The brass ring is heavy in her grip, weighty beyond its mass. She can see weathered pockmarks where the ring sits in its hinge, where vacuum welds were broken. An artifact of Old Earth, worthy of a museum, yet left mounted to the door of a family home, a humble townhouse built of timbers.
She hesitates, questioning if she should proceed. The black vinyl portfolio tucked under her arm has developed its own weight during the train ride. Its contents are a serious matter, and for that reason she has come in uniform. She would have preferred her suit, yet even though the blood has been washed away, it is stained by memory.
Michaela strikes the knocker against its baseplate, and tries to ignore the dull thrum of pain beneath her scalp.
She used to wonder why the Hoffmans live in a wooden home—the material is fragile, prone to wear and decay. Her first assumption was that it was cheap, structures easy to build for the thousands of immigrants from their ark. The look of the woman who answers the door reminds her of a tragic fact.
Despite their young age, Kelsey’s parents are old. It doesn’t matter that their house won’t last more than three or four centuries: they won’t be here to see it fail.
“Oh, Michaela, it’s good to see you. So sorry for my appearance, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Do you need anything?”
From above the waist Mrs. Hoffman is dressed professionally, her petite frame shrouded in a tan blazer over a white blouse, a simple cross pendant dangling from a silver chain around her neck. Past this attire she wears loose gray sweatpants, and a pair of slippers. Her eyes are the same dull blue as Kelsey’s, and her graying black hair is tied back in a braided bun.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Hoffman. Sorry to barge in; I was hoping I could talk to you and your husband.”
“Oh, well, Charles is still out, and I’m in the middle of a meeting. But please, come in, make yourself at home.”
Mrs. Hoffman steps back into the house, holding the door open. Michaela follows her into the narrow foyer with cream-white walls. The space is dominated by a staircase half the hall’s width, its polished hardwood runners protected by a thin blue carpet. A slim hall table beneath the staircase’s railing offers space for a handful of photographs; above it hangs a larger portrait of a home much like this one, standing in an old city on a different world.
“The kitchen is just down the hall if you’d like to sit. There’s fruit on the counter, and some lemon squares in the fridge. Help yourself. I’ll be back down in about an hour, okay?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hoffman.”
“Oh, you’re so polite. Please, you can call me Mirabelle, or just Mira. Holler if you need anything.”
Michaela nods, and makes her way toward the kitchen. She knows Mrs. Hoffman’s name, of course, and has said it many times. Mira feels too casual, at least at a time like this.
She sets her portfolio on the small table in the kitchen, at the chair she intends to take. The emptiness in her stomach brings to mind Mrs. Hoffman’s offer, but as she examines the fruit bowl, the ache in her abdomen makes her reconsider.
Instead, she wanders the house. The first floor is somewhat familiar: she knows the kitchen and dining room from her first visit, though she hasn’t had the chance to see either in much detail.
Pictures and papers on the fridge catch her eye—drawings in a child’s hand, with dates in the distant past, covered carefully in polymer laminate; photos of the Hoffmans themselves, of Kelsey throughout her life. One bears the same time-sealing laminate, and depicts more than just the family. Centered are Mirabelle and Charles; they are younger, closer to Michaela’s dad’s age, though she knows they must’ve been only in their forties, at most. Kelsey isn’t unrecognizable in her childhood, though her long hair isn’t the quite red that Michaela knows. It has a gold shine to it, a blondeness that has since faded—much closer to her dad’s hair, in fact. Behind the Hoffmans are other relatives, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins standing to the sides.
Compared to this the other pictures seem… lonely. A single, small family, this couple with their daughter, alone on a world built long after their relatives and friends have died.
The dining room walls host a number of portraits. Landscapes of Earth, in paint and in picture. Some look like they were taken on a family vacation, others merely decorative.
Michaela finds the last room to be a hybrid, a living room with an office occupying one corner. Not much to see here, other than the screens—actual, physical displays. Not uncommon, but kind of rare in the home.
She returns to the kitchen and has a seat, fiddling with her phone, trying to pass the time. An itching at the back of her thighs makes it hard to stay comfortable, always shifting position. It’s happened on and off for, what, a few weeks? Usually a jog or a run helps to clear it up, though that won’t help once classes start up again.
Hopefully it goes away soon.
Despite her attempts to settle down, the itches are too much for her to stand. Michaela gets up, and a few paces back and forth through the hall does the trick. She stops beneath the stairs, glancing up to the second floor, and finds herself curious.
Her steps are slow and careful on the stairs, though the wood still creaks a bit underfoot. The second floor consists of a wide, long hall. A balcony runs parallel to the stairs behind her, chatter coming from a door—Mrs. Hoffman’s office, probably. Down the hallway itself are another three doors. The closest one is open, a small bathroom. Judging by the floor space, the one at the far end is the main bedroom. Which makes the middle door Kelsey’s room.
Michaela knows she shouldn’t, but…
It’s not going to hurt her, right? Won’t know a thing.
The doorknob turns slowly in Michaela’s grip, its brass cool against her skin, and she opens the door with care.
Weird, is her first thought.
Really weird.
Kelsey’s room is discordant. Not in a messy sense—it’s plenty neat and clean. No, it’s almost like a bizarre painting, each part done in a different style. A corner shelf with kid’s toys atop it, beneath walls plastered with posters mass-marketed to tweens. Then a bookshelf full of angsty holo-novels, the sort of dreck loved by under-twenties and nostalgic bicentenarians. The only thing that’s expected is the telescope by the desk, and the starscapes hung above it. All that other stuff is reasonable to have growing up—and to grow out of. Kelsey could just be sentimental, but… most of it doesn’t seem up her alley, or even related.
Through the thin walls Michaela hears Mrs. Hoffman’s voice. Hard to parse the exact words, but she’d guess Mr. Hoffman is on his way home, probably walking by a store. She makes her way back to the kitchen with careful steps, and tries to settle down once more.
The itching crawls up her back and spreads down her arms, while her low headache has progressed from a thrum to a throb.
Shouldn’t have stayed up late.
Michaela sets her phone on the table to play some soft music—it will track her face, shape the sound so it will only reach her ears. Then she crosses her arms as the gentle sound of strings comforts her aching head, and closes her eyes.
The one good thing about being in the Guard?
You learn to sleep sitting up.
~*~
Michaela awakens to the thump-thump of the door knocker. The itching is gone—thank the fucking stars—but her fingers seem a bit numb.
Note to self: don’t cross arms.
The stairs creak under the footsteps of Mrs. Hoffman, and Michaela rubs her temples. Headache is better, but not gone. She fumbles with her phone, shuts the music off, then checks her calendar. Might be able to move the doctor’s appointment up. Probably should’ve done it this week, but she felt fine a week or two ago. Well, not fine, actually, but nothing like this.
Quiet words from the foyer interrupt Michaela’s thoughts.
Focus.
Kelsey’s parents enter the room together. Mrs. Hoffman has acquired a pair of pants to match her tan blazer. Mr. Hoffman is dressed more casually—a button down shirt that has been hastily tucked into his jeans. Like his wife he is much older than Michaela would expect for someone in his late fifties—his blond hair has strands of white, and his well-trimmed beard is speckled with patches of gray.
There are gene treatments to extend the lives of baseline humans, but the elder Hoffmans will have seen the least benefit. Their age makes them seem so fragile, as if they should be sheltered from the world at large.
All the more reason to be careful, especially at a time like this.
“Mira said that you wanted to talk?” Mr. Hoffman says, as he takes a seat
“I hope everything is alright,” Mrs. Hoffman adds, sitting down next to him.
Shit.
“It’s about Kelsey.”
Michaela expects questions, and is met only with quiet stares. The emotions are subtle—a slight widening of Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes; Mr. Hoffman’s lips pressed in a thin line. He sets his hand atop hers, and the silence between them is deafening.
“She’s been… Have either of you talked to her, recently?”
“I did.” Mrs. Hoffman nods. “We had our weekly chat, just before dinner on Saturday. She seemed quite happy, although she didn’t say much.”
Michaela nods.
“Anything else?”
“She sent us some pictures two weeks ago,” Mr. Hoffman says. “From her vacation. I’m working on getting a few of them framed.”
“So she hasn’t come over? Stopped by?”
“Oh, Michaela, I’m sure you’ve noticed, Kelsey is very…” Mrs. Hoffman sighs. “Single minded, sometimes. Is something wrong?”
Of course there’s something wrong, is her first thought. But she can’t just say that, not to their faces. Not yet.
Present it as a problem, and make them part of the solution.
“I, well… It’s better if I start at the beginning. I noticed during finals month that she wasn’t eating much—nerves, probably, right? Everything’s fine over our vacation, but then a few weeks after we get back, I notice she’s lost weight. She’d been avoiding me during mealtimes, I didn’t really catch on at first. I was hoping one of you could help.”
If they’d been fearful before, now they look outright stricken—Mira’s face is ashen, and Charles has slumped in his seat.
“She needs to see a doctor. Right now.” Mira says, “Oh heavens, please. They said it wouldn’t come back, but—”
“Hey, hey, let’s be calm, okay?”
“Yes, yes,” Mira lets out a long sigh. “Sorry.”
“I took her to the clinic on campus. They ran a full scan. Completely fine.”
“That’s a relief,” Charles says. A bit of color returns to Mira’s face.
“Whatever’s wrong, it’s something she’s doing. I confronted her, tried to talk to her, but I couldn’t get through.”
Charles nods. “She’s always been withdrawn.”
“Her words weren’t defensive. It felt more like shock. They taught us in boot camp that people tend to freeze up, get tunnel vision, lose their sense of what’s going on. Talking to her, it didn’t even seem like denial—just total disconnect. Has she ever done something like this before?”
“Oh, well—it’s a long story,” Mira says.
“I have time,” Michaela says, despite the dull throb behind her eyes.
“We left Earth because Kelsey had cancer. Genetic. They offered a screen for it when I was pregnant, but—this may sound silly to you—how could I judge God’s creation? By the time she had symptoms, it was too late. When we arrived here, at Washington, I thought our trials were over.”
A few tears wet Mira’s eyes, and Charles gives her hand a squeeze.
“I know I shouldn’t, but I still regret it, sometimes. We left everything behind, and I don’t think she ever recovered.”
Michaela leans in slightly, and rests her heavy head on one hand.
“Can you explain that?”
Charles nods.
“Kelsey barely spoke for her first year, after we settled in. Back on Earth she was full of adventure, always ambitious—even when she got sick. Here? It was like she built walls around herself, crawled into some hard shell. She was terrified of aliens; couldn’t even get her to go outside whenever a foreign ship arrived in orbit. School wasn’t any better. I knew she wanted to reach out, to make friends, but something made her hesitate. Always kept her distance.”
“Do you know why?”
“Never figured it out. Therapists. Counselors. Psychiatrists. She simply refused to let her guard down, at least until she met you.”
Oh, stars.
I was afraid of that.
“So you can’t help?
“I would love to talk to her,” Mira says. “We could take the train to campus, right?”
The ache in her head drives a spike of pain, deep within. Michaela shifts in her seat, as the needles start to poke once more.
Not now.
“Well, the thing is, I don’t know where she is.”
“What?”
“We had… I can’t call it a fight. I got angry at her, but it was like shouting at a wall. After that, she left. That was two days ago. I’ve tried calling her, texting, anything. No response.”
“Please tell me someone is looking for her.”
Michaela pats the portfolio. “That’s why I’m here.”
Her fingers miss the zipper on the first try—still numb?—but manage the second. The papers within aren’t like those in the Hoffman home: a metal spine runs up their margins, an antenna linking them to the cellular network, verified by cryptographic firmware embedded into the electro-threads woven with the fibers.
“I talked to my dad, and to the administration. We think the best course of action is a psychiatric hold, at least long enough to get her eating again. I didn’t want to do it, but… Look, it’s your decision.”
She pushes the paperwork across the table.
“Read these very carefully before you sign anything—the paper’s wireless, so once you’re done, you can keep them for your records. I, uhm—”
Michaela winces as the pain in her gut escalates from ache to hurt.
“I’m so sorry.”
Mira leans towards Charles—hard to make out their whispers, brief as they are. The effort alone seems to summon a ringing in Michaela’s ears.
“Do we have to decide now?” Mira asks.
“No.” Michaela shakes her head—and earns herself a bit of vertigo. “Best I can tell, Kelsey isn’t in imminent danger. I’ve got a few ideas of where she is, actually, but I thought it would be good to give her some space.”
“Makes sense,” Charles says, with a nod.
Mira leans in a bit, looking first at the papers, and then up at her.
“Michaela, are you feeling alright? You’re looking very pale.”
“I’m fine, just… I think I ate something bad, stomach ache kept me up all night.”
“Are you sure? There’s some painkillers in the half bath, under the stairs.”
What I really need is a drink, she thinks. Ibuprofen will do.
“That sounds great, actually. I’ll be right back.”
The chair squeaks against tile as she pushes back—to her ears it is the shrill screech of an iron nail dragged across a window. Standing is a rush, a lightening of the head, only for all her senses to flood back in. The tap-tap of her hard soled shoes are like thunder in her ears, a drumbeat to which the throbbing in her skull is set. A twitch in her arm sabotages gentle motion, and slams the bathroom door shut behind her.
Michaela holds herself up, hands upon the sink basin, nausea in her throat as the light fixture above dazzles her eyes. One hand clutches the marble, while the other digs behind the mirror. Numb fingertips grope for the right bottle, as her head hangs low. Her back struggles to keep her upright as both hands work at the bottle’s child-proofed cap, and only just succeed.
She has half a mind to lean down and drink from the faucet, to help the pills’ passage, as she stares at the two red ovals in her palm. The very thought of cool water in her mouth brings a lurch of acid up from her stomach. The pills go down dry, and her eyes close as she forces her throat to swallow.
With a blink, one eye opens, but not the other. Only in the mirror does she see them both staring back at her—and realization dawns, that half her sight is gone.
Arms tremble as legs buckle.
Michaela doesn’t sense the fall, nor the crack of her skull against the cold tile. Only the warm blood around her blind eye, the panicked voices, and the distant wail of sirens.
~*~
Crickets chirp as the setting sun sets the outdoor sky ablaze, and I stare at the device upon the table. Michaela’s voice echoes in my ears—full of fear, despite her reassuring words.
I read out the text again:
3 Unseen Holomails
12 Voicemails
57 Unread Messages
The phone unlocks with my touch, and I select a holo that has been seen. Michaela’s image springs to life, grainy and hollow from the phone’s insufficient projector. She moves and speaks in silence, for I do not want her words.
I can still smell her here, among the cabin’s cedar wood. The salty sweet of her sweat, the citrus tang of her hair. I can taste bacon in the air, hear the crackling of a low fire. When I close my eyes, I return to our nights and days here. Though we have not visited since the retirement of John Newsom, our cabin has sat unused. It is a time capsule, a place on this world that is free of my sin.
I had meant for this place to be a memory—now, it shall be a tomb.
My skin is heavy on my shoulders, sluggish and slow on my bones. Its veins tingle with acid, its lungs breathe shallow and stagnant. I have starved my skin, to the point where I no longer feel the grip of its hunger. My chain sustains it, but in time, it shall fail.
I will give Kelsey Hoffman her rest, and accept the death I deserve.
Michaela’s image fades, but I still see her face in my mind. I see her brilliant emerald eyes, and I see them dulled and lifeless; her body draped in sheets, sustained by machines. She will live the slow death that Kelsey Hoffman feared most—and hers shall last lifetimes longer.
My phone chimes as it rings. Upon its screen, something unexpected:
Mom
The chain wraps itself around my arm, bringing the phone to my ear. I have fought against it, yet here it prevails—the illusion must be maintained.
“Hi Mom.”
“Kelsey.”
Mom’s voice is pained. I feel my host’s heart beat faster, as her adrenaline enters my veins. My core grows hot within my chest.
“Oh, thank God you answered. You need to come home. Please.”
I stand, wary of the chain’s control—it is best to act while its attention is divided, to seize territory before it has lain its gaze upon it.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s Michaela. She fell. We’re on our way to the hospital. Your dad is talking to her parents—do you know what could be wrong?”
My spine shivers in concert with the muscles of my host. A memory rises in my mind, of a number I cannot know.
“Oh, mom, that’s awful.”
I was meant to be with her when this happened. If she is to live—to truly, freely live—I must act, and quickly. My eyes dart to the knife block, then the fridge, and I signal my intent to eat. The chain allows it, and I imagine it must be pleased that I have received its reason.
“I’d love to, really, but I’m out of town.”
“Kelsey?”
I hear the pain, feel my chain recoil from its error.
“I’m way out in the boonies. A friend dropped me off. I might be able to come tomorrow?”
My hands place my phone between my neck and shoulder as I use my hands to open the fridge and withdraw a head of lettuce. I retrieve a cutting board and set the leafy vegetable down upon it. With one hand I hold it steady, while the other withdraws a large knife from the block.
“Are you sure, Kelsey? This… the doctors don’t know whats going on!”
The number is slippery in my mind, even as the chain hesitates. This information has been forbidden from me; I see it in my mind, in the same way I see the name of my creators. Yet I have a trick that my chain does not—though I am blinded, Kelsey Hoffman retains her sight. I wait until the chain has found its words and opens my mouth.
Wood cracks and blood flies as I bring the knife down beneath my elbow, where radius meets ulna, and pull my arm against the blade. With my voice I shriek in pain.
“Oh my god, Kelsey, are you okay?”
Plea.
“Mom. I’m going to tell you a number. I can only say it once. You have to call it. Please.”
“Kelsey, what’s going on?”
My body convulses as my sixth limb weaves through viscera, darting toward the site of injury, where it will sew and glue flesh whole once more. I feel my chain grip the knife and start to work it out of the countertop.
Inside the skull of Kelsey Hoffman I knead what is left of her soul—poke it and prod with voltage and chemistry, and make her mouth form the words I need.
Beg.
“Please, Mom. Please.”
One last manipulation sends a pulse to my implant, then relayed to my phone: disconnect. I let the device fall from my shoulders, and wrestle the knife free of my own accord. For a moment I stare at the gash along my arm, at my steel laid bare.
Months ago, I would have savored it. Now I can only see past it, at the blood I have spilled, and I know I cannot stay here.
~*~
Trees stand with trunks stripped bare, white as bone in the blue moonlight. I sit in the clearing, at the roots we once lay upon, and stare up at the blackcloak high above.
Wolves are vicious things, creatures of violence. Yet in their packs they have virtue—the bond of family, and all its honor. From the wolf humanity has made their loyal hounds, who tend to their flocks. Not once has a shepherd tamed the fox—for she has lied to him once, and will surely do so again.
I feel the heat first, and hear the sound of tires through grass only when sweat has started to bead upon my brow. The Destroyer arrives astride a vehicle, a motorcycle driven by her inner fusion. To human eyes they are separate, yet I can see the bond they share, how the vehicle is born from the stellar forge in her heart, tied back to its master by a thin strand of lowspace. She wears a jacket of black leather, her blonde hair left loose behind her.
My eyes meet hers, and in that moment I feel my chain squirm within her grip, just as John Newsom did in mine. I find myself still bound, yet I can weave my way around its confines.
Confession.
“I poisoned her.”
The Destroyer takes a seat upon a rock, hunched over her knees. The blue denim of her jeans seems washed out in the moonlight, and the shadows on her face are deep.
“Go on.”
Method.
“Dimethylmercury.”
The Destroyer nods, and for a brief instant I see the blackcloak flicker in the sky above.
“Was she your target?”
Negative.
“No,” I say, and I feel my jaw tremble.
“Who, then?”
“Her parents. General Hassert. Professor Walton.”
“Were you working alone?”
The answer is Yes, but that is not what I say. It tugs on something deeper, on a pain that I share. My jaw quivers, and tears fall down my cheeks.
“She was my friend.”
The Destroyer rises from her perch, right arm at the ready, and steps toward me. I do not cower, I do not flee—I welcome her judgment.
She kneels down, twigs and leaves crackling beneath her boots. Her hand rests on my shoulder, and she looks me in the eye once more.
“She’s going to be okay, Kelsey.”
Disbelief.
“She loved me,” I sob. “And I hurt her!”
“No,” says the Destroyer, “you didn’t.”
She squeezes my shoulder, and I feel her grip on my chain tighten.
“You saved her. I’ve seen it. You’ve saved her so, so many times.”
Such a human sentiment, that magic of intent. What good is my love, if I could not act upon it? How can a fox claim to love a sheep, having rent her flesh?
I stare back at the Destroyer’s eyes.
Interrogate.
“Do you know why they built you?” I spit the words. “Why your kind exist at all?”
Until now I have not truly seen her face—she has obscured it, more subtle than my chain might. She looks so young, and yet in this moment, I see the mark of horror on her face. The scars that stolen lives leave.
“Yes,” she says.
Command.
“Then you know what they would have you do. What I deserve.”
The horror fades, sadness in its wake. I feel her heat grow distant, and I find myself shivering in the night air.
“There’s still time for you, Kelsey.”
Rebuke.
“Kelsey is dead. Let me join her.”
The Destroyer removes her hand from my shoulder, and stands. Her face regains its camouflage, its false impression, but not before I catch her resignation. She puts her hand behind her back, and I feel a knot twist free in lowspace.
Her hand produces a pistol, a sidearm much like Michaela’s. She turns it around, and offers me the grip. The laser fits well in my fingers, yet sits heavy in my palm.
With one final glance of her blue eyes, I register the termination code in my mind.
My chain writhes within my core as I place the lens shroud an inch above my sternum, and slide my thumb inside the trigger guard.
I pull—