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The Shadow and the Heart

May 6, 219 CY

17:51

“You'd think by now we would get some privacy for this."

Dr. Tanea Young glanced up briefly from her console. Capra sat pouting on the edge of her bed, arms folded in that particular way that was meant to be noticed. It was more posture than sentiment, though Young did not doubt Capra would have preferred complete privacy for the procedure. For all but a certain peculiar subset of humans, sexual performance tended to suffer in the presence of witnesses.

Fortunately, the procedure did not rely on Capra's performance.

Young arched a brow. “We could relocate to an induction lab, if you're feeling nostalgic." She looked pointedly around the room. Capra's quarters were not exactly luxurious, but they were spacious enough to meet physiological and psychological needs, and even came with their own private bathroom. With the exception of the work console and monitoring equipment – tucked into the corner when not in use – it might have been mistaken for a prestigious planetside university dorm.

Capra rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, shut up." She threw herself back onto the sheets with a heavy sigh, arms splayed wide.

Young returned her attention to the console. Capra's display was more performance than sentiment any more, and provoked no real concern; fourteen successful pregnancies across six engineered species had seen to that. What began as hysterical rage and defiance had since settled into a resentful, if ultimately cooperative, attitude – not unlike a rebellious teenager, notwithstanding that Capra had been with the Project for over five years.

She had long since graduated from the necessity of restraints or tranquilizers. She had not, however, grown out of her urge to complain. “When's he coming, anyway? Is he late or something?"

Young checked the clock. “Epsilon has eight minutes to spare. I doubt he'll be late."

“Yeah, who's gonna pass up free pussy, am I right?"

Young declined to dignify the provocation. “He is reliable. And he's been quite interested to meet you, I think."

“You mean fuck me."

“That too." When Capra didn't respond, Young glanced up to find the other woman watching her, brows knit. “Yes?"

“Y'know…" Capra looked away, frowning, and wrapped her arms over her breasts as she rolled onto her side. “I never thought you were the sort of person to… I dunno, talk pretty. Flattery and whatever."

Young tilted her head. “No, I suppose not. I think it's much better to get everything in the open. Even if it's difficult. Even if it's very difficult. " She searched Capra's face – Capra, perhaps sensing the looming danger of direct eye contact, studiously avoided reciprocation. Young had delivered bad news to the other woman more than once. Never had she acquired a reputation for softening the blow. Silence followed for several minutes, but for the subtle haptic clicks of Young's console.

“Is he really interested? In more than… y'know."

“Yes, I think so."

“Why?"

Young shrugged. “You could ask him. He has expressed curiosity in the past. Even asked to view your medical records and psychological profile."

Capra blinked, and sat up on the bed. “Did you show him?"

“Of course not. He isn't authorized to review that information." Young paused. “I suppose you could release the records, if you'd like."

“Oh… no, that's… fine." Capra's hand found a lock of hair and began to toy with it. “It's kind of creepy, anyway. Like some kind of weird voyeur." She at last found the courage to fix a stare on Young again. “Not that you'd know anything about that."

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm here to ensure efficacy. This is a medical procedure, not a social call."

“A medical procedure that conveniently involves watching me getting fucked."

Young nudged her glasses up her nose and forced her eyes back down to the console. “If it makes you feel better, I don't have any such ulterior motives." She glanced at the clock. 17:59. She had lost track of time; Epsilon would be arriving any moment. “I'm going to bring the monitoring system online." Her fingers danced across the console, happy for the distraction. Long professional practice kept the heat out of her face, but she was increasingly aware of a certain tension in her shoulders.

A panel in the wall slid open, and a set of articulated limbs unfolded from within, bristling with sensors. They extended to array themselves over Capra's bed, distant enough to allow sufficient clearance for activity while maintaining a suitable lock on vital signs and biomarkers. The other woman watched them with a curled lip, shoulders hunched, then apparently decided to pretend that they did not exist.

A chime rang from the intercom above the door. Capra jumped. Young checked the time again. Eighteen hundred on the dot. She tapped the console. “Enter."

The door slid open, and Epsilon stepped in. Like most of the engineered hybrids in the Project, he was as much beast as man, with all the salient qualities and genetic markers of some far-flung alien wildlife repackaged into an essentially humanoid form factor. One conveniently compatible with baseline humanity.

Young might have called him feline, if that word had any meaning in the context of an alien biosphere where no member of the genus Felis had ever walked. His profile was sharp and predatory – most of the base species that informed the hybrid genomes were predators in their native biomes – with small triangular ears and a coat of short, dense fur so thoroughly black that he looked nearly like a walking hole in reality. Only the gleam of his eyes, as dark as the rest of him but for their subtle shine in the fluorescent lighting, set off the unbroken void of color.

Where Alpha was heavy and broad, and Zeta dextrous and compact, Epsilon stood tall, lithe, slender. He seemed to move like a drifting leaf, or a reed swaying in some perpetual breeze, never quite still, but with movements so minute and graceful that to watch him was like watching ripples on a pond. Calming. His four arms seemed almost too long for him, teetering on the brink of uncanny like a daredevil daring gravity to pull him over the edge.

Young's heart skipped a beat. Just one. It never failed.

Capra sat mutely, mouth hanging open. As the door closed behind him, Epsilon affected a bow, crossing his chest with two same-side arms. He was dressed in a strange, brightly-colored swath of cloth wrapped about him like some archaic toga. Yellow, red, orange, and white clashed in erratic bursts across the fabric, and their riotous energy made focusing on his inky pelt next to impossible, like some ineffable cosmic concept the mind did not possess the architecture to grasp.

“I'm not late, I hope."

Young found first her breath, then her voice. “No… no. Right on time. As always." She tore her eyes away. The dull blues and greys of the console offended her, dead and blunt and mechanical, too practical to tolerate –

She clenched her eyes and plucked her glasses off to rub at the bridge of her nose. No. She knew what was happening. It happened every time, to some degree, though she imagined the excitement of meeting a new “prospect" – his word – had doubtlessly amplified the effect. She pinched the corners of her eyes tightly and waited for the sense of dissociative unreality to pass.

Things calmed. When she replaced her glasses, she found Epsilon perched on the bed before a yet-dumbstruck Capra. He leaned forward, looming over her, smile cutting a bold white line across the black of his muzzle. His teeth were sharp.

Young cleared her throat. “Epsilon, meet Capra. Capra, this is Epsilon – representative of species XU-1102."

“They call us stalkers," he provided helpfully, eyes lighting afresh at the word. He savored it like a sweet morsel, rolling it on his tongue in a breathy exhalation. Capra's mouth worked silently. Young had trouble keeping her focus on the pair, but she doubted the other woman had so much as blinked since Epsilon entered the room.

“A little less strongly, please, Epsilon," Young managed. “I understand you're excited."

“Hm?" He blinked and looked to her, head cocked. “Oh, yes. Of course. Yes, this is her first time, isn't it? With one of us. Such an honor for us both –“

“Epsilon."

He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter on the bed. At once Capra took a shuddering breath, and her hands flew to her face, rubbing furiously as though she had just awakened from a dream. In some sense, not merely poetical, she had. “What the fuck…"

Young could feel her own heart in her throat. She did not need to imagine how Capra felt – the array of sensors told the tale. Her vitals were spiked nearly across the board. All except cortisol. Epsilon's little trick saw to that. Gradually, the numbers began to level off; as they did, and Capra struggled to process what was happening, the artificially suppressed cortisol measurement ticked upward.

“You didn't brief the poor girl?" Epsilon shook his head, disappointed.

“I don't think it would have helped."

“I can be terribly overwhelming, can't I?" He smiled again. Young's temples throbbed, and she resisted the temptation to press her thumbs against them.

“We appreciate your enthusiasm…"

“Oh, I know, you needn't cluck your tongue at me. Here. Allow me to make amends." He took Capra's wrists in his hands and drew them together, then placed a second pair upon her shoulders. “Allow me to apologize for the dramatic entrance."

Capra could not decide on an expression to wear. Wonder, fear, and – strangely comfortingly – petulant annoyance warred on her face. Her eyes darted between Epsilon and Young as though she could not decide which of the two to blame the most. At last, with the emotional rush dialed back to a dull roar, she blurted, “What the fuck?"

Young drew a deep breath. “Epsilon – rather, species XU-1102 – is novel for its possession of sensory-altering… capabilities. The scope and nature of which are still under investigation. All evidence we have so far suggests the species utilizes these capabilities for hunting and courtship, at a minimum."

“I'm psychic, in other words," Epsilon crowed.

Young pursed her lips. “As I said, we don't fully understand the phenomenon. Our earliest attempts to engineer a hybrid didn't share the base species' capabilities. Epsilon is a relatively recent success."

“A brilliant one, for which I am most grateful."

Capra gawped. It was an awful lot to take in all at once; Epsilon might have had a point about the briefing. Still, the hybrid was clearly having some effect on her. Capra had never been particularly tactile or physically open, which Young had taken as evidence of either an abusive childhood or early exposure to manipulative and coercive sexual encounters. Her early violence had abated in the years since her induction, but even still she gave evidence of distrusting intimate contact. Yet here she sat before Epsilon, her wrists in his hands, and his palms on her shoulders, and she made no attempt to pull away.

“You're… you're fuckin' weird," she managed at length.

“Oh, yes," he agreed, flashing his teeth again and leaning forward, slender body looming over her like a willow bent in the wind. One hand rose from her shoulder to her cheek, cupped it. When sharp claws slipped free of their hidden sheaths in his fingertips, to dimple Capra's skin, only Young shuddered. Capra herself only wet her lips, as if she could not even feel the prick. “And you are fascinating."

Her brows trembled. “I'm not –“ Her breath caught, and Young's vision swam. “Am I really –“

“Shh. We will explore." He leaned inward; for a wonder, Capra dipped back into the sheets, eyes yet wide with awe. Young could tell they were not focused on him, not on his physical body in any case.

Young struggled to center her focus on the console in front of her. She ought to have been better prepared – but she thought that every time one of the XU-1102 branch had a session. There was no better preparation; there was only experience and recognition. She furrowed her brows and leaned into her work. There were recordings to begin, biomarkers to monitor. Work. Yes, she had work to do. She hadn't realized she had cleared her throat, rather loudly, until she caught Epsilon looking sidelong at her over the top of her console.

She fought to catch up to her own thoughts. “Remember, this is a medical procedure. You're here to impregnate her, that's all."

He merely smiled, all sharp fangs, and tilted his head in close to Capra. “The Doctor bids us breed. To conjoin, then, as we are bid, our animal essences…"

Capra shook her head, the motion slow and drifting, even as her hands rose to plant themselves on Epsilon's shoulders. Young watched the fingertips dig into his pelt, but could not tell if it was a grip of resistance or encouragement. One of his hands moved to Capra's breast. The greys and blues of the medical console swam in Young's vision, evidence somewhere there of Capra's vitals. The machine must have malfunctioned, it was reporting spikes on someone that wasn't there –

* * *

Everything resolved all at once, like waking up from a dream in fast-forward. Young sucked in a sharp breath and touched her face. The overhead lights, gone dim, flickered back to life with the movement.

She looked around. Capra's quarters. The girl lay quietly on her bed, arms splayed, sheets pulled up above her navel, bare breasts exposed to the air. The slow rise and fall of her chest indicated sleep. Epsilon was nowhere to be seen.

Her console had entered sleep. She awakened it with a touch and checked the clock.

23:14.

Well.

The subject had gotten her wish for privacy, it seemed. Whether it was a conscious act on Epsilon's part was another question altogether – it could have as easily been mere enthusiasm. Not for the first time, Young endured a twinge of uncertainty. Had she been unconscious? Or had she overseen the procedure, and merely forgotten? There was compelling evidence that XU-1102's “psychic" field could inhibit the processing of short-term memory encoding…

Ah. The procedure. The recording package was still running; Young terminated the process and reviewed the records. Capra had been asleep for several hours, judging from the steady state of her vitals. But before then… it wasn't the first time Young had seen such bizarre and intense spikes. Wild peaks and troughs, sensory data so desynchronized and chaotic that had she seen the data set out of context, she would have assumed the sensors were miscalibrated.

No. It was just Epsilon.

She skimmed the data back and forth, eyes unfocused. It was too strange to try to make sense of; it would need intensive statistical analysis, and the record would have to be submitted to another department for review. She could tell that the pair had coupled for just under an hour, and fertilization was confirmed by the still-operating sensors thirty-four minutes after climax –

Wait. Young paused, and rubbed her eyes. Climax?

The spike was unmistakable, even within the chaos of the overall event. A gradual rise in vitals, culminating in a sharp spike, and steep decline toward baseline. But the sensors were not calibrated to monitor Epsilon's vitals. It wasn't his experience recorded so dutifully, reproduced in minute detail on the graphs before Young's eyes.

She was unprepared for the twist in her stomach. Capra did not respond well to intimacy. She almost never experienced orgasm during an insemination procedure. There were a few exceptions, of course, statistically there would have to be over the course of five years, but… here it was, yet another anomaly staring her in the face. So readily induced, with perfect harmony, at the very moment the coupling ceased, in a woman hardly capable of the experience at all.

He timed it. Of course he would have.

Young bristled. No. She was just tired. XU-1102 sessions were always the last in the day, for exactly this reason. Exhaustion was inevitable. She would set the data aside and return to it in a few days, when she was better rested. And not… no. It was nothing.

She waved her console to sleep and folded it back into its cubby, along with the sensory armatures. She carefully avoided looking at Capra, or the subject's scattered clothing, somehow strewn across the floor in a manner suggesting abandon. Would Capra remember, or…?

She turned out the lights with more force than strictly necessary on her way out the door.

* * *

May 7, 219 CY

1:15

The shower helped. A meal might have, too, but Young was still too preoccupied by the data, dancing behind her eyelids, to feel hungry. At least she had taken the foresight to schedule the session the evening before her day off. She doubted she would be able to sleep soon, or well.

She stepped out of her bathroom, hair still damp, towel draped over her shoulders like a shawl. The windows admitted slats of light into the darkened bedroom, rippling with the gentle cascade of rain that cast silhouetted splotches and rivulets across sheets, carpet, walls. The twinkle of distant street lamps glimmered through the wind-blown curtains of water that pattered like comforting static on the glass.

It was a very convincing illusion. There was no rain in orbit. Nor street lamps, though perhaps the station's external guide lights might have passed for them if one squinted hard enough.

She stood before the window, staring out through the gaps of simulated blinds into a simulated cityscape cloaked in midnight haze. It had been a long time since she had felt the rain on her skin – real rain, fresh from the hydrocycle. Her last trip planetside had been scourged with perfect, sunny days all month long.

It was a form of torture, wasn't it? To stare out at something she couldn't touch, hadn't touched in years. Might not touch again for a very long time. The simulation was meant as a comfortable reminder, a merciful balm. But perhaps some things were best kept from the forefront. She closed her eyes, and graphs flashed in her mind's eye.

The touch at her abdomen ought to have alarmed her. The mirrored contact at her bare breasts certainly should have. Arms, wrapped around her. Gentle touch; musculature, edged with softness, melding into her back. She drew a slow breath, knowing that she would have to wait until later for the alarm and indignation to bubble to the surface and find expression.

“How did you get in here?" There wasn't much point to opening her eyes. She would see whatever he wanted her to see. Maybe the charts and patterns – or lack of them – would help her focus.

“Why, you let me in," came the purr at her ear, soft and breathy enough for her to feel the words flowing over her cheek and neck.

Her stomach squeezed. A flutter ran up her spine, but could not reach her limbs to draw them tight against the revelation. She felt that because he wanted her to – and she didn't feel the tension because he wanted that, too. How strange it was to be led along by the nose, and to not feel any alarm at the thought.

“You're too dangerous," she murmured, tilting her head as she spoke, exposing a little more skin to his muzzle. The gentle pinprick of teeth found her neck, just like she'd known it would. She leaned back into his grip, and his hand-pair at her breasts rose higher, advancing from merely supporting them below to covering them in a spiderweb grip. She wasn't sure when her nipples had grown so tight.

“How very rude of you," he answered into her neck, lips never once departing her skin such that she felt the words rumbling through her. She drew in a deep, slow breath, and arched her back, grinding herself against his groin. Of course he was nude, too – she needed no xenobiology degree to understand what she felt there.

“You know we shouldn't –“ Her words cut off when one of his four hands dug between her thighs. She rose up on her toes. Somewhere amidst the groping, her hands found his wrist. Both of them. She knew, somewhere in the strange fugue state in which she floated, that this was what he wanted out of her as well. A little… struggle. Spice. He'd had his dessert earlier. Now he wanted a hunt. She pushed on his wrist. It didn't budge.

“Rude and a liar," he continued, dulcet, and the smile was tangible against her neck despite the fact that his facial structure was hardly capable of anything she would recognize as one.

“I'm not lying. If the Board found out, they'd kill you. And all the others." She and her colleagues had remarkable latitude in their operations. But an engineered life-form capable of this kind of cognitive exploitation would only get one strike. The Project could continue without species XU-1102.

“Quite the spice, to be sure." He made a show of breathing deep, inhaling her scent – it would be nothing but bland nano-manufacted soap to her nose, but he exhaled as though she smelt of roses. There were other things he could smell, damn him. “Desire in the face of death. I am as honored that you care as I am offended that you think me so naïve."

Young squirmed. “What I want doesn't matter. We all want things we can't –“

Again her words stuck in her throat. One hand had risen from her breast to twist and twine through her hair, dextrous fingers ruining its freshly-brushed order. He tugged just hard enough for her to feel the pressure at her roots. Her pulse quickened, thighs loosened.

“Are you going to tell them?"

She swallowed. “No."

“Neither am I."

* * *

May 7, 219 CY

2:30

Annoyance came first. It was too late for indignation, and the alarm was barely a pinprick in comparison to the burst of emotion that forced her eyes open as if breaking through a dam.

She sat up abruptly. It was still dark. Rain-silhouettes drifted across the wall opposite her bed. She was wide awake, with none of the gradual emergence from unconsciousness that characterized waking up. Which made sense, because she would not have been asleep. Whatever she was remained a subject of much debate among xenobiologists.

“Adjutant."

A single tiny green light winked on in the corner of the room.

“What happened?"

The response, fluid as it was, reverberated with the subtle electronic timbre that was the designers' way of avoiding the uncanny valley. It was strange how making something sound less human, however slightly, could improve one's perception of it. “Please specify the parameters of your request."

“What happened in the last…" Young glanced at her clock. “Hour and a half?"

“At the beginning of the specified time period, you were bathing. After concluding, you emerged into this room and looked at the window-screen. At approximately 01:18, your intercom registered a visitor. You instructed me to allow them entry. I have no further information until approximately 02:14. Beginning at this time, you spent sixteen minutes in bed with your eyes closed, but did not sleep. Do you require additional detail?"

Young rubbed her eyes. “Who was it at the com?" Obviously she already knew.

“A human hybrid of species XU-1102, control number XU000—“

Young waved a hand sharply. “That's good enough, thank you. What happened after he entered?"

“I do not have that information."

“Why not?"

“At approximately 02:13, you instructed me to erase my recording of your quarter's logs beginning when the door to your quarters opened. This has resulted in a period of fifty-five minutes during which I have no audiovisual records of the events within your quarters and only incidental information concerning the lacuna."

“Erase the logs? Why would I tell you to do that?"

“I do not know. You did not provide an explanation."

“Did I seem strange to you at the time?"

“You were exhibiting no behaviors indicative of compromised cognitive function at the time."

“Speculate."

There was a moment of silence – the Adjutant was clever, but closer to an expert system than a genuine intelligence. It would take some time to process possibilities that it could not truly intuit as a human mind would.

“Vital indicators beginning at 02:13 are consistent with the final stages of a post-climax physiological response. Assuming no confounding factors, I estimate that you experienced orgasm approximately eighteen minutes prior to making your request. Residual heat detected by atmospheric monitoring indicates that two individuals were present in your quarters at that time. Consequently, I speculate that you engaged in sexual activity during this period."

Young looked between her legs and wrinkled her nose. Her thighs were just beginning to ache, but there was no evidence of Epsilon's… activity there. That meant little – she could have taken another shower in that time. Hell, she might have had sex in the shower. Records of local water usage would have been wiped from her quarters' logs along with the rest of it, and she wasn't in a hurry to query Central. She could have simply gotten out of bed and checked for water in the shower, but… she didn't much feel like rising right now.

She slumped back down into the sheets and closed her eyes.

“You are experiencing a significant stress reaction," the Adjutant chirped, its affect as flat as before. “As destruction of records is often used to conceal evidence of such events, I speculate that your sexual activity may have been coercive. Do you wish for me to file a report with Central AI?"

Young's stomach clenched. “No," she said too quickly and too sharply. Then, slower, “No. It wasn't… coercive, I'm sure. I just have a lot on my mind."

“Very well. Please remember that nonconsensual sexual activity is a criminal offense and that retaliation for reporting its occurrence is prohibited by law. You are not required to remain a silent victim." Boilerplate, from some old public service advertisement campaign, run through an expert system's natural language processors and repackaged to fit the circumstances.

“Thank you." Young was suddenly too tired to laugh.

* * *

June 1, 219 CY

08:22

Epsilon had not intruded upon her again, but that did not mean that he was gone. He had a terrible penchant for digging his hooks into someone's mind – whether through some deliberate act or as a mere side-effect of his nature, Young did not know. Research on his originating species – and the hybrid itself – was ongoing.

Young stared blankly at her console, the charts and figures dancing past blind eyes. There was a commotion occurring beyond it, down in the well, too distant and irrelevant to her thoughts to pay heed to. She had passed Capra this morning on the way to the induction lab. The girl had waved at her. Smiled.

She had looked happy.

“Dr. Young?"

The girl had been part of the Project for years now, but Young had never seen her look happy. Content with her ill-starred lot, maybe. Or resigned to it. But never happy. Never with such a radiant shine in her eyes.

Epsilon got his hooks into people in all sorts of ways.

Someone cleared his throat at her shoulder. “Dr. Young."

She blinked and jerked her head up, rising from the shrouding fog. “I'm sorry?"

The aide smiled compassionately, mistaking her distraction for exhaustion. He was not entirely wrong, though Young was by now well-accustomed to working long hours, being in the labs before any of the other researchers. “There's just a – well."

He gestured with his datapad toward the well. Young followed to where Subject 56 lay cuffed to the gurney. None of her wild thrashing had any bearing on the restraints holding her wrists or neck, nor did her screaming and bucking make the slightest progress toward dislodging Phi Two, currently rising and falling atop her with admirably rhythmic determination.

Ah. Yes. Young looked to the vitals readout: all severely spiked. This was nothing out of the ordinary – induction was almost universally a traumatic experience. Especially when one's partner for induction was a man-sized louse-thing, with grasping mandibles and too many arms with too many joints. She could barely even see the subject beneath Phi Two's broad umbrella of a shell. All that were visible were the woman's legs, splayed out, heels hammering furiously against the exoskeleton.

It was nothing like induction with Epsilon. He had never required restraints. Never required sedation. In his very first procedure in this very lab, he strode through the doors and straightaway released the subject's cuffs. She had shouted down at him, the orderlies moved in to restore protocol… and the subject simply laid there in silence, gawping up at him.

She did not remember much of that particular induction. But she did remember that the cuffs never went back on.

“Dr. Young? We're afraid she's going to injure herself."

“Hm? Ah." Young waved a hand. “Sedate her." Her eyes had barely moved from the scene below.

“Are you sure? The sedatives could react –“

It struck her in that moment that most of the eyes in the room were on her. She suppressed a flash of irritation and stiffened her back.

“Part of our testing is to examine viability under a variety of real-world scenarios. If the presence of sedatives can cause problems, we need to know about that, too. Things aren't going to always be so clean on the frontier."

Skeptical glances circulated among the researchers. This was against protocol, and Young was not known for taking shortcuts. She allowed some of her annoyance to surface into her face, and one by one, her colleagues' skepticism turned to indifferent shrugs.

“Fair enough," the aide answered. “We can always test baseline with another one. Sedate her!"

Commands were entered, and a gleaming metal armature snaked in against 56's neck to deliver a heavy dose of quick-acting pharmaceuticals. Almost instantly her legs slumped to the gurney as if dead, and her head lolled to the side. Phi Two continued atop her without missing a stroke. The lab was strangely quiet now, with little more than the squeaking gurney filling the fresh silence.

Young ran her hands through her hair. “I need to step out. You can handle the rest of it."

She retrieved her datapad and strode from the laboratory without waiting for an objection, or even a confirmation. Her shoulders nearly clipped the automatic doors as she swept through.

She walked with purpose that belied her lack of conscious objective. If she passed anyone in the halls, she did not notice them, and it was only when she found herself standing in front of the door to Capra's quarters that the mute haze rose from her thoughts and laid bare her intentions. She frowned, adjusted her coat, and thumbed the panel.

“I'm coming in."

Capra sat on her bed, hastily zipping up her pants, eyes wide. A half-eaten breakfast bar lay on the bed next to a datapad playing some movie. Young's eyes immediately went to the other woman's abdomen, swelling already, barely a month later. She suppressed a twinge of some emotion she didn't think wise to identify.

“You shouldn't just walk in," Capra objected, face red.

“I've already seen you naked," Young answered, and activated the room's monitoring apparatus with a few taps on her datapad. It unfolded from the wall like a metallic spider. “And I've watched you have sex. I couldn't care less."

“I didn't like it then, either." Capra pulled at the hem of her jacket self-consciously. Soon she would need to swap from the standard two-piece jumpsuits to the ones designed for maternity. They were no more fashionable, but considerably less restrictive. “Why are you here, anyway? Weren't you at one of the labs?"

“They're handling it. I'm here to take a blood sample."

“I thought that was supposed to be tomorrow."

Another flash of emotion – irritation. Young brought up the collection routine on the control panel. “I wanted to get a head start on the analysis, that's all. Your hormone concentrations aren't going to change appreciably between now and tomorrow. Would you have a seat?"

Skeptical, Capra shifted from her bed into a chair, and rolled herself alongside the unfurled apparatus. She rolled up her jacket sleeve and exposed her wrist; Young navigated the aperture containing the microderm syringe into place.

“I haven't felt as sick this time around," Capra ventured as the syringe attached. She bit her lower lip in time with the machine's subtle hiss. “Do you think that's because of the father?"

“Maybe you're just getting used to it."

“Maybe." The collection continued in silence, painlessly drawing microscopic amounts of Capra's blood into the armature's attached vial. Capra watched it dispassionately; if there was one thing she had gotten used to, it was this. “He's different, isn't he?"

Young pursed her lips. “They're all different."

“You know what I mean."

“You shouldn't form attachments."

“I'm not –“ Capra cut herself off with a huff and canted her head. Of course she was. She couldn't help it. The pivot was predictable. “When can I see him again?" Her hand strayed to her stomach. Young followed the movement out of the corner of her eye. Her own stomach tightened.

“You're already pregnant."

“We could still –“

Young stabbed her control panel harder than strictly necessary. The engorged syringe disengaged from Capra's wrist with a hiss. “This is a research facility, not some… bordello."

Capra scowled. “Excuse me for wanting to spend time with the father of my children."

Young stabbed a sudden glare at Capra over the panel. Something within her was teetering; her fingertips pressed against the panel as if to physically steady her. “Did you want to spend time with Alpha? Beta? Zeta?" Capra's face reddened, and she averted her eyes. She had no rejoinder to offer. Of course she didn't. “You couldn't get away from them fast enough, and now all of a sudden you want to play the domestic? Maybe you should try spending time with the children you already have."

Capra winced. In silence, Young retrieved the blood vial from the aperture, labeled it, and tucked it into her coat pocket. As she was returning the instrumentation to its niche, Capra at last raised her eyes.

“You're… jealous, aren't you." Again she touched her stomach. “How could you be jealous of something you did? As if I asked for –“

Young pivoted on her heel. “Do not lecture me, Nineteen!" Capra's eyes bolted wide; even Young recoiled, startled by her own intensity. The girl was too hardened by her experiences to cry, but the pain tightening the corners of her eyes was unmistakable. Young turned aside, cheeks burning. Shame was an unfamiliar emotion.

“You'll have tomorrow off." She tried to sound clinical, failed. “I'm sure they'd be happy to see you at the creche."

She left before Capra could find anything to say.

* * *

“You all right, Doc?" The technician at Analysis was wearing a solicitous expression.

Young shook her head dismissively. Her neck and shoulders were still tight. “It's been a long day."

“It's not even noon."

She aimed for something approximating detatched irony in her smile. She couldn't tell if she was successful. “It's been a long day."

“Must've been a doozy down there. I heard she was a real firebrand."

“Yes." Young fished Capra's blood vial from her pocket and pushed it across the desk. “Can you put a priority on this one? It should just be routine adjustments. There've been no major incidents or concerns with the formula."

The technician palmed the vial with only a cursory glance. “Sure. Should have it put through the wringer by the end of the day."

“Thank you. Send the results to Fabrication as soon as you're done, and have them notify me when they're done. I'd like a batch of the updated formula by tonight."

“Sure thing. Got plans for a new inductee?"

This time, Young did not have difficulty achieving irony. “Something like that."

* * *

June 1, 219 CY

22:49

Young idly thumbed the injector's lever as it rested in her lap, and reflected on how strange it was that one could make a decision so concretely, so pointedly, yet with so little conscious deliberation. She had known for some time, in some sense, of course. She was not a puppet or a machine. The only thing that possessed her was emotion. And any attempt to ignore emotion was, itself, an acknowledgement. One of life's ironies.

The shadow of rain fell across the darkened wall of her bedroom. She leaned back in her recliner and stared at the ceiling, cloaked in darkness. Was she stalling? Reconsidering? She didn't really need to pause to consider the stupidity now set in motion. She knew it full well, did not even deny it.

She had always been driven, hadn't she? Determined. Practical. Actions were to be taken, not contemplated. But certain precipices demanded one look down before one leapt.

She closed her eyes and lifted the head of the injector to the bare skin of her abdomen. Strictly speaking, the injection could be made anywhere – the compound would enter the bloodstream either way, and would not activate except in the proper tissues. A closer injection site might speed uptake by a few minutes. Irrelevant in the long run. But there was something… appropriate about choosing this one. Something lyrical.

Her thumb twitched. She set her jaw. Action.

The hiss of the injector startled her. She looked down, thumb depressing the lever. Her heart skipped, and she bit down on her lip. Not in pain – the injection was painless. But fear that she might now, in the midst of it, beyond the horizon, lose her nerve.

She held the lever down until the injector whirred in her hand and clicked off. With a shuddering breath she hugged her arms around herself; the injector tumbled from loose fingers to disappear into the carpet.

The nausea was the first to come, three minutes in. Then trembling in the limbs, a sense of muscular weakness. That side-effect had yet to be worked out of any of the formula variants. Tightness in the stomach. She focused on her breathing. Slow. Steady. Her heart was beating too fast, and her breath wanted to race to keep up with it.

Ten minutes. Twenty. The trembling subsided, then the nausea, but her abdomen still felt… bloated. Like there was too much of her inside. There was still no pain. There wouldn't be, unless something went terribly wrong. It might be justice for something to go wrong.

Thirty minutes, and justice eluded her. The tension in her gut began to fade. The symptoms weren't nothing, but they were remarkably subtle, given the circumstances. She was grateful for the decades of medical advancements that made this possible; she had read the case reports from the earliest prototypes.

She did not expect the final physical manifestations of her transformation to blend so fluidly into that strange and familiar dissociation she had come to both fear and adore. She almost laughed. Of course it would have been timed.

Her eyes opened, and there he was, seated calmly on the arm of her recliner as if he had been perched there all night. Maybe he had – if he hadn't wanted her to see him, she wouldn't have.

“Aren't we quite the daredevil tonight?" Epsilon said, smiling.

“Or stupid," Young answered raspily. Her throat was dry. Another side-effect. Epsilon handed her a glass of water that he had not been holding two seconds ago; how considerate of him to compress her sensation of time to retrieve it for her.

She drank deeply while his hands roamed her body. She wore nothing but her underwear, and it was to these garments that he gravitated, fingers dancing along their edges like an adventurer fingering the latch of a treasure chest.

“Did I let you in again?" she asked after draining her glass.

“Oh, no, not this time. I followed you."

She canted her head up at him. Dim surprise struggled to life somewhere in the root of her mind, never mind how simple and obvious his answer was. “You watched me do it?"

He simply smiled. His fangs were white in the darkness, illuminated by distant false streetlamps.

Her hands found his, followed them beneath the hem of her panties. They disappeared; so did the recliner. She was horizontal now, something heavy and soft behind her head, something wrinkled about her back and thighs. A bed. Pillows.

She lifted her hands to cup the back of his head. “I want to remember this one."

His eyes flashed with excitement. “Bold."

“Or stupid."

“Both."

She had always thought he was gentle. Every memory she had of him – watching him or experiencing him – was drowned in haze, more a cluster of emotions and impressions than concrete recollections. She did not remember anything at all of his session with Capra. But none of his subjects had ever come away with so much as a scratch or bruise. She herself could remember nothing but aching thighs in the first lucid moments after her own encounters. And he was so soft in person, full of mirth, a leaf swaying in the breeze.

He was not gentle.

Nor was he slow. The foreplay was in the mind, the dissociation, the giddy half-sense of self stretching out to encompass the universe – and him. A lifetime's worth of knowing and forgetting happened in that nauseating whirlwind, in the moments between his word and their union.

He slammed into her with enough force to make her yelp. A jolt of pain shot up her spine, and her legs hiked into the air. Two of his hands caught her wrists, squeezed them like manacles. Two more snapped around her lifted legs and pinned her to the sheets.His teeth found her neck. Dizzily, she lifted her chin, exposed herself. With predatory deliberation, he squeezed. They were sharp – violently sharp. He could kill her with a flex of his jaw. Medical would never arrive in time.

An austere beep cut through the blunt thumps of his groin impacting hers. Somewhere, in the distant air of her bedroom, a flat tone: “Security breach. Notfiying –“

Young had never felt as angry as she did in that singular moment. If her system had possessed a throat, she would have leapt from the bed to throttle it. “Adjutant, cancel! And shut up! Isolate, twelve hours!" The green light in the corner went dark.

Epsilon grinned against her throat. With a lash of his raspy tongue that raked all the way up her jawline, he whispered into her ear, “Now no one can save you."

Her fear was a caged thing, visible but trapped. She watched it in the palace of her own mind, banging against its prison, face pressed to the glass, mute. Giddiness washed over her as Epsilon rewarded her loyalty with violence. His thrusts seemed calculated to hurt, each stroke bringing a cry from her throat, and his grip on her wrists threatened her circulation. She twisted her legs around his hips, locked her ankles, rode his fury.

Hard. Harder, if it were possible. Claws everywhere, her hips, thighs, breasts, wrists, arms. A hand twisted in her hair, pulling. Teeth on her shoulder, throat, ears. Always pressing, squeezing, always coming back right at the brink. He could tell, somehow. He knew how much would be too much, how much would break the skin, spoil her precious, perfect pale skin with crimson. No unsightly bruises would mar her wrists, nor her loins. No blood would stain her sheets. Only the memories of the perfect precipice would remain.

There she teetered beneath him, balanced on a toe, less than a toe, frightened at every moment of spilling into the abyss. She thought she might die at the slightest slip, the barest miscalculation. She did not care.

When climax came, it hit her so hard she physically convulsed, nearly choking on her own gasp. She squeezed down on his flesh with terrible, single-minded force, and he climaxed too, with perfect, storybook synchronicity. The violent, animal snarl in her ear was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

She wasn't sure how much time passed after that. She lay twisted with him in the sweat-soaked ruins of her sheets. In time, the marathon pace of her heart slouched toward baseline, and she found herself capable of speech. She craned her head, found herself staring glassy-eyed up at Epsilon's calm, doting face.

“Do you still want to remember?" His voice was so gentle.

The answer was not obvious. There was too much beauty in it – too much terror. To remember was to stare into that abyss, the same one she had balanced on, with only Epsilon's strong sure hand to hold her from tumbling.

She shifted, and the heavy, wet sensation within her captured her attention instantly. Her heart skipped again, stomach clenched in perverse thrill. He had drained himself into her quite thoroughly. The rest was only a matter of time. How readily she threw herself onto this path. And why?

“I want to remember."

He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and settled in beside her companionably. His caresses were like little localized breezes on her skin.

“Is it… like that every time?" Young asked. “Was it always like that?" It was only minutes ago, and it already felt like a dream. Would she really remember? Could she?

He only smiled.

* * *

June 28, 219 CY

08:59

Young stood stiffly before Station Chief Shaw's office door, staring at the digital clock on the com panel. Her index finger rubbed restlessly against the flap of her coat. She was not afraid of Shaw – but she was going to be punctual nonetheless. The moment the hour turned, she pressed the call button.

“Young here."

A moment later, from the intercom: “Enter." The voice was tired.

The door slid open, and Young crossed the threshold into the Station Chief's office. For being the official workplace of the station's most senior administrator, it was surprisingly compact and understated. Young had taken meetings in exquisite board rooms, executive suites with wet bars and couches the size of her bed. In comparison, the sterile space here was a closet, lined with shelves stacked with binders full of paper.

Shaw was a practical man. But he still liked paper.

He was busy staring at his console; Young only merited the briefest of sidelong glances. “Have a seat."

She did, and tucked her hands into her lap to await judgment.

He concluded his business, then turned to face her across the desk. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then shook his head. “I don't even know where to start."

Shaw was a brute of a man, broad-shouldered and deep-chinned. When his hair had started to grey, he had simply buzzed it off, but left the moustache that now gave him the appearance of a hard-bitten planetside police chief. It was an image he cultivated, and one that dovetailed nicely with his straightforward attitude. Shaw was an administrator, not a physician, geneticist, or researcher. But he knew his work, and the station.

Young flexed her fingers in her lap. “I suppose we could just rip the bandage off."

“All right. Well, let's air all the laundry. You fucked up. I know it, you know it, and the Board knows it. Thank God, most of your colleagues don't, unless you've told them too." He paused. “Have you?"

Young shook her head. “No, I… I limited my confession to you."

“There's that, at least. Why?"

Young knit her brows. “Why did I do it?"

“Why did you tell me? Seems strange to appropriate Project resources, break high protocol, and then turn around and confess. If you wanted to be thrown in the brig, you could have just asked for it."

Despite herself, Young smiled. “I… suppose I knew you would find out sooner or later. Someone would. It was better to rip the bandage off, like I said. Get it over with. You're not stupid. And I know I couldn't have gotten away with it."

Shaw sighed and slumped back in his chair. His eyes fell to her abdomen. “Show me."

With only brief hesitation, Young pulled aside her coat and lifted the hem of her blouse. Four weeks would not have been enough for a human child to show. It was more than enough for a hybrid engineered for accelerated growth. The swell in her abdomen was taut, plainly visible even across the desk. It was only the obscuring effect of her loose blouse and lab coat that gave her cover right now. In a couple more weeks, not even that would suffice.

“Fuck's sake. I was hoping this would turn out to be a bad joke." Shaw rubbed at his temple with one hand.

“I'm sorry it wasn't."

“Yeah, me too." He shook his head. “God. If it was anyone other than you, I'd have already thrown them out of an airlock, you know that, right? Do you realize how much this threatens the Project's integrity? I had to explain to the fucking Board, in person, how one of my top scientists decided to go rogue."

He turned away before his face could betray anger, but Young saw it flash in his eyes before he fixed them on his console. “And not only rogue, rogue with the fucking Epsilon strain of all things. They're already a pain in my ass, and half of them don't even have the woo-woo. And you want to make more of them? Unplanned ones?"

Young shifted in her seat and looked away.

“That, or, what is probably more fucking likely, those,“ he stabbed his finger toward Young's stomach, “are a security risk. A serious one. And now so is your lover, by the way. If he's willing and able to do this, what else is he going to do? And how exactly do you propose we control that?"

Young bristled and shot a glare sidelong at Shaw. “Epsilon is not hostile. He wouldn't do anything to sabotage the Project."

“Yeah, because impregnating my lead biotech is just a dandy way of showing how much you value integrity."

“It wasn't just him –“

Shaw cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “He's a weirdo, but he's not a puppet. He could have simply not, however much you fluttered your eyes at him. But he did, and you did, and now we've got…" He threw up his hands. “And even if he wouldn't, you've got a few big-ass question marks inside you right now, don't you? There's plenty of variability in personality. They're people. What if one of them turns out to be a killer, or a sadist, or even just a garden-variety rapist?"

Young grimaced. “We know how to raise children not to become monsters."

“Sometimes, it's not up to you. Sometimes people are just monsters no matter what you do. We've got monsters up to our eyeballs." He sounded tired, suddenly.

They sat in silence for a while, Young fidgeting in her lap, and Shaw rubbing at his eyes. Eventually he shook his head.

“Fortunately for you, and him, the Board agrees with you."

A sharp pang stabbed Young's heart. She hadn't been aware of her own lurking dread until Shaw's revelation drove it back into hiding. “They do?"

“Go fucking figure. They won't have to be here if one of your pets decides to disable atmosphere, or knock up the rest of my employees. But yes. They agree with your assessment that Epsilon doesn't pose a security risk. They've recommended a few additional controls on the strain's numbers and rearing protocols, but they think this is an…" He grimaced. “Opportunity." He fixed his eyes on Young. “Which means, incidentally, that we're not going to make you abort."

Another primal fear, manifest and vanquished in the blink of an eye. Young shuddered, clamped her hands around her knees. “T-Thank you."

“Don't thank me. I'd have drowned you in the shit. But I'm not going to tell them no. It's their Project. If they want to risk it on twee sentimentality, I don't get paid enough to fight them."

Young swallowed. Goosebumps still prickled along her arms. “Still, I don't think you'd want me to be… walking around openly. Like this."

Shaw nodded. “You're right. You're getting six months of planetside leave."

Young sprung to her feet. “Six months?! The pregnancy will be over in another two!"

“Sit down and shut up." She did, instinctively. “You ought to be glad we aren't doing worse. Congratulations, you get a six-month paid vacation as your reward for taking unnecessary risks." He hesitated, then a glimmer of compassion wrestled its way through the rigid set of his jaw. “Look, Young. You've been working with us nonstop for, what, nine, ten years now? How long have you even been planetside in all that time? You need a break. People need breaks. When they don't get them, they make dumb, emotional decisions. Case in point."

“My work –“

“Isn't going anywhere. We've got a hundred-year timetable on this, and you think six months is going to put you out of the action? Don't argue with me. You're going planetside on the first supply freighter out. Some fresh air and real weather will set you straight. I want my good old doc, not an emotional wreck."

Young slumped in her chair. Six months wasn't a death sentence. And she would get to experience rain again, real rain, from a real sky. But it would be hard to wake up every morning without a driving force behind her steps. “What about…?" She brushed her stomach.

“You'll give birth planetside, at one of our facilities. I'll get you the details before you embark. They'll come back on a freighter once we're sure they're not going to cause it to crash into the station."

Her stomach clenched. Four months without her children. And Epsilon's strain matured so quickly – it would be like missing the first year of their lives. Or the first two. Would they even recognize her, when she returned?

“It could be worse," he said, watching her face. She nodded mutely.

“By the way, the next freighter out? Two days from now. They're offloading now. You'll be escorting some genetic material back." He snorted. “Try not to impregnate anyone with it en route."

“I'll try." Two days. She felt numb. There was no way she could wrap up her current tasks in two days. She'd barely have enough time to pack. “What will the official story be?"

“You're going planetside to deliver the material and head up some local research efforts at a satellite lab, after which you'll remain on the surface for a little vacation before returning to your regularly-scheduled duties."

Young nodded. “All right. I'll… I should go start packing, then." She rose.

“Good idea. Now get out. I've got a lot of excuses to make on your behalf."

Young turned to leave, but stopped at the door when Shaw cleared his throat behind her.

“Young."

She looked back over her shoulder. “Yes?"

He hesitated, brows knit, then exhaled. “Look, I know why you did it. But the next time you feel like making a colossal fuckup, come talk to me first. We'll figure something out that doesn't give me a migraine."

Young smiled. “Understood." She left the Chief to his excuses, and returned to her quarters with clouded thoughts and mixed emotions.

* * *

June 29, 219 CY

22:12

It was the last night she would see the false rain for six months.

Sleep came poorly and with great difficulty, and in the end she was left to stare at the wall, hands roaming over her taut stomach beneath the sheets. Everything had happened so quickly. Weren't such fateful decisions supposed to be months, years in the making? Where had her sense of duty gone, that stolid but reliable determination? Since when was she one to drown in petty envy?

When the distention of time came, pressing in against her temples, she sighed with relief and sank into the vertigo. She might have gone to let him in, or maybe he was there all along, like before. She didn't know, or care. He was seated at her bedside, fingers stroking her hair.

“I'm leaving," she said. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Oh, I know. You can hardly keep secrets from me."

“You're not upset?"

“At you? Oh, my dear shadow. You will be back." One of his hands slid the sheets back, crested the peak of her belly. His fingertips brushed about her navel, claws prickling. A tingle ran up her spine. “As will these."

Her hands closed around his, as if she feared his withdrawal. Beneath them, his palm shifted to lay flat on her skin. “I'm sorry. I risked you. Your children." Their children. Shaw's words from the day before still lurked at the edge of her perception like a boogeyman.

Epsilon's eyes crinkled and his ears flicked forward. “I'm quite capable of risking myself, thank you."

Young's grip tightened. “They're afraid of you."

“Of course they are. I don't blame them. I'm certain I could cause them a most tremendous amount of trouble, if I wished."

“But you don't." She tried to force it into a flat statement, to eliminate the question from her tone. She felt ill for even implying the possibility, for even entertaining it.

But all Epsilon had for her was smiles. “No. I quite like humans. Why, there's a fair bit of human in me, as I'm led to understand. I'm fond of higher cognition. And fingers are quite useful." He tugged at a lock of her hair, and she laughed in spite of herself.

The laughter did not last. She closed her eyes and tried to settle back into her pillow. Even with Epsilon's soothing strokes, she remained wide awake. “You shouldn't. We're not good," she murmured.

“No," Epsilon agreed. “Many of you are quite wicked." His weight shifted on the bed, and he lay next to her, his weight and warmth soothing against her side. His breath fluttered along her shoulder and throat. “But you are not wicked, either."

It almost made sense, in the haze. “The things we do to one another…"

“Terrible things."

“I'm trying to be morose." It was not working terribly well. She knew it was there, lurking in the deep water like some oceanic predator. But the surface of the ocean was glass.

“You wish to be judged. I'm afraid you'll have to look for someone else. My punishments are of a different vein." She could feel his smile without sight, and remembered the blows of his hips against hers, his vise-grip on her wrists.

“You are all lovely shadows," he murmured, voice pitched low, now close to her ear. “Dappled darkness fleeting through a haze of light." He drew a long, deep breath. His chest pressed against her side. “Such patterns."

Something fell into place. She wished she could have had the pleasure of being surprised, but Epsilon would not allow such a prickly intrusion into their quiet time. It was obvious, anyway. At least she could not feel foolish for not making the connection earlier.

“You're an empath."

“Obviously."

“That's how you knew –“

“I can hardly run my devilish little fingers through what I cannot perceive, now can I?"

“Am I really that... do I really want… that?" Her thoughts blended into one another, fluttering fear and excitement. Again she felt the violence of his hands on her body. The memory was sharper now, her own skin dimpled beneath his thumbs in her mind's eye.

“Worse."

Her fingers flexed against his hand. “And the others?"

“Oh, let them have their shadows. You don't leave them with much else, after all."

Coming from anyone else, it would have been a judgment. But she could not find the shame she sought. Was it Epsilon's doing, or hers?

“Do you think I'm…"

“Terrible, yes. Quite a monster."

It didn't feel as awful as she thought it would, to hear it said aloud.

“Dozens of ruined lives, the cruellest and most dehumanizing conditions – you're practically a slave trader. Why, I myself have helped ruin eleven women on your direct command. And there you remain, nose down, eyes focused, working yourself to death."

Young nodded minutely.

“Do you know why?"

Did she? It took her only a moment to grope the answer from the dissociative haze. It was a question she had already answered once before – one that she had to, in order to live with herself. She nodded again.

“Why?"

“Because it's… what we do is important. Very important. To humanity. It's not just a… a hobby. It may be the most important thing anyone has ever done."

“More important than the lives of these poor women? The children of rape, raised in creches?"

She wished she could have hesitated more. The most she could do was wet her lips, but even then the word was already coming. “Yes."

“More important than your life? Enough for you to break yourself, as you break others?"

Her breath caught in her throat. This time, she did not begrudge the flow, the suddenness of truth laid bare, terror and release in equal measure.

“Yes."

She opened her eyes to look up at him, found him liquid in the moonlight. She blinked, and moisture fell from them, streaming down her cheeks. Some dim and distant part of her, the trained biologist, found it fascinating that she could experience tears so freely, without the choking accoutrements of sobbing.

He drew a finger over her eyes, just long enough for her to make out his white-fanged smile in the darkness. He leaned down to press his nose against her forehead. “There we go. There's the heart." And then he was blurred again, wet and murky in the blinding flow.

They fell for a long time.