Kanagen

  Trish didn't remember the walk back to Scoparia's hab. It wasn't a seamless absence, as if Koer had reached into her brain and scooped out another portion of her memory with a spoon — rather, it was the forgetfulness of dissociation. Trish knew that she had walked back of her own volition, but if asked, she could say nothing more about it than that she walked.

  The moment Scoparia's door opened, however, she was jarred out of that state by a dozen vines wrapping themselves around her and pulling her into a tight hug. "No drugs!" she shouted, purely on reflex, her eyes fixed on one flower in particur, pearlescent white petals unfurled to reveal a gleaming stinger in the center, poised not six inches from her skin.

  Scoparia's grip on Trish tightened. "I refuse to believe that you would want to remain sober at a time like this."

  "Yeah, well, have you considered I've had my mind fucked with enough for one day?" Trish growled, though without much rancor. Too much had been spent already, and she felt empty inside, too empty to give more than a token effort for Scoparia.

  The stinger in the flower quivered, and Trish could see a tiny droplet beading at its tip — but, after a heartbeat, the petals closed around it, and it withdrew. "You would accept this pain knowing that you do not have to? You would prefer it to even a touch of chemical assistance?"

  "Scoparia, I've just learned that the st sixty years of my life I was having my brain routinely screwed with. Is it really that unbelievable that I don't want to have my brain screwed with more?"

  "It is unbelievable to me that you would choose to suffer the way that I know you must be suffering."

  "Yeah, well, welcome to being human," Trish grumbled. "Can you put me down now, please?"

  After a moment's hesitation, Scoparia did so. Looking up at her, Trish could see the frustration and grief and guilt written in every loose and drooping vine. Her eyes glittered in a dozen shades of violet. "Suffering is no longer an essential quality of being human, Trish."

  "Look, I just had the rug pulled out from under me." She rubbed at her eyes with thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her fingers came away wet. "I do not need to be high right now. I am coping. I will make decisions about big changes ter. Right now is coping time."

  "Very well," Scoparia said. "But if you will not let me ease your pain directly, you will at the very least allow me to make you the most decadent cup of hot chocote imaginable."

  Trish couldn't help but ugh, a single, sharp exhale, unvoiced. "Yeah. Fine. I can live with that."

  Five minutes ter, steaming cup warming her hands, the thick odor of perfectly bittersweet hot cocoa fighting its way through a clogged nose, Trish sat wedged into the corner of Scoparia's sofa, staring at the wallscreen, still dialed to gently animated vistas of Solstice. The Elysium Valley spread out before her, and Trish was pretty sure she'd slept at the exact spot this vista had been recorded from at least once. Scoparia sat kneeling on the floor, which left her eyes more or less level with Trish's. Her vines were coiled around Trish's legs, but loosely — Trish supposed this was her way of giving her space.

  "For my part," Scoparia said, after a moment's silence, "I would like to apologize for not realizing the position you had been pced in. I have never before encountered a hemerosyncretic ward, nor did I ever expect to. I actually had to look up the accepted English terminology. And of course, the technique requires secrecy, I know that much, but nevertheless I feel that I should somehow have known-"

  "Shut the fuck up, Scoparia." To her credit, she listened for once.

  Trish took a cautious pull of the hot cocoa. She didn't put it past the affini to drug her with it, given the way she'd clearly been jonesing to jab her the instant she walked in the door, but it tasted fine — it tasted better than fine, was in fact the best damned cup of cocoa she'd ever had — and a moment's hesitation revealed no palpable shift in mood. At least, no more than could be expected following a sip from a damn good cup of cocoa.

  Fucking Affini, she thought. Even when they aren't drugging you, they've got a million ways to put you right where they want you. She took another sip, bigger this time, and burned the roof of her mouth just a little. Fucking Affini.

  She lifted her gaze and gred at Scoparia. "Are you just going to hover there forever, then?"

  "I am understandably concerned for your well-being after such an emotional shock," Scoparia said. "I think virtually any sophont, let alone any affini, would be."

  "Waiting for your moment to pounce," Trish grumbled. "To get your stingers in, to get me high as a kite, to fuck with my brain all over again. You're all the stars-damned same. You're determined to have your way, no matter who gets hurt."

  "I do not want to 'fuck with your brain,' Trish." One vine tightened around her ankle for just a moment, and Scoparia leaned forward ever so slightly. "I want you to feel better. If I can help you feel better, I want to do that, too. But surely it has not escaped your notice that I am not using every tool at my disposal right now?"

  Trish scoffed, and took another sip of cocoa. But she had to admit it was true. She'd seen Scoparia pull back from it herself. Unless she was even more of a neurological wizard than Koer, there weren't any gaps in her memory that might make room for anything like what she was most afraid of.

  "And I am not, though every one of my vines is screaming to, because I recognize that it would not be helpful in the long term. An affini has vioted your trust, used you for their own purposes, and has refused — for reasons I cannot begin to imagine — to ultimately take responsibility for their own actions. Even were I acting with perfect knowledge and perfect judgement, which I am not, pushing that aid on you when you are not ready for it would only further strain that damaged trust, and if you are to heal from this wound, trust is essential."

  Trish watched the little bits of milk foam swirling in her mug. She took another sip.

  "So no. I am not waiting for my moment to pounce. I am waiting for you to be ready to accept my help." In her peripheral vision, Trish saw Scoparia lean in just a little closer. "Trish? Are you dissociating right now?"

  Trish looked up at her, one corner of her mouth quirking upward ever so slightly. "You said 'fuck.'"

  "And yet, miraculously, I did not catch fire," Scoparia said without missing a beat, her face as perfectly composed as ever. "Are you feeling any more emotionally grounded? Do you feel as though you are in a position to discuss what Koer told you?"

  Trish rolled her eyes. "I don't even know what they said to you."

  "Only that you were a hemerosyncretic ward, and that they were your handler." The vine tightened around her ankle momentarily again. "From that, I can infer a great deal, of course, but it would be helpful — for your wardship, I mean, but also I think for the healing process — for you to share any details you feel able to."

  Her fingers were going pale around the mug despite the heat. "They fucked with my head for sixty years and used me as a lure to domesticate millions. Millions." The heat in her hands was nothing before the stinging heat behind her eyes. "How the fuck am I supposed to live with that?"

  "'Lure' is perhaps not the best term in English, as those who were domesticated would almost certainly have been domesticated anyway, but I take your meaning, and your feelings are your own," Scoparia said gently. "Did Koer expin why hemerosyncretic wards are used?" After Trish nodded, she continued, "Then you must understand that whatever influence was wielded through you was necessarily indirect. I think it very unlikely that they inserted much at all into your mind, apart from what was necessary to keep you in such a feral state."

  "They still fucked with my head, Scoparia," Trish choked out. She would not cry in front of the affini. She would not show that kind of weakness. It was a death sentence.

  "That I do not dispute." A vine came down across her shoulders, squeezing them tenderly. After a moment, she asked, "Were you happy?"

  Something wet slipped over Trish's lips as she replied. "Koer asked that too."

  "Were you?"

  She took another sip of the cocoa, its rich velvety texture carrying away the salty notes. "Yes. I liked my life. I liked driving around, I liked seeing friends, I liked making books. I liked it so much I had to actively remind myself not to buy in every single day. It was only in the st couple of years that things started to fall apart."

  Scoparia affected a sigh. "Then at least Koer was doing their job in that respect."

  "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Trish spat.

  "Only that what little I know of hemerosyncretic wards includes that their handlers are extremely scrupulous about that. Frankly," she added, shaking her head, more of her vines tightening around Trish, "I think they know that if they weren't, the rest of us would never stand for the practice. But that is an unkind and uncharitable thought. I have no doubt Koer cared for you as any affini would, and as best as they were able."

  "I was killing them."

  "...killing them?"

  Trish sucked in a sniffling breath and nodded. "Their phytoneuropathy was from stress. The stress of letting me stay me instead of just fucking breaking me like they apparently wanted to the entire fucking time." The salty taste was back. She swallowed more cocoa to chase it away. "And they were pnning to, you know. Right up until the end. Right up until their bosses told them they couldn't."

  It took Scoparia a moment to respond, and all she said was, "I see." There was hesitation in her voice, too, as if the words themselves were too shy to come out.

  "I always thought they understood," Trish said, her voice catching on nothing at all. "I always thought they were different, but they're just like the rest of you. You just can't leave well enough alone."

  "In my experience at least, 'well enough' usually isn't. And I only have four blooms of experience; for older Affini, I have no doubt that the magnitude of their urge to meddle is matched only by their capacity for doing so in ways so subtle that we mere saplings never take note of it." She smiled and gave Trish a squeeze. "No doubt it is the same way, granted on a much smaller scale, with terrans."

  "Fuck off, Scoparia," was what Trish tried to say.

  Haven's feet hadn't touched the ground for hours, not since Anix had lifted her into her vines in the kitchen after she'd tipped the ruined stroganoff all over the floor, not since Anix had held her in her p and expined exactly how the Affini would fix her, not since Anix had swept her off to the veterinary complex. Anix, Xanthisma, and Thyrsiflora had passed her back and forth as they ran test after test, scanning her brain as they asked her questions that seemed to have no retion to anything, let alone what they referred to as her "intrusive thoughts."

  Haven didn't know how recognizing the truth about herself — that she was garbage who didn't deserve the time of day, let alone all this attention and care over her nothingburger of a problem — qualified as an intrusive thought, but the affini wouldn't take no for an answer. Literally.

  "The good news is, I'm fairly confident that cyclokatapnothane will be safe for Haven in her condition," Xanthisma said, riffling faer rainbow of foliage around Haven as faer vings clung tightly to her. "But there are some potential unwanted interactions as rete to the neuromycelial bridge."

  "You're worried it'll impede voluntary motor function?" Anix hovered nearby, so close that Haven could reach out and take one of her vines, were she confident that Anix wouldn't recoil from her touch, as was the reasonable thing to do.

  Xanthisma nodded, a motion that seemingly involved faer entire body. "The neuromycelial bridge is closely tied to executive function — it reads the will to move, and replicates the action. In so doing it retrains movements in nascent muscle cells and neurons as they're id down by the cambium ttice, so that when the sarcotesta comes off, far less physical therapy will be necessary." Thyrsiflora and Anix nodded along — they knew this, obviously. Xanthisma was articuting it all for Haven's benefit. More wasted effort.

  "And cyclokatapnothane can easily cause pses in executive function," Thyrsiflora followed up. "Especially at the doses necessary to correct such constant intrusive thought patterns." She reached in and stroked Haven's hair. "Essentially, my dear, we're concerned that if we give you this, it might functionally lock you in, render you unable to move the sarcotesta. Obviously, that's not desirable at all. It rather defeats the purpose of the thing."

  "But at the same time," Anix finished, "we cannot simply allow your brain to continue torturing you like this." Her vines hadn't left Haven at all, not even when the others had been holding her; even now they were wound around her forearms, a gentle but firm presence. "Thankfully, we have strong counteragents to cyclokatapnothane, and we can flush it from your system within minutes if you do lose voluntary motor function. So please, petal, if that happens, don't be afraid. You'll be alright, we promise."

  Haven felt her soul cringe. I don't deserve this, all I deserve is an open airlock. Why were they wasting so much time and effort on-

  She felt the port in the sarcotesta's colrbone open, felt the vine — whose, she didn't know — push its way into the socket, felt the pressure in the injection port as the flower at the vine's tip squeezed.

  -her when she was such a horrible, wretched, awful, useless-

  Something caught inside Haven's brain, like a neurological hiccup.

  -useless-

  What was she about to say?

  -useless-

  What was she about to say?

  useless

  What was she about to say?

  There was a lifting of pressure, a weight being removed. Where it had stood, there was a vacuum, and nothing to fill it.

  What was she about to say?

  Something was on the tip of her tongue, like a word she was desperately trying to remember but couldn't quite grasp.

  What was she about to say?

  Try though she might to y her mental finger on it, it remained stubbornly elusive.

  What was she about to say?

  She had never had this kind of quiet in her head before.

  What was she about to say?

  The three affini in the room were saying something, but Haven was still far too focused on the emptiness inside her to listen.

  What was she about to say?

  What was she about to say?

  What was she about to say?

  "Haven?"

  What was she about to say?

  Anix loomed right in the middle of her field of vision. "Haven, if you can hear me, say 'yes.'"

  "Yes," Haven said.

  Oh. That's what she'd been about to say.

  "Good, good. Now, I need you to lift your right hand. Can you do that for me?"

  Could she? It was a question. Maybe she should answer it.

  "Yes?" Her hand stayed stubbornly at her side. All three of the affini were clearly focused on it, watching, waiting. Waiting for it to move. Waiting for Haven to do something.

  Oh, she thought. They want me to move it. Should she? It was like there was a veil between her and the wanting to move and the moving, a thin but palpable boundary. She could see the action she needed to take, knew that she was supposed to be taking it — and maybe the affini were right, and the xenodrug they'd given her had broken the sarcotesta, but she felt as thought she could take that action as well. So she pushed, hard.

  Her hand lifted almost effortlessly into the air, as though Haven hadn't had to mentally strain to even start the motion. Once it was moving, it was easy. The momentum was already there. The hand was already moving.

  All three of the affini visibly rexed once she did so. "Good, good!" Xanthisma said fluttering anxiously around Haven. "Purely an executive function issue. No biomechanical fault whatsoever!"

  "So we're agreed it's safe to keep her on this dosage, then?" Thyrsiflora asked.

  "I should think so!" Xanthisma replied, giving Haven a squeeze. "The neuromycelial bridge is still picking up on volition just fine — it seems like Haven's just having to think a trifle harder to make the sarcotesta move."

  "Hmmm." Anix's vines turned Haven's head to look at her. "Something occurs to me. Haven, petal, hold out your hand as if to receive something."

  It was easy enough to do. Her hand turned over, and she extended it, gently cupped. Anix pulled a little red something from seemingly nowhere and pced it gently in Haven's hand. It was wobbly, almost like an enormous bead of water held together only by surface tension. Light shone and refracted from its glittery translucent interior.

  "This is a treat I've been saving — it's just solid enough that it'll be something novel for your mouth, but gentle enough that your stomach can handle it in its current state. Normally, I'd insist upon feeding it to you myself," Anix added with a gentle chuckle, "but under the circumstances it'll be a useful test. Eat the treat, Haven."

  She left her mouth fall open — easy — and pulled the treat in, letting it settle on her tongue. She could feel its periphery dissolving as she closed her mouth, and felt the most marvelous pop as she pressed it against the roof of her mouth with her tongue. It wasn't liquid inside, but some sort of sugary colloid that split and recombined, giving it tooth enough to chew while remaining fluid enough to coat the inside of her mouth. It was cherry-fvored, a explosion of tart sweetness. It was wonderful.

  "Mmmhmm. I thought so," Anix said, smiling. "Look at how well she takes direction. Asking is one thing, but telling seems to make it quite a bit easier, doesn't it, Haven? Answer, flower."

  "I guess so?" Haven was beginning to feel out the boundaries of her new cognitive state, and it was strangely familiar. "It feels like...Secretary Mode."

  "Secretary mode?" Xanthisma said. "Oh, this is from that little game, yes?"

  "It's a state of mind she often finds herself in when 'working' for her little friend Tara," Thyrsiflora said. "Though 'friend' is understating it quite a bit," she added with a wry smile and a gentle boop on Haven's nose. "This is like Secretary Mode, Haven?"

  The more Haven thought of it that way, the easier it became to push herself. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Finding quiet by filling space with discrete tasks and clear directives? Only now that quiet comes gratis, and it's a struggle to do anything without a sense of something you're supposed to be doing?"

  Haven turned it over her head. What Miss Thyrsiflora was saying might be true. "Maybe? Its..." She paused for another bout of thought. "It's different. Not like with Tara. But-" She felt something welling up inside her now, filling that empty space not with a need or a will to move but simple with a feeling that burned hot and longed for eyes to pour itself out of. "It feels good."

  She knew that normally, this would be when she'd remind herself that she didn't deserve to feel good. It wasn't as if the xenodrug had made her forget what it had been like before. She could find that thought, sure. She could go looking for it. But it wasn't kicking her mental doors in anymore. It wasn't demanding all that space. She didn't have to think those thoughts.

  So she decided she didn't want to.