The Alien In Charge tires of the waiting game and says, “Well, it would appear that our young warrior is a black warrior.”

I'm somewhat puzzled by the remark.  I'm of typical north continent stock.  I'm about 6 feet two inches tall, I weigh about 200 pounds, I have a light olive complexion, green eyes and black hair.  Since I spend almost all of my time indoors, my skin color is very light, almost white.  It seems strange that the AIC would seize upon my closely cropped black hair as a prime distinguishing characteristic.  Then again, the aliens have little or no hair on their heads.

I ask. “By Black Warrior, do you mean my hair, sir?”

The AIC’s face twitches slightly and he leans a bit forward.  He lectures me, “Living creatures project a sort of ... aura about them.  The aura is faintly detectable, at least if one is trained to detect an aura.  You have no such aura.  There's a story of a warrior with no aura.  He's called Black Warrior.”  The AIC delivers his little speech in an odd sort of accent.  It's a light sort of accent, probably just a matter of phrasing.  Having spoken, he waits for my response.

Seeing that a reply is expected, I decide to try to learn something.  I say carefully, “I haven't yet encountered the Black Warrior story in my studies.  I'll ask my teachers about the story.  I hope the Black Warrior was a skilled and loyal sort of fellow.”  (One thing to always remember, when dealing with adults, is that they expect to have their ass kissed in a socially expected format.  Referencing teachers respectfully and espousing socially accepted characteristics is a good start and you don’t even have to pucker.)  I wait for a reaction to my reply.

The AIC thinks my comments over for a long time.  He then asks, “If you're not Black Warrior, what is your name?”

What's my name?  Something over six years of repressed fear, hate and denial erupt inside my head!

If I'm to continue to survive, I have to remain calm, somehow!  I clamp down hard on my raging emotions.  A half dozen years of living on the edge trains even a child in the control of his emotions.  The control is a matter of absolute necessity, in order for me to survive.

The best way to remain calm is to analyze the situation.  I can better hide my emotions and buy more time if I vocalize, “Well in the society in which I was born, it's normal for parents to give the child a first name and a second name.  The child’s third name is the father’s third name.  For the last six years the Rustat Academy has been my father and my mother.  The Rustat Academy has never given me a first or a second name, but rather an identification number.  Academy doesn't seem like much of a third name.  It would appear that I must search for a name.  Why not just call me Searcher?”  (“Not too bad”, I think.  “I have, once again, managed to produce the type of pseudo serious crap to which adults respond well.  I might even survive to face another day!”)  Again, I wait to see the reaction to my latest effort.

The AIC muses, “Searcher seems like an odd sort of name ...  What then of your actual parents?”

I think for a moment.  The AIC wants some sort of emotional reaction from me.  I think of trying to fabricate the reaction, but the risk of a fantasy is way too high.  I simply reply calmly, “What then of my actual parents?”

The AIC makes no reply.  Strangely, my choice of a name gives me some calmness.  Calm is good, but the thought intrudes, “For what am I searching?”  Maybe that last is a part, at least, of my search.

The AIC, apparently seeing that he'll get nothing more of interest by discussing my name, takes a different tack.  He says with false heartiness, “Well, Searcher, the Rustat Academy has provided you with a good and thorough education ...”

I quickly jump in, “If I may politely correct you sir, the Rustat Academy has provided me with only a part of an education.  The law states that I must receive education until I have finished my sixteenth year.