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I spoke before thinking. “That’s so sad.”

“Why would you say that?” Jorlis asked.

“Because they’re your kids,” I said. “You create them, they’re part of you.”

“Ah, I see the misunderstanding,” Jorlis said. “Our species doesn’t procreate as we did in our past. We contribute genetic material and the cresh uses an artificial womb to grow the child. Of course, we visit once every few solars to check on the child's progress, but it’s actually unnecessary. Cresh staff are highly skilled and diligent.”

Halmoris spoke to Jorlis. “Not all creshes are created equal. Did you hear about that cresh on Rora Colony? The authorities found out the caregivers were letting the children make up stories and even record them.”

“I read about that,” Bomorum said. “Disgusting.”

“I heard they even found out that two of the staff had scent bonded and the rest of the staff was covering it up,” Halmoris said. “Of course, those two were dealt with, but all new staff had to be hired.”

“Well, it was a colony,” Bomorum said. “They’re never as diligent as the creshes on our homeworld, Talarian.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Every time they said something bad, I would think they couldn’t go further. Except they did.

I could understand why they didn’t have to give birth to their own kids; it was inconvenient at best and dangerous at worst. I knew of several species that used artificial wombs, although I’d also heard there was a high failure rate for the growing fetuses.

What I couldn’t wrap my head around was the idea of not raising your own kid! And then punishing cresh workers for letting kids use their imagination?

The cresh sounded physically safe but also like a place of emotional neglect. How did any of them survive such a harsh childhood?

And what did Halmoris mean when he said the scent-bonded cresh workers had been dealt with? So many questions and emotions hit me all at once that I didn't realize a tear had slipped free until Jorlis sounded a worried rumble.

“What’s wrong with Human Opal?” she asked. “There’s clear liquid leaking from her eye.”

“I read it could be caused by physical or mental pain,” Osluma said. “Does something hurt, Human Opal?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Sometimes my eyes water a little because, um, I get overwhelmed.”

It sounded dumb to my ears, but all the Talins accepted it with purrs.

“It’s because we’ve spoken about complicated things,” Milsorum said, tapping the floor. “Let’s return to playing, Human Opal. You enjoyed it so much before the discussion started.”

“Sure,” I said, and rolled the ball to Milsorum. He sounded an excited rattle and rolled it back.

I think I finally understood why these Talins were so eager to have a human of their own. We were the surrogate children to fill the missing spot their own should be. Even more, we were the children they were never allowed to be.

I was both sad and enraged.

“Are you well?” Tolly whispered in my ear. I paused with the ball in my hand to look back and give him a small smile.

“I’m fine,” I murmured, then returned my gaze to the surrounding Talins. “New game. Every time the ball comes to you, you have to name something you like.”

“Something we like?” Milsorum asked.

“Yes,” I said, and realized they were all listening very carefully so as not to mess up the new game. “A drink I like is sopa.” After I said that, I rolled the ball to Milsorum.

“I like it when all my reports are submitted on time,” he said and rolled the ball back to me.

I chuckled and shook my head. “I’m thinking more about fun things you like,” I said. “And you can’t roll the ball to the person who rolled it to you.”

“But timely reports are enjoyable,” Milsorum said, making me bark out a laugh.

I rolled the ball to Jorlis, who understood the game better. “I like it when the flat bread is freshly made. I’m sure I can taste the difference.”

“That’s a good one,” I praised, and her chest puffed out in pride. She rolled the ball to Bomorum, who was quick to name his favorite type of ship to travel in.