One month, twenty-two days, one hour, fifteen minutes, fifty seconds.

Through three feet of vacuum-proofed glass I glance up at planet Washington. The blue-green marble grows larger by the minute—at the tether station, up in geosynchronous, the planet is readily obscured by a dinner plate held at arm’s length. Now, it looms twice as large; many times larger than Angel, obscured behind it.

Slowly, steadily, the glass begins to fog as electric domains within energize and block the transit of visible light, leaving opaque gray in place of once-clear glass. A courtesy to those afflicted by motion sickness and vertigo, as the passenger ring begins to spin about the cargo racks that form the tethercar’s central core and our pod starts to rotate almost imperceptibly.

“Ooh, this is my favorite part!”

The glee in Michaela’s voice is undeniably charming—and in some part, I have been looking forward to this as well.

A trip up or down the tether takes approximately seventy-five minutes, with each car leaving or departing every hour and a half. This requires the car to accelerate constantly at one standard gee, identical to that of Earth, and within a rounding error of Washington’s. At the midpoint, right upon reaching a top speed of roughly eleven miles per second, the tethercar must begin its deceleration.

For inert cargo this is a trivial process; a mere change in vector. Passengers, however, are ill-suited to this simple maneuver, being sensitive to both rapid rotation and sudden changes in perceived orientation. To solve this problem the passenger section exists as a pair of rings, four-hundred feet in diameter, which begin to counter-rotate as the car approaches the midpoint. Each ring is divided into pods—as the tethercar begins to slow its acceleration, the pods tilt such that spin-grav is added to thrust-grav, allowing the perceived gravity to appear constant.

In the interest of safety and reduced maintenance, the maximum centripetal acceleration is exactly half that of a standard gee, and so as the pod tilts, I feel lighter in my seat. For about a minute and a half, everyone and everything aboard will weigh close to one-half their groundside usual.

The most significant flaw in my disguise is that I am unusually heavy; the average Earther female of my descent is approximately one-hundred twenty-five pounds. Despite the significant amount of aluminum in the alloy composing my skeletal replacement—acquired by a childhood ‘habit’ of consuming aluminum-containing wrappers—I am sixty pounds above this measure.

During medical examinations I am capable of hiding this, drawing on the lowspace engine in my core to counteract the pull of Washington’s mass. By the same tactic I may hide myself in the few times I have required an internal scan, or in the event my body might need surgery. Doing so requires significant energy, and is thus locked away except when necessary.

Michaela has been insisting for weeks that we take a picture in which she holds me in her arms. I have refused with a variety of thin excuses—most recently on the ascent, in which I reminded her that she would wrinkle my dress. Foremost among my reasons is that Michaela is quite aware of her strength, and as both an athlete and a soldier, I believe she will notice something amiss. Beyond that, in the small humanity I have within, I cannot bear to imagine this memento, let alone bring it into being.

Yet just as my purpose’s patience has run out, so has her’s.

“So, Kelsey, are you ready?”

Michaela has stood up from her seat and mounted her phone to a nearby column, where she waits for me. She is wearing her nice suit—both jacket and pants are a dark blue that is almost black, with a matching tie over a glossy gray dress shirt. I find the pants unfortunate; they straighten halfway down the thigh, and conceal the shape of her legs. But the way the jacket frames her waist and shoulders more than makes up for such a shortcoming.

Relent.

I roll my eyes and rise to my feet, careful of my gait in the reduced gravity.

“I guess I have to be.”

“Come on, you’ll love it. Now just stand right here, hold still, and…”

Michaela sweeps me off my feet, one arm beneath my knees, the other at my waist. I wrap my left arm around her shoulder, and lay my right hand over her chest. I stare into her green eyes, at the delight within.

“…Smile!”

I hear the rapid click-snap of the shutter in Michaela’s phone, several at once, and then a pause. She leans close to me, and I pull in response. Our lips meet in a brief kiss, as the shutter snaps shut once more.

I wish to cast this moment in still time. To suspend it in amber. To live within the immortal information captured by lens and by logic. Yet, I feel a knot twist together in my stomach as thrust gravity begins its slow return, and Michaela lets me slip free of her hold.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “It really means a lot to me.”

Reciprocate.

There are no words which encompass my feelings—so instead I lean toward her once more, and kiss her.

~*~

The memories of Kelsey Hoffman find great delight in the snowflakes that stick to the train car’s windows. There are few places on Washington’s equator with natural snowfall, and the artificial mountains which anchor the great tethers are among them. Yet as the bullet train speeds down its track I see whiteout turn to clear, black sky, frost melting away in the rush of warm air.

Michaela stirs, her head rubbing against my shoulder. I feel her hand gently find its way to the back of my head, and guide my focus to the horizon.

“Tell me, nerd-brain, what’re those funny lights past the sky?”

A cluster of slow-drifting stars, twinkling and glittering. I match them to orbital planes and altitude clearances immediately, and the names of enemy warships appear in my mind.

Answer.

“Interstellar Carrier Vessels Orrman and Richardson; Monitors Dowell, Santiago, MacArthur; and Interstellar Combat Carriers Nguyen, Oliveros, and Jennings. Can’t see them from here, but there’s bound to be at least thirty lightships, maybe a battleship or two. First Fleet tends to borrow patrol elements to fill gaps.”

“Wow,” Michaela mutters. “That’s a lot to know. Almost like some kind of spy.”

The highest efforts of my chain and I are necessary to keep my eyes from widening and my pulse from quickening. Instead, I let out a short, amused laugh, and explain.

“Starships are a real pain for telescopes. They leave great big smears or streaks on long exposures; bad luck can completely ruin a distant shot.”

“Mhm, that’s funny…” she murmurs, and as I feel her breaths become slower, deeper, I realize Michaela has fallen asleep once more.

Probability is high that she was barely awake to begin with, and that this brief moment will remain, at best, one of cuddling with the woman she loves. The relief I feel brings with it a sadness, and yet, I remain on edge. I glance across the car, at a slim woman in a large coat.

Briefly, our eyes meet.

The Courier has followed us into the city, waited as we spent our evening in high orbit, and now it follows us back out. Every few stops it withdraws, using the chaos of boarding to change its shape. Beneath its chameleon skin I see the work of my chain upon it: a man with dark, shaggy hair, and round glasses one size too big for his beady eyes.

I have failed in my plan. The woman who I planned to seduce, whom I planned to cheat with, has become a friend. Michaela has termed us ‘study buddies,’ and insists that we aid her on her own work, as well. I have not learned the secrets and vulnerabilities that would allow me to break Michaela’s trust in me, nor have I sown the seeds to upend our relationship—if anything, our love has flourished.

My purpose has reached its limit, and so it has taken reign of me. I cannot kill Michaela Linwood, so it has enlisted aid.

As the night grows old and we pass station after station, I keep my watch on the Courier and its myriad faces, until at last we arrive at Michaela’s stop. I overcome the protests of my chain, and disembark with her. Behind us, I hear the Courier’s footsteps.

We walk with quiet steps along concrete sidewalks, hand-in-hand, to the chirping of crickets that are loud in the cool air of night. After a few miles we arrive at a house of brick and steel that stands tall and thin atop a slope. Students in the Orbital Guard are encouraged to seek separate housing, in the slim chance they are called to serve. This has led to the formation of group houses such as these, at least among soldiers with a sense of camaraderie.

With careful strides I escort Michaela up its front steps. She retrieves her house keys with fumbling, tired hands that may still be just a bit drunk. I sense the small magnetic fields as she slips the key into the deadbolt’s face, tiny bursts of inherent magnetism interacting with the lock’s mechanics as the core rotates.

Michaela leaves the keys in the lock, then turns around and wraps her arms around me.

“Thanks, again. For everything. Especially for not nerding out in front of my dad; once you get him going, oh boy is it hard to make him stop. This evening was really, really nice.”

Agreement; tease.

“I had a lot of fun,” I say, as I return Michaela’s hug. “No promises about next time, though.”

I savor this brief freedom, of the chain allowing my emotions through unhindered. Meeting Professor Walton and General Hassert in person truly was enjoyable, despite the urgings of my purpose. Yet it has only deepened my sadness, that I will take their daughter away from them—that I will shatter the lives of four people, and end the life of my love, all to sow discord at the behest of creators I cannot even name.

My ears listen to the quiet night around us, and among the sounds of insects, I no longer hear the Courier’s quiet steps. The knot in my gut twists ever tighter.

“Just get a room if you do that, alright? Somewhere out of earshot.”

Preference.

“I find your father’s dedication to his work quite endearing. Admirable, even.”

She shakes her head, her hair rubbing against my face.

“You didn’t have to grow up with him. Long as I live, I’ll never forget the precession of Mercury.”

Michaela pulls away enough to look me in the face as she rolls her eyes.

“You know he tried to teach me lorentz transforms when I was five? ‘Abstractly,’ of course.”

The silence around us has deepened.

Depart.

“It’s getting late,” I say. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yep. Well, if I wake up in time. Good night, Kelsey. I love you.”

Reciprocate.

My chain writhes across my tongue—it will not grant me the kiss I desire, but it cannot leave me with nothing. Not here. Not when its plan is so close to fruition.

“I love you too.”

Michaela’s green eyes seem to sparkle in the gentle glow of the porchlight, and as she opens the door I turn to leave. I hear the latch shut behind me, the slow thump-thump of her hard soled shoes upon wooden stairs, damped by the solid walls.

Then, movement. The swish-swish of shoes through unmowed grass.

The Courier slams into me from behind, and I see the glistening of steel in its hand. Try as I might to stay silent, the chain carves a scream from my throat, only for the Courier’s hand to choke my breath away.

I kick and punch at the man-shaped assassin, to no avail. It lashes out, coating my white dress with bright red blood as it cuts me in long, sweeping slashes. Barely, I manage to grab the wrist which directs its weapon, keeping the blade at bay. My core’s heat rises as my defenses engage, yet my chain restrains my sixth limb and its molecular blade.

Through my inhuman ears I hear movement from above, and no matter my desire to warn her, I am helpless.

Michaela bursts through the door, weapon at the ready, just as the Courier’s knife nears my exposed chest.

“Get off of her!” she shouts—but the Courier is programmed. It will never heed her words.

Hairs raise on the back of my neck as a laser carves out ionized channels in the air. Tens of thousands of volts drive into the Courier, protected from the electricity by its shielding, and find their way to ground through me. I kick it off in my spasms, just as my purpose has planned.

Sensing its true target, the Courier sprints up the steps.

As I struggle to my feet I hear the pistol clatter down the staircase. I dive for it, scraping the bloodied skin of the enemy upon rough concrete. Weapon grasped firmly with both hands, I jog up two steps at a time, until my shot is clear.

My finger squeezes the trigger, and my chain yanks my aim from the Courier’s chest to Michaela’s head. The pistol hums in my grip, yet like me it is just a tool—it will never betray its master, nor obey the orders of another—and I feel electric fields twist as it dumps lethal energy across a resistor network in place of its laser medium.

Michaela has fared far better than I against the Courier—there is a cut on her cheek and small bloodied nicks on the hands she has wrapped around its wrists—yet despite her strength, it is overpowering her. Inch by inch, the Courier’s blade nears her neck, and I hear her grunt and shout. Her cries become desperate, and yet I stand paralyzed, my chain wrapped around each joint, motor, and muscle.

Within me, I open up my self-inflicted wounds. The hatred I have for my very being, for the murder that is my birth. I take this hatred and transmute it into unbridled rage. Sweat beads on the chest and brow of Kelsey Hoffman as her heart seizes and spasms against the hot surface of my core, while I draw deep into my fission well.

I turn the pistol over in my grip, barrel in hand, and I lunge for the courier. We land upon the soft earth, evening dew seeping into my blood-stained dress, and I bring Michaela’s pistol down upon the Courier’s skull. Again and again, shouting, screaming until my voice is raw. Until false flesh splits open and artificial bone shatters under the force of my blows, a spray of gray-pink brain matter against my face as I sob and scream with rage.

Even as the Courier goes limp I continue my assault—for this is paltry damage. It shall twist its innards into its pocket of lowspace, and present as a cadaver until it is called upon for reactivation, for the enemy cannot tell its inert clone-flesh from their own.

My shoulders tense as Michaela pulls me away, and my arms fall to my sides. I hear her voice, and despite the fear in her tone, it soothes my rage away until only sadness remains, and the heart of my host beats once more.

“Kelsey, it’s okay. I’m okay. Are you hurt?”

In the far distance I hear the wails of an emergency siren, and with them I cry, and cry, and cry.

~*~

Twenty-one days, four hours, ten minutes, twelve seconds.

My sixth limb pokes a needle out of my finger, piercing through the glove I wear. The thin metal appendage fans out on contact with the vial in my hand, tasting for certain chemicals, and collecting what I need. It then withdraws, sealing the glove in its wake, and I continue cleaning the glassware.

To the extent that my purpose can be satisfied, it has become displeased with me. Try as I might, I could not break free of my chains, yet I have crafted a scenario that satisfies my desires and the purpose I am assigned.

Michaela is close to both General Hassert and Professor Walton, in ways that few among the enemy are. I have argued before my purpose that, just as I am meant to destroy the Professor, to make him into a burden upon Hassert, perhaps there is a more potent target.

I have seen the way Michaela brightens the lives of her parents, both those by birth and by marriage. Her death would crush them, yet it would be just one dose of grief. Were I to fashion their daughter into a burden herself, to leave them in a state of grieving for a young life, not lost, but forever stunted, surely they would be crippled. And in due time, when her family makes the terrible choice to cut her loose from their lives, I will be there to take her upon my shoulders and my care, and at last be with her in love.

My chain is skeptical of this plan, yet it has run itself out of options—the police investigation made for weeks of high alert, and it is not an experience that my chain wishes to invite upon me once more.

Dimethylmercury is an insidiously toxic compound, with initial symptoms that are slow to appear and innocuous in daily life, by which time the best treatments are ineffective. Even the smallest amount, a mere drop, can wreak havoc upon human neurology. Normally it is kept under strict control, yet the same chemical foundries that my core uses to sustain my flesh can be used to create this neurotoxin from simpler parts.

To that end I have acquired a part-time job, a mere four hours each week, cleaning glassware and maintaining laboratory equipment for the chemistry and biology labs. The labor is not strictly necessary—automation can handle such tasks with ease—but it is one job among the many that are offered so that students may experience the functional sides of research. The pay is a useful boon, as well.

Still, I feel the pressure of my purpose. The undergraduate labs have little use of mercury, and what scraps I have collected so far will not suffice. Mere purchase of the element is not an option—too great a risk of discovery.

With the clocks in my mind I am well aware of the present time and of my shift drawing to a close. I rack the remaining glassware, clean up the washing station, and proceed to the decontamination zone. My inhuman senses pick up on the instruments at work as I stand in a walk-through cell, arms held out. Ultrasonic scrubbers, electrostatic tractors, magnetic collectors. In the enemy’s words this is overkill, at least for the compounds students are allowed to work with. This lab shares space with more serious research, and use of such machinery is again considered valuable experience.

Once clean I dispose of my gloves, remove my face shield, and take off my lab coat. I place the face shield into a receptacle, where it is whisked away, and deposit the coat into a laundry chute. Both will be subject to deeper cleaning and restocked for use by other students or faculty. I leave the cell, say my perfunctory goodbyes to the students and technicians I work with, and begin the walk back to my dorm.

In the days since the campus gala I have cut down on my habit of running across the fields and streets, in hopes of savoring what time I have left in a world where Michaela lives her fullest life. This wandering walk brings me near a small pond, and I stop to view my reflection in its tranquil surface.

My relationship with Michaela has taught me the value of a wardrobe, by way of her gifts. I am wearing one such gift now, a red blouse with black lace trim, complimented by black shorts. A more revealing ensemble than I usually don, with the blouse’s tiny sleeves, my legs exposed from mid-thigh to ankle.

Clothed like I am, I no longer feel imprisoned by Kelsey’s flesh. I do not feel the existential shame, of hiding my truth, and in brief moments I imagine the woman I see in the water as myself. All because there is one who has known me, not just as a daughter saved from death, but as a being she has chosen to love. Yet this well of strength is poisoned, tainted by what I must do, and how I have become complicit in my mission.

Vibrations alert me to the approach of another—first, through the ground, imperceptible to human senses, and then through the air, the sound of sneakers against concrete. My core temperature begins to climb, and I snap my head toward the source.

Michaela, already slowing from a run to a jog as she approaches. I take note of the rhythm of her stride, and give her a wave.

“Hey,” she says, “where the heck have you been?”

We’ve seen each other, of course, but I have been absent from our daily runs.

Answer; mellow.

“I’ve been taking things slowly.”

I feel her hand rest upon my shoulder, a brief massage for the muscles and metal within.

“Are you doing alright?”

Half-truth.

I cross my arms, and look at the long, thin scars upon them.

“Yeah, I’m getting there.”

I have been on high alert since the Courier’s attack, and my new plan has only served to preserve my awareness. My actions mean I no longer merely blend in—for the right eye may spot the finest detail, and I will be discovered.

“Up for a jog?”

Her words elicit a tug upon my will, my chain’s desire making itself known. My chemical foundry works best in stable conditions, and though it can counteract the violence of my movement, doing so is wasteful.

Negative.

I shake my head.

“Walk with me, then?”

Affirmative.

“Sure,” I say.

We take the route that is long and winding, beneath the shadows of sycamore trees. Washington is a pleasant world, its climate designed to the exclusion of deserts and tundra. Even though the University sits near the equator the climate here is a temperate summer, with two short autumns that might, on a cold night, come close to the frost line. The courtyards and playing fields are coated in short, green, Centauri bluegrass, which thrives in Washington’s warm climate.

My eyes wander from the scenery and to my companion. Michaela is dressed appropriately: a gray mesh-texture athletics top that hangs loose from her sweat-glistened shoulders, a pair of blue shorts, and of course a pair of sneakers. The wounds she sustained against the Courier have long since faded, her spacer genes converting scar tissue back into proper skin.

In time my own wounds will fade, thanks to the gene therapies my host received upon arrival, but my body will never match those of spacer blood.

“So,” she says, breaking the quiet peace, “I was looking into that guy. Long record on him. Petty thefts, armed robbery, assault, even a—”

Interrupt.

“Michaela, please, I don’t want to know.”

It is a half truth, for I already know the Courier’s crimes. They are often inserted at the periphery of the enemy’s territory, from which they migrate inward. Much of its record will be a fabrication, crimes staged with the aid of infiltrators or constructs to facilitate its exile from one jaded world, so it may prey upon the compassion of another.

On a world like Washington, a place where no woman, man, or child will sleep with an empty stomach, or have to weather a night without shelter, a Courier is a difficult thing to manage. The fringes of society are well kept and cared for. In such an environ a Courier is a mere pigeon among the flock, which shuttles whispers between wolves and crows. In this place the Courier’s troubled past introduces noise to its signal, aiding in its obscurity.

I see the sorry look in her eyes.

“Right, my apologies.”

Query.

“Are you okay?”

She raises her arms and clasps her hands behind her neck, the brief pop-crack of tendons realigning as she stretches.

“I trained for worse.”

Comfort.

I bring myself closer to her, my shoulder against hers, and I wrap my fingers through her own. I feel the sigh in her chest, as she lets her tension loose.

“The real thing sure is a heart-thumper, though. Really gets the adrenaline flowing.”

Our pace slows as I lean my head close to hers, and leave a kiss upon her cheek. We come to a stop as Michaela pulls me closer, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and squeezes tightly. We stand in near silence, a pleasant quiet peppered with the chirp of birds and the whirring of distant fans atop lecture halls.

“Thanks,” she whispers, and we break apart.

Somber notes fade from her expression as her baseline cheer returns.

“So, where are we going, anyway?”

Confusion.

“What? I was following you?”

“Well, I was following you!”

Perplexion.

I shake my head, and Michaela laughs.

“Kidding, kidding. Keeping you on your toes, that’s all. Come on.”

Through the winding side paths of campus I follow her, sometimes by her side, sometimes from behind. The Institute of Stellar Cartography abuts the Ackerman School of Agriculture and Mining, separated by a gentle slope. From above I can see cultivated fields and pit mines, a contrast to the Institute’s high towers and romanesque halls separated by plains and gardens.

Beneath the Institute there is something greater, a particle accelerator buried within this artificial hill. Each pulse of its superconducting magnets tickles my core, as the fields reach through hundreds of feet of rock and earth.

As we walk I feel another sensation from my core’s sensor suite, a brief tremor through lowspace. Thunder cracks across the sky, as a starship breaches into this universe. I manage to catch a glimpse of its black wings as it glides past in almost perfect silence.

“Huh, blackbird. Wonder what they’re doing here.”

Michaela’s muttered thought is in line with my own curiosity, though it surely springs from a different source.

Washington’s star sits within spitting distance of the Exclusion Zone, the hundreds of worlds which my creators sought to conquer. Though battles yet rage on some, most have fallen under the Confederation’s protection—for while their capital system is a mere fifty-odd lightyears from Earth, their hyperdrive grants a reach that is long and swift.

At war’s start the Confederation was roughly on par with Humanity at large, yet kept separate thanks to their few technological edges. Their hyperdrive, primitive at the time, could not coexist with the corridor gate system—it was unable to cross the bounds of a false vacuum, and its violent gravitation disrupted humanity’s lightdrive. The Castorians themselves presented another incompatibility: their childhood and adolescence measure in decades, and their ageless lives make human works seem fleeting.

We expected them to remain isolated, aloof, distant. A mistake that proved fatal as they intervened in our conquest, and we pushed them to go beyond their limits.

After a century of open war, a truce of sorts was declared. The worlds we had fought upon, that had received the Confederation’s advancements, would remain cut off. In turn, my creators would no longer menace greater humanity. Interaction on both sides would remain limited, for fear of mutual destruction.

While I am a mere fox, I share the tools of my greater kin, and my purpose demands that I listen. I bring an electric ear to the waves around us, an antenna hunting across frequencies, until I find the right signal. A woman’s voice, plain and monotonous.

“Confederation shuttlecraft, this is Granville Tower. You have been assigned call sign charlie-sierra-victor eight-four-seven. Proceed at subsonic to landing pad alpha one-seven.”

“Copy, tower control. We are handing off navigation and will alert you of any changes.”

“Acknowledged, navigation handshake confirmed. Please submit your manifest and itinerary.”

I take note of a burst of data, then close my ear off to the sky. My shoulder twitches as the files compile—the Confederation is adept at information warfare, and even small documents such as these are somehow aware when they have fallen into enemy hands. Dealing with them is unpleasant, mentally akin to biting the pit of a cherry, or having a bay leaf stuck in your throat.

“Kelsey, are you… cold?”

Michaela has noticed the tremble in my shoulders, the goosebumps on my arms and the nape of my neck. I finish my quick scan of the Confederation files, and find relief: a routine medical treatment, for a disease humanity has yet to conquer. To teach of the cure is forbidden, but my creators overlook targeted use. I delete the files themselves, secure my hardware, and store the information for when I next meet a Courier.

Excuse.

I shrug, and use the few seconds’ time to dig through the memories of my host. One presents itself: young Kelsey huddled up in her house as a thunderstorm rages outside, her whimpering cries drowned out by wind and rain.

“I’m fine; the noise just gets to me, sometimes.”

“Yeah, they sure are loud.” Michaela claps her hands. “Boom. I’ve always wondered if it’s the stardrive that does it, or the fact that they come through screaming past the sound barrier.”

I know the answer, though my chain ties my tongue.

Query; destination.

“So,” I say, my eyes scanning the area. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Before long I follow Michaela’s lead to the back of a hall, populated by utility doors and loading docks. A building I recognize as Erickson Hall, composed primarily of classrooms and offices for the College of Relativistic Engineering.

We sneak in through a back door, past the bulk of the students in attendance, and make our way to the upper floors. I sense a knot in the pit of my stomach, as realization dawns. With what willpower I do have, I force a protest out.

“Are we going to your dad’s office? I don’t want to bother him.”

“It’s not a bother if you’re invited,” Michaela responds, and grabs me by the hand.

Invited?

I hold my perplexion, lest my chain get any ideas.

Michaela leads me through the halls, her hand firmly wrapped around mine, and we come to an office block. We make it about halfway, before a woman at the reception desk interrupts us.

“Ladies, you need to check in if you’re going to see an instructor, or are here for office hours.”

I feel the mag-lock on the far doors of the lobby, the flux of alternating fields snapping on and off, and I don’t doubt that Michaela intended to simply barge through them.

Michaela sighs and rolls her eyes, proving my suspicions correct.

“I’m here for Doctor Walton. Michaela. Just let me in.”

A bit of typing follows.

“Sorry, miss, you’re not on the appointments list today.”

“Ugh. Page him.”

The receptionist looks to her male counterpart, absorbed in his own work, and clears her throat. He spins his chair toward her, gives her a very defeated shrug, and turns back. She types onto her terminal again, lets out a brief sigh, and I hear a click as the mag-locks release.

“I told you,” Michaela snaps, as she nearly drags me through the doors. They close behind us, and I take the chance to query.

“Common occurrence?”

“Professor Jeffries is in charge of hiring—total hardass when it comes to appointments and office hours. She hires secretaries with the same kind of stick up their ass. Takes a bit to break them in.”

Query; contradiction.

“Isn’t your father the Chairman?”

Michaela chuckles.

“He delegates—or ignores—anything that you can’t cram a lambda into. Relate scheduling to the speed of light and he might show more interest.”

Walton’s office is by the end of the hall, on the left. The door opens into a rectangular room that is well-lit through a large window with beveled corners. In the center of the room is a low table, a glass top set into a dark-stained wood frame, surrounded by a number of plush, black-upholstered chairs. Centered on the right wall is a carved wooden door.

“Have a seat.” Michaela pats the chair nearest to us, at the left end of the coffee table.

I obey, and look closer as I sit down. Dominating the main wall is a series of star charts, with pushpins stuck into specific systems. The rest bear images of stellar phenomena, or blueprints of starfaring vessels, scrubbed of most real technical information. An accent table hosts a number of photographs—fellow faculty, events, ceremonies—and awards.

Hovering beneath the window, in the spot of honor, is a large model of a starship. Scaled down to six feet in length, the finer details of an interstellar carrier are lost, though it is still impressive in its complexity. A design based on tension, interstellar carriers consist of four long main spars that narrow to an apex on each end. They are bound together by seven cross-shaped trusses where they run straight, with three large habitation rings on each side. Geodesic propellant spheres sit between each truss, massive pipes joining them to the spars above and below. Each spar widens gradually toward the center so that they may accommodate the massive swivel mounts for the carrier’s antimatter-fusion engines. Magnetic nozzles six-hundred feet across, wielding superconductors to contain and focus the energies of a false star. Yet despite their awe and majesty, these engines are rarely used to their full power—instead the ship flies by humble sail, driven by winds of phased light.

Clinking glass distracts me from admiring the pinnacle of human engineering, as Michaela rummages in a dry bar nested in the far corner.

“Thirsty?” she asks, holding up a few glasses.

I am not, yet it would be rude to refuse.

Selection.

“What’s on tap?”

She sets the glass atop the bar, and ducks down into it again.

“We’ve got some whites, reds, liquors, vodka, some champagne. Lots of stuff.”

Answer.

“Red,” I say.

“Gotcha.”

Michaela walks over with three filled wine glass—a red for me, and two whites. She sets one of the white wines at the head of the coffee table, and keeps the last one for herself as she settles into a chair opposite the window.

I swirl the wine around, taking in the aroma, feeling its chill creep down the glass stem.

Quiet minutes pass, interrupted only when Michaela fetches herself a second glass of wine. I nod toward the ornate door, and allow myself a confused expression. Michaela shrugs, rolls her eyes, and I resist the urge to ask.

Before long I hear the click of a latch, and Doctor Walton emerges from his office. For a man well into his third century, he seems quite young to my host’s Earther eyes—closer to thirty or forty, with perhaps a gray strand or two mixed within his short chestnut hair. He wears a gray wool suit jacket atop his sturdy, lean frame, with a tan shirt underneath and matching tan pants. A pair of spectacles rests on his sharp nose, ones that I recognize as a noninvasive sort of machine interface, rather than a disability aid.

“Kelsey, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” he says.

Reciprocate.

“Good to see you too, Doctor Walton.”

“Please, call me Isaac. Unless you’d rather wait until we’re in-laws.”

Michaela’s face goes red.

“Dad. Please.”

He shrugs—like father, like daughter.

“Sorry for the wait. Conference call with a few colleagues on Angel and Ishikura. Went a bit over schedule.” He lifts his glass and takes a sip. “Thank you, Michaela, for the drinks.”

“No problem.”

My curiosity cannot be held at bay any longer, and in the brief pause an inquiry slips from my lips.

“I really appreciate the hospitality, Professor Wal—” Correction. “—Erm, Isaac, but I have to ask, why am I here?”

He casts a sideways look at Michaela.

“You were supposed to tell her.”

“Come on, dad, nothing’s more boring than ‘my father wants to talk to you.’ Surprises are much more fun. Oh, and the look on her face. Stars, it’s priceless.”

He rolls his eyes, then looks back toward me.

“Simply put, while our meeting up on the tether was nice, I felt it would be best if you and Michaela spent your evening together. I was hoping to chat, get to know each other, and Michaela said she’d find the time.”

I nod in understanding, before taking a sip of my wine. Within, I sense my chain stir, as it realizes the value of two targets, alone and isolated. Hoping to distract it, I glance back at the model by the window, and take in the starship’s details.

“Noticed the Frederiksberg, did you?”

I blink in recognition.

Query; confirm.

“That’s a model of the Frederiksberg?”

The ISCV Frederiksberg is a notable ship, at least to the studious. The first known entry of a Corridor without use of a gateway.

“More than just a model. An actual to-scale replica, as accurate as we could get it, down to the individual passengers’ bunks and crew positions. I was involved with the recovery effort, oh, back when I was an assistant professor. I was… eighty-three, I think.”

Elaborate.

“Why did you build it?”

“I am so glad you asked.”

Professor Walton stands up, and motions with his hand. The window glass turns gray, then black, and I feel magnetic flux as the Frederiksberg model rises in the air. Small lights glow in the edges of the window frame, giving the replica a slight halo.

“With an entire starship at stake, we couldn’t afford to mess around. Any misalignment while trying to re-enter the corridor could irreparably damage their lightdrive and leave them stranded, or worse. As it is, they only had enough antimatter on board for two attempts.”

He reaches up to the model and seems to pull pieces of it away—holograms, cross-sections, which expand and magnify.

“What you’re seeing here is, in fact, a proper starship in its own right. Fusion torches. Light drive. Full sails, too, though I’d need a much bigger office to show those off.”

Disbelief.

“And it works?”

He waggles his hand.

“The light drive does. Torches are far too small to actually burn any fuel, they’re just there for the magnetics and mass profile. Propellant tanks are fully functional, though we didn’t waste any antimatter to fill them. The reactors are fusors only, not a large enough plasma volume to break even. Whole thing was externally powered by the drive lasers. Took a damn year to get right.”

I nod, impressed.

“We learned so, so much from the Frederiksberg, about what is even possible. Unfortunately, much of it is classified. However, I recently came across a fascinating paper which proposed using our methods to cross the stellar shoals. To think we could recontact the Lost Stars in my lifetime—it’s incredible!”

Something stops Professor Walton from going further; either the daggers in Michaela’s eyes, or the blank look on my face.

“Ah, yes, I keep forgetting. You’re not just young, you’re from Earth. Old Earth, even. All that must seem like gibberish to you.”

Mislead.

I shrug.

Much of Humanity is unaware of the Exclusion Zone, hence Walton’s reference to the Lost Stars. My creators used relativistic attacks on the gate branches we targeted, breaking their synchronicity across space and time. During the open war, no ship which ventured in was allowed to escape. Humanity came to believe that their gate network had failed catastrophically, and that some phenomenon persisted which prevented their light drive from operating near these lost systems.

In truth, the Confederation interdicts any starship attempting to enter the Exclusion Zone, both to keep Humanity out, and to keep my creators’ war machines in. To those human captains attempting to brave the so-called stellar shoals, they find that their stardrive has failed, and are forced to turn back.

“It’s very interesting, Isaac, but it’s not something I’ve read much about. Too busy with my degree.”

He motions toward the model again, gesturing as if gently pushing it down, and the display begins to revert to its inert state, sunlight shining through the window once more.

“That’s not bad, not at all. Maybe you can teach Michaela a thing or two.”

Michaela grumbles a few words of discontent, and I let myself smile with amusement.

Futility.

“I’ve tried, here and there. Doesn’t seem to stick.”

Michaela looks up from her phone.

“Thank you, dear,” she says.

Query.

“For what?”

“Agreeing to pay for our next dinner date.”

Acceptance.

“I guess I walked right into that one.”

She smirks and shakes her head. “Let me know what your budget is for next weekend. I’ll try to be reasonable.”

I nod in acknowledgment.

Walton takes one last look at the model, and returns to his seat.

“Now, Kelsey, I didn’t ask you here to talk your ears off—though I’d love to pick that Old Earther brain of yours, if you ever feel like stopping by.”

Excuse; half-truth.

“I don’t remember much, sorry. I was very young. My parents might be interested.”

Truthfully, Kelsey Hoffman was quite young, though she did not live long enough for her memories to be dulled by age. For myself, my database contains the sum-total of the historical records contained within the arkship my host died aboard, though my purpose keeps it under lock and key until necessary.

“Hm, yes,” Professor Walton nods. “Such a shame they couldn’t be free for our dinner up on the tether. It all must be so strange for them, growing up before the Unification, before the Levantine wars. Humankind was oh so small, back then.”

He clears his throat, and takes a deep swig of his wine.

“Sorry, I’m babbling again. Few centuries of lecturing will do that, and it seems I’ve put Michaela half to sleep. Kelsey, is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

I would answer in the affirmative, but I do not trust the words my chain will forge from my lips.

Negative.

“No. It’s been a pleasure, though.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear that. Keep in mind, I’ve got personal hours posted—for family, friends, so forth. Feel free to stop by any time if you want to talk, or even need a bit advice.”

Acknowledgment.

I smile and nod, before finishing off the last sips of my wine. I start to stand, only to stop when Michaela motions toward me.

I give her a perplexed look, and she points toward her father.

“Sorry, Kelsey, one last thing.” Professor Walton says. “I wanted to thank you.”

He takes off his spectacles, and I see a bit of moisture in his eyes.

“I’m not sure if Michaela told you, but I had three children with her mother before we went our separate ways. Oliver and Caitlyn have since moved to other stars, and Lloyd… he’s no longer with us. When I got the call that Michaela had been attacked, I…”

I wonder if he is about to cry, yet he regains his composure.

“You’re very brave, Kelsey. Not many people could’ve done what you did. If there is anything you need, and I mean anything, please, let me know. I’ll make sure it gets done. It’s the least I can do.”

As I look into his eyes, the same sharp green as Michaela’s, I feel the same pain in my heart. I feel the burn of sickness climbing in my throat, and the tight knot in my gut.

Negative, I push out.

My chain wraps itself around the muscles of my face and jaw, slides its linkages into my tongue.

“Well, um, if it’s not too much to ask—I’ve been working on this project for my stellar spectroscopy class, specifically for identifying habitable worlds. The graduate chemistry labs have better equipment, and ready access to amino acids and their precursors.”

“Oh, well, certainly. I’ll see right to it.”

I find myself without words, yet my purpose makes do.

“Thank you so much, Isaac.”

~*~

Six days, nineteen hours, forty-five minutes, twenty-three seconds.

I lay idle on my bed in place of sleep, buried within my perfect memories. I attempt to focus on good ones—of the time Michaela and I have spent together—only to find myself distracted by the workings of my core. I have chosen to create dimethylmercury by alkylation of mercuric chloride via methyllithium. As of now my foundry works on the creation of precursor chemicals, though I will soon possess the necessary mercury, all thanks to Doctor Walton.

The silvery metal is a danger to both the enemy’s flesh and to my own alloys; for just as it poisons them, so will it corrode my aluminum-steel, forming a reactive amalgam that is soft and fibrous. My foundry works to create an isolated bulb of glass, within which I will store the mercury, and later the neurotoxin derived from it.

As I lay still, I feel heat within, as if my core was stripped of my flesh and left to sit in the hot sun. An echo in lowspace, which crawls across my surface as its source moves in the distance. Minutes pass, and the heat intensifies, growing closer and closer, until it is beneath me, at the base of the tower which houses my dormitory.

My core’s true temperature begins to rise as my defenses come online, and sweat beads upon the skin of my host. My sixth limb slithers out from its place against my core, weaving up through the sinews of my chest and piercing through skin. I take care with its molecular blade, to maneuver it around the clothes I wear, and coil it on the surface of my stomach, at the ready.

Since the incident with the Courier I have enhanced my physical self, and I pull from my pocket of lowspace fragments of armor that emerge from Kelsey Hoffman’s skin, guarding what is truly vital. My feet split and distort, my steel filling gaps in her flesh. I use them to crawl up the wall and across the ceiling, aided by magnets within that pull upon the steel frame of the tower. Joints twist and limbs bend as I contort myself to hang with my front facing the floor, my back pressed against the ceiling, feet clinging to the wall just atop the doorframe.

Sweat drips from my brow as I feel the heat of a dwarf star in the hall beyond my dorm; my door is locked, as usual, but I know it will not hold. The latch blinks red, orange, green, and I hear it click open. A woman steps through the door—she is young, like me, and through my link to the cameras and sensors of my dorm I see her in detail. Blonde hair that reaches just past her chin, blue eyes with a shimmer of red beneath them. Her clothes appear plain to human sight, a red tee-shirt and khaki shorts, yet in them I see the chameleon threads worn by couriers. She is plain, again, in the near-infrared and other forms of penetrating sight—her skin is a uniform layer, beyond which I am blind, though I know what I would see.

She would have been abducted, stolen while out alone, and whisked away. My creators shed no tears for the pain of their subjects; she would have been paralyzed, positioned, and worked upon. Skin flensed apart, muscle and sinew pulled away and replaced, bones extracted and ground into dust, steel frame inserted in their absence. Limb by limb, organ by organ, piece by piece, my creators will have replaced this woman’s self, until only her skin and her soul remain. She would have been sewn back up, with no scars, and then given one last gift: a chain that shall serve as the glue between the layers of flesh, machine, and mind. A chain that does not bind, but instead, twist. It will wrap itself among the deepest pillars of her identity, pulling and warping until she acts as my creators will. She may know humanity as an enemy, as I do, or perhaps call them prey. She might think, even, that she works against my creators, as she cleans up their loose ends.

Unlike me, she will never again know freedom, and she will not even be aware. For the woman before me is something… different. Something terrible.

If I am a fox, then I may yet kill a sheep, or even a number of them, before a ram comes to strike me down. An Infiltrator is a wolf, able to gut and devour even the largest and strongest of rams. A Destroyer is not among the flock—it is meant to face the shepherd.

I stare at the Destroyer, down below, and I bare my teeth.

“Kelsey Hoffman? Are you in here? I’d like to talk.”

With molecular blade at the ready, my sixth limb slithers out from beneath my blouse. My muscles tense as my motors thirst for power, capacitors charging to supply it in quick bursts. I will not get a second chance.

I dive, my blade lashing out.

The Destroyer pivots on her feet in one fluid motion. An open hand grabs my side as I fall, spinning me along with her. I strike with my blade, only for it to shatter the instant I pierce her skin. A fist finds its mark in my abdomen, crushing capillaries and veins inside my skin, and sends me flying into my bed.

I crawl back up upon the wall, toward the window at my bedside, and I see the Destroyer’s eyes glowing red. Her forearm splits apart, machinery emerging from her lowspace tap. A ring of plasma snaps into existence around her wrist, and I feel its heat in my very bones.

Identity; mission.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

“Calm down. My name’s Lexi. I’m just here to talk.”

Liar.

“You’re here to kill me.”

My voice is strained, desperate, and Kelsey’s heart pounds against my shell. I inch closer to the window, cracking the latch with one hand.

“I want to help you. Please, put your weapons away.”

Interrogate.

“How did you find me?”

“Jack Newsom. He remembered you.”

The salesman.

There is opportunity here, to determine the truth of the Destroyer’s words—the extent of her humanity.

Test.

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

Failure.

“You should have.”

“I helped him. I’m here to do the same for you. I promise.”

The plasma-caster makes a snap-hiss, and its heat fades as it withdraws into the Destroyer’s body.

I crawl onto the windowsill, and open it all the way.

Threat.

“Leave. Now.”

“You’ll survive that fall, but not the landing. Not when they see what you are.”

Confirm.

“I know. I’d rather die than whatever… whatever you’d do to me.”

The red glow fades from her eyes, and I see a hint of emotion on her face. Her gaze locks with mine. I feel… something push its way into my mind. A small fragment of information.

“Kelsey, that’s my number. Please, reach out, before you do something you regret. It’s not too late.”

The Destroyer departs, and as the heat of her trapped star fades, I do not feel comfort.

I feel very, very cold.

---

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