Samara’s eyes darted around the compartment, before shaking her head as if she were trying to dislodge something. “Blye warned me there’d be complications from the surgery…”

... Samara, how can I convince you I am not a product of your imagination? Guardian asked her, his voice strong and adamant within her mind.

She held up her hands as if to ward off demons. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you... aren’t... real!”

A sound much like a sigh seemed to echo within her ears.

... I regret the necessity of this, Samara. Please understand this is only a demonstration, and that I am, in fact, real.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, before rolling her eyes in frustrated exasperation. “Great, now I’m arguing with my hallucinations…”

Her spiel ground to a halt, staring in horror as her right hand reached up and slapped her across the face, hard. Twice. She fought to pull away, but it was no longer obeying her commands. Every other muscle in her body she still controlled, but from the shoulder down that limb was under new management.

“Give it back!” she screamed.

... Of course. But now will you listen to me? Guardian requested.

And just like that, she was in control again. She flexed the hand and arm several times for confirmation, before stumbling over to the bed and collapsing with a bone-weary shudder. “Doesn’t seem like I have a choice, does it?” she said in defeat.

... You always have a choice, Samara, though I admit this seems the simpler of your options. The voice... Guardian... sounded more relaxed now, as if he were settling in for a friendly chat over tea. I am, however, confused. You informed your companions that something healed you on three separate occasions, and they informed you they had witnessed you performing actions that seemed out of character. I therefore do not understand why direct communication is so difficult for you to accept.

“Wait, you were spying on us?” she snapped, before sighing once again and shaking her head, more gently this time. “Okay, a little ironic for me to be complaining about that, I admit. But... were you?”

... No, Samara, you were not under surveillance; he assured her. I merely accessed the information directly from your central nervous system. It is how I learned your language, and the method by which we are communicating now.

“Wonderful. Telepaths,” she spit out. “You damn Tu’udh’hizh’ak. It’s not enough to hound us to the edge of space, you have to invade our minds, too!”

She felt more than heard yet another deep sigh. I am not a Telepath, at least not in the way you understand the term, Guardian explained. Nor am I one of the Tu’udh’hizh’ak. We are…

He paused, weighing his words. Our true name would mean nothing to you, he decided at last, and a direct translation would mean little more. So instead, if it helps, think of us as, “The Faithful”.

“Religious fanatics. Great.” She froze, cocking her head as her eyes narrowed at a blank bulkhead. “What do you mean ‘We’?”

... Religion? he asked, confused by her remark. There was another pause, this time accompanied by an odd sensation, as if someone were tickling the inside of her brain. Ah, I see. No, we are not adherents of a religious sect, although I admit there are certain parallels…

“Stop that!” Samara shouted. “If you have a question, just ask me! Don’t go digging it out of my head!”

... Of course. My apologies. Yet another long pause. To answer your second question... I am merely the first among equals. The device you discovered, the Repository, contains many such as I.

“So you’re Avatars,” she slowly nodded. “That explains a lot.”

... Again, while close, that term is not entirely accurate either. Yes, long ago, I and the others had a physical, biological form, though one that differed from your own. But we are not an offshoot of our race, merely the continuation of it.

Samara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

... If I understand the term correctly, your ‘Avatars’ were once like you. Yet instead of continuing a mortal existence, they chose a noncorporeal one, encoded as bits of data. Is this correct?

“Sounds about right,” she agreed. “I’m not an expert, though.”

... I imagine if there are any inaccuracies, the analogy is still sound, he informed her. But where I and the others of the Repository differ, however, is that this was not some arbitrary choice we made. It is instead how the Faithfull continue to serve at the end of our existence. Our physical bodies may have expired... yet we live on.

That one floored her. Samara blinked in shock. “You mean... you’re dead?” she said softly.

... Our physical forms departed long ago, yes; Guardian agreed. As the end of our life draws near, our minds are copied and downloaded into the Repository, or others like it, so we may still contribute if someone requires our skills.

“God, I need a drink,” Samara muttered, before plunging ahead. “But you could have become Avatars when you were still alive, right?”

... Yes, but we chose not to follow that course, he told her. We feared that the creation of such a radically novel form of existence, one that lived in tandem with our original selves, would create an unhealthy divisive element within our society.

Now it was her turn to sigh. “Remind me to tell you about the Clan Wars sometime,” she said sadly, before taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Okay, you said we needed to talk. So talk. Why did you contact me?”

There was another long silence.

... Samara, he said at last, I... we... need your help.

It took almost ten minutes for Samara to stop laughing. Guardian waited patiently until she had herself back under control.

“Our help?” she snickered. “Have you looked around here lately?”

... Not in any detail, he demurred. Our creators designed us to interface with biological forms, not electronic ones. I cannot access your computers directly.

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, if you had, you’d have learned that the Tu’udh’hizh’ak shot our ship to hell, our command Avatar suffered an... accident, we are deep within enemy space, and pretty much every race out there wants us dead. Just what exactly is it you think we could possibly do for you?” she asked him, her words laced with dripping gobs of sarcasm.

Another odd sensation washed over her, different from before. This one felt as if she were back in Rehab and had just failed yet another test under the Therapist’s ever-watchful eye.

... Samara, surely you must recognize the futility of prevarication regarding events we ourselves took part in, he chided her. Your Avatar “Rook” did not suffer from an accident, he was instead deliberately dismantled. His very actions proved him to be a threat, so once you were healed, we assumed control of your physical form and dealt with the matter.

“And you can do that any time you want,” she whispered. “Just... take control. Like with my arm.”

... Yes, Samara, Guardian admitted, though we only intervene under emergency conditions.

“Uh huh... and just whose definition of ‘Emergency’ are we talking about here?” she demanded. “Yours, or mine?”

Guardian was suddenly, strangely silent. Samara grimaced as it confirmed her worst fears. “Just as I thought. Alright ‘Guardian’, here’s where we part ways. Get out.”

... I do not understand.

“Then I’ll make it easy for you. Get. Out. Of. My. Mind.”

There was another long pause.

... I am sorry, Samara. Truly, I am. But I regret I cannot do that.

“Somehow I suspected that would be your answer,” she sneered. “Are you saying that you can’t, or that you won’t?”

... Does it matter? Guardian asked.

“Ultimately? I suppose not,” she acknowledged. “But I want you gone, Guardian. I won’t be your pawn.” Her fists clenched and unclenched as her skin rippled in waves of transformation. “Too many people have forced me to dance to their tune, and I refuse to play that game anymore. So, either you get out, or I will take you out.”

... And how do you propose to do that? he asked. If you were planning on injuring yourself again, you must realize by now just how pointless an effort that is. If you were thinking of jettisoning the Repository into space, I will immediately assume control and prevent you from doing so.

Samara seethed with rage, as Guardian blithely informed her he could counter her every move. “Then I’ll get one of the others to do it!” she shouted.

... Assuming for a moment I would allow you to form the necessary words, or send the proper message, he said carefully, Samara... if you force me to do so... then I will stop them. By any means necessary.

“Damn you, you alien bastard!” she screamed, “damn you to hell!”

Yet another silence, as he regrouped.

... Samara, please, I know you believe you have no reason to trust me, but know this; I am not your enemy. The situation we find ourselves in, it may not be one either would have chosen, yet I believe we can help one another.

“I won’t be your damned meat puppet!” she snarled.

... I am sorry, Samara, but there is no other way. It is the only means by which we may communicate, or that we may render assistance. I cannot... I will not vacate your physical form. Too much is at stake.

“Fine,” she hissed, “you want to play it like that? You say we can help each other? Then help. Get us out of this mess.”

... In fact, we have assisted you several times already, Guardian pointed out. Were it not for our efforts, you and the others would all be dead, or prisoners of your enemies. If there are requests to be granted, I believe it is now our turn to ask a favor.

“... ask,” she said through gritted teeth, dreading what the alien creature would demand from her. But try as she might, she couldn’t deny a single thing he’d just said. The stained butcher knife lay on the deck where it had fallen, proving his point.

Guardian seemed to spend several seconds gathering his courage.

... I wish to see the most comprehensive star chart you possess.

Samara blinked. “I’m sorry... what?” she sputtered.

... Were my words unclear? he asked her. I do not see how that is possible.

“No, they were clear enough,” she said finally. “It’s just... I was expecting something a little more... intrusive.”

... Not at this time, he assured her. I will not lie, it is possible in the future I will make such a request, but not today. A star chart will suffice for now.

“A star chart,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Well, that’s easy enough. Navigation console on the Bridge has the most up-to-date version,” she explained, as she rose to her feet. “Besides, I’ll need to explain you to the others anyway…”

... and just like that, she ground to a halt. Unfortunately, not by choice.

... I would prefer this secret remain solely between us, Guardian requested, though perhaps the word “request” was a shade too mild. Unless of course one used it in the proper context; for example, a criminal entrepreneur “requesting” you hand over your possessions before he did something unpleasant.

... It is for their protection, Samara, he added, perhaps anticipating the direction of her thoughts, and your own. They already have grave concerns regarding your stability and... new direction, may be the most delicate way of phrasing it. Allaying their fears is the wisest course of action.

“And when you play me like a marionette again?” she sneered. “They’re sure as hell going to notice that.”

... Should that occur, obviously the situation would need to be reevaluated, he agreed. Until then, it is best this remains between us. And it is possible that day may never come, Guardian pointed out.

“Yeah, right,” Samara scoffed. “You obviously don’t know us Terrans at all.”

Xeno and Kalypso were right where she’d left them. They must have slept in the command chairs, which were adjustable in case of long flights, but nowhere near as comfortable as an actual bed. They both turned to her as she took a seat at Navigation.

“You look... better,” Kalypso ventured.

“Just needed some rest,” she assured her, as she pulled up the charts.

... Now you must focus, Guardian explained to her. We will assist you, but it will take much concentration on your part for us to assimilate the data.

“... right,” Samara mumbled, before looking up in chagrin. “I need to study the charts, and see if there’s a way out of this mess,” she told them, covering for her mistake, “so if you could both keep it quiet until I finish?”

“Certainly,” Xeno agreed, as Kalypso nodded as well.

“Thanks,” she said with a wave, but her attention was already elsewhere. She started with an overview of the Perseus Arm, staring at the plot as she felt her senses sharpen, her mind honing itself in ways she’d never imagined possible. As she gazed at each section, she could feel the information being siphoned away, past her subconscious, down to wherever Guardian and his pals lived. She still had serious misgivings about all this... how could she not?... but as she’d pointed out to the others, the box had saved their lives long before Guardian decided to get chatty. She didn’t like not being in control of her own body, not one damn bit, but for the moment there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it.

But if that were to change…

Faster and faster the data flew by, as the Repository rolled up their collective sleeves and got down to business. There was no way a mere human could keep up with what they were doing, but then that wasn’t what they wanted her for. She was merely their conduit, and if need be, agent. Lord knew she’d had worse masters since she’d joined the Proteans, but after all this time she’d gotten used to having none at all.

Soon, her mind whispered. Everyone has a weakness. I’ll find Guardian’s eventually, and when I do…

“... Samara?” Kalypso said warily, interrupting her thoughts.

She lifted her head from the display. “Yes?”

The pair shared another of those weird looks. “Um... why is there a bloodstained hole in your shirt?” the other woman asked nervously.

Samara grimaced as she slowly looked down at her belly. She’d meant to change that shirt before she’d gotten distracted.

“... Shit,” she and Guardian said in unison.