should be doing something. Try to go home, and deploy this new resources for the war. Learn to navigate this new environment, both spatially and socially. Fucking maintain his armor and weapon, at least, CAN YOU EVEN DO THAT MUCH YOU WASTE OF CALORIES?

...Fuck.

He eats fruit that is slightly less fresh, and bread that is slightly crushed. He sleeps a bit more. He cries, here in the privacy of a locked room it's fine.

But what SHOULD he do. He is far too... Idle. Idleness is wastefulness, and wastefulness is a leech upon society. The only reason this much idleness is marginally acceptable is because he had JUST come back from a combat deployment, again, with his unit heavily degraded, again. His 48 hours of leave would be up by now... He thinks.

He does eventually get around to cleaning his gun and armor with the cleaning kit in his pack. He's not supposed to be a combatant here, and really... He's far too likely to twitch and shoot someone if he carries around his rifle. He wants to keep it, obviously, and keep it in good shape, but... Treat this like a visit to the inner city under the watchful eyes of MPs. Yes. They don't let you carry guns and outer armor on leave, it spooks the civilians. So no gun, and no outer layer of armor, just the metal hardpoints studded over his body that do not come out- Back of the neck, four on the arms, six on the back, four on the abdomen, four on the legs.

Implied and outright stated tasks: Find a way home, report for duty. Investigate 'magic'. Learn to navigate the physical space. Learn to navigate the social space? Report for medical evaluation. And the only specifically stated task, report to the printers for book distribution.

...Some of these tasks sound easier than others. He can manage to successfully do at least one of them. All it takes to learn basic navigation here, reportedly, is to walk around and observe how the rooms' paths change. He can try to find his way to a particular spot, to test this claim. Like the garden he's been seeing through windows.

Yes, that sounds like an acceptable plan. With a goal decided, the world seems brighter and clearer. Many things are still wrong, but it is tolerable, and he can make progress.

Fiadh Cuiligh, now sans armor and gun but still carrying his ruck pack, will march through the halls holding firmly in mind that he is looking for the garden.

When he first awakes, he find that the door to his room opens somewhere else, and the kitchen and suite he saw before are gone. He doesn't have much trouble finding a kitchen or bathroom nearby if he wants one, though.

When he next awakes, determined to reach the garden, he finds a hallway outside his room, and to one side, a narrow staircase leading downwards. The staircase takes an irregular path downwards and laterally, merging with another, larger staircase, before opening to a long gallery (mostly, but not entirely, devoid of art on the walls, oddly enough) with windows on one side, facing the garden he's looking for. From there it's not too hard to find a door leading outside. (If Fiadh is good at shape rotation and paying close attention to where he's going, he'll notice that based on the path he's taken, his room should be floating about twenty feet in the air above the garden.)

It's peaceful. A few paths wind their way between shrubs and trees, green and overhanging. Songbirds sing. In the distance, in a grassy clearing, a couple of cats lounge in the sun. Nearby, kittens and juveniles play among the roots and branches of a tree.

His AR implant informs him that he has a 3D map conflict and wants him to check the inertial sensors. Yeah, no kidding. The changes to the exterior rooms are really unnerving and very nearly has him put his armor and gun back on, but no. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

He paces, eyes automatically scanning the horizon. Such as it is.

What are those creatures...? Hmm, it's usually best to leave wild animals alone.

While he's pacing along the edge of the garden, a small face pokes out from under a bush.

"Are you new here? I haven't seen you before."

She is, in fact, vocalizing within the normal range of a cat (albeit in a more ordered way than non-sapient cats do), which Fiadh somehow effortlessly comprehends as language.

He reaches for his gun- Which he doesn't have.

Hiss through his teeth. He missed a possible threat. His heart is pounding, and this wide-open space quite suddenly no longer feels safe. He glances around and identifies lines of retreat...

He clenches his fist and takes a deep breath. "...I am 'new here', yes. Fiadh Cuiligh, Private First Class."

"I'm Artemis. Are you okay? What does 'private first class' mean?"

Surely it doesn't mean his name is considered to be in some first class of privacy, or he wouldn't have told her, right?

"It's a military rank. I am a soldier... Was. A soldier. I'm not sure where the title came from originally."

"Okay."

This guy is being weird. Acting like prey even though he's like, huge. Probably not a good idea to sniff him.

She disappears back into the foliage. (Fiadh might be able to track her for a little while with his enhanced senses, but she moves quickly and silently and before too long is far enough away with enough plant matter occluding his line of sight to her that he can't tell where she's gone.)

Are all of the small creatures people?? He didn't think such small brains were... Viable in that way.

They don't seem very threatening but he's frightened anyway. Perhaps of making a bad impression?

Ach, rotten eyes and gnawed bones.

Tactical withdrawal back to where he feels safer. Towards that hallway, and then looking for doors to check. He walks fast. He eats a handful of nuts to calm himself.

The gallery is the same as he left it. There are plenty of doors, doorways, and staircases to explore. Is there anything in particular he's looking for?

A dead end where he can watch the entrance and think.

It's not too hard to find a windowless sitting room with no other exits.

Yes, where he can hide. Like a coward.

...No, his brain is not producing any more nuance than that. He is a coward. He fled his duty, deserted into this madhouse of twisted space and endless doors and talking small-furry-creatures. He threatened its master with a gun, and probably pissed off the 'doctor', who is definitely an important personage, in the first minute. He really is the scum of the earth.

He want to break something. Smash it to pieces and beyond. But who knows if the master of the place will object to that? It's the kind of reckless behavior that he does on Glitterdust.

He wants to browse the internet for distractions. Video compilations of killshots, of shitty jokes, of porn or videogames. But there obviously is no network for his implant to connect to here. Also, it's in EMCON-low mode.

He wants to take his last pinch of dust. Take the edge off and relax for a bit. But he's hardly begun facing the challenges of this new environment, there are surely worse to come and he'll be regretful to not have it then. But it would be easy and a relief. But he'll need it LATER.

He has a raging headache. Is he dehydrated? Perhaps. He'll drain his canteen and then brave the hallways again looking for a place to refill it. He needs more canteens...

It doesn't take too many doors to find a bathroom with a sink.

He drinks lots of water. Possibly too much water. And has more of his pocket snacks.

Is the sink a person? Is anyone behind the mirror? He could stumble upon one at any moment... Perhaps he's finally gone mad. Perhaps some subtle spore or twisting virus of the Fleshbeasts has burrowed into him from the last time he fought Fleshbeasts (two months ago? six? ten?), evading all the checks and drugs, and has send his mind into a delusional torpor even as it puppets his body to slaughter kith and kin.

He looks himself in the face.

Now, see, this is the moment where in a movie he would punch the mirror, allowing a very cool cinematographic shot of his fractured, tormented face reflected in broken patterns in the various shards. He can picture it vividly; It would reflect the themes of instability and battle-madness.

Instead, he just stares at his own face. You can't even see his implants from here, the face is kept clear of interference for better situational awareness.

It's not like he doesn't know that he's a fuckup. He is keenly aware, Thank You Very Fucking Much. He's smart, but not smart enough. He's too angry, and too lazy, and too impulsive to go anywhere in life. Otherwise he never could have stayed a Private this long and avoided promotion by attrition- He'd be a corporal, at least. But no doubt his record is stained forever and it's clear that putting him in charge of anyone for any reason is an awful idea. The only thing he's trustworthy of being in charge of is a gun.

...It's at this point that he decides to try to backtrack to his room. It's not going to work but he wants to be in his armor now, so he'll keep looking even though the passageway back is surely gone now.

The staircase he took down is gone now, yes. But it won't take him more than ten minutes of opening doors and wandering hallways to find a familiar-looking door (so far, doors very rarely look the same as one another) and then he's back in his room.

Safety. At least he's proven to himself he can get back here if he needs to. He spends a little while arranging things. Puts his armor on and does a round of hand to hand drills in the space created by moving the beds and tables and such off to the side, tears down and cleans his gun. Tries to clean things.

It's not long before he gets... Antsy again, though.

...He was told to report to the book-printers, yes?

He'll go do that. Or at least wander and list it as his destination should anyone come across him.

Again through the winding halls and staircases. The farther he goes, the wider the hallways get. What artwork sparsely adorns the walls tends to depict figures and scenes of a scholarly bent. Most of the art Fiadh has seen decorating the refuge are prints, the kind you make from a woodcut, or an engraved or etched metal plate. Eventually he comes upon one such print, depicting a stocky, horned figure casting type. It is captioned, "It Begins." A doorway to the right opens to a broad, carpeted hallway. A woman (she appears human) walking down the hallway with an armful of books waves to him when he pokes his head out. Several dozen feet behind her, the hallway ends at what is clearly a library.

Wider hallways mean more open sight lines, for better or worse...

...It's just talking. You can do it. He stands at rest pose a respectful distance away.

"Hello, ma'am. I was told to report to the printers."

"Oh, you're new? You can just ask one of the librarians who to talk to. There's uh, a lot of overlap between the librarians and the printers. Actually, you wouldn't know who the librarians are, would you, it's not like they wear a uniform—I can introduce you, follow me."

She turns around and heads back to the library.

"I'm Colette, by the way."

...Hmm. He's going to have to start tagging everyone in the face recognition suite. Names and roles. He's an inefficient fool for not doing so earlier!

Outwardly, a nod, a 'thank you', and following her.

His footsteps are noticeably loud, especially in a quiet library, but not in a way where he's stomping. It's just the boots, and the weight of his hyper-engineered skin, bones, muscle, and organs.

"I am Fiadh Cuiligh... And I suppose it would be odd to introduce myself by rank, here." There's something slightly tense in his voice.

"Usually anyone who ends up here doesn't mind leaving that kind of thing behind, but you're welcome to differ, it just won't mean anything to any of us."

There are a couple dozen people in the library, reading in cozy chairs. By the size of the shelves, there appear to be thousands of books, maybe as many as ten thousand. Colette leads him to a snake-person sitting behind a desk (Fiadh may recognize them as one of the people he saw playing cards last night).

"Jori, this is Fiadh Cuiligh, he's new, do you know who can see him about printing copies of his stuff?"

The snake-person looks up. "Greetings, Fiadh Cuiligh. Curotha is the one you want to talk to."

"Fiadh is fine. Cuiligh is a family name."

Neural interface work has gotten faster for him over time. Tag and name, tag and name. There's no computers here at all, are there? His implants all run off bio-electricity...

Curotha, it transpires, is a cat, curled up in a bed on top of a desk in the back of the library, a book open on a lectern besides him.

"So. What have you got?"

"I have a deenah- A Direct Neural Interface implant. It is a computer that is integrated into my brain, and it does have I believe several thousand written works stored as well as a variety of other data. I regrettably did not think to add more before arriving, having not expected it. Are you familiar with computers-" Sir? Ma'am? He can't tell. This is vaguely distressing. "-Printer?" He finishes, with barely a pause.

(Is Colette staying? He'll thank her again before she goes, if not.)

(Colette left after introducing him to Curotha.)

Surely the humanoid did not forget his name so soon? Whatever.

"I am familiar with computers. I believe we have a total of three functional computers within the refuge right now, owned by people who had them in their possession when they came here. Yours makes four, I suppose. Unfortunately, the house won't give us any, as it so conveniently gives us food and furniture. Does your computer require power or maintenance? Do you know what data storage technology it uses?"

"A shame. It would be difficult to set up any major industry focused around recycling furniture, wouldn't it? ...It is designed to siphon power from my metabolism. It used to receive regular security and software updates. I don't know how long to expect it to last without maintenance, but I got the current version implanted about two years ago and repaired after a head wound in combat. I believe you're supposed to get them checked once a year? We use Five-Mesh for wireless data. I..." His eyes twitch a bit. "Am not seeing any network connections here. There is a fiber optic port for hardwired data but I have no cord and I don't imagine random computers from across the possibility space of all worlds would have the same port anyway."

"Yes, that's a problem with the computers we have, none of them are compatible and it would probably take several dozen experts years to decades to make them compatible. And that probably wouldn't even be possible for your computer, because none of the others have a fiber optic port and we can't manufacture the transceivers for it. Not that it really matters, because none of the others have storage media any more likely to last long enough to build our own electronics manufacturing base. Which is to say, highly unlikely without time dilation. Fortunately, the Hearthkeeper can dialate time. How attached are you to having that computer remain within your skull? I'm sure Ton'guni can safely remove it, if that's a concern."

"No. No. I'm keeping it. It wouldn't work without my brain anyway. As for other computers, there might be something worth exploring in the E-war module... It's designed to jam and hack computers. In the worst case I can simply write the most relevant books out long form. I would get them all eventually."

"Depending on why exactly it won't work without your brain, it might be possible for Ton'guni to work around that, you'd have to ask him. And if your computer does stop working, I recommend having it removed and placed in time dilated storage; we may be able to repair it in a few hundred thousand days if further degradation can be prevented."

"If you're willing to copy some of those books to paper manually, we'd be very grateful. Please start with a catalog of titles and brief descriptions, I'll look over that and tell you what would be most useful to us." As he speaks, a stack of blank paper and a fountain pen float up onto the desk from shelves below. "You can use any of the empty desks or tables in the library if you want to do that now, or just do it later and bring it back to us when you're done." 

"The E-war module is an interesting possibility. I'll talk to some people who know more about what are the right questions to ask and we'll get back to you."

Unknown manipulation capability... Just goes to show that he is correct in not underestimating the people here...

"Very well, I'll do so with alacrity. Aught else to discuss now?"

It's very relieving to have a clear task that will be making progress on things. He can just do it and worry about all the rest later.

"No."

He takes that as a dismissal and does the formal acknowledging heel-click on autopilot, and takes the paper and goes to a desk... One with a sturdy looking chair... And delicately tries sitting to see if it'll hold.

He'll just have to deal with the pen; They made him try one like it, once, for two weeks, before declaring that he had 'no aptitude for the classical arts and had better stop wasting everyone's time trying'.

The chair creaks a little under his weight, but holds.

Alright. Time to write. Getting the implant to spit out a list of 'all text documents' in a semi-organized fashion takes him a minute, and then he can ask the dumb AI to rank them by importance and start writing titles.

SDA Infantry Tactics Bible 2203

SDA M501 Infantry Rifle Operations and Maintenance Manual

EESR - Escape, Evade, Survive, Resist - Essential Guidebook

Expedient Field Repairs and You

SDA Threat Book and Identification Guide 2203

Principles of Automated Manufacturing

Biological Warfare Countermeasures: The Flesh Threat

How Lasers Work (For Meatheads)

Hostile Space: Long Term Survival in Hostile Environments

SDA M513 Grenade Launcher Operations and Maintenance Manual

Material Analysis of 'Bug' Armor - Weakspots and Exploits

Broken Sky: Nine Case Studies of the Early-War Period

AutoCAD and Designing for 3D Printing (2190)

SDA Basic Vehicle Operations Bible 2203

Nuclear Devices Doctrine and Tactics Essentials

Climbing the Tech Tree - Sticks and Stones to Lasers and Drones (Fiadh note- Pop science, not very deep)

And on. Most of them are military related. A few textbooks sneak in around the edges - computing, weapons, physics, weapons, chemistry (for weapons), manufacturing tools. More sociological or casual nonfiction is further down, and outright fiction is mostly missing.

When he's done writing, Curotha will take a look.

"Most of these military manuals are... I don't want to say useless, because all knowledge is worth preserving, but they are of very little use to us. The scientific and technical texts are useful, especially when they don't overlap with books we already have. I think the sociological and historical texts will be of interest to the people who do trans-world comparative social studies, but that's a field which is inherently impossible to study in depth; they'd probably get more use out of your time by interviewing you, if you want to do that."

"How many of the scientific and technical books have you read?"

"Of course, the doctrine and tactics here would be entirely different, if you are not entirely relying on the Lady of the house for your safety anyway... Unfortunately I failed most out of advanced scientific classes. Or at least I did not secure a scholarship. I've technically read about a quarter of these but I would not trust myself to implement their contents with any speed."

"Are you sufficiently familiar with their contents to answer questions about what information they contain?"

"...That depends on the questions?"

"Well, do the best you can, I suppose, and supplement with whatever digital search tooling you have, and I'll use whatever you can tell me. Excuse me a moment, I have to fetch some notes."

He sits up, stretches, jumps off the desk, briskly walks towards the back of the library, and disappears through a cat-sized door (no doorknob, it's just mounted on a sprung hinge).

"The best I can? Always, of course."

He stews in his thoughts for a minute. Has he done something wrong? These people are... Strange. Slow, perhaps? Are they playing some game with a longer horizon than he can see?

What a shameful display he put on in the entrance hall. Showing his weakness like that in front of two really quite important people. But what's done is done, it's not productive to stew on it too much.

A few minutes later, Curotha returns, a few sheets of paper floating in the air behind him. He leaps onto the desk, the papers arranging themselves in front of him.

"This is our list of priorities for research and acquisitions, basically. Hopefully a few of the books on your computer will have some of the information we've been looking for."

And then he has a series of questions about the contents of some of the books on Fiadh's list, looking for knowledge the library doesn't already have. They're doing pretty well in terms of scientific theory, but they could use more engineering textbooks and manuals, especially anything relating to manufacturing.

The SDA's education system has an incredibly overwhelming focus on STEM subjects, especially those related to development of military technology. Fiadh is incredibly terrible at it (read: actually sort of averagely competent by Earth standards) and will gamely list out some of the details in the books. None are actually designed for 'build modern industry from scratch', but many, especially the more manual-like ones and many of the textbooks go into fairly obsessive amounts of technical detail.

For example, one of the textbooks on chemical systems design (1076 pages long) contains a 360-page worked example on designing a factory to produce Ammonium Nitrate, from budgeting to physical space design to reaction vessels to managing timelines to electric and HVAC design to safety procedures (which are... kind of lacking actually...? and focus on saving machines over people?) to lengthy charts of spool-up and spool-down procedures.

Other highly represented subjects include: Designing novel bacteria (for industrial and biowar tasks)! Lasers of all kinds! 3D printers and automated print farms! Mining systems! Weak AIs and hacking and counter-hacking! Metallurgy! Tunnels and hardened structures!

Wow... that level of detailed examination of manufacturing is exactly the the thing they've been looking for. Except for how the refuge has no use for explosives or fertilizer, that is. It will probably still be pretty useful when it's time to manufacture other chemicals at scale.

Metallurgy is good to have, but most of the rest of this looks like it's mainly good for war or is so far above the refuge's current tech level it won't do them any good for a long time.

Curotha takes notes on what Fiadh says—he wields a quill telekinetically with greater speed and precision than it seems possible to write by hand—and, after some deliberation, produces a short list. The book titles are copied from Fiadh's list, but Curotha's annotations are written in cat language, which Fiadh somehow reads as naturally as his own.

"These six books are the most important. The next few dozen will also be useful if you feel like spending that much time copying them. Beyond that... we'll accept any manuscripts you give us, but we probably won't make copies of them anytime soon."

"Fair work is never done... I'll do it anyway as a duty to all knowledge... I have been wondering - I know I do not fit in. Do you know if there is a good book to read about local culture?"

"I see I didn't make myself sufficiently clear. If you bring me hundreds of handwritten copies of military manuals, I will not literally reject them, but there are definitely better ways to spend your time. Better ways if you wish to devote your entire life to the library, even. I expect that, when your computer eventually breaks, or when you die if that comes first, we can get it in time dilated storage and the data storage components will most likely last long enough for us to figure out how to get the data off them—it's not keeping everything in volatile memory, right? It's not a sure bet, but given, again, the general lack of use any of us have for such focused military texts, I'm comfortable with it. If you do copy all those books to paper, probably the first time anyone reads them will be to copy them to new paper when the original manuscripts deteriorate... if we aren't just able to get the data directly off your computer by then. It's probably hundreds of thousands of days away and depends on factors that are difficult to estimate, I don't know."

"Speaking of which. Most paper is acidic, which causes it to become yellow and flaky with age. When preparing manuscripts for the library, make sure you use acid-free paper. You can grab some from the bottom shelf below my desk—it's too heavy for me to levitate it to you. If you need more, come to the library and we'll give you some. Don't try to get it from the house directly, it's hard to tell the difference if you haven't been trained."

"I do have an answer to your question about local culture, but do you have any questions about any of this so far?"

"...It's keeping my neuron map in volatile memory, that's constantly changing, but the texts? No. So... There is nothing that I need to fight, and I'm not suitable for building industry, so I do need to find something helpful to do. I can be diligent, I can contribute, but I can't do that if - I don't understand what society values. Is someone going to assign me a duty? A clear set of goals? It seems unlikely at this point, unless the mistress of the house simply did not want to bother with a waste like me."

"Conceivably someone could tell you what to do, and that will be made more likely if you loudly advertise your desire for it. But if someone does, it would probably be because they don't care about you and think it would be amusing to have a minion to order around. I don't recommend taking direction from that sort of person. I think, and I believe this opinion is shared by most refugees, that it is in your best interest to choose your own path. It's not always easy, but it's part of growing up."

"But I'm not a great person to have that conversation with. I recommend you speak to Levron, or David. Both of them are better at this kind of thing, and can either offer you some advice or will know better than I what direction to point you in. The same for your question about local culture, actually—it's not really something you can learn about from a book, because we don't write that many books. Morgan Eriksdottir did author a fascinating monograph about refuge culture, it's just seventy thousand days or so out of date."

"Levron is an old human male, brown skin, often wears a round hat. He can be found in the great hall most evenings, after dinner. David is a cat, a tabby. ...Probably the best time to talk to him is in the morning. Ask around in the cat garden and someone will tell you where to find him."

(It is currently late afternoon / early evening.)

He makes a thoughtful noise.

They just don't have the history and structure to ensure people contribute optimally here, maybe? Lovely. He'll have to figure that out himself, too.

"No, random bullies is not what I meant, really... Well, knowledge is a good start. I'll keep those two names in mind, thank you."

"You're welcome. You're doing the library a great favor, you know, copying these books to paper. It's much more than most new arrivals are asked to do. I can't exactly pay you for it, because the refuge doesn't use currency, but the library does possess a certain amount of... social credit, which you'd be able to draw upon. Which is to say, some people are willing to do us favors, and if you do work for us you'll be able to call upon some of those favors. Once you've completed a manuscript or two, if there's something you want, let me know."

"It doesn't sound particularly onerous. Does having shelter and food provided by magic really make people so lazy?"

"No. Why do you think people are lazy?"

"There is no urgency here. No... Hierarchy? Reading is well and good if you are learning useful things, but... Forgive me, are all creatures of your shape people, here in this place? I saw many, doing nothing in particular, in a garden."

"Yes, all cats here are people, although we believe cats are non-sapient on many of the worlds that have them. Those you saw in the garden were probably either socializing, resting after a bout of play or hunting, watching kittens, or sleeping—we aren't strictly diurnal, and we do need to sleep, we just do so at odd ours. It's also worth noting that our telekinesis is still fairly weak, so there are a lot of activities which require hands that we simply can't do, or that require help from someone with hands in a way that tends to be mutually frustrating. So what may look to you like unambition or laziness on the part of cats is in part reflective of a lack of alternatives."

"And yes, there is a lack of urgency or hierarchy in the refuge, but those aren't the same thing as laziness."

"...I don't understand. But what else is new, aye? At least you have 'telekinesis'. That would have been useful in the war in a number of little ways. Staying functional while waiting for a hand to grow back being just the first."

He taps his foot restlessly.

"I'll stop asking you about it if you're bothered, Levron and David, yes?"

"I'm not bothered, I'm just not especially excited to have the sort of long conversation about these topics that you should have, and Levron or David would be better people for you to have it with anyways."

"I don't know the social cues, so I could not tell that, you see. 'Tis best not to offend carelessly." As opposed to deliberately or strategically.

"It's not as much of a problem as you'd think. Well, not as much of a problem for you personally, maybe more of a problem than you think for the refuge in general. There are refugees of a wide variety of different species and cultures with completely different social cues. Most learn to communicate explicitly when it matters and not to take offense too quickly. I probably should have been more explicit with you, frankly."

"I don't need to worry about figuring out everyone's titles?" 

He sighs and shakes his head.

"So, a summary of our conversations to ensure there are no major miscommunications. Those can kill, at the worst. I'm going to work down this list of books to copy, writing on low-acid paper and with ink and pens provided by you or another of the librarians, or printers, or what have you. I'll thusly earn some nebulous social credit or favor. I don't want to have my computer taken out of my brain. E-War module for connecting to computers is on hold pending consultation with experts. I'll likely try to find Levron at dinner."

Thoughtful pause.

"Oh dear, I just had a troubling thought. Do you have trouble with interfering biologies causing allergies or immune disorders or epidemics here? Eyes and bones, I should have thought of that sooner."

"I don't know what you mean by titles, but you probably don't need to figure them out. If anyone gets sick because of you, Ton'guni will take care of it and probably ask you to get treated so you stop causing those problems. But it's probably worth seeing him soon, if you haven't already, so he can catch that early. As far as we can tell, any ink the house provides you for the purpose of writing is about equally durable, so it doesn't especially matter what ink you use. Otherwise your summary is correct."

"Mm."

He'd really rather avoid the doctor. What if he decides to remove the DNI anyway, for archival purposes or something? Or something else that's hard to imagine. It's never a good idea to become salient to important personages. Then again, it's an even worse idea to become a problem to them... 

"...I'll get started." He checks the list for the number-one ranked book. 'Siann Industrial Trust - Consolidated Reference - Practical Engineering of Alloys in Suboptimal Conditions'.

"Alright. I wish you a good evening, Fiadh."

Hopefully he figures things out. Might make for a good librarian one day if he wants to be, and isn't just desperate to serve something.

(Fiadh has one to two hours to copy the book before it becomes obvious that most people are leaving for dinner.)

He's been thinking about the danger to others in between shoving all the other worries behind a veneer of Doing A Task. And he really should go see the doctor. He was memorable enough...

Fiadh goes towards the great hall, following along others and holding his progress on paper and pen, and looks for Ton'guni.

Fiadh takes the hall out of the library and towards the great hall. As it connects to other hallways, the crowd grows thicker (though still fairly sparse in absolute terms, there aren't more than a dozen people visible in front of him at a time). Interestingly, now that he's not walking the halls on his own, the doors lining the walls seem to be more diverse—some seem sized for cats, some of the human-sized doors have cat doors built into them, and a few of the doors look like they're sized for a humanoid about three feet tall Fiadh can see walking down the hall several dozen feet in front of him.

After five minutes or so of walking, he reaches the great hall. It has a convivial atmosphere, with somewhere between one and two hundred people in attendance, either eating at the round tables, sitting in armchairs and on couches, or at work in the kitchen. Several dozen more will trickle in over the next hour or so—not the whole population of the refuge, but a substantial part of it. The population looks to be about 3 parts cat, 4 parts... either human or very close to it, 2 parts people that can be described as humanoid but definitely don't look human, 1 part people with stranger body-plans. Like that pony-sized spider, for instance.

At one of the tables, Artemis and the old man Fiadh saw playing cards with Jori last night—who does resemble Curotha's description of Levron, actually—are eating dinner, along with a few other people he doesn't recognize. Colette is also here, eating at another table. Neither Jori or Curotha are present. Ton'guni is sitting on a couch, his arm around an attractive-looking man. They seem to be flirting. The Hearthkeeper is in her chair by the fire, petting a cat in her lap, watching the room.

He will stand a respectful ten feet from the Doctor, parade rest and waiting to be addressed.

Once acknowledged, he says, "Doctor, I have grown concerned that I could harm the health of others unintentionally."

"How urgent do you believe this to be?"

"Unclear, sir. I have been extensively modified from human baseline, like everyone left in my previous world."

"Well, no one has gotten visibly sick yet, so it can probably wait a bit. Come to my office in... two hours. Approximately; it doesn't matter if you're a little early or late. It's down that hallway"—he points to one of the room's doorways—"second left, keep going until you see the door with a nameplate that says 'Ton'guni'. Got it?"

"Yessir. Will do."

He sets an alarm about it and everything. 

...What now? Food?

Well, that's up to Fiadh, isn't it? But yes, there is food if he wants it. A big piece of roast meat that people are carving slices off of, fresh bread, and roast vegetables are free for the taking in the kitchen, and plenty more options if Fiadh wishes to brave the pantry.

......He shouldn't contaminate the collective pot. He'll eat an MRE. In a spot where his back is to a wall, or ideally an outright corner. And then- Oh, that might be Levron? Over that way, yes.

This is unusual behavior, but not especially unusual, by the standards of the refuge. No one pays him much mind. Levron is still there when Fiadh is done eating.

Just walking up and talking to people in one of those little conversational pauses or when addressed hasn't failed so far.

"I've been told to find Levron for some particular questions- About the culture of this place. Are you he?"

"I am! And you must be Fiadh Cuiligh, Private First Class."

Artemis is watching this conversation intently, in the way that cats do when focused.

"Yes. I don't think my military rank is... Relevant... Anymore. Given how there's no military."

He wishes his implant would get the picture, it's still beeping occasionally about being late to report for duty, probably it will decide he's 'out of contact with command' after a couple weeks or something.

A nod to the cat. He's also significantly less nervous having not been 'ambushed'. "-Ah, it's you again. I've... Not been in the best mental state, and I forgot your name. I apologize for that."

"Ah, I was just messing with you. Why don't you take a seat? We can introduce ourselves. I'm Levron Garabedian."

There are two other people at the table. The first, a middle-aged human man wearing a sharp suit with the sort of thick, luscious beard that induces envy in those men unable to grow anything comparable, introduces himself as Kaspar Ul'Mihrim. The second, a slender humanoid with short curly hair and pointed ears, of indeterminate gender and age, introduces themself as Alaïs.

"And I am Artemis. Are you in a better mental state now? Can I sniff you?"

"-I'm worried about being hazardous to other people's health - germs, allergies, something worse - but the doctor did not seem overly concerned, so if you would like to I won't stop you?"

He sits, a decent distance away. Hopefully the furniture is sturdy. He labels everyone in AR and tries to remain aware of the room.

"And I am Fiadh Cuiligh. Fiadh is fine."

Artemis jumps off her chair, walks over to Fiadh, cautiously sniffs him, and immediately recoils, coughing.

"I should not have done that." She sneezes. "You smell wrong. You should talk to Ton'guni about that."

"And you can't smell that at all when you aren't close to him?" asks Kaspar.

"No." She seems to be done sniffling and climbs back into her chair.

"I do have an appointment to see him soon... I arrived recently."

"Good, good. Ton'guni doesn't exactly have a professional manner, but he's very good at what he does, I assure you. He's been practicing medicine for hundreds of years. So, you have questions for me?"

"...So many they wrap around to none at all, somewhat. I don't want to offend people, but I don't know this society, only my own, and there are dozens of little things that do not match. I'm somewhat taking up the habit of speaking plainly..."

"That's a good idea, I think. If what you say relies on any kind of shared cultural context, well, no one shares it with you!" He pauses for a moment. "Well, probably not. It's not unheard of for people to come from relatively similar worlds with relatively similar cultures, but just based on your appearance I don't think we have anyone from a world and time period similar to your own."

"Anyways, all the cultural and species diversity means that pretty much everyone learns to be charitable. You might make someone think you were maybe trying to offend them, but usually they'll ask you to clarify what you meant, and won't be upset over a misunderstanding. You should do the same. If we all believed that what people meant was the first thing that came into our heads when they said something, it would be a lot harder to make friends. Plus, you're new. Most of us remember what it was like to be new. People will take it easy on you."

"...I would say the dominant feature of my culture is the existential war for survival."

"Given the nature of who ends up here, there are plenty of people who will understand that, I think. Not everyone, but. Quite a few."

"That's the other important thing you should understand about the refuge's culture. All the cats were born here—they're the only species with a self-sustaining population—as were a few of the humans, but everyone else got here because they had something to get away from. That includes a wide variety of different things, and they affect everyone differently, but we've all been shaped by whatever made us come here, one way or another. This place is a second chance for us, and usually, with time, people heal."

"As will you, I think. There's no war here, and survival is easy. You'll have to figure out what you want your life to look like without those things. But whatever you choose, I think it will be a great improvement."

Alaïs nods firmly.

"It's fairly obvious to me that I have to choose engineering?" He doesn't sound thrilled. Nor resigned, really.

"Why?"

"I have some nine thousand books in my head, many of them about war and many of the rest about engineering and technology. Or the intersection thereof with war. I couldn't make it at scholarship level but those slots are - ridiculously competitive, I'm not stupid. And there isn't much industry here that I can see."

"Well, if you haven't been to the workshops, you wouldn't have seen it, but we do have some. And I'm not one of the engineering people, but I'm pretty sure they aren't being held back much by a lack of books."

"You didn't actually answer his question."

"I'll need to see the workshops soon. And, I did answer. I have an advantage at it that would be wasted if I were selfish enough to do something else. I'd be productive in one, I'm sure. I'd contribute to the society as an engineer."

"You said some facts related to the question. That's not the same as answering the question."

"He didn't exactly answer the question I asked, no. But based on the way he said what he said, I was able to infer some things about his answer. Sometimes people don't say things directly, because they consider them obvious. Or because they find them embarassing, but I don't think Fiadh is embarrassed about this."

"Okay."

"Fiadh, why do you want to contribute to society?"

Artemis tends to be rather tactless, but if Fiadh doesn't seem uncomfortable, he'll let her lead the conversation for a while and see where it goes. Sometimes the naïveté of youth can help cut to the heart of a matter.

(Kaspar and Alaïs are still eating, their mouths busy, but they seem interested.)

"If people do not contribute to society there is no society and we all die in the cold, jealously guarding our flints and twigs. I suppose we accomplished this goal of coordination with shame and fear and shouting at those who are labelled 'lazy' or 'useless'."

"But Levron just told you a few minutes ago that survival is easy. If people don't contribute to society, no one dies. I guess anyone who doesn't contribute to society gets a boring funeral urn, but that's not that bad. But probably no one will make them afraid or ashamed or shout at them. And if anyone does you can ask the Hearthkeeper to make them leave you alone."

"Then nothing will ever get done or better... The internalized expectations maybe difficult to remove, even if they- And I'm not yet convinced of it- Even if they are unwarranted here."

"If you care about getting something done, it makes sense to want to do it. I'm not sure what that has to do with contributing to society."

Something is bothering him; He's missing something. He's not sure what, though.

"Because specializations are more efficient than everyone learning everything?"

"No."

This is confusing. Levron, help?

"If someone does something because they really care about that specific thing getting done, it may or may not contribute to society for them to do so. And if it does, it wouldn't make sense to say they're doing it because it contributes to society. That would be kind of like saying I went for a walk in the flower garden this afternoon because I wanted to get my shoes dirty. I went for a walk because I wanted to go for a walk, to get some fresh air and smell the flowers and relax. My shoes getting dirty was an inevitable part of me doing what I wanted, but it wasn't the thing I wanted."

"But I think you're talking about things getting done or things getting better in general."

"...Well, I suppose literally not needing to do anything to survive except not annoy someone sufficiently for them to try to kill you means that... Wait, not even that, the Lady of the house."

He sighs.

"Do you want to contribute to society because you want to get things done and make things better in general?"

"Yes! Maybe! I want - things to do, things that are productive, I don't want to fall into patterns of laziness. I did my best! I always did my best. Or usually, at the very least. But some are more capable than others. I want to contribute to society because everything I ever learned says that those who do not excel in their contributions are wretched and contemptible and I don't want to be wretched and contempted."

Some of the things he says make sense individually but they do not make a lot of sense together.

"What does wretched mean?"

He wants to go hide. Why did he say all that. He rubs his forehead.

"...It means pathetic, mostly. Or sometimes 'evil'."

...Artemis may be in danger of cutting a little too close to the heart of the matter, before Fiadh is ready for that.

"Artemis, I don't think you're going to get an answer you find satisfying right now."

"Okay."

She loses that intense focus on Fiadh, stretches, and lies down in her seat (which is tall enough for her to see over the table while doing this).

Kaspar chimes in.

"Fiadh, did you have any other questions about the refuge? Anything you've found confusing so far?"

"Hmm. Well. Nobody is using titles for each other except me, and I can't help but parse it as disrespectfully informal. How do you guess I can - deal with that? I don't understand how a social credit based economy works, how would I estimate my current credit or expend it? Is there any alcohol or meth around? Are people allowed to spar if both are willing? Is there a, not a map, but a listing of major sections at least? Can one learn 'magic'?"

"What do you mean by titles?"

"Private First Class. Doctor. The Lady of the House, our hostess. Chef. Librarian. Engineer. Those sorts of things. Social roles- At home they are earned one way or another, and it's respectful and correct to acknowledge them."

"Am I right to guess that, where you come from, people would frequently interact with people they didn't personally know?

"Quite so. Before the first exchange there were billions of us."

"Well, I think part of the difference here is that there aren't very many of us. A little over four hundred right now, I believe. So, sooner or later, you get to know most everyone. If you don't call them by their names... in a way, it suggests you don't care about them as individual people."

"Signifiers of formality are also culturally dependent. So it's another thing that can't survive the cultural diversity of the refuge. Where I grew up, for instance, it was important to address people by their surnames if you didn't have a close relationship. Not only would the meaning of that gesture escape nearly everyone if I performed it here, but a lot of people don't even have surnames. I'm sure you can imagine the issues that would arise with customs relating to specific garments, or gestures, or words that don't translate well."

"So new social structures have evolved with the pressure of occasional new additions who have strong, incompatible preconceived notions. And, I suppose, if I swear on my mother's eye you all would have no idea if that is - serious, or an insult, or sarcastic, or what."

"No idea."

"And people do have strong notions sometimes, especially when they're new, but I don't think that's actually the key ingredient. It's that nearly everyone comes here with notions of some kind, that no one else shares."