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Cellulose & Steel	By : Not-Taylor Category: Misc Books > FemmeSlash Views: 1028 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own HDG or its characters and I don't make money from this work.

Chapter List
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No comment comes from the Affini admiral until she and her charge have returned to their habitation unit. The silence gives Ember plenty of time to consider the day’s events, a fact she’s more than grateful for. It isn’t even dinner time yet, and it’s been an extremely long day. The subdued friction of the air against the tram’s exterior is soothing, though if Ember’s eyes were closed she wouldn’t know they weren’t passing through the vacuum.
She was expecting the therapist weed to berate her about not being “accepting of nonbinary identities.” That’s how those types always speak, never like regular people, always like simulations. At least Verda didn’t do so much of that. It’s still really weird and not all right that they’re trying to steal Ember’s gender and tell her she’s not a real woman for whichever sexist reason. Why, even? There’s no logical reason aside from further taking away her humanity. Unless they’d actually been tricked into believing such things, in which case she has nothing but sympathy. It’s easy to be misled when it seems that everyone who disagrees is evil. If the Affini had played more games before trying to subjugate everyone, they might’ve seen that trick and not fallen for it. It isn’t their fault they don’t understand why it’s not just a set of words.
The trick with the “neurologist,” speaking of words, wasn’t very pleasant either. Then again, Ember couldn’t pretend not to be impressed that Vanessa had refrained from saying anything idiotic in their entire conversation. She knew when to stop pushing and not to force the “mistress” issue. Therapists are always really weird, but she actually treated Ember mostly like a person. It was nice. Plus, she did seem to have read up on sensor dysphoria. And if she’s keeping a sensory organ on Verda, that’s even better. Stars know she needs to be kept in check. Actually… That’s going to backfire, isn’t it? Those things always do.
But Alice… That wasn’t good. She and her “owner” seemed very suspicious. There has to be more to that! Alice can’t just have… given up, could she? She’s got to be better than that… She’s a Terran! Or she was one, a tiny voice in Ember’s mind whispers. It’s a terrible thought. Alice did look happy, and if she really was, then Ember damaged that happiness, which would make her the villain. That can’t be right, but it’s logically true. And that would make the affini a hero for injecting xenodrugs? Ember’s finally grasping Affini morality. Is her utility really maximized? Is… This can’t be better than what Song could have provided, can it? Song was an excellent protector who cared for its crew. It would never- It failed. It let weeds take and hurt them all. Everything in its power wasn’t enough to save them. It’s a failure at its sole duty. It whines softly. With more resources it would’ve done better. Without invaders with almost supernatural abilities, it would’ve done better. It can’t…
Verda pretends to touch it accidentally. Her prisoner knows better but she also knows why it happened, and Verda’s right. Wallowing won’t accomplish anything. Ember hates being touched, but the point is taken. The Affini are responsible for taking care of her crew now, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it.
Back at Verda’s residence, messages from Evlen are waiting. Ember wonders whether she’d have been allowed to take the tablet if she’d tried. If she had, she wouldn’t be aware of Alice’s struggles and wouldn’t have seen just how disgusting the weeds can be. What’s the use? They’ll just kill her with xenodrugs soon anyway. The “therapy” is simply a hunt for an excuse. They’ll have a party when the last feralist is dead. That’s how weeds are. With a quiet flop onto the couch, Ember prevents itself from making noise, to make sure Verda doesn’t touch it again.
“How did you like your veterinary psychologist, darling?”
“...” It wishes the weed would shut up and die already.
“Was she that hard to talk to?” The way Verda moves indicates she wants to touch her prisoner. How vile. Fortunately she restrains her impulses.
“No. You told her a lot.”
“I did. That saved time, didn’t it? There’s little point in sending you there to repeat what I already know. Do you think she can help?”
“Probably not.”
“Oh?”
“Nobody can help. She wants to make us friends, you know.”
“That’s a worthy goal. I want you to stop being so miserable, and I’m sure you don’t want to continue to make me worry.”
“So it’s about you.”
“Then you’d rather I suffered emotionally? I suppose you can intentionally maintain your issues in order to keep me in pain too. You’re smarter than that, obviously.”
“The way you speak is very manipulative. I still don’t want to be your pet. I never will.”
“Is that what you discussed today?”
“No, we talked about something that might actually be improvable. Or not. Who fucking knows.”
“Would you be willing to share what?”
“No.”
“I see.” She looks disappointed. Her vines bunch downward and toward where her feet ought to be. “Then I’ll leave you to contemplate as you see fit. Dinner will be ready shortly, Ember. I hope you have a suitable appetite.”
Weeds. Ember shudders. Even though she’s been surrounded by them… how long now? Weeks, at least. She still hasn’t gotten used to their little flicking tendrils. It’s like Verda’s covered in a thousand snakes each tasting the air with their tongues. That isn’t a bad comparison either… Ember doesn’t want to think about that. Being around them is uncomfortable. The way they talk is disconcerting, like they’re each in a different musical, trying to sing despite being unable to carry a tune. She can’t explain it. Like movie cults, maybe.
The first time Ember heard one of those things talk is firmly lodged in her memory. It was a while after the Terran Defence War started, before they invaded Terran space proper (not that she ever knew why they made a distinction between that and the more recently acquired space).
The first time could have been when Song had a close encounter with one of their cruisers. They were trying to hack the intercom, but Alice was sharp enough to put a stop to that. If she was to be believed, she’d sent them a virus as a parting gift, something crude enough that a supposedly advanced civilization wouldn’t think to check for it. Song didn’t quite believe that. That wasn’t a criticism of Alice’s skills, just that even xenos wouldn’t be careless around a new culture. Maybe that virus wasn’t even compatible with whichever systems they had running. They never found out how the weeds had gotten a hook into the ship’s systems. It should have been literally impossible with any permissions they could’ve hacked. Starships don’t exactly need exterior wifi.
So the actual first time Song had heard an affini speak was months later. She was present during a battle over a tiny colony on the outskirts of Terran space. They were mining some frozen gas or other. Nobody wanted to live there so it was a very small colony. In the middle of the battle, while Song was focused on fending off their docking vines, there had been a broadcast. She remembers how Ginger panicked. Nobody else was equipped to know what was happening but the two of them. Alice was off duty since there was no need of her skills. Space battles are too frantic and high stakes for minute commands from off the ship. Ginger wanted her to block out the message, but that would’ve been foolish.
“Greetings to the humans of Right-On IV, and to all passengers of Terran vessels in orbit. We’re here on behalf of the Affini Compact and we mean you no harm. All of your needs will be taken care of and you will never be unsafe again. Please stop resisting so that we can better tend you.”
The ship quivers. Those words rang through her decks and all conversation ceased. None of the crew were prepared for that. The looks on their faces were mixed. Some showed horror, others rage. A couple showed resolve. Song wonders where those two went. Even if it was against protocol, how could she keep what she had heard from her crew? They deserved to know. They deserved to hear the voices of the enemy, to understand who they were fighting. It didn’t make a difference, did it?
As a matter of fact, it made a huge difference. Before then, the Affini were a shapeless horde of pure evil, Huns or Russians or something worse. Most Terrans find hating that sort of enemy a lot easier than hating somebody who speaks your language and understands the word “please.” They were weak, some of them. Song and her captain didn’t have much trouble taming them for the time being. One crewman, a weapons technician, muttered that he thought the voice was beautiful. Nobody but Song heard that comment and nobody but the two of them would ever know. The rest of the crew paused what they were doing. Even the plantfucker stopped. Maybe she hadn’t actually heard one speak yet.
In spite of that, Song didn’t stop. She never did. She couldn’t. There wasn’t anything to do but more evasion, more firing, and more distraction. Her weapons weren’t the best and she knew it. They’d do against a weaker enemy, or as support maybe, but she wasn’t built for the front line. Already, that’s where she had to fight. The bigger and scarier ships were falling to the weeds one at a time. Being unimposing was to their advantage.
The Song of Destruction retreated early, technically earning a court martial. Nobody cared. They followed suit a few seconds later. The meaty ones probably didn’t even notice she was ahead of them. Nobody jumped to the same spot in the chaos. The Affini probably would’ve called it a crushing victory. Some Terran officials called it a humiliating defeat. Song called it valuable data. It was expensive data, valuable or not.
Those weren’t pleasant memories. The memories of the crew’s speculation subsequent to the battle weren’t quite as unpleasant. Some of them laughed. They made fun of the voice, mimicking it. Song didn’t think that was very smart, but they didn’t listen to her. Maybe they were right not to worry. Caring gives the beasts power, as they said. One officer crossed himself every time somebody brought it up. Another ship’s crew made a meme dubbing it onto a clip of a Rinan dignitary because as everyone knew, they were ineffectual aggressors, just like the Affini would prove to be, clearly. Anyone who didn’t think that composition was very tasteful was called a spoilsport. Fortunately for Song, her crew didn’t care very much about framing the War in terms of decades old politics. Ginger never said anything. She sat silently, listening to everyone’s opinions. Sometimes she frowned, but she eventually recovered, as most of the crew did.
There wasn’t anything wrong with the message itself. It’s just that by then anyone who’d been paying attention knew about “domestication” and had some idea of what that meant. That was nowhere near the clarity that came later, when reports of occupied planets came in, along with official broadcasts demonstrating the benefits of submission. The Accord hadn’t officially acknowledged what was happening by that point. The whole Cosmic Navy knew all about it, but that didn’t mean much out in the middle of space where they couldn’t spread the word.
That’s when Song remembered the biorhythms. Those are at the core of every affini’s voice, aren’t they? They must be. Every word the weeds speak is an attempt to corrupt and destroy those around them. Song couldn’t have made up a more dastardly villain. They might not even be doing it intentionally. Would they even notice if it’s a part of their standard speech? Song doesn’t register the patterns in her systems most of the time either. Maybe that’s the same thing.
Evlen… He’s probably eager to hear back from her.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Hi Song, what are you doing today?
[membership_plan_11]> chat: I’ve been thinking a lot. How about you, Evlen?
There. A few minutes later, the tablet pings with Evlen’s reply.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Not much. I made sardine pizza because I read it tasted good. It was too salty for me. My mistress compiled some new clothes for me, so I guess that’s something interesting.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Are they awful?
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: No
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: They’re very fashionable.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: I'm so sorry.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Hahaha thanks
[membership_plan_11]> chat: It was cloudy here today. Do you have clouds down there?
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Down? We’re below you?
[membership_plan_11]> chat: You’re outside of us, if putting it that way makes you feel better.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: No, no clouds. I can’t remember the last time the weather was any different.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Interesting.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: We don’t even get wind often. I miss it.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: I haven’t experienced wind in a decade, I think, if we only count real wind. That’s something to think about.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Maybe you and your mistress can find a nice planet to live on. I heard the Affini are bringing terraforming equipment here from wherever they had it.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Really?
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: I overheard a patient talking about it with her owner.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Oh.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: That's one way of taming the cosmos.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Oh! Right!
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Are you two getting along any better now?
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Verda took me to see another fake doctor. I can’t decide if she’s trying to help me or not. Sometimes it just looks like more ways of manipulating me.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: What kind of doctor?
[membership_plan_11]> chat: A “veterinary psychologist.”
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: That sounds scary.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Not very, so far.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: It’s a good sign that your mistress wants you helped, isn’t it?
[membership_plan_11]> chat: Maybe
[membership_plan_11]> chat: The problem is that I can’t tell what she really wants. Sometimes I think she might be taking me seriously, but then she’ll put me on a leash and threaten me with xenodrugs.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: She’s probably worried. I would be. You didn’t see how you were before.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: It was that bad? Nobody wants to talk to me about it.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: I didn’t think it was bad at the time, but knowing you now, I think it was very serious. You should trust your mistress more. Healing takes time. Don’t turn into an angry patient who can’t sit still for an afternoon after breaking a leg.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: That doesn’t sound right. She could’ve dropped her attitude at any time, but she didn’t.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: She sat in your room with you and barely left, you know. She does take you seriously.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: That doesn’t mean she can be trusted. I don’t know.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: “Well. As a change of subject, would you be interested in visiting a park this week? I think you’d benefit from that and we could talk in person.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: That would be nice. I’ve been feeling lonely.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: I figured. Now we just need to figure out where to go.
“It’s time for dinner, Ember.” Verda sets something that appears to be steaming out on the table. It smells like corn.
[membership_plan_11]> chat: I have to go now. Goodbye Evlen.
[Ruby Trunk]> len_pickle: Goodbye!
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Cellulose & Steel