"Are you able to detect people, or just people-shaped holes in your perception?"

"Some of both. Owen realized the weapons and various equipment weren't concealed, and ten Humans were clearly visible to his perceptive friend the Green Radio."

"And the people-shaped holes?"

"Just one. The individual Owen encountered earlier was occasionally detectable by anomalous reactions in the environment, such as footprints appearing spontaneously in sand."

"That's shoddy work on that Rune. Amateurish. Is he with his crew?"

"The new arrivals showed no awareness of the individual who had attacked Owen. They were separated from him by some distance."

"He's hiding from them. I'm thinking stowaway."

I was talking to the Radio in the central dome of the Feast of Fools. We weren't alone; far from it. The place was abuzz with nonhuman activity: Gardeners and their companions the Big Smart Bees. Los Cazadores, running in groups of two or three, some working with Makers on Magic amplifications to brass, gear-laden machinery.

It was a wonder, drenched in sunbeams and lush jungle vegetation, waterfalls, glass pipes and brass machinery. It was mine. My responsibility, my friends. My guys.

Not a single human visible. Very nice.

"Ow," I said. "Stings, you criminal."

"Your pain is the sweetest of music," said Gary, translated by the Radio. Gardeners such as Gary spoke with whistles outside my range of hearing. "You should not have allowed yourself to be attacked. The level of irresponsibility is reprehensible and you SHOULD suffer."

He was patching me up with alien medications. He'd been learning the craft from some of the ancient machinery in the Feast of Fools labs. We were surrounded by jars of all sizes, plants in tiny pots, glass pipes with flowing water. Gary was expert in the mad sciences.

He was a big blue-and-pink being; he looked like a weather balloon with five multiply-jointed limbs growing from the bottom, surrounded by dozens of randomly-spaced blue marbles for eyes. He and his people floated and flew; we'd built them little propeller engines to buzz around with.

He was from another Slice altogether called the World-of-Trees. His real name wasn't Gary, in case you were wondering about that. His guys worked wonders with agriculture, and now medicine.

He applied some sort of eye-wateringly strong ointment to my face where I'd been so effectively punched. Gary's hands were simple, armored, strong, but he held the little brush with great precision.

"Do not be hurt again for a long time," he said. "I tire of repairing you and your persistent, selfish injuries."

"Thanks, doc. What did I miss this morning?"

"Bathing, clearly. Also: the Human people annoy me. Even worse than you do, and you are Human, and you annoy me. These other Humans are more efficient at earning my hatred."

"What did they do this time?"

"Complained about food. Fought amongst themselves. Behaved incomprehensibly."

"That's pretty standard."

"They threatened a Gardener. They threw objects at her. My fury is–"

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"WHAT did you say?"

"They…it was possibly done in jest." Gary reared back, dropping his tools. His arms folded into a posture I'd recognized as a lack of aggression, possibly placation. "I may have misjudged the situation."

"No." I stood. Took a deep breath. My face was hot, fists at my sides. "Humans."

"I should not have mentioned it."

"That's dumb, man. You need to be able to tell me this stuff."

"I told you because I want you to know. No Gardener was injured. All is well."

I was heating up. Pulse in my ears.

"Everyone is being responsible." Gary was gesturing with all those arms; I had no idea what he was trying to convey. "The Humans are unable to control themselves. It's not their fault. Owen. Owen."

I took deep breaths. In with the bad air, out with the good air. "It's not your problem."

"Isn't it? I'm concerned you'll find the culprits, eviscerate them and feed them their own living entrails until they die, all while coating them with flesh-eating bacteria. You will savor the screams of their dying agonies."

My eyebrows went up. "Pretty specific. Do you have any flesh-eating bacteria?"

"It was NOT a suggestion."

I stomped down the ramp from the Observatory to the main island, the Human encampment. They lived in white plastic tents left for them by their former master, Doctor Jeffrey Harrigan. He wasn't a going concern any longer.

Some of the guys had built them sturdy houses. The Makers weren't remotely Human, though, and hadn't done a great job at understanding Human spaces. I thought they were fine, but I was covered with moving alien tattoos, lived in a flying non-aircraft and had friends who had never met a Human before me.

Sean Harrigan saw me coming. His hands went up placatingly. "It's been dealt with. It has."

Sean was muscular, beefy, handsome in a preening, somewhat cruel way. He and I had a history of killing one another. It made for an awkward relationship.

"The guys are off-limits to Human bullshit, Sean. You know this!"

He nodded, having expected my tirade. "They get scared, Owen. They're under a lot of pressure. They're scared."

Sean was doing his best. He was trying his best. I had to cool my jets, Jasper. Look at him and his dumb Human face, worried about his dumb Human pals.

I peered around the wall of his body. Did I hear whispering? An amused snort?

Sean's eyes widened. He glanced over his shoulder. "Owen, now…now wait."

A male Human voice called from the trees. It was loud, then dropped in volume halfway through the shout like he'd regretted speaking up: "Let us go home!"

An idea flickered in my two-volt brain.

A rock, one of several thrown at me this morning, came over the trees, struck my head at an angle. It wasn't a big rock, and it wasn't a hard throw. I brushed dirt out of my hair and kept thinking.

I'd been punched in the face this morning by someone from Earth, hadn't I? Someone who, very likely, would be allowed to return to Earth by his bosses. I cocked my head. Hmm.

Hmm.

Sean was shouting into the trees, something about it not being rocket surgery for chrissakes. His face was a mask of horror. "Oh shit Owen, I'm sorry, they…I'm so sorry!"

"Huh? What about? Oh, the…rock, sure. No worries, they can't help it. They want to go home?" It was a challenging concept.

"Yeah." I called over his shoulder to the rock-thrower in the trees. "Let me get back to you on that, about going home. Leave the Gardeners alone, they feed you."

I turned and went back up the ramp. Then turned, pointed at Sean.

He nodded. Looked relieved.

I felt the heat leaving my face. I was getting less crazy. Mess with my guys…

I went to discuss this with the Radio in the Library. It was good to have a solvable problem to work on; four-dimensional transportation and life support was a lot easier than Human society, let me tell you.

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