“Very well. Then you acknowledge that my people are capable of telling truth strategically, when it suits our purposes? So you must consider the possibility that I am telling the truth now. I will tell you something you may already know, as your xenosociologists have noted it often. My people lie about two categories of things: the momentous, and the trivial. We make up stories about our true origins, yes, and our faith, and our culture. We mislead you about our motivations, sometimes – though our ultimate motivation is to thrive and survive. We are like humans in this way. We also lie freely about things that do not matter. Where we were yesterday, where we are going tomorrow, what we had to eat, what we do for fun, and, of course, we are often deceptively boastful. I will tell you why we lie so often: it is because transforming one’s reality through the creation of a narrative takes practice. It is easier for us to believe the big lies we tell ourselves about our past, our origins, and our future, if we are in the habit of confabulating smaller things every day. It makes reality seem more pliable, more plastic, more in our control.” Her limbs fluttered, a sinuous tremble, and Callie wished she knew better how to read Liar body language. “My tribe, my sect, is denied the comfort of those lies. We must remember the truth, and acknowledge it, because only in facing those terrible truths can we hope to safeguard the universe.”

“Fine,” Callie said. “Then tell the truth now. Admit you destroyed Meditreme Station, and tell me why. You say our theory about your conspiracy is wrong, that you aren’t toying with humanity and keeping us in the dark while you use the rest of creation as your playground. So convince me. Make your confession.”

The Liar was still for a moment, and then began to speak.

You call us Liars. We have a different name for ourselves. In your language, we would call ourselves the Free.

I am seven hundred years old, as you would reckon time – young by the standards of my kind. There are some elders yet among us who remember the days of our servitude, though they sleep almost always now, and float in nutrient baths, with little in the way of what you would call consciousness. They live in dreams of their memories, and they are bad dreams.