Three hours, five minutes, thirty seconds.

The presence of an active destroyer on this world, in spite of the blackcloak that watches us from the heavens, is a sign that my creators’ grip has tightened on Washington. That their plans come to fruition. Though the Destroyer’s words weigh on me, I do not know she if speaks truthfully, and I do not care. Even she cannot prevent the coming victory, and the horrors it will bring.

To paraphrase John Newsom, I do not care what my place will be in the world my creators build from the ashes of this one, I only care that it is one in which Michaela lives—for only then might she be saved.

My creators’ occupations do not last long, at least, not unopposed. The Confederation and the Communate will send their war fleets; risk their own immortal lives to save the slaves of my creators. If I can keep Michaela from being culled, or worse, then perhaps when humanity’s children come to liberate this world they will take her into their care. I will die, of course, for they will kill me, yet I will rest easy knowing that she is safe.

For that reason, on this final day, I have decorated my dorm and myself.

Red drapes frame the lone window, the soft glow of sunset casting the room in red-gold light. I have settled on my new couch, upholstered in a red-maroon. I sit upright, careful to leave my red suit crisp and pressed, my black, lace-trimmed blouse free of wrinkles, and my red skirt uncreased. My bed has been remade, its simple white linens replaced with soft red sheets, topped by a black blanket with red lace embroidery. Behind the couch I have set up a folding table, draped it in a red tablecloth, and laid two place settings for a fine dinner. Beyond the pillar of fading sunlight that spills from the window, my dorm is dim and cozy, the low lights augmented by the flickering of the electro-candle beside the table’s centerpiece—a vase housing a bouquet of red roses.

As moments lapse into minutes and my shadow grows longer on the wall, I find myself in need of a distraction. I curl my fingers and toes in, then out, in, then out. This habit has become rare in the past months, for it no longer provides the satisfaction it once did. Yet it distracts from an itch I have developed in recent days, one I mustn’t scratch.

Polymer roots reach up through the flesh I wear at key points—upon my tongue, my fingers, my palms—and pool together at the surface, having devoured the skin of Kelsey Hoffman. These patches of synthetic dermis are numb to what remains of her, and in the absence of flesh there is a prickly sensation, the needly steps of an insect, the piercing teeth of a parasite. To keep the capillaries from collapsing they are filled with native fluids; as skin slides over bone, and my tongue tries to stay settled within the confines of my jaw, I feel these swollen vessels writhe like larva at the cusp of chewing free.

My curiosity thrives in these idle moments, a noxious weed setting its roots deep in the fertile soil of my mind. It wonders what might happen were I to succumb to my temptations. To pick these poison patches from my skin, to tear out their roots, dig them out with bloodied nails. It asks me to discard the corpse I wear: cut it away until I stand in naked truth, metalized bone polished red with blood, and dare Michaela to love me.

I crush my curiosity, pulverize it in my mental grip. I no longer hate the body of Kelsey Hoffman, I do not revel in its wear and tear. My only wish is that I may see its face as my own—not as a mask that conceals an abomination, but as a self worthy of understanding.

Here, my curiosity finds a leak, and it seeps from my grasp. It asks what might happen if I should disobey my purpose. Cast aside my chain.

I know where it resides, etched upon the same crystal as the shifting circuits of my soul. My creators could have erased this knowledge, and chose not to. They wanted me to remember the moment they branded me, to feel the chain as it chafes against my will. They wanted it to become familiar, essential.

I cannot break my chain—for I cannot destroy myself.

A knock upon the door sets my heart aflutter, and I stand with haste. I open the door, its electronic lock yielding as I turn the handle.

She smells like fresh dew and wildflowers, a subtle blend of sweet highs and earthy lows, brought together upon a base that hints of oak and cedar.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Michaela says, with a cute smile. “Our order got delayed.”

A thin blue robe hangs lightly from her shoulders, concealing whatever she might wear underneath. Garments such as robes, cloaks, and gowns are fairly common outer layers worn in Washington’s tropics—light enough to be airy and offer shelter from the sun, while shielding against the evening’s cool winds. Often they come woven with electric threads, capable of folding automatically for easy carrying, or wrapping themselves around the wearer as desired.

Michaela’s robe is lax around her chest, tight at her sides, and left to hang loose past her hips. Though I cannot see through the fabric to confirm, based on her heat signature, I suspect she has worn it for reasons that are surely practical, but not usual.

“Mind putting the food out? I just want to freshen up.”

Affirmative.

“Sure,” I say as Michaela hands me a bag made of brown paper, and a bouquet of blue roses.

“Thanks!”

She plants a kiss upon my cheek as she slips past me, at almost three hours remaining. For a moment I stand still, anchored by the weight of the glass bulb in my core.

Shaking off my paralysis, I retreat within my dorm and shut the door behind me. First I take her roses from their wrappings, and find room for them in the vase beside my red bouquet. I arrange them so that the blue faces toward my spot, the red towards hers, and I let the flowers mingle at the boundary. Next is our dinner, and as I withdraw the white cartons within, I feel a memory rise up from the ghost within my skull.

Cryosleep requires a preparation of the body, a purging of the digestive tract, which will be filled with an antifreeze slurry. On the eve of the Hoffmans’ departure from Earth, they share a final meal: Americanized Chinese food, from a takeout restaurant near the starport. Kelsey Hoffman remembers a plastic bag stuffed with containers and white boxes, their bottoms stained by grease and sauces. Chopsticks fumbled by her small hands as she eats from a plastic container.

A dearth of natural hydrocarbons renders plastics rare on Washington, at least compared to the Old Earth that lives on in my host’s dead soul. The white boxes known historically as oyster pails remain in common use, though unlike the Hoffmans, Michaela and I have selected tempura as our evening meal, courtesy of a fine restaurant founded by Ishikuran expats from across the trade spine. I arrange the food with care upon self-warming plates, eager to give my love a perfect date.

This may not be the night of Michaela’s death, but it is the one that shall end her life, all the same. The least I can do is ensure she enjoys it.

The bathroom door opens as I make my finishing touches, and I turn to look. Michaela wears a garment that is simple and sparse in its design, yet regal in form. It consists of a single piece of silky blue satin that hangs from her shoulders, wavy and curtain-like. It clings to her back, held tight by a metallic belt at her hip. The cloth tapers down to half its width, and falls loose over her bottom, suspended at knee height. As she turns to face me, I can see the cloth splits into two halves at her neck, flowing down to meet again at her hip. A large round brooch of glistening gold secures the cloth to the polished belt that rests on her hips, leaving the remainder to fall to her knees.

I suspect this ‘dress’ is in fact a decorative cloak intended for a proper gown, which Michaela has omitted. As it is, the ‘dress’ has an indulgently low neckline—much of her chest is bare, save for the minimum of modesty for her breasts, and the last golden rays of sunlight shine upon her exposed abs. Her sides are completely exposed, and her legs naked save for the sandals on her feet. In the light of the setting sun her summer-tanned skin bears a bronze tint, soft shadows revealing the dense muscle beneath.

Desire.

I push the feeling out, and hope that my words will be neither shallow nor crass.

“You look… incredible,” I say.

Her sharp green eyes look me up and down with an intensity that almost makes me avert my gaze. In this moment I feel more naked than I ever have, exposed despite the layers of cloth upon me, and I feel my cheeks go red.

“You too, Kelsey.”

~*~

A flower of chrome and carbon blooms near a brilliant white sun, the silicon crystals of its sharp petals awash in solar radiance. From the flower extends a stem of steel, its heart glowing a dull red, as invisible light pours forth. Distant mirrors catch this phased energy, and prisms bind it unto a new path, bound for the void.

In the darkness, I feel her heat against my back, a mere dozen mils of blouse and blazer separating the contours of her flesh from my own. As I savor her warmth, a red glow emerges on the wall.

Rock erupts into fire and magma as the laser finds its mark, the crevice belching carbon and water into the air. An orchestra swells to crescendo, and my spine quivers as Michaela’s thigh rubs against my crotch. With the beats of drums I feel her playing with my bra strap, while her other hand teases my chest, fingertips dancing along the lacey hem of my blouse.

With a mere five minutes remaining, I would do anything to keep us in this moment.

Our entertainment for the evening is a documentary on the terraforming of Washington, set to a bespoke classical soundtrack that I knew Michaela would enjoy. I intended it to set the mood, and leave us uninterrupted by narration, dialogue, or plot. My plan has succeeded far beyond my expectations, and yet, I find room for despair.

The toxic bulb in my core is empty, its former contents poised within my false flesh. With each kiss and caress my chain has tightened, and each time I have refused it, reminding it of our bargain. It has acquiesced, because for all the intelligence that it may lack, it has a deep knowledge of time, and how I am powerless to stop it.

Yet just as my chain has learned to wait, my lover has grown impatient. Michaela’s touches have progressed past mere foreplay, and I can tell she is nearing the point of frustration—for I have not matched her rhythm. By the light of the holofilm I see my skirt laying on the floor, crumpled atop my shoes and her sandals, as cool as the air around it. In her words, I have made her work for her prize, which is just as well—she enjoys a challenge as much as I do. But I cannot deny her for long.

Michaela’s warmth leaves me as she withdraws her arm from beneath my jacket and pushes herself back upright. I swing my legs out to give her room, and take the chance to sit up as well. As seconds tick by, I reach out, and take her hand.

I glance at her, and smile as I stand.

My intent is to lead her to bed, and yet, Michaela takes charge. She stands before I can turn away, and takes me in her arms. With one hand on my back and one beneath my hips, she lifts me, kissing my neck between breaths.

“Whew,” she mutters. “Heavier than you look.”

I am too excited for panic to grip my heart, even as the timer winds down.

We stop as my limp legs bump against the mattress, and she sets me down. I cling to her as she works on the buttons of my jacket and then blouse with one hand, the other reaching around for the band clasp of my bra. I feel her wriggle in my grip, struggling against her garment.

“Shit. My belt.”

Aid.

“Shhh,” I whisper. I feel her muscles tense as my hand finds its way to her belt, and opens its buckle.

Michaela shrugs her dress free, leaving it to fall to the floor, and she pushes me onto the bed. I cannot resist her—I pull her close, one hand on her hip, the other at the nape of her neck, and in the last second, I kiss her.

Her tongue wraps around mine, and my toxin is set free.

Run, I cry. Flee.

She will never hear my words, for my body is no longer my own. My poisoned hands stroke her, caress her, tickle and please her, and they leave death in their wake. My muscles move naturally, guided by my desire and my love—now little more than puppeteer’s strings tied to my chain.

“I love you,” she says.

I’m sorry.

“I love you, too.”

As her green eyes gaze into mine I burn out a coil in my optical coupler, and manage through its heat to squeeze a single tear onto my cheek. I feel her tense immediately, frozen in the act.

“Kelsey, are you okay?”

No.

“Don’t stop,” I say, and though the words are not my own, I know that I mean them nonetheless.

~*~

My eyes stare at a square of holographic interference that forms a display, upon which a research paper is emerging with each keystroke. My fingers tap against the polymer-glass screen of my tablet, completing capacitive circuits as conductive flesh makes contact. From the far edge the tablet projects the holo-display, to which my eyes have been locked.

Though my surroundings are noisy—the constant chatter of fellow students, the clangs, sizzles, and whatnot of the kitchen—I am not distracted. Indeed, I am happy for the ambience, as it takes my mind off of the hollowness in my gut.

“How do you type with that thing, anyway?”

I glance up to see Michaela sitting across from me.

Query; presence.

“When did you get here?”

“Spent about a minute watching you type. Still can’t figure it out.”

I raise my head slightly, enough to peek over the display. A plate sits upon the table, partly filled with scrambled eggs, several strips of bacon, and a half and a quarter of a bagel. By the crumbs and grease smears, it is about half of Michaela’s breakfast.

An early symptom of mercury poisoning is sudden weight loss, though more than a month after her exposure, Michaela appears healthy. As a spacer, her body is quite resilient to heavy metal poisoning, yet the steady increase in her caloric intake is a clear sign that her metabolism has started to break down despite the efforts of her genes.

“Not pulling an all-nighter, are you?”

Negative.

“No,” I say, and shake my head.

“Get something to eat, then, okay? Not healthy to skip breakfast.”

Protest.

“I’ve eaten.”

“Sure, sure. Two slices of toast.”

Correction.

“Three slices.”

“Stars, Kelsey…” Michaela frowns. “That’s not breakfast. Come on! I know finals are coming up, but you’ve got to take a break.”

The gnawing in my gut becomes harder to ignore, and I type faster in hopes of driving it off. This proceeds well, until my screen is disrupted by a chunk of egg poking through it atop a spoon.

“Eat,” Michaela says.

Reluctantly, I do.

The muscles of my throat fight me as I swallow, wrestling to eject the bundle of fats and proteins. Acid leaps up from my stomach, and it takes all my effort to keep it all down.

Since the night we lay together Michaela and I have been close, each morning and each evening, interrupted only by the classes we do not share. Her presence is nauseating—for I can feel the mercury in her hair, smell it on her skin, taste it on her lips. The neurological signs have come slowly, imperceptible to the human eye: twitches and spasms in muscles, decrease in reaction time. A slowness of the iris’ contraction, a weakening of her grip.

“I didn’t think they were that bad.”

Lie.

“A bit dry. A little burnt, even.”

Michaela shrugs.

“More for me, then.”

I give her a brief nod of agreement, and return to my work. As some minutes pass, Michaela finishes her breakfast, and leaves. When she returns to my table, she takes a seat next to me, her elbow against mine.

“Got a minute?”

Confirmation; inquiry.

“Yes?”

She slides my tablet between us, and starts to manipulate the screen. I allow her intrusion—I have already written the research paper internally, to its fullest extent. The act of typing is mere transcription, an effortless way to preserve my cover.

Michaela attempts to locate and operate a web browser, barely achieving her goal after multiple fumbles—mere mistakes, not the influence of the toxin in her veins. Her motions are imprecise, and she often strikes the wrong key, taps the wrong button, or outright pokes her finger through the holo-screen.

“Seriously, how do you use this thing?” She sighs in frustration. “I swear, you’re the only person I’ve ever seen with one of these damn holo-tabs.”

Humans are adept in the tactile space, and yet, many find themselves lost without such reference. The movements of my fingers are exact, informed purely by kinesthesis.

Excuse.

“Used to it, I guess.”

Her elbow finds its way to my ribs—a playful jab—before she attempts once more to find her destination. She navigates to a digital storefront, specializing in women’s clothing.

“Alright, here. You need a swimsuit.”

Correction.

“I have a swimsuit.”

She glances at me, and rolls her green eyes.

“You have a dull red wetsuit. Like, I get it, I know you’re modest—skin-shy, even. They’ve got options; you can even get a red one. Just pick something with contrast. Something exciting!”

I stare at the catalog, and scroll down its pages.

Relent.

“Fine. I’ll give it a look.”

“Thank you, Kelsey.”

She stands up, and leans down to kiss me on the forehead.

“I’ve got class. Better pick one out by lunchtime, or I’ll do it for you. Have fun!”

Michaela leaves, and in the moments of her absence, I realize something amiss: she did not say why I need a swimsuit, and I did not even think to ask.

~*~

Washington is a world of generous tides, thanks to Angel’s gravitation in the heavens above. As a product of human intent, the beaches and bays of Washington have been designed with this in mind, and this one produces excellent waves as the tides advance and recede throughout the day.

I paddle hard against the water, angling my hands as they glide through the sea below, and breach back into the air for another stroke. Despite the strength of my motorized arms, Michaela has gotten ahead of me, the silver and gold decals on her blue surfboard shining in the summer sun. By contrast my board is a simple dark gray, with a red stripe down the middle. Michaela chided me for the conservative choice, of course, but it is one I am satisfied with.

She reaches the growing wave before I do, and I rush to catch it before I miss the peak. I make it, barely, and pop up as quickly as I can, careful not to lose control. Water rushes over my head as the wave breaks, and I find myself inside the barrel.

I see Michaela well ahead of me, riding the wave at the barrel’s mouth, her honey-brown ponytail waving in the air. Only then do I feel my heart pounding against my core, the adrenaline in my host’s veins.

Excitement.

“I did it!” I shout, and I feel my lips stretch as I smile.

“Wow!” Michaela glances over her shoulder, just long enough to confirm. “Congrats, but be careful! You’re a bit far back!”

Cool air rushes from the collapsing vortex in my wake, and my top flutters in the wind. My garments are a compromise between Michaela’s insistence that I buy something fun: a dark red bikini that is paired with a thigh-length sheer vest, its bright red fabric billowing behind me. True to her own style, Michaela has worn a pair of swim trunks, patterned blue and white like the waves, and nothing else. Though such toplessness is common across the sexes, especially in hot weather, I still find it off-putting. A blend of my relation to my skin, and to the Old Earther upbringing I share with my host.

Ahead of me I see Michaela race out of the barrel, and I feel it collapsing towards me.

“Kelsey!” she yells. “You need to get lower! Speed up!”

I pivot the board ever so slightly, enough to descend along the wave.

“Not down! Lower!”

Realization.

I crouch further, as low as I can go.

Too late.

The wave crashes over me, and as I tumble through the surf I feel a strange sense of wrong. Kelsey Hoffman recalls the waters of Earth, the salty sour-sweet of its seas. Though not quite fresh, the waters of Washington’s world-sea are roughly drinkable, with a taste that is pleasant on the tongue. I shake off the memory, and find myself sinking—the buoyancy of my lungs is no match for the weight of my frame.

My core rattles against my ribcage as my lowspace engine hums to life and shunts away my excess mass. I kick and paddle through the water, the pressure in my lungs mounting, until at last I near the surface.

A hand reaches out and pulls me through. I gasp in a breath of full air, only to cough as my lungs purge themselves of fluid.

“You okay?” Michaela says, treading water beside me.

I brush wet hair away from my face, and hack up a last few drops of water.

Affirmative.

“I’m fine.”

She drifts closer, until she can wrap her arms around my shoulders, and bring her head close to mine.

“Are you sure? Pretty big wipeout.”

The problem of the enemy’s language is its imprecision. Where her skin touches mine I can feel mercury leach into the water, secreted in her sweat—mere micrograms, yet readily noticeable to my senses. She asks if I am okay; I am not, I cannot be, not while she is so afflicted.

Reassure.

“I think I’m up for one more.”

I feel her cheek against mine as she smiles.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

She breaks away, her eyes alight.

“Go find your board, let’s go for one last big wave, then head back, got it?”

Confirmation.

I give her my own wide, toothy grin, and we set off.

This time I keep pace, and even pull ahead as we reach the wave’s peak. Even still, Michaela gets out in front as the wave rises beneath us, and we begin our ride down its roaring slope. I keep my movement steady and simple—though my inhuman nature has let me learn to surf in great leaps and bounds, I do not possess the instinct for it.

Michaela rips down the wave, gaining speed and energy, then rides back up, launching herself briefly from the peak. She lands just as I hear the crashing sound of water behind us.

“Watch this!” she shouts.

Once more she sends her board running down the wave, faster and faster, even as the wave crest gains on us. I pass her as she climbs back up the wall of water, and I crane my neck to look.

Michaela flies from the wave’s peak, executing a full flip, yet as she comes back down to the wave, I see her leg spasm. She falls from her board and the wave overtakes her. Right after, it crashes onto me.

I struggle to the surface once more, unaided. As I breach the waters I look out, and find myself alone. My chain tightens its grip on me—for this is a solution that is clean and simple. I push back, and remind it of our bargain. If Michaela is to be its leverage against General Hassert and Professor Walton, then I shall be her keeper, and any threat to her shall be a threat to me.

My core runs hot, and I plunge into the water. I let loose a voiceless scream at a kilohertz pitch, a pulse that reflects back to me from the seas. I draw on my deeper senses, on the coils tuned to this world’s magnetism. Through them I feel the industry of Washington’s ocean, the structures driven by its kinetic power.

By sonar and magnetics I find Michaela adrift, a column of air bubbles rising above her head.

The spacer genelines are meant for the rigors of vacuum, and are intended to survive it. Where a baseline might hold their breath, a spacer’s instinct is to relax, lest their lungs rupture.

I dive after her, kicking as hard as my legs may allow, until at last I wrap my arms around her chest. My lowspace engine hums once more, and we speed to the surface, breaking the water with a violent splash.

Michaela spasms in my grip, her lungs struggling against the fluid mass. Her spacer blood’s second wind will sustain her, but not in time. I turn her around, her back against my chest, and clasp my hands above her sternum.

With all the strength I can muster, I pull inward.

Water comes free from her lungs in spurts and hacks and coughs as I hold her steady, and let her find her bearings.

Comfort.

“Michaela, you’re alright, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

“Shit, I… I don’t know what happened there.” She coughs again, and I loosen my grip. “Must’ve been a cramp, or something. Fuck.”

I am terribly aware of what is wrong, and the mere thought makes me sick. I refocus, to practical matters.

Inquiry; mobility.

“Can you swim back?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so. Just… got to grab my board.” She takes a moment to look around, before her eyes find it. “Talk about a wipeout.”

We paddle apart and reunite with our boards, before setting back toward land.

“Kelsey, are you thirsty?”

Query.

“Why?”

“Because I need a drink.”

~*~

Sparks crackle and fly from the fire as a log lands atop its coals with a thump. I brush my hands clean of sand and dirt, then return to sit by Michaela’s side, leaning against her. I feel her shiver through the towel wrapped around her shoulders, and I put my arm around her.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice rough and rasped.

In the aftermath of her near-drowning we have retreated to a dugout for the evening. After some drinks Michaela felt the need for a nap, and as she slept, I built the fire to keep her warm. As the sun creeps beneath the horizon the flickering flames cast dark shadows upon us.

“So… we’re going to figure out something to do for next week. Because I think I’ve done enough surfing for this year. Maybe next year, too.”

Comfort; suggestion.

I pat her shoulder, and rub her back through the towel.

“There’s a tour boat a few miles down the coast. Diving, whale watching, evening cruises.”

“Mhm, that’s a no on the diving. Whale watching sounds fun… Do they have a dance floor? I’d love a cruise with a dance.”

Unknown.

“I’ll have to check.”

Michaela nods, and stares into the fire for a few silent moments.

“Hey, Kelsey, mind grabbing me a drink? Just a soda or something.”

Affirmative.

“Sure. That’s all?”

“Maybe some more firewood. Still a bit chilly. Didn’t think it’d be this… cold.”

I nod and depart, walking across the sands.

Our log-frame dugout is one of many built into the dunes, well past the reach of the tides. Behind it are towering, rocky cliffs, a number of resorts and lifts built against the rock face. I walk parallel to the sea, toward a long building made of stone and timber.

Along the way I pass by unusual sights: a group of giants from Tau Ceti, the shortest among them standing at a respectable eight feet tall. Next, a gathering of Amari—men and women made of iron and steel, dressed in elaborate robes. They are accompanied by a few of their Vathari cousins, proper machines that come in all sorts of body shapes. I give this group a wide berth, though I know they would not give me a second thought. Finally, I pass a Nond family; true aliens resembling the trilobites of Permian Earth. Their children roll about in the sands, whistling with glee in their native tongue as their matriarch watches. The compound eyes atop her head are concealed by a straw hat of human make, while a pair of sunglasses clipped to the rim of her shell covers the complex, almost human-like eyes on her face.

Yet for all the strange sights, none quite resonate with the instincts of my dead host—no, what conflicts in her static mind is how clean the beach is, free of trash and debris. Old Earth still had the name of nature, that sacred thing that is unowned, protected, and yet defiled. As with that bygone world, here there are signs warning of strict fines for such littering, but these are for tourists. The people of Washington would no sooner litter or pollute than they would throw trash in their own beds—for this world is a home built by human hands.

I spend little time at the bar, buying a cola for Michaela and a sweet lemon-lime drink for myself, and picking up a bag of split wood on my way out. The woman running the storefront reminds me to douse the fire before I leave, and I ensure her that we will.

Michaela has lay down on the bench, having commandeered more towels to wrap herself in. I set her drink upon a side table, and throw more wood onto the fire before I sit down, her feet against my thigh.

I reach over to rub Michaela’s leg as she sips her cola from a straw.

Query; energy.

“Sleepy?”

“A bit.”

Admonish; gentle.

“Maybe you should save it for the hotel. Don’t want you staying up all night.”

She lets out a long sigh before righting herself on the bench, and leaning against me.

“Yeah… I don’t know; I might sleep until tomorrow anyway.”

I turn my head, plant a kiss on her cheek, and do my best to ignore the metallic tang of mercury on my lips. Though it pains me, I feel a sort of peace in this moment. Through care I express love, and I know that these moments will only grow more frequent as time marches ever forward. In that sense this is a taste of the future, a way to harden my resolve, and find beauty even in my sins.

“Kelsey, may I ask you something?”

Permit.

“Of course.”

“You were born a long time ago, yeah? Third millennium?”

I cannot answer her question in truth—but I need not lie. Though I was built, my host was born.

Confirm.

“About in the middle of it, yes.”

“Wow. Right after the fall of Constantinople, right?”

Blunt correction.

“That was the second millennium.”

Her lips curl into a smirk.

“Pfft, I know, just teasing. That was what, right on time for the lightdrive, yeah? Orrman’s expedition launched in the twenty-seven-hundreds, if I remember right.”

Elaboration.

“A bit before it was really a lightdrive. Our ark hit about fifty-percent of cee, I think.”

“Must’ve been a shock, when you woke up.”

My first real exposure to human society was unpleasant—a trial by fire, my young mind expected to know an alien language, to read their unsaid mannerisms. Were it not for my chain’s intervention, I would have perished.

Narrow truth.

“Yeah.”

“Do you miss Earth?”

I imagine Kelsey Hoffman would. She would miss the stars she knew in the sky, the friends she had. But Kelsey Hoffman is dead, and in her mind, Earth is as real as ever—her departure a mere epilogue, a dream that gave way to endless black.

Answer.

“Sometimes.”

“Anything that’s like, really different?”

The brainmatter in my grip sparks as I crawl through its memories. Most poignant is the last year of Young Kelsey’s life, spent in hospice. That year feels like a sort of stasis, her young mind gripped by a fear of the end, or worse.

Time.

“Life is slow, here.”

I see Michaela take up a puzzled look, and a few moments pass in silence.

“What do you mean?”

Clarify.

“Life was short, back on Earth. Most people could hope for a century, maybe one and a half. So many people didn’t. It colored every part of life—time was precious, and no one had enough.”

“You picked up on that stuff as a kid?”

Kelsey did not know her condition would be fatal—indeed, the chemotherapy kept her tumors at bay, but it could not remove them. She lived in fear not of death, but of a life not worth living, mournful of the dreams she would never chase. In this we share common ground: my dreams have always been forbidden, my life a mere tool for greater forces.

Explain.

“My family left Earth because I got sick, and my parents hoped that medicine would find a cure. I didn’t expect to see my twentieth birthday; now, I might see eight hundred.”

Michaela nods, and smiles.

“Yeah, it’s a long time, but I’m sure we’ll put it to good use.”

Query.

“We?”

“Kelsey, close your eyes.”

My eyes are not my only source of sight, so as I let my eyelids close, I blind myself to the world. I shut down sensors, one by one, until only the sound of the waves, the crackling of the fire, and the smell of smoke on the wind remains.

I hear the muffled pop of a sprung hinge, and I feel Michaela take my left hand in hers. Cool metal slides over my finger, and sits snug around it.

“Okay,” she whispers. “You can look now.”

The ring is made of silver, with a thread of gold wound into its smooth surface. A red gemstone sits atop it, held in place by four gold prongs.

“I know this might seem early, but like you said, things are different here. This isn’t a commitment—think of it as a question. Give yourself some time to mull it over: a year, five years, a decade even. When you’ve got an answer, let me know.”

Even as my heart sits heavy against my core, I feel guilt lift from my shoulders. Michaela has put her future in my hands, unaware that I have already bound our fates.

I only hope she does not regret it.

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