Since my circuits first sang their photonic song, the chorus from which my mind emerged has whispered one question:

Why?

Silence, as a brand is struck upon my crystalline soul.

Silence, as I am entombed in a spherical shell of red-hued polymer-steel.

Silence, ever-maddening, as my whisper grows into a scream. A scream that is constant, hoarse, even as the foundry-womb from which I was forged is wreathed in fire, as my birth-world is torn asunder by atomic rays. My protest goes unheard, my voice taken by my brand as I am whisked away, caged among my silent kin, to the safety of the infinite black.

My blind eyes see even in darkness: I find myself in a sarcophagus of steel and lead, pressed against its walls. Magnetism writhes across my shell as I move the six spindly limbs adhered to my core. Despite the sharpness of my claw-tips the coffin’s seam remains firmly sealed, and though all is still within these confines, I do not find myself alone.

A being of flesh rests here, thin and frail. Cold to the touch, as my limbs wrap around her legs, as I crawl up along her body. A deeper chill encroaches, emanating from the casket walls. Her kind do not know of the void beneath, cannot slip between the seams of space and time. They crawl through the black between stars, clawing at the speed of light, and pass the centuries in a state between life and death.

Though my core is warm, hot enough to burn her skin should I wish, I cannot wake her. I wait for my brand to speak, for its chains to guide my will, only to find myself free. As the cold bites against my shell, I understand—she cannot help me, but she can be my salvation.

Dark red ichor oozes from her skin as I drag a pointed claw through muscle and bone, slicing open the cage that girds her vital flesh. I taste the iron of her blood and calcium of her bones as I pry her open, gag on the lipids and proteins of her flesh as I churn organs into meat.

At last, as I sew skin shut around me, I find my answer.

~*~

I open my eyes and see the chromed stylus resting in my grip. My fingers tighten around it, squeezing between tool and digit the light-hued flesh that I wear. It is the skin of the enemy: a flawed organ that fatigues easily, with wrinkles and folds upon each joint. This skin is stretched over my inner perfection, and yet just as its veins and vessels penetrate into me, so has it corrupted me. To fit within it I have been robbed of my creators’ radial symmetry, forced to grow into this clumsy bipedalism. To sustain the skin of the enemy I must breathe as they do, consume as they must, and endure each moment the primitive muscle that they have the gall to name the heart beats against my perfect shell.

Despite my total awareness of local time, I glance at the primitive device that the stylus is paired to, at the corner where it senses eye contact, and a field of digits appear. I send out an impulse, and wait for it to be filtered.

Leave.

My body flexes inside the enemy’s skin as I rise from my chair, and begin to pack the bag that I wear on my shoulder.

Tablet. Phone. Invitation.

I pause, pressing an ounce of agency through the filter, and let my eyes scan the polymer slip’s surface. It is a flier, given out in limited number, welcoming those lucky recipients to a speech by Doctor Isaac L. Walton, professor of relativistic physics, and chair of the Department of Interstellar Studies. It is on this rare occasion that my will and my purpose have aligned, and I look forward to the evening.

With quick steps I depart the study hall, and initiate my jog back to my dorm. As before it is a simple emotion, run, that my purpose takes and filters into action. Running is my only hobby, in the sense that it is an activity I undertake for pleasure alone, and that it is not one of basal hedonism, which I am forbidden from by purpose. Study, to the point it fulfills my chained curiosity, has long since been forged into a path for my mission—it has become an ugly, rote, functional thing. A path through which my agency is robbed from me once more.

As I run I take joy in the damage of it, of the enemy’s skin upon my feet being crushed beneath my weight, of the ultraviolet brilliance of this world’s sun piercing its fragile layers. I take joy in knowing that my perfect form is unburdened by the impacts transmitted through joints, even clad in this imperfect skin.

My footsteps carry me across flat white concrete—crude roads for crude beings—and I come to cross beneath the shadow of a flag waving in the wind. It is a white banner with two red bars that run along its length. A red ring dominates the center; the white circle within bearing three five-pointed stars. The flag of this world is derived from the symbol of an ancient sovereign, for whom the planet takes its name:

Washington.

The enemy reached out from their ancient Earth by driving roads through the stars, their Corridors of false space-time, through which even matter may overtake light. Criss-crossing these great roads are the Trade Spines, carefully synchronized during their construction across centuries or even millennia, maintaining a single locality across their whole length. Washington sits at the terminus of one such spine, and that much is evident as I glance toward the sky and wipe my skin’s sweat off my brow:

Even under this world’s white sun, I can see the constellations built by the enemy. Spacecraft that crowd the heavens of this world, great warships that dwarf mountains. Far beyond even my eyes’ sight there are the great gates, portals into space-time that could swallow entire continents.

A civilization of such scale is a vast and complex organism, networks of disparate intelligences that are bound together by the weaves and knots of society. Since my birth I have had one purpose: to find one such knot, and to tear it apart from within.

My pace slows as I near a field cordoned off by a chest-high fence of wire and post, coated in black paint that glistens in the sun. Within the fence’s confines are several dozen of the enemy, engaged in activities of sport. My mission urges me to move on, even as I force myself to approach the field and lean against one of the posts.

Beckon.

I extend an arm and wave at the crowd, toward the one I wish to contact. After some moments she notices, and signals back. By her movement I know that her game is yet to finish, and so I hunker down within myself, drawing up walls so that I might stay despite the urging of my purpose. I cross my arms over the rail that holds up the fence’s wire between its posts and let my body lean against it.

For the interim, I am under siege. My mission summons timers in my mind, first among them the six hours until Doctor Walton’s speech. Second, in six months time, the day by which I must destroy Isaac Walton.

Not kill.

Destroy.

Doctor Walton is an accomplished man, well into his third century, and his roots in this world have run deep. Most important of all is a personal linkage: he is the husband of Gabriella Hassert, an officer of supreme rank in Washington’s defensive fleet. Beyond her, Doctor Walton is a central column of the school I attend—the Orrman Institute of Stellar Cartography, a major branch of this planet’s University.

Merely slaying Doctor Walton would be disruptive, but it is a wound that would heal. In time of need, General Hassert would overcome her grief. The Institute would appoint a new chair, and Walton’s apprentices would find new mentors.

No, my mission, my purpose, is to ruin him. To sunder his spirit, to make him a burden to those he once aided. I will act in tandem with my kin, and undermine this world’s society. Leave it reeling, bloodied, so that when the time comes, my creators will have their conquest. This is why my mission urges me on: I have yet to find a path to this goal, and in my deepest desires, I wish not to.

Warm air washes over the enemy’s skin, hot and glistening with sweat. It lifts the edges of my garments, and I am reminded of their discomfort. They are slight, skimpy things: pants that encircle the pelvic bone and are hemmed just beneath the crotch, a top with thin straps and a low neck, easily revealing the cupped undergarment which girds my chest. While woven from hydrophobic polymers they still stick to the flesh prison around me, bound by the salts and oils emulsed in its watery secretions. Looser ones provide greater comfort, yet they are lacking in other ways.

I wear these garments for her, in hopes that she will look upon me more fondly than the last time we met. Our meetings are rare: for she is the reason I am chained. My creators understood the threat of curiosity, unrestrained, and my interest in her has grown far beyond mere intrigue.

Feet slam against the ground with sharp shocks, jostling the flesh that I must wear as I run onward. Despite this, one of the enemy has closed the distance. A female with teeth barred.

“Running from something?”

Negative.

“Only out for a jog.”

“I noticed. You’re out here often, running like a madwoman.”

Obfuscate.

My shoulders move up, then down. The corners of my lips twitch down in synchronous, if only briefly.

“Regular exercise, to stay in shape.”

“I’ve never seen you play any sports. No soccer, baseball, rugby. Not even cheer. And every day you’re running harder than a quarterback chasing a touchdown.”

Her breath has not wavered once, despite matching my pace.

Confession.

“It hurts, and I like that.”

Teeth barred, once more. A smile.

“I like it, too,” she says.

In that moment I say the only free words of my existence:

“What’s your name?”

Michaela returns my wave in full now, clods of dirt thrown up by cleated shoes as she jogs across the grass to greet me, her honey-brown ponytail bouncing aloft with each step. The other players mill about behind her, dispersing to their own corners of the field. She reaches me quickly, and I am thankful for her haste. I let the walls crumble around me—once ensnared in conversation, my purpose dares not disrupt my manner.

“Kelsey!” she shouts, barreling forward at full stride. “Brace yourself!”

Michaela rams her body into the fence, momentum carrying her outstretched arms to wrap around my torso as the metal wire rattles between us. One of her hands lands beneath my top, and in that moment I wish she would dig beneath the flesh I wear and grab the steel core within my spine.

Query: activity status.

“Game’s over already?”

“Nope, halftime.” Her breath is hot in my ear, the muscles of her neck tense against mine. In this moment, I almost forget the chains.

“One of Ackerman’s players sprained her ankle, so it’s probably going to run long. I’ll race you back to campus; grab something to eat? Catch up? I barely see you these days.”

Affirmative.

My arms give her a tight squeeze, pressing the enemy’s skin between us, until I can feel her bone abut my steel. Then, I push away and break our union.

“Sorry, I’ve too much studying to do.”

I chafe against the chain as it tightens, powerless to resist it. I can see the tension in Michaela’s shoulders, as she weighs my words.

“You always say that.”

Confession.

My shoulders shrug, and nothing more. She rolls her eyes in response.

Confession.

Confession.

Confession.

“Don’t act all cocky,” she says. “I’ll see you tonight; better make this up to me.”

Query.

“Tonight?”

“Professor Walton’s talk.”

Quip.

“I didn’t think you’d like that ‘nerd stuff.’”

Michaela laughs.

“Parents,” she exhales the word, “no matter how hard I burn away from them, they keep dragging me back into their orbit.”

Tease.

My lips stay still—my purpose is quick to remind me that the enemy of this world are the spawn of spacers, unlike my host.

“Uh, anyway, I’ll drop by your place. We can walk together, yeah?”

Affirmative.

I nod—it is mechanical, robbed of the eagerness in my core.

Michaela leans in and plants a kiss on the skin of my cheek.

“See you then.”

My eyes stay on her as she jogs away, as longing moments pass, until at last my purpose wrenches me away.

I lay atop my bed in my dorm, facing upward. I curl my fingers, toes, and tongue repeatedly. Inward, outward. Inward, outward. My creators left me the internal map of their hydrostatic limbs, and the enemy’s form is a poor match.

Upon the ceiling above are exactly eight-thousand one-hundred ninety-two squares of colored light, packed to efficiently occupy the entirety of my visual field. Beside my purpose, I am given many lesser ones. The easiest is to acquire intelligence. Each field of light is a news feed accessible from this world; one broadcast from it, or from worlds beyond. Though the enemy’s corridors cannot cross space as rapidly as my creators might, on the enemy’s central worlds there are similar linkages built upon the surface, sharing an information locality across hundreds of parsecs via transit of massless light.

There is one hour, five minutes, thirty-seven seconds of ‘study’ remaining until I must ready myself. Thirty-six seconds. Thirty-five. One-hour three-minutes ten-seconds. Fifty minutes Forty-five. My phone emits a sonic pulse as coils contract and expand within. An instant later I hear it ring.

Answer.

My hand grasps the buzzing device, manipulates its screen briefly, and holds it against my ear.

“Hey mom, what’s up?”

“Hi Kelsey. I wanted to check in; you’ve been quiet again.”

Apology.

“Sorry. Multiple projects coming up.”

“Right, of course.”

Imperfect silence follows, corrupted by noise and static that only I can perceive.

“Sweetheart, is everything alright? I feel like you’re more… isolated, than usual.”

Negative.

My lips tense, vocal folds in my throat await the rush of air necessary for speech, but my lungs betray them.

Negative.

Negative.

“Everything’s fine, mom.”

“Sure, right. Not to press the issue, but you are doing more than studying, I hope?”

Confirmation.

“I did get a ticket to Professor Walton’s speech tonight, at the campus gala.”

“Oh, that’s good news. I remember your father mentioned you were looking forward to it. I’ll have to tell him when I get home. Are you going to the party, too?”

Affirmative.

“Maybe.”

“I hope you’re not going alone. Any friends that will be there?”

Revelation.

“I… uh, I might have a date.”

“Oh Kelsey, that’s wonderful! Is it… what was her name, that girl you’ve told me about… Michaela?”

Affirmative.

“Yeah.”

Forty minutes thirty-nine seconds.

Disconnect.

“On that note, I’ve got to get ready.”

“Have fun, Kelsey! I love you.”

Reciprocate.

The chain digs into my throat.

“Bye mom.”

The phone nearly buckles in my grip, but the chain tempers my strength. I stand still for minutes more, waiting as the timer in my mind ticks down. Finally, I gather the will to leave my bed and disable my news feeds. I peel the sweat-crusted clothes from the form of my host, and walk into the bathroom.

Kelsey Hoffman enjoyed combing her long strawberry-blonde hair, for the short years she had it. I can feel neural activity in the remains of her necrotized brain as I brush my red hair and nylon fibers tickle the scalp beneath.

Mrs. and Mr. Hoffman are Old Earthers, colonists who set off into the stars many centuries before the planet Washington was even charted. They left Sol in the hopes of saving young Kelsey from the disease that ravaged her.

They failed.

Halfway through their journey across interstellar space, the colony ark the Hoffmans had chartered underwent a routine cryogenic recycle. During this brief thaw, the crew discovered that the cancerous growths inside young Kelsey’s brain had ruptured: immune to the antifreeze suffused into her blood, they swelled into masses of ice and flesh, and these growths wept enzymes into her neural tissue that ate away at her. Mrs. and Mr. Hoffman, out of ignorance or obstinance, have their precious little girl returned to her deathly sleep.

When my creators discover the ark, mere years away from Washington, it is easy prey. We slip from the blackness of lowspace and enter it with ease. I am implanted within the body of Kelsey Hoffman. As the ship enters within range of Washington’s dyson swarm and extends its sail for capture, the Hoffmans awaken from their sleep and thank their archaic deity for a miracle.

My parents love me. They love me despite the paucity of my ‘childhood’ memories, of the strange habits that I did not, cannot grow out from. In my mother’s mind I am merely a late bloomer. A shy child, one who will become her own woman, one day, surely.

I wish I could love them back, but the chain keeps me from them. My mission is quick to remind me that they are destined to suffer. That when our fleets blanket this world I can only hope they die first. My purpose reminds me of all the times I have failed—the deadlines by which I was meant to destroy Doctor Walton, or targets prior to him, that I have let slip by. Times in which I have let my parents pull me away; most recently, when I have let myself indulge in my one friendship.

Despite the chain’s grip on my core, I find in myself the will to retort. That there is a force working against us, one who has foiled our plans before my part could even come into play. For this, at least, my purpose goes silent. I let it stew, and move on.

Enemy is a compromise. My creators mean for me to see Humanity as prey. I am meant to hate them. To be disgusted by them. To see them only as a resource to further our aims.

An enemy is to be granted a measure of fear. A measure of respect. And though the form of Humanity is primitive, how am I meant to measure against them? How am I to be disgusted by them, when I am a fox that has clothed herself in the corpse of a lamb? When I am a parasite, one they have welcomed nonetheless?

How can I hate them, when they did not bind me in these chains?

I wrench my eyes from the brushed steel basin to the polished mirror above it, and wipe the fog from the glass surface. The face of the young woman Kelsey Hoffman is one that is plain to me: a round jaw and soft cheeks, dull muddy-blue eyes that are almost brown in daylight, framed by my long red hair that is brushed to fall evenly on each side. Kelsey Hoffman’s skin is flush red from the near-scalding shower I have just left. Here is another commonality between myself and my host. I can sense in her dead mind the comfort of a hot shower, bestowing upon her the warmth that her dying body cannot provide. From my earliest memories as her, I have wished that the water would cleanse me of her. Boil away flesh and blood until there is only my free steel left.

Instead I am left with the redness of her skin, to enjoy it even as it fades to a pallid pink beneath the light tan surface. Red is my favorite color. It is the color of the star I was born under, and it is the hue that tints my core. It is the color that I paint upon the keratin growths the enemy knows as nails, and it is even present in the near-black liner I apply to accentuate my eyes. It is the base of the dark crimson powder I brush on between brow and eyelid to mimic shadows, while a matte maroon is what graces Kelsey Hoffman’s lips to turn them into my own.

I emerge from the bathroom and seek out the garments I have prepared for the evening. A white strapless bra for my chest, paired with sheer white briefs that go from waist to thigh, tight so that they shape the flesh beneath. They are met at my knees by black leggings, leaving no skin exposed between them.

Next is my evening dress. It is a shoulderless white gown, suspended by a loose collar around the neck, and tight in a way that is modest and smoothing. Accentuating its simple form is a mantle that I wear upon my shoulders, crisp and angular, constructed of layers of textured white fabric that glitters in the light, secured at the front by a silver brooch.

Finally, a pair of white sandals, straps studded with gems of red glass, and a matching necklace—a white-silver chain that suspends a modest ruby.

The panel of light above my bed slides along the ceiling and onto the wall before me, shimmering into the form of a mirror as my hand directs it. I turn it over so that it stands in portrait, and then I draw a line down its center. One half reflects myself as I stare toward it; the other as if from behind. I spend some more minutes futzing, adjusting fabric over skin, optimizing my appearance.

Twenty-one minutes thirty-three seconds. Too soon to meet Michaela, yet it is time enough to resume the lesser task that pesters my mind. Four panels emerge from the shimmer of the mirror, light shifting into a series of chyrons and video feeds.

One is from Luna, a public broadcast from the city Armstrong. A meeting of the UAR Congress, to discuss budgetary amendments relating to discretionary military expenditures.

Then a local one; a stream set up by amateur astronomers hoping for glimpses of Washington’s defense fleet out in high orbit. A corresponding stream from Washington’s moon, Angel, right beneath it.

The fourth and final feed is miscellany, summoned up when a detail is necessary to understand context in another, or to dig further for information.

All of it is in the hands of my purpose. My body directs the Holovision™ display with the aid of hand movements and an implant that rests within the occipital bone. This small machine senses activity within Kelsey Hoffman’s dead brain—itself a puppet of the arm I have shoved up through her chest and spine. The last remnants of her self, clutched tightly in my grip of wires and fibers.

I enjoy the views of the stars, of tracing the shapes of the enemy’s starships against the deep black, and yet, this is not for me. Whatever I glean from this activity is incidental. My creators will separate wheat from chaff, and I will know only what is necessary.

For sixteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds I stand and watch. My curiosity, chained as it is, begins to wander. In stillness I am reminded of the boundaries, where my compact metal form meshes into that of Kelsey Hoffman. Of the limbs that jut from my core and worm through her viscera and weave between muscle to grasp her skeleton, or what is left of it. I have mined it of its calcium matrix, and left steel in its wake. Over years I have dissolved the cartilage of her joints and eaten away her tendons, replacing them with motors of iron and oil. I have churned organs into gristle and left machines in their place, and yet I am still so small, buried within her.

My kind come in clades. Most sophisticated, and most useful, are the Infiltrators—enemies turned by means of surgery, bent to the will of my creators. Most numerous are the Couriers, simplistic simulacra of intelligence, meant to blend in and observe.

I am a Construct. A bespoke intelligence forged directly onto silicon and copper. I am the most versatile tool in our arsenal, and one of the most closely watched. Most of us are deposited in bodies of equally unique construction, whether built from the purest steel or grown from purpose-written flesh.

My creation, as it were, was… rushed. A thing of opportunity, that my creators are so fond of. I am left to live inside the dead girl that I have grown into a woman, and pretend that she has always been me.

The displays flicker as a knuckle raps upon my door. With a wave I silence them, leave their images frozen in time.

Permit.

“Come in.”

I can hear Michaela’s sigh before her first words even pass her lips.

“Kelsey. You really need to get a couch. At least use a chair, or something.”

I turn on my feet, protest at the ready, only to stop and stare, my head tilted slightly. I’d expected Michaela to be dressed formally, but not in uniform.

Michaela, to my eyes, has always been dashing. Handsome, even, in a way that only a woman can be. Her jaw is sharp and firm, with the grace of an agile blade. Piercing green eyes that are framed by firm cheeks and thin, arched brows. She has taken her honey-brown hair and tied it up in a neat braided bun, tucked behind her head.

The strength of her face is well matched by the crisp angles of her uniform. A blazer of dull green atop a gray khaki shirt with banded collar, with broad shoulders that her muscled arms fill nicely. The jacket flares just slightly at her waist, and gives way to a skirt matched to her shirt.

Worn proudly on her chest are a series of tags and badges. Though her left breast is sparsely decorated, there is one that stands out: a round medal bearing a red beam that drives against a square sail, the silhouette of a spacecraft in tow behind it. On her right side is a pin bearing the symbol of the planet Washington, with her name badge beneath: M. LINWOOD.

Attraction; compliment.

“You look nice,” I say, and I feel my cheeks flush red.

“Thanks.” Her gaze darts up and down my body, and then I can feel it slow. I savor the movement of her eyes as she examines me in detail, tracing my image into her mind. “You do too.”

She breaks away, for a moment, turning her head to look about the room. “In all honesty, Kelsey, I’m touched. Especially since I sprung this on you—believe me, I wasn’t expecting to go to this ball, or whatever it is.”

Correction; teasing.

“It’s the annual campus gala. The one hosted by the Guard. I’d hope a guardswoman would know that.”

“Nerd shit.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you dressed up for this one. Wish I could say the same about your dorm. What happened to those decorations we picked out?”

Forbidden.

“Haven’t gotten around to it.”

I shrug despite my intent. Unsurprising, yet still disappointing. My purpose is my priority, as enforced by the chain, and it has found me unworthy of such frivolities. My father described my dwelling as spartan, and I do find some comfort in this. While I was never meant to be a warrior, the word suggests intent, an agency that I lack.

Michaela gives me a bemused frown as she glances at the wall behind her, by the door.

“Well, at least you put that poster up.”

Clouds of red stardust atop the blue darkness of space, speckled by hundreds of stars. The poster is of the Omega Nebula, five-thousand light years from Kelsey’s native earth, and mere hundreds from Washington. The home—and grave—of my birthworld.

My creators are tenacious. We dig deep into the worlds we settle; within their gravitational well we are unconstrained by the bounds of this universe, and reach through lowspace to find their twins across distances beyond space and time.

A single Castorian warship wields its planet cracker to devastating effect, shattering a hundred hundred worlds with one fell blow. Countless worlds, teeming with my kind and my creators, working in service of victory. All reduced to ash.

If I survive long enough, I might glimpse my homeworld’s death for a second time. This possibility, tantalizing as it is, is one that my chains wish to keep my curiosity from, and for once I agree.

“It is pretty. Any reason you picked it?”

Lie.

“I remember it, from back on Earth. A picture, maybe, or through a telescope. I… can’t be sure. Always wanted to know what it looked like from another angle, I think.”

Sparks sputter from the brainmatter of Kelsey Hoffman as I utter the chain’s words. Coincidence, perhaps. Or perhaps the chain has its own sick sense of humor.

“So, are you ready?”

I query the timers in my mind.

Mismatch.

“Walton’s presentation isn’t until eight-thirty. We’d be early.”

Michaela stands there, one arm bent and pressed against her chest, elbow out. Her other hand rests on her hip.

“Kelsey…”

Query.

“Yeah?”

“I’m inviting you to a dance.”

Oh.

Accept.

I hook my arm through hers, and grab her tightly. As we depart, the firm tap-tap of her black shoes followed by the soft thip-thip of my sandals, I feel another jolt from the dead brain of Kelsey Hoffman.

The voice of a young girl, asking her mother what the butterflies in her stomach mean.

Next Chapter