“Chiss diplomatic cruiser coming in,” Pathfinder dispatcher Prack called above the buzz of conversation filling the Navigators’ Guild lounge. “Who wants it?”

The conversation broke off like a door had slammed shut over it, and everyone did their best imitation of being somewhere else.

Including Qilori of Uandualon. He sat unmoving on his bench, his shoulders hunched, still gripping the rim handle of his mug. Chiss. Just his pathetic luck to be on duty when a Chiss rolled in.

“Qilori, where are you?” the dispatcher continued. “Come on, Qilori—I know you’re here.”

“He’s over here,” someone two tables over called helpfully.

Qilori sent the other navigator a glare. “Yeah, I’m here,” he growled.

“Good for you,” the dispatcher said. “Grab your headset, sash up, and sashay down. Your turn for the hot box.”

“Yeah,” Qilori growled again, his cheek winglets snapping flat against the sides of his head with disgust as he stood up and crossed the room to the dispatcher. The other Pathfinders wanted to jeer at his dirt assignment, he knew—he’d certainly done his share of jeering when the situation was flipped.

But none of them dared. Prack wasn’t above changing assignments at the last second if someone higher on his gripe list caught his eye. “So where are they going?” he asked.

“Bardram Scoft,” the dispatcher said.

“What are they going there for?”

“Don’t know; don’t care. Board gate five; fifteen minutes.” He gave Qilori a smirking smile. “Have fun.”

Fifteen minutes later, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, Qilori watched the boarding gate swing open and a couple of black-uniformed blueskins step out. “You our Pathfinder?” one of them asked in the Minnisiat trade language.

At least this bunch weren’t expecting everyone else in the Chaos to speak Cheunh. “I am,” Qilori said, waving a hand over his ID sash. “I am Qilori of Uandualon. I’m a Class Five—”

“Yes, fine,” the blueskin said. “Come on. We’re in a hurry.”

He turned and strode back through the gate. Qilori followed, silently cursing Prack for dropping this assignment on him.

No one out here liked the Chiss. At least, no one Qilori had ever met who’d worked with them liked them.

It wasn’t just that they considered themselves better than everyone else. Most species had that delusion, after all. No, it was that the Chiss didn’t seem to think there was even anyone else out here for them to feel superior to. They had a strange and infuriating blind spot where the rest of the Chaos was concerned, as if every other species was entirely composed of particularly clever animals or else had been brought into existence solely for the Ascendancy’s benefit.

They barely saw anyone. They certainly didn’t care about anyone.