My Patrol colleague Jenkins and I had no idea where we were. His AI told us we were literally off the charts, navigation-wise.

We’d been diverted from patrols near Neptune and plunged through a wormhole to parts unknown. We had no reason to believe that the same wormhole wouldn’t deposit us near our neighborhood. We were wrong.

 

We popped back into space after the trippy journey through the cosmic gateway. Jenkins turned to me and said, “This isn’t the right system.”

 

Our Patrol rockets were not equipped for long-haul space travel. The drive was fine — we hadn’t been far under our own steam — but we had little water and no food.

 

“I think we need to find some lunch,” said Jenkins.

 

“Yes,” I said. “And it looks like we have options.”

 

We hadn’t alighted in the middle of nowhere. There was an orange dwarf sun, some planetoids, and a station, an untidy collection of boxy structures looped around by a flashing display. The symbols were unfamiliar, and our AI was clueless.

 

“What do you think?” said Jenkins.

 

“It says Buzz Aldrin Rest Area,” I said.

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind. Let’s check it out.”

 

* * *

 

Jenkins maneuvered his ship carefully into an opening and was almost demolished by a craft blasting off in the other direction. We’d tried all frequencies on approach, but only now did we receive any instruction.

 

“Wrong way,” the disembodied voice said. “That’s the exit. Follow the directions.”

 

We backtracked and re-entered, flashing arrows indicating a berth. After twenty minutes, we were asked to come on in. The port we’d used looked open. “The air is breathable,” the voice said. I shrugged, and we crossed over into the station.

 

* * *

 

We’d been greatly assisted escaping our previous mishap by our friend XaXa. When we realized that our hosts were the members of the same species, we were overjoyed.

 

“Do you know anyone named XaXa, by any chance?” I said. “We were captives together.”

 

“No,” said the be-tentacled individual. “We are all XaXa — it’s the name of our species. We apologize for the lack of landing instructions. We needed the correct universal translator.”

 

“The latest edition?” said Jenkins.

 

“We needed to clear some red tape, I think you call it," said the second XaXa. "Human contact is restricted.”

 

Before we could inquire further, XaXa II asked what we had to trade. “The berth is free, but you have to trade,” they said. “This is a trading post. Them’s the rules.”

 

XaXa II sent their colleague, XaXa III, with us. We were taught as kids that it’s rude to stare, but there was no such proscription here. As we walked down corridors flanked by gaudy stores and booths, Jenkins and I were openly gawked at. The noise and lights were extremely overstimulating, but XaXa III sidled quietly along, tentacles in rhythmic step. A tall locusty fellow appeared and trained a proboscis on Jenkins’ cheek.

 

“He’s friendly,” said XaXa III.

 

“They never seen a person before?” said Jenkins, maintaining admirable sang-froid.

 

“Not in the flesh,” said XaXa III. “But they recognize you from your movies. Very popular.”

 

“So why are we ‘restricted?’” I said, but XaXa III sidled on. Two more beings materialized, jabbering excitedly. Their flat faces changed color constantly, and their bodies shape-shifted to mimic ours. They tugged at our sleeves.

 

“They like us,” I said.

 

“They like your uniforms,” said XaXa III. “You should trade.”

 

Our friend negotiated for us. We handed over our uniforms, stripping down to our thermals, and I was presented with a plastic triangle.

 

“That’s 500,” XaXa III said. “A good price.”

 

“Enough for lunch?” said Jenkins.

 

“Assuredly.”

 

* * *

 

Our meal was prepared by a crew of Cooks. They were perfectly adapted to their profession with sturdy lower bodies and multiple appendages: pincers, sharp-edged or bowl-like hands, mallets, and skewers. Apparently, they had illegally streamed Clemenza's sauce-making scene from The Godfather multiple times and were excited to test their recipe. Alas, they had no familiarity with the ingredients.

 

“A little heavy on the sugar,” I said, while making yum-yum gestures to the Cooks. It was by far the sweetest thing either of us had tasted. The sausage, an unidentified meat, was good.

 

Then we were summoned by the Boss Trader, the station’s owner. Her office had no view and was empty other than a clear cube sitting on a desk. We awaited her entrance nervously.

 

“I’m here,” said the Cube on the desk.

 

I had many questions. “Are we in our own universe?” I asked.

 

“Not exactly,” said the Cube. “But that’s not important. You have your provisions.” The Cooks had given us 100 freeze-dried packs of taste-amended sauce. “Your ship is space-worthy.”

 

“Thank you,” I said. “We need to return to Earth. Some directions would be greatly appreciated.”

 

The Cube hummed. “That’s prohibited, I’m afraid.”

 

“We were illegally taken through the wormhole that terminates here,” said Jenkins. “There must be a way we can get back.”

 

“The --------- have been censured for that action.” The name sounded like static. “We can direct you back there, and you can take it up with them, or you can move on elsewhere.”

 

“Elsewhere?” I said. “Where exactly?”

 

“Not here,” said the Cube.

 

“Why won’t you help us?” I said, a little whiningly.

 

“Fermi’s Paradox, you call it. It’s a precaution we take.”

 

“But why?”

 

We stood there, feebly imploring, dressed only in regulation undergarments. I was sweating. Jenkins had developed a rash on his cheek where he’d been touched. We were bemused, sad, and more than a little pathetic.

 

“You humans,” said the Cube. “Have you seen yourselves?”