Tag Archives: romance

Lambskin – Epilogue I

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

Lambskin – VI

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—



Previous Chapter Final Chapter

Lambskin – V

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.



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Lambskin – IV

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

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

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

“Ooh, this is my favorite part!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, Kelsey, are you ready?”

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

Relent.

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

“I guess I have to be.”

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

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

“…Smile!”

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

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

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

Reciprocate.

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

Answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Briefly, our eyes meet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agreement; tease.

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

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

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

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

Preference.

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

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

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

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

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

The silence around us has deepened.

Depart.

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

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

Reciprocate.

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

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Answer; mellow.

“I’ve been taking things slowly.”

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

“Are you doing alright?”

Half-truth.

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

“Yeah, I’m getting there.”

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

“Up for a jog?”

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

Negative.

I shake my head.

“Walk with me, then?”

Affirmative.

“Sure,” I say.

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

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

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

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

Interrupt.

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

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

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

I see the sorry look in her eyes.

“Right, my apologies.”

Query.

“Are you okay?”

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

“I trained for worse.”

Comfort.

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

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

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

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

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

“So, where are we going, anyway?”

Confusion.

“What? I was following you?”

“Well, I was following you!”

Perplexion.

I shake my head, and Michaela laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kelsey, are you… cold?”

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

Excuse.

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

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

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

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

Query; destination.

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

“You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

Invited?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bit of typing follows.

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

“Ugh. Page him.”

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

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

“Common occurrence?”

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

Query; contradiction.

“Isn’t your father the Chairman?”

Michaela chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selection.

“What’s on tap?”

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

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

Answer.

“Red,” I say.

“Gotcha.”

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

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

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

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

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

Reciprocate.

“Good to see you too, Doctor Walton.”

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

Michaela’s face goes red.

“Dad. Please.”

He shrugs—like father, like daughter.

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

“No problem.”

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

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

He casts a sideways look at Michaela.

“You were supposed to tell her.”

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

He rolls his eyes, then looks back toward me.

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

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

“Noticed the Frederiksberg, did you?”

I blink in recognition.

Query; confirm.

“That’s a model of the Frederiksberg?”

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

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

Elaborate.

“Why did you build it?”

“I am so glad you asked.”

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

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

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

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

Disbelief.

“And it works?”

He waggles his hand.

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

I nod, impressed.

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

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

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

Mislead.

I shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Futility.

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

Michaela looks up from her phone.

“Thank you, dear,” she says.

Query.

“For what?”

“Agreeing to pay for our next dinner date.”

Acceptance.

“I guess I walked right into that one.”

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

I nod in acknowledgment.

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

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

Excuse; half-truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Negative.

“No. It’s been a pleasure, though.”

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

Acknowledgment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Negative, I push out.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you so much, Isaac.”

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I dive, my blade lashing out.

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

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

Identity; mission.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

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

Liar.

“You’re here to kill me.”

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

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

Interrogate.

“How did you find me?”

“Jack Newsom. He remembered you.”

The salesman.

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

Test.

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

Failure.

“You should have.”

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

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

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

Threat.

“Leave. Now.”

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

Confirm.

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

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

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

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

I feel very, very cold.



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Lambskin – III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prepare.

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

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

“Ow!”

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

Concern.

“Do you want me to grab you a shirt?”

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

Resignation.

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

Pre-Buttered* Bread

Just Toast™, and Enjoy!

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

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

“Sleep well?”

Lie.

“Yes.”

“Great.”

Query; behavior.

“Did I bother you?”

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

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

I hope to have remedied that.

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

My face contorts in an ever so slight wince.

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

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

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

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

Acknowledge.

I nod.

“Anyway, are you hungry?”

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

Perplexion.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

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

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

“You’re just… so weird sometimes.”

Retort.

“I did fall in love with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conflict; texture.

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

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

Perplexion; query.

“Do you need soap?”

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

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

Accept.

“No problem. See you in thirty?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Query; recollection.

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

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

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

Explanation.

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

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

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

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

Proposal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michaela grins.

“Gotcha.”

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

Taunt.

“That’s all?”

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

Despite her smile I see hurt in her eyes.

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

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

Discomfort.

“Just… need some time to breathe.”

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

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

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

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

Apology.

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

In the corner of my eye I see Michaela shrug.

“I’d say you’ve made it up to me.”

Inquiry; bond.

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

“Yeah?”

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

Inquiry; bond status.

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

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

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

Revelation.

My shoulders shrug.

“It’s hard to explain.”

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

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

Negative.

“No, no, not… not like that.”

“Then what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Inhuman.

My shoulders shrug. My lips move beyond my intent.

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

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

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

“Hey, do you have your knife?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K + M

Query.

“Yes?”

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

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

Resignation.

“Oh.”

~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Test.

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

“Welcome, welcome, Miss…”

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

“Miss Hoffman, right?”

Affirmative.

“Yes.”

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

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

Greeting; insincere.

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

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

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

Correction.

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

“Right, sorry. Anything in particular?”

Projection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Query; speed.

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

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

Acceptable.

“Can I take it for a test drive?”

“Now?”

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

Insist.

“I can handle it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Persist.

“How else will I know its true roadworthiness?”

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

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

Persist.

“That should cover any maintenance.”

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

“Fine, but keep it legal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, kid! How’d you do that?! Stop!”

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

“Kid, look at the road! The road!”

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

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

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

Interrogate.

“We need to talk.”

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

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

“Okay. What the hell do you want?”

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

Yet, I come up empty handed.

“C’mon, kid, say something.”

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

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

Willing.

“You… you chose this?”

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

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

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

Clarify.

“Explain.”

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

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

Insufficient.

“Not an answer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explanation.

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

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

Clarification.

“I can’t kill them.”

“Why not?”

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

Love.

He seems… almost shaken, for a brief moment.

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

My head tilts in perplexion at the contradiction.

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

Disbelief.

“I won’t do it. I… I couldn’t.”

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

Frustration; experience.

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

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

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

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

Misunderstanding.

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

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

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

Query.

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

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

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

“Hey! Where the hell are you going?”

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

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

Admission.

“I’m not, and I never was.”

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

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

Query.

“Or what?”

“I’ve got your license, for one.”

Taunt.

“I’ll walk; you can mail it back.”

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

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

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

Command.

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

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

Explanation.

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

“What the hell does that mean?”

Simplify.

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

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

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



Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Lambskin – II

The twilight air of Washington is crisp upon the skin I wear; a young world of verdant plains, it is warm during the day and cools quickly in darkness. I turn my head skyward as Michaela leads me down the campus streets, and admire the cities that cross Angel’s terminator in the heavens above, lights shining from the stark black.

My eyes see deep into the void between these worlds. From the vast nothingness I pick out the silhouettes of familiar spacecraft: the carrier Orrman, the monitors Dowell and Santiago. Among the fleet at large, I spy something peculiar. A speck of blackness, colder than the surrounding space, floating about the nearest Lagrange point. Hiding, but from whom?

We reach the site of the gala: Gregory J. Xiang Hall, a domed building constructed in Lunar Revival style. Steel frame clad in regolith, heat-cured in situ and carved with neat, meticulous decorations.

Xiang Hall is one of the oldest buildings on campus, well into its second millennium, and built from native soil. As is common in Lunar Revival, its grand entrances lead immediately to ramps or stairs, descending below. What appears from the outside to be a grassy lawn with arched hills that surround the central dome is in fact the ceilings of various wings, rooms, and hallways. In this style the surface structure is constructed from what is excavated, built as a shield against the local sun and the cosmos beyond. Practical on a world without the protection of atmosphere and magnetism. Now, the lawn above gives space for a number of gardens and parks.

Michaela gives the occasional wave, greeting, or smile as we walk through the cavernous main hall. I can feel her arm tense with each passing encounter, see the faint blush on her cheeks.

Comment; recognition.

“You seem pretty popular.”

“I know,” she whispers with definite strain in her tone. “I hate wearing this damn thing. Always get noticed in it.”

Query; alternates.

“Don’t you have that nice suit? And that ballgown?” I glance around, at the other attendees. “Besides, I thought reservists don’t need to be in full dress for this sort of event, unless you’re on duty.”

“We don’t, but… parents wanted me to go. Stepmom’s here too. Pressure’s on.”

Sympathy.

I lean into her slightly, rub my shoulder against her’s. “You pull it off well.”

“Thanks.”

Michaela’s head swivels left then right, scoping out the grand entry hall.

“Hey, let’s cut through Baumann Hall. Skip the crowd.”

I feel her arm tug against mine, pulling us to the side. She points toward a function map hanging along the wall, to the theater set aside as the VIP lounge. My feet drag slightly as I resist, hesitant in my movement. With my free hand I dig through my purse, searching for my ticket.

Protest.

“Hold on, I only have a ticket for the speech. They won’t let me in.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“Come on, Kelsey. They’re not going to tear a soldier’s date from her arm and tell the poor girl to wait outside. It’s just a fancy party”

The temperature of my core begins rise, as security measures come online. My existence necessitates hypervigilance, to preserve my assumed identity at all costs. Regardless of Michaela’s insistence that this is a mere social gathering, it is one organized by an armed force that secures enemy territory across two-hundred light years. If they discover what I am, they will do far worse than tear me from her arm. They will tear me apart. And she will join them.

Relent.

“Okay, fine,” I mutter. “Don’t make me say ‘I told you so.’ if I get kicked out.”

“Don’t you worry,” she says, her lips curling into a cocky smile. “You won’t.”

We break off from the main concourse and through the doors of Baumann Hall, the sharp tap-tap of Michaela’s shoes echoing down the empty wing. The lights are a dim red here, overpowered by the pallid columns of moonlight which shine through skylights in the vaulted ceiling above. Though nothing near the grandeur of the main hall, Baumann has an impressive scale of its own. Narrower, with its four-storey walls lined with walkways, bridges, and stairs, the wing feels almost like a canyon mine.

“Kerry’s right,” Michaela muses. “This place must’ve been a prison.”

I glance to each wall, at the yard-deep compacted regolith lined regularly with doors and half-inch thick glass. Some rooms house desks, others benches fit with equipment.

Correction.

“It’s the biolab, that’s all.”

“I know that, just imagine all these labs with, oh, bars over the windows. Don’t you see it?”

Negative.

I shrug and shake my head.

“Let’s hurry up. I need a drink.”

With her in the lead our pace picks up, yet as we cross the hall’s midpoint my eyes are drawn to the badge pinned to her chest once more. I apply a bit of drag with my feet, and pull against Michaela with my arm, coaxing her to a stop.

“Hmph. Where’d that come from?” She says, giving my bicep a squeeze.

Query.

“That medal. How’d you get it?”

“Which one?” She pinches the fabric of her jacket, tilting it toward me.

Specify.

“That one,” I say, reaching out to poke it.

“Oh, ugh, that one’s a story. Can I tell you later? Bit embarrassing.”

Persist.

“No one’s listening but me.”

Michaela frowns and glances around, peeking at the backs of staircases, at the various fountains, pedestals, and benches that occupy the central space of Baumann.

“Fine.”

She hooks her arm back over mine, and we start off again, at a slow pace.

“Back when I was, shit, five? Six? I can’t recall. Dad had to go to some meeting or conference on Angel. I was supposed to go with him, but apparently I didn’t take to my lunar legs all that well. Too fond of jumping all over the place. Stepmom was on shore leave up on the tether, so he dumped me with her. Oh, important context: I was in the Junior Cadets. So, spent a week up in orbit, Dad’s supposed to be back soon, and then his conference gets extended. Mom’s shore leave is up before he’ll be done. You’re seeing the issue, yeah?”

There is a contradiction I note, but I doubt it is the one she assumes is obvious. To my knowledge, Michaela has no father, not in the sociological sense.

Perplexion.

“Dad? Did your mom remarry?”

“Ugh, look, family situation’s complicated. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”

Affirmative.

“Sure, sure. Go on.”

“Fortunately, Stepmom was—still is—a big-wig. Officer’s quarters isn’t ideal containment for a bratty firecracker, but she managed, despite my best efforts.”

Query; doubt.

“How’d she get away with that?”

“I truly don’t know.” Michaela shrugs. “I think she had me detained on a technicality, perhaps ‘lollipop theft’ or something. However she did it, no big deal, Dad can charter a private shuttle and fetch me on his way back groundside. Simple, right?”

Assumption.

“Wrong?”

“Bingo.”

Michaela lets out another sigh, and stops suddenly.

“Kelsey, do you really want to hear the rest of this? I’ve been enjoying… whatever it is we have together. Don’t want to ruin it.”

A sentiment I share. At the same time, she has managed to snag my curiosity, and I get so few chances to indulge it.

Affirmative.

I nod, slowly. “Go on.”

“We get a call. Some old slow boat freighter, or an icebox—you know, those colony ships?—their sail is stuck. Frozen, vacuum welded, warranty expired. It’s bad. We’re one of three ships with the fuel to get there and get back, and the dee-vee window’s closing by the second. So we unfurl and fly off.”

My mouth opens slightly, and that is enough to signal astonishment.

“You were only a kid?!”

“Yep. Got the whole deal. All five gees. They bundled me in some kind of pressure suit, stuck what felt like a gallon of saline into me, left the line in, and squeezed me like a sardine to keep my blood pressure up.”

Pressure is familiar. The memory of my core, my body, my self. Caged together with my kin. Sewn into the living corpse of a child. Compressed as organs stiffen when my host is plunged back into cryosleep. Pressure, as I shove my limbs through her iced innards in my desperate bid to take control. Pressure, as her heart beats against my shell.

Empathy.

“That’s… ow.”

Ow isn’t even half of it.” Michaela’s face is beyond flush now, and has gone beet red. “I pissed myself. All the way up to a tenth of cee, and I was pissing myself. For fourteen fucking days.”

I laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

Until at last my tongue sticks to my dried throat, and I cough it back up.

“Stop. Please,” Michaela says, her voice quite small.

Apology.

“Sorry, I… sorry.”

I cough a few more times, and she fixes me with a smack between my shoulder blades—one that’s a bit firmer than necessary.

“Worst part of the whole ordeal? Some hotshot out in the cloud beat us to it. Burned a damn year’s worth of antimatter and nearly got himself scattered to the stars, but the fucker got there first. We cruised back at a nice, leisurely one-gee. Stepmom had me dress up in my little cadet jacket and skirt and that stupid little hat they had us wear and presented me with my consolation prize. In front of the whole fucking ship, too, or what felt like the whole ship.”

Query; realization.

“Those people who recognized you… do they know?”

“Given the damn-near incestuous relationship between the Guard, the Institute, and the Fleet? Too many of them have heard, and whoever they are, they’re damn good at hiding it.”

Michaela’s pace quickens without warning, and I have to take several awkward strides before I find her rhythm.

“Anyway, between that and what you already owe me, I think it’s fair that you pay for a few drinks. And I thought I needed one before…”

Bass beats penetrate the metal doors at the end of Baumann hall. The rumbling rhythm is pleasing—one of the few stimuli I can experience directly, without the proxy of my host. As we get closer, a most rare thought arise in my mind, and I package it up neatly for delivery:

Query, tease.

“So… did they fit you with a catheter, or was it closer to a bucket situation?”

“One more word, and you’re paying for all of my drinks.”

Relent.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Michaela grabs the handle of one door and swings it open for me. I step through, and pull her with me.

The VIP party has spilled out from the theater-cum-lounge, much as Michaela predicted, into a throng of people in the main hall. We slip by as she takes the lead, and enter the lounge unmolested—much to my relief. Yet, while the heat in my core has subsided, and Kelsey Hoffman’s heart has slowed, I am wary of the soldiers. Those in the crowd, like us, are little threat. But I see others up in the boxes, more stationed at exits, with laser arms in neat black holsters on their hips.

The first thing Michaela does is march us over to the bar—a number of low tables lined up together and draped in fine white cloth. I make for the punchbowl, curious of its delectable red hue, and help myself to a small cup. Michaela looms over the bottles arrayed at the far end, before finally plucking out one that is tall and square. As her hand draws her prize past the table’s edge she is lit all over in angry red.

“Hey!” shouts a man in a black vest. “Need to pay first!”

“The lady will handle that,” she says with a smile, and waves a hand toward me.

I consider refusing for some moments, then capitulate. I walk over, and send an impulse to the implant in the base of my host’s skull. There is a pleasant beep from a small black box on the table, and its red spotlight fades.

Michaela pours herself a cup of the honey-hued liquid, and swallows it just as quickly. She tosses the empty cup into a nearby can, and hands the bottle off to a passing member of the waitstaff.

“For our table. Later. Thanks.”

There is an energy to the way Michaela’s shoulders sway as she saunters toward me and extends a hand, palm up.

“For you, my lady. A dance?”

My “Yes” leaves my lips almost as soon as affirmation materializes in my mind, and as my fingers curl into hers, I am thankful for the chain’s restraint.

~*~

A roar of applause splits the quiet left by Doctor Walton’s closing words, and as it settles down to scattered clapping, conversation rises in its wake. My purpose has busied itself sifting through the details of Doctor Walton’s presentation—theories that might suggest troubling developments, research paths that our agents will suppress. I comb over what is personal; for while I delight in his work, I am here for leverage. He began with a dedication, as is expected—to his wife, and to his children. There is particular praise given to his youngest daughter; during which I briefly recall Michaela squirming in her seat. Coincidence—Michaela is bored, and she finds chairs most uncomfortable.

Furthermore, Isaac Walton and Gabriella Hassert have no children between them. In his youth, Doctor Walton had a fifty-year marriage to a woman by the name of Olivia Ladner. With her, he has three children. One is deceased, lost to a tragic accident at the young age of ninety; the remainder, a daughter and a son, have taken up their own lives offworld. They are of no use to me.

His speech is peppered with stories, anecdotes and tall tales, of colleagues and of friends. By what records I have accessed in my time studying Doctor Walton, they have since become distant friends. Good friends, but their loss shall not be the visceral blow that I must deliver. My purpose weighs on me—by the standards of my kin, I am already close to the deadline, and I have neither a plan nor the tools with which to enact one. I remind my purpose that this is merely the intermission, and that the enemy has a habit of saving what is best, for last.

During the speech, Michaela has been notably preoccupied by her own portable device—its blue-white glow on her face even now, as the phone rests in her grip.

Query; emotion.

“Bored?”

“You could put it that way,” she says, looking up at me. “Honestly, Kelsey, how do you stand this nerd shit?”

Answer; purpose.

“It’s why I’m here. Going to school.”

“So’s the lot of us.” She waves a hand to the tables around us, students and faculty. “You’re the only one who insists on having to eat, sleep, and breathe the curriculum.”

Honest evasion.

“I wasn’t a great student in grade school. Trying to make up for it, you know?”

“Kelsey, I walked in on you standing stock-still, rapt attention paid to a budgetary hearing, with two, may I repeat two silent livecasts of fucking sky-cams, and an article on stellar lensing. What, you hoping the UAR’s going to build a few new telescopes?”

Narrow truth.

“Yes.”

Michaela lets out a rumbling sigh and slides her phone across the tablecloth, an image on its display.

“How about you put that nerd brain of yours to good use, for once, and tell me what you think about this? Gotta be faked, right?”

I take the phone in my hand, and start to process the image. It is… blurry, like my eyes can’t focus on it. Or perhaps they won’t.

Query; clarify.

“What am I looking at?”

“It’s probably classified, but it’s definitely hit public fibers by now, so don’t worry about that. You remember that ammo depot that blew up? Roundabouts of Bush City, few weeks back? Supposedly some hothead hacker pulled the security footage. SEER-net probably burnt out every electronic device within a mile radius of his mom’s basement, but he managed to get these few frames out there.”

I stare deeply at the blur again, at the way it shifts in slow, choppy steps. I decipher the blocks that my chain has erected in the neural pathways of Kelsey Hoffman, and in less than a second, I see the frames clearly.

Twenty frames spread out along six seconds of thirty-frames-per-second footage. A paucity of information to the enemy’s eye, but more than enough for me to reconstruct it in full. As I run the footage through the eye in my mind, I realize why the chain has sought to obscure it.

War machines of the enemy—they move in crisp, programmed movements. Pilotless, or perhaps hijacked by some unknown agent. Many, on tread and on foot, have met violent ends, ruined forms belching black smoke from within. The remainder stand against one being: a blonde haired woman of about my age, with eyes that glow red. Her skin is flayed open along her arms, legs, and torso, flesh and bone giving way seamlessly to machinery. From within her extends to worst weapons my creators have ever entrusted my kin with, red and black steel glowing with the primal heat of a dwarf star.

A Destroyer.

Lie.

“It’s fake. Has to be.”

Michaela plucks her phone from my grip, and stares at it once more.

“Are you sure? Weird to just have a depot go up like—” she sets the phone down, and mimes a mushroom cloud with her hands. “—Boom!”

Obfuscate.

“Well, what even is that? Some kind of robot? Cyborg?”

“The theories going around are she’s some kind of weapons project, or maybe a rogue Vathari.”

Correction.

“She’s a bit fleshy for a Vathari.”

“That’s what I said!”

Persist.

“And have you ever seen weapons like that? Just wait for the report. It’ll be nothing. Accidental cookoff or the like.”

Michaela shrugs, and slips her phone into a pocket on her uniform.

“Hmm…” she sighs. “Guess you’re right.”

Another few moments pass, and I see her hand creep up toward her phone’s hiding place.

Distract.

I lift the bottle from the center of our table, and tilt it toward the light from the stage.

Query.

“Why Scotch?”

Michaela gives me a puzzled frown; the lines of her face have a soft glow from the small candle between us.

“That can’t be Scotch. There’s no way.”

Read.

“Genuine* Stellar Scotch,” I read off the label. I pour myself another glass, and take a quick sip. With the analyzer embedded in the root of Kelsey Hoffman’s tongue, I verify the molecular composition against my database of miscellany: malted barley aged in oak, suffused with the smoke of burnt peat.

Confirmation. “Tastes like Scotch, too.”

“There’s no fucking way. Give me that.”

She reaches over and grabs the bottle from my hands, angling it in the light.

“Well shit. No trademark or copyright in sight. Even has the saltire stamped down in the corner. Wonder how the hell they got that license.”

The asterisk leads my wandering eye to a pattern-code stamped into the bottle, which I decipher and feed into the machine at the base of my host’s skull. The implant communicates with the phone that rests in my purse, and returns the requested information. Such cybernetics are not uncommon, though they are rare among young university students such as myself. My true body compensates for its hardware shortcoming, and I have spoofed the onboard firmware to make it safe from prying eyes.

Answer.

“They terraformed a whole planet for the purpose, it looks like. Big legal squabble over ‘Genuine Scotch,’ so they settled by throwing in ‘Stellar’ in, and giving Scotland a cut.”

“After that expense, I bet the exec’s would happily sacrifice their first borns just to break even.”

Query; reminder.

“You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“Honestly? I just looked for a percent over sixty.” She gives the bottle a slosh, about half full now. “You know, I was expecting this to last me a month. Glad I made you pay for it.”

I find myself with the freedom to shrug of my own will. Like running, alcohol has a pleasant burn. I am not subject to its psychological effects, though I can feel them in the brainmatter of my host.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re part Neph with that liver of yours.”

Neph, short for Nephilim, refers to the diminutive natives of the moon Angel, far away in the skies above. Humans adapted by strife, selection, and science to thrive on an airless dead rock. Notable features include a high resilience to alcohols—they can only be impaired by isopropyl—enhanced immune system, outsized cross-sectional muscle density and corresponding strength-to-mass ratio, and a subdermal matrix of engineered heavy metals that serves to deflect and absorb solar radiation and deep-penetrating cosmic rays.

There are a number of Nephilim in the audience, and they serve as a reminder of my mission. Any intelligence, faced with annihilation, may yet survive passage through the deadly precipice and emerge far greater. My mission is to facilitate the goals of my creators: to prevent such pockets of human exceptionalism from achieving these greater heights, and to preempt the rise of more.

Humanity at large has been a species of near stagnant development. Certain adaptations of the spacers have spread far enough to become fundamental to the baseline, even on Earth itself—a moderate increase in gee tolerance, and lifespans that may reach a single millennium with luck and good health. This extension of their lives and memories has created cultural paralysis, enforced by the tight web of information weaved throughout their worlds, and the populations that travel in true stasis from star to star.

When my creators launched their first salvo in this hidden war, over a thousand years ago, they expected to meet a species that is weak. One that has never met a foreign intelligence of hostile means before. One that is spread out and slow to respond, even with their corridor gates. Dozens of worlds fell to our forces with ease, as we cut the ties they had to greater Humanity.

We did not expect their children to intervene—for we believed them unrelated. The Vathari, beings that have transcended flesh, and the Castorians, who transcended death. My creators have become locked in a losing war with these self-appointed vanguards of mankind, but it is not yet a war that will lead to our extinction.

My mission, and that of my kin, is to ensure that when my creators’ hammer falls upon greater humanity it shall not harden their resolve, but break their spirit. Already, I doubt my chance of success. And my chain answers by lashing tightly against me.

Retort; jest.

“A lightweight would make that assumption, yeah.”

Michaela rolls her eyes.

“Hmph. Is that a challenge?”

Tease.

“At least your hair’s already tied back.”

I feel the tip of her shoe against my shin as she smiles and shakes her head.

“Careful.”

Deescalate.

I give her the most sheepish shrug I can manage, slouching in my chair to make myself small. She scowls, smiles, and shakes her head.

Some quiet moments pass, and I occupy them by playing with the bits of salad left on the plate before me.

“Hey, Kelsey, question?”

Permit.

“Yes?”

“When we were dancing, I noticed a man looking at you. Do you know him?”

Recall is instant and perfect.

I feel her arm on my hip, her right hand flat against the small of my back, my left wrapped over her shoulder. She leads, and I follow. I match her every step in perfect rhythm, and the muscle near my core quickens its beats as she pulls my chest against hers.

In the edge of my visual field I see a short-haired man in a tan suit, lounging against the stage. He has small, beady eyes set in a homely face. The instant his still eyes meet my own I am sure of his identity: a Courier.

Obfuscate.

“I’m not sure… what’d he look like?”

“Black suit, kind of shaggy hair. Glasses. Kept glancing at you, then away when I caught him. You really didn’t notice?”

That confirms its camouflage is functional, at least.

Lie.

“Didn’t see him. Think he’s a problem?”

“If I did, my fist would be in his face. Just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable.”

Gratitude.

I lean in and squeeze Michaela’s hand. “Thanks; I’m fine.”

She smiles. “If anyone does bother you, let me know.”

I give her a nod, and as our hands come apart again, I see the Courier some few tables back, its eyes locked to mine.

Depart; excuse.

“Well, I think that whiskey found its way to the exit. Back in five?”

“Gotcha.”

I set my purse on the table as I stand up, safe in Michaela’s view, and start to walk away.

“Kelsey, wait!”

Query.

I turn my head over my shoulder.

“Yes?”

“If they don’t have your order, what should I get you instead?”

Random.

“The steak, with mashed potatoes.”

“Gotcha.”

I leave the tables clustered on the theater floor, and note the Courier’s absence. True to my word, I seek out the appropriate facilities for the expulsion of biological entropy, and when I leave the restroom I find the Courier waiting. With simple eye contact my purpose seizes the Courier’s reins, and I lead it off to a side hallway. My purpose sits it down on a cushioned bench as I pull a plush chair aside to face it. I feel my lips move, but the words that leave my mouth are not my own. I engage the Courier in a facsimile of small talk, in which I play my role as a student catching up with a former classmate.

We lock eyes at predetermined intervals in this false conversation, and a radio beam pierces into my left eye as my right eye shines information back out. The messages are intelligence updates; I submit the results of my investigations, and my current mission status. In return I receive small snippets, some pertinent to me, others mere fragments that I am to pass on to the next Courier I meet. Most responses pass me by entirely, to be guarded closely by my chains. This, at least, is the status quo. Today I forgo my ignorance and work to decipher this Courier’s utterings. My focus: enemy action.

Recession expected on Ishikura due to agent action. Downturn in spineward traffic expected as primary result.

*Fabricator presence on foundry cluster located in coreward Orion spur sector eight-seven-five-eight-one. Destruction of primary foundry world verified within eight point three hours of Fabricator landing. Sector evacuation aborted due to arrival of Council Fleet. Damaged assets redirected away from coreward sectors. Sector declared uninhabitable, all worlds lost.

Confederation blackcloak detected orbiting Washington-Angel median point. Purpose unknown; investigation warranted.

*Hammer final phase in progress. Outer spur assets more compliant than predicted. Vathari interference currently minimal.

Union of American Republics budgetary allocation suggests upswing in fleet construction focused on long range strike force. Potential launch of five thousand combat carriers in next decade alongside three hundred monitors.

*Elimination of remaining assets on Luna correspond with arrival of Castorian ambassador at Armstrong. Assets in Soviet League eliminated by native counterintelligence. Total loss of assets in Sol-Centauri complex.

The last words of my scripted conversation fall upon the Courier’s deaf ears, and we each rise from our seats. As it moves to depart, I grab its reins briefly, and lock our eyes once again.

Confirm Destroyer active on Washington.

No response.

Confirm Destroyer activity.

Nothing.

Repeat: Confirm.

The radio beam emits its photons in short sputters, until at last it reaches full power.

*No Destroyer active in Washington-Ishikura complex. Last known insertion attempt resulted in total loss of Infiltration Skiff seven-seven-four-nine. Vathari elimination of Destroyer subject eight-three-five-three-nine confirmed by analysis of tissue remains recovered from debris.

I focus the power of my response, to ensure it is received:

Lie.

The Courier stares at me in silence. Immune to its camouflage, I see the unthinking glass orbs it wears in place of eyes. It cuts its reins free, and walks away. I watch it leave until my chain yanks me back to the purpose at hand, and marches me back to the theater.

“Everything go alright in there?”

Clarify.

I give Michaela a puzzled look as I slide back into my seat; she barely looks away from her phone.

“Said you’d be back in five.”

I query the timers in my mind—five minutes thirty-one seconds have passed.

Not bad, for a human.

Excuse.

“Some asshole overflowed a toilet. Saved my dress and shoes; had to wash a foot off though.”

“Heh. Maybe they’ll dig up the old pipes in these walls and finally put in some proper stainless if that keeps up.”

Her words are not slurred, but they are slower than before. I glance at the bottle, and note an ounce more is gone.

Query; intoxication.

“I thought you only liked getting buzzed.”

“I know, I know, I know, I know…” She returns her phone to its pocket, missing on the first try. “Look, I love my old man, really do, but listening to him talk is just… stars, it’s like his work is his first child. Which’d put me at, oh… fifth.”

Confusion.

“Old man?”

“You’re right, he’s not even started graying yet, but, y’know—Dad. Father. Pater.”

I am not wrong about Michaela being a lightweight, and yet, I clearly do not know her well enough.

Clarify; assumption.

“Are you talking about Professor Walton?”

“What gave it away? My eyes, or that I’m sick of all his nerd shit?” She chuckles a bit to herself, and downs the last half of her glass of Scotch. “Hey, good news, when you finally meet my folks, you and him will get along like two eggheads locked in a decades-long dispute.”

I feel my core temperature begin to rise, as the beats of Kelsey Hoffman’s heart quicken.

Correction; evidence.

“I’ve met your parents.”

“You’ve met my moms.”

The chains around my concept of Michaela shift as inconsistencies become clear. Answers click into place.

I cannot believe them.

I query the miscellany stored in my databanks—legal records of birth, marriage, divorce. Everything I could get my hands on.

Michaela Linwood is the daughter of Ursula and Olivia Linwood, née Tealson. Olivia Linwood has two amicable divorces on record; details are sealed on account of mutual privacy agreement between divorcees. I dig further; even if Olivia Linwood is Olivia Ladner, by virtue of shared birthdate and birthplace, there is no record of parentage linking Michaela Linwood and Isaac Walton.

Disbelief; rude assumption.

“So, he’s what, your sperm donor?”

“Kelsey! No one calls a sperm donor dad! Well, except for some weirdos.”

Protest.

Micheala cuts me off as I open my mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I know that I’m weird.”

She puts her hands behind her neck, and groans as she leans back.

“Fuck. This shit’s stronger than I thought’d be.”

I can sense the embarrassment in her words.

Redirect; distract.

The chain worms into my tongue as I open my mouth.

“Come on, you can’t just pique my curiosity and leave me with nothing.”

These words are correct in that my curiosity is genuine, yet I fear the answers it seeks.

She groans again, then leans in close, elbows on the table.

“Alright,” she begins, voice low, almost to a whisper, “I’ll spill.”

My ears tune out the surrounding world, and my eyes meet hers.

“Short of it is, mom had an early menopause—only in her two-hundreds, too! Genetic issue, not easily fixed. Wasn’t a big deal, she got a hormone regulator put in, wasn’t planning on having a fourth kid anyway. Then she met my mama and, well, things got serious. They tried fertility treatments, synthetic spermatogenesis, nothing stuck. Then her doctor does some digging—she’d had problems before, when she was with dad. On his end, that time. Turns out they still had some embryos in deep freeze. So they pulled me out of storage, and nine months later: ta-da!”

Acknowledgment.

The chain twists again in my throat.

“So… if he’s your dad. General Hassert…?”

“That’s stepmom. Good old Gab-gab. She never liked being called that—I swear she stuck me in the Juniors just to drill it out of me. We don’t talk much these days—better to keep our relationship under wraps.”

If my jaw could drop, it would.

Understanding.

“I see why you’d want to keep that quiet, especially here, of all places.”

“Yeah…” She pours another ounce of Scotch, and swirls it in the glass. “Maybe mama was right; should’ve gone to the ag school. Would’ve been less of a headache. But hey, then I would’ve never met you.”

She smiles, and blows me a kiss. To my shock, I am free to smile back.

I feel the chain tighten around my image of Michaela and pull her close to my purpose. Freedom enters our relationship, as my mind at last imagines seeing her each day. Sharing classes, studying together, scheduling dates.

I know, in this moment, that I have found the leverage that my chain desires. My core reaches a point of high alert, and the heart of Kelsey Hoffman sinks.

In six months time, I must kill Michaela Linwood.



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