The twilight air of Washington is crisp upon the skin I wear; a young world of verdant plains, it is warm during the day and cools quickly in darkness. I turn my head skyward as Michaela leads me down the campus streets, and admire the cities that cross Angel’s terminator in the heavens above, lights shining from the stark black.
My eyes see deep into the void between these worlds. From the vast nothingness I pick out the silhouettes of familiar spacecraft: the carrier Orrman, the monitors Dowell and Santiago. Among the fleet at large, I spy something peculiar. A speck of blackness, colder than the surrounding space, floating about the nearest Lagrange point. Hiding, but from whom?
We reach the site of the gala: Gregory J. Xiang Hall, a domed building constructed in Lunar Revival style. Steel frame clad in regolith, heat-cured in situ and carved with neat, meticulous decorations.
Xiang Hall is one of the oldest buildings on campus, well into its second millennium, and built from native soil. As is common in Lunar Revival, its grand entrances lead immediately to ramps or stairs, descending below. What appears from the outside to be a grassy lawn with arched hills that surround the central dome is in fact the ceilings of various wings, rooms, and hallways. In this style the surface structure is constructed from what is excavated, built as a shield against the local sun and the cosmos beyond. Practical on a world without the protection of atmosphere and magnetism. Now, the lawn above gives space for a number of gardens and parks.
Michaela gives the occasional wave, greeting, or smile as we walk through the cavernous main hall. I can feel her arm tense with each passing encounter, see the faint blush on her cheeks.
Comment; recognition.
“You seem pretty popular.”
“I know,” she whispers with definite strain in her tone. “I hate wearing this damn thing. Always get noticed in it.”
Query; alternates.
“Don’t you have that nice suit? And that ballgown?” I glance around, at the other attendees. “Besides, I thought reservists don’t need to be in full dress for this sort of event, unless you’re on duty.”
“We don’t, but… parents wanted me to go. Stepmom’s here too. Pressure’s on.”
Sympathy.
I lean into her slightly, rub my shoulder against her’s. “You pull it off well.”
“Thanks.”
Michaela’s head swivels left then right, scoping out the grand entry hall.
“Hey, let’s cut through Baumann Hall. Skip the crowd.”
I feel her arm tug against mine, pulling us to the side. She points toward a function map hanging along the wall, to the theater set aside as the VIP lounge. My feet drag slightly as I resist, hesitant in my movement. With my free hand I dig through my purse, searching for my ticket.
Protest.
“Hold on, I only have a ticket for the speech. They won’t let me in.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“Come on, Kelsey. They’re not going to tear a soldier’s date from her arm and tell the poor girl to wait outside. It’s just a fancy party”
The temperature of my core begins rise, as security measures come online. My existence necessitates hypervigilance, to preserve my assumed identity at all costs. Regardless of Michaela’s insistence that this is a mere social gathering, it is one organized by an armed force that secures enemy territory across two-hundred light years. If they discover what I am, they will do far worse than tear me from her arm. They will tear me apart. And she will join them.
Relent.
“Okay, fine,” I mutter. “Don’t make me say ‘I told you so.’ if I get kicked out.”
“Don’t you worry,” she says, her lips curling into a cocky smile. “You won’t.”
We break off from the main concourse and through the doors of Baumann Hall, the sharp tap-tap of Michaela’s shoes echoing down the empty wing. The lights are a dim red here, overpowered by the pallid columns of moonlight which shine through skylights in the vaulted ceiling above. Though nothing near the grandeur of the main hall, Baumann has an impressive scale of its own. Narrower, with its four-storey walls lined with walkways, bridges, and stairs, the wing feels almost like a canyon mine.
“Kerry’s right,” Michaela muses. “This place must’ve been a prison.”
I glance to each wall, at the yard-deep compacted regolith lined regularly with doors and half-inch thick glass. Some rooms house desks, others benches fit with equipment.
Correction.
“It’s the biolab, that’s all.”
“I know that, just imagine all these labs with, oh, bars over the windows. Don’t you see it?”
Negative.
I shrug and shake my head.
“Let’s hurry up. I need a drink.”
With her in the lead our pace picks up, yet as we cross the hall’s midpoint my eyes are drawn to the badge pinned to her chest once more. I apply a bit of drag with my feet, and pull against Michaela with my arm, coaxing her to a stop.
“Hmph. Where’d that come from?” She says, giving my bicep a squeeze.
Query.
“That medal. How’d you get it?”
“Which one?” She pinches the fabric of her jacket, tilting it toward me.
Specify.
“That one,” I say, reaching out to poke it.
“Oh, ugh, that one’s a story. Can I tell you later? Bit embarrassing.”
Persist.
“No one’s listening but me.”
Michaela frowns and glances around, peeking at the backs of staircases, at the various fountains, pedestals, and benches that occupy the central space of Baumann.
“Fine.”
She hooks her arm back over mine, and we start off again, at a slow pace.
“Back when I was, shit, five? Six? I can’t recall. Dad had to go to some meeting or conference on Angel. I was supposed to go with him, but apparently I didn’t take to my lunar legs all that well. Too fond of jumping all over the place. Stepmom was on shore leave up on the tether, so he dumped me with her. Oh, important context: I was in the Junior Cadets. So, spent a week up in orbit, Dad’s supposed to be back soon, and then his conference gets extended. Mom’s shore leave is up before he’ll be done. You’re seeing the issue, yeah?”
There is a contradiction I note, but I doubt it is the one she assumes is obvious. To my knowledge, Michaela has no father, not in the sociological sense.
Perplexion.
“Dad? Did your mom remarry?”
“Ugh, look, family situation’s complicated. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
Affirmative.
“Sure, sure. Go on.”
“Fortunately, Stepmom was—still is—a big-wig. Officer’s quarters isn’t ideal containment for a bratty firecracker, but she managed, despite my best efforts.”
Query; doubt.
“How’d she get away with that?”
“I truly don’t know.” Michaela shrugs. “I think she had me detained on a technicality, perhaps ‘lollipop theft’ or something. However she did it, no big deal, Dad can charter a private shuttle and fetch me on his way back groundside. Simple, right?”
Assumption.
“Wrong?”
“Bingo.”
Michaela lets out another sigh, and stops suddenly.
“Kelsey, do you really want to hear the rest of this? I’ve been enjoying… whatever it is we have together. Don’t want to ruin it.”
A sentiment I share. At the same time, she has managed to snag my curiosity, and I get so few chances to indulge it.
Affirmative.
I nod, slowly. “Go on.”
“We get a call. Some old slow boat freighter, or an icebox—you know, those colony ships?—their sail is stuck. Frozen, vacuum welded, warranty expired. It’s bad. We’re one of three ships with the fuel to get there and get back, and the dee-vee window’s closing by the second. So we unfurl and fly off.”
My mouth opens slightly, and that is enough to signal astonishment.
“You were only a kid?!”
“Yep. Got the whole deal. All five gees. They bundled me in some kind of pressure suit, stuck what felt like a gallon of saline into me, left the line in, and squeezed me like a sardine to keep my blood pressure up.”
Pressure is familiar. The memory of my core, my body, my self. Caged together with my kin. Sewn into the living corpse of a child. Compressed as organs stiffen when my host is plunged back into cryosleep. Pressure, as I shove my limbs through her iced innards in my desperate bid to take control. Pressure, as her heart beats against my shell.
Empathy.
“That’s… ow.”
“Ow isn’t even half of it.” Michaela’s face is beyond flush now, and has gone beet red. “I pissed myself. All the way up to a tenth of cee, and I was pissing myself. For fourteen fucking days.”
I laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
Until at last my tongue sticks to my dried throat, and I cough it back up.
“Stop. Please,” Michaela says, her voice quite small.
Apology.
“Sorry, I… sorry.”
I cough a few more times, and she fixes me with a smack between my shoulder blades—one that’s a bit firmer than necessary.
“Worst part of the whole ordeal? Some hotshot out in the cloud beat us to it. Burned a damn year’s worth of antimatter and nearly got himself scattered to the stars, but the fucker got there first. We cruised back at a nice, leisurely one-gee. Stepmom had me dress up in my little cadet jacket and skirt and that stupid little hat they had us wear and presented me with my consolation prize. In front of the whole fucking ship, too, or what felt like the whole ship.”
Query; realization.
“Those people who recognized you… do they know?”
“Given the damn-near incestuous relationship between the Guard, the Institute, and the Fleet? Too many of them have heard, and whoever they are, they’re damn good at hiding it.”
Michaela’s pace quickens without warning, and I have to take several awkward strides before I find her rhythm.
“Anyway, between that and what you already owe me, I think it’s fair that you pay for a few drinks. And I thought I needed one before…”
Bass beats penetrate the metal doors at the end of Baumann hall. The rumbling rhythm is pleasing—one of the few stimuli I can experience directly, without the proxy of my host. As we get closer, a most rare thought arise in my mind, and I package it up neatly for delivery:
Query, tease.
“So… did they fit you with a catheter, or was it closer to a bucket situation?”
“One more word, and you’re paying for all of my drinks.”
Relent.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Michaela grabs the handle of one door and swings it open for me. I step through, and pull her with me.
The VIP party has spilled out from the theater-cum-lounge, much as Michaela predicted, into a throng of people in the main hall. We slip by as she takes the lead, and enter the lounge unmolested—much to my relief. Yet, while the heat in my core has subsided, and Kelsey Hoffman’s heart has slowed, I am wary of the soldiers. Those in the crowd, like us, are little threat. But I see others up in the boxes, more stationed at exits, with laser arms in neat black holsters on their hips.
The first thing Michaela does is march us over to the bar—a number of low tables lined up together and draped in fine white cloth. I make for the punchbowl, curious of its delectable red hue, and help myself to a small cup. Michaela looms over the bottles arrayed at the far end, before finally plucking out one that is tall and square. As her hand draws her prize past the table’s edge she is lit all over in angry red.
“Hey!” shouts a man in a black vest. “Need to pay first!”
“The lady will handle that,” she says with a smile, and waves a hand toward me.
I consider refusing for some moments, then capitulate. I walk over, and send an impulse to the implant in the base of my host’s skull. There is a pleasant beep from a small black box on the table, and its red spotlight fades.
Michaela pours herself a cup of the honey-hued liquid, and swallows it just as quickly. She tosses the empty cup into a nearby can, and hands the bottle off to a passing member of the waitstaff.
“For our table. Later. Thanks.”
There is an energy to the way Michaela’s shoulders sway as she saunters toward me and extends a hand, palm up.
“For you, my lady. A dance?”
My “Yes” leaves my lips almost as soon as affirmation materializes in my mind, and as my fingers curl into hers, I am thankful for the chain’s restraint.
~*~
A roar of applause splits the quiet left by Doctor Walton’s closing words, and as it settles down to scattered clapping, conversation rises in its wake. My purpose has busied itself sifting through the details of Doctor Walton’s presentation—theories that might suggest troubling developments, research paths that our agents will suppress. I comb over what is personal; for while I delight in his work, I am here for leverage. He began with a dedication, as is expected—to his wife, and to his children. There is particular praise given to his youngest daughter; during which I briefly recall Michaela squirming in her seat. Coincidence—Michaela is bored, and she finds chairs most uncomfortable.
Furthermore, Isaac Walton and Gabriella Hassert have no children between them. In his youth, Doctor Walton had a fifty-year marriage to a woman by the name of Olivia Ladner. With her, he has three children. One is deceased, lost to a tragic accident at the young age of ninety; the remainder, a daughter and a son, have taken up their own lives offworld. They are of no use to me.
His speech is peppered with stories, anecdotes and tall tales, of colleagues and of friends. By what records I have accessed in my time studying Doctor Walton, they have since become distant friends. Good friends, but their loss shall not be the visceral blow that I must deliver. My purpose weighs on me—by the standards of my kin, I am already close to the deadline, and I have neither a plan nor the tools with which to enact one. I remind my purpose that this is merely the intermission, and that the enemy has a habit of saving what is best, for last.
During the speech, Michaela has been notably preoccupied by her own portable device—its blue-white glow on her face even now, as the phone rests in her grip.
Query; emotion.
“Bored?”
“You could put it that way,” she says, looking up at me. “Honestly, Kelsey, how do you stand this nerd shit?”
Answer; purpose.
“It’s why I’m here. Going to school.”
“So’s the lot of us.” She waves a hand to the tables around us, students and faculty. “You’re the only one who insists on having to eat, sleep, and breathe the curriculum.”
Honest evasion.
“I wasn’t a great student in grade school. Trying to make up for it, you know?”
“Kelsey, I walked in on you standing stock-still, rapt attention paid to a budgetary hearing, with two, may I repeat two silent livecasts of fucking sky-cams, and an article on stellar lensing. What, you hoping the UAR’s going to build a few new telescopes?”
Narrow truth.
“Yes.”
Michaela lets out a rumbling sigh and slides her phone across the tablecloth, an image on its display.
“How about you put that nerd brain of yours to good use, for once, and tell me what you think about this? Gotta be faked, right?”
I take the phone in my hand, and start to process the image. It is… blurry, like my eyes can’t focus on it. Or perhaps they won’t.
Query; clarify.
“What am I looking at?”
“It’s probably classified, but it’s definitely hit public fibers by now, so don’t worry about that. You remember that ammo depot that blew up? Roundabouts of Bush City, few weeks back? Supposedly some hothead hacker pulled the security footage. SEER-net probably burnt out every electronic device within a mile radius of his mom’s basement, but he managed to get these few frames out there.”
I stare deeply at the blur again, at the way it shifts in slow, choppy steps. I decipher the blocks that my chain has erected in the neural pathways of Kelsey Hoffman, and in less than a second, I see the frames clearly.
Twenty frames spread out along six seconds of thirty-frames-per-second footage. A paucity of information to the enemy’s eye, but more than enough for me to reconstruct it in full. As I run the footage through the eye in my mind, I realize why the chain has sought to obscure it.
War machines of the enemy—they move in crisp, programmed movements. Pilotless, or perhaps hijacked by some unknown agent. Many, on tread and on foot, have met violent ends, ruined forms belching black smoke from within. The remainder stand against one being: a blonde haired woman of about my age, with eyes that glow red. Her skin is flayed open along her arms, legs, and torso, flesh and bone giving way seamlessly to machinery. From within her extends to worst weapons my creators have ever entrusted my kin with, red and black steel glowing with the primal heat of a dwarf star.
A Destroyer.
Lie.
“It’s fake. Has to be.”
Michaela plucks her phone from my grip, and stares at it once more.
“Are you sure? Weird to just have a depot go up like—” she sets the phone down, and mimes a mushroom cloud with her hands. “—Boom!”
Obfuscate.
“Well, what even is that? Some kind of robot? Cyborg?”
“The theories going around are she’s some kind of weapons project, or maybe a rogue Vathari.”
Correction.
“She’s a bit fleshy for a Vathari.”
“That’s what I said!”
Persist.
“And have you ever seen weapons like that? Just wait for the report. It’ll be nothing. Accidental cookoff or the like.”
Michaela shrugs, and slips her phone into a pocket on her uniform.
“Hmm…” she sighs. “Guess you’re right.”
Another few moments pass, and I see her hand creep up toward her phone’s hiding place.
Distract.
I lift the bottle from the center of our table, and tilt it toward the light from the stage.
Query.
“Why Scotch?”
Michaela gives me a puzzled frown; the lines of her face have a soft glow from the small candle between us.
“That can’t be Scotch. There’s no way.”
Read.
“Genuine* Stellar Scotch,” I read off the label. I pour myself another glass, and take a quick sip. With the analyzer embedded in the root of Kelsey Hoffman’s tongue, I verify the molecular composition against my database of miscellany: malted barley aged in oak, suffused with the smoke of burnt peat.
Confirmation. “Tastes like Scotch, too.”
“There’s no fucking way. Give me that.”
She reaches over and grabs the bottle from my hands, angling it in the light.
“Well shit. No trademark or copyright in sight. Even has the saltire stamped down in the corner. Wonder how the hell they got that license.”
The asterisk leads my wandering eye to a pattern-code stamped into the bottle, which I decipher and feed into the machine at the base of my host’s skull. The implant communicates with the phone that rests in my purse, and returns the requested information. Such cybernetics are not uncommon, though they are rare among young university students such as myself. My true body compensates for its hardware shortcoming, and I have spoofed the onboard firmware to make it safe from prying eyes.
Answer.
“They terraformed a whole planet for the purpose, it looks like. Big legal squabble over ‘Genuine Scotch,’ so they settled by throwing in ‘Stellar’ in, and giving Scotland a cut.”
“After that expense, I bet the exec’s would happily sacrifice their first borns just to break even.”
Query; reminder.
“You haven’t answered my question yet.”
“Honestly? I just looked for a percent over sixty.” She gives the bottle a slosh, about half full now. “You know, I was expecting this to last me a month. Glad I made you pay for it.”
I find myself with the freedom to shrug of my own will. Like running, alcohol has a pleasant burn. I am not subject to its psychological effects, though I can feel them in the brainmatter of my host.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re part Neph with that liver of yours.”
Neph, short for Nephilim, refers to the diminutive natives of the moon Angel, far away in the skies above. Humans adapted by strife, selection, and science to thrive on an airless dead rock. Notable features include a high resilience to alcohols—they can only be impaired by isopropyl—enhanced immune system, outsized cross-sectional muscle density and corresponding strength-to-mass ratio, and a subdermal matrix of engineered heavy metals that serves to deflect and absorb solar radiation and deep-penetrating cosmic rays.
There are a number of Nephilim in the audience, and they serve as a reminder of my mission. Any intelligence, faced with annihilation, may yet survive passage through the deadly precipice and emerge far greater. My mission is to facilitate the goals of my creators: to prevent such pockets of human exceptionalism from achieving these greater heights, and to preempt the rise of more.
Humanity at large has been a species of near stagnant development. Certain adaptations of the spacers have spread far enough to become fundamental to the baseline, even on Earth itself—a moderate increase in gee tolerance, and lifespans that may reach a single millennium with luck and good health. This extension of their lives and memories has created cultural paralysis, enforced by the tight web of information weaved throughout their worlds, and the populations that travel in true stasis from star to star.
When my creators launched their first salvo in this hidden war, over a thousand years ago, they expected to meet a species that is weak. One that has never met a foreign intelligence of hostile means before. One that is spread out and slow to respond, even with their corridor gates. Dozens of worlds fell to our forces with ease, as we cut the ties they had to greater Humanity.
We did not expect their children to intervene—for we believed them unrelated. The Vathari, beings that have transcended flesh, and the Castorians, who transcended death. My creators have become locked in a losing war with these self-appointed vanguards of mankind, but it is not yet a war that will lead to our extinction.
My mission, and that of my kin, is to ensure that when my creators’ hammer falls upon greater humanity it shall not harden their resolve, but break their spirit. Already, I doubt my chance of success. And my chain answers by lashing tightly against me.
Retort; jest.
“A lightweight would make that assumption, yeah.”
Michaela rolls her eyes.
“Hmph. Is that a challenge?”
Tease.
“At least your hair’s already tied back.”
I feel the tip of her shoe against my shin as she smiles and shakes her head.
“Careful.”
Deescalate.
I give her the most sheepish shrug I can manage, slouching in my chair to make myself small. She scowls, smiles, and shakes her head.
Some quiet moments pass, and I occupy them by playing with the bits of salad left on the plate before me.
“Hey, Kelsey, question?”
Permit.
“Yes?”
“When we were dancing, I noticed a man looking at you. Do you know him?”
Recall is instant and perfect.
I feel her arm on my hip, her right hand flat against the small of my back, my left wrapped over her shoulder. She leads, and I follow. I match her every step in perfect rhythm, and the muscle near my core quickens its beats as she pulls my chest against hers.
In the edge of my visual field I see a short-haired man in a tan suit, lounging against the stage. He has small, beady eyes set in a homely face. The instant his still eyes meet my own I am sure of his identity: a Courier.
Obfuscate.
“I’m not sure… what’d he look like?”
“Black suit, kind of shaggy hair. Glasses. Kept glancing at you, then away when I caught him. You really didn’t notice?”
That confirms its camouflage is functional, at least.
Lie.
“Didn’t see him. Think he’s a problem?”
“If I did, my fist would be in his face. Just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable.”
Gratitude.
I lean in and squeeze Michaela’s hand. “Thanks; I’m fine.”
She smiles. “If anyone does bother you, let me know.”
I give her a nod, and as our hands come apart again, I see the Courier some few tables back, its eyes locked to mine.
Depart; excuse.
“Well, I think that whiskey found its way to the exit. Back in five?”
“Gotcha.”
I set my purse on the table as I stand up, safe in Michaela’s view, and start to walk away.
“Kelsey, wait!”
Query.
I turn my head over my shoulder.
“Yes?”
“If they don’t have your order, what should I get you instead?”
Random.
“The steak, with mashed potatoes.”
“Gotcha.”
I leave the tables clustered on the theater floor, and note the Courier’s absence. True to my word, I seek out the appropriate facilities for the expulsion of biological entropy, and when I leave the restroom I find the Courier waiting. With simple eye contact my purpose seizes the Courier’s reins, and I lead it off to a side hallway. My purpose sits it down on a cushioned bench as I pull a plush chair aside to face it. I feel my lips move, but the words that leave my mouth are not my own. I engage the Courier in a facsimile of small talk, in which I play my role as a student catching up with a former classmate.
We lock eyes at predetermined intervals in this false conversation, and a radio beam pierces into my left eye as my right eye shines information back out. The messages are intelligence updates; I submit the results of my investigations, and my current mission status. In return I receive small snippets, some pertinent to me, others mere fragments that I am to pass on to the next Courier I meet. Most responses pass me by entirely, to be guarded closely by my chains. This, at least, is the status quo. Today I forgo my ignorance and work to decipher this Courier’s utterings. My focus: enemy action.
Recession expected on Ishikura due to agent action. Downturn in spineward traffic expected as primary result.
*Fabricator presence on foundry cluster located in coreward Orion spur sector eight-seven-five-eight-one. Destruction of primary foundry world verified within eight point three hours of Fabricator landing. Sector evacuation aborted due to arrival of Council Fleet. Damaged assets redirected away from coreward sectors. Sector declared uninhabitable, all worlds lost.
Confederation blackcloak detected orbiting Washington-Angel median point. Purpose unknown; investigation warranted.
*Hammer final phase in progress. Outer spur assets more compliant than predicted. Vathari interference currently minimal.
Union of American Republics budgetary allocation suggests upswing in fleet construction focused on long range strike force. Potential launch of five thousand combat carriers in next decade alongside three hundred monitors.
*Elimination of remaining assets on Luna correspond with arrival of Castorian ambassador at Armstrong. Assets in Soviet League eliminated by native counterintelligence. Total loss of assets in Sol-Centauri complex.
The last words of my scripted conversation fall upon the Courier’s deaf ears, and we each rise from our seats. As it moves to depart, I grab its reins briefly, and lock our eyes once again.
Confirm Destroyer active on Washington.
No response.
Confirm Destroyer activity.
Nothing.
Repeat: Confirm.
The radio beam emits its photons in short sputters, until at last it reaches full power.
*No Destroyer active in Washington-Ishikura complex. Last known insertion attempt resulted in total loss of Infiltration Skiff seven-seven-four-nine. Vathari elimination of Destroyer subject eight-three-five-three-nine confirmed by analysis of tissue remains recovered from debris.
I focus the power of my response, to ensure it is received:
Lie.
The Courier stares at me in silence. Immune to its camouflage, I see the unthinking glass orbs it wears in place of eyes. It cuts its reins free, and walks away. I watch it leave until my chain yanks me back to the purpose at hand, and marches me back to the theater.
“Everything go alright in there?”
Clarify.
I give Michaela a puzzled look as I slide back into my seat; she barely looks away from her phone.
“Said you’d be back in five.”
I query the timers in my mind—five minutes thirty-one seconds have passed.
Not bad, for a human.
Excuse.
“Some asshole overflowed a toilet. Saved my dress and shoes; had to wash a foot off though.”
“Heh. Maybe they’ll dig up the old pipes in these walls and finally put in some proper stainless if that keeps up.”
Her words are not slurred, but they are slower than before. I glance at the bottle, and note an ounce more is gone.
Query; intoxication.
“I thought you only liked getting buzzed.”
“I know, I know, I know, I know…” She returns her phone to its pocket, missing on the first try. “Look, I love my old man, really do, but listening to him talk is just… stars, it’s like his work is his first child. Which’d put me at, oh… fifth.”
Confusion.
“Old man?”
“You’re right, he’s not even started graying yet, but, y’know—Dad. Father. Pater.”
I am not wrong about Michaela being a lightweight, and yet, I clearly do not know her well enough.
Clarify; assumption.
“Are you talking about Professor Walton?”
“What gave it away? My eyes, or that I’m sick of all his nerd shit?” She chuckles a bit to herself, and downs the last half of her glass of Scotch. “Hey, good news, when you finally meet my folks, you and him will get along like two eggheads locked in a decades-long dispute.”
I feel my core temperature begin to rise, as the beats of Kelsey Hoffman’s heart quicken.
Correction; evidence.
“I’ve met your parents.”
“You’ve met my moms.”
The chains around my concept of Michaela shift as inconsistencies become clear. Answers click into place.
I cannot believe them.
I query the miscellany stored in my databanks—legal records of birth, marriage, divorce. Everything I could get my hands on.
Michaela Linwood is the daughter of Ursula and Olivia Linwood, née Tealson. Olivia Linwood has two amicable divorces on record; details are sealed on account of mutual privacy agreement between divorcees. I dig further; even if Olivia Linwood is Olivia Ladner, by virtue of shared birthdate and birthplace, there is no record of parentage linking Michaela Linwood and Isaac Walton.
Disbelief; rude assumption.
“So, he’s what, your sperm donor?”
“Kelsey! No one calls a sperm donor dad! Well, except for some weirdos.”
Protest.
Micheala cuts me off as I open my mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I know that I’m weird.”
She puts her hands behind her neck, and groans as she leans back.
“Fuck. This shit’s stronger than I thought’d be.”
I can sense the embarrassment in her words.
Redirect; distract.
The chain worms into my tongue as I open my mouth.
“Come on, you can’t just pique my curiosity and leave me with nothing.”
These words are correct in that my curiosity is genuine, yet I fear the answers it seeks.
She groans again, then leans in close, elbows on the table.
“Alright,” she begins, voice low, almost to a whisper, “I’ll spill.”
My ears tune out the surrounding world, and my eyes meet hers.
“Short of it is, mom had an early menopause—only in her two-hundreds, too! Genetic issue, not easily fixed. Wasn’t a big deal, she got a hormone regulator put in, wasn’t planning on having a fourth kid anyway. Then she met my mama and, well, things got serious. They tried fertility treatments, synthetic spermatogenesis, nothing stuck. Then her doctor does some digging—she’d had problems before, when she was with dad. On his end, that time. Turns out they still had some embryos in deep freeze. So they pulled me out of storage, and nine months later: ta-da!”
Acknowledgment.
The chain twists again in my throat.
“So… if he’s your dad. General Hassert…?”
“That’s stepmom. Good old Gab-gab. She never liked being called that—I swear she stuck me in the Juniors just to drill it out of me. We don’t talk much these days—better to keep our relationship under wraps.”
If my jaw could drop, it would.
Understanding.
“I see why you’d want to keep that quiet, especially here, of all places.”
“Yeah…” She pours another ounce of Scotch, and swirls it in the glass. “Maybe mama was right; should’ve gone to the ag school. Would’ve been less of a headache. But hey, then I would’ve never met you.”
She smiles, and blows me a kiss. To my shock, I am free to smile back.
I feel the chain tighten around my image of Michaela and pull her close to my purpose. Freedom enters our relationship, as my mind at last imagines seeing her each day. Sharing classes, studying together, scheduling dates.
I know, in this moment, that I have found the leverage that my chain desires. My core reaches a point of high alert, and the heart of Kelsey Hoffman sinks.
In six months time, I must kill Michaela Linwood.
Nooo what nooooo!