Djaer tossed and turned in a fitful sleep.

Here he was again, that cottage in the countryside, the big blue door, the swing in the garden under the oak tree… Home... A comfy bed, a glass of warm milk, his mother reading him a bedtime story.

He nuzzled against his mother. Her voice trickled through his dreams.

“Stop! Stop!”

She had raised him, cared for him. Saved him.

“Scans indicate high likelihood of neurological nonconformity. Recommend termination.”

Insufficiently ideal. An Almost-Meitagenan.

“STOP!”

She had rescued him. Somehow an Ascenter had infiltrated the breeding planet, and saved him. 5 days old, a screaming, bawling, baby scourge-of-the-galaxy, an Almost-Meitagenan, but she had taken him far away, raised him as her own.

“STOP! Djaer!”

Ma?

A cottage in the countryside, on a planet far, far away. A big blue door. A swing in the garden under the oak tree.

“Ma, why am I so ugly?”

“Don’t ever say that, Djaer. You’re perfect.”

“I’m different.”

She let the swing come to rest, put her warm hands on Djaer’s shoulders, stroking him comfortingly.

“Yes, you are different, my son. You are a Meitagenan.”

“What’s a … Muhtagy-um?”

“A very powerful, very clever race of beings.” She walked round in front of the swing, knelt down and brushed her son’s hair out of his eyes. “The rulers of the galaxy.”

His eyes widened.

“The whole galaxy?”

“But,” she sighed, “they are also very horrible. They wanted to hurt you.”

“Hurt… me?”

“Because you’re different, my son. Because you’re special. Very, very special.”

“I don’t want to be different.”

“I’m different too,” his mother said. “I ran away from my people, and I saved you from yours.”

“Your people?”

“People who looked like me and talked like me. But all they wanted was to make a lot of noise, and a lot of mess. I left because I was different. I believed in something better, something more. Just like I believe in you, Djaer.”

She held him tight.

“I will always keep you safe, Djaer.”

His eyes were wide; he gazed at his home, at the big blue door.

I am special.

Djaer shifted in his sleep, for a moment the scowl on his face giving way to a contented smile…

Sitting in church now, sunlight flaring through the stained-glass windows, the pastor droning on and on:

“...and only the chosen shall be saved, taken to the new Kingdom of Heaven, to another galaxy to start anew…”

His mother’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently while he fidgeted.

“...to rebuild what was lost…”

He tried to push the images from his mind, horrible, terrible images… Taunting him, tempting him…

“...beyond the scourge of Meitageny, a new Transfinite, for all, and forever…”

His mother smiled at him. He smiled back.

But behind that smile…

A lot of noise, and a lot of mess. Blood and fire, screaming, moaning. And laughter; for the first time in Djaer’s life he felt joy.

“STOP!” screamed Old Ma D. “Stop! Djaer, please!”

He looked down at the blood on his hands.

“Djaer,” she sobbed. “Don’t do this.”

“Why, Ma? Why did you do it? Why did you take me away?”

“I thought you were different. I thought I could save you. I had to believe…”

The blood on his hands. Her blood?

“I can’t be saved,” Djaer said. “The galaxy can’t be saved.”

“No…” his mother sobbed. “Oh, god, no…”

Here he was again, that cottage in the countryside, the big blue door burned to cinders, the oak tree up in flames… Home...

Home at last.

Djaer laughed.

“Stop moaning.”

—worms wriggling inside his buried mother's corpse—

“Don’t worry — she can’t hear us anymore.”

“Now now, my wormies…”

Djaer whimpered softly. Snorted, snored. In a jar next to his bed, two fingers floated in cloudy yellow liquid, flicking a motionless V at the room. She would have wanted him to have them.

Come home, my boy. Come home.

Fumbling, he slid the fingers into the access port. A voice, whose pitch and timbre sounded uncannily like his own: “Hi Djaer! Where would you like to go today?”

Suddenly the galaxy was at his fingertips. Well, his mother’s fingertips.

“Take me home.”

“Could you be a little more specific, Djaer?” the voice said, the blue-green screen pulsing. Too bright.

“Take me to Meitagenous IV.”

“Sure thing, Djaer!”

Oh, my boy, what are you doing? Where are you going?

…home?

“Uh, hi?”

The other Meitagenans turned to look at him, made space for him.

“Hey. I’m Djaer,” Djaer said. “I’m kinda new here.”

“Oh, hi, Djaer.”

“So, uh… what were you guys talking about?”

He saw them glancing at each other.

“Oh, just the revolt on Bartolius.”

“Did you see the Cardinal’s head on a spike? Grisly.”

Djaer joined in with their laughter, wondering when he would get to put a head on a spike.

“So, Djaer, was it? Where’re you from, Djaer?”

“Uh…”

It was just a little too loud, the lights were a little too bright. He tried to marshall his thoughts. He had had a backstory all lined up…

“I’m a bit of a farm boy,” Djaer said after a brief moment of mortal panic. “Family runs an Ascenter farm on Iridius.”

“Aw, nice, my folks were farmers. Not a bad life, eh? What variety?”

“Um, mostly bipedal.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, yeah, you know… um…”

He couldn’t think. The screen on the wall kept distracting him. Someone jostled him from behind. Incoherent rage bubbled up out of nowhere.

“Bitesized?”

An Ascenter in a tuxedo approached with a tray, offering round some snacks. Five pink little creatures soaked in some kind of vinaigrette. They were squealing, bawling… And that smell… Ammonia?

The waiter offered Djaer a cocktail stick.

Djaer felt sick. He pressed his balled up fists to his face, and screamed.

Blood and vinaigrette everywhere. The waiter’s body fell to the floor, his head on a cocktail stick in Djaer’s hand.

“Fuck, dude.” The other Meitagenans stared at him in stunned silence.

Insufficiently ideal. An Almost-Meitagenan.

“STOP! Djaer, please!”

A familiar nightmare.

The fingers in the jar twitched.

Tap, tap, tap.

Fingernails on glass.

Tap, tap, tap.

The jar wobbled, shifted an inch. For a moment it rocked on the edge of the table.

Tap.

The jar fell.

Shatter, splash. Two fingers sprang into action, leapt up and onto the bed, scurried over Djaer’s heaving torso, slid down his sweaty neck. For a moment nothing happened. And then a very wet and smelly fingertip burrowed into Djaer’s ear.

Ascenter implants made contact with Meitagenan neuro-circuitry.

“Urgh!”

It goes without saying that a wet willy from an Ascenter should on NO ACCOUNT have the power to wake a sleeping Meitagenan (no matter how well-preserved the finger might be). Of course, the finger in question was no ordinary finger, and it had belonged to no ordinary Ascenter.

The room shuddered. Muffled explosions were audible above the Meitagenan’s sighs and groans.

Djaer was awake. And he wasn’t happy about it.