Her first surprise was when her jailors took her back to the spaceport. She’d expected several more days of interrogations at the very least, but when she thought about it she realized there wasn’t much she could tell the Kikush they’d be interested in.

Or so they think, Samara smiled to herself. In fact, she had learned something potentially very useful on her mission to Earth regarding the Tu’udh’hizh’ak. Few had ever met a member of that amphibian species face-to-face, as they handled the bulk of their affairs through a client race, the rodent-like Chell. With good reason, for the triangle-headed salamanders were guarding a secret.

They were telepaths.

That information alone was priceless, though she suspected the Kikush would hear about it soon enough from other sources. The Tu’udh’hizh’ak had tried to turn her and two other humans into their unwitting agents; luckily one of her gifts made her resistant to mental coercion. With no insignificant amount of luck they had freed the others from their psychic hijacking and had in turn traded that information to the Oivu, merchants to the galaxy.

But it seemed the Kikush merely saw her as an operative; skilled in her trade, but ultimately a tool to be wielded and no more. That was fine by her. It was better to be underestimated by one’s captors if you ever hoped to escape their clutches. And it went a long way to explaining why she was being returned to the scene of the crime, the space yacht Ghidhi Ji.

The vehicle she was being transported in came to a halt in front of the ramp leading to its main hatch. Her compartment was sealed up tight, and they’d taken the additional precaution of shackling her. Avian guards rode in front and behind her, their weapons at the ready, exciting the vehicle the moment it stopped. They formed a protective cordon surrounding her as they opened the vehicle door and motioned for her to get out.

“We will escort you to the ship’s bridge,” the detachment’s commander explained. “There your warden will meet you. Do you understand?”

Samara held up her chained wrists. “Could you remove these first?”

“Not until we have secured you aboard the ship,” he informed her, gesturing for her to head for the hatch.

With a sigh, she did as they ordered, though she had to wonder why they had chosen this craft. Availability, perhaps? She’d have to ask her “warden” about that, that being the alien Avatar she’d dubbed Rook. Samara had no complaints about their choice, given it was the same ship she’d tried stealing herself. Hopefully, they’d repaired the damage she’d caused, otherwise this would be a very short trip.

Mounting the ramp, one of her Kikush guards moved to open the hatch. In a backhanded sort of way, all this security as a chaperone was a compliment, though one she would have happily done without. Once inside, they took her directly to the bridge, confirming her suspicions, as Rook’s image appeared on the main viewer. “Remove her shackles,” he commanded, as the chief custodian pointed a handheld device at her and pressed a button. The device sent out an invisible signal, the proof of which being said handcuffs unlocking with an audible click and then falling free.

Samara massaged her wrists as her guards filed back out of the ship, while Rook locked the hatches behind them. She was still a prisoner then, as she’d known she would be, even if her cell was now mobile. “When I said we needed a ship, I didn’t think you’d get this one,” she said wryly. “How did that happen?”

“We purchased it from the previous owner,” the alien replied. “It is well suited for your needs, and its former proprietor was properly compensated for his trouble.”

She made a quick inspection of the bridge. They had repaired her handiwork; not being a Tinker, the Kikush had done a far more capable job of it than she could have managed. “So where exactly did I go wrong the first time?” she asked. “I thought I’d covered all the angles.”

“If you inspect the underside of the captain’s chair, you will discover a recessed button,” Rook explained. “Pressing it activates a stand-alone security module. If one attempts to start the ship’s engines three consecutive times without engaging the device, it acts both as a kill switch and triggers the vessel’s other security protocols.” The Avatar seemed to smile for a moment. “As you yourself discovered.”

Samara reached down and found the toggle. “Clever,” she said in grudging admiration. Pity she hadn’t known that before she’d tried stealing it.

“You have yet to provide us with a destination,” Rook reminded her. “Do you have a target in mind?”

“Not a target, no,” she answered, shaking her head, “but I have a system for you to plug into the navigational array. Markeb.”

The image stared at her in confusion. “My stellar catalog does not recognize that name.”

“Figures,” she grimaced, rising from the command chair. “Pull up your charts.” Numerous star maps began appearing on several of the monitors, as Samara began scrutinizing them one after another, until finally zeroing in on the system she was searching for. “Here,” she announced at last, jabbing it with her finger. “Kappa Velorum.”

The star blinked as Rook locked it in. “What is it you seek in that system, Samara of Earth?” he asked.

The Protean closed her eyes. “The Island of Misfit Toys,” she said softly.

Her parents put her to bed after the Knight examined her, but Liva couldn’t fall asleep. The nice doctor had watched her walk with her crutches, asked her to grip his fingers as hard as she could, looked into her eyes and listened to her breathe, before sticking her with a needle and taking some of her blood. She hadn’t cried out though; she was a big girl, and it hadn’t hurtthat bad.

Not as bad as the headaches, or the pain in her arms and legs and tummy.

Liva knew she was supposed to be sleeping, but she could hear Mama and Baba talking to the nice doctor, so as quietly as she could she slipped out of her cot and onto the deck, crawling to the hatch and pressing her ear to the crack.

“...there must be something,” she heard her Mama say. She sounded sad.

“I’m afraid there’s very little I can do,” the nice doctor said. “MS was a difficult disease to treat even before the Diaspora. Now, with our limited resources? There are some things we can try, but I caution you to not expect any miracles.”

“What things?” her Baba asked.

“There are medications that will help lessen the severity of her symptoms,” the doctor answered. “We’ll also develop a physical therapy regimen you can do here to build up muscle mass and help with her balance and strength issues. Those will help some, but none are anything resembling a cure.”

“So she could get better,” Mama said.

“With a lot of hard work, and a certain amount of luck...yes, she could,” the doctor told her. “But you also need to understand that Multiple Sclerosis is a progressive, degenerative disease. You might well see a slight improvement today, only to watch it disappear forever tomorrow.”

“How long does she have?” Baba asked. His voice sounded funny, like he was choking.

“Even with MS, Liva can live as long as anyone else, but each year her symptoms will continue to degrade. Based on what I’ve seen here today, I fear she’ll be confined to a wheelchair before she turns twenty.”

Her Mama made another sad noise, like she was crying. Liva wanted to give her a hug and tell her it would be okay.

None of them said anything for a while until the doctor spoke up again. “There is...another option…”

“No!” her Baba shouted, as Mama made shushing sounds. “She is our daughter,” he said, not so loud, “and she stays with us. I won’t let those freaks touch her.”

“I understand,” the doctor said, “but they have access to therapies I don’t. In certain extreme cases…”

“I said no!” Baba shouted again. “They can’t have her! I’ve seen what can happen. She could end up a monster.”

“It’s true there is no guarantee the therapies will be successful,” the doctor agreed, “and yes, sometimes things do not go well. I wish to point out, though, that the therapies they have at their disposal are far more effective in children, so if you were to change your mind…”

“We won’t,” her Mama said. When Baba decided, Mama agreed. It was always like that.

Liva didn’t want to hear anymore. All that talk made her sad. She crawled back to her cot and pulled herself up, her skinny arms trembling and twitching by the time she was done. She clutched her rag doll Bunny close to her chest, rocking herself to sleep as the tears dried on her face.

Samara rose and showered before throwing together something simple for breakfast, some fruits and bread, along with some kind of eggs, and juice. Like humans, the Kikush were omnivores, and their dietary needs were mostly compatible. She’d need a supplement now and then for the rarer proteins and enzymes, but her upgraded metabolism was good at scavenging what it needed. Halfway through her meal, she looked up to find Rook watching her eat.

“What?” she snapped.

“Consuming food is something I can no longer enjoy,” he admitted. “If I wish to indulge that craving, I must do it vicariously.”

She set down her fork and leaned back in her chair. “So...you just want to watch me eat?” she said, surprised by his admission.

“Unless you find it disconcerting,” he replied. “Many races have strong dietary taboos.”

“Humans don’t,” she shrugged. “There used to be cultures back on Earth that wouldn’t eat certain foods, but we can’t afford to be that picky anymore. In fact, most of our traditions have food at the center of them. Even sharing a simple meal,” she smiled. “We call it ‘Breaking bread’, the image centered on a host tearing off pieces of a freshly baked loaf to share with friends and family.”

Rook considered that for a moment. “A sense of community is important to your species then,” he said.

“It is,” she agreed. “Not yours, I take it.”

“Not to the same degree. We base our social groups around extended family units.”

Samara had speared another fork full of eggs but froze for a split second at the mention of family, though the moment soon passed. She cocked her head at the monitor. “Can’t you simulate eating?” she asked. “I thought Avatars could create their own environment.”

“Yes, I can alter my surroundings any time I choose,” he nodded, as he sat down at a table identical to Samara’s, in front of a plate that echoed her own meal. “I can even instruct my program to register taste and other sensations.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Rook looked away. “Because it is not real,” he said at last. “Any decisions I make to alter my simulation are arbitrary, even if I am mimicking the natural universe.” He picked up a fruit, holding it out to her. “Suppose I decide to make this taste like meat instead?”

She looked curiously at him. “All right, I’ll bite. Suppose you do. So what?”

He shook his head. “Because it is a trap, Samara of Earth. Each adjustment I carry out makes it that much easier to do another. And another, and another. I’ve seen others of my kind travel that path, altering and editing their personal universe into their ideal. Imagine it; a perfect dreamworld, you need never wake up from.”

Samara shrugged. “Some would describe that as Heaven.”

“Some would,” he agreed, “though they would be wrong. Put yourself in my position for a moment, Samara of Earth. Were you to become like me, and you created your own paradise...would you be its sole citizen? Or would you make others to interact with?”

“Eternity by myself sounds tedious, so I guess I would make others,” she said after a moment.

“Almost everyone in this state does, for the reason you just mentioned,” Rook informed her. “Now ask yourself this. Are those individuals you created real?”

“Umm…” She had to think about that one. “I suppose that depends on your definition,” she ventured. “They exist, so they’re real in that sense, but if you’re asking if they have a soul, a vitality of their own, I’d have to say no.”

“And yet, given the time and aptitude, you could improve their programs to where they are indistinguishable from physical beings,” he continued. “Are they real then?”

“I’d have to fall back on my previous answer,” she told him. “That it depends on your definition.”

“I imagine that’s true,” he nodded. “For me, the answer is no. They would lack free will, incapable of independent thought and actions. A sophisticated algorithm, and no more.” Rook suddenly seemed to grow wistful. “But I have seen others fall into that trap, creating their own perfect world. Old friends suddenly break off communication, for you can never compete with their perfectly crafted fiction. Worse, you will occasionally find they have created a simulacrum of you, also edited, perverted into something you barely recognize. The person you discover they always wanted you to be.”

She could picture that scenario playing out all too easily. “I take it you’ve experienced this for yourself,” she said carefully.

“Many times,” he answered. “The lure is powerful, because it is so very easy, and so incredibly pleasurable.” Rook seemed to actually shudder at the thought, but it must have been a trick of the light. He shook himself out of his reverie. “Only by constant diligence can you avoid its seduction.” With a wave of his hand, the meal he’d conjured up disappeared. “Otherwise you risk being shelved, locked away forever from the outside world after you’ve turned your back on it.”

Samara raised an eyebrow. “You’re a strange one, Rook. If you really feel this way, why did you agree to the transformation?”

He avoided her gaze. “I had my reasons. I do not expect you to understand.”

“...I might surprise you,” she said softly, only to quickly shake it off. “Never mind. Not important.”

“Indeed, it isn’t. We have a mission to complete. That should be our focus. What is our first target?”

“I don’t know yet,” she confessed. “I assume you have files on the Troika?”

“I do,” he nodded.

“Great. Download them to me. Maybe they’ll spark an idea.”

“They are available for viewing, Samara of Earth.”

She pulled up the first folder while she finished her breakfast, scanning the data. There had to be something here, some place that was vulnerable, someone important who had left themselves exposed. Had to be.

Otherwise, things would get a lot more complicated.