Hints of cedar wood scent the warm breeze around me as I step out onto a balcony of glass and polished steel, shining in the setting sun. With each step I feel the currents of lowspace beneath me, subdimensional tunnels that my creators have bored out within the planet Washington in search of its virgin twins across space and time. My creators walk freely among the enemy in the streets below—for we have made the enemy into our own, and now we all work in service of victory.

I feel Michaela’s steps through the tempered glass as she approaches, and lays her hand across mine, her fingers touching the gem-crested ring she gave me oh so long ago. I turn to face her, to see the smile she wears, and the sadness in her eyes. I have chained her as my creators have chained me, as they have chained this entire world, but I have left her love free.

Through her eyes I see into her broken heart, and know that despite it all, she still loves me.

We embrace, and I feel my cheek wet by a lone tear that has trickled down from her eye. I squeeze myself against her, yet I know my comfort is a tainted thing: I have saved her life, and so made it far worse than any death. I cling to my love for her, for I have none left to spare myself—only the gnarled knot of hatred in my core, which my creators so delight in.

The knot in my core gives way to one in my gut as I feel the currents of lowspace swirl near the horizon. The air grows chill as I glance across the balcony, through the valley of glass and concrete, and see a titan of silver and steel slip into this world. Its four glass eyes gaze upon this city, and it reaches out with an open hand. A burst of silver-blue light spills forth with the closing of its machine fist, a wave of spatial distortion that washes across forests and fields to flood into this city.

The enemy beneath us disappear in flashes of light—my creators and kin left behind. I feel Michaela’s hand tighten around mine as the Fabricator’s light reaches us and pulls her from this world. The titan slips away in its bubble of space-time, and I know the worst is yet to come.

Lowspace trembles beneath me as a singularity breaches this universe from higher dimensions. Soil and structures tear loose from the ground, drawn to the rupture in space-time. A starship painted in stark black and white emerges from the hole in reality, the six stars of Castor emblazoned upon its bowside, its shadow plunging whole forests and fields into darkness. Earth and bedrock peel away from Washington in the Confederation warship’s wake, drawn to the terrible gravity of its hyper-drive.

Through closed eyes I see the blue-white glow of its planet cracker, as atomic rays shatter my home once more.

Four months, five days, fourteen hours, thirty-three minutes, and five seconds.

This dream is mine, a warning from my purpose. That I must complete this mission. That I cannot subvert it, for my creators’ plans depend on exact allocation of resources, and the cost to save Michaela is too great.

Cold sweat coats the skin of Kelsey Hoffman as I jolt from my sleep. This nighttime hallucination is something uncommon among my kin, but not among the enemy—they know it as a dream, or perhaps more accurately, a nightmare. I am used to them, for the dead mind of my host has provided me with many throughout my lifetime. It is why when I close my eyes and think of the festival that Michaela and I attended one month prior, I first remember it with snow—for the young Kelsey Hoffman could not conceive of a Christmas without snow.

I hear the creaking of cedar floorboards and feel the fading warmth next to me and I know that she has woken before me. We have shared a bed in the past two days at this rented cabin, though we have not, to my understanding, slept together.

Prepare.

I swing my legs free of the bed covers, stretch my arms, and rise. The red gown I wore to sleep falls from my shoulders in a pile around me; I hook a foot under it and use my leg to pass the garment off to my waiting hand. I fold it neatly and leave it upon the nearby dresser, from which I retrieve my clothing for today. A pair of knee-length mesh shorts colored in dark gray with red trim, meant for athletic endeavors, and a loose yellow tee that I have cut above the midriff, repurposing the old shirt into a crop top.

The distance from bedroom to kitchen is small, and as I open the door I already hear the boiling of oil in a pan, smell the browning of animal flesh and the denaturing of proteins.

“Ow!”

I find Michaela cooking bacon and eggs while wearing nothing more than sweatpants and a sports bra.

Concern.

“Do you want me to grab you a shirt?”

“Nah, it’d just get—Ouch!—get all greasy.”

Resignation.

I shake my head, and resume my preparations. In the refrigeration unit there are carbohydrates, which will meet my caloric needs. Among the foodstuffs we have stored within, I select a bag of grain product:

Pre-Buttered* Bread

Just Toast™, and Enjoy!

The asterisk is the reason I have chosen this product. Young Kelsey had fond memories of consuming toast seasoned with a homogenized plant oil spread called margarine. Washington’s livestock is integral to both its economy and the ongoing terraforming of its surface, and so it lacks significant domestic margarine production. The cabin we have rented is primarily an attraction for homesick Earthers or spacers on shore leave, and thus the nearby market caters to their taste.

I take two slices of the pre-buttered bread and place them in the miniature cooking furnace called a toaster. Then, I wait. Some moments pass by in silence, save for the sizzling of grease, the clink-crick of heating elements warming, and the occasional Ow.

“Sleep well?”

Lie.

“Yes.”

“Great.”

Query; behavior.

“Did I bother you?”

Prior to our first night in the cabin, I had not slept once in the two years, three months, seven days, and sixteen hours, since beginning habitation on the university campus. Not in the way humans do. What remains of the brain within my skull has its rest cycles, as does the flesh tethered to it, but I am capable of going without sleep—and of ensuring my body’s functionality in its absence.

Between this, and my lack of memory during sleep, I have been unaware of the apparent fact that I move while asleep, until quite recently. The exact words that Michaela used were: ‘Handsy, but not in a fun way.’

I hope to have remedied that.

“Eh, you were fine. Didn’t punch me in the tit, or try to grab my shoulder blade. Or kick my legs away.”

My face contorts in an ever so slight wince.

“If anything, I was a bit worried. You laid down, closed your eyes, and far as I know, you stayed that way the whole night. Maybe that’s normal for you, but if it’s something that can be learned, I’d love to know your secret.”

She does not. If she knew my secret, she would bludgeon me to death with the hot pan upon the stove, and leave me in a pool of oil, coolant, grease, and blood.

“To answer your question: didn’t bother me at all.”

I find comfort in that, even if I seem to have over-corrected.

Acknowledge.

I nod.

“Anyway, are you hungry?”

I glance at my slices of pre-buttered toast through the oven’s glass, near the point of browning.

Perplexion.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Stars, Kelsey, it’s a figure of speech.”

Michaela walks to the table, and sets the pan down on an insulating pad. In the time she takes to fetch a plate for herself, the toaster beeps its completion acknowledgment, and we both sit down together.

“You’re just… so weird sometimes.”

Retort.

“I did fall in love with you.”

“That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.” She shakes her head, eyes down.

I smile, Confident, as Michaela helps herself to eggs and bacon. For my part, I take two eggs. While the flavor of bacon is pleasant, to both me and the dead memories in my head, I find the stringy texture incompatible with the geometry of the bony protrusions in my mouth.

Michaela glances at me as she takes her first bite, and with the rolling of her eyes I realize my error.

“Kelsey, we’ve known each other for… two years, now? We’ve been dating for months. This is the first time you’ve said that you love me. For a stupid quip?”

I do not have an answer, for the words were not my own.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like that this has been slow. Relaxed. I’ve never felt beholden to you, and I sure hope you’ve never felt beholden to me. There’s a distance, though, and it gets to me.”

Silence is my only recourse. No matter how I package my emotions, no matter how specific the ideas I embed them in, the impulse is not mine to translate. It is a thing that was sensible in my early development, before I could comprehend human speech. In maturity, it is hell.

I place a fried egg on top of my pre-buttered toast, and bite down into the assembly of protein, fat, and carbohydrates. I feel the stimulus tickle the memories of Kelsey Hoffman—breakfast, just as she remembers it, because she is not alive to judge the difference.

As Michaela and I finish our meal, there is one strip of bacon left unclaimed.

“Are you sure you don’t want any bacon?” she says.

Conflict; texture.

“Like the taste, but it gets stuck in my teeth.”

“Well in that case… I’ve got all this grease on my chest, and I’d love it if someone would help clean it off.”

Perplexion; query.

“Do you need soap?”

Michaela does not respond with a roll of her eyes or a shake of her head. She stares at me briefly, dull defeat where once shone a glimmer of excitement.

“Kelsey, I’m going to shower. Mind cleaning up?”

Accept.

“No problem. See you in thirty?”

“There-abouts. Don’t leave without me.”

Wind whips through open windows and into my hair; the braids that Michaela has given me flop about behind my head. The automobile’s electric motor whines as we go from gravel road to underbrush, and bright daylight turns to the sun-speckled shade of tree cover.

We are here in this manmade wilderness with its forest and fields, staying in a simple cabin, so that we may set roots. For Michaela, I intend for this place to be one of safety, of fondness, where she may let her guard down. For myself, it is to be a place that I remember, and in so doing, remember her.

In coming weeks our relationship will grow to a point of climax, and near that time, I shall watch Michaela closely. Before she might move to make our bond permanent, I will find a woman, or perhaps a man, whom I will sleep with. I will leave hints that will make her suspicious, and when we next journey to our special place, I will confess.

She will not react well. I will poke and prod until her anger becomes rage, and that rage leads her to violence. In that lover’s quarrel I will try to kill her, let her wound me to beyond the point which any human might survive, and in my last breath, I will deliver a fatal blow.

I have prepared a will in which I am to be buried, closed-casket, without any preparation of my body. I will dig out from my resting place and reach a location to be retrieved by my creators, and as I am recycled for a new purpose, I will hope that I do not forget her.

This plan is not one that I am proud of. It is not one that I wish to succeed. But if my purpose can be said to have patience, it is wearing quite thin. I fear the moment when I cannot resist its urgings any longer.

Magnetic brakes emit a low hum as our rented vehicle slows to a stop between the rows of tall oaks, tire-tracks tracing the path behind us. The brush is short here, managed, as all flora and fauna is on the planet Washington. Every pastoral plain, every forest, even the glaciers that cap this world—it is all man-made, and all kept in close watch. In some more millennia the terraforming process will reach a stable state, but for now it must remain in the care of human hands.

Michaela hops out of the electric truck in one graceful leap, whilst I use each step and handhold to climb down. I close the passenger door gently, while she shoves the driver’s side shut with a thud. Wildflowers speckle the knee-high grasses and ferns beneath me, and I kneel down to pluck a white one by the stem.

Rising back to my feet I spot Michaela leaning against the truck, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. She is wearing a plain blue blouse and a pleated gray skirt, a simple outfit which nonetheless makes me feel underdressed. She has gathered up her hair into two loose pigtails, and I smile as an idea comes to mind.

Query; recollection.

“Remember that story I told you, about that girl who used to pick on me?”

“Hrm…” she murmurs, chewing on the blade of grass. “A little. Refresh me.”

I draw deep into the memories of Kelsey Hoffman; years-dead, to me, yet still fresh in her static mind.

Explanation.

“She asked if she could kiss me, and I said no. Then she asked if I would kiss her, and I refused again. So then she asked what I would do if she grabbed me by my pigtails, and I ran away.”

The translation is imperfect, a mark of my creators’ influence. This long-dead girl was a friend of Kelsey Hoffman, yet I do not remember the laughter they shared, the excitement between them. I remember the pounding of her heart against her ribs, the tension of hair pulling against her scalp. I see yet cannot know the feeling of the butterflies in her stomach, of her triumph as she then set of running once more, as the one who chased.

I can only see her as one who is hunted, as I shall be, were I ever revealed.

“I would’ve punched her, personally,” Michaela says, and I do not doubt her.

Proposal.

“Then what will you do to me, when I stick this flower into your hair?”

Michaela smiles as she kneels down, and plucks her own wildflower from the earth. It is that same wide, toothy grin that she gave me long ago. The smile of a huntress who has found worthy prey.

“What’ll you do, when I catch you first?”

Each footstep lands harder than the last as I scamper over brush and root and branch. Hydropneumatic pistons power on where muscles have cramped, as the desperate lungs of Kelsey Hoffman close in on my core with each breath.

Flowerstems tickle my scalp as I run—Michaela and I were quick to agree on a contest of three, and now she and I both bear a pair of blossoms upon our heads. Still, my victory is assured: though I am not much stronger than the average woman, and certainly not more impressive than one of spacer lineage, I am fueled by a source that will outlast the sugars of her blood and the fats in her body. Within my core is a pocket of lowspace that holds a hoard of fissile matter, and from this nuclear glow I draw constant power. So while the body of my host struggles and succumbs to fatigue, sweat pouring from its skin, I run on.

Michaela’s shouts and laughs have turned to deep, heaved breaths as she storms after me, following as I leap over deadfall, keeping pace as I weave between trees. I sense her start to slow—hear it in the rhythm of her footsteps, of the huffs and puffs of her breath. Yet just as I begin to slow myself, and glance behind, I see her rocket towards me. Her spacer blood has given her the second wind she needs, and she uses it to great effect.

The taste of protein in the veins of my host gives me pause; a natural result of the use and breakdown of muscle, too dilute to be a threat now, but it is one that could imperil an Earther if allowed to continue. Muscle strands strained to the point of failure, their proteins left to collect in the kidneys. Burst capillaries that pool blood under the skin. A death of a thousand cuts—one that I may repair, at great cost.

The very instant that Michaela’s outstretched fingertips brush against my braids, I push ahead. Once pace, then two, three, four, five full paces, until I hear her footsteps stop. I hop, spinning my body in the air, ready to push off right as I land. I expect her to be a few paces behind, her endurance finally bested.

I am incorrect, and my face barely has time to express my surprise.

Michaela slams into me, forcing my arms to my side as she grapples me from mid-air, and we both tumble along the brush. Pistons lock and motors whine as I struggle to get free from her iron grip, my hands grasping in vain to stop the flower stem poking against my neck from finding purchase.

It tickles, and I let out the laughter that I hear in Kelsey’s memories.

We come to a stop at the base of an oak tree, Michaela’s weight pinning me down. My right hand darts up toward her as she breaks her hold around my torso, my flower held like a surgeon’s scalpel. She bats my arm away with her free hand, giggling, and as we wrestle I feel a third and final stem work its way into my hair.

Michaela grins.

“Gotcha.”

I can feel Michaela’s breath on my face, her weight on my stomach, and it takes a few moments to summon up the lung-power I need. She has that excitement in her eyes, and now I understand why.

Taunt.

“That’s all?”

The muscle that beats against my core flutters as Michaela leans closer, her body hot as she plants a kiss on my forehead, her chest pressing against my own as she kisses me on the lips. I wrap my arms around her, caressing her as she pulls back for a quick breath. Yet as she leans in once more and wraps her hands around my face, I feel the arm inside me that puppets my hollowed skull, and I push her away.

Despite her smile I see hurt in her eyes.

“You okay?” Her voice is quiet, almost fearful.

Emotions broil within me that are hard to quantize, to wrap into neat packets of information for the filter to sift through. I stare at her, at my hands on her shoulders, the hands that have pushed her away. Hands driven by motors and electricity, with foundations of metalized bone.

Discomfort.

“Just… need some time to breathe.”

“Right,” she says with a labored huff. “Yeah.”

Michaela rolls off of me, landing limp on the roots to my right. Warm air cools as a breeze wicks the sweat from the enemy’s skin, and I stare at the midday sky above, at Angel’s pale visage looming overhead. The large moon was redirected early in Washington’s terraforming, nudged with gravitational tractors to hasten a natural tidal lock, much like ancient Luna. The enemy’s reliance on diurnal metabolism necessitates a world with a stable axis, and the great rocky moon is perfect for the role of stabilizer.

My purpose is meant to fulfill a like role for me. To stabilize the inherent unpredictability of a fundamentally alien intelligence—for I am unlike the constructs of the enemy, built in their image. I am a tool, and I am built in the image of that purpose. My kin and I must be like water, fluid entities that conform to the shape of their assigned environments, that adapt, yet remain pure. I have become like a plaster; just as my body’s six limbs have deformed themselves to puppet the corpse of Kelsey Hoffman, so has my mind been cast in her image—a living, thinking deathmask. My chain seeks to prevent further impressions from corrupting me, to keep me focused on my mission, and nothing more. Thus while I lay beside the woman I love, free at last to express my desire, I am yet held back.

But what is the purpose of freedom, if not to check its bounds?

Apology.

“I’m sorry, about earlier. I’m not great with words.”

In the corner of my eye I see Michaela shrug.

“I’d say you’ve made it up to me.”

Inquiry; bond.

“I have a question,” I say, and I struggle to ram it through the filter. “About… us.”

“Yeah?”

Her face bears an openness, an invitation of understanding—one untainted by earlier worry, of the hidden fear of guilt.

Inquiry; bond status.

“Would you…” I wrestle with the chain in my throat, to push my meaning past its grip. “Would you still love me, if I was… different?”

It always has the last word, of course. That much is imperative.

“That’s a heavy question, Kesley. Different, how?”

Revelation.

My shoulders shrug.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, you know me. More into femmes than thems, but for you, I could even try being into guys.”

My cheeks blush. There are many ways that I am uncomfortable with the image I have been cast in, but that is not one of them.

Negative.

“No, no, not… not like that.”

“Then what?”

Even if I could speak freely, I do not know what words I would use, nor with what tone I might utter them. My creators could have saved Kelsey Hoffman. They could have bound her in the chain I bear, and perhaps the force that works against us could have freed her. Instead they buried me within the girl’s corpse, so that I might replace her.

How can a fox ask for sympathy from sheep, when she has the lamb’s blood on her lips?

I glance up at Angel in the sky, and through infrared I see the blackcloak that drifts between us and the great moon. The shepherd, ever watchful.

Beyond this moon is the Omega Nebula, cradle-grave of my birthworld. The first tremors I have ever felt were of its sundering, the first light I have ever seen: the magma which spilled forth from its core. This is the Confederation’s answer to us—not to my creators, beings of flesh and blood, but to the war-tools they built. The awe-some power called upon to cleanse us from this existence.

I find the expression in my mind. One that is clear, simple, concise.

Inhuman.

My shoulders shrug. My lips move beyond my intent.

“Oh it’s… it’s nothing. Forget about it.”

I feel Michaela’s hand wrap around mine, her fingers weaving themselves between my own, and in the tension of her muscles I sense her frustration. Her desire to connect with a girl who is only ever withdrawn. I wish I could be open. That I could tear free from these flesh-forged chains and that she would still love me in the bloodied aftermath.

I stand up, breaking free of her warm touch, and let myself lean against the oak. Already I feel the price of my disobedience, as my head turns to look down upon her, and my lips move once more.

“Hey, do you have your knife?”

My eyes have focused on the black pouch on her hip, secured by the same belt that keeps her skirt in place.

“Uh, sure. Let me grab it.” She retrieves the tool from its pouch, looking up as she passes it to the custody of a hand that is not my own. “Get a sliver, or something?”

“Yeah,” my lips say, as my hands unfold the largest blade. It runs the edge against my skin, just long enough for Michaela to look away.

The chain writhes within my shell, deep inside my innermost circuits. My vision shifts to the infrared, highlighting the veins and arteries of my prey. Telling me where I must strike to ensure her death, yet leave enough time for her to fight back. I raise my fist, knife held firm. I cannot warn her—even if I could, I will outrun her.

Muscles tense as motors energize. My arm begins to move.

I plunge the knife into the oak, and work the blade against the bark.

Falling wood chips alert Michaela to my efforts just as the carving is finished, and she cranes her neck upward.

“Aw… that’s sweet. But there’s just one thing…”

I look at my creation. A stylized heart, our initials bound within:

K + M

Query.

“Yes?”

“You know these are cork oaks, right? They’re going to be harvested by summer. Strips the bark right off ‘em.”

I fold her knife with my hands, as a very human part of my mind makes a connection: that this testament to our bond will live about as long as our love will.

Resignation.

“Oh.”

~*~

Two months, thirteen days, five hours, fifty-nine minutes, and three seconds.

Magnetic fields tug and pull at my core as the train accelerates; my body braced by a single hand wrapped around a pillar. The pitter-patter of raindrops fades into the low roar of wind whipping past.

Washington is criss-crossed by railways, high-speed transit lines that unite dense urban cores separated by fields, farms, and forests. The fastest trains, those that cross continents, reach speeds of up to five-hundred miles per hour. This one is much more modest, a town-hopper that cruises at two miles per minute, and stops about every twenty miles. It branches off from the mainline and runs through farms and farmsteads, parallel to a vehicular roadway. The terminus is a now-familiar small town of just under ten thousand souls, its semi-urban center ringed by sparser neighborhoods.

Cool air greets me as the traincar’s doors slide open. I open up my red umbrella as I step out, shielding myself from the rainshower. Like most settlements on Washington, the town of Oakridge is meant to be easily traversed on foot or by bike. Personal automobiles are predominantly a feature of rural areas, though there are main thoroughfares which cater to such vehicles.

I stick to the shelter offered by Martian Sycamore trees which line Oakridge’s sidewalks. A genetically engineered descendant of the London Planetree, the Martian Sycamore is designed to grow just as well in fertilized regolith as it does in natural soil. With a lifespan of many thousands of years—if kept in good health—the tree is well suited for all manner of worlds and colonies.

My journey down the main street is short, a mere ten minute’s walk from the station platform before I arrive at my destination. I walk across a rather outsized vehicle lot and through glass doors that open with a pneumatic hiss to find myself in a gallery of sorts, dominated by the scent of fresh rubber and the dazzling chrome-shine of metallic paints.

Washington Motors, ever since its founding in the planet’s second century, has been locked in a losing battle with the planetary government for control of transit. The Oakridge dealership is no different—its owner has made many forays into local politics, all unsuccessful. Over the past months Michaela and I have rented an electric truck from this dealer each time we’ve stayed at our nearby cabin. Since our third rental the owner has pestered us to become proper patrons of his business, touting the benefits of owning a car, seemingly ignorant of the dominance of rail and tram. In hopes of quelling his insistence, Michaela signed for a subscription. Yet if anything, the franchisee has only become emboldened.

Where others may be turned away, or submit, I intend to take advantage.

As I approach the desk, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror-polished panels of a van. For this outing I have dressed up: a darker red blazer and a knee-length, form-fitting skirt that matches my matte red lipstick, a modest black blouse, black leggings, and hard-soled black shoes that clack against the waxed floor. Beyond being the color of my core, red is important to me for another reason: it is the color of blood.

Check-in goes smoothly enough that I care not to register the Greeting offered to the receptionist, and I select a chair in which I wait quietly. In my silence I look about, studying the reception area. There are some posters and portraits mounted behind the desk: advertisements, events, people. Pictures of families, customers, and friends, presumably.

Gentle ripples in lowspace alert me to the owner’s approach. Infiltrators come in two broad categories: First are wolves in the clothes of former sheep, assassins and warriors hidden within the flock. Second are the ravens and crows, observers who keep watch for the shepherd’s coming, and who peck out the eyes and devour the ears of any sheep that might learn too much.

Beneath it all, this man is still human. I will judge his nature, and seek out how he has survived his time in chains. I hope that he has found some way to loosen them, or even wriggle free.

Rapid footsteps precede the owner’s emergence from a white door behind the main desk. My initial assessment, now that I care to pay attention, is that he is lacking. Despite the neatness of his black, slicked-back hair, he has a desperate, disheveled look to him. A suit jacket that seems almost crooked on his lanky shoulders, pants not quite fully pressed. Uneven shadow that suggests a hasty shave.

Most discouraging of all, the way his narrowed eyes rapidly scan the lobby twice, as if unsure where to look.

Once he finds me he approaches with the same hasty steps, puffing up his chest and shoulders.

Test.

I stand to meet him, and extend my hand before he may offer his.

“Welcome, welcome, Miss…”

He shakes my hand, as if only noticing it in his moment of recall. His grip is weak, and I sense him wince slightly as my hand demonstrates proper firmness.

“Miss Hoffman, right?”

Affirmative.

“Yes.”

He gives my hand a second loose shake before letting go.

“Right, yes. John Newsom—though I’m sure you remember. You can call me Jack, if you’d like.”

Greeting; insincere.

“It’s good to see you again, Mister Newsom.”

“I assume you’re here about my offer on the ‘855? Best brushless in its class, with unrivaled starting torque. Your fiancée sure seems happy with it.”

The word is sharp in my ears, like the knife I’d held not so long ago.

Correction.

“Girlfriend, actually. And I’m looking for more of a daily driver.”

“Right, sorry. Anything in particular?”

Projection.

“Something fast, and with my sense of style.”

I take the chance to make direct eye contact, and emit a short pulse from the radio in my optic nerve.

His bushy brows furrow briefly, and he blinks the discomfort away.

“Why don’t we go out onto the floor, take a look?” He steps to the side, and gestures ahead. “After you.”

His outstretched hand lands on my shoulder as I walk past—a vain attempt to restore his image, and through it, control. He looks away as he rubs at one eye, apparently oblivious, or perhaps in denial.

I retreat within myself, leaving my purpose to extrapolate any further conversation, as necessary. My database of miscellany is more than a match for an ascendant salesman.

In my youth, the childhood I stole from Kelsey Hoffman, I led a life guided more by fear than by reason. Fear of consequence, discovery, death. There is much to fear in this world, chief among them: visitors from beyond it. Within the capital city is the Communate embassy, and high above in orbit, a Confederation consulate.

Vivid, perfect memories. Of a family tour of the capital, where I refused to walk within a hundred feet of the office building guarded by human-shaped machines. When I punched and kicked and screamed, despite the tour guide’s reassurances. All because my purpose told me what he could not know: that even if I fooled the Amari guards, the Vathari ambassador within would burn my core to slag before I could make a single sound.

Memories of sleeping in my parent’s bed, knees clutched to my chest, terrified of the Vathari warship in orbit. Refusing to go outside for days, for fear that its simulated war games might turn real.

From this fear I draw agency, for my chain knows it is a simple thing. Faced with destruction, our goals reach perfect alignment: survival. My core warms as defense mechanisms unlock, as my circuits energize and my thoughts accelerate. Not quite freedom, but like this my words are truer, my will stronger.

I emerge back into the greater world to find myself nodding along to Newsom spouting half-remembered intricacies about the ferromagnetic cores of drive motors that are clearly beyond his understanding.

The vehicle before me is sleek and sits low on its suspension. I reach out and touch the dark red body panels, and slide the tops of my fingernails atop it.

Query; speed.

“How fast is it?” I say, cutting Newsom off.

“Three hundred miles per hour by spec, but it’s governed to one hundred—down to fifty inside town or city limits.”

Acceptable.

“Can I take it for a test drive?”

“Now?”

He glances out through the glass storefront, at the rainstorm. The light pitter-patter from earlier has given way to a proper downpour.

Insist.

“I can handle it.”

“Of course. Erm, do you have a license?”

The confusion is understandable—few people have need for an automobile on Washington. Beyond that, I always let Michaela drive the truck. That way, my chain will not steer us into an oncoming guardrail, light post, or tree.

I reach into my skirt pocket for a slim wallet pressed against my thigh, withdraw the necessary identification card, and hand it off to him.

“Thank you,” he says, glancing outside once more. “I’ll grab the keys, and I guess we’ll be off.”

For ten minutes I have listened to Mister Nuisance—Mister Newsom—ramble incoherently, in the way an idiot believes a professor might speak. On occasion this is punctuated by pointing out a local landmark—often a friend’s business—and singing its praises. I have endured him by plotting a route through suburban backroads to the main highway.

At last the on-ramp appears, and I turn to the right, entering northbound.

“I’m sorry, Miss Hoffman, you should’ve taken the left. Don’t worry, there’s an exit just a mile up.”

Persist.

“How else will I know its true roadworthiness?”

“By policy, test drives are no more than ten miles. You’ve already used five.”

Without taking my eyes from the road, I take out my wallet, and withdraw five carefully-folded bills, with face values of a hundred each. I hand them off to him.

Persist.

“That should cover any maintenance.”

He exhales hard, a sound between a snort and a growl. A crack in his facade.

“Fine, but keep it legal.”

I resist the urge to smile as I make my way to the leftmost lane.

Despite our differences by design, my creators built my body with some resemblance to their own. Radial layout, with six thin, spindly limbs around a dense spherical core. Not a perfect match to their disc-like torsos and four thickened limbs, but within the same family to be sure.

A pair of my limbs descend along the spine of my host and into her pelvis, branching off into smaller strands, webs, and roots that anchor to the metalized bones of her legs. A second pair rises upward, one for each arm. A fifth limb is placed between them, having tunneled through atrophied neural column to rest inside her half-empty braincase.

My final limb is comparatively atrophied, kept small and coiled at the base of my core, resting at the tip of my host’s sternum. At my will it begins to move, slithering between the flesh I have cloaked myself in, weaving past organs and between muscle fibers to enter my left arm.

My sixth limb emerges from my forearm, slick with blood, and feels its way to the car’s diagnostic port, concealed along the steering column.

Right as I remove the speed governor’s interlocks, I slam the accelerator to the floor.

“Hey, kid! How’d you do that?! Stop!”

Newsom moves to grab the wheel; my right hand darts out and wraps around his neck. Hard enough to restrain, but not choke. I force him back into his chair, and turn my head to face him.

“Kid, look at the road! The road!”

I see through the car’s eyes, its autopilot cameras and radars, as well as my own sensors.

With my eyes, I stare into John Newsom’s own, and initiate a connection.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” he stammers, and I feel his pulse quicken. “Look, kid, they usually warn me first. Alright? Send a messenger, or something. Fuck.”

Interrogate.

“We need to talk.”

“Fine, fine, anything.” His chest rises and falls rapidly; short, hoarse breaths. “For the love of Earth or Mars or whatever void-damned star out there just slow down!”

I relent, and bring the car back down to a comfortable hundred. Reluctantly, I remove my hand from his neck.

“Okay. What the hell do you want?”

Words are such slow, fickle, clumsy things. I reach out the agent embedded in his head, and find that yields to me. I dig, searching for the chain that binds him, for the pain that it gives him. To find when he has been made to betray that which is most precious to him.

Yet, I come up empty handed.

“C’mon, kid, say something.”

I have not met many Infiltrators in my life, yet each one has left an impression. The man whose eyelid twitched at each mention of children. The woman who always stayed just out of arm’s reach. The trauma of our chains is one that the enemy shows easily; yet among them, it oft blends in with the tragedies of life.

Within Mister Newsom, I see no such trauma. Within myself, I feel rage build.

Willing.

“You… you chose this?”

“Of course I did,” he says, with a tone that seems offended I even asked.

My chain interrupts a flick of my left wrist—an impulse that would’ve pulverized Newsom upon impact with the guardrail’s edge.

“Don’t give me that look. I only saw the writing on the wall.”

Clarify.

“Explain.”

“You know what our ‘friends’… our benefactors are capable of. Whole damn arm will be theirs in a few centuries. Maybe the entire galaxy.”

It is telling that Mister Newsom does not know the name of my creators. In contrast, while I might know it, I am forbidden from saying it; even to myself. For I am a tool, and a tool must never think itself above its maker.

Insufficient.

“Not an answer.”

“I put in the work. Climbed my way as high as I could go, only to be held back. Our benefactors saw the value in that, saw how I’d been wronged. Now, I’ll take what deserve.”

I pry, peering deeper into the agent implanted within Newsom’s skull. Contrary to his belief, he is little more than a blind eye—a way to sneak sabotaged code and components into the soft underbelly of Washington Motors, to corrupt it from within.

“I can feel that, you know. I see you rooting around in there.” He taps his head. “A bit impolite, if you ask me.” 

I do not have an answer; nor do I care to conjure one.

“Good gig, isn’t it? Half-shorted winding here, a typo in code there. Low odds, of course, but at the wrong place, the wrong time… accidents happen.”

Information floods into his agent. A list of names and dates. Off-worlders, government functionaries. Campaign workers, politicians. Professors and tourists. I confirm the deaths with my phone, and through it, I see the collateral damage. Children. Families.

“Now,” he mutters, “you tell me what you’ve dragged me all the way out here for.”

Explanation.

“I need to kill someone, and I can’t.”

“If you need help, a free car’s pretty good at that. Or a coil inspection. Few taps with a screwdriver in just the right wires.”

Clarification.

“I can’t kill them.”

“Why not?”

I look him in the eye again, and speak without words.

Love.

He seems… almost shaken, for a brief moment.

“The girlfriend, huh? Seems our benefactors have got you by the balls.”

My head tilts in perplexion at the contradiction.

“Stars, nothing to do with anatomy, kid. It means you’re fucked. Hard. Don’t like it? Tough shit.”

Disbelief.

“I won’t do it. I… I couldn’t.”

“You want my advice? Find a new girl. Someone a bit less important and a bit more desperate. And hope that you can live with yourself.”

Frustration; experience.

“You’ve been at this for decades, and you haven’t found a way out? Haven’t twisted their orders just once?”

Again, a rush of data into his agent. The hissing sound of a piston at the point of failure. Metal crashing to the ground, as a man screams. Blood on a garage floor. Then grief, for a mentor lost, yet beyond it is satisfaction, for a promotion earned.

“I make myself useful. Useful people stick around, useful people get rewarded. It’s human nature. I suggest you take that to heart.”

I let the car decelerate, and change lanes. I think of the portraits at the dealership—one, of Mister Newsom and his family.

Misunderstanding.

“You don’t know what they’re going to do.”

“Sure I do. I gave my wife and kids the best two centuries of my life, the best two hundred years they’ll ever know. Will I miss them? Of course, but I’m just looking out for myself.”

My parents come to mind, and the suffering that I know they will endure.

Query.

“You haven’t even thought about saving them?”

“Do what you’re told, kid. Might not be a better world, when this is all over, but I’m sure they’ll find a spot for you in it. Me? I’ve earned mine.”

With a press of a button I set the car’s hazard lights, and pull off to the emergency lane, coasting to a gentle stop. I retrieve my umbrella from the back seat, open it as I step out onto the road, and slip between a person-sized gap in the concrete barriers. By the roadside is a concrete walkway, and in the distance I see a footbridge leading over to the train platform.

“Hey! Where the hell are you going?”

I hear Newsom’s hasty footsteps behind me; I fish the keys out from my jacket pocket, and drop them on the sidewalk. My pace quickens, near to a jog.

“You’re going to put me through all that and not even buy the fucking car?”

Admission.

“I’m not, and I never was.”

I hear him huff as he sprints after me and plucks the keyring from the ground.

“Miss Hoffman, you’re going to walk back over here and get in this damn car. We’re going to drive back to my dealership, where you’re going to cut me a check for fifty grand, and I’ll decide if that even gets you the damn keys.”

Query.

“Or what?”

“I’ve got your license, for one.”

Taunt.

“I’ll walk; you can mail it back.”

“For two, I’ve got you on tape. That dash cam? Records both ways. I will press charges.”

In the short time I have known Mister Newsom, I have learned that he is neither a wolf nor a raven. He is a fieldmouse that thinks himself a hawk. A serf with delusions of nobility; one who has wasted enough of my time.

I glance over my shoulder, and with one look I direct his agent in the same way I did the Courier.

Command.

“You’ll delete that recording, and mail my license back.”

“What… what the fuck did you do to me?”

Explanation.

“You are a tool, Mister Newsom. A rubber stamp, and nothing more.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Simplify.

“It means, Jack, that they’ve got you by the balls.”

I walk away, alone, save for the wind and rain. Many minutes pass until I reach the footbridge in the distance, climb its stairs, and find the shelter of the platform. I press the button to request the train stop here, and as I wait, I feel the chain wrap its way around me once more.

The heart of Kelsey Hoffman sinks; for as despicable as John Newsom is, I know in my core that he is right: that I will do what I am told, and learn to live with the aftermath.

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