The knife bit into the flesh of the applenot, circumscribing a deep furrow around the pit at its heart. A sweet smell filled the air, sticky but not quite cloying. With a twist, Trish separated one half from the pit, trimmed away the bits where fruithawks had clearly rammed it before it was ripe, and took a bite. The chewy, squishy texture of an applenot was an acquired taste, but she'd had plenty of time to acquire it. She chased it down, bite by bite, with a bottle of Hicks Crossing's Finest, a ger that deserved the name by dint of being the only ger produced in Hicks Crossing, while she watched the sun slowly descend toward the mountains.

  The beauty of living in a mobile hab was that whenever Trish tired of driving, whenever she needed to do something, or whenever she saw something that deserved a good long look, she could just stop. She could pull off the road, let the tires and suspension switch into all-terrain mode for a bit, find a good spot, and park. She could press a few buttons, and the awning would extend; say a few words, and the compiler would gin up a dinner for her. Then she could pick up a rock and knock down an applenot for dessert, and sit in a fold-out wn chair enjoying the natural beauty of a world 400-plus light years from where her species evolved, where she was born, where she did something stupid she still didn't regret even at the ripe old age of 94.

  Not that 94 was the ripe old age it had once been. Affini medical science — and she still, to herself, called it that, even if she was careful to use the term "veterinary science" when speaking to the massive pnt xenos who had swept through human civilization like an equatorial super-hurricane — had seen to that. Where once she'd have lucky to be mobile at her age, she had the vim and vigor of a woman of 50 or 60. Sure, her dark skin had its fair share of winkles, and yes, her hair had long since gone white, but if 94 wasn't phenomenally old like it once had been, it was still old enough for her to accord herself the kind of "I don't have to give a fuck anymore" energy she remembered from her elders when she was young. She'd earned it. She'd more than earned it.

  It was in the fading light of the sun that she first caught sight of the pod sailing through the air, and though it took its sweet time Trish knew full well it was here for her. When it banked, when it descended, she yawned, and threw the pit of her applenot out into the grass. Who knows — maybe it would grow into a new applenot tree one day. She finished off the st of her ger just as the pod skimmed to a halt, still hovering, not 30 meters away.

  She recognized the droopy form of the affini inside the moment the canopy opened and they flowed out. "Hey, Koer. Drink?" She held up a fresh ger from the stasis cooler beside her, condensation already beading on its gss surface.

  "No, thank you," Koer said, taking a few leisurely steps forward before squatting in front of Trish's awning and peering in at her. "I may never understand the fascination that so many sophonts, terrans included, have for fermentation, but it certainly is widespread throughout the universe. You're not overindulging, are you?"

  "Koer. Please." She held up her empty bottle. "The only one I've had today, and I have no intention of driving anywhere else tonight. You can check my decompiler records if you want."

  "I already have," Koer said, smiling pleasantly. "You know I like to be thorough."

  "Besides," she added, "Hicks Crossing's Finest is not exactly the most potent brew around. Rest assured I am fully possessed of all my requisite impulse control and decision-making faculties." One had to choose one's words carefully when speaking to an affini. They were at once legalistic and frustratingly mercurial in their approach to nguage — words had meaning, but they would happily build their own worldview around an interpretation of that meaning that suited them. The worst part was, they were damned good at it; if you weren't careful, they'd convince you that you'd meant the reading they took from your words, even if you'd said the exact opposite of it. "So, what brings you around here? Can't be the regur wellness check."

  "No," Koer said, a sad tone creeping into their voice. "I'm afraid it's more in the line of a personal call. This isn't something I've brought up with you before, but I happen to be approaching the end of this bloom, and some time ago I decided that, as I've been feeling in a bit of a rut the st few blooms, when I rebloomed, I would pursue a new line of work. Perhaps logistical support for subgactic expansion — and then, when that's finished, perhaps front-line work once we get there. It's been a while since I've done that."

  Trish kept her face composed, her breathing measured. Koer would be observing everything about her response, and while there were involuntary things she couldn't control — capilry response, pupil dition, and so on — she could at least demonstrate that she was in control of herself. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  "So, naturally, our time together will regrettably be coming to a close," they continued. "I will miss you a great a deal, of course; you have always been a wonderful conversation partner, and I very much value the perspective you've brought to our discussions."

  "Yeah, well... same," she said, still holding tightly onto her emotional leash. Shit. Koer had been her social worker since not long after the Tilndsia had arrived at Solstice, had stayed behind with her when that ship and the others that had come to support it had finally left orbit after Parthenocissus Station was built (or grown, or however the hell the Affini did it) and the elevator line run down to New Landing. They had been one of the few affini Trish had ever managed to get anything approaching comfortable around, for the simple reason that Koer didn't think Trish needed to be domesticated and had backed her in the three wardship reviews she'd been through in her six decades in the Compact.

  She was losing one of her strongest allies in the fight to stay as free as one could under the Affini — and the only affini among that short list.

  "I know this must come as something of a shock to you," Koer said, reaching out with a vine and ying it gently on Trish's shoulder. "To be honest, I thought I had another couple of decades left in me — long enough to see you through, at least. As, the phytoneuropathy is advancing rather quicker than it has in past blooms. Perhaps I was a bit scant when I built this body for myself." They smiled. "But be that as it may, though it saddens me to leave, I know I leave you in good hands and good spirits. Though, if I may, I would give you a word of warning before I do so."

  "I'm listening."

  "My repcement is one Scoparia Cryptantha, Fourth Bloom. She is a new arrival to the system, and quite competent, and I except she will enjoy great success in social work here on Solstice. She is also, as, something of a youngbloom."

  Trish snorted. "Fourth Blooms count as youngblooms these days, do they?"

  "When you're an Eleventh Bloom, soon to be a Twelfth, you can get away with calling a Fourth Bloom 'youngbloom,'" Koer said, winking. "But let us say that she is possessed of youngbloom energy. She takes her work very seriously, and I cannot fault her for that, but she is quite zealous about it, and zealotry, as I'm sure I need not expin to you, has no upper bar when it comes to one's age."

  "True," Trish grunted. "So. Batten down the hatches, be on my best behavior, that sort of thing?"

  "To put it succinctly, yes. Also, I would suggest that you stop publishing Freedom's Ember. You really should have stopped a long while back, but it's rather more pressing now, I think you'll agree."

  The blood ran cold in Trish's veins. "What are you talking about?" Koer had never once brought up Freedom's Ember to her, let alone that she was the source of virtually every hand-bound copy on the pnet (not to mention the ultimate source of the text itself, which she'd done her best to subtly spread throughout the former Accord via fellow travelers acting as couriers).

  "Trish, please. I know you publish it. I've known for quite some time. May I say that you have become a very talented bookbinder? Your work is exempry. I advise you to turn that skill to... oh, anything else, really. Poetry, fiction, nonfiction. You make lovely books. It's only the content that's the issue."

  "If you knew, then-"

  "Because it's not really that big of a problem," Koer said, their vine giving her a gentle pat. "Freedom's Ember is the sort of regrettable thing that often happens early on, when a species is still getting used to being domesticated. As feral sentiment goes, it's really not that bad — it's just lingering fear and uncertainty from living in an environment where casual cruelty was commonpce and what little stability one could hold onto was always uncertain."

  "You've read it?"

  "Of course I've read it," Koer said, ughing, their eyes rolling through a rainbow of colors. Trish dug her thumbnail into her palm and kept herself grounded. "Everyone who works in feral diversion and care has read it, Trish. It's the one of the preeminent post-domestication strains of terran feralism. Certainly the most harmless of the lot. Think about it, Trish, what are the central arguments of Freedom's Ember? One: that you can't fight us. Very true, and something it's best for nascent ferals to accept. Two: that retaining some sense that one is capable of living apart from the Compact, should the need arise, is both desirable and possible. Problematic, but not in the way that most strains of Terran feralism are. Three: the entropy problem, which-" They ughed again. "It's a bit of a silly argument, that we're destined to colpse because of thermodynamic processes that your species never fully understood to begin with. But the end result of the distribution of Freedom's Ember is that would-be feralists, feralists who might otherwise harm themselves or others, are cautioned not to do so, but to bide their time and to improve themselves. True, they do so for negative reasons, which is why we carefully watch over them to make sure they aren't hurting themselves with it, but it's not as if you're some raving feralist ship captain throwing their subordinates out of an airlock over quibbling details of ideological opposition to the Compact."

  "You... you seriously don't care?" Somehow, that made it worse — but Trish caught herself, steadied herself, reminded herself that nothing an affini said wasn't in service to their overall goal of total domestication, individual or societal. She couldn't, and shouldn't, take what Koer was saying at face value.

  "Oh, we very much care, Trish. You know that." They withdrew their vine, straightened slightly with a sound like creaking trees in the wind. "But there's another dimension to this, which is that, sometimes, the best way to root out feralism is simply to provide a path of least resistance to slow acclimation — and a strain of feralism like yours is ideal for that. As long as you aren't hurting yourself or others, we can be patient." They hunched down again, leaned in close. "I will say, that while Lay Sequi's arguments are well put, they are hardly original. Other sophonts have had these ideas before. I have personally encountered them before. I do not mean to diminish what she, or you, have done, but against the weight of experience we Affini have in dealing with these sorts of things... well, it's nothing unexpected, let's say. We've seen this before, and we know that we can wait."

  That was the war. That had always been the war. "Cass was the one who wrote it," Trish said quietly, staring fixedly at a point just above Koer's eyes. "Not the floret you turned her into."

  Koer let out a dramatic sigh. "Trish, my darling, you really must move beyond this. I say this not only as your social worker but, I hope, as someone you consider a friend. I know you don't want to hear it, but I will remind you that she volunteered for domestication."

  "Volunteer is a word that's doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence," Trish replied. It usually did, when it came to the Affini — a "volunteer" might think they were doing something of their own free will while dancing to an affini's biorhythm all the while. They were insidious, and considered free will a minor obstacle at best. One always had to be on one's guard.

  "If you say something like that to Scoparia, Trish, I would not be surprised to see you before a wardship committee." They hesitated, then added, "It might be the best thing for you, to be honest. You are still unhealthily fixated on someone else's choice."

  "If I'm fixated on anything, it's the fact that it probably wasn't her choice to begin with. You know that."

  "I know that you believe that, yes. But you need to accept that, regardless of what you believe, it has happened, and cannot unhappen, and that somewhere out there, a floret is missing an old friend of hers very much. That is reality, Trish. The world you inhabited with Lay, where you had to suffer and fight for the barest scraps of dignity, is gone, and it will not come back. I do not judge you for your feelings, but I worry that you have carried that burden for far too long."

  "Hey, I'm an independent sophont," Trish said, finally looking away. "I decide what burdens I carry."

  "Unless Scoparia decides to convince a panel of experts otherwise," Koer countered. "Which I know is something you do not want, but it is something that could very easily happen if you continue to cling to this. It's perilously close to self-harm. I believe you can move beyond it. I hope that our parting can be sufficient motivation for you to do so, even if sixty years of friendship cannot."

  Trish said nothing for along moment. "Sixty years is an eyeblink to you."

  "Perhaps," Koer said. "But consider this." They turned, and lifted an arm to gesture at the horizon, where the setting sun had stained the wispy clouds in shades of red, orange, and yellow against the deepening indigo of the sky. "This confluence of atmospheric conditions and geological environment will never be perfectly replicated. There will never be a sunset like this one ever again, on this or any other world, throughout all of time. And it will only st for about five minutes." They turned back to Trish. "Does that ephemerality make it less beautiful? Or does it make it more beautiful?"

  Trish had no answer, but there was no need for one. The two watched their st sunset together, said their goodbyes, and privately mourned the loss of a friend in their own ways.

  It wasn't pain that woke Haven up. Pain was something she was familiar with, whether it was scratching, pinches, or joint locks she inflicted on herself, or the pain she always carried around inside her that the former were meant to externalize but never quite did. What she felt now, enveloping her whole body, was a ck. Pain was supposed to be there, but wasn't. It was not comfort or ease she felt, but the absence, and it was excruciating.

  She sucked down a gasping breath, throat croaking, barely moving any air. She couldn't see. It wasn't that her eyes were closed — she simply couldn't see. She could hear voices, distantly, like she was underwater, but she couldn't feel anything. Nothing, at least, but the cold. She wanted to shiver, but couldn't. She tried to move, and failed.

  Figures. Not even dying makes it stop. It just hurts different.

  But she wasn't dead. That didn't make sense. Something pushed air down into her lungs, wet and heavy, then sucked it back out. This continued on a regur rhythm, some kind of machine breathing for her. Her brain wasted no time in switching gears.

  Switch it off, please.

  She croaked again, willing herself to move, to cry out, to do anything, but she was completely paralyzed. The voices were closer now, like she was drifting to the surface, but they were still completely incomprehensible. It took Haven a moment to realize the voices weren't speaking English, or any other nguage she knew, but some kind of musical speech that all came together in a shared harmony, each picking up where the other left off.

  It was beautiful, in a way. It felt like something that had no pce here, in the cold, dark hole that Haven was buried in. The machine kept breathing for her: in, out, in, out. She would interrupt it wth croaking attempts to breathe on her own occasionally. Finally, whether by accident or by design, she timed one of her gasps with the machine, and the rasping noise she made resonated all the more with air flowing through her windpipe.

  The harmony cut off instantly, and after a single beat of silence resumed with a frantic intensity, voices no longer harmonious but clipping across one another, leaving musical statements unresolved, dissonance creeping in around the edges. Another voice joined in, this one so markedly different from the others that it jarred a piece of Haven's mind awake enough to realize that she hadn't even been listening to humans talking. Only this new voice, the one coming ever closer, belonged a human.

  "Dirt, they're definitely conscious, Master," he said, in perfectly understandable (if slightly accented) English. Another bust of jangling, anxious music ter, and he added, "Yes, Master. Hey, you're going to be alright, okay? Master and his whole team are working on you, and they're the best. They're going to make you better, I promise."

  "Good boy, Niko," one of the musical voices said, switching to English. It sounded as wet and waterlogged as Haven felt. "Yes, scan shows they're listening. Alright, little one, I give you my promise as well — I'll do everything in my power to put you back together again. But you really can't be conscious for this, so you're going to take a little nap now. Niko, push another 5 ccs of css-Z."

  Before Haven could protest, before her mind could even articute a demand to just let her die already, she felt something cold, colder than she already felt, push its way through her. She couldn't tell if she'd gotten her wish, or if it was just a brief reprieve.