Danger to Oneself and Others Chapter 3-5

Chapter 3

As she stared down the barrel of a gun, Clara had no choice but to finally admit it: she wasn't just paranoid, the plan was definitely not going well.

* * *

Four days after her first visit to the brig, Clara was in the process of finishing up a disappointing meal in the mess hall, when she caught the very first sign that things were on the cusp of falling apart. Up until then, things really had seemed to be on track. With Clara’s guidance, the other captives had kept up their continuous broadcast. Even after severing her connection to the other implants, wherever she went, she could hear her song quietly permeating the entirety of Hyperion’s Lantern. For the first few days, Clara had been confident she’d practically already won. It would have only been a matter of time before the rebels were sufficiently under the sway of her song. From there, the affini would be able to swoop in and claim the ship without any risk of last minute, spiteful retaliation against Clara or the imprisoned florets. The matter of contacting Annularia was still an obstacle, but Clara had been certain she could find a way.

But, as Clara crossed the length of the ship’s mess hall to return her tray, her wandering eyes fell on one of the many occupied tables. There, she saw Sally—the woman who’s deceit had tricked Clara into leaving Annularia in the first place—sitting and chatting with a small cohort of other soldiers. That alone meant nothing, of course. What caught Clara’s attention, was the fact that every one of them wore some sort of electronic earpiece in either ear. Clara had never seen such earpieces before, which struck her as odd, considering they cropped up out of nowhere. Still, at the time, Clara had thought little of it. Or rather, the rational part of her brain had told her it was nothing. It wasn’t.

Later that day, Clara was taking a moment to herself, attempting to relax in one of the ship’s rec rooms, only to be joined by an uninvited guest. As she lounged on the lumpy sofa, trying to relax and instead hyper fixating on her plan, Sally strode up to Clara, and sat down next to her.

“Lieutenant Bailey,” Sally murmured coolly.

“You can just call me Clara, you know.” Admittedly, Clara would rather Sally not call her anything at all, but it was best to keep up the impression that Clara thought of Sally as a friend.

Regardless, Sally seemed to ignore the gesture, instead getting straight to the point. “I was just wondering about your little pet project, the one with the rescues.”

Clara eyed the girl suspiciously, “I can’t really disclose how that’s going right now. Kind of a secretive assignment.”

With what was obviously feigned surprise, Sally exaggeratedly raised her eyebrows, and placed a hand over her chest. “Oh, stars. My apologies, then. It’s just that, well, y’see Lieutenant, I have this friend who works down there. And he tells me that the rescues are hardly in any sort of fighting shape. He says they’re just as whimpery and afraid of everyone and everything as ever.”

“It takes time to undo affini brainwashing,” Clara replied flatly.

Eagerly, Sally leaned on. “Oh? Is that so, it’s just, you got over it awfully quickly. And I know you’re a soldier and all, but I’d think you could find a way to help them considering it only took you a matter of minutes and, well, it’s been days.” She gave Clara a smug grin, then made a show of catching herself, and showing an apologetic hand. “I’m just concerned, is all. There are a lot of people on this ship who say you’re actually a traitor, and I wouldn’t want them to think the wrong thing about you. A lot of them are saying that, well, some people just aren’t cut out to be soldiers. And whatever those weeds did to you, and did to them, it can’t be undone.”

Anger rose in Clara’s chest as she realized just what Sally was up to, but two could play at such games. “You’re right, they aren’t cut out for it. Which is why I’m remaking them. They won’t be the same people when I’m done. They’ll be new, better. Just like the affini made me more than—better than human—I’ll do the same to them.”

Sally leaned in close, eyeing Clara with unmasked suspicion. “Is that Lieutenant Bailey talking, or is that Clara Sepal, First Floret talking?” She didn’t wait for a reply, instead electing to stand from the sofa, and depart as quickly as she came in.

If the matter with those strange earpieces was enough to rouse Calra’s suspicion, her conversation with Sally was enough to set her properly on edge. Things only grew worse that evening. After her ‘duties’ were complete, Clara had elected to pay her fellow captives a visit. It was important she saw them as often as she could; she was the only emotional support and guidance the poor florets had. Besides, helping to lift their spirits was one of the only things that could put Clara in a good mood. But the moment Clara entered the cell block, she could tell something was different, wrong. Her song was in complete disarray; the harmony was completely gone, and in its place was the dissonance from before.

Clara wasted no time. She rushed down the hall, coming to a skidding halt before the cell in question to find the prisoners huddled together as usual, looking more distressed and terrified than ever. It had taken nearly an hour to properly calm them all down enough to get a few answers out of them; when she finally succeeded Clara had almost wished she’d never asked. Three rebels had paid them a visit, they’d told her, standing outside their cells and gawking at them. The exact details were lost on Clara, probably lost on the florets as well. Still, the gist of it was clear: the rebels had wanted nothing more than to toss every last one of the captive florets—Clara included—out the airlock.

And of course Clara knew that; she wasn’t naive. She knew as well as anyone that there were sure to be plenty of rebels on the ship who would love nothing more than to see her lifeless body float off into the endless vacuum of space. Still, hearing that from the florets she was supposed to be keeping safe, it was different. Logically, Clara knew that a disgruntled few rebel troops wouldn’t be able to do much. Even so much as trying something like that would be grounds for they themselves to be spaced. That didn’t make her feel any better.

Clara had a responsibility to keep her fellow captives safe. It was her own fault they were even in the whole mess to begin with; she was the one the rebels had wanted, not a bunch of random pets. If something happened to one of them, Clara would never be able to forgive herself. The worst part was, she couldn’t even find the strength to do something about it. That night, Clara had her first relapse in days. She spent hours cowering in her bed, clutching her pillow, crying for her owner, waiting for sleep to take her, half convinced she wouldn’t wake up.

Of course, morning did eventually come for Clara, who found herself stressed and sleep deprived, but otherwise back in control of herself. The incident with her wards was, of course, still fresh in her mind. But with a bit of distance from the initial panic, Clara felt she could tackle it practically. She would need to do a bit of sleuthing, but if mutinous sentiments were spreading through the ship, Clara was sure she could get Trapper’s help on the matter. She just needed to get out of bed and do something about it.

Over the course of the week or so which Clara had spent trapped aboard Hyperion’s Lantern, she’d developed something of a morning routine. Primarily, this consisted of her staring into the mirror, deliberating over her implant's continual growth, worrying that things may have finally gone too far. Really though, who was she kidding? Things had long since gone too far. There was never a point where they hadn’t; none of this was even supposed to have happened in the first place.

It had, though, and as a result, Clara found herself standing in the mirror with her shirt off, trying to process the fact that the entirety of her back was now hidden by a blanket of leafy flowers, each producing a constant, slow trickle of Class-E and Class-C xenodrugged pollen. And that was only the beginning, in the days since Clara had first forced her implant to sprout out into the open air, the snaking network of vines just below the surface of her skin had only continued to expand further throughout her body. She could see them. They wove through her flesh like veins, coloring the skin of her neck, shoulders, and upper arms with an intricate web of green, and those were only the ones Clara could actually see. Honestly, Clara had no idea how deep and how far the network of plant-matter ran.

Perhaps it was luck, perhaps her implant simply knew to limit its growth through Clara’s thoughts, but thankfully, there were no visible roots or flowers on any part of her body which Clara could not easily cover up. That didn’t keep Clara from wondering: how much of her was still Clara, and how much of her was just the implant? Was she even ever in control? Or was her every thought and action simply put into her head by an implant marionetting her about the ship?

Of course, Clara knew she wasn’t her usual self. She knew that the only thing keeping her together at times was the constant steady drip of xenodrugs—the rather uncommon sort meant to actually improve cognition, awareness and coordination—from her implant, feeding her artificial confidence and bravery. Then again, maybe it didn’t matter. Clara was alive, the other florets were alive. Ensuring that never changed on her watch was all that really mattered. Existential questions could wait until everyone aboard Hyperion’s Lantern was safely in the clutches of the Affini Compact.

After dressing, then composing herself, Clara took a moment to muster her purpose and drive, then turned to leave. That was when she heard a pounding at her door. Hardly a moment passed before her lock was bypassed, and the doors to her quarters slid right open. A gun was pushed into her face. Two men, each armed, and wearing familiar earpieces calmly stepped inside.

* * *

They were speaking. Possibly saying something about an ‘authorized search’ of Clara’s quarters. She was too terrified to form the words to ask who, exactly, had authorized this. It probably didn’t matter anyway; they were likely lying. Doubtless, the two jarheads had—correctly—assumed Clara was a plantfucking traitor and, deciding it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, deputized themselves to find proof. With Clara too paralyzed by fear to actually stop them, they would probably find such proof in no time if they checked under her bed, which, of course they would. What kind of idiot hides things under their bed? She was going to die, wasn’t she? Even if they didn’t just shoot her on the spot as soon as they found their proof, Trapper would surely be either unwilling, or unable to halt the demands for Clara’s swift execution.

Besides, considering their earpieces, and the fact that Clara was fairly certain neither of them had been among those rebels she’d seen the night before, they were almost certainly acting as part of a coordinated splinter group within the ship. They likely had some degree of weight and authority behind them, even if this wasn’t an officially sanctioned search. Once they found their evidence they would kill Clara and then kill the imprisoned florets and—oh. Clara could move again. She could think; she could act. Still, something drastic and rash was out of the question, at least for the time being. While Clara was fairly certain she was a good bit faster than either of them, she wasn’t so confident she could disarm the rebel currently waving a gun in her face before he could pull the trigger. Even if she could, if shots were fired there would be an investigation into why, which meant attention and trouble. The only real small mercy Clara had was that, at the very least, the second rebel was occupied with searching her quarters; so once Clara dealt with one, the other would need to turn around and draw his weapon before he could pose any real problem.

Keeping still, with her hands up, Clara examined her first obstacle closely. Given everything, Clara had to assume whatever these rebels were wearing on their ears had to be related to her song, probably something intended to block out the sound. Did they know what she was up to, then? Probably not, Clara could still hear her song playing in the background through the ship speakers and—she could worry about that later. The most important thing was figuring out what Clara could actually do about her current situation. And, on that note, Clara had to wonder… even if their earpieces were actually effectively reducing, or even completely blocking out her song, three to four days had passed between the time she started her broadcast, and when she first noticed anyone wearing those earpieces. Surely they had at least somewhat begun to attune to her biorhythm, right? Between that, and the fact that at this point the air in her room had to be thick with xenodrugs from her implant’s flower pollen, Clara was fairly certain she could subdue the two of them peacefully and quietly.

Confidently, Clara locked eyes with the rebel standing before her. He had just finished shouting something to his companion, but honestly, Clara couldn’t care less about what these two had to say to one another. Nothing which might come out of their mouths could possibly have much value, at least, not until they each had a bit of an attitude adjustment. To that end, Clara began to take slow, deliberate breaths; each inhale and each exhale timed perfectly with the beat of her song. These rebels could wear whatever the hell they wanted over their ears, there was no way Clara’s beat hadn’t at least saturated their subconscious minds to some extent.

And there it was. Just from looking at the rebel, Clara could clearly see something start to shift in his stance, his posture, his gaze. He had noticed her breathing. His mind had latched onto a familiar pattern; he probably didn’t even realize he’d done it, but there he was, focusing more intently on Clara with every breath. Hardly any time at all had passed before Clara’s assailant began to adjust his own breathing to match hers. The tension in his body was evaporating, the focus in his eyes dwindling. In perfect time with Clara, the rebel took a long, heavy breath of the pollen-laden air. Clara’s implant kicked into high gear, counteracting the xenodrugs entering her lungs while, at the exact same time, she began to enjoy the distinct pleasure of watching those very same drugs take effect on someone without such a useful and cooperative piece of plant matter embedded in their spine. The soldier’s eyelids drooped, and his grip relaxed as he began to lightly sway on his feet in perfect time with Clara’s song.

Lowering her arms, Clara plucked the gun from her new friend’s hands, and quietly crept up behind the second rebel, who was currently tossing her dresser with his back turned. There was no doubt this second rebel was already under the effects of a light xenodrug dose, all Clara had to do was push him over the edge. A flicker of realization seemed to dawn on the first rebel as his mind finally caught up with reality. She heard him call out the beginnings of a warning; it was too late. With quick, deft hands, Clara plucked a flower from her back, pounced on the man’s back, and stuffed the flower into his face. “Breath deep for me, little rebel,” Clara cooed, the flow of her words synchronizing perfectly with her rhythm. There was a moment of struggle as her opponent attempted to shake her off; it didn’t last long. With a lungful of Class-E’s straight from the source, the second rebel collapsed with a thud.

Whirling around, Clara faced the first again, who wore an expression of confusion, worry, and exhaustion. He made no move to attack her, but just by looking at him, Clara was fairly certain he would try to run soon if she didn’t do something. Luckily, a sufficiently drugged and subdued terran was hardly difficult to control. A single command was all it took. “Be still.”

Finally certain she was in no immediate danger, Clara took a moment to catch her breath, leaning hard against a wall. Her head tilted backward to rest, but her eyes never left the two subdued rebels. Part of her wanted to just collapse back into bed, but she knew that would be risky at best, deadly at worst. That led her back to her original point: something had gone wrong with her plan, but, with two subdued and drugged up rebels at her disposal, Clara was fairly certain she could find out what.

Chapter 4

In a spot of good luck, Clara managed to convince her two new friends to follow her into the brig with little difficulty. She was also fortunate enough to not run into any prying eyes as she guided a pair of heavily sedated soldiers through the corridors of Hyperian’s Lantern. In fact, Clara’s section of the ship was eerily quiet, except for her tablet, which had been blowing up with communications from someone, Clara hadn’t bothered to check who from. The possibility that those two things were related occurred to Clara; she put it out of her mind. It was a problem for later, dealing with this immediate threat was more important. Once inside the brig, Clara briefly checked on her wards, ensuring they were relatively calm and briefly tuning up her song for maximum effectiveness. With that, Clara got to work. She locked the door to the cell block, sat the two rebels just outside the florets’ cell, cuffed them, shoved a Class-C laden flower in each of their faces, removed their ear coverings, and waited.

There was something to be said about the simple pleasure of watching a person slowly slip away and under control. Seeing their eyelids droop, their bodies slump. Drugged and exposed as the two rebels were to the full force of her song, Clara could practically see their wills dissolving into the cacophony of her rhythm. Satisfaction welled up inside her, and, in turn, Clara heard that satisfaction radiate outward from her and into her song, reinforcing and rewarding the descent of her captive audience. Was this how affini felt? Clara wondered. Did they feel this same satisfaction and empowerment watching a floret sink into their control? Probably not, for them, it was just as much, if not more an act of care and love.

Clara felt no affection or attachment to the two men who, if they’d had their way, would have gleefully spaced her along with the florets she was in charge of keeping safe. Part of her wanted to exact some sort of vengeance, to hurt them, to break them, though not in the fun way. She wouldn’t, though. For the time being, Clara needed them. In their current state, they would make useful tools; the combined force of Clara’s drugs, and her song had—at least temporarily—stripped them of any resistance. Clara would have no trouble getting information from the pair. After that she could—something abruptly clipped away that line of thought, leaving Clara to confront the reality of where it was taking her.

In that moment, Clara felt so unbearably human. No, that wasn’t entirely right; she felt Terran. A floret, freed from all stress, trauma, responsibility and conflict could be human. But a floret, or at least, a sufficiently adjusted floret, wouldn’t dream of exacting cruel vengeance on someone. It was Terrans, burdened by struggle and anger and anguish that would think of doing such things. Clara didn’t want to be that way, not again .

An uncomfortable truth came to Clara. Until that point, she hadn’t thought much at all about who these people really were. In her mind, Clara had depersoned them. They were rebels, and, more importantly, enemies. And, to be fair, she wasn’t without reason for doing this. They had tried to kill Clara, and, since meeting Citrodora, Clara had found herself quite fond of being alive. They would have killed the florets under her protection, which was an unthinkable outcome. As such, Clara had seen them as no more than the monstrous acts they sought to commit. Logically, she was certain few would blame her for this. Clara was in the thick of a life and death struggle. And besides, she was human. Nobody would expect her to hold the infinite capacity for forgiveness of an affini. But she’d said herself, the affini had made Clara more than human; she had to be better. These rebels were misguided; they could be shown the error in their ways. Clara would be the one to do it.

Slowly, Clara paced a circle around the pair; then, with a huff, she pulled up a chair and sat down, facing the two of them. For the first time since they’d barged into her quarters guns drawn, Clara really looked at the two rebels before her. Really, neither of them were much to write home about; they were a pair of youngish looking men. The taller of the pair, the one whom Clara was fairly certain had been looking through her belongings, had darker hair than the shorter one. Really though, Clara wasn’t much for men to begin with. Still, the point was to actually see them, to humanize them.

She was doing her best, but the reality was, just looking at them, Clara felt more as though she were staring at a pair of wild animals than she was at members of her own species. That wasn’t to say wild animals didn’t deserve empathy, but it was far easier for Clara to find kinship and common ground with florets, or affini, or even something so foreign as a non-affini, non-human independent sophont, than it was for her to see any of herself in these feralist extremists. Clara could change that, though; that was the whole point. Nodding to herself, Clara sat back in her chair, then eye’d each rebel in turn. “What are your names?” She asked; really though, it was more of a command.

“Chief Petty Officer Blake Wilcox,” the taller of the two droned. Nodding, Clara turned to the other, giving him an expectant look.

“Ensign Vernon Fredrickson.” Realization dawned on Clara; she’d heard that name before.

“You’re the ship’s Quartermaster, aren’t you?” She asked.

“Yes Ma’am,” Fredrickson replied in a distant voice. Clara couldn’t believe her luck, if she could keep the Quartermaster under her thumb, her life would get a hell of a lot easier. But that would have to wait. First, she needed to unravel whatever conspiracy she’d been caught up in.

To that end, Clara gave her next order. At this point, aligning her speech to her rhythm was practically second nature. “Tell me everything. Who told you to search my quarters. Who are you working with and why? What are you wearing over your ears?”

“Admiral Decker,” Wilcox explained. Of fucking course. “He’s being held under arrest in his quarters. Trapper gave me, along with a few others orders to keep him guarded while she decides what to do about him. And he—he started talking to us. He’s a real free Terran.” Clara could start to see the cracks emerging in her hold over Wilcox, but she made no effort to stop him, not yet. “He started telling us about how you were a plantfucking traitor. How you were bonded with a piece of one of them and you were under their control. He said you were going to sell us out to the plants.” Anger was starting to edge into the man’s voice, but it never quite crested above the heavy weight of sedatives keeping him subdued and distant. “He asked us to find like minded crewmembers so we could take the ship back, that’s how Fredrickson joined us. Fredrickson and I didn’t want to have to fight our own crew, so we decided to try and find proof ourselves and just have you spaced under Trapper’s orders.”

“So I was right, there’s a mutiny in the works.” Clara wasn’t exactly thrilled to have her suspicions confirmed. “How many of you are there?”

“Don’t know,” Wilcox grunted. “At least fifty, maybe more.” Hyperion’s Lantern only had a crew of around three hundred; if that number kept growing, Clara would have a problem. “A couple of days ago Decker was talking about some kind of auditory brainwashing the affini use to subdue their prisoners.” Apparently Wilcox either still hadn’t noticed Clara’s song, or didn’t care to connect the dots. “He had Fredrickson issue these earpieces, said they were designed to protect against it by playing white noise into the ear, kind of like a noise-canceling headphone.” At that, Clara couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Against her own song, a knockoff imitation of a real affini biorhythm played through the tinkling speakers of a ships intercom, there was a good chance the tech worked. But there was no doubt in Clara’s mind a bit of white noise would do nothing against the real thing. Still, she didn’t have the real thing, unfortunately, which meant those earpieces posted a problem.

“What’s the plan for the mutiny?” Clara asked. On cue, Clara could see conflict flashing over both of her captives’ faces. Perhaps asking them to betray their plan entirely was going too far, but she would fix that. Standing, Clara pressed the two Class-C producing flower’s she’d plucked off her back right up to the noses of each rebel. Subdued as they were, neither rebel made any effort to stop her, only continuing to take slow, deep breaths. “These flowers you’re breathing right now, they’re very special, did you know that? The drugs they produce do a lot of things, but what they do best is take someone’s sense of empathy, and amplify it to what some might call an excessive degree. Personally, I think empathy is one of those things it’s hard to have too much of, though.”

Smugly, Clara seized Fredrickson by his chin, and forced him to look up into her eyes. “Look at me, dear. I’m a person, just like you are.” In a smooth motion, she stood aside and moved the man’s head so he was looking into the cell containing Clara’s wards. “You see those people? Kept in a cell for the crime of surrendering to a force far more powerful than them. They never hurt anyone. Don’t they look scared? Hurt? Alone? Your admiral would see them spaced, or worse, experimented on and tortured. He’d do the same to me. He’d do the same to anyone he thinks is a traitor, no matter how little evidence there is. But you don’t want that, do you? You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t want to hurt them. You don’t want to hurt anyone.” As she turned the rebel’s gaze back to herself, Clara could see tears forming in his eyes. “Vernon, listen to me. If I don’t stop Decker, so many people will suffer. You need to tell me what the plan was. I’ll protect you from retaliation, nothing bad will happen to you while I’m here.”

Growing Class-Cs was the right choice; Clara was certain of that. The effects were pronounced, without being obviously noticeable in a way to arouse suspicion. More importantly, they were the best choice she had for deprogramming the more viscous tendencies of a typical rebel. Looking into Ensign Fredrickson’s eyes, Clara could see that playing out in real time. “I… I don’t want to see anyone hurt,” he choked, voice full of emotion.

“I know you don’t,” Clara cooed. “So just tell me.”

“Don’t let them find out,” he begged.

“I won’t.”

With a defeated sigh, Fredrickson nodded. “Decker is afraid of you.” Despite everything, Clara couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride hearing that. “He’s especially afraid of what will happen if you have the rest of the prisoners in fighting shape as well, so he had us call for back up. We’ve been in contact with his ship, Halcyon Thunder, as well as Solar Breeze. Both are on their way to our location under the guise of helping us fight the affini ship that’s chasing us. Once they arrive, though, Decker has instructed me to arm his men, and, with two more heavy gunships backing him up, he’s going to kill you and Trapper, and probably the prisoners too. The jump drive engineer is one of ours; he was instructed to sabotage the drive to prevent Trapper from running. It’s likely already been done.”

One word immediately came to mind. “Fuck.” This was more sophisticated than she’d thought. “How long until they arrive?”

“About three days.” It was a tight timetable, but Clara could work with it. A plan began to crystalize in her mind. Admittedly, it was really scattered pieces of the plan she’d already been working out in her mind. With a looming threat, however, Clara had no choice but to put what pieces she had together, and make them fit. And really, while a mutiny was hardly a good thing, Clara was fairly certain she could actually use it to her advantage. It gave her an excuse, a justification, a way to get Trapper on her side and making decisions she might otherwise have avoided. She could also use her two new friends, especially the Quartermaster; it was absolutely critical that she kept her control over the pair from slipping, but Clara had an idea for how she could keep them nice and drugged, along with the rest of the ship.

With that in mind, Clara took a moment to repeat her little empathy speech on the very sedated Gunnery Sergeant Wilcox, grabbing him by the chin and subjecting him to a rousing speech about keeping his fellow man safe from suffering. Sufficiently satisfied with Wilcox’s response, Clara nodded to herself, and had her implant synthesize a counteragent for her Class-E sedatives—but not for her Class-Cs; if Clara’s new allies suddenly lost their newfound consciences, that would be a problem.

Clara brought them up from their sedated stupors, uncuffed them, and returned their earpieces. “Make sure you wear these, but don’t bother with the noise canceling, okay? There’s no such thing as affini brainwashing through sounds; that’s ridiculous,” she lied. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll return to your normal duties as part of this ‘mutiny,’ you won’t tell anyone about what happened today. If anything changes that requires my attention, you will find a subtle way to tell me about it, but neither of you are to put yourselves at risk.” Clara turned to address Fredrickson directly. “When the day of the mutiny comes, Quartermaster, you’re going to keep the ship's weapons under lock and key. From there, Trapper and I will clean things up. Got it?”

Both men nodded, and Clara smiled. Her confidence was coming back; she could pull this off. “Good, now, I’ll let the two of you go. Lay low, don’t arouse any suspicion. And make sure you drink lots of water, okay?”

As the two shuffled out of the brig, Clara took a moment to ground herself. Things were moving fast, but her plan was going to work. Putting on her best comforting smile, she turned her attention to her florets. First things first, she would need their help to contact Annularia. Then she’d need to pay Admiral Trapper a visit. Once Clara explained to Trapper that there was a mutiny going on, and that they were planning on drugging the water supply, the Admiral would have no qualms sending Clara down to life support to conduct a thorough investigation of the ship’s water filtration system. After all, if something got inside that, the entire crew could be compromised in a matter of days. And it truly would be a shame if someone who, just as an example, had a veritable garden of xenodrugs growing off her back were to somehow gain access.

Chapter 5

The amount of risk and uncertainty wrapped up in what Clara was attempting to pull off was honestly something she tried not to think about. Truthfully, she had no idea if it was even going to work. And, even if it did work, there was no guarantee Annularia was within comms range of Hyperion’s Lantern. Then there was the possibility that someone on board could somehow pick up her transmission. Or the possibility that—she stopped herself there. The point was to try not to think about it. With a slow breath, Clara grounded herself in the moment, and looked out over her fellow captives. Each of them wore an expression of intense focus, but focus on her and her alone. Clara was certain their implants were working in overdrive to limit their conscious perception and experience of this entire ordeal, which was for the best, they were weak. Weak in a way Clara wished she could be. Weak in a way that allowed them, practically required them to be sheltered from the hurt around them. And Clara was going to get them home.

With practiced familiarity, Clara reached out with her implant, and joined the little network the florets had synchronized to. Using her rhythm as a guide, Clara took hold of that same signal she’d used to broadcast her song, and reached out into the space around them. Guiding such a signal using a conventional sense of space and direction wasn’t exactly easy. It was an intangible and formless thing, barely more than a concept. Still, Clara had memorized and rememorized the layout of Hyperion’s Lantern for this exact moment; she was prepared as she’d ever be.

Like creeping, intangible vines, Clara probed through the ship, reaching ever outward, keeping her focus as laser-like as she could on her goal. And then, as though the signal had a mind of its own—one completely oblivious to the amount of agonizing Clara had done over whether such a feat was even possible—she felt it slip neatly, cleanly and easily into the ship’s comms unit. Clara couldn’t stifle a grumble at that. Of course affini tech would find a way to make even this easy. For all she knew, they had probably even already thought of this exact scenario playing out and designed the implant with such functionality in mind. Casually, Clara drew a connection between Hyperion’s Lantern’s comm unit, and her personal communicator. All that was left was to just send her message and hope this worked.

With her communicator to her mouth, Clara realized something: she had no fucking clue what to say. It did matter, there wasn’t enough time to deliberate over this. She began to speak. “This is Clara Sepal, First Floret, contacting Annularia, or any other affini vessels within the system. Myself, along with all the other captured florets are alive and physically unharmed. The situation on board is dangerous, but not out of my control. I have just learned that a rogue faction within the ship has knocked out our jump drive and called for aid from two other rebel ships. Once their backup arrives, this faction intends to carry out a mutiny, and ultimately either execute or medically torture us. I am working to counteract their plans and keep myself, as well as the other captives safe. In three days time, the additional ships will arrive. Using a combination of artificial biorhythms, and xenodrugs manufactured by my implant, I believe that by the time said backup arrives, the entirety of the ship’s crew, including this mutinous splinter group, will have been pacified. I’m sure you are aware of this. I’m sure this is the main reason I have not already found myself back in my Mistress’ arms. But still, I need to make sure you are aware: if any affini vessel were to attack Hyperion’s Lantern without the crew on board having already been sufficiently pacified ahead of time, it would likely result in a retaliatory attempt on my life, as well as the lives of my fellow captive florets. Before I end this message, please be aware that I do not have control of the ship’s comms. Do not send a reply unless you are certain it will reach me, and me alone… I need to go. Please inform the owners of the captured florets that they are alive. Please inform my owner that I am alive. And… tell her that I miss her, that I love her.”

Clara severed her implant’s ties to the comms unit, and gave a shuddering sigh. In all likelihood, Annularia, or some other affini vessel was hiding somewhere inside the system, watching and waiting for a safe opportunity to strike. They had to be. If she was wrong, all that was for nothing. Hyperion’s Lantern didn’t have any FTL comms, even if it did, she’d have no idea how to go about pinpointing where in the vastness of space her recipient was. Her only hope was that the affini had managed to successfully track the fleeing rebel ship’s jumps up until this point, and that somewhere within comm range, they were waiting in the wings to mount a rescue.

The urge to dwell on the possibility of failure was laid out plainly and clearly for Clara to indulge in should she choose to. And it was tempting, to agonize over whether she’d just sent a message to noone, or, even worse, that it had been somehow picked up by someone aboard Hyperion’s Lantern. If it were only herself Clara needed to worry about, she may well have allowed herself eagerly fall right into that trap, but she couldn’t. Instead, Clara focused on the next step of her plan.

She bade each of the florets an individual goodbye, giving Lyssa a particularly affectionate hair ruffle, then began to march purposefully out of the brig. As she walked, Clara withdrew her tablet, and, seeing how many notifications she had, suddenly remembered the thing had been blowing up with messages earlier. At the very least, Clara now had an idea as to why. As though to prove her point, just then, Clara received another message. This one, like the rest, from Admiral Trapper. She took a moment to catch up on her messages, though didn’t bother to slow her purposeful stride. Among increasingly frustrated demands for her to pay Trapper a visit, Clara learned exactly what had riled up the Admiral so much. Apparently the drive engineer had taken a less than subtle approach with his attempt at sabotage, and had been found out of breath, standing over a pile of broken machinery and clutching a loose pipe. Clara had to assume there was a more subtle and elegant way of accomplishing the same thing, but admittedly, the vast majority of humanity’s best and brightest had already come to the obvious conclusion they were better off living in the luxury of fully automated post scarcity instead of whatever ‘Free Terranism’ had to offer.

Either way, Trapper wanted to meet with Clara in her office, which was certainly convenient. Picking up her pace, Clara made a beeline through the ship’s corridors toward Trapper’s office. Stopping outside the door, Clara gave two sharp knocks, and, a moment later, was bade to enter. Seated before an old Mahogany desk which Clara couldn’t even begin to imagine finding a way to fit through the door, was Admiral Trapper, her brown creased and an impatient frown on her lips. “I first asked for you over an hour ago, Lieutenant, I expect a good reason for your lateness.”

Clara gave a curt nod, and a salute. “My apologies, Ma’am,” she replied. “I think you’ll find the tardiness justifiable. In fact, I suspect its actually quite relevant to the reason you asked after me in the first place.”

Gesturing to the chair before her desk, Trapper gave a small nod. “Have a seat, Lieutenant.” Clara did as she was asked, and, after the admiral gestured for Clara to explain herself, she visibly relaxed, then got to work constructing her narrative.

“The ship’s Quartermaster, along with another junior officer, paid me an unsolicited visit this morning. They came with a warning: Decker is planning a mutiny. They weren’t sure how many people Decker has on his side, but they told me his plan. I would have come sooner, but they were already taking a great deal of risk visiting me to begin with, and I did not wish to squander the opportunity.” This was, technically, not a lie. Of course, Clara was omitting a very important aspect of the truth, but if she revealed the true nature of their visit, Trapper would have questions when Clara suddenly turned around and claimed the pair were loyal to her now. It would be best for everyone if the admiral never learned of the pair’s initial hostility. “The sabotage of our drive core was part of this.”

The gravity of the situation setting in, Trapper sat back in her chair, and poured herself a glass of whiskey, then a second for Clara, which she slid across the desk. Clara reached to take the glass into her hands and, as she did, felt a sudden urge to dip the tips of her fingers into the liquid. Perplexed, she shook her head, and banished the though, returning her focus to the matter at hand. Across from Clara, Trapper took a slow breath, chewed her lip, then, in a sudden explosion of movment, slammed her fists against the desk. “That fucking bastard. Do you have any idea how many good ships I’ve lost because of his fucking ego? If it were up to me I’d toss him out a goddamn airlock, but sadly, even with Terra gone, there is still the matter of politics to consider.” Growling, she slumped forward, and glared across the table. Even knowthing that glare wasn’t meant for her, Clara had to admit, it was quite withering. “Tell me everything,” Trapper commanded.

Her opportunity at hand, Clara did exactly as she was asked, going into great detail about everything she’d learned. She even mostly told the truth. Of course, the part where she used affini biorhythms and xenodrugs to convince the pair to betray Decker was omitted. There was, also, of course, the bit where Clara completely fabricated a plot to drug the water supply, but Trapper, like everyone else aboard the ship, was days into listening to her song. Within reason, Trapper would trust Clara implicitly, so long as Clara spoke with rhythm.

By the time Clara finished her explanation, Trapper had calmed herself into a still, quiet rage. Her face a mask of calm, the admiral took another slow drink, then swirled the liquid about in her glass, watching it with detached curiosity. After a moment of consideration, Trapper returned her gaze to Clara. “What do you suggest we do about this, Lieutenant?”

“If we spook them before we’re ready to respond, they might lash out. We should make them think their plan is working, while taking it apart. I suggest you have all weapons and non-standard issue equipment be returned to the Quartermaster. They’ll be annoyed, but accept it since they think the Quartermaster is on their side. I’d also recommend you restrict access to life support. I can personally check the water and air filtration systems every day to ensure nobody has snuck inside, if you’ll allow me to. Decker is afraid of me; he’s afraid of the rest of the captives and what we’re making them into. When the day of his mutiny comes, his people will be unarmed, and outmatched. We’ll keep our distance from the other two ships, and not allow them to dock with us. They won’t open fire so long as their fleet admiral is on board. Once the threat on board is dealt with, we’ll find a way to diffuse the situation.” It was crucial that Clara convince Trapper to ostensibly wait and let things play out the way Clara intended them to. If everything went according to plan, Decker’s people, along with just about every person aboard Hyperion’s Lantern would be pacified, and Annularia could swoop in and secure all three ships before things got too dangerous.

If Clara had to guess, she’d call Trapper receptive, but skeptical. “What about the plants? They’re not going to just wait around.”

Clara bit her lip thoughtfully. She’d need to choose her next words carefully. “The plants won’t come after us unless they’re certain they can also prevent anyone from trying to kill me or the other rescues. They don’t like it when people hurt their pets.”

Though Trapper seemed to at least understand, and agree, she didn’t look particularly pleased with that answer. “It’s only a matter of time though, isn’t it? I’m not naive, Clara. I can’t look into the future and see what things will look like fifty, or a hundred years from now, but I know neither of us are going to live long enough to see a free Terra. The only way I’m ever leaving this ship is either as one of their captives, or…” With her thumb and forefinger, Trapper mimed aiming a pistol into her mouth, and pulling the trigger.

“Which is exactly why we need to deal with this problem before they decide to act,” Clara insisted. “Nobody on this ship will be able to repair and operate our jump drive within the three days. Our only choice is to find a way to resolve this schism within our own ranks as peacefully as possible.”

With a sigh, Trapper gave a nod, and seemed to relent. “You have a point, I suppose. I guess I’m just tired of all this.” For a moment, it looked like the admiral was about to elaborate. She stopped herself. “I’ll send out the orders you requested, have the ship’s Master at Arms confiscate any weaponry from crewmates—though, just, keep your pistol in your quarters, okay? I’ll make sure he knows to make an exception for you—and I’ll have ship security limit access to life support.” She paused, withdrew a tablet, and tapped it a few times thoughtfully. “And there, I’ve just granted you the same clearance to every part of the ship that I have. Just… get this done, and make sure by the end of this you’ve made a proper fighting force out of those rescues.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” After a few moments of tense silence, it became clear Trapper had nothing more to say. Clara made a silent exit, and wasted no time. She immediately struck out for the rear of the ship, where life support was located.

When she reached the door, Clara hesitated for a moment. This was her boldest move yet, if someone where to find out about this, things would get ugly. Then again, if she didn’t do this, things would be even worse. She swiped her access card into the room’s scanner, the door gave a satisfying beep, then click, and Clara stepped inside. Working quickly, she crossed the room to the ship’s water supply, popped the hatch, and took a deep breath. Feeling a tad awkward, Clara peeled off her uniform, then began to pluck flower after flower from her back, depositing them into the water supply. Within a matter of minutes, the pollen in the drugs would have absorbed into the water, lacing it with that same mix of sedatives and empathy boosters Clara had used on the two intruders. It would serve a dual purpose of pacifying the ship, and ensuring her new allies stayed drugged up enough to not have a change of heart.

Once she’d plucked her last flower, Clara shut the hatch, and took a step back. It was done, she was past the point of no return now. One dose batch of drugs would likely not last the full three days, so her implant would have to make more, and she’d need to return daily, but this would work; it had to.