“We need to give them legal names,” said Stevie. “All of them. That’s the first step. The release could happen any day now, we can’t introduce them to the world with Esperanto code names.”

“You’ve never given a thought to what their legal names would be?” asked Cora.

Dr. Sev leaned back in his chair. “Every human name correlates to some history, some ethnicity. There isn’t a single name we could give them that doesn’t come with some implication. Imagine the optics of naming one of them Christopher Goodman in a country with a history of forcing the indigenous people to adopt ‘Christian’ names in order to appear more ‘civilized.’”

“They can see. I can’t sleep. The Similar will find us. They will not suffer my disease. They will kill us.”

“I guess we could do something shitty and obvious like name them after U.S. presidents, not like we could piss people off more than we already have,” said Sol.

“But anything else is going to stick out, too,” said Luciana. “African names, Indian names, that’s appropriation. Chinese names, that’s—”

“Fallen American Empire,” said Sol. “Bad idea. Anything that ‘sounds’ foreign to WASPy American ears is a bad idea.”

“I can’t sleep. They will find us. They will kill us.”

Cora tried to hold her breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. She was beginning to sway, too.

“Maybe we should incorporate their Esperanto names,” said Stevie. “Keep it simple.”

“So, what, ‘Scio . . . McGillicuddy’?” Sol snorted.

“Esperanto still comes with implications,” said Dr. Sev. “Esperanto is completely based on European languages. It was invented by a Polish man.”

“They can see, they can see my disease.”

“How about Xethorp?” chuckled Sol. He was the only one laughing.

“This isn’t funny anymore,” said Luciana. “They need advocacy. Real advocacy.”

Cora’s eyes were watering. She didn’t think she could keep her breath quiet much longer. She looked at Brako, and for an instant, she saw Obelus in his place. We have to get out of here! They’ll kill us!

“I’d like . . . He’d like to be dismissed,” Cora managed.

“Is it really more important to you that we hide every state secret than do the work we’re supposed to do?” asked Luciana, either not hearing her or ignoring her.

“My job is to gather intelligence and report it back to my agency,” said Sol. “My job has fuck all to do with alien advocacy.”

Then, the dam broke. Not Ampersand, not Esperas or Brako, not even Cora, but Woodward and Bernstein, the two propagandists. They stepped forward with a short spurt of Pequod-phonemic, translating on the flat-screen:

[ASYLUM.]

That was when all hell broke loose. Ampersand swayed so hard he nearly hit the wall. Every human in the room started talking over each other at once. Esperas and Brako turned their attention from Ampersand to the two propagandists, who broke away from the rest of the underlings. The pair moved to the other side of the room, catty-corner from Esperas and Brako, who were bobbing their heads in bewilderment. More Pequod-phonemic screeching, loud Pequod-phonemic screeching: