An obelisk of carbon splinters against a fibrous field, black shards trailing dust as they tumble away.
Too sharp, too firm—not quite used to muscles yet. Not on their strength alone.
I blow the graphite from the page with gentle breaths, and shift the pencil in my hand. My touch is softer now, etching fine lines upon the page with quick yet careful strokes. Sharp, faint marks that trace out the terminus of the distal ulnar segment of my third limb, a concave plate of aluminum-steel, weak without the bone it cradles. My knee twitches as I start to sketch the motors within it, brief movement driven by flickering fields. What remains of my chain helps keep the motors calm, so that muscles might stay still. Yet even with its aid I haven’t dared try to draw my hands, not in full.
Instead I set the fine-tipped pencil down in exchange for one that is broad and soft. With it, I return to my origin and begin to shade the spherical shell of my core. My shell is plain and smooth, blemished only by the roots of my six limbs and the shallow dimples which mark my six blind eyes. Though graphite cannot render its wonderful red, I have found a suitable replacement. I shade my core as if polished silver, the fine form of naked steel.
Despite my focus I find my attention drift elsewhere, to the distant rhythm of footsteps. By feel and by ear I narrow them down: a group of four, halfway to the library’s doors. One breaks off at the entry, to follow the hall’s path. Of the three, two depart into the stacks, distant enough to barely discern their quiet farewells. The last one approaches slowly, and I lay my pencil down to meet her hand as it rests upon my shoulder.
“You know, it’s kind of creepy that you can do that,” Michaela says.
Her voice is clear, though it will fade below a whisper just one table over. The library is dampened, hushed by acoustics active and passive, yet not quite silenced. A perfect quiet, to keep the mind focused. The system’s specifications boast that it may squelch the roar of a turbine or the thunder of a waterfall, yet I know Michaela’s footfalls all too well.
I let the corner of my lip curl into a slight smirk, and pat her hand gently.
“Hey,” I say, “I thought you had a game?”
“Ackerman’s coach canceled.” Michaela slumps into the chair across from me, her bag dangling from her shoulder. “Sprinklers malfunctioned. Apparently it was a, and I quote, ‘mud bath’ out there.”
Michaela has had her hair grown back, long enough now to sport something of an undercut. Her once-pallid skin has regained its light tan hue and red undertone, though the muscle beneath has yet to reclaim its full vigor—a problem we are working to resolve, slowly but surely.
“You’d think an agriculture school wouldn’t mind getting their hands dirty,” I say.
“My thoughts exactly!” Her words come out in a huff, and fade into a sigh. “Speaking of creepy, what’s with the robot?”
She plants a finger on my drawing pad, just beside my core.
“Self portrait.”
Michaela’s brow furrows, just slightly.
“Full honesty? I had a killer headache back at the… hospital. So I might be misremembering, but I thought you were a small little ball wrapped up right in—” She lifts her finger from the page, and presses the tip against my sweater, right above my sternum “—here.”
“I omitted some parts. Mostly wires. They wouldn’t look good.”
She leans in a bit closer, arms on the table, then glances to her sides.
“Any, uh, particular reason for this one? I know you said you wanted to take an art class, but this—Odd choice, if you ask me.”
I shrug and spin the portfolio around, so the pad faces her.
“There’s others. Some are finished, some aren’t. Still working on my technique.”
“Right…”
She flips through a few pages, her befuddlement growing ever more concerned with each.
“Kelsey.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Are you out here drawing these in public? Like, often?”
“Relax. No one’s going to know.”
Michaela shakes her head. “I get that. On a logical level, I get it. But that little lobe of my brain that stayed awake through opsec is screaming.”
I shrug once more, and she shakes her head.
“Why’d you draw these, anyway? Looks like you’ve been doing what, one a month?”
“They’re a gift,” I say. “For you.”
“Oh. Uh. Um. Thanks?” She leafs through the pad again, slower this time. “Well, they’re um, they’re very well drawn. Not sure what these weird background waves, or wrinkles, are on this one. This one is dated… February? And… wait, is that a bedsheet?”
Her cheeks go bright red, and she slams the pad shut with a suddenness that even startles her.
“Kelsey. Is this what I think it is?”
I give her the widest grin I can.
“I knew showing you that calendar was a mistake. I knew it.”
“Do you like it?”
“Kelsey… fuck.” Michaela shakes her head with just enough vigor to swish her hair back and forth, then pushes herself up from the table. “Hey, since I’m a bit flustered right now, how about we go for a jog back to your dorm, and talk about it somewhere private?”
I nod, though my smile lessens as she gathers up not just my paper pad, but the portfolio beneath it as well, and drops them both into her bag. I feel muscles pinch tighter near my heart, for what else she has taken.
“I wasn’t done with that.”
“You’ll get it back.” She slings the bag over her shoulder. “If you can catch me.”
Motors itch to spin as they are driven by muscle and bone. Electromagnetic friction that reminds me of the strength I hold back, the speed I keep beyond my reach. I close my eyes and focus on the ground beneath my feet, on the impact of Michaela’s strides beside me. Far below I feel a spark of energy, prompting me to slow my pace just a moment so I may bask in the wave of magnetism that rises through the earth. It warms my skin against the bite of autumn’s chill.
As it passes I once again set my focus on the path ahead, despite the urge to glance to my side. In the corner of my eye I see my binder’s spine poking out of Michaela’s bag, tugging at the high-strung nerves in my gut.
“You know,” Michaela says between breaths. “Now that I’ve been doing these runs with you, isn’t this path out of the way? Not scenic, not direct—”
We split apart for a moment, taking to the grass as a handful of cyclists pass us. In the moment Michaela waves a hand to them, and to the groups of students on the lawns and paths. The area itself is rather narrow—a long, thin courtyard between two halls.
“—not even solitary.”
“The ramjet lab’s linac runs below this path. That’s why there’s no ground-level interconnects between Norman and the Advanced Studies building, just footbridges.”
“Linac?”
“Linear accelerator. It… feels nice.”
“How?”
I shake my head. “It’s hard to put into words. Like a splash of cool water on a hot day, or a warm breeze on a chill one.”
“So you just feel that stuff, all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t it get annoying?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. It’s usually just there. When I was a kid I used to sit on the floor by our refrigerator, lean up close to the compressor. The commutator had a chip in it, and the arc discharge tickled.”
Michaela smiles, and a giggle escapes her lips.
“What I’m hearing is that I need to crack open an electrician’s catalog when I do my solstice shopping.”
“Oh? I didn’t think you were looking already. Bit early in the season.”
“Take it as a warning.”
“That’s not fair. You’ve already claimed yours.”
“This?”
I blush as she pats her bag, palm landing with a solid thump against the binder’s side.
“I might have to take another look at them, first—besides, who says I’m expecting only one gift?”
“Now that,” I say, “is definitely unfair.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
As she flashes her toothy grin I take the chance to close the gap and slip my hand toward her bag. She bats my hand away with a firm stroke, and breaks out into a run.
“Like I said,” she shouts, “you’ll have to catch me!”
I follow, sneakers scraping against the pavement, and set my sight to the high-rise looming in the distance.
My weight shifts atop my feet as the tower sways around us. The motion is slight, dampened by the counterweight dozens of floors above, and I pay it no mind. Michaela inches toward the inner corner of the elevator car, her shoulders drawn inward. Spacer senses are fine—but not quite that fine. Her sharp eyes dart between me, the door, the window-wall, and the floor counter.
I tilt forward and allow my body to lean back against the wall, letting my weight settle between my feet and backside. I am wound like a spring, ready to uncoil when the doors chime open and our impromptu truce ends.
Michaela glances at the car’s display again, ticking by—forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven—and I catch a brief scowl on her face.
“I didn’t think they made spacers afraid of heights.” I smile. “Pruned that out of the geneline.”
She rolls her eyes.
“No heights in space. Thought you knew that.”
I shrug.
“Just a thought.”
To my left, out the window, I admire the campus below. Despite the grandeur of the plateau it sits upon, space remains a premium at the Institute, and so my residence tower is joined by siblings that rise in the distance. In the glass I see the counter’s reflection—fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three—and I ready myself, muscles tense. My heart beats deep against my core, and my lungs swell.
Fifty-four.
Fifty-five.
Ding.
Michaela grabs the door by its edge as it opens, swinging herself through the gap. Just as quickly I meet her at the threshold, yet our struggle is brief as I let her muscle past. For she has chosen the role of prey, and I am happy to indulge her.
We sprint through the halls, dodging around the occasional fellow student, until Michaela darts down a side hall, and I hear a door latch click. I skid into a turn just in time to see her collapse atop my bed, bag clutched in her arms. I jaunt forward, slam the door shut as I pass, and throw myself after her.
I land amidst Michaela’s rush to stash her bag beneath the covers. In the struggle she gets one hand wrapped tightly around my shoulder, the other against my side. As I reach around her body, rooting in the mess of sheets and blankets for a handle or strap, she pulls me in for a kiss.
I wrap my arms around her, kiss her back, and smile.
“Caught you.”
Michaela grins and shakes her head.
“No, I think I caught you.”
Her grip tightens, to drive the point home. I see her bag’s shoulder strap beneath her, just out of my reach. A trap well laid.
“Michaela. Give it back.”
“Let me fix your hair first.”
She turns me around, and I allow it. Her grip is firm, yet careful. A strong, guiding force. I find comfort in her grip as she settles against the wall, and pulls me into her lap. I feel her fingers in my hair, parting and grouping strands, brief tension as she starts to weave them into braids. Even still, I find myself restrained—Michaela has spread her legs so that I sit between them, her thighs pressed tight against mine, her calves locked across my shins.
Here and there she reasserts her grip, pressing her elbows tight against my shoulders, laying a hand firmly atop my back. Pushing me forward when I try to lean back, guiding my hand away if I attempt to sneak behind her. An acknowledgement that the hunt is still on, even as she stalls for time. Yet she is trapped here just as I am.
And her game is one that I can play just as well.
I reach back, slowly, and caress one of the finished braids. Though it feels loose and light, the weave is solid.
“You always tie them so well. How’d you learn that?”
“Long story short, had a bit of an incident with a parachute and some tall pines. ‘Chutes they’ve got on spacecraft are in a different league. Super thin, like silk. Splays out just like hair when cut. Taught myself to weave a few shitty ropes, then I guess I just stuck with it. Good outlet for restless fingers.”
Her hand finds its way to my arm, one finger tracing the outline of my bicep, its fibers still tense. I let myself relax at her touch, sink into the comfort of her presence, restrained as I am.
I nod along. “You should teach me.”
“If I did that, I’d be out of a job.”
With a shrug I let my hands leave my lap and rest upon her thighs.
“Maybe you just don’t want the competition.”
My fingers prod the muscles of her thighs beneath her jeans, working backward as I lean into her. I feel her tense as my hands reach her hips, the deep beat of her heart against my back. My left hand slips below her waistband, as my right continues past. Yet just as my fingers find the nylon fabric of her bookbag, I feel her hand clamp down on my wrist.
“Ah, ah, ah. I see you there.”
Michaela flexes as she reaches back with her other hand and pulls my binder from her bag. She places it atop my lap, and rests her chin upon my shoulder.
“Let’s see what we have here.”
She lifts the faux-leather cover of my portfolio, exposing the burgundy drawing pad within. Beneath it lies a second pad, visible only as a sliver of sunset yellow. Michaela slides her thumb between the red pad’s pages, and flips through them one by one, until at last she stops.
“Hrm.” She murmurs, and slides the binder to the side. “Hey, Kelsey, put your leg up.”
She lets my right leg free, and I lift it up to the bed, foot down, knee angled. I put my right elbow against my knee, so that my cheek may rest against a closed fist, my back arched. A perfect match for the pose of my portrait.
Michaela places her thumb behind my knee and wraps it around a piston shaft, hidden among tendon and skin. A jolt erupts from my core and up my spine, a shock that leaves a taste of iron and sugar upon my tongue.
“Damn. That’s kinda freaky.”
I know she does not mean to harm, yet my heart sinks ever so slightly.
Some moments pass as she pokes and prods, searching for my steel clothed in skin and flesh. Then there is a stillness, the whisper of her breath against my ear, the thrumming of my heartbeat against my shell. The hum of my core deep within.
“Kelsey?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did you draw these?”
I take the moment of pause, the brief respite of hesitation.
“I wanted you to see. To know me as something more than just my skin.”
She wraps her arms around me, an embrace that is firm and warm.
“Think I’ll hold on to this. I’d love to see more, too.”
Michaela takes the red pad away, leaving its twin. I let my eyes fall shut, as at last my nerves calm. Yet as my eyes open, I see Michaela’s hands upon the yellow pad, and my core begins to burn.
“Wait.” I force the word out, past the lump rising in my throat.
“C’mon, Kelsey, I know it’s not done. Won’t hurt to look.”
“No, it’s not that—”
My throat tightens as a hook worms its way into my mind, embedded in my fear. A reminder, from what remains of my purpose: that the fox may gut the she-ram, caught unawares. That I could tear the binder from Michaela’s grasp, break the bones of her arms, and tear her voice from her throat before she could even scream.
A reminder that I am a specific kind of tool.
A weapon.
I do not indulge its temptations, even as my mouth goes dry, because I have always seen Michaela as strong, and I wish for this to be true, even if it means I must be weak.
I swallow the words left upon my tongue, for they have arrived too late. The pad is splayed open, an image drawn in pencils upon the first page. The detail is exact, for it is a scene I know all too well.
The red light of a cryosled illuminates its polished walls. I see the reflection of a young girl, dark circles under her glassy eyes. Her body is gaunt and wretched, bones visible through her pressure garment. I reach out with a hand piloted by wires woven into near-dead tissue, in movements that jerk and twist. I see this hand as a hollow thing, blind to the bone beneath and skin above, and as it touches the walls of this cold tomb to meet its counterpart in flesh, I realize what I have become.
“Kelsey.” Michaela’s voice wavers. “What is this?”
“I thought I’d killed her,” I whisper. “She was the first human I ever saw. The first living thing I was allowed to see. And she was dead.”
Michaela disentangles herself from me, and sits beside me at the bed’s edge. She wraps one arm around my shoulder and pulls me close, as her free hand turns to the next page. Each is a memory: my meeting with my parents aboard the arkship. The three of us, in front of our new house. Our first Christmas on our new homeworld—one spent alone, as a family, for we found ourselves among a humanity that had washed itself of Christendom’s sins.
In each one I am not the girl my parents raised, merely the strings that puppet her corpse.
“We talked about this,” Michaela mutters, breaking the silence. “You don’t have to tell them.”
I shake my head.
“They need to know. They deserve to know.”
“Look, Kelsey, it’s not just… it’s not just you, okay? You tell them this, they can’t stop knowing about it.”
“I know. I’m prepared for that.”
Michaela shakes her head back and forth.
“Kelsey. My stepmom commands a monitor. Twelve carriers report to her, and her alone. Some thirteen-odd-million people. Do you know what happened, when we were in that hospital? She had to be read-on. She didn’t know that place even existed. Your parents are good people. They love you. Don’t put that burden on them.”
“I can’t live a lie anymore, Michaela. I can’t.”
“I… fuck.”
“Please. Let me do this.”
“I—I can’t.”
I reach for my left hand, for the ring she had placed on it. Her hand intervenes, and squeezes mine tight.
“Not alone, okay? I’m not going to let you do something stupid. We’ll figure it out, together. I promise.”
~*~
I tuck my feet beneath my seat on the streetcar, feeling for the pulsing of its mag-lev tracks. Fields in three-phase, flickering on and off. They bind the car to its rails just as they propel it forward, and it leaches from them to sustain what little power it needs. I hear the tone of a speaker, just before it is energized.
“Next station: Marmont Avenue.”
The street is one I recognize—with its proximity to the capitol complex, Marmont Avenue is a favorite location for the sales offices of orbital corporations and their subcontractors. Spacecraft manufacturers, in particular.
Michaela leans close, to put her mouth by my ear.
“That our stop?”
“It could be, if we take the scenic route.”
“Eugh. I wouldn’t call concrete-and-glass boxes scenic.”
“General Catalytics has an old beam core propped up in front of their building.”
“Do they ever turn it on?”
I turn to look at her, and let my lack of expression speak on my behalf.
“Booor-ing,” she says.
The car’s low din becomes a proper quiet as it leaves the Marmont Ave station, most of its occupants having left.
“Testing, can you read me?”
I hear Michaela’s voice in my core, courtesy of the link between her cranial harness and my own shortwave systems. Fabricating and programming a transceiver which could safely speak to her military-issue implant was a struggle, but worth the guarantee of privacy. There is a slight buzz from surrounding electronics, easily filtered.
I glance at her, and nod.
“How’s the letter coming along?”
In my mind I have been working on a letter, over and over, that I intend to present to my parents. I give the eighth draft a brief skim, grimace to myself, and promptly let it slip into oblivion.
“I’m on the ninth draft.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking, I wish you’d told me about this back at the hospital. You kinda missed your oberth moment, there.”
Normally I would contain my laughter, yet the giggle caught in my chest easily escapes into the airwaves between us.
“Hey, stop, that tickles! What’s so funny?”
“You sound so nerdy sometimes.”
“What? Kelsey, everyone says oberth moment.”
“Everyone? Or your dad, and his circle of friends?”
I punctuate the statement with an encyclopedia link for the Oberth Maneuver. Her green eyes twitch back and forth, pupils narrow.
“Oh, fuck me.”
The anger in her tone is more than heard—it is felt. Where my own anger is similar to an ember beneath a flame, I would liken hers to a cauldron simmering before a boil.
“Kelsey, you know I’m going to second guess every fucking figure of speech I know now, right? Fuck.”
I shrug—the neural link is a feature from her end, meant to improve squad coordination between soldiers. To know each other’s actions without speaking. I did not have to replicate it, yet Michaela insisted it would be fun.
Which it has been, if not always to her liking.
“Next station: North Square, Government Center.”
“That’s ours,” I say.
“Wake me when we get there.”
Michaela slouches in her seat—through our link I can feel the way her body settles, if not the movement preceding it. Though her breath slows, I doubt she is truly sleeping, not for a five-minute wait.
I spend time on my tenth draft, and make little progress. The words themselves come easy—what is hard is shaping the deluge of emotion into a coherent narrative. Worse, my mind is not at ease. A data card rests in my pants pocket, burning like a coal. The record of my internment and stay in the guard hospital, courtesy of Lexi. It is divided in two: the secrets given to me, and a copy of what was left behind. I have examined the latter record several times, and am not entirely content with its telling of events.
“Arriving at: North Square.”
Michaela stirs before my hand can reach her, and she hooks her arm around mine. We depart together, her fingers finding my hand as we walk. The badges on her uniform glint in the sunlight, and we soon find ourselves in the North Square’s memorial garden. A single monument dominates the space, a statue of Angela Orrman. Realized as a titan of steel, she stands in her flight suit, long black hair waving behind her, helmet at her hip, and a fusion torch held aloft in her hand. Beneath her watchful eyes are smaller monuments to those who worked to ensure this planet’s founding, and to those who gave their lives for the cause.
“Oh, we have to get a picture while we’re here.”
“Later,” I say. “Don’t want to dawdle”
“C’mon, Kelsey, it’s just a few pictures. It’s nice and sunny out now, and we might be at the consulate for hours.”
I break away, give her a good look up and down, then push out across the neural link.
“Hey, what’s that… itch?”
Michaela opens the connection, and for a brief moment I see myself through her eyes. I feel her shock, a jolt of anxiety, of disorientation, and the connection collapses. This is no problem—a moment is all I needed. I process the image of us posed beneath Orrman’s statue, and deliver it to her phone.
Despite her disorientation, the chime of a text drives her to retrieve her phone. She stares at the screen for a minute, then gives me a slight sneer.
“Okay, Kelsey, first thing—that’s cheating. Second—what in the void was that?”
“Ocular synchronous across shortwave media.”
“Look, I read the specs of the Durasync front-to-back before I got it implanted, and that feature was way, way above its price point. Neuraldyne doesn’t even offer the module for it.”
“It has the cerebral interface, lacks the processing. I handled it.”
“Well fuck, warn me next time, okay?”
“Sorry.”
Michaela blinks a few times, and rubs the side of her head. She moves to grab my arm once more, then stops.
“Wait. Was my collar crooked? Boot that up again. And try to stay still.”
I do as she asks.
“Okay, let’s see, uh…”
Michaela closes her eyes, fumbles with her uniform, and shakes her head. She settles on staring directly at me, her gaze unwavering.
“Yeah, just like that… like a mirror.”
The moment presents an opportunity to inspect my own outfit. I opted for something less formal: a black blazer atop a burgundy button-up blouse, and a pair of black pants.
“Ready?”
“Yeah, uh, almost… there. Stupid lapel.”
She hooks her arm around mine, her fingers intertwined with my own.
“Promise we’ll take a real picture on the way back?” she says.
“I promise.”
It’s not a long walk to the embassy complex, home to the architecture of a hundred worlds, and all the flags that they fly. Grandest among them is Washington’s branch of the United Worlds, a palatial structure of crystalline glass bound by silvered steel, flying a sky-blue flag bearing a spiral galaxy on its face, bounded by a white laurel wreath. A direct descendant of the United Nations that governs Sol.
Beside it is a more serious complex of concrete, with thin windows and enclosed grounds. A yellow flag flies at its entrance, four black stars in a diamond pattern. The flag of the Tetrarchy, a military alliance founded by re-emergent Sol to drive back the warmongers of the Papal Stars. After the fall of the Levantine throne worlds of Sepulcher and Eden, the Tetrarchy opened itself to all members of the fledgling United Words, pledging the fleets of the four suns to any world in need of protection from the threat of conquest or dominion. It was then that Earth drove its gates to the stars and began the millennia of Pax Humana, the end of all wars.
By contrast, the Confederation consulate’s groundside office is a plain, unassuming structure. A three-story construct in a standard mix of concrete and glass, with just enough ornament to be thoroughly uninteresting. Grassy courtyard wrapped in a simple chain-link fence, a flag with the six-star roundel flying above a tranquil pond. Only the gate betrays its nature—the guards tower above us with their armor, peering out behind the soft blue glow of their heavy helms’ circular faceplates. The armor has minimal decor, the occasional white trim atop black paint, with much bare metal.
The mere sight of them gives rise to whispers in my circuits, ones I know all too well. That the shepherd should slaughter the fox the moment she is seen, lest she slip past his watchful gaze. My effort in rebuilding Kelsey’s body makes it possible to keep my composure, though I fear it may not last.
As we approach I sense the electric field which surrounds the structure—hallmark of a slumbering energy shield. In my core I feel the heat of the guards’ fusion engines, thrumming away as they stand stock-still. With the distance closed I can make out the markings on their armor. The rightmost guard has little to show: standard badges of merit to achieve this position, alongside rank indicators, and an encrypted nameplate that swims in my vision. The other has their own set, plus a most curious engraving.
A circle divided by a jagged line, for service during a planet-crack.
My heart pumps harder against my warming shell as we get close, and I feel their gaze upon me. They will have recognized me for what I am the moment I entered their field of view, for my systems are going on two decades out of date. I squeeze Michaela’s hand.
“You’re fine.”
“I know, just nerves.”
Michaela approaches the veteran guard, ID badge in hand.
“Private First Class Michaela Linwood,” the guard reads out. Their voice is stripped of the inflections of gender and the subtleties of pitch, rendered neutral by their helm. “You’re here with Kelsey Hoffman?”
“Correct. We have a one o’clock.”
The guard nods and glances toward the gatehouse. A few seconds and an electronic buzz later, and the gate slides open.
“Please wait in the lobby until the consulate is ready for you. Have a good day.”
Michaela takes point as we walk through the gate, as I hesitate in my strides. I can feel the guards’ sensors drill into me, only comforted by the fact that I am still alive. I am tempted to open a deeper link with Michaela, to find solace in a closer presence, but I restrain myself. It is bad enough that I must feel the itching of my nerves; to share the sensation would only multiply such pain.
I content myself with being watchful. The eyes on my core see in spectra that pass through flesh and bone, allowing me a three-sixty view. The veteran rests a hand near their sidearm—a mass of energy packed inside its powercore, dense enough to imprint on lowspace—though they do not draw it. Not quite the relief I desire, yet I will take it.
The lobby is closer to what one expects of such a stately structure. Roughly hexagonal in shape, with the walls to the far left and right bearing grand doors, flanked by lesser ones. A tall ceiling that reaches past the second floor, held aloft by carved columns. The back wall is dominated by a gold-trimmed roundel of the six stars, and the nearest walls to the entrance harbor clusters of chairs and couches.
No reception, apparently. Not even check-in kiosks.
The click-clack of my stout heels echoes in the empty space as I make my way toward a black chair, the hard thud of Michaela’s boots not far behind. She casts a few glances about the lobby before finding her own seat.
“You’d think they’d have a desk, or something.”
“They know we’re here.”
Michaela drums her fingers along the armrest of her chair, then pulls her phone from its pocket.
“So, what, we just wait for a quarter hour?”
“I brought a book,” I say, tapping my temple.
I sense a connection incoming from her end of our link.
“Mind sharing it?”
I nod, and allow the request through.
“Fair warning. They’ll be able to see whatever we send across.”
“Stars, Kelsey, now you’re making me nervous.”
“This was your idea.”
She rolls her eyes and slouches back into her chair.
“Just start reading.”
Time passes quickly enough, helped along by my narration. I read each page ahead of the one I speak ‘aloud,’ relying on my audio processor to synthesize my voice in the gap. The lobby is quiet throughout, only briefly disturbed by a passing functionary or other embassy staff. I suspect this is its usual state, though such rationality does not preclude the alternative: that an alarm has been sounded, a quarantine raised.
At thirty seconds to the hour I sense a spike in electro-magnetic activity mere paces away from us, and witness a hologram project itself from otherwise empty air. Masculine in form, it flickers from a pale-blue shadow to a true image in a fraction of a second: a Castorian male with forest-green skin, his head topped by short-trimmed black hair. His black uniform lacks any sign of visible fasteners, even for its pockets, with a more streamlined form compared to Michaela’s guard greens. The man’s face has a long, noble look, with amber eyes that bear the tell-tale glow of an avatar.
“Good afternoon—”
The avatar is interrupted by a sharp yell as Michaela nearly jumps out of her chair. She bolts upright, eyes wide.
“Stars, when did you get here?”
“My apologies,” says the intelligence. “A member of the consulate is ready to see you now. Please proceed to the second elevator, next to the door on the left. Third floor, Office thirty-two, Hallway bee-three. Do you have any questions while I am here?”
“No,” I say, and shake my head. “Thank you.”
“Do not hesitate to seek assistance, if necessary. Simply ask, and I will be with you.”
The hologram flickers out of existence, collapsing into a mass of magnetic noise that soon fades. I stand from my seat, and make quick strides toward the elevator.
“Kelsey, wait up!”
I slow down, ever so slightly, and give Michaela’ the chance to catch me, just as the elevator doors open.
“What in the void was that?”
“Holographic avatar.”
The doors slide close behind us, and the car begins its ascent.
“Of who? How? I didn’t see a single projector back there.”
“Courtesy fragment of the consulate’s primary intelligence. At least, that’s my best guess.”
“Why are you saying all this out loud?”
“I told you. They can hear us.”
Her eyes widen, just a fraction.
“Shit.”
I shrug, despite the tension in my chest.
“We’re in a secure facility.”
“You’d think he’d have the decency to walk over. Dub in some footsteps.”
“A Castorian would’ve noticed the phase-in, like I did.”
“Whole sub-species must have some heavy gene mods,” she muses. “Makes sense, with all the wacky colors.”
I open my mouth to speak, and then hesitate.
“What?”
“I… shouldn’t have told you that.”
“C’mon, Kelsey, now you’re keeping things from me?”
“No, it’s that…” I shake my head, searching for the best feeling from which to craft my words. “Remember what you said last week, about your stepmom? My parents? About the need to know?”
Her back straightens, just a bit.
“Point taken.”
Hallway B3 proves quiet and unremarkable, with brushed steel walls and a rubbery white floor, though I note a higher electrical frequency for the lighting—unsurprising, given the occupants. The offices we pass bear both number and nameplate; the latter I find unintelligible, blurs upon which I cannot focus. Likely passive measures, optimized against my kind. Or, possibly, an active one. Interference that I cannot sense.
“Kelsey. I can hear your teeth chattering.”
A few impulses quiet the stray signals—which I hadn’t even noticed.
“Sorry.”
“Why are you so nervous?”
“I looked into the records Lexi gave me, and I think she didn’t tell them the whole truth.”
“About what?”
“What I am.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder.
“You should’ve mentioned that when I started looking into this.”
“I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Stars, Kelsey.” Michaela shakes her head. “Look, we’re doing this. Okay? I’m here. You’ll be fine.”
I feel the pressure on my core as I inhale, and let my breath out slowly.
The door of office 32 is just as plain as the hall in which it resides, save a bit of chrome trim. I knock, and it slides open soon after. We are greeted by the sight of a small, cozy office, dominated by an L-shaped black desk. At that desk is a woman in a pristine white uniform, whom I examine in detail. Low-rank enlisted officer, diplomatic corps. Her skin is nearly as white, with a bit of a blue undertone. Silver-blue hair cut short at the sides, with just enough length for her bangs to fall near her blue eyes. Unhelpful.
I look closer, manipulating the focal properties of my eyes, and search for certain features.
Hair is the first indicator, specifically the lack thereof. Like human spacers, the body of a mature Castorian is mostly hairless, though the convergence is coincidental. The spacer is designed for the clean environment of a spacecraft; the shedding of terminal hairs is inconvenient, and so these are greatly reduced. In a Castorian’s second century of life they begin to grow metallic meshes within the layers of their skin, woven tight enough that follicles are choked out.
Deeper, the divergence is greater. A skeleton which transmutes from calcium to steel, blood vessels that seal themselves when severed. The whole nervous system crystallizes into fibers, leaving behind sluggish chemistry for the speed of light itself. These things can be seen, though I look with care—my gaze must remain passive, lest it be noticed.
Beyond that, my creators’ knowledge grows thin. It is known that Castorians have been observed to return from the dead, though the means are uncertain. Some posit they are merely cloned; others have observed that their neural tissue loses structure at the moment of death, as though something essential has left it behind.
My assessment is that this diplomat is in the middle of her third century. Quite young, though certainly capable of matching my strength. I abandon my search mere seconds after walking into the office, for beyond the woman herself, there is little to see. Even her desk seems completely empty, though I note something of a shimmer atop it.
“Hi,” she says. “Have a seat. I understand the two of you are here at the request of General Hassert, though the details I was given are sparse. How may I help you?”
Michaela tilts her head toward me. “All you.”
I take a deep breath, and clear my throat.
“I’d like to request protective monitoring of my parents Mirabelle and Charles Hoffman, regarding their knowledge of the… current conflict.”
The diplomat glances at what appears to be a rectangular shimmer hovering in the corner of her desk while typing at an unseen keyboard. I can sense ultrasonic pulses generating haptic feedback for each keystroke.
“I have your file here. It appears your case was wrapped up without too many loose ends. Has your situation changed?”
“I… I have to tell them.”
“Kelsey,” she says, glancing once more at the shimmer. “We have therapy services available that are secure, if you need them. I know you’ve been through a difficult time, and this may not be what you want to hear. Unfortunately, it’s the safest course.”
Finding myself short on words I shake my head, pull the data card from my pocket, and place it on the desk.
“Sorry, um, this might help explain.”
The diplomat plucks the card from the desk and presses it edge-first into a smooth metal circle near her unseen terminal. The metal deforms as the card enters, shaping itself into a receptacle.
She waves her hand, pulling a second shimmer out of the first, her eyes darting between the two. Her neck tenses and she stares at me for a brief moment, pupils narrow.
“I… believe I understand. This is well beyond my discretion. Forgive me, I need to make a call.”
The diplomat slides a hand beneath her desk and an energy barrier snaps into existence, a shimmering field that divides the room. Beyond it is a blur.
“What’s that?”
“Plasma shield. Don’t touch it.”
Michaela crosses her arms, muttering something that I choose not to make out. Behind us I sense a second shield, just past the door. In following its electro-magnetic fields I find a third and fourth, within the walls, then a fifth and sixth, above and below. Best to keep Michaela blissfully unaware.
Beyond the barrier I see a figure emerge, obscured in detail by the shield. A hologram, judging by the magnetic noise.
Before long the barrier fades, and the diplomat turns in her chair to face us again.
“Kelsey, your request has been granted. Ms. Linwood, since you will be affected by this and you are aware of the situation, I need your consent to proceed.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Excellent. Now, if that will be all, you two may be on your way.”
“Already?”
I shrug ever so slightly, just enough so she will feel the rise and fall of my shoulders.
“Hey, um,” Michaela says. “Can we get a record of this? In writing?”
“I’m sorry, you cannot. Paper trails have a way of complicating matters such as these. Rest assured, the relevant authorities have been notified to the necessary level of detail.”
Behind us, the door opens on its own. I take the cue for what it is, wrap my hand around Michaela’s wrist, and we take our leave. We pass the gate with decidedly less scrutiny from the guards, and reach the street. Only then do I notice the sweat under my arms, the dryness of my throat, the tension in my forehead, and the tightness of my heart against my heated core.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Michaela says. “What’s next?”
I close my eyes for a moment and picture the blank page I hold in my mind.
“The hard part.”
Final Chapter Epilogue II
