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Nowhere is truly empty. The thought makes me feel lavishly alone. Somehow, space is so deeply melancholy that it’s not at all sad, like a note so low it ceases to sound. Even my sorrow about my insignificance feels insignificant.
A couple words in particular won’t quit my mind: Princelet. Dates. The contempt in Kodiak’s voice when he said each one. In Fédération, we pride ourselves on having moved far beyond the prejudices of the past. I nearly got a skinprint between my pecs saying Labels are the Root of Violence. But it’s like the Dimokratíans are still living in the twenty-first century. Backward, bigoted, homophobic, transphobic. Idiots.
“—the ship, Ambrose! The wear on the ship is too great on the approach, more than mission control predicted. You must finish OS’s tasks as soon as you can. Any defect, like . . . in the old shuttles, will lead to catastrophe. The ship must be . . . pristine to survive the friction and heat. My brother, I love you, there is no one better to—”
I've got a feeling the OS is manipulating him here. We already know it can take on any voice it wants!
I try to keep my tone light, but I’ve noticed a troubling shift come over OS during our conversation. It’s used my name twice, for one thing. I’m not sure if it’s the computer programmer part of me or the deep-space-psychology part of me that leads me to think it’s switched to stricter protocols. Like I’ve hit a nerve.
Intimacy is the only shield against insanity. Intimacy, not knowledge. Intimacy, not power.