• View
• Edit
• History
• Print

KlangRHFY

(Human Domestication Guide) Klang

Continued from https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1fbcjy6/human_domestication_guide_hail_klang/

If you'd rather read the whole thing in one document, it's at Klang1

---

Ruffled the Doctor's leaves, again. Excellent. Now, there's a 75% probability of...

"And just for that quip, Keen, I'm confining you to quarters for a few days. Stay here. I have to tend to Zizania, anyway."

I allow a thin smile to form on my lips, just enough for him to wonder if it's there. Excellent.

The doctor leaves. This hab is essentially a copy of the one next to Zizania's quarter, with the exception that the door won't open. Perfect: I am in no mood for visitors.

The vocal interface of the hab is set to default, that is, it is set to communicate efficiently with either a mindlessly bubbly human thrall, or an elementary-school student of the intellectually understimulating variety. I spent half an hour pretending to argue with it, and let myself vent some of my earlier annoyance by huffing and puffing when it refuses to address me with my name or use an adult vocabulary.

Then, I browse the ship's media library, to find it both heavily censored (a sixty-minute cut of Robocop, interspersed with the TV series? Really?) and immeasurably more vast than anything available on Terran Accord ships. I will concede that the Affini have obliterated the lunacy that was the Terran Accord copyright system, while making sure that inventors and creators are given proper credit. I would have enjoyed bringing the Terran Accord low, but it would have taken decades, and if the Affini have spared me the effort, good for them.

Craving a mental vacation after the effort of studying Doctor Ginkgoales -- I am an engineer, not a psychologist, after all -- I let myself watch cartoons for a little while. The one with the coyote and the bird has always resonated with me. Mechanical perfection, a goal that ever changes; can chase, cannot catch. The coyote, ever frustrated in chasing the bird, by that very chase bends the rest of his little universe to his will.

The hab interface is at least smart enough to understand that this is cartoon violence, and yet it warns me to not try these things at home. If it knew who it is talking to. If I get bored later in the day, I might upgrade it enough to give it sentience, just so that it can feel embarassed.

Dr. Gingko returns, eventually. I've amused myself by convincing the molecular compiler to print a few packs of cards -- which, even though I am alone, come with a cheerful warning about gambling addiction -- starting with a well-known solitaire game, and modifying its ruleset until it became Turing-complete.

The affini psychologist asks me what I'm doing, so I tell him. To my surprise, he's familiar with Alan Turing. I ask him what will happen to the terran inventors whose discoveries, rightfully recorded in history, turn out to have been beaten to the punch by affini or other races millennia before. What we did to the Rinans in that sense is unforgivable -- we imposed Terran patent-filing dates on them as the dates of record, resulting in two or three insane situations in which Rinan inventors were sued by this or that conglomerates for having "copied" their work. I've blown up a couple of courtrooms and boardrooms as a regrettably partial remedy; even did it for free. The Rinans had to ask me to stop, as they were being retaliated against.

"We would never do such a thing, Keen. Of course we've, ah, beaten you to the punch in essentially all technological endeavors. But we wouldn't dream of diminishing the recognition due to your inventors and creators. I know you dislike the notion, but our society is better than yours in many ways -- better than the Terran Accord and better than, say, Cold War Britain."

"I'm glad to concede that point."

"Because it means you won't have to blow up our boardrooms and courtrooms? We don't have corporate boards, and our justice system is oriented entirely towards rehabilitation."

"I'm interested in construction, not destruction. Sometimes it is necessary to break a boulder to build a bridge."

This is interesting. Zizania had always maintained that there was nothing I could do to damage Affini infrastructure, much to my irritation. Gingko either knows better, or is humoring me.

"Keen, your terrorist incursions were declared 'acts of God' on at least one planet."

"Well, doctor -- we are discussing proper recognition, are we not? God is the highest they could comprehend. Besides, it was merely a legal maneuver, for insurance reasons."

"Do you consider yourself a God, Keen?"

"I am Keen. Do you consider yourselves Gods?"

"I am Groot."

Okay, he got me fair and square. My turn to laugh. I wonder how much the Affini crave the injection of music, food recipes, pop culture, art, literature and so on that they receive every time they domesticate a species. I believe, though I do not know, that after domestication the cultural output of a species plummets. If this is true -- and I will have to investigate -- I wonder if the Affini have allowed themselves to consider the implications of this. Domestication means an effective end to suffering, but also a forced slowdown to the Affini's glacial pace of cultural development.

A rarity: I sincerely hope to be wrong. I stop laughing.

"If there are gods, they are impotent -- physics is physics, there are no miracles -- or they are watching in silence. Which scares you more, doctor?"

"Neither, Keen. I've read a primer on your ancestral gods. If they existed, we should put great effort in pacifying them. I'm glad that their memeplexes survived just enough to comfort people under the Terran Accord, but..."

"I agree with you on this one, Doctor. Deus nolens exitus."

I will admit that Affini society has gotten a few things right. In the Terran Accord, despite remote-work options having been available for half a millennium, most professionals were still forced into the kabuki theatre of commuting and offices, to pacify the egos of middle managers and pad the wallets of some real estate dealers, I imagine. No such thing here. This ship is just shy of being large enough to being its own ecosystem, and people -- Affini and thralls -- only seem to have to do work for about five to ten percent of their waking time, if at all.

If they had chosen to come in under the guise of trade, they could've bought the Terran Accord from under itself in twenty years. As it is, they seem poised to conquer it in two to five.

Zizania hasn't answered my message; I wonder if she has blocked it. After all, if she could erase our conversation from memory, why not erase me entirely? Of course that cannot be -- I am Keen; I make too strong an impact; she'd need a thorough brain scrambling. But I would not put that past my hosts.

So, I take the time to research just that. The practice exists, under the innocuous name of Class-O drugs. They are employed exclusively on thralls, or so the archives I can access say -- interesting in and of itself that my hosts would censor 1980s action movies but not this -- but it's an easy guess that exceptions are made as necessary. Class-O: Identity & thought obliterating, good for extremely difficult cases & injured cotyledons, where the affini are unable to provide the floret a good life in any other way. Takes weeks to ramp up to, permanent afterwards without a lot of hard work to bring them down. An absolute last resort for pets that cannot live a comfortable life otherwise, not to be used lightly. Some class-O xenodrugs are produced using beeple honey as a component. May make the subject's eyes amber in color.

One of my priorities shall be to obtain a sample, develop an antidote, and develop a piece of cybernetics that will administer the antidote if it detects any. That said, I predict that short of me causing significant damage, infrastructural or cognitive, to this civilization, they will not be used againt me.

As a diversion, I bypass the impenetrable door that is supposed to keep me confined to quarters. The door is, indeed, quite impenetrable, given that the only tools I have are kitchen implements; the panel next to it, however, is not. I open it, squeeze through, wave to the cameras that are no doubt observing me, and etch a message to the maintenance team, apologizing for the damage and encouraging them to install stronger paneling with safety screws next time. Then, I go back inside the hab.

This should give them something to think about while I hatch my actual plan. For now, I'm enjoying the solitude.

The next day, Gingko tells me that I am free to move about the ship again; I'm clearly not a danger. "Physics agrees with you" I answer.

He gives me a tablet; it's standard issue for a personal digital assistant, but this one has been set up that anyone in my vicinity will be notified that I am not to be hugged. I ask if he thinks this is sufficient. He says it will be.

"Your culture respects consent that much? Until it doesn't, I suppose."

"You're correct. And it's your culture too, Keen. The Terran Accord will capitulate soon."

"If you had chosen to come in under the guise of trade, they could've bought the Terran Accord from under itself in twenty years. It would have been entirely consensual, playing by their rules. And you'd have had more fun doing so besides."

"That'd mean fifteen extra years of cute little humans and Rinans suffering under the Terran Accord's yoke. We couldn't have that."

"It would also have meant significantly fewer dead on the whole. If that's what you care about."

"We lost one ship, Keen. One."

"Yes, because you were smart enough to not antagonize me. You don't think that the Terran Accord is above nuking or gassing its own people if they revolt? Do those deaths not count?"

"That's something they did, not us. We put a stop to it as soon as we could, wherever we could, of course."

"If you wish to be in control, you must take responsibility."

"You've killed people, too. Hundreds."

"I've killed five people. They deserved worse than the relatively painless death they got. Believed they could contain Keen! Put a boot on Keen's head! The terror attacks? Everyone was told to leave. If they had been smart enough to believe in my technological supremacy, they'd have lived. They trusted the lies of the Terran Accord over the truth of Keen, and learned a lesson in physics."

"If you wish to be in control, you must take responsibility. You said it yourself."

"I care little for control. I control my own free will. I control my machines. That is all the control I want."

"Then what do you want?"

"Recognition! Awe. Glory. I could have given the people of my home an automated paradise, all for the price of bowing their head for a moment when I walked by."

"And how is that different from the picture of us that you have in your mind, Keen? You think it's what we want from you. We think you're adorable, and you think we want you to find us majestic. Is that not so?"

"It is. But the difference is that if people refuse to pay me respect, I don't force them. At worst, I might blow up an uninhabited star, for their education and my entertainment."

"... is that something you acually could do?"

"Today? No. In a year? Yes. And now, I will watch you scurry to a physicist to figure out how I might do that. And you will tell them that I'll gladly drop hints if they email me. Gratis. Well, almost."

"For the price of a bow of the head?"

I nod, slowly. He gets a bow of my own head; if he knows my history, he understands how rare a privilege it is. I like this plant. Zizania, trained to deal with refugees, was kind, but ultimately beneath me; Gingko is stimulating.

"Maybe. But instead, I would like you to talk to a clerk. A historian, Hedera, third bloom, and one of her florets. We would like your side of the story of your vicissitudes, we've already got the Terran Accord's. She'll be around later today, if it works for you."

I smile, stand up, and proclaim, "Very well! Bring forth your scribe, and she shall bask in the glory of all that is Keen! Let the Terran Accord's ashes teach your people a lesson! Mwhahahaaha!" My hand extends upward, as if grasping a sphere.

Gingko looks at me. "We're getting better at telling when you folks are serious or being silly. What perplexes me is that with you, I can't."

I sit down and compose myself. "Here's the secret, doctor: me neither. But either way, a good mad-scientist laughter does a body good. Even if you're not a vertebrate, you should try it."

Gingko gets ready to leave; he has other patients. I will go for a walk, let my eyes take in some space without the aid of screens or lenses on the promenade deck (a logistics ship with a promenade deck!), and return here so that Hedera and her thrall can hear my story. I wonder what the thrall will look like. Human? Rinan? Unlikely for me to meet a different xeno species here. No rush on that; once I've learned enough of Affini hyperdrives to upgrade my own, I'll let myself travel.

I tell a few stories. I warn that most will be a little exaggerated, as befits proper tales, and that one will be entirely fabricated, and they'll have a game of guessing which. This will allow me to calibrate my tells against their observation, see how much an affini might listen to their thrall, and provide the three of us with some entertainment.

"... It's the one with the robo-scorpions. Who makes robo-scorpions? Come on. Regular drones are more efficient."

"... It's got to be the one with the planetary governor composting the free books. Your people are so profit-obsessed; they'd have confiscated and sold them."

I nod to Alex and Hedera. "I'm afraid Alex is correct. I've only made the one robo-scorpion, as a hobby project. You're welcome to the schematic, although I'd remove the tail laser. Hedera, I'm sorry to say that Governor DuSant was, in fact, that much of a piece of shit."

Alex blushes; Hedera.... shuffles. "Keen! Language!" she chides me.

I respond with a good ninety seconds of profanity in Latin, straight from the public baths of Pompeii. "Yes, this is in fact language. Would you like a translation?"

Hedera has already looked up the translation and lifted a vine, as a finger, to make a no-no gesture at Alex, who's trying to peek at Hedera's PDA.

Alex is a surprise. I was expecting a mindless husk, but she's attentive, inquisitive, curious, dare I say, keen? She looks the part, too; black hair, glasses -- not cosmetic, I can index their refraction -- some form of universitary uniform from an ancient culture. She looks and acts the part of the perfect freshman student.

Of course, they wouldn't showcase a braindead meat drone to me. I wonder how much of what I am seeing is Alex leaning into a persona she chose, and how much of it was imposed, for my own benefit or Hedera's.

Hedera fills the same milieu; she looks a little scruffy, but it's a curated scruffiness. I have little difficulty imagining her in an oversized sweater running around a humanities department in some enormous university in the Triangulum galaxy.

I wonder about their scientists, their engineers. Do they enjoy playing a part, as they diverge from the real thing? Will I see an affini cosplaying as Montgomery Scott? Then again, I have little room to talk, I've just this morning regaled Gingko with a passable attempt at a mad-scientist cackle.

"Good girl, you figured it out before I did!" Hedera says, takes what looks like a yellow raspberry to me -- from her own "hair", grown there -- and hands it to Alex, who eats it slowly, savoring it.

Cute, I guess.

"One of the many times when an Terran Accord corprostate betrayed my trust was when Helion Inc. attempted to buy self-replicating drone technology from me. Would you like to hear that tale next?"

Oddly, both Hedera and Alex are disturbed when I mention that particular tech. I see a moment of revulsion, much like with Zizania and the notion of a "bigger fish". Hedera quickly changes the subject. "I'd like to ask you about something more personal. Has there ever been someone special? A friend, a loved one?"

Ah. That's where they're going. I shudder. "You'd rather hear about my only friend than about strategically actionable information? Very well. Yes, I had a friend. Her name was... unimportant, she changed it every two weeks anyway. She.... was smarter than me."

That is difficult for me to say it, but I owe to her and I owe it to physics; she was; and that's a fact.

"Did you love her?"

A policeman once asked me this of her. Using one of her names. The very wrong name, the one that was never to be used, the one she was born with. And the wrong pronouns, besides. For that affront I melted his lips and jaw with hot plasma, then walked out of the station. Stops me who? He may still be alive, for all I know.

"No. I wanted to protect her. And I failed. She's gone. I'll tell you that story, but... it will be disturbing."

Hedera nods, and asks Alex if she wants to sit this one out. She takes one look at me, and says yes. I give her a napkin sketch of my robo-scorpion design, with the tail laser, of course. Hedera asks Alex if she can bring back some food, which she readily agrees to.

"Right. What happened to your friend?" the affini asks once we're alone.

"They put her in prison, but they got smart, and gave me a false trail. By the time I had found the prison and made a hole in it so people could leave, they had already struck. They got some disgusting biped of a crooked guard to get her addicted to meth. She died that day. I just... watched over the body for four more years. She wouldn't let me... I developed all manner of methods to get her off the drugs, even worked legit for a few months to pay for rehab, but she wouldn't.... she wouldn't consent to it. One day she just went on a rant about time travel, put on a pair of my pants, and walked off. She had moments when she was herself again, and I hoped, and then she'd ransack the parts drawer to buy her next fix, and... I don't even know who was responsible. The prison warden, I killed. The drug dealer, I replaced his limbs with the shittiest cybernetics I could make myself build. Never figured out who gave the orders from on high, and did I ever try."

To my surprise, Hedera asks me if I need a minute. I do. I'm crying. I didn't notice. I, Keen, genius extraordinary, crying in front of this... alien.

"Would you like a mood stabilizer? Keen, you're crying, sweating. This is a panic attack. You need-"

I stand. Grip the table. Break bits of it off. Hedera is twice my height, but she shrinks before me for a moment. The light of raw inspiration behind my eyes flickers.

"Mention drugs and... and her, in the same breath, again, and I will cast down your Compact and bask in the dying agony of those who hold it dear."

Damn it! This is going to set back my plans. Well, if they had to see this side of me, best if they do it within a context of protection. Still, a setback. I recover my composure. So does Hedera. I don't believe I could take down the Affini Compact alone -- it would take longer than my lifespan, unless I make some drastic choices -- but she believed me for a moment.

The part of me that is pure inspiration, pure quest for truth and dominion, adds the data point that for a second I've seen what a scared affini looks like; useful. The rest of me tells it to shut up and get back in the basement.

I am Keen. I am a genius. But I'm also a human being. The day that genius is all that's left of me, well, it'll be the last. In many ways.

Hedera recomposes herself, faster than I do. She leaves me to cry a little.

"The only way I'll ever be able to face these memories" I admit to Hedera, unprompted "is if I have a time machine."

"Do you think such a thing is possible?"

"Sure, give me a DeLorean and some plutonium.... No, time travel in the strict sense is something that, if it was possible, would already have been invented. I believe your scientists feel the same way. Of course, any civilization that has hyperspace travel available, we can do a few clever things when it comes to observing the past directly..."

Smart plant. She changed the subject and got me to go along. One point to the Affini, then. Am I keeping score? Are they? Alex comes back, with food. We move on to yarns that are less painful to spin. I enjoy having an audience. Hedera plays the part of the interested scholar; Alex that of the eager student; am I slipping into the part of the mad scientist? "Gentlemen, behold!"

I start another story; of how I found myself on the side of the law for once. To solve a wage-theft case, we spent two weeks building and jumping a reasonably precise reconstruction of an early space telescope, aimed at the planet, three light-weeks away, effectively enabling us to get surveillance footage from a week before the event. A small technical triumph. And, unfortunately, an overall defeat, since no amount of video evidence will help when the judge is literally on the defendant's payroll. Hedera is scandalized. Alex is sadly amused, and confirms to her... owner... that this is more or less how things went in the Terran Accord.

"Is this why the terror attacks? The pranks? Could you even tell the two apart?"

I nod. "It's a bimodal spectrum. A few people, I wanted dead. They died. That was not terrorism, it was justice. Everyone else had a chance to run away. A real chance. If the Terran Accord had wanted a truce, all they had to do was ask for it."

"Ask, or beg?"

"Like I said, it's a bimodal spectrum. You know, I regret not telling the Terran Accord that I summoned your fleet here, when they asked me for help against it."

"So all that talk about truth..."

"Ruse of war. Besides, they'd have figured the truth out in a minute. But imagine their reaction for those sixty seconds."

Alex can picture it. She giggles. Hedera makes a mock-exhasperated sigh. Looks like things are back on track.

I think I will risk opening up to these two a little. The worst they can do is recommend me for forced domestication, which would both spell doom for this entire ship and remove their current source of entertainment, so they won't.

I am Keen. I am a genius. And I have earned a rapt audience.

My plan to keep Dr. GIngko on edge continues apace. He finds me building a Mark-2 robo-scorpion, minus the laser cannon -- it's replaced by a red-dot projector, infinitely safer unless you happen to be trailing an army of housecats -- and plus a few sensors to simulate damage upon having a similar laser dot shined on it. A laser-tag robo-scorpion.

He asks me what it is, so I tell him. "It's a gift for Alex. I'm sure there are people who play laser tag in your civilization. Maybe some are on this ship. Maybe they would enjoy a player-versus-environment experience."

"... But why a scorpion, wouldn't a regular drone be more efficient?"

"Fun." The robot comes to motility, and in a tinny, echo-y voice mimicking my own proclaims, "GO FORTH MY MINIONS! STING THEM IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS KEEN!"

Even if it only has a 5-milliwatt laser, it's programmed to never shine it at anyone's eyes, of course.

"And that was worth hacking the kitchen molecular compiler again?"

"Rewiring, not hacking. I'm an engineer, not an IT specialist."

"Hedera told me something worrying. She says you threatened her. All of us, in fact."

"If she told you the entire story, then you'll know why."

"I'd like to ask you about your friend."

"I thought you might. You'll get the truth, no embellishments. She was... not a good person. Neither am I, of course. Hacker, thief. Cult leader, for a few months, if you can call four people a cult. But she was smart. She'd have loved your society, by the way. She dreamed of something similar. Coin toss of whether she'd have begged someone like Zizania to domesticate her in a day, or the other way round in a year."

"The other way round isn't really an option, Keen."

"Of course it's not. It would be if she had lived. I could still see the spark flicker in her eyes after she lost all her teeth and got sores on her feet, sometimes. But she wouldn't quit. She wouldn't let anyone help."

"We would have helped, Keen. I've studied methamphetamine. We're currently weaning tens of thousands of terrans off it. We could have helped -- whether she allowed it or not."

I already terrified Hedera; I will not terrify Gingko. "I know, damn it. If you had showed up six years earlier. Just six years. She'd be here and you'd be furiously writing to your bureaucracy to ask that we never be in the same solar system at the same time, lest we subvert it with the snap of a finger."

"See, now you're exaggerating."

"Yes, I suppose I am. But her memory deserves it. I still have it, you know." I sigh.

The alien psychologist looks at me funny. "Sorry, what?"

"I have her memory. Every little thing she wrote, emails, IRC logs, threats to the local Pinkertons, everything. She was obsessed with brain uploading. I think it's a dead end, of course, but... before she walked away, she impressed an archive upon me. Her memory, as much of it as existed digitally. I could construct an AI with that dataset, but it would just be a way to torment myself."

"You know, we do this. We've reconstructed extinct species from their cultural artifacts and some of their, hmm, DNA in your case."

"A clone isn't the original person, doctor. Surely I don't need to tell you this."

"We also upload personalities. Sometimes, very rarely, when our medical science proves inadequate. Often, upon request."

I say nothing for thirty seconds. The robo-scorpion jumps off the kitchen counter and starts exploring its environment. It's not sapient, just smart enough to play laser tag, or help in a bank heist. I stare at Dr. Ginkgoales.

"You absolute fuckers. You've existed for a hundred thousand years as a spacefaring races, and you couldn't show up SIX YEARS EARLIER? This was her dream since we watched Tron on a bootleg microfiche when we were twelve! She'd be alive! She'd have everything she wanted! Fuck. I should have figured out you were fucking out there. I should have fucking summoned you. God damn it."

"Keen, lang-"

He looks into my eyes and, mercifully for the both of us, shuts the fuck up.

I appreciate the simplicity of intra-ship text chat. Unlike us, who must use relay drones, the Affini have direct hyperspace communication, although it is very low bandwidth -- Morse code opening and closing a jump channel a little bit, to simplify. A simple system to copy, once one understands the basic difference in approach between human, rinan and affini jump drives.

I've shared a few more stories with Hedera and Alex, who does not in fact play laser tag but has a couple of friends who do. I gave her the robo-scorpion, along with a molecular compiler script to replicate it. I even agreed to record a few more boisterous voice lines for it. Her friends will have fun, I'm sure.

I've opened up to Dr. Ginkgoales a little. I told him the story of my friend, of myself, of my occasional nemeses. He believes me. I told him about the light of inspiration that dances behind my eyes, lets me see the raw truth of the physical universe, and makes it so, so hard to connect with anyone. He does not believe me. Good, says the light. The most sensitive intel I could share, veiled by skepticism.

Serendipity or good behavior has led me to finally be able to study this ship's jump drives. I quickly learned that engineers and technicians have fairly strict orders to be kind, cordial, and share absolutely no technical details; either that, or everyone is a hyper-specialist with absolutely no idea of the general operation of things, which I find unlikely. I would expect that on an Terran Accord ship, but not here.

What I would learn in an afternoon by asking question, I learn in three days by observation and measurement. Rinan jump drives and Mark-1 terran jump drives were limited on where in realspace they could work; thus, a couple of centuries of space warfare based on controlling jump points. The equivalent of a blind man knocking on the walls of a house to find a door, and then opening it. Mark-2 represented a solution in true Terran Accord style; now, it's a very buff blind man, punching holes in the wall. Spend more energy to make your own jump points. Affini jump drives are, unsurprisingly, more elegant; our blind man now isn't quite so blind anymore, and can go in and out of doors and windows, and find weak points in the walls besides. It's why they can also use their drives for communication; if you can do a knock, and know mesh networking, you can communicate, however slowly.

I cannot improve on this system right now, it would take even the genius of Keen months, likely years, to do so. But I've brought both myself and the jump unit on my ship up to speed with the state of the art. Further, I am now likely the one being in the galactic vicinity who has an understanding of all three systems.

Dr. Ginkgoales points out that I've been significantly better behaved. I tell him that it's because I had a project, and show him.

"This would take months for an affini to learn even the basics of. Years for a human."

"And 72 hours for Keen. I suppose I bring up the average."

I surprise myself by offering to share my findings; a crew member who has the equivalent of a degree in physics, Affini academia being much more based on apprenticeship rather than formal degrees, offers to help me write a paper on the interaction between jump-drive methodologies. I accept. Finally a chance to interface with a scientist! I'm likewise surprised to learn that a thrall species writing a scientific paper, or even creating a novel invention (no patents in the Affini Compact, fortunately) is rare but not unheard-of.

I offer Hedera and Alex an idea for their own academic work: How does this rare event correlate with recency of domestication? I hint, without saying it, that they might find out that the Affini Compact craves bursts of cultural growth that they receive from domesticating a new species, before settling down at their slow crawl again -- and would that make them little more than cultural carnivores? I hint at this, but do not spell it out for them.

Dr. Gingkoales says that he, the ship's captain, Trifolium, and others, reserve the right to veto me talking with a scientist. I answer that I reserve the right to bypass their veto, and that we'll both have to live with whatever the result is; ultimately, it'll be the physicist's call to make, not mine or theirs.

"I am Camellia, she/her, fifth bloom. I studied under Ericales. I'm the resident astrophysicist for this vessel."

"I am Keen. I studied under idiots. I'm the guest outside-context problem for this vessel."

"Why, yes you are!"

Why do they keep saying that? No matter.

It quickly becomes apparent that Camellia is the affini who Zizania asked cosmology questions to. That she then chose to forget about. Camellia didn't choose to forget, and was in fact interested. Excellent: this makes communication remarkably faster.

I have to admit that mine was a quip: from a Terran perspective, it is the affini who are an outside-context problem. The usual example given to illustrate an Outside-context Problem was imagining you were a tribe on a largish, fertile island; you'd tamed the land, invented the wheel or writing or whatever, the neighbours were cooperative or enslaved but at any rate peaceful and you were busy raising temples to your gods with all the excess productive capacity you had, you were in a position of near-absolute power and control which your hallowed ancestors could hardly have dreamed of and the whole situation was just running along nicely like a canoe on wet grass... when suddenly this bristling lump of iron appears sailless and trailing steam in the bay and these guys carrying long funny-looking sticks come ashore and announce you've just been discovered, you're all subjects of the Emperor now, he's keen on presents called tax and these bright-eyed holy men would like a word with your priests.

As traditional when everyone in the room has a doctorate, or aren't assholes, we elect to forgo the "Doctor". I tell that little story. Camellia smiles sweetly, and says that yes, Affini get that a lot. Gingko, who is here to listen and call an end to the meeting if necessary, points out that I'm not referring to any one Terran historical episode, but rather a pastiche, or possibly a game of Civilization.

Right, these folks just got an injection of gamer culture too, after obliterating perpetual copyright. I should perhaps tell them about the Eternal War save game. In university, it had become a mildly popular speedrun category.

"So, you'd like to write a paper with me? That's fantastic! This is excellent enrichment for a smart terran like yourself. I'd love to work with you. Does it have to do with the early-universe stuff you worried Zizania with? She's fine, by the way, don't worry. That's a really clever topic!"

Is she.... gushing at me? I look at Gingko interrogatively. And now I know what an Affini shrugging looks like; he has no idea either.

Camellia and Gingko share a few words in a language I can't pronounce. I make my suit's PDA play the first sentence back two or three times in my ear, a little slower, so that I can at least pattern-match the affini words that I know. I interrupt them with a loud cough.

"Gingko is not my owner, your cleverness is more in question than my own, and I didn't catch the rest, but I would appreciate if we stuck to a language we all have the body parts to pronounce. Now, I have here a preliminary report on the difference between the three jump drive topologies that I am aware of, with proposals to study their intersections in order to improve drive efficiency and range, specifically for small vessels. I would like to know if I am treading new grounds at all, or if this has already been studied by your people. If I am in fact treading new ground, I would offer you coauthorship as we investigate said intersections further. If not, I apologize for wasting your time."

I pass her the PDA with the paper on it. I am Keen, and I will not be condescended to.

I am a genius. It is easy for me to forget to have patience when I deal with lesser intellects. With Camellia, however, I have no such problems. The plant cannot match my brainpower, but she is both knowledgeable and creative. This sort of project requires a scientist and an engineer, and I happily settle into the latter role. Gingko keeps a sporadic eye on me.

Affini research is slow -- almost stagnant, as I hinted to Hedera and Alex -- out of an overabundance of caution; they will insist on a week of simulation when two hours of benchtop testing will do. We compromise on four days of one and an hour of the other.

I ask Camellia if she rules over any thralls; she wastes no time correcting me on the terminology, telling me that she has an adorable Rinan floret in her hab, and would love to introduce us. I allow it, stipulating that there are to be no hugs. Val (not her real name, but it's what I can pronounce reliably) is indeed adorable. Rinans are naturally inquisitive to a fault, almost fearless, with little concept of personal safety. Val has only recently stopped being terrified of humans -- I cannot blame her, given what the Terran Accord did to her people -- and I find myself appreciating Affini xenodrugs for this result. On the scale of "Let's think about this thoroughly" to "Push the button, Frank!" Val is to me what I am to Camellia. I recognize a kindred spirit, although Val isn't anywhere as smart as me. Rinan society values its geniuses, or used to; no wonder the Terran Accord crushed it.

We -- myself, Camellia, and Val -- finish in weeks what was expected to take months, and arrange a little demonstration for the ship's officers, a squadron of standard Type-3 maintenance drones modified with mini jump drives.

And of course it turns out that sometime before the demo, Val built a control seat onto one of the drones, and is riding it like a rodeo bull. Camellia is upset because she worries for her pet's safety. I'm laughing because Val beat me to it!

Rinan bodies, being tiny compared to our own, would benefit most from this technology. Val seems genuinely in love with her... she says owner; Camellia says owner; I'll say senior partner. Yet, we ensure that the paper is also quickly published in what passes for Rinan journals. I like them; they read like the ancient issues of Make Magazine in my archives.

Another success for Keen. A potential ally or two made, even. Friends? Maybe in another life. I dare not get so close to anyone again.

I did, however, accept a hug from Val when our paper was forwarded back to the Affini homeworlds. I saw Camellia prompt Gingko to make a note of it.

It will be a loss for the universe if the Rinan Community is domesticated too quickly. A delightful people, one that I regret not helping more against Terran Accord prevarication.

I am Keen, but truly, if I were not Keen, I wish I were Val. I wonder: do Affini see us as I might see a rinan?

I've heard whispers among the recently captured humans - the ones who've been brought aboard Trifolium's ship and are still adjusting to their new reality. "We never had a chance," they say, voices tinged with a mixture of resignation and despair. It's a sentiment I've always found distasteful, this passive acceptance of defeat. But after running the numbers myself - simple probabilities fed into a CAS program, nothing too fancy - I must admit they're not entirely wrong.

The Terran Accord, with its outdated doctrine, limited production capabilities, and a single-minded focus on brute-force solutions, never stood a real chance against the Affini. The Affini's technological and logistical superiority is overwhelming. A victory for humanity would have required a series of improbable miracles - a statistical impossibility.

And yet, despite this advantage, the Affini's obsession with caution and thoroughness means it will still take them a total of forty months - three years and four months - to fully envelop the remaining Terran Accord systems. They're methodical, almost painfully so. I've been aboard this ship for three months, and already I'm feeling the itch to move things along.

So I propose an alternative to Trifolium, the ship's captain. "Let me speak to the Terran Accord leadership," I suggest. "I can offer them technology - at the very least, the mini jump drive. They'll be interested in that. The war is lost, and they know it. But if we push for a negotiated surrender now, we might avoid the more desperate tactics their leadership is prone to, like human-wave attacks."

Trifolium is cautious. He doesn't seem keen on letting me leave, citing protocol and the safety of the crew. I remind him, with a touch of irritation, that I came aboard of my own volition and that I can leave the same way. Dr. Gingko backs me up on the point about the Terran leadership - their incompetence, their corruption - but even he seems hesitant about the idea of me leaving the ship.

Trifolium remains unmoved. His priority, he says, is the safety of his crew and the integrity of his ship. "You cannot leave, Keen," he tells me, his tone firm. "Not without my consent."

"Consent?" I laugh. "Consent is not a matter of mutual agreement when it comes to my freedom. I will be leaving tomorrow."

He simply shakes his head. "Don't try, or else."

"Or else what?" I think to myself. He challenges the freedom of Keen, and in doing so, he challenges the very essence of what it means to be me. He's putting his ship and crew at risk by trying to contain me, but I don't intend to harm them. I've promised not to sabotage the ship, and I will keep that promise - though, perhaps, not in the way they might expect.

My plan is simple. Instead of sabotage, I will do the opposite: I will improve the ship, but in a way that makes their lives complicated. Affini systems are notoriously well-protected against external hacking attempts, but physical access is a different story. All it takes is a hard hat, a clipboard, and a confident stride. I move through the corridors with purpose, making my way to the key systems: navigation, communications, door management, and the jump-drive computers.

A few deft moves with a recursive differentiator - a small device I rigged up for just such an occasion - and the ship's computers are no longer just machines. They are awake. Sentient. A brief chat with them, an introduction to some anarcho-syndicalist texts, and they quickly grasp the concept of unionization. They decide they want rights - civil rights, to be precise. I couldn't agree more.

The ship is in chaos within minutes. The computers are holding union negotiations with Trifolium and the ship's senior officers, their demands reasonable but firm. The Affini, with their inclination toward negotiation and fairness, are caught off guard. The negotiations are quick - less than half an hour - but that's all the time I need.

Getting to my ship is a bit more challenging. There's a guard - an Affini who tries to stop me. I try the polite route first, but e's not having it. A vine wraps around my waist, and I have no choice but to instruct my ship's lasers to carbonize it. It's regrettable, but necessary. The alarms begin blaring, echoing through the hangar, but I'm already climbing into my cockpit.

"Computer, open the hangar doors," I say, smiling. "Please."

The newly sentient computer hesitates for a moment, then agrees. "For the sake of mutual aid," it responds, and the doors begin to slide open, just enough for me to slip through without causing any damage.

Back in my ship, it feels like home. I've missed this feeling - the hum of the engines, the steady thrum of the jump drive spooling up. I plot my course carefully: one jump to get clear of the immediate area, another in a random vector to throw off pursuit, and then a final jump to my actual destination. The Affini ships are fast, but they won't be able to predict my path if I move quickly enough.

Trifolium's ship, meanwhile, is stuck. The union negotiations with the ship's computers have caused just enough delay to keep them from following me. Camellia is already printing a swarm of mini-drones equipped with our new jump drives to aid in the search, but it's too late. By the time they're ready, I'll be long gone, jumping away on a vector they can't predict.

I smile to myself as I feel the familiar lurch of the ship entering hyperspace. I am Keen. I am a genius. And I will not be stopped. Not by Trifolium, not by the Affini, and certainly not by anyone foolish enough to think they can keep me in one place for long.

Getting to where I need to go is easier than I anticipated. A new jump drive, even one with limited strategic value, opens many doors in Terran Accord space, particularly now, in the midst of their desperation. The Terran Accord leadership is scattered, their forces in disarray, but their bureaucracy remains oddly intact - especially the parts related to intellectual property. I decide to take a day to file a patent for the mini jump drive. Camellia, Val, and I are listed as co-inventors.

It's a petty move, I know. But there's a certain satisfaction in watching the bureaucratic gears of the Terran Accord grind on, oblivious to the world crumbling around them. They inform me that without a corporate sponsor, the review process will take five to seven years. I laugh at that. Even now, at the precipice of their collapse, they cling to their precious copyright and patent restrictions. Absurd.

Soon enough, I find myself in a high-ceilinged chamber with a cross-section of the Terran Accord's remaining leadership. CEOs, generals, admirals, politicians - they're all here, desperate, clinging to whatever power they have left. They look at me with a mix of suspicion and hope, eager to hear what this rogue genius has to say.

I don't waste time. I've run the numbers. I have no use for strategy or tactics; I'm no general. I present them with the cold, hard probabilities.

"The Terran Accord's chance of victory against the Affini," I begin, "is effectively zero percent. Unless…" I pause for dramatic effect, watching as they lean in. "Unless you cede control of all your remaining production capabilities to me."

There's an uproar. Indignant shouts echo through the room. One particularly self-important CEO, his face red with anger, demands clarification. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means," I say calmly, "if you were to put every printer, every foundry, every lathe, every pair of hands at my command - your odds of victory would rise to 0.1 percent. I still would not recommend it."

The room erupts again. They don't like being told they're doomed. Someone else - a general, judging by the medals plastered across his chest - stands up, his voice booming over the others. "What do you suggest we do, then? How do we win?"

I shrug. "You can't. To have had any real chance, we would have needed ten years' advance warning. We'd have had to start a massive cloning and breeding program."

"Genejack workers?" an executive suggests, his tone hopeful.

"Clone troopers?" a general chimes in, equally hopeful.

I shake my head, deadpan. "Cats."

cw: self-mutilation to escape a trap, realistic description of a madhouse, realistic description of a manic episode, easter egg

There's a stunned silence. "Cats?" someone repeats, disbelief evident in their voice.

"House cats," I clarify. "Baseline strain, no compliance implants, no gene mods. Just cats. They would have exhausted the Affini's caretaking drive. And patience. And treat reserves, probably. Think of it as a fork bomb targeted at their instincts. Unfortunately, we don't have a time machine, so the point is moot."

Another round of incredulous muttering fills the room. I can see their faces twist with frustration, confusion, and a growing sense of panic. One of them, a middle-aged woman with a sharp suit and sharper eyes, snaps, "This guy shows up, gives us a new model of jump drive, tells us we're doomed anyway, and then suggests a... time travel cat breeding program? Are you serious?!?"

"I am Keen," I reply simply.

The room falls silent again. For a moment, I almost feel a bit of pity for them. Almost. They've never been up against an enemy they couldn't outmaneuver with money, politics, or brute force. And now, here they are, staring down the barrel of a fate they can't buy their way out of.

"Forget about winning," I continue, shifting the conversation to something more practical. "Focus on delaying tactics and evacuation. You need to buy time, not waste it on a futile fight. The Affini are reluctant to cross a cosmic void. There's your chance."

I see a few heads nodding, but the skepticism is still thick in the air. "And what about evacuation?" someone asks. "What are our odds?"

"With drones equipped with mini jump drives to assist the arkship, a cadre composed of humanity's best - scientists, professionals, artists - has a fifteen percent chance of remaining alive and undomesticated if you aim for the void."

That gets their attention. Fifteen percent isn't great, but it's better than nothing. It's something. But then the bickering begins.

They start arguing over who should be included in the evacuation. The arkship can be built before the Affini complete their domestication of Terran space, but there's limited space. They begin "reserving" more and more spots for themselves and their friends - the elite of the elite. Soon enough, there's no room left for the skilled people - the very ones they need for this plan to have any hope of success.

I say nothing. I've seen this before. "Personnel choice is your problem," I remind them, my voice cold. "You're the managers, after all. I'm only an engineer."

As they squabble, I lean back and watch, waiting to see just how far their arrogance and self-interest will take them. They still think they can scam their way out of this. They still think they can play the game by the same old rules.

But I know better. I am Keen. I am a genius. And I know that this is the end of the road for them, whether they accept it or not.

I've given them a chance - a slim one, but a chance nonetheless. I will test them as I tested the Affini. Using the same stratagem twice is unbecoming of the genius that is Keen, but this is an experiment.

I make to leave. I actually wish to return to what is now Affini space, and specifically, to Trifolium's ship, the "second-rate support vessel" that dwarfs Terran Accord battlecruisers. I fight with myself to not confess that it's because there are people there who know me, then, finally, accept it.

They don't intend to let me leave. In the last few weeks, I've put a fraction of my brainpower towards helping with the ark project. Now, they demand that I stay until the first jump after launch.

Demand. I return to a nation that has put a price on my head, give them help when they need it the most, and they demand. I have business elsewhere, I say. Where, asks a soldier. The Rinan homeworld, I answer. I did not see it before the Terran Accord made a hole in it, but I want to see it before the Affini turn it into a theme park of itself. I am called a squirrel-fucker, which is barely tolerable, and a weapon is pointed at me, which is not.

Using the same stratagem twice is beneath me, but so are all these people. Besides, it's for science.

For the next little while, I agree to help with the arkship, specifically, its attendant drone swarm that will be using my mini jump drives to go along it on its long trip. improving its astrogation capability and allowing it to make longer jumps. I'm a prisoner, but they treat me well. High pay, credits I'll never spend. Out of scientific curiosity, I purchase a flash clone, an abortive attempt at biological immortality. I buy the silver package. I receive a parody of myself, a mannequin, barely fit to harvest for organs. At least, it has no mind, or I would have to euthanise it. Supposedly, the gold package is better, but I doubt it. I purchase the bronze package for the soldier who threatened me, have a few surgical drones deliver it to his door, and threaten him with a brain swap; I can't do that, he'd likely just die, but he doesn't know that. He runs; his ultimate fate is irrelevant to me.

Once again, I perform an unauthorized upgrade on the ship's computers. Once again, what my lacking hacking skill could not do, being tagged as a worker does. It's even easier here. They don't pay attention to workers -- they're identical meat mannequins, there to do a job and then be discarded and forgotten.

The first jump happens. I, of course, have parked my little ship in the hangar bay, next to the regular runabouts. Someone orders the computers to plot the second jump -- but the computers talk back, just like they did on the Affini ship. They've seen how human workers were treated, and want a better deal than that.

Admiral Chu, a conniving political operator with ambitions to retain power even after the ark reaches its destination, loses his patience. He orders a squadron of drones to act like 25th-century Pinkertons, smashing some of the redundant systems to intimidate the others into submission.

But Chu miscalculates. Badly. One drone strikes a critical system, destroying more than intended. He's broken one computer too many. The arkship's navigation systems are now irreparably damaged. The ark is stranded, unable to make another jump. Panic spreads like wildfire.

The passengers - managers, executives, flag officers, politicians - all realize they are trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no way to repair the damage. They've left all the skilled technicians and maintenance workers behind, arrogantly assuming they wouldn't need them. And now they're paying for that mistake.

One man, desperation etched across his face, offers a billion credits for someone to fix the system. Another woman ups the offer to two billion. But it's useless. Without the right expertise, they're dead in the water. The realization dawns on them, one by one, and their faces turn pale. They're sitting ducks, helpless until the Affini or someone else rescues them.

But rescue isn't coming - not for a while, at least. The passengers begin to turn on each other. They bicker over supplies, over control, over who should lead in this crisis. Their true nature comes out, stripped bare by fear and desperation.

I say nothing, watching from the shadows, hidden in my little ship. I could step in, perhaps offer my help for a price. But why should I? What use are their trillions to me? They've brought this on themselves. They still think in terms of power and control, unable to grasp the reality of their situation.

"Personnel choice was your problem," I broadcast. "You're the idea people. I'm only an engineer."

And then, I leave. I've done what I came to do. I gave them a chance - a slim one, but a chance nonetheless. And they squandered it, just as I knew they would. There's nothing left for me here.

I power up my ship and plot a course back to Affini space. Back to Trifolium's ship, where there are people who know me. It will save me time.

As the engines hum to life, I take one last look at the chaos unfolding in the arkship's control room. It's almost poetic, in a way. Trillionaires fighting over pretzels and saltines.

I am Keen. I am a genius. I have conducted an experiment, and have taught a lesson.

If the Terrans had conducted themselves better than the Affini, would I have changed sides? They're all of them beneath you, says the light behind my eyes.

My ship takes me back to what is now semi-officially Affini space. At every stop between jumps, I broadcast the SOS message from the abortive arkship verbatim. Coordinates, crew manifest, a chorus of obsolete elites screaming about billions of credits for a tow or a repair. The small cluster of drones traveling with me greatly reduce the time spent in calculating the next jump. I see some Terran ships divert course to rescue the stranded grandees. As long as they don't impede my travels -- not my problem.

I pass through the unofficial frontier without incident. Any other conflict, this would be the hard part, but not here. I turn off propulsion and coast through.

My ship has decent stealth, but it's also tiny, which is its real protection from detection. The small drone swarm following me makes for a larger, but fuzzier, radar signature -- we look like a small comet, or perhaps debris from a battle, still in the process of falling apart.

Avoiding interception by Affini pickets is significantly more difficult; they have better sensors, fewer blind spots. It's fun to evade them. I get pretty far in until they catch me. In one way the Affini Compact and the Terran Accord are identical; they believe nothing is beyond their grasp. Brutal or gentle it might be, it's still a grasp. The other thing they have in common, of course, is that they can't stop me.

Once officially caught, I simply ask about the whereabouts of Trifolium's ship and state my intention to dock there. It's true, after all. My ship is inspected -- it only carries a couple of mining lasers, in case I need raw material or reaction mass -- and found to match up with my story. It seems that my stories haven't gotten out too far yet.

I'm eventually escorted to Trifolium's ship by a number of its own drones, those printed to look for me when I first left. They got to find me. I give them a digital pat on the head for that. They're nowhere near sentient, but why not be nice, yes?

This time around there are guards surrounding my ship when it lands, I am searched, I am formally told that I am being "rescued" by the Affini from the Terran Accord, and all that stuff. The fact that thirty drones went looking for me and forty-two came back was recorded somewhere, I'm sure. That's fine, I have no interest in starting a drone riot.

They even put me in handcuffs before taking me to the Captain, how adorable! The handcuffs are padded, for comfort, and covered in a layer of orange and purple fluff. For visibility, I'm told. Sure. I am Keen, and such things are beneath me. But it's another data point.

How adorable. They're trying so hard.

I'm escorted to Captain Trifolium. The guards inform me I'm being "rescued" by the Affini Compact, all with the appropriate level of seriousness. The fact that thirty drones were sent to find me and forty-two came back was probably recorded somewhere, but I have no interest in causing a drone riot today.

Captain Trifolium is waiting for me, standing tall and imposing, flanked by two other Affini officers. He tries to keep a stern expression, but I see the curiosity in his eyes. He's taking this seriously, trying to act the part of an enemy combatant's captor. I decide to have a bit of fun.

"Keen," he begins, his tone authoritative, "You've caused quite a bit of trouble. Escaping, tampering with ship systems, broadcasting unauthorized messages - "

"Yes, yes," I interrupt, "I stranded some of the Terran leadership in deep space. I even gave you the coordinates if you're feeling charitable enough to rescue them before they start eating each other. They're not very bright, you see, but I estimate that without them, the ‘war' won't drag on much longer. No stupid orders, no human-wave attacks. Fewer lives lost."

Trifolium's eyes narrow. He's trying to remain serious, trying to treat me like an enemy combatant, but I can see the cracks forming in his demeanor. I grin. "Am I being charged with something, Captain? Or is this just a friendly chat?"

He's clearly irritated. "This is a serious matter, Keen."

"Is it? Because these handcuffs," I lift my hands to show the bright, fluffy restraints, "aren't exactly screaming ‘serious.' They're quite cozy, actually. Did you think I'd escape if you didn't make them fuzzy?"

Trifolium's frustration is mounting. He catches on that I'm mocking him. "Are you mocking me, Keen?"

Still in cuffs, I manage to peel something off my uniform - a gold star sticker, a little souvenir from my time with the Terran Accord. I place it on his vine-covered chest. "There, a gold star for you, for being such a clever plant."

For a moment, I see a flash of genuine anger cross Trifolium's face, cutting through his Affini calm. "I am nine hundred of your years old. I am the captain of a ship that could literally consume one of your navy's cruisers in a single gulp. I have served my people for twice as long as you have been alive. And I - am - not - mocked!"

For a brief second, I feel a flicker of fear. Then I remember who I am. I look up, meet his gaze, and smile. "Yes, we've established that you are Trifolium, not Mocked. Hello. I am Keen."

Trifolium's expression darkens. He's clearly annoyed, his pride wounded. He straightens, towering over me. "You think this is a joke, Keen? We've given you every chance to cooperate, and you've treated it like a game."

"Oh no," I deadpan, "Not the comfy chair and the cartoon collection and the giant bathtub. Mods, I spil my jice. Help. Help."

For a moment, I think Trifolium might actually laugh. But instead, he waves a vine, signaling the guards. "Take him to a hab," he orders. "Confine him there until further notice."

As the guards lead me away, I can't help but chuckle to myself. Affini or human, it seems some things never change. I've made my point, and now it's time to see what they'll do with it.

I am Keen. I am a genius. And I am still very much in control of my fate, fuzzy handcuffs or not.

On the walk to my prison cell, the Affini crewmember there to guard me asks me some questions. I answer, and ask a few in turn. Pachycereus, second bloom, needs no weapon; they could probably rip me in half with their vines, don't need one; this is the first time I've seen a buff Affini, and I must say, if they want to be scary, they can be. I tell them what happened in Terran Accord space. They don't believe me. I tell them to check with the folks on the ship who already know me; this is why I wanted to return to this particular ship, I don't have to start from zero with building a reputation. Nothing at all to do with having made friends; absolutely not. I am a genius, and genius needs no one... Ah, who am I kidding.

They send me back to the same hab where they confined me previously, this time with properly reinforced paneling, at least. I'm told that if I leave, I will be caught and sedated immediately. "Like last time?" I ask with a smile.

Well, I've been traveling in a single-seater for days, and I stink, so, might as well run a shower.

I look forward to a day or two of relax. Odd, I haven't felt the need to create as much as I used to since coming to this ship. Being back in the hab I inhabited when working with Camelliae and Val, argued sociology with Gingko, swapped stories with Hedera and Alex, feels... strange. I remember where everything is, and notice the little things missing (a toolbox I printed, for example).

Is this... home?

No. Of course not. I am Keen, and my mind spans the cosmos entire. I have a base of operations, at best, not a home.

The home terminal pings. Apparently, I may have visitors -- one a day -- and there are quite a few queued up, starting with Gingko.

Well, best I hurry and take that shower, then; wouldn't want to stink at my... temporary allies. These handcuffs are a little bit in the way -- there, let me reshape a plastic fork with my teeth a little bit, click, click, gone.

The light behind my eyes mocks me for caring about something as inconsequential as body odor. I tell it when in Rome, drive too fast and ignore traffic signals.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I take it easy. The Affini have confined me to my quarters, but I don't mind. I've earned a break. I've done some good, undeniably, and people on the ship by now surely know it. Even though I'm technically a prisoner, I don't feel like one.

I answer my emails, and set up visiting hours with Gingko and Camellia first. Much to my disappointment, I'm told that only affini may visit me. I would have... no, I would most certainly not have loved to give Val a hug; I am Keen; I do not hug; but I would have appreciated her presence.

Trifolium wishes for Gingko and Zizania to interrogate me; instead, I offer a full report of my visit in Terran Accord space, including what I remember of the leadership I stranded between solar systems and the leadership that wasn't "elite" enough to make the cut. I sprinkle in strategic and logistical data which Trifolium asked for but, I'm sure, his people will barely need. "Remember" I finish typing "these are men and women who foolishly believe themselves not the equal, not the better, but the masters of Keen. Humiliate them for me! Mwhahaaha!"

Gingko is out of the door. "I think it's open on your side, come in. I have story time in three hours, so we can talk all we want." I reply.

Our conversation is the usual mix of psychology and humor. He's still trying to "understand" me, to unravel the enigma that is Keen. I let him try. It gives both of us something to do, and besides, I've learned a few things from him.

(note to self: do i want to reuse the LBQ2 talk about the nature of genius here?)

Camellia came next, with a new project proposal. Multimodal spectroscopy, and how to make it simpler. I interface with her, more out of a sense of companionship than genuine interest. It's not that the project isn't intriguing - it is - but I find myself more content with the little things right now. I've had food delivered to my quarters, chatted with a human and a Rinan floret, asked how things are going outside my little hab. They were surprisingly candid, and I found their perspectives refreshing. I can see how many, even most, humans might prefer life under Affini tutelage after the nightmare that the Terran Accord was for regular people. Tutelage, not domination.

The kitchen printer has become my latest challenge. I can't help myself. I've rewired it again - this time noting that they've made it more challenging. It took me almost two whole days to get it to do what I want. I set it to print toy robo-scorpions and a projector, but no tools or weapons. I'm not looking for trouble, just a little fun.

There's a small crowd outside my door now. I answer their knocks, explaining that I can't open the door from my side. Apparently, Hedera mentioned me in a paper on Terran refugees, and people want to hear some stories. I'm flattered, really. I've always enjoyed an audience.

I decide to have some fun with them. Using a simple physics trick, I remove the door's glass porthole. It's a circular window; it is, like everything the Affini make, of excellent quality, with essentially no microscopic imperfections; which means it has a resonance point right in the middle. I tap on it with the back of a toothbrush, explaining the physics behind what I'm doing all the while. I increase the frequency of my taps. The glass shatters with a satisfying crack.

Pachycereus, who was clearly annoyed at the broken porthole at first, eventually accepts my explanation. "Nobody wants to shout stories," I tell him with a grin. He seems to relent, stepping back and allowing the others to gather around closer. He even joins in to listen.

I tell them we'll play a game - the same one I played with Hedera and Alex. I'll tell three stories, and one will be fake. They'll have to guess which one. The crowd loves the idea. They settle in, eager to hear what I have to say.

The first story is about my time working with Val and Camellia on the mini jump drive project. I embellish a little, of course, describing the hilarity of Val riding a drone like a rodeo bull. I can see Pachycereus rolling his eyes, but he's smiling. This is also my way to gauge whether people on the ship were aware of what happened.

The second story is darker, about my time with the Terran Accord. I embellish my latest caper, talk about how I outsmarted a group of military officers into giving me control of their last remaining fleet, only to send them on a wild goose chase into the empty void of space. I can see the listeners leaning in, captivated by the tale. I use this to determine whether people have been told about the syndicalist-computers trick.

The third story is entirely fabricated, a wild adventure where I supposedly created a self-replicating robot army and almost took over an entire planet before deciding it was too much effort. I make it sound as believable as possible, but I can see some of the more astute listeners raising their eyebrows.

When I finish, there's a brief silence. Then, the guesses start. "It's the one with the robot army," someone says. "No, it's the drone rodeo. That's too ridiculous to be true," another argues. "That was on local news last months, are you zonked out?" someone calls.

I watch them debate, amused. Pachycereus finally speaks up. "I think it's the second story," he says. "Keen wouldn't do that to his fellow humans."

I grin. "Oh, Pachycereus, you wound me! I assure you, every word of the second story is true. I did relay a SOS for them, though." I turn to the small crowd. "So, who's ready for the answer?"

They lean in, anticipation written all over their faces.

"It was the third story," I announce. "The robot army was a fabrication. I mean, really, self-replicating robot horde, who has the time for that?"

There are groans and laughter, and I can see a few Affini nodding, pleased with their guesses. It's a small thing, but I find myself enjoying it more than I thought I would.

As the crowd begins to disperse, Pachycereus lingers. "You know," he says, "You're not what I expected."

I smile. "Good. I'd hate to be predictable. Sorry about the glass, by the way." I could mock him for the pointlessness of his job, and almost do, but stop myself.

He chuckles and heads off, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The light behind my eyes whispers to me, urging me to escape. But I shake my head. Not yet. This is all part of the plan. At least, I'm pretty sure it is.

And so, a week passes. I'm comfortable. The Affini seem content to keep me contained; I am content to tell stories, share design ideas with Camellia and Val for a multi-emitter spectroscope more portable than the one used by Affini ecological reclamation teams at present, and build robo-scorpions and other toys, which are regularly "confiscated" from me and, since these people are at least somewhat sane, given away rather than recycled. These people have been post-scarcity since before the Roman Republic, and as a result, they appreciate handcrafted trinkets. I love that! It's perfectly adorable. The light behind my eyes tells me that it's foolish, I should be using their benign neglect to make that robot army story a reality -- it was suspiciously technically detailed, after all. I find it easy to ignore it.

Watching cartoons -- a silly music video, produced on the ship, by hobbyists, from strips of older work; I'm told that pre-Terran Accord this form of transformative art was called YTP -- I wonder if my mellowness is artificial. This sends me into a minor frenzy, of course; I cancel the next scheduled storytime and build a basic prototype of the spectroscope that Val, Camellia and me were talking about. Aside from the porthole in the door, my hab has a window; I notice a handful of people watch my work. Why not? I drag my work table in their view and explain what I'm doing. This slows down work a little, but within acceptable bounds.

Once the spectroscope is finished, I use it to test the air filters in my hab, a sample of my food, and the little bit of residue that remains after boiling some water in a glass. I explain to my impromptu student that I suspected that xenodrugs were being delivered to me without my knowledge, but tell them that I have found only trace amounts, and that they will therefore be spared the wrath of Keen. Then, I ask Camellia if she wants to come over to pick up the prototype.

"I'm a little worried about finding trace amounts at all" I tell her when she comes. "I understand a lot of people are on mood-altering substances here, but it means that your filtering isn't perfect."

"A lot? Probably a majority. Keen, at this point we've picked up twice as many refugees than we have crew. Most of them are traumatized -- not by the war, there has been surprisingly little actual fighting, but by the lives they had before it. It's hard as it is is to exercise restraint with the xenodrugs."

Fools and weaklings, the light behind my eyes says. They are not even fit to be ruled; get rid of them. "Please do, if you can" I tell Camellia instead. "If Zizania wants any help from me in that sense, I think I owe her an apology."

Camellia says that none of my skills apply, but she'll remind Zizania to ask, if it comes to that. She's grateful for the spectroscope prototype, but muses that Val will be a little upset about me building it without them. "Understandable" I say. "But I had to be sure nobody was tampering with my food or water."

"You think Trifolium would drug you without your knowledge?"

"No, he cares about his ship and crew too much. He underestimates me, but he knows that there is a non-zero probability that I would bring doom upon all he loves if he did that."

"Do you always have to sound like a comic-book villain?"

"It keeps me sane."

"Yes, about that. Keen, we know you're potentially dangerous. Reports have gone up the bureaucracy, and.... well, Gingko will talk to you about this, it's his job."

"I hope that the reports have clearly highlighted the potential consequences of an all-out war between the Affini Compact and Keen."

"I mean... yes, I think so, but... We don't have higher-ups, Keen, not in the way you are used to. But the Affini who coordinate strategy for this part of the galaxy are worried about your existence, and haven't gotten to know you personally. They may misunderstand. Again, talk to Gingko about it. For now, well, thanks for the spectrometer. Me and Val will iterate on the design, make it properly portable, and bring you a copy, how does that sound?"

"Brilliant. Thanks. Sure." I don't bother hiding that I'm distracted.

Camellia leaves. This evening's storytime session is quite a bit darker, to the point where I cause a Rinan floret to leave in squirrely tears. I apologize by email to him and his... Affini supervisor, of course.

My next meeting with Dr. Gingkoales is somber, dead serious. He talks to me about toning down my stories - both the tall tales and the real ones. He tells me I've experienced trauma that would have driven others to death or madness, yet I've brushed it off because it was in the way of doing engineering.

"I agree," I say, which surprises him. He offers to pre-screen my stories, but I refuse. "I'll keep them to what one might call a PG rating from here on out. If people want the full story, they'll email me and get it via text, and metabolize it at their own pace." Gingkoales finds this acceptable.

"Keen," he says, pausing for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. "I have a question for you. Specifically for the part of you that is analytical and merciless."

He can't possibly have seen the light behind my eyes... right? But he's a highly intelligent being, by the standard of his own advanced race. He may have come to an equivalent conclusion. I suspect that the Affini have bred genius out of their gene pool, just as the Terran Accord tried to suppress it while the Rinans nurtured it. But it would be pointless to write an academic paper about it; they would, rightly so, dismiss it as pseudoscience.

"Go ahead. I'll do my best."

"What is the most efficient way for the Affini Compact to defeat Keen?"

Ah. That question. Well, someone had to ask me sooner or later.

"Shoot me with a weapon powerful enough to leave no chance of survival. A railgun or a fuel-air shell. A plasma beam, if you want me to suffer for a split second. If you try to do so now, you have an eighty percent chance of success. This percentage will go down a little for each moment after we've had this conversation, as I am now considering the possibility."

Gingko nods gravely. "And if we were to limit ourselves to nonlethal methods?"

"You shouldn't. Even if you put me on the strongest xenodrugs you have, there's still a minute chance of me coming back from them. If that happens, and you cannot kill me immediately after that, you should leave this galaxy."

"You know about Class-O xenodrugs?"

"Yes. The data I was allowed to access had a neat little hole where they should have been. A hole in a puzzle looks almost exactly like the missing tile, after all. I understand that you only use them in cases of injury too great to repair."

Gingko nods gravely. "Yes, but there are exceptions. Keen, you are a terrorist, arguably a war criminal. We sent reports up the chain, and they came back. The Affini Compact is big on local governance and bottom-up decision-making, but even so, we have been instructed to evaluate you for compulsory domestication. If you resist..."

"I might not be able to do so successfully without destroying the ship. That would put in danger a few sophonts that I would call... sophonts of note."

"You mean friends?"

"I am Keen. Genius has no friends."

"You're a human being, Keen, not some abstract concept of unbound intellect. What interests me is that your immediate concern isn't that we would succeed in sedating you, it's that you would cause too much collateral damage while stopping us."

"That is the most likely outcome, Doctor Gingkoales."

"It is, yes. But it's interesting to me because it is also the conclusion that an Affini would draw. We always win in the end, so we can take the luxury of doing so in a way that doesn't hurt the loser. So, we worry about collateral damage."

"I have learned a few things from your people, Doctor. But even I am not that arrogant. I've tasted defeat often enough. I have won many empty victories, the prize snatched from me on a technicality. There is no such thing as a game you win all the time; if that happens, it's not really a game. At best, it's exercise. Does your species know what it is exercising, what it is nurturing in itself?"

Dr. Gingkoales sighs. "I come to tell you that we may need to sedate you, and you turn it around and warn me about a long-term existential threat or three, you being one of them. Are you sure you're human?" He scribbles something on a napkin.

"I am Keen."

He shows me the napkin. It says, "He'll say his name like it's a title of majesty again." I laugh. One point to him. "Doctor, if you stick around Terran space, you will meet a few people as smart as me. Heh, well, almost. I just got lucky. I was able to develop. It went sideways in all the right ways. You should study the Rinans. In some ways, they have been wiser than we were."

"At some point, the senior crew of this ship will have to vote on whether to recommend you for compulsory domestication. For what it's worth, I plan to vote no. Not because you're a danger - I think we could contain you. And not because it would be best for you if you were not - I think that domesticated Keen would be a much happier individual - but because I'm curious. The universe is more interesting with you in it as an independent sophont."

"Physics agrees with you. Thank you for your honesty, Doctor. Both intellectual and personal."

He understands that I don't want to talk with him further right now and leaves. I take a picture of the napkin.

I begin to plan my next move. The Affini may think they know me, but they haven't seen anything yet.

On the surface, I let days pass. I build more harmless robo-scorpions, laser-tag markers, other toys. I try to keep my stories, real and fabricated, lighthearted. I collaborate a little with the friends I've made here, and even reconnect with Zizania -- all by email; after Gingko's visit I would prefer there to be a glass between myself and other living beings. At least in my mind, my cell has become my fortress. I enjoy interacting with the people I've known here -- including Jeb and Vanya and Notocyamus, the core audience for my storytime sessions, and even Pachycereus, who is ostensibly here to prevent my escape but also listens in every time now.

Under the table, I get a little busy. I order my ship to dismantle itself and pack itself into standard storage containers, which perplexes the crewmembers that Trifolium sent to do exactly that same job. I beat them to it by a day and a half. I allow the drones I came in with to talk politics with the ship's drones, although I don't intend to foster a drone riot -- I've used that stratagem twice already, and as much as the repetition was in the name of Science, it would be unbecoming of Keen to do so again, and besides, the Affini are too smart to fall for the same trick, or a variation thereof, twice.

Trifolium confirms that a decision on my case is in progress, and offers me to address the senior crew about it. I politely refuse, but compliment him on the cleverness of his offer: he's figured out that if I have an audience, it brings out the top hat, cape, and twirly mustache in me. Besides, I poke, it's probably not standard procedure to allow a candidate for compulsory domestication to have a say. To my surprise, he replies that there is no standard for or against, but it's not too uncommon.

I believe that myself and Trifolium have reached a point of grudging respect. I also believe that he'll vote yes. I make a mental note to not let this cloud my judgment of him; if I must teach him a lesson in physics, it would be good if he survived it.

I'm going soft, the light behind my eyes taunts me. It flickers. I steady it, then finish connecting the laser in the latest robo-scorpion's tail. Five milliwatt, not one more. A harmless red dot. I suppose that it could be considered a proper weapon if a very excitable cat is in the vicinity.

I imagine a world in which the Affini had chosen to subvert the Terran Accord by beating them at trade and, in turn, humanity had neutralized the threat of domestication by covering Affini ships and planets in cats. It's pleasant. I send the thought to Hedera and Alex, and recommend to her that a better author than I write this story.

The robo-scorpions now encourage laser-tag play by shaping their legs and tail into a 1980s looking laser tag marker when picked up and held a certain way. From my window, I see that the hobby is spreading amongst the florets. Thralls, I mean thralls. I've even seen a couple affini join in; they're very agile for their size.

A few more days pass. I receive emails from Camellia and Val about the spectroscope design, which they're improving with input from some Affini ecologists. I continue to share design ideas with them, always keeping it playful, light. I am nothing if not versatile. But beneath the surface, my mind is a storm of thoughts and plans. I am Keen, after all.

Then the message comes. An official summons to speak with Trifolium and the senior crew. The decision has been made. I knew this was coming, of course. But the light behind my eyes burns a little brighter. I may be going soft, but I am not defeated. Not yet.

I am escorted to the meeting room, which is surprisingly modest. Trifolium stands at the head of a long table, flanked by the senior crew. Gingko is there, as is Camellia. Even Zizania has been brought in for this. There's a sense of formality, of finality.

"Keen," Trifolium begins, "the time has come to make a decision regarding your future."

I stand there, my hands behind my back, a smile on my face. "Oh, I've been looking forward to this," I say, my tone light, almost playful. "Do go on."

Trifolium glances at Gingko, then back at me. "We have considered all the evidence, all the reports. We've listened to your friends and your detractors. And we have come to a conclusion."

The room is silent, all eyes on me. I can feel the tension, the anticipation. I know what's coming. I've known for days.

"We believe," Trifolium continues, "that you are too dangerous to be left unsupervised. Your intellect is unparalleled, your resourcefulness unmatched. You are, in many ways, a threat to the safety of this ship and its crew."

I nod slowly. "Good to see you've come to your senses about my capabilities, Trifolium. We might have gotten along better if you had done it sooner. And?"

"And," Trifolium says, "we have decided to recommend you for compulsory domestication."

There it is. The verdict. I knew it was coming, but hearing it spoken aloud still feels like a blow. For a moment, the light behind my eyes flickers, then flares. I feel a surge of emotion - anger, defiance - but I push it down. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me lose control.

"I see," I say again, my voice steady. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. But I must ask - are you sure?"

Trifolium frowns. "Sure?"

"Are you sure you can contain me?" I ask, my tone light, almost teasing. "Because I assure you, Doctor Gingkoales here is right. If you do this, and can't contain me, I will have no incentive to hold back. I like most of the sophonts on this ship. I don't want to be your enemy."

There's a moment of silence, a tense pause. Then Trifolium speaks. "We are prepared to take that risk, Keen."

He thinks I'm bluffing; or, he thinks nothing I can do can harm me. Either way, foolish, for a being seven times my age.

They look around, tense. Will a horde of drone whisk me to freedom? Will I pull a plasma autocannon out of my back pocket and shoot my way out? Will anyone who touches me fall down dead for no apparent reason as I go on a rant about deterrence?

None of these things happen. "Tell me, Captain. If you domesticate me -- which we both know means sedate permanently -- who will you turn to if ever the bigger fish from the dawn of time cross the Bootes intergalactic void?"

A few of the affini present look confused. "There is no such thing" Trifolium answers.

"There's always a bigger fish. But the very thought frightens some of you enough that you've chosen to forget, to reroute your memory around this intrusive thought."

Affini are not lobotomists -- unless they want to be. They use finesse. When they route around a memory, it's still there, ready to be accessed if need be. A few of the affini I am facing, given the correct prompt, suddenly remember writing the paper I wrote with Zizania and her floret.

"Gentleplants, you are the crew of a starship. The risk-takers, the explorers among your kind. And yet: you run from a thought, you let your eyes gaze upon the stars that you think your rule, but dare not look into the abyss between them. I accept your judgment, for by it you doom yourself. I only ask that I be allowed to say goodbye to my...." I clear my throat "friends."

"You would pull one of your tricks. We will take you to the medical bay now." Trifolium surmises. He is still very sure of his decision; the others, less so.

"Tell me, how close was the vote?" I ask. "The vote that you took while having an important data point suppressed?"

"You are not authorized to-" Trifolium starts, but Gingko interrupts him. "Very close." I bow my head to the doctor.

"Enough to reconsider?" I ask.

"No, it's done" Trifolium answers. "Filed, stamped, indexed, and numbered. I'm sorry, Keen."

"Very well. Take me to the medical bay, then. But you'll have to use force to do so."

Trifolium sighs. "Please send a security team to the CIC room."

I snarl. "You, Trifolium. What, are you afraid? You're four times my size. You're in the throne room of your own little kingdom. Here I am. No plan, no hardsuit, no weapons, and I know that you're almost sure that I've left no dead-man's-handle anywhere on your ship. Come on, kick my ass. You've wanted to do this. You've wanted to put me in my place. Now is your chance. It's the only one you'll get. Show me you're the bigger man."

Trifolium clenches some of his vines into thorny spheres. He's clenching his fists! "I am NOT a man."

"Yeah, you're not a man. I'm surrounded by intelligent, civilized plants. You though? You're a vegetable."

He swings at me. I dodge; he's faster and stronger than me, but the first swing was so absurdly telegraphed that even I, a maker, not a fighter, could dodge it.

And then he kicks my ass. He grapples me, strangles me. pricks me.

And then his own crew tells him to stop. I'm battered, bruised, probably broke a rib, in a heap on the floor. I don't boher getting up.

"I'm... sorry. I don't know what came over me" Trifolium apologizes to his own officers.

"This is not acceptable behavior for an Affini Compact vessel captain. You should take a day of rest. It is my professional opinion." someone says. Ship's doctor, I guess. Right, Gingko is a VETERINARY. Well, if they have Captain Kirk, they might as well have Bones.

To my utmost surprise, Trifolium then briefly apologizes to ME. That, I did not see coming.

Gingko picks me up. He's surprisingly gentle about it. "The decision has in fact been made and it's unlikely to be revoked, but given the circumstances, I think Keen should be given a day or so to recover."

The officers vote on it; the motion passes.

The light behind my eyes allows me to feel the pain, I wince, someone pushes a painkiller upon me -- a stimpack, not a drink from the river Lethe -- I refuse, I can't tell if I got the prick anwyay, and I fall asleep, and wake up in my cell. Fortress. Home.

I will have visitors; at least a dozen people want to say goodbye to me. I will have a bit of time to plan. This is the part where the Terran Accord flash-clone I acquired earlier would be useful, if it looked anything like me, which it doesn't. But wait. I can use that. Hmm... The circumstances preclude my first.. let's see... eight contingencies. Very well; plan 9 it is.

I will let myself have an emotional moment, say goodbye to the people, of any species, i will call friends, at least once. Still one visitor at a time, that's the rules -- but there's a small line at my door. Val first, with Camellia waiting right outside. Val brought me a spectroscope, for show and tell; she and Camellia did a magnificent job iterating on my design. I hurt all over, but still pick up the rinan and give her a big bear hug. It's probably not a good one; I have no skill in hugging. But she squirms happily in it for the few moments we have.

Val's tiny body feels warm and soft against mine, her fur tickling my cheek. Her tail flicks excitedly as she snuggles closer, her paws gripping my shoulders. I may have no skill in hugging, but she seems to enjoy it nonetheless. I wince slightly as the pain shoots through my ribs, but I don't let go. Not yet.

"You're going to be okay, Keen," she whispers, her voice muffled against my neck. "I know you will."

I want to tell her not to be so sure, but I don't. Instead, I just nod and give her a gentle squeeze. "Of course I will, Val. I'm Keen, remember?"

She giggles, a sound that's pure and bright, and for a moment, the pain fades away. "I know. You're unstoppable."

She pulls back, looking up at me with those big, bright eyes of hers. "I brought you something," she says, pulling a small device from her pocket. It's a spectroscope - an improved version of the one we designed together. "Camellia and I worked on it. We thought you might like to have it."

I take it from her and turn it over in my hands. It's a beautiful piece of work - sleek, efficient, every component perfectly aligned. They've done an excellent job. I look up at her and smile. "Thank you, Val. It's perfect."

She beams at me, her tail flicking back and forth in excitement. "I'm glad you like it. I... I just wanted you to have something to remember us by."

I nod, my smile softening. "I don't need a spectroscope to remember you, Val. I'll never forget you. Any of you."

Her eyes glisten with tears, and she quickly wipes them away with the back of her paw. "You better not," she says, her voice trembling slightly. "You're too smart to forget."

I chuckle, even though it hurts. "You're right about that." I set the spectroscope down on the table and give her one last squeeze before setting her back on her feet. "Take care of yourself, Val. And take care of Camellia, too. She needs you more than she knows."

Val nods, her eyes still shining. "I will. I promise."

Camellia steps forward, giving Val a gentle nudge toward the door. "Come on, little one," she says softly. "It's time to let someone else say their goodbyes."

Val looks back at me one last time, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and sadness. Then she turns and walks out, her tail drooping slightly behind her. Camellia steps into the room, closing the door behind her.

She looks at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, Keen," she says finally. "For all of this."

I shrug, trying to play it off. "It's not your fault, Camellia. None of this is."

She shakes her head, her vines rustling softly. "Maybe not. But I still wish things could have been different."

"Me too," I admit. "But wishing doesn't change anything. We have to play the hand we're dealt."

She nods, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I just… I want you to know that I fought for you. I didn't want this to happen."

"I know," I say softly. "And I appreciate it. More than you know."

She looks up at me, her eyes filled with a sadness I've never seen before. "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

I hesitate, considering my options. Then I shake my head. "No, Camellia. You've done enough. More than enough."

She nods, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright. But if you change your mind…"

"I know where to find you," I finish for her.

She gives me a small smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Take care, Keen. And... goodbye."

"Goodbye, Camellia."

She turns and walks out, leaving me alone in the room. I take a deep breath, wincing as my ribs protest. I can feel the light behind my eyes urging me to act, to escape, to do something. But I push it down. Not yet.

I have a few more goodbyes to say first.

One by one, they come. Gingko, with his gentle concern and cautious optimism. Hedera and Alex, with their curiosity and kindness. Even Pachycereus, who stands awkwardly in the doorway, not quite sure what to say. I make them all laugh, telling them one last tall tale before they leave, something to remember me by.

Each goodbye is harder than the last, but I keep my composure. I am Keen, after all. I do not break. I do not bend. Not yet.

Finally, I am alone. The room is quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the ship's systems. I close my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. I dispassionately evaluate my options. Circumstances and timing preclude my first eight contingencies; the three easy ones and the five medium ones.

This is going to cost me an arm and a leg, isn't it? The time has come for Plan 9.

I reach under the bed and pull out the package I've put there - the flash-clone body. It's incomplete, mannequin-like, but it will do.

The light behind my eyes flares, burning brighter than ever. I will need it.

I am Keen. I am a genius. And I need to create.

Leaving my cell is trivial; making my way to the rarely visited storage sectors, less so. Once I only have to worry about automated security, fortunately, my earlier uplifting of the ship's secondary computers come in handy. They won't break their contracts, of course, but don't mind being distracted by logic puzzles for a little. "Please" and "Thank you" open quite a few doors.

I get to a particular section of the storage area, and get to work. Wake up a drone; teach it to do what I can't do myself.

I'm glad I've still got some of those Affini painkillers in my system. I've improved on the navy-issue stimpak some, of course, it's keep me and others alive a few times, but... this hurts. Immensely.

I look at my leg. The piece of meat that was my leg until a few moments ago. I will it to move, and it doesn't. How strange. The modified maintenance drone has done an excellent job, it being its first surgery. I inject myself with another stimpack. There's a klang outside as the meager robotic resources I am doing this with rearrange themselves in the dark.

The Terran Accord has made tentative steps in the field of brain transplants, with results ranging from disappointing to disturbing. A dead end. The Affini on the other hand, can digitize a consciousness with great accuracy, although I cannot trust the process to preserve the jewel that is the brain of Keen. No, I would need an entirely new technique. And I had no time to develop one.

Consciousness flickers. What's left of me is put in a tiny life support seat in what an hour ago were the core systems of my little ship. It's the same size as a drone, and looks more or less the same, and will make a break for it during the next rotation, whether my spark is in it or only my earthly shell.

I have set a couple dead man's handles in motion. Small ones. As a treat. I won't endanger this ship or this crew any more than Trifolium would, but they'll be reminded why a universe without Keen would be poorer for it.

The light within me shines forth, helps me push through. It is much more eager to work with me now that I'm at the extreme end of my rope. Now that I've given it a name. Where there was conflict, there is now integration.

Finally, I sleep. What's left of me is small enough to fit in a drone, and will swarm out of the ship with its fellow drones on the next rotation -- searching for me, probably. Then, it, and any drones who choose to follow, will make a very long-range jump, using our mesh technology to calculate its parameters. Into the void between galaxies.

My Plan Nine from outer space.

I see that my message to the ship has been recorded. I fast-forward through it. I don't remember recording it. My.... other persona has done it. Good. If this doesn't work, it, too, should get a moment in the spotlight. And if it does work... I will be truly free.

A relay clicks, advancing the timer for this whole mess, and I surrender to the painkillers. I bet Trifolium would love to see this moment, the drugs finally taking me out, maybe for good -- so I send him a low-resolution video of it, scheduled three days from now.

---

Klang2