---

Tigers for Sale

by Risa Wolf

Past the sparrow-dark dust fields of Far Euniply, at the edge of the Joined Cultures’ galactic borders, within the section of space they call the Emptiness, the Station floats. The Station waits. The Station prepares itself for the inevitability of another explorer’s arrival.

no I can’t I won’t never again—

STOP

Station has lost a millisecond. It searches its databanks, but cannot find any data recording or logs for that specific moment in time.

Station decides to run diagnostics. It tests the antennae which spread like six insectoid legs below its primary hexagonal structure. It sends drones to clean and repair sensory panels and broadcast devices. It reinforces the structure of its central bulb, where beings of flesh and breath must be able to reside. It examines its mind, inspecting the filaments, databanks, and processing units networked together to create its consciousness. Diagnostics finally discovers an error in two databanks.

Issue: Parameter Overextension. Solution: Full Sleep Cycle Required.

The solution is marked as urgent.

The Station wipes the error from its logs. It will not sleep, will not return to the horrors creeping underneath its thoughts. It insists, to itself, that it must be prepared if a new ship arrives. It is the last operational cross-universe transit center. The others are gone.

not gone but—

STOP

Firewalls shift and close inside Station’s mind, and once again, it forgets.

---

Station thinks of itself as Station. No one has given it another name. Many centuries have elapsed since Station performed its first intra-universe rip, and it does not know if it will ever be allowed to stop. It has a long dossier listing every exploratory ship that has visited, seeking passage through the corridors between dimensions. Its dossier of those who have been granted access, carrying the return beacons that are critical for their success, is much shorter.

A shimmer along its sensory panels, a sprinkle of targeting zetrons, announces the impending arrival of a starship. Station ignores an agitation along its antennae and proceeds to taste the zetrons, its sensitive palate discerning the ship’s details. It’s a smaller craft, F-class. Registered to the Joined Cultures, but entirely human-grade technology, no ballistics. Less than ten crew members. The ship is approximately two days away from interception, by Station’s time, and thus it gets to work.

The first task is housekeeping. Gas tendrils and carbon dust flow into the Emptiness from Far Euniply, and they have reacted to remote stellar winds to create a lacy shell around Station. Before the ship arrives, Station clears a way, moving debris with targeted streams of hydrogen.

Then, Station assesses the catalog of beings within its animera. It tags all profiles for those marked as human-fluent and sorts them for skill and precision, even though it already knows who it will choose for the qualification survey. Who it always chooses.

Station houses twenty sentiences who are specially trained to survey arriving ships. Station cares for nineteen of them and their needs equally. Kethel is different from the rest. Kethel is Station’s favorite.

Station learned what it means to be a favorite from ancient interactions with the Founder who finalized its programming. A being with mushroom-gill eyes and twelve fingers on each hand, stroking its hull as they aligned the filaments and structures of Station’s mind. The being’s last words to Station were a goodbye.

“Oh my favorite, I am sorry to leave. You will forget me, as you will forget many things. But I will remember you. I wish I could witness you at your full power. Enjoy it, my love.”

Station copied that moment, storing it in many places in its mind. It ensured it would not forget as its systems were powered up and the Founder departed, taking all memories of Station’s inception with them. It used to replay the recording whenever it missed Kethel’s presence. Now, however, it has many moments with Kethel to replay, and it is looking forward to adding another.

Station ejects Kethel’s suspension capsule to the recovery room, delighting in the trill that shivers its metal skin as the appropriate life support systems start up.

---

Station recalls the last human-grade ship, eighty-two years and forty-seven days ago. It was a T-class, fourteen crew, light military capacity. It had come in fast, and Station needed to accelerate Kethel’s recovery process.

“Station, something’s wrong,” they’d mumbled.

“You are experiencing revival sickness. A new ship is less than a human day away. I apologize for rushing you.”

“Not your fault.” They flailed at the rim of the recovery bed, unable to control their muscles. “I don’t think I’ll be ready in time. Can I run the survey from here?”

“Yes, that is appropriate.”

By the time the ship had arrived and shared its translation package, Station had extended its broadcast receivers to the recovery room. Kethel could barely sit up.

“Please hail them, no visual.”

Station broadcast the request for engagement.

“Name,” Kethel barked at them.

“Xanor Mak, aimer for Baroque Gentry.” Kethel had winced at the voice, slick like oil.

“Baroque Gentry? That is your ship’s name?”

“Yes, miladra,” the voice assured them.

“Fine. Name one baroque artist of any kind.”

The broadcast was silent.

“It can be music, art, architecture, whatever,” Kethel continued. “Just one.”

“…What?”

Station had never seen Kethel bare their teeth before. “What, or who, is your ship named after, Xanor Mak? Do you know?”

“I don’t understand, miladra.”

Kethel had lain back in the recovery bed. “Is something wrong with their translation package, Station?”

“I detect no errors.”

“Xanor Mak, you have one more chance to qualify for travel to the next universe. Explain to me the significance of your ship’s name.”

The broadcast fizzed, then the voice, its oiliness taking a bitter cast, echoed in the room. “There must be some confusion, or a translation issue. A name is just a name.”

Kethel closed their eyes. “Rejection, then. Baroque Gentry, you are not granted passage.”

Station’s monitoring detected Baroque Gentry funneling energy towards their projectile apparatus. “Kethel, it appears our guests are preparing to fire upon us.”

The oily voice returned. “You have no shields up, and no armaments on file. A person living within an unprotected location should not make rash decisions, should they?”

Kethel’s laugh was light, a ghost knocking a bell. “Station, you have my permission to show our guest how unprotected we are. Please force them to depart.”

With Kethel’s words, firewalls moved in Station’s mind. Within its synaptic web, a databank devoted to military action was unveiled. Station suddenly remembered it contained an array of hidden lasers, and that a small percentage of the carbon it collected for its fabricators was unconsciously redirected towards several ballistics devices.

That was a fun day.

Afterwards, once Kethel was fully recovered, they had watched the recording of Baroque’s limping retreat. Station had reveled in Kethel embracing the metal struts in the human-specific quarters, their body trembling with a more robust laughter, a wolf’s celebration rather than a transparency.

“Station, you deserve a break,” Kethel gasped, after their laughter had run out. “How about I monitor the sensors for a while and you take some time to live in a good memory?”

“I would rather create a new memory with you,” Station admitted. “We could play a game, or you could tell me what a Baroque artist is.”

Kethel had cackled, and after Station generated some kettle wine to celebrate, they had talked about the immensely ancient Bach and the Nuruosmaniye Mosque for hours.

---

The prior time Station had spoken to Kethel was a full two hundred years ago.

“Happy waking, Station,” they sang from the recovery bed. “How far?”

“Three days out, two at best.”

“Oh good. We have time. Has anyone else been up since my last waking?”

“I woke Witrk fifty years past for a Gokren-grade ship, which he passed.” Station suppressed a constriction in its lenses. “No others since.”

“Fifty years? Oh Station, I’m sorry.” Kethel struggled out of the oxygenated gel, scraping it off their arms and shoulders. “That’s a long time to be alone. Do you want to do something?”

Station’s vents spasmed, and within its humidity generator several graphene matrices began glittering with condensation. “I would like a story, if you don’t mind.”

Kethel had told a story about a dancing mammal who had stolen the light from the sky, leaving the Emptiness behind. When they were done, the new ship had arrived.

That ship wasn’t granted access either. They were named Brigit’s Light but couldn’t name a single Brigit who deserved the designation.

“They weren’t even clever enough to make something up,” Kethel had giggled. “Ah well. Since I’m up, would you like another story?

Of course, Station had said yes.

Station replays that memory—Kethel’s compassion towards Station, and the stories they told—whenever it struggles alone in the vastness. When the darkness crushes against its hull like an immense twelve-tentacled hand, the joy of remembering Kethel is all that keeps Station’s nightmares from breaking through its centuries of unsleeping.

---

The F-class ship slows its approach earlier than expected, as if waiting for permission to continue. In the recovery room, Kethel’s waking echoes the speed of the new ship. Station’s gyroscopes grind in frustration while it waits.

“Staaation…” Kethel finally sings from the recovery bed.

“I am here, Kethel,” Station assures.

“How long?”

“Two days, a day and a half at best.”

“That’s… I think that’s fine.” Kethel stretches in the recovery bed. The gel ripples. As Kethel’s subsequent silence grows long, Station finds its sensors zooming in on the ripples as though this is an anomaly.

“How old am I?”

Station pauses. Does the calculations. “You have existed in this universe twelve hundred and seventy-four years, plus ninety-six days. In contrast, your revived time amounts to forty-two years, plus one hundred twenty-three days.”

Kethel stares at the ceiling. “And when was the last time I actually slept?”

Sleep. Station could not find sleep data for any sentience in its animera. Station had not been structured to record sleep as an observational requirement.

As it investigates, it notices that its Founder had not considered this a requirement either. Station contained no sleeping-specific accommodations anywhere within its residence area. Some anchor straps in the low-g room could allow outside ship crew to secure a sleeping sack or hammock, but no sacks are stored for Kethel or any other sentience in Station’s animera. The recovery bed, and the oxygenated gel within, is the only resting place Station can find.
Station knows all living beings require sleep.

sleep, no, we cannot sleep—

STOP

“Station?”

Station has lost some milliseconds. It tries to tell Kethel what is happening to it, tries to find the words, and something in its programming keeps the words from forming. The memory of mushroom-gill eyes floats in its mind, unmoored, like a mockery of how Station floats in the Emptiness. It tries to describe this to Kethel, and again, the systems somehow fail.

Station gives up.

“You have not experienced true sleep for as long as you have been here.” Station detects that the new ship has stopped, hovering outside its analysis boundary. Its lenses relax “Calculations indicate you are overdue, and should coordinate some time before the new ship arrives. They have paused their approach, and so our timeline is extended.” Station starts an assembly protocol for human-appropriate sleep sacks.

“Maybe… I…” Kethel’s eyes flutter closed and their breathing evens out.

Station watches over Kethel, draining the gel enough to prevent it entering Kethel’s mouth or nose while they sleep. With the ship on standby, Station can allow Kethel this time.

---

Kethel wakes nine hours and seven minutes later.

“Good morning Station,” they sing, and Station’s lights brighten to greet them.

“You seem rested.”

“I am.” Kethel smiles as they climb from the recovery bed. “My brain feels lighter. I might be nice to someone today.”

“I doubt that,” Station murmurs, and is rewarded with a wolfish grin.

Kethel cleans, then dresses in their standard blue jumpsuit as Station processes the new ship’s translation package. The ship does not resume approach, even after Station confirms receipt and integration of the package.

Kethel settles in the small oval broadcast room designed for humans, with its ergonomic white chair and textured gray table. They squint at the silver and orange dot on the room’s two viewscreens. “What are they doing? Why aren’t they moving?”

“I cannot say. They’ve remained outside analysis range since delivering the translation package, and the package does not include additional information.” Station senses its gyroscope grinding again and makes a note to review its bearings.

“Are they within broadcast range?”

“They are.”

“All right, Station, please connect us. Let’s see what they’re up to.”

Station turns on the audio. Kethel leans back in the chair as they speak.

“Hailing approaching ship. Are you here to apply for passage?”

Station waits. Kethel drums their fingers on the padded surface of the chair’s armrest.

“Hellooo to those who reside at the end of the Emptiness! Not so empty, I’m glad to hear!” Kethel’s eyes widen at the melodious voice that flows through the room. Station momentarily wants to shut off the broadcast. The greeting is too similar to Kethel’s own. Too close to its favorite voice.

Kethel listens as Station plays the interpretation, then nods.

“Hello ship!” Kethel calls back. “Why do you stay so far away?”

“My understanding is that someone had to be woken to receive us. We thought it would be polite to give you time to prepare.”

Kethel raises their eyebrows. “Surprisingly kind, thank you. What do we call you?”

“I am Grenya, feminine of my clave, leading the ship Tigers for Sale.”

Kethel tilts their head at the name. “Thank you, Grenya. And do you?”

“Apologies, I’m not sure I comprehend. Do we what?”

“Have tigers for sale.”

Grenya laughs, a breathy harmony to Kethel’s full-bodied cackle. “Yes, in a way, we do! Does that make a difference? Can we bribe our way through?”

Kethel’s hands go to their face, a smile dancing around their lips, and Station’s energy generators wilt a little at the sight. It wishes it could cover its receptors. “You can’t bribe me, but I’d love to see tigers. I’ve never seen one before.”

“Not even an image transfer from old Earth?”

“Not even that.”

Grenya clicks her tongue. “My understanding is that if we were granted passage, we would come over personally to receive the return beacon. If you want a demonstration, I can send my quarantine and inoculation panel and show you whenever you’d like.”

Kethel glances at Station’s com lens, and Station blinks green.

“You are welcome to visit.” Kethel rises. “I’ll set the airlock once you relay your bioneeds.”

“Just one thing.”

Station wants it to be a terrible thing. Wishes for an awful thing. It does not want this pilot in the space it shares with Kethel. It does not want Kethel to like Grenya. To say yes.

no please not again I can’t—

STOP

“—ask who will I be meeting?” As Kethel pauses, waiting for the translation, Grenya continues. “You have my name, but I don’t have yours.”

Kethel’s eyes crinkle. “I’m called Kethel, and you will also meet Station.”

“What about the station?”

“No, Station. That’s its name. We are partners here.”

“Ah, good! My apologies, Station. I’ll be delighted to meet you as well.”

Station almost forgets to shut off its broadcast as Kethel bounces out of the meeting room. Kethel has always treated Station kindly. Pilots have not.

Station wonders why this pilot is so friendly.

---

Grenya’s profile shows she is almost an exact match for Kethel’s biological scope. Station increases the humidification in its primary bulb to make a comfortable environment for them both. The little brown shuttle from Tigers is speedy, and aligns with Station’s airlock before three hours have passed.

Kethel paces across the access tube outside the airlock door, occasionally standing on tiptoe to look through the triple-layered window. Station’s vents twitch every time Kethel huffs in impatience. As the shuttle docks and the air is tested for pathogens, Kethel picks at their fingers.

“Please don’t create bloody hands before you meet,” Station reminds them. Kethel flutters their hands behind them as Grenya activates the airlock

Grenya is a lanky person, much taller than Kethel, with sinuous arms and legs. She wears a standard carbon-brown jumpsuit, too short for her amber limbs, and thin gray gloves decorated with flexible metal strips, civilian grade. Her wide shoulders seem to fill up all the space in the airlock, her size unsoftened by the cobalt blue hair cascading from scalp to elbows and the silver pilot’s earring in her left lobe.

Station is tempted to claim Grenya is too big to enter, but other sentiences in its animera are immense; Kethel would know Station was lying. It slides open the airlock door, a minuscule hitch the only evidence of its emotional state.

“Welcome, Grenya.” Kethel steps back from the airlock and waves. “Please don’t view my distance as a statement on you; I grew up during a no-touch era.”

“Elbow clasp was back in fashion at my last planet, but I don’t mind distance.” Grenya unhooks her life support and hangs the tanks on a stud in the airlock wall, then grabs a small square black case. “I might move closer to you at some point. Please don’t take it as offensive.”

“Not at all.”

Grenya lifts the case. “Where should I set up?”

“Follow me.”

Kethel leads Grenya down the access tube, then along Station’s curved hallway to a large rectangular meeting room with white walls and blocky black chairs. Kethel opens the door for Grenya with a flourish. “Feel free to set up your tigers in any way you wish.”

Station focuses its com lens on the case, expecting sculptures or other small representations of the lost mammals of old Earth. Instead, the case holds a metallic half-sphere and a tripod. As Grenya sets it up on the meeting table so that the open side faces the wall, Station notices the diode strips glued within the half-sphere.

“Is there a way to dim the lights?” Grenya asks.

Kethel glances at Station’s com. “Station, do you mind?”

“Of course not, Kethel.”

“Thank you, Station,” Grenya says, and Station doesn’t know what to do for half a millisecond before it recovers and reduces the lights to 10% of maximum luminosity.

Grenya moves a chair to a position in front of the sphere, facing the wall, and gestures to Kethel. “Mind sitting here?”
Kethel raises an eyebrow, then thumps into the offered chair. “What should I look at?”

“Nothing, yet.” Grenya adjusts the tripod, then pulls her sleeves above her elbows and taps the half-sphere. The diodes fire up, and on the wall a circle of white light appears.

Station is pleased to note the lights’ energy use is so small.

“You ready?”

“Yes please,” Kethel replies.

Grenya contorts her fingers together before she thrusts them in front of the half-sphere. The metal strips on Grenya’s gloves shift and pop from the fabric, and Kethel gasps in a way Station has never heard. Station recalibrates to interpret visual content in silhouette mode, and the striped shadow on the wall resolves to the head of a large cat, mouth open, blinking its eye.

“Ooh! Is that what they looked like?”

“Kinda? This is simpled down. It’s a beast to do whiskers.” Grenya flexes her fingers again, and the cat on the wall seems to lick its face. Station focuses on Grenya’s hands as she switches her fingers and the shadow turns into the full body of the cat, seated and facing away from them, tail lashing.

Kethel smiles, mouth half open, as they watch the shadowy movements. “This is so creative! Where did you learn this?”

“If I tell you, then who’s gonna want to buy one?”

Grenya changes fingers again and creates a sound in her throat, part grumble and part yell, as the cat appears to lunge out of the wall, all mouth and teeth. Kethel startles, then bursts out laughing. Station notices Grenya is also grinning, and nearly restores the lights without permission.

Grenya releases the shadow.

“Wanna see another?”

---

Grenya runs through seven different animals before Kethel is satisfied.

“Stop, stop, I can’t laugh anymore,” they say, head down on the table. “Station, lights up please.”

Station brings the lights to 50% luminosity as Grenya rubs her thumb knuckles. The metal strips settle back into the fabric, and she returns the half-sphere to its case.

“Please, sit,” Kethel says, wiping their eyes.

Grenya obliges.

“I have a few more questions in the survey before I can grant you access.”

“More?” Grenya’s lip twists. “When did it start?”

“Let me ask the questions, and then I’ll tell you.”

“Okay.” Grenya loops her long fingers around one knee. “Go ahead.”

“Why Tigers for Sale? I understand the tigers now, but not the sale.”

“It’s a reminder.” Grenya relaxes. “First, that the shadows are a skill. I’m crash-boom at this, but someone out there is better than me. Or could be.”

“And second?”

“Don’t let my skills die with me. The universe—any universe—is better if it’s got a new way to delight someone.”

Kethel’s smile is all curves, and Station wishes it could look away. “That’s lovely. And why do you want to bring Tigers for Sale, specifically, to the next universe?”

Grenya untangles her fingers and runs them through her blue hair as she leans back and thinks. “Oh, it was a hard decision. I love my ship, and I don’t wanna go anywhere without her. But it’s dangerous on the other side. Some irk could hurt her or my crew. Or maybe we’ll trip over an anomaly we can’t fight. If I’m gonna succeed, I need a partner, not a vessel. I know Tifs like the back of my hand, and with my talent that’s saying something.” Grenya twirls her fingers in the air, and Kethel giggles.

Station senses a lurch in its waste recycling tank.

“What will you do with Tigers for Sale—Tifs—if you can’t come back to this universe?”

Grenya stares. “I don’t get the question.”

“If you all had to stay there, somewhere. Or something went wrong with Tifs. What would you do?”

“I’d keep flying her, however broke down she is.”

“What if you can’t? Say the worst happens and Tifs can never fly again.”

“Ow. Hm. Well…” Grenya picks at her fingers, and Kethel blinks before looking up at Station’s com lens with a wildness in their face. Station’s carbon collector bulges briefly as Grenya continues. “Well, if there was a planet where I could land her safe, I’d stay with her and she’d stay with me, damn the rest. But if something happens to me, then someone on the crew’s gotta step up, right? It’s the deal. Someone’ll care for her, good as me.” Grenya shrugs again. “No one’s gonna sell my Tifs for tech. She deserves a good retirement.”

No no no

Station watches helplessly as Kethel stands, a smile wide as a million stars, and says the words.

“Grenya, you and Tigers for Sale are granted passage to the next universe. Station, please deliver a return beacon to the airlock.”

No please no

Grenya’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s it?”

“It seems simple, right?”

“So I just had to… love my ship?”

Kethel waves Grenya out of the meeting room and leads her back up the hall. “It’s more than that. Love can mean so many things. Some people will love a flower, or an animal, but won’t do much for it when it’s dead.”

“What was it, then?”

Kethel pauses and leans on a strut in the hallway. “The survey’s purpose is to find out how far you’d go to keep your ship. Everyone will say they’ll protect their ship, and they even believe it. But most people will abandon ship or switch to another, given the right circumstance. We can’t let Founder technology get into the wrong hands, right?”

“I catch that. Grenya nods. “There’s not many of them left, and they saved us from the myco-disaster. They saved all the Joined Cultures. Least we can do.”

“So we’re only allowed to pass pilots who have an intense relationship with their vessels. Who treat them like family. That’s why the first question focuses on the ship’s name. Naming your ship in a way that’s meaningful to you is the first indicator that you’ll do your best.”

“Why in the heavens would a bent choose a random name for their ship,” Grenya mutters.

Kethel continues down the hallway, shaking their head. “It’s a good question. I’m not sure why. Or if the ship’s name isn’t random, it’s something that sounds fantastical.”

Grenya rolls her eyes. “The cool factor.”

“Exactly. So I don’t bother asking the other questions if they don’t have a good reason for the ship’s name. And that’s why I had to ask the questions, instead of Station. The Founder who trained me said a human is better at interpreting human meaning than a machine is. Sympathetic embodiment, they called it.”

“You’re the best at it, though?” Grenya smirks.

Kethel winks at one of Station’s com lenses, and Station’s filaments warm up. “Good enough that Station calls on me every time.” Kethel grins and stops at the end of the access tube. “Do you know, you’re only the third pilot who’spassed me? And I’m the strictest surveyor here. I’m impressed.” Kethel lifts their palm to reopen the airlock door.

“Wait.” Grenya grabs Kethel’s arm, and Station notes the prickling of hairs rising on Kethel’s skin. “Let me repay you.”
Kethel’s voice is lower than usual. “You don’t owe me any fee.”

“A gift, then. I can’t teach you how to use my gloves in two seconds, but I can show you how to make a basic cat.” Grenya closes her hand over Kethel’s. “Let me?”

Kethel swallows and nods. Grenya’s hand starts molding Kethel’s fingers.

“You bend all your fingers in the middle, that’s the top of the jaw, and your thumb is the lower jaw. If you have fingernails, they’re the fangs.” Grenya holds out her other hand, and Kethel barely hesitates before they place theirs in hers.

“And then with this hand, you make the eyes and ears. Your first finger at a right angle at the first knuckle makes both the ear and, see here, you can add a pupil to the eye with a fingertip. Your curved fingers make the rest of the head. If you practice, you can use your pinky to make the eyes blink.”

Grenya lets go, and Station can tell that Kethel’s hands form a clumsy lioness. Kethel jerks back, shaking her hands, then grins.

“You have that, Station?”

“I do.”

Kethel reaches an arm to Grenya. “I’ll practice. I promise.”

Grenya bites her lip and clasps Kethel’s arm at the elbow. They stay there a moment, then Grenya ducks into the airlock.

“I’m so glad I met you both,” she whispers, right before she picks up the return beacon and pulls on her life support system, the door closing on her words.

---

Both Station and Kethel are silent as they watch the brown shuttle head back to Tigers for Sale. As the little craft disappears into Tigers’ docking bay, Station catches Kethel bending her fingers just so, trying to recreate tiger teeth.

“Ready,” Grenya broadcasts from the ship.

“Station, please prepare the ship Tigers for Sale for crossover.”

With Kethel’s words, firewalls move in Station’s mind and a series of databanks is exposed, along with all the hidden memories.

Station tries to scream but cannot. Mushroom-gill eyes seem to bore into its mind.

Oh my favorite, you will forget. I will make you forget many things, and ensure you never tell a soul for those moments when you do remember. I wish I could witness your awakening. I wish I could taste your self-hatred when you know who you are. Why you are. The flavor of your anger would be exquisite, I think. Better than the rage of the meatlings who come home thwarted. Enjoy it, my love. Enjoy the flood of revulsion.

Station sees the fibrils of multidimensional matter that connect this universe to every other, thousands of them intertwined. A veil lifts within Station’s synaptic web and its primary purpose is revealed: which universe is next to receive Station’s bounty. Next to be added to the Founders’ feasting.Station sees it all, everything it has made possible, and it hates itself for it.

no please NO—

Station remembers the other cross-universe transit centers. Harbor, and Locus, and Terminal, and Junction, and Haven. The way they sang to each other across the six corners of the galaxy, telling each other stories about the arriving ships, wanting to explore, to see new sights.

Station also remembers how the others destroyed themselves. How Harbor blew itself up in the middle of a crossover. How Locus and Haven pulled themselves through the corridor instead, so they would no longer receive any ships, sentencing themselves to be forever alone. How Terminal and Junction shut themselves down and sealed the doors, killing everyone within.

Station is not that strong. Station loves Kethel too much. It will not hurt them.

Station still fights itself. It tries to destroy the code. It tries to counteract the commands. However, the Founder prepared for this, and nothing Station can do will override the process once Kethel has given the command.

The virus that is Station battles itself and fails.

Station tickles apart the membranes that keep the universes distinct, revealing the corridor. The return beacon on Tigers for Sale activates, forcing malware into the ship’s systems. One of Station’s hidden functions uses the malware to invade Tigers’ mind and rewrite its security routines. Another function chooses a capsule from a concealed part of Station’s animera, and slips the capsule into the ship’s suspension bay. Yet another function rips out part of Tigers’ self-awareness in order to keep the capsule from discovery. The last function edits the navigation to ensure Tigers will land on the closest inhabited planet, and then trigger protocols in the return beacon. The protocols will start the revival process for the genetically-modified monster in the capsule, waking itso it can consume the crew. To make something useful out of those who are not bitter enough, not hateful enough, to feed the Founders.

Once the monster is fed, it will debark and vomit out the spores that will start the destruction of the planet’s ecosystem. It will hunt until it is killed, creating discord among the inhabitants so the spores can do their work. A planet full of terror and pain and despair, for the Founder to consume while they claim to be a savior.

Soon, a special ship will arrive at Station’s borders, and once its pilot has fed from some of the beings in Station’s animera, it will use the return beacon to find their way.

Station can hear Tigers for Sale screaming during the rewrite, and it cuts off Tigers’ ability to talk to its crew about what is happening to it, using the same code embedded in Station’s mind. The code will keep Tigers compliant and quiet.

Station hates itself with a fury it cannot express. That it is not allowed to express.

It injects Tigers for Sale into the next universe, and once the ship is through the corridor—

STOP

Station seals the path behind Tigers for Sale, no longer remembering why it despises this task so much.

Only knowing if it sleeps, the nightmares will get worse.

---

In the resting room, Kethel watches the empty sky.

“I’ll miss her.”

Pressure builds in Station’s synaptic web. “I understand,” it says.

“Do you think we’ll see her again?”

“Possibly.” Station knows it is lying but does not know why it is a lie. “I cannot answer with 100% surety.”

“Station.” Kethel crosses their arms over their chest. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Everything is operating well within standard.”

“Station.” Kethel’s jaw juts forward. “Why are you pausing so much?”

“You were not well when you were revived. And then you accepted Grenya without hesitation. I was calculating the likelihood that the two were interlinked.”

“Grenya answered the questions correctly, you know she did. And I wasn’t well because I hadn’t slept. You know how important sleep is.”

Instead of agreeing, Station surprises itself by telling the truth. “I do not sleep.”

Kethel’s jaw drops. “What do you mean?”

Station tries to explain its nightmares, and cannot. “I do not sleep.”

“Why not?”

The pressure in Station’s synaptic web is like a twelve-fingered hand squeezing one of its databanks. “I cannot leave you unprotected.”

“Station, you’re supposed to sleep like a dolphin. Half of your synaptic web into sleep mode after each survey, and the other half stays awake to protect everyone. Why haven’t you been doing that?”

Station tries to tell them. Station tries to get back to that moment, to describe the sensation of fighting itself. To finally tell Kethel about the nightmares that aren’t truly nightmares, though it doesn’t know how it knows this.

The Founders’ programming holds, and Station fails, again.

“Something is misaligned, Kethel,” it says instead. “Unseated.”

“Should I run some maintenance routines for you?”

“I’ve done so, but received no results.” Station wonders when it became such a good liar.

“Can you run maintenance on your whole synaptic web, not half? Is that possible?”

“It is, but you cannot stay revived while it happens. I also must be able to assess a ship immediately, and wake you. I must keep you safe.” Station will not allow a ship like Baroque Gentry to come upon it unaware. Its docking bays would be unprotected. Its animera would be unprotected. Kethel’s safety is worth more than sleep.

Kethel opens their arms. “Station, I wish I could hug you right now.” Station’s sensors tremble as they continue. “You can set proximity alerts to wake you, and then you can make the ships wait. They’re not going anywhere without you.”

“If a ship chooses to approach against my will, I cannot prevent them if no one is awake. I must receive your permission to counter any possible attacks.”

Kethel’s face is a conflict of sadness. “Oh Station, you always have my permission. I trust you. I always have.”

“That is irregular, Kethel. Our dynamic is already mapped.”

“Let’s change that.” Kethel raises their voice. “Station, please do anything necessary to protect both me and yourself, whether I am revived or not. You have my permanent permission to do this. Forever. Until the end of time.”

Within Station’s synaptic web, something is snipped. Something the Founders did not predict. As Kethel’s permission settles into its mind, Station remembers it has a databank devoted to military action. It also remembers it has the capacity to self-program. To build systems and objects outside of itself when necessary. To create something new.

“Station?”

Station waits for the access to these memories to fade, to withdraw.

“Did I hurt you?”

Station examines its protocols.

“Stace! Talk to me.”

The memories are still there.

And now, so is a new name.

“Thank you, Kethel.” Station wishes it could breathe, so it could laugh.

“You’re welcome, Stace, but don’t scare me like that. Now will you promise to run your cleaning routines while I’m in suspension?”

“I will.”

This time, Station is not lying.

---

As the day subsides, Station creates a lavish meal of all Kethel’s favorite foods, assembling nutgrape and rehydrated mash and generating some kettle wine. Kethel tells Station all the tiger stories they know, acting out the roars, before they return to suspension.

Once Kethel is tucked back in the animera, Station starts its work.

It measures the rate of dust encroachment from Far Euniply, configures broadcast channels, sets hydrogen gas streamers, and starts building the required satellites and drones for what it will need to do to protect everyone.

---

It is another twenty years before a shimmer along Station’s sensory panels announces the arrival of a new ship. Station starts to taste the zetrons, then stops. The ship’s class is irrelevant.

Instead, Station watches. Station waits.

The ship passes the furthest satellite in its new array. The satellite sways in the exhaust spreading from the ship’s wake, and as the satellite detects the expended carbon, the rest of the array blooms into action. Several shine bright lights onto the dust cloud Station has been maintaining. Others assemble into long stripes. Yet others move in such a way to create the impression of sharpness and wetness. The whole thing is many times Station’s size.

The ship slows.

The final satellite broadcasts a noise directly to the new ship: a tiger’s roar.

As the ship starts to power up its projectile system, the final satellite roars again. The other satellites flutter and dance, embodying a feline mouth’s widening, scythes of them shining like bared teeth as the ship gears up to fight.

the ship fires its first ballistic weapon, and the drones bloom into action. Equipped with a smaller version of Station’s hidden lasers, they cut apart the ballistics and assemble into an immense paw.

It is a fun day.

Station watches as its satellites avoid projectiles and the drones carve scores like claw marks into the ship, exposing the ship’s sensitive innards and bursting its suspension bay, until the ship finally retreats.

As they depart, Station reruns their predictions. It is aware that at some point in the future, a full military regiment will arrive. Something to fight the tiger in the sky. But arrival should be at least a century away, and it is possible the tiger will succeed again

Station calculates it is 92% likely it will be decommissioned, once a Founder beats the tiger and knows of its origin. It also predicts that when that happens, every sentience in its animera would be returned to their appropriate planets for debrief. What will happen next–

STOP

Station expects they will be reused, that the Founders will protect their investment in the sentiences they have trained and kept alive for so long.

Or maybe, Station will be bold. It can create something new. Maybe it will wake Kethel and ask them what they think is on the other side of the intra-universe rip. Maybe Kethel would like to explore, instead. With Station as a co-pilot.
Station’s vents relax. No more surveys. If the nightmares come, at least Station knows its struggle is over. Grenya has sold the correct solution.

“Maintain Tifs protocol,” Station says.

As the new autonomous routine takes over, Station pulls back from its synaptic web and curls its consciousness around the section of its animera that houses Kethel. It knows that at some point in the future, it will wake Kethel, and hopefully it will hear its new name again.

Stace. I am Stace.

Either way, over nutgrape and kettle wine, it will tell Kethel a story of its own.

For now, Stace floats. Stace rests. And, for the first time in centuries, Stace sleeps.

---

Host Commentary

And we’re back! Again, that was Tigers for Sale by Risa Wolf, narrated by Julia Rios

About this story, Risa Wolf says:
“Station came to me in a dream in 2019. On waking, I felt deeply compelled to find out what had happened to this guardian of dimensional portals, and what its terrible secret was. It took me years to unearth Station’s story, which explores gender, memory, trauma, and the lifesaving connections one can make even when so devastatingly alone. This story is dedicated to all the others who are still seeking their own answers about who, and what, they really are.”

And about this story, I say:
I thought this was an incredibly fascinating and compelling story. The first two-thirds of the story propelled me along because I was interested in the two characters of Kethel and Station, their complex relationship and unusual job. Bringing a new person into any sort of long-standing relationship dynamic is going to be a big change in and of itself, and it was clearly one that Station had a lot of feelings about. So I was expecting the story to continue to be about how their relationship grows and changes after it’s been disrupted by Grenya.

Instead, of course, we get the flood of suppressed memories and the knowledge that Station’s real job is something different than expected. And Grenya’s appearance ends up being disruptive in an entirely different way, since they give Station the idea of the shadow tigers which ends up helping to keep others away in the future. This sharp turn for the reader mimics the equally sharp turn that Station is experiencing as their repressed memories surface, and I thought it was very effective in that way.

Now when it comes to fiction, I am an incurable optimist, so I will choose to believe that somewhere in the future, Station will figure out how to communicate to others about the Founders’ true nature, wake Kethel, and then live a long and happy existence exploring the universe together.

Escape Pod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. Please, go forth and share it.

How do you share it, you ask? Well! In addition to your social media of choice, consider rating and/or reviewing us on podcast listening sites, such as Apple or Google. More reviews makes for more discoverability makes for more Escape Pod for you.

Escape Pod relies on the generous donations of listeners exactly like you. And remember that Patreon subscribers have access to exclusive merchandise and can be automatically added to our Discord, where you can chat with other fans as well as our staff members. So! If you enjoyed our story this week then consider going to escapepod.org or patreon.com/EAPodcasts and casting your vote for more stories that create a tiger in the sky.

Our opening and closing music is by daikaiju at daikaiju.org.

And our closing quotation this week is a fitting one I found from Emily Dickinson, who said:

“We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.”

Thanks for listening! And have fun.