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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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All of the pulses and pains in Ember’s head didn’t stop her from paying attention during “class.” Verda had tried to explain things with a chalkboard she’d compiled for the purpose, which happened to coat the two of them in white dust by the time they were done. Even if Verda found the puffs of dust as she banged the brush against the board amusing, it only seemed to make their condition worse. Ember stopped caring once she figured out that she wouldn’t be forced to take a floret bath afterwards.
“I am not cooking,” Verda says in Affini, setting the board aside and sitting down, inadvertently sprinkling a bit of chalk dust as she moves. She seems pleased with her pupil’s progress, and Ember is, too. Starting with grammar seems to have been a good idea, to Ember’s surprise. Liberated from her studies but whiter than before, she looks around to see what there is to do. Based on the light coming through the windows and what Verda just said, it’s probably around 5:00. There should be time to accomplish something before dinner.
In reality, there’s nothing to do besides listening to more music. That would probably be fun, since Ember’s been busy, but it’s also what a floret would do, and that’s not right. Instead, she racks her aching brain for something productive that won’t get her xenodrugged or yelled at. Or bathed. Talking to people doesn’t sound very appealing since she’s been doing so much of that all day long. Oh right, voting. She should do that.
The tablet that had been sitting on the table for most of the day is where she left it, unsurprisingly. No new messages, oddly enough, but the wording of the voting application has been changed. Instead of “somebody & floret”, the text reads “an administrator and an assistant." Very nice. Ember feels oddly satisfied. Everything would’ve been easier if Verda could’ve just called somebody and straightened it out over the phone, or if somebody had bothered to get it right the first time. Well, they do it for free, after all. Ember shrugs and presses the button to support the measure. The edge of the screen brightens to a cheery green for a moment as it accepts the vote. Apparently a reminder will appear in ten minutes to verify the decision. That’s nice. There are still thirty five hours to decide, if Ember wants to change her mind. Something more than a day? That sounds right. She smiles as the task was completed successfully.
Moving on to something that isn’t trivial, Ember is once again stuck with nothing important that needs doing. Of all the things that could be done, none seem that appealing. Would watching another episode from the ,Guide for Wards and Florets be exciting? No! It wouldn’t!
Instead, she mentally goes over the lesson, most of which is still written on the board. Keeping track of the phonology is a little difficult since the equivalents aren’t written, but it’s a good enough reminder, coupled with what she still remembers. Going over the pronunciation of some of the stranger vowels sounds like a healthy use of time. Since she doesn’t feel like torturing herself by transliterating into a word processor with only basic characters, she mutters various difficult phrases.
“Verda the affini is not cooking.” Since being an affini is implied by the part of speech used to refer to Verda, Ember doesn’t literally say that. Translation is weird. “Ember the affini is cooking.” She refuses to refer to herself using the floret-affini-third-not-mistress mode. She simply won’t, when she’s not actively being compelled to. It’s a ridiculous system and Ember will not tolerate that. She will not refer to herself as a floret. She’s a person, and not lower than Verda.
All of the little nuances and turns of phrase have been hard to grasp, but they will come in time. Their irregular lessons haven’t been ideal, but Verda seems to be genuinely willing to teach, when circumstances allow. That’s worth something. Ember scratches her chin with a vine.
Right. Ember has extra vines now. She can walk around blindfolded. She isn’t completely certain what the second sense that the vines provide is, but it’s nice to have. Certain parts of the world around her take on a silvery sheen, layered under her vision proper. How do different senses of sight even have an “under?” Adjustment has been worryingly easy. Terrans don’t have vines, as she’s reminded herself many times. Yet Ember has vines now. How could this be?
It doesn’t matter. Griping won’t change anything. If she wanted to yank the plug she would have done so in front of that engineer. “The green vine touches the sofa. On the chair the affini rests.” The fact that “sofa” and “chair” were Terran words made that construction easier. The way Affini adapts to loanwords is very nice and a bit comforting, but it must be a nightmare to speak a flavor in which several species’ words are borrowed.
“A good floret is petted by Mistress.” That phrase is disgusting but important. It feels powerful. It’s just the sort of thing the Affini would make part of their laws. Ember repeats it until the sounds come effortlessly. “All xenos are cute.” Another nonsense phrase. Lots of them are threats to Terra, such as the Affini.
“Evlen is a cute xeno.” That’s factually correct. Ember smiles and makes sure she can say it properly. “Evlen, you’re a cute xeno.” Even better. “Evlen was a cute xeno. Evlen, you have been a cute xeno.” Now for the triperfect tense, as Verda called it. “Evlen once had the prospect of developing into having had the potential to become a cute xeno.” She isn’t sure that any circumstance exists or could theoretically have potentially come into what looks like the aftermath of its existence in which such a construct would be of value. Again. “Terra once might have developed to where it could have become feralist.” She has trouble believing that this is mostly used in love poetry (which is probably another term for domestication poetry). Ember’s head hurts.
“I saw the fork. I saw the fork affini. I saw the Affini fork. I saw the affini with a fork.” All of those are easy now. She’ll get it right eventually. She has a native speaker who’s willing to teach. Stars, this is actually satisfying. Out of all the struggles and issues and troubles that the pilot has been through, she finally has something that will let her feel accomplished. Learning a language is something far better than stumbling around, playing games with people’s brains, attempting things she knows will fail. It’s better than the mindless hedonism into which Verda has been trying to push her. It’s… the sort of thing she’d have been interested in before. Before Song. Before Ginger. Before the War.
It’s so strange to think that at one time she might’ve become a scientist. A real scientist, who did SCIENCE. That would have been nice. In a few years she’d be finishing her dissertation and the galaxy would’ve been hers. Rich people always wanted a researcher for their latest idiotic idea. The Cosmic Navy always wanted somebody to tell them their superweapons would work. Then there were the universities, where Ember could’ve taught. Just… gone. Unobtainable. Ember used to have the prospect of becoming a real scientist and looking back on how her life gave the potential to follow that path. For now, Ember simply used to have the prospect of having become someone who’d been given that option. Now she feels stupid. That’s obviously what she was letting herself feel confused about.
Having had enough, she turns to her tablet. No messages. She opens it and looks again. Still no messages. She refreshes. “Would you like a label that says how many times you’ve clicked this button, petal? I can keep your high score.” Even the text on the screen is mocking her. She decides that maybe another look at the Guide really is in order.
Headphones on, Ember clicks the icon. Stars, that’s weird. She can see all around her, even as some hair falls onto her face as she leans down toward the tablet in her hands. That vision is blurred and strange, almost black and white in some places, but Verda is all too clear. The affini shifts in her seat, reacting somehow to Ember’s gaze. She doesn’t know how to look away, so she tries to focus on what she’s doing instead of… that. The screen is actually visible in this spectrum, too, not well, but legibly. That’s fascinating and disturbing at the same time.
Scrolling up and down wildly is a decent method of randomization, in Ember’s opinion. She jabs the screen with a finger and accepts whichever video plays. Maybe it’ll be good. A floret appears, as usual, with a diagram of a Terran brain. She looks awake. This might actually be interesting. The speaker’s dress is white with blobs of red on it, and the second thought that comes to mind is “brain surgery that’s so comically awful that blood spills down onto the patient’s body. The woman’s voice has a colonial accent that Ember can’t place. Probably one of the older colonies.
“Hello, audience. My name is Denise Forsythia, first floret of Arinda Forsythia, sixth bloom. I’m not sure why I’m the one to tell you about this, but somebody had to, I guess. Today we’re talking about the implantation process. If you don’t know about implants, and I mean actually know, not just having heard the lies the Accord told, then go back and watch the twentieth video in this series. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Oh. She thinks she’s funny. A meme would make sense here, but Ember isn’t up to figuring out which template to apply.
“Implants are good and you should want one. They make your mistress happy. They make you happy. That’s all you need to know. Right. Um, implantation doesn’t hurt at all. That’s the most important thing to remember. Affini surgery is just like surgery on Earth, but better. It’s rich people surgery, but better, basically. Everything is clean. Everything is fresh. The vet who operates on you probably has a century of experience on a dozen different species. Implantation is completely safe.
“The scary part is the anticipation. If you’ve been operated on, you know what I’m talking about. The xenodrugs they use to put you out feel really weird, but it’s not bad. I’m glad I only needed it once, but it’s not the most unpleasant thing. It’s more like a bad rush hour than anything else. If you’re lucky, your mistress will be with you the whole time, so there’s nothing to be scared of there. She’s not needed, obviously, aside from your comfort.
“Of course, the implant goes in your brain. The vet cuts a tiny hole here (she points) and pushes it in all the way to here (points). Then it’s given some kind of super nutrient to grow, and it latches on, hopefully putting its little graspers in here and here (two more locations). Then the operation is basically done, and everything but the implant comes out- Oh right, this is the thing (she picks up a pointy metal object). This is the brain stabber. It looks scary and sharp because it’s a medical device. You’d rather it not be dull.”
The presenter laughs, but Ember doesn’t think the joke is funny at all.
“It’s a very small hole, but it’s still brain surgery, so you still need time to heal. Usually, you’re good enough after a few days, but not fully recovered, according to what I read. Believe it or not, you don’t have to stay at the clinic very long. You get to go home and be taken care of by your mistress.
“Over the next few months, the implant spreads first to… these spots, then these, and finally these, each time, giving your owner more control over your neurological functions. If you have a particular issue, the implant will target the pertinent areas first, then go for everything else. Honestly, I have no idea why I’m doing this. We don’t need to know the details, but… I guess it’s useful. Anyway, the implant starts secreting xenodrugs to ensure that your immune system doesn’t reject it as soon as it latches on. You’ll start to feel it growing inside of your head at the same time. It’ll be hard to understand because of the xenodrugs that are stopping you from freaking out, but that’s what the weird sensation is going to be. Eventually it’ll take nutrients from your food and work with your brain to manage the rest of your body, but that’s not what today’s subject is about. I can still feel it, of course, but mine isn’t growing any more.
“What was I trying to explain? Right. Lots of xenodrugs are needed to ensure it takes root properly. They’re mostly to keep you from agitating the healing process. From the two vets I asked in my insane efforts of research, the xenodrugs are more important in keeping you from getting an infection than in actually healing anything internal. I was walking around in two weeks! It’s really effective, so be confident. You can do this. If you’re even thinking about an implant, your mistress believes in you. If you believe in her, then you know you can handle this. It’s something almost every floret before you had undergone safely. Your personality won’t change and you won’t be a zombie. I’m certainly not. Just… remember that any dreams you have during the operation are dreams, and nothing more.”
Now that’s what Ember would call cryptic! Implantation dream? While she’s certain that from a medical standpoint that would be fascinating, she doesn’t particularly care. No implant for Ember. The growth through her brain of weed technology sounds miserable and vile. There’s no way she’d tolerate such a thing. Xenodrugs to stop the body from fighting off an infection are just what the Affini would impose on everyone.
One thing is certain. Almost the first place the implant expands is to the brainstem, precisely in the location where Ember’s junction resides. If she’s to receive that parasite, they’re taking away the only thing keeping her together, as horrible as it is to endure. The pain and the shame are nothing compared to the pain of real sensor dysphoria. That means… She’s been getting used to these things. Seeing how the camera picked up the presenter’s heat emissions made her want to keep these senses, as alien and unnatural as they may be. She’s starting to like them. Not as much as she did her real senses, but still. Her senses as pilot, she means. Terrans don’t sense gravity. Stars, she’s really starting to believe she’s a starship, isn’t she? Ember is no such thing. She’s a Free Terran, and that’s final.
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Cellulose & Steel