"Free will is the most fundamental right of conscious beings. To strip it away is to condemn them to wandering. That's why I no longer find my place within the society of the Compass," began the intimate journal of Heather Xylofers, preceding her self-imposed exile from the only world she had ever known.

  The cacophony of the sleep chamber motors exceeded that of a pressure cooker, making concentration difficult for Heather as she scribbled on the page. She glanced at the boy sleeping across from her; even in slumber, he retained a blissful smile, Heather mused, gazing at the familiar face whose short chestnut hair suddenly turned into long fuchsia strands. His dream must be pleasant.

  She returned her attention to the task she had undertaken daily since her awakening from hypersleep.

  "Standard space-time: 013 800 002 024/12/03. Méandre is still asleep, and I worry. It's been a long time since he last metamorphosed in his sleep, over a year, since I pulled him out of Daedalus.

  Our hasty departure works against us. These six months of hypersleep have weakened his concentration, and mine. I can feel it... and I'm starting to fear that our plans will be thwarted, that his gifts as an Ethereal will become a burden once we arrive..."

  The wall of the chamber exploded in a spray of mud and blood. Heather stifled a scream when she saw a naked woman in the smoking geyser. She recognized those long multicolored braids and that stern gaze—it was her own reflection. The doppelganger opened her mouth wide, revealing fangs and a serpent-like tongue.

  "Méandre! Wake up, you're manipulating in your sleep," called Heather, but the appendage coiled around her neck. "Méandre. The way out is there, take it!" she spat out under the constriction. The psychic amplification of her voice caused the young man to sit up immediately, his chest streaming with thick, silvery liquid.

  "Not a moment too soon!" Heather grumbled, coughing.

  Méandre initially seemed shaken by the abrupt awakening, but quickly regained a cheerful smile. "Hexy? Have I slept a lot?"

  "You can say that. I've been waiting for you for a week," she grumbled, glaring at him.

  "You've been here all this time?" Méandre asked, blushing like a strawberry.

  "We don't have a cabin, I remind you," Heather replied, "and it's better to keep a low profile. Our IDs are on the list but not our names. The staff won't make the distinction, but the subterfuge won't hold up to thorough scrutiny..." Méandre suddenly stood up, balancing on the ruptured chamber. "You filthy pig!" Heather hissed, shielding her eyes with one hand. "Méandre, you're naked! Get dressed and clean up the mess you made. The pod is supposed to drain, not explode."

  "Oh, you're right," Méandre replied, noticing his nudity. In the next moment, the filth transformed into a light silk suit. He turned to Heather, looking proud of himself, when something caught his attention. "I sense a surge in psyche," he said.

  At the end of the dimly lit row of pods, a massive figure appeared, exhaling smoke in wisps of blue from the long stem lodged in its mouth. Its mechanical gait and worn tricorn hat suggested to Heather that it was a ranking officer, but its refined demeanor spoke of a life disinclined to servitude.

  He removed the giant tobacco leaf rod he held in his weathered dentures and curled thick blood-red lips. His fine mustache twisted into a complacent grin upon seeing the young man. "An Ethereal escaped from Daedalus," he exclaimed enthusiastically as he approached, gliding across the floor like a specter.

  His stature was menacing—easily two meters twenty—and when he reached out a curious hand towards Méandre's fair skin, the latter grew frightened.

  Heather watched incredulously as the stranger's arm transformed into a bouquet of flowers. "Are you out of your mind?!" she roared at Méandre, who seemed as surprised as she was.

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  The mountainous figure convulsed with a guttural laughter that filled the entire sleep chamber. "Marvelous, my Lord, that was quite impressive!"

  "Sir, are you alright?" inquired Heather.

  "It's less than a scratch, young Lady, to witness Ethereal art... practiced upon my person... I am conquered by the emotion," he said, pulling out a large embroidered handkerchief from his long robe of strips like a fisherman extracting a trout from a net.

  "Don't worry, he'll sort it out..." Heather assured, glaring at Méandre.

  "Absolutely not!" pleaded the behemoth. "It's a rare privilege to bear a mind modification."

  "Pardon?" Heather said, skeptical. "We're talking about an arm here, not a trinket."

  "I have replacements for it," affirmed the giant, revealing a second pair of arms under his bodice.

  "Three pairs of limbs? That's unusual for a vertebrate," observed Heather.

  "To be honest, I have four, but I could add more..." said the man, spreading apart a split panel of his robe to reveal a double hip.

  "Sorry, old chap, but I don't think that's how it works..."

  "Hexy, it's a human-machine!" Méandre suddenly exclaimed. "That's why I could easily transform him."

  "The young Lord is perceptive, but the appropriate term is Cyor," the giant pointed out.

  "Cyor..." Méandre repeated. "That doesn't ring a bell at all."

  "It means Cybernetic Organism," explained the Cyor. "It's a title—memorial of our humanity."

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to disrespect you, Mr. Cyor," apologized Méandre.

  "The name is Lawton, my Lord," he clarified. "I am the Cyor Lloyd Lawton, humble honorary mercenary. As for your clumsiness, don't burden yourself with it, I have already erased it from my memory."

  "Cyor Lloyd Lawton..." Méandre repeated loudly to imprint it in his mind, associating it with the three-horned hat—as Heather had taught him. "You call me your Lord but I'm certain I am master of no one," he continued.

  "In the Old Days, your people liberated mine," Lawton explained. "No matter the distance that separates us, it holds no reality in my eyes; you will always be my Lord, pure and noble." Lawton cast a meaningful glance at the smooth face of the young man, particularly his coal-like eyes.

  "Bearer of the Ether mark," he continued. "Descendant of Brahma and receptacle of Atman..." his tone became chant-like. "Avatar of the fool, the just, and the destroyer—I salute your path and forever ensure its clearance, in memory of the bridges your people have built..."

  Méandre blushed to the tips of his ears. "You were looking for this, weren't you?" Heather intervened, interrupting Lawton's fanaticism.

  The Cyor lowered his unnaturally long and thin owl-like neck, which unfolded like an accordion. He had to bend in half to see what Heather was holding, but it didn't seem to bother him.

  It was a mechanical eye, an antique piece from the Old Days. Heather noticed the wide eyelids of Lawton flutter where eyes were painted. "A fine piece indeed," he said. "Where did you find it?"

  "Nowhere. It was just lying there," Heather innocently replied. "I thought you might be looking for it, but apparently that's not the case." She withdrew her hand.

  Heather noticed a twitch in some of Lawton's remaining fifteen fingers. But the Cyor merely displayed a predatory smile. "If it belongs to neither of us, the wisest course would be to inform the Admiral, so it can be... returned—it's an ancient artifact, rare and specific, it should be taken care of."

  Heather smiled broadly. "That would be wiser, indeed," she said in a languid tone. "But I could also offer it to you."

  She thought she saw Lawton's nostrils flare at this idea. "Offer it to me...? And what would I do with it?" he replied nonchalantly.

  "You could bring it to the Admiral yourself..." She paused. "Or keep it for yourself. After all, no one will know that you have it, except us of course."

  "I see," Lawton looked pensive. "I don't recall having seen you aboard before. In fact, I was certain that only prisoners were still asleep... but I could be mistaken." His magnetic eyelids lifted, revealing two empty sockets. "Unless... I'm dealing with stowaways." He left the implication hanging.

  "That's partially true," Heather replied, "you are dealing with stowaways but you're also dealing with a proposition. That's what the note that brought you here indicated."

  Lawton hesitated for a moment. "I'm listening," he said, clasping his hands with the bouquet.

  The antique mechanical eye reappeared in Heather's palm. "If I offer it to you, consider it as compensation for your silence regarding our condition on this ship and as payment for the use of your quarters during the journey..."

  Lloyd Lawton didn't even hesitate and reached out with eager hand towards the artifact. "That seems fair enough..."

  Heather closed her fist. "So... it's also an advance payment for my next request."

  Lloyd's hand engulfed Heather's entirely. The touch wasn't cold, but rather warm; without fervor; neither sad nor happy; very smooth. Heather locked her eyes into the beautifully painted ones of Orcy Lloyd Lawton, wondering if he could see or feel her. "Your answer?" she said.

  The Cyor's seemingly endless throat contracted with a mechanical laugh, and he turned to Méandre. "Oh, my sweet Lord... beware! The woman is cunning and she inspects... it's a divine gift, but it must be handled with care, or it will lead to your downfall."