 
## This Crazy Infection

### by

### Kaylim

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2014 by Kaylim

### Discover other titles in this series:

### "When Places Call"

### Visit my website at <http://www.kaylimwrites.com/>

### Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

### ###

## Table of Contents

### Start of "This Crazy Infection"

### Endnotes

_For all the rovers out there. Here's looking at you, John Masefield._

### ###

"Star-Fever"

I must go to the stars again, to the lonely constellations in the sky

And all I ask is a clear night and a prayer to get me by,

And a good wind and a glowing moon and a finely tuned motor

And a last kiss from a pretty girl for this wayward boater.

I must go to the stars again, for the call of a twinkling sun

Is a wild call and a clear call that cannot be outrun;

And all I ask is a landing site with new horizons dawning

And comet dust and planet rings, and the new moon yawning.

I must go to the stars again, to the willful explorer's life

To the asteroid's way and the nebula's way, where creation is born from strife

And all I ask is a simple smile from a passing fellow-rover

And we're just two specks in the endless night when everything is over.

\--Turobeck

It's Myrha's first time in space and she's fucking terrified.

"This was a mistake," she says to the passenger seated next to her, a bland little fellow who prefers to ignore her.

"I mean, what was I thinking?"

Of course she entered that poetry contest, because the lure of an all expense paid trip was too much to resist. She remembers the night she submitted her poem vividly: in colors of regret.

" _I can't do it!" she whines, holding her head in her hands._

" _Of course you can, baby," her gal pal Zel says, patting her shoulder, "your stuff is good."_

" _I'm too scared. I'm a chicken. I'm going to hide under the bed now."_

Zel taps the screen where it says WIN A VACATION TO LIEVAL: A WORLD MADE OF BEACHES, BABES AND BARBEQUE. COLONIZED FOR YOUR PLEASURE!

" _Well, yeah," Myrha acknowledges._

" _So what's the good in resisting? Submit your poem and send me pics of your new tan."_

Myrha hesitates.

Zel reaches over and hits the submit button, "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

" _You bitch," Myrha pouts._

That's right, this was Zel's fault.

Myrha presses the heels of her palms to her eyes and decides she needs a drink. Only there's no beverage button on her armrest.

"Fuck," she sighs, "isn't getting wasted part of the vacation experience? What does a person have to do to get a drink around here?"

The man next to her coughs and fidgets, but doesn't look at her. Instead he's intensely interested in his utiphone, which is flickering with a reader icon; she bets he's looking at pornography, because honestly no one can be that interested in a book unless it has graphic pictures of the best kind.

She tries to lean over and see, but he's locked his screen so that only he can see what's on it.

"What kind of porn are you reading?" she asks.

He squeaks (an embarrassing sound for a grown man to make, really), and his face prunes as he asks, "I beg your pardon?"

"You wanna share?"

He shuts off his utiphone and it disappears from sight.

She rolls her eyes, "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"How dare you imply that I would—"

"Attendant!" she shouts, and then she leans in closer to him, "I could use a drink. You?"

His face by now is blood red, and it's a pity all that blood is in the northern region, really. The boner was much more attractive than his blushing face.

"I thought so," she pats his arm and at the moment she can hear the little robotic noises that means an android is nearing.

"Finally," she says as the attendant makes it to her aisle.

The android merely ticks an eyebrow in her direction. And what a fine eyebrow it is. Myrha sits back a little to look the android up and down.

"Why hello there," she grins.

Myrha hasn't had much experience with androids, and she never expected one to look so...delicious. She's made of long legs, a pile of blond hair and a slender torso (she is kind of slim on the bust to be honest, but really, those lips are sinful).

"What's a pretty little android like you doing in a place like this, eh?" she asks.

The android looks rather resplendent in a silver skirt, tight-fitting shirt and black vest. Myrha fucking loves uniforms.

"Serving you alcohol," she answers crisply.

"And so you are. Give me your strongest, and one for him, too."

As usual, the alcohol is like alien cum: it's far too gummy, green and doesn't have high enough of an alcohol content to knock her unconscious.

"Wish they would update the menu selections," she grumbles, and makes herself feel better by watching the pretty android sashay away.

The man looks at his drink as if it is an extra appendage he never knew he had.

"Well, cheers," she says.

She clinks her glass against his, pinches her nose, and downs the drink in one gulp.

Lieval isn't a 'world' so much as it is a big blue ball of water with a tiny island on the equator.

"That's it?" she asks, aghast.

She was promised a world of beaches, babes and barbeque, and all she gets is a tiny island?

When their starshuttle lands they are greeted by...silence. Lieval doesn't have a bustling port full of greasy food, expensive souvenirs, and cheap prostitutes. Instead, it has a landing pad and a sandy walkway to a rickety WELCOME sign.

"I thought this was a resort," she says to the man next to her as they stand to disembark.

He goggles at her.

"You know: beaches, babes and barbeque?"

He titters nervously, "Lieval used to have an old research facility, but it was shut down because of potential chemical contamination. The entire planet was condemned for more than fifty years."

"And where do the beaches, babes and barbeque come in?"

"They don't. All that's here is a refueling station and a beach hostel."

"A hostel?" Not fucking cool.

"Well," he says timidly, "the owners have recently been renovating it. They've offered really cheap rates for travelers who just want to leave civilization behind."

She surveys her fellow passengers with disgust, "Is that why you all are on this shuttle?"

"Yes, as you can see there aren't that many of us. In the three years the hostel has been open it has gained a steady if modest following. I visit every year."

He says this last bit with some sort of abashed pride.

"So you pay a shit-load of money just to go nowhere."

"Escaping from civilization is harder than it looks," he sniffs haughtily, "maybe you'll enjoy the experience."

"Who the fuck do I look like: Dellylee? I don't want to run away from civilization, I want to bathe in it!"

"Dellylee was an eloquent and verbose poet. With your crude language, I highly doubt any comparisons between the two of you are apt."

Myrha turns at the cool, placid voice behind her. The android calmly glides past her and Myrha's mouth drops.

"You know Dellylee?" she asks.

Never mind the fact that she hates Dellylee's poems.

The android doesn't answer, simply collects the luggage plates from their stack by the door, and presses a button by her throat. Her voice immediately carries through the shuttle's speakers.

"We have arrived at Lieval's port of entry. As there is no luggage facility present, your luggage plates will be returned to you as is. The local hostel has a facility it is graciously offering to let travelers use."

Myrha grumbles as she snatches her luggage plate from the android and steps off the shuttle. The sun is ridiculously bright and it is ridiculously hot out. Her contacts immediately start to darken and the big, luminescent star in the sky becomes a bearable pale blob.

She taps her wrist utiphone and a screen pops up; she scrolls through for the tickets and instructions that were sent to her. A voucher for two week's stay at any Lieval hotel pops up on her screen. Too bad there is only one hotel.

The other passengers, of which there are only about fifteen, climb off the shuttle and drag their feet to the hostel. Myrha can't wait to wring the owner's neck. Bogus advertising, that's what this is!

The sandy trail leads up a slight hill, and there on the beach is a dilapidated two-story building. Behind it is nothing short of a tropical jungle. Great. Who knows what kind of rabid, radioactive animals live in there?

When they reach the hostel no doors fly open, no automated voices greet them, no menus show up displaying food and drink possibilities, and no screens accost them to offer hotel rooms. Nothing happens except that they have to push the door open and then they are greeted by an empty lobby.

"This sucks," Myrha moans, and flops onto one of the couches.

The hostel is smelly and wooden, likely made from the trees of this world, and nothing is slick and shiny, metal and plastic, and screens and noise. It's depressing, really. One of the other guests, a big burly man with a beard, timidly rings a bell on the desk and—

POOF.

Streamers burst into the air and fall limply to the floor.

"Welcome!" a man jaunts out from the staff door.

He's a short little man, layered with fat and sweat, and sporting a rather spectacular bald spot. A thick cord hangs around his neck, and disappears down a baggy flowery shirt. The flowers are dancing. Myrha has to close her eyes at the sight; she had thought such shirts went out of style decades ago. Apparently this man, with his nasally voice and bulbous nose, had missed the memo.

"This is Lieval's prime resort: The Starry Resting Place!"

This is nothing like a resort, let alone any sort of suitable resting place, but the words tickle at her memory. The name must be straight from a Turobeck poem: if I cannot have a love, if I cannot have a ship, then cast me into that vast abyss: the starry resting place. As a lover of poetry (and Turobeck in particular), she can appreciate a fellow fan; but this hostel is really less than deserving of a name from a Turobeck poem.

"My name is Bartin and my wife Werna and I will be happy to assist you with your check-in, not to mention your luggage," he then shouts to the staff door, "Werna!"

He chuckles weakly at them, "My apologies, she's a little hard of hearing."

They all stare blankly at him.

He clasps his hands together and surveys them, "Now, who's first?"

She is so not staying two weeks here, free vacation or not.

Myrha jumps up from the couch, "I'm out of here."

"Wait, wait, wait! You only just got here. Surely you want to at least spend the night."

Myrha places her hands on her hips and stares him down, "Listen buddy, I was promised a world of beaches, babes and barbeque and a stay in a luxurious resort. Instead, I get this."

She gestures around the lobby in a long, annoyed fashion. Instead of looking insulted, the man squeals in delight and rushes out from behind the desk.

"Oh, you must be our lucky winner!"

He takes her hands in his and vigorously shakes them.

"It's so wonderful to meet you. We're so excited to have you here. Please, let us make you comfortable."

She tugs her hands free, "I told you: I'm leaving."

His face falls, "But...but you're already here."

"And I'm wishing I wasn't! I have a mind to sue your ass over faulty advertising. You promised me a first-class vacation and here I am in this dump!"

She stomps her foot for a good measure and the other tourists stare. Let them! The in-flight entertainment had been dreadfully pathetic; they're in need of a good show.

"Please," he practically whines, "your poetry was exquisite! It was a masterpiece, a wonderful homage to the grand Turobeck and yet a startling show of individualism, creativity and innovation. It would be an honor to have you at least dine with us."

Well, a dinner does sound good, but she isn't quite in the mood to be poisoned by whatever slop this man is calling nourishment. Also, she's not terribly impressed by his attempt at flattery. Horny slug-aliens have fed her better lines. Literally.

"I've got to catch the shuttle," she turns on her heel.

Hands in the pockets of her cargo pants, she stomps down to the shuttle, luggage plate tucked against her side. The android stands next to the refueling station, hands on hips, as the shuttle's fuel canisters refill. The captain of their oh-so-lovely jaunt wipes his brow as he slumps against the shuttle's side.

"So," Myrha says, "when are we leaving?"

The android levels her with a flinty gaze, "Tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow? Why the fuck are you waiting so long?"

"The captain needs his rest."

To be a fair it was a rather long flight. Still, being stuck here overnight isn't something she's keen on experiencing.

"I'm coming with you."

"Is your departure ticket for tomorrow?"

"No."

"Then you cannot come with us. You will have to wait two weeks until we return."

Myrha strides up to her and tries to loom over her, which is hard because the android is taller than she is. She tries out her best pissed-off-tower-of-raging-angry-customer glare.

If androids could feel disgust, this android would be surveying her like she is a rather large, annoying fly just waiting to be squished. Maybe the android doesn't like her attitude (she has a loud mouth and is proud of it), her purple hair, or her midriff shirt. Whatever it is, the android has to deal with it, because Myrha didn't sign up for any of this shit.

"Listen. I am not staying on this radioactive planet for two weeks. I am leaving with you whether you like it or not!"

"That isn't possible."

"Fuck you and your impossible."

"You don't understand," the android says sharply, "your ticket will not pass through the scanner because of the wrong date."

Myrha looks at her blankly.

The android looks just a bit smug.

"When you boarded you had to show your ticket to the scanner on the shuttle, did you not?"

She tries to recall the moment she boarded. It's all a little hazy, as she had been desperately trying not to throw-up or pass out or run away screaming at the idea of soaring light-years through space on a tiny shuttle. Speaking of which, she had done it. And with only a little bit of help from some second-rate alcohol. Fuck yeah. She should celebrate...or something.

The android continues to stare at her.

Oh, right.

She vaguely remembers waving her ticket across some sensor, which had then blinked green. The shuttle doors had gone transparent and let her in.

At her look of comprehension, the android continues, "If the ticket doesn't match the passenger or the date, the shuttle will not let you board."

Myrha raises her wrist and waves her untiphone in the android's face, "You see this? This has my departure ticket on it. At ports, passengers can usually get their tickets cancelled or changed, right? So can't you do something like that?"

"I am not a concierge android," she responds rather icily.

"By Jupiter's moons!" The captain suddenly cries, "I have a captaincy override. If she wants to leave that bad, I'll let her on."

Myrha grins smugly at the android (who looks rather blank; gorgeous, but expressionless), and then she prostrates herself before the captain because hello, she knows who to suck up to and when.

The lobby is empty when she returns so she taps the bell loudly and in annoyance until someone comes to book her a room. Myrha knew her pride would sting when Bartin enters, looking horribly smug.

"You've decided to join us?" he asks.

"For one night, until the shuttle leaves."

His smugness instantly disappears.

She points to her prize package on her utiphone, "Now give me the best room you've got."

The 'best room' happens to be a small nook on the second floor with a rotting balcony overlooking the ocean. Like the lobby, the wood in the room gives off a noxious odor...something like stale sweat. Gross.

Also, she's missing a bed.

Myrha puts her hands on her hips and blows hot air past her lips. She's pretty damn sure she's supposed to have a bed. Stomping around the room she examines the nightstand and dresser, the only pieces of furniture in the room. Even when she looks under them, she cannot find their pods. They're like relics of a past era, found in some grandmother's attic. Or maybe they were rescued from a dump. She honestly can't tell.

She's also missing a lamp. And most importantly, a bathroom.

This must be a joke. Some form of cosmic joke. She slams a fist in the wall, because if she doesn't punch the wall she'll probably find Bartin and slug his ugly face and it's relatively impolite to maim your host (not to mention the last time she did something like that she spent a long, uncomfortable night in a holding cell while Officers laughed at her idiocy). She feels slightly better after taking her aggression out on the wall, but then the wall does something strange: it squeaks.

Backing up quickly she surveys the wall with a critical eye. On Earth, she spends a lot of her time hanging out in bars and cheap hotels (which, of course, are still classier than this hovel), and she's encountered more than a few sneaky aliens hiding out where they shouldn't be. Sometimes, they're criminals on the run; other times, they just want to watch tourists get naked.

She taps the wall again. It squeaks. But it sounds more like a rust-squeak than hiding-alien squeak. A strap sticking out of the wall catches her eye. Standing on tip-toe, she yanks on the strap and yelps as something falls down on her. She darts out of the way and with a rusty clanging noise, the bed is revealed.

She gapes at it. She has never seen a bed come out of a wall before. Usually the furniture is already laid out, and if a guest wants to change the placement, all they have to do is just pick up its pod.

Phenomenally glad she already released her anger on the squeaky-wall, she marches down to the lobby and slams her hands on the counter. Bartin, doodling on an artist pad on his utiphone, jumps.

"Bathrooms," she demands with false-sweetness.

"Communal facilities on the first floor," he answers with the same sugary tone.

"Luggage?"

"In the corner."

She swiftly turns away and goes to the dull grey luggage machine. A fine layer of dust covers its surface, and rust dots its corners. Myrha slides her luggage plate into the slot, the machine makes a rather worrying rattling noise, but then her luggage appears on the metal weighing slab safe and sound. The luggage plate, now blank of data, shoots into the recycle bin, where the other passengers' plates rest.

She heaves her suitcase off the machine and drags it up the stairs. She has some serious decorating to do.

When she pops open her luggage, everything is thankfully intact and packed how she left it. Grumbling, she takes her travel kit out of her suitcase. It was something her mother, upon hearing about her trip, had thought she would need. Myrha had endured endless gossiping and shopping sessions to find the best one.

She carefully takes a tiny pod out of the kit. She places it in the corner, presses the expand button, and tada! Instant standing lamp. She enables the anchoring feature, and the lamp goes from a projection to solid lamp of awesomeness. Soon she has several lamps, a mirror and a clock. Unfortunately, the ceiling and walls don't seem to have hooks for pods, so the pods stay on the floor which means she'll probably trip over one of them and smash in her face (something that had been a design flaw of the pods in the first place).

She is not in the mood to get food from the hotel, so she makes the bed instead. She peels off the bed's comforter, which is flowery in design. It has sensors that replicate the smell of the flowers, but since the flowers aren't Earthen in origin, they're not really a comfort to her. She kicks it aside and takes her own sheets out of the travel kit. Nasty bed bugs, especially the extraterrestrial ones, are things she unfortunately has experience with. She did not need her mother to tell her that clean sheets are a vital part of a travel kit.

Finally, when her bed is made, and the lights are extinguished and the sun has set, she takes a peek out her window and the enormity of what she has done just sort of smacks her. She's on an alien planet.

The world is entirely dark except for the light of several far away moons. They're not as close and luminous as Earth's solitary companion, but she can still see them as small orbs, three in total. They cast minimal light only, and everything is very...quiet. The Universe is asleep here is a line from a Dellylee poem. She still doesn't much care for her poetry, but perhaps she knew what she was on about after all.

Earth is loud. Loud and bright throughout the day and night. Even the moon, which is the astronomical equivalent of Antarctica, is still dotted with research facilities and clusters of lights that can be seen when the moon is new. Here, she is one of nineteen people (and an android) on a foreign planet. She chokes a little on the reality of such isolation, and there's an itch, a need, to get back to Earth as soon as possible.

Instead she goes back to her bed, curls up in the warmth of her terrene sheets, and pretends she's not light-years away from home. In the darkness, she can almost believe it.

"The what is what?"

She stares at the smoke sifting quietly through the air, and the big gigantic hole in the starshuttle's side. She's pretty sure that's not supposed to be there.

The android gives a muted sigh, and tries to explain all over again what happened to the shuttle. The technical jargon just sort of goes over Myrha's head by leaps and light-years, however, so she goes up to the gaping hole and inspects it.

"It's like a meteor just," she explains 'BOOM' with an expansive hand gesture.

"It was not a meteor," the android says.

"Not even a tiny one?"

"The shuttle was deliberately damaged."

"You mean—"

"Yes. Someone on this island sabotaged the shuttle."

"Deliberately."

"Yes," the android huffs.

The implications of that sort of terrify Myrha.

"So...this isn't fixable?"

They all turn to look at the burnt out, hacked out hole in the shuttle.

"No," the android answers shortly.

Myrha tries to fight the fog that's desperately taking over her brain, "You can contact someone though, right?"

"Not through the starshuttle. All controls are dead. The auxiliary power units were destroyed as well."

"The hotel then," she says, and makes a run for the lobby.

Her feet fly over the compact sand and she is not going to be stuck on this forsaken planet with smelly trees and a handful of hermits. She desperately rings the bell on the counter until Bartin shows up.

"Myrha," he greets her, "you missed breakfast."

"Well you know what I'm also missing? My shuttle. Someone on this island decided to murder the starshuttle. So hand over your interstellar utiphone, because I need to contact Earth."

The little man gapes at her, "The what...the shuttle?"

"Is destroyed. One of your guests must be insane," she stops, and then glares pointedly at him, "Or maybe you are."

"Me?" he sputters, "Are you accusing me?"

"I'm accusing everyone until I know who did it. Bottom line is: get me in contact with Earth."

Behind her, the door opens and the android and the captain finally catch up to her.

"When Orion Starlines doesn't receive a message from us, they'll contact the port here to determine what happened," the captain says.

"A message...?"

"Every shuttle is instructed to send a take-off message to their destination port and their Starline hub. When Orion Starlines doesn't receive our take-off message, they'll contact the port here."

"But there is no port here," Myrha says.

"Not in the traditional sense. They'll contact this hotel."

"So they'll come rescue us?" Myrha says hopefully.

"They'll send out another shuttle. There will have to be an investigation, at least. We may actually be stuck here until the authorities come and question us."

Right. Great. She just walked into a crime scene. Perfect.

So any minute now they're going to receive a message from Orion Starlines. Sure. Okay. Myrha lounges on the couch as they wait for any sort of communication. Of course, since the shuttle is impaired, and it's probably going to be a few days until another shuttle can arrive, they're all stuck here for the time being. Bartin coughs delicately.

"Ah, captain," he says rather timidly, "as it seems you might be staying here for a while, I'll go about getting a room ready for you."

"Yes, thank you."

Myrha looks up from tearing strings out of the couch, "Wait, where'd you stay last night then?"

"We stayed in the crew cabins onboard the shuttle," the android answers.

"Yes, they're quite comfortable," the captain says.

His face says what his words don't: that the crew cabins are much more comfortable than anything at the hostel.

"Unfortunately, with power gone, they're not so comfortable anymore," the captain continues.

Not to mention it would probably be a phenomenally bad idea to sleep at a crime scene, especially one that most likely has volatile fluids leaking all over from a destroyed engine.

"I'll just go ready your room," Bartin says, and then continues a bit meekly, "Most of our rooms are undergoing renovations. You wouldn't mind, uh, sleeping on a cot would you?"

The captain's aghast expression says he would mind thank you very much.

"This facility doesn't have a collection of bed pods?" the android asks skeptically.

"No, the beds come out of the wall," Myrha laments.

The android gives her an 'are you serious' look that has Myrha cracking up. Who knew androids could be so expressive?

"Right," Bartin says loudly, "I'll just go and get that out for you."

Something about the conversation bothers Myrha. She can't pin down exactly why until the android sits on a couch warily, as if expecting it to fall to pieces underneath her.

"And what about the android?" Myrha asks, "Doesn't she get a room?"

Bartin looks stumped, as if he hadn't even thought about it. Myrha has to admit that she doesn't know all that much about androids, but she figures they have to sleep or recharge or whatever somewhere.

"We don't exactly have the space," Bartin mutters, "with the renovations and all."

Myrha is quite sure that there are enough rooms, even in a small hostel like this. She doesn't glance at the android to see her reaction.

"So," she drawls, "you're just going to have her sleep on the floor?"

"Androids don't exactly sleep," the captain cuts in, a bit bemused.

"I will be perfectly able to activate hibernation mode without a bed," the android says.

"Whatever," Myrha unfolds herself from the couch, "have an extra cot brought up to my room. She can stay with me."

Bartin looks as if he has swallowed something unexpectedly large without chewing, and is now struggling for breath. Myrha leans with an elbow on the counter and smiles up at him sweetly.

"Also, the swill you call alcohol? You can deliver all of that to my room."

At his indignant squawk she rings the bell to drown it out, and then continues, "It's the least you can do, after you lied about the prize package and forced me to share a room because you are inadequately prepared to accommodate guests."

"Forced?!" he sputters.

She's walking away already, but spins around to level a threatening finger at him, "I'm still going to sue your ass."

Then she swirls around dramatically and stomps up the staircase. Take that, fucker.

She's not exactly sure what to do with a roommate. The cot sits in one corner, a hovering cot that expands at the touch of a button. Only that button broke halfway through the expanding process, so Myrha had to wrestle it open using brute strength. So it's a little bent, and smells a bit burnt because the motors hadn't liked her trying to force them open, but at least it's hovering. It does, however, have an awful comforter that smells of rancid flowers.

When the android arrived Myrha had proudly presented the cot, as if it was an animal she had caught and skinned and cooked herself. Not that she would ever do such a thing. Only crazy poets like Dellylee vacated inhabited star-space and lived out in the wilds catching and eating alien animal prey. Like, totally gross.

The android stares at the cot for a few seconds, as if trying to wrap the wires in her mind around its existence. She gives up computing the presence of the cot, and then turns to Myrha oddly stiff and formal.

"I do not require a sleeping surface to hibernate," she says.

Myrha puts her hands on her hips, goes 'huh', and doesn't say anything because she doesn't understand a word coming out of the android's mouth.

"I will stand in the lobby corner," the android continues.

"But I opened the cot for you," Myrha says, a bit dumbly.

The android gives her a 'and how is that relevant, you dumb human' look. Myrha coughs awkwardly and changes the subject.

"What do I call you?" Myrha asks.

"Lynne."

Right. Labeling android models with numbers had gone out of fad; the new thing was to name them.

"Are you ever bothered that there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of other 'Lynne' androids running around?" she asks.

"Are you ever bothered that there are other humans named 'Myrha' running around?" the android immediately fires back.

"We may share the same name, but we're not built exactly alike, not like androids," Myrha answers, a bit flustered.

"All humans share over 99% of each other's DNA coding, making them all relatively identical. There are only a few subtle mutations that make one human different from another; for the most part, there is no biological difference between humans. What makes them different is how they react and change according to their environment."

"Yeah, but, androids are designed to be exactly alike."

"No machine, even if built to specifications, will be the same. Environmental factors will change its performance, especially androids as we are learning machines. We are built to learn and adapt. We will change."

And then Myrha decides it's a little stupid to argue with an android about what it's like to be an android, so she shrugs in acceptance.

"It is odd that you believe androids should sleep in beds like humans, and yet you are so fast to point out the differences between us," the android remarks.

Myrha didn't exactly intend to start a philosophical discussion.

"So...wait. You don't sleep?" she asks, focusing on the most immediate thing.

"No. I am able to go into hibernation mode to conserve energy when I am not needed. This will be especially important now that there is no available charging station, as the shuttle has no power and the hotel does not have one."

"Hibernation isn't like sleeping, then?"

"In some ways, perhaps. However, I do not need to lie down to hibernate. I can stand virtually anywhere."

"Oh. Then you really don't need a cot?"

"No."

"But...," something still bothers Myrha, and she struggles to put words to it, "weren't you upset when Bartin said you couldn't have a room?"

"You are thinking I am human," Lynne says, "but I have no need for privacy or a bed."

"You've never had a bed or a room before?"

"No. There is no need."

Well, Myrha sort of lives her life beyond what's needed.

"Do you want a bed?" Myrha asks.

The android considers the cot and then walks to it, inspecting it.

"I am not averse to trying it," she eventually decides.

"Awesome."

Eventually, alcohol is brought to them, but Myrha supposes that Bartin is a coward because he makes his wife do it. She's a small lady with a big nose and even bigger hair. It's like she's forgotten to brush it, because it's tangled and sort of everywhere and very curly and very grey. Her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and she doesn't so much as blink when Myrha thanks her and takes the tray from her.

Myrha wonders what sort of narcotics they have on Lieval, and if she can try some.

"Do you make them yourself?" Myrha asks Werna.

A little bit of drool forms at the edge of Werna's cracked lips.

Right.

"Whatever you're on, it seems very potent," Myrha remarks, not without a bit of respect.

Werna doesn't respond beyond some sightless gazing, so Myrha sort of pushes her out the door and then locks it behind her.

"You never know what people will do when they're strung up on drugs," Myrha says from experience.

The android studies her with a suspicious gaze, as if dealing with a drugged-up person herself.

"If I lay into the drugs, I'll let you know beforehand," Myrha reassures her, and passes her a bottle.

Immediately, the android says, "I don't drink."

Great. She's saddled herself with an uptight roommate.

"It probably tastes like shit anyway," Myrha says, "probably will be as bad as the stuff on the shuttle."

"What did that taste like?"

"Alien cum."

The android doesn't seem too disturbed by the thought, "That is a broad statement. There are many different alien species in the known galaxy."

"Are you saying I have no respect for diversity?" Myrha jokes, "I've slept with enough aliens to know, okay?"

"It is interesting that you choose to sort tastes into two categories: human and alien. Is it difficult for a human to further differentiate tastes beyond a basic level?"

Honestly, she hadn't given it much thought.

"Listen, it's not like I'm wine-tasting or anything, yeah? I'm not writing down little notes about the taste of ejaculate from different species."

"I meant no offense," the android says, "I was merely curious because I cannot taste."

"Oh."

That kind of sucks.

"When I said I do not drink...I meant I do not drink at all," the android clarifies further.

"You don't have to eat or drink?"

"No. I couldn't even if I wanted to. My systems are designed to run on a different form of energy: electricity, instead of food."

"How long can you go without charging?"

"That depends on my work output and the amount of time I spend charging or in hibernation."

"That sounds like a complex equation."

"Based on our current situation, I will last eleven days."

"Do you think a shuttle will come for us by then?"

"I am unable to predict that."

Myrha huffs, "Then isn't there some other shuttle that comes to Lieval?"

"No, our starshuttle is the only one that regularly visits this planet. We pick-up and drop-off passengers every two weeks."

Myrha sighs and drinks straight from the bottle.

She feels a bit self-conscious as the android is watching her climb into bed with startling concentration. When the android turns back the comforter on her cot, she does it carefully and precisely, as if she's afraid of making some mistake. She sits on the cot, lies down, and then lifts her legs onto the mattress.

"And you just lie here?" the android asks, doubtfully.

"Yeah, until we fall asleep."

"And a bed helps you fall asleep?"

"Being comfortable helps humans fall asleep, yeah. It helps us sleep better too, at least in general."

"It takes some time for humans to fall asleep, doesn't it?"

The doubt in her voice is increasing. Can androids feel insecure?

"Yep."

"It takes seconds for me to activate hibernation mode. Being comfortable does not help or hinder the process or its efficiency."

"That sounds...boring."

"It is efficient, more so than the process of sleeping."

"Yeah, probably, but there is something really awesome about curling up in a soft, warm bed and falling asleep after a long day."

"Ah...sleep is a source of pleasure as well as restoration."

"Sure."

The android is a silent for a moment, and then says, "I will go into hibernation now."

"Wait," Myrha says, "I wanted to ask how you knew Dellylee."

"Rather like you, I imagine," she drawls, "I read."

"But androids don't usually read right? At least, not beyond what assists them with their designated function?"

"Androids are designed to be learning machines," the android reiterates, as if that explains everything.

It doesn't, really, but Myrha's sort of amused at how she knows poetry, and sort of excited because most people Myrha loves and likes and knows don't give a shit about poetry at all.

"So what do you think about Dellylee's poems?" she asks.

"From a technical standpoint, judging by standards on Peynar and Earth, they are masterpieces. I find the subject matter though to be...laborious."

She says the word with such poison that Myrha laughs.

"What, you don't like how she moans on and on about how awful civilization is? How the Universe would be better without us?"

"I find her view rather uneducated as she left civilization before she had the chance to truly experience it."

"Well, she had lived in a crime-filled neighborhood for much of her life. Guess she just grew tired of it."

"Yes, but," and the android pauses, "I would find her poetry more credible had she explored first."

"Why?"

"Because her poetry has truth to it," the android answers, "I am an attendant on a Starline. I have seen such...atrocities of civilization as she describes it. That does mean, however, that that is all civilization has to offer. I do not think she had seen enough to realize it."

Myrha sits up in bed, as if that will help her make sense of the situation. Is this normal talk for an android? Ruminations on the validity of perspectives and poetry? Thoughts about the good and bad of civilization?

It's fascinating, because Lynne doesn't really have a home; she's a wanderer, a traveler, someone who's been to all sorts of places Myrha has only heard about. Lynne's seen the galaxy, while Myrha's never left the city of her birth (until now, that is). She wonders if that affects the validity of her own poetry, and finds herself annoyed that maybe the android would say that is true.

"But couldn't you say that Dellylee's community was simply a microcosm of the Universe? She wouldn't have to travel to experience the different shades of civilization."

"I was referring to her limited emotional experience. She willingly closed herself off to further discovery; she did not care to look for the good in civilization. She focused primarily on negative emotions and events."

"Maybe she looked, and didn't find any."

And she can't believe she's defending Delly-fucking-lee, but it's fun to argue.

"She lived in one house her entire live, and when she had the chance to leave, she hid away on faraway, abandoned planet. If she had visited other inhabited planets, perhaps her perspective would have broadened. Instead, she shut herself off from any such possibility, concluding that such good must not exist. That attitude, in my opinion, is rather unenlightened."

And if an android, a machine, could find and judge such 'good' and 'bad' in civilization, then perhaps Dellylee could have as well.

"Yeah, I don't care for Dellylee myself," Myrha says, "I prefer Turobeck."

There is a brief silence, and then a quiet, "So do I."

Myrha's breath gets lodged in her throat, but before she can squeal in delight over finding another Turobeck fan, the android's small whirring and clicking noises desist and the room goes quiet and she realizes Lynne fell asleep. Went into hibernation. Whatever.

She huffs and lies back in her sheets. Well, at least she found herself a roommate who has good taste in poetry.

The next day, there's no message from Orion Starlines. The captain commandeers the interstellar utiphone and tries sending out a message himself. It sort of works. Maybe. Myrha's utiphone does not have interstellar capabilities (because, whoa, talk about expensive), so she can't test out any communication for herself. Zel will be disappointed she can't send her any pictures, but it's not like there's anything out here to take pictures of anyway.

She lets the captain fuss over the utiphone and decides if she's going to be here for a while, she might as well enjoy the beach. From her beach chair, she watches the porn-reading man from the shuttle scurry into the wilderness, looking as if he's going to camp out there. His utiphone flickers with a screen, though Myrha's too far away to be able to tell what might be on it.

She leaves the 'communing with nature' to him, and decides she's really glad she saved the alcohol from last night for today. It's weak and kind of tastes like grass; she wonders if it came from a shipment from Earth or if it was made locally. Then she decides it doesn't matter because it's still gross, but at least it makes her head spin. It helps make her vacation bearable.

The light from the too close, too hot sun is suddenly blocked and she looks up, blinking, at the large umbrella over her. It's like most umbrellas: large, curved and hovering too close to her head. It also plays soft music. This one is programmed to play club music from Soodrad, which basically consists of very slow whistling (there are three dominant species on Soodrad; all of them have eight mouths).

She's honestly never heard anything more annoying.

Myrha's contacts quickly change to accommodate the sudden shade, and the android takes the beach chair next to her.

"Um, thanks," Myrha says.

"You skin needs protection from the sun."

"Right. Yeah. Where'd you find the umbrella?"

"In your travel kit."

Oh. She had one in her kit? Mom must have slipped it in there. She loves whistle music.

"You went through my things?"

"I simply thought you had forgotten it."

Uh-huh. Sure.

"Yeah, well, if anything's missing I'll blame you."

"Why would something be missing?"

"You might have stolen it!"

"Why would I steal any of your things?"

Myrha has no idea and so she merely offers a drink to the android. Then remembers she can't drink.

"It's hard to make social overtures with you," Myrha laments.

"I have derived that you make many of your social overtures using alcohol, sex and meaningless accusations."

"Yeah, generally. Too bad none of those overtures go very far with an android."

After a brief pause, Lynne suggests, "We could discuss poetry."

That's not something Myrha usually does, but she's a little bit in love with Turobeck and poetry, so she decides to go for it.

"So. Turobeck. What's your favorite poem?" she asks.

"'Star-Fever'," is her answer.

"What? Huh. No way. That's my favorite!"

And it's just weird that she and a very advanced machine would have the same favorite poem.

"Why is it your favorite?" Lynne asks politely, as if she's following some sort of social-interaction-manual.

"I love his passion, his longing. His desire for something new...that's something I can relate too."

Lynne nods, but doesn't offer any insights.

Instead, she says, "Did you know that this is one of the planets Turobeck could have crash-landed on?"

And that's so different from their previous, very standard questions about favorite poems that Myrha's brain needs a few moments to catch up. Lynne takes that time to continue talking.

"Lieval was one of the planets near the coordinates of his last transmission."

Her drink is forgotten, and her brain just sort of blooms with the possibilities, sort of burns with this new knowledge. Turobeck disappeared eighty years ago, and the rumors of his death are numerous. His ship could have had a technical malfunction, and he died in some meaningless patch of space; he tried to explore a new solar system, but something went wrong and he crashed instead; he turned into Dellylee, and decided to hide away from civilization forever.

"Wow. That's. Wow."

Lynne nods as if agreeing with her assessment, "Yes. It is just a hypothesis of course. Almost twenty years after his disappearance, a private Earth-based company set up research facilities here. Within in one year, it was closed down and the planet was condemned."

"Yeah, for fifty years until recently when it was deemed safe, right?"

"Yes. Revitalization efforts were scare, however, as the planet isn't regarded highly, even if it is safe for human occupation now."

"So it's just this lone little hotel."

"And refueling station. It is a good stopover for freight shuttles. I assume that is how the owners get their shipments of food and equipment."

"Great. But about Turobeck: hasn't anyone found evidence of his crash?"

"Apparently not. The research company that was here made no claims about finding anything."

"Well, it's a good story anyway."

Lynne nods again.

It seems it's such a good story, that when Myrha goes in to try to find something to eat, Bartin regales her with the tale as well. He leads her to the vends, chattering like she's an old best friend and not his irate customer.

"And here are the food facilities," he welcomes her with a flourish.

It's a small room down the main hall from the lobby; there are some seats and a few vends. She walks up to one of the machines, grimaces at the lack of variety, and concocts a meal on the screen. Bartin leads her to a seat with exaggerated grace, and she bites back the urge to remind him that they are in a small, smelly vend-machine-room and not in a classy restaurant. He's probably doing it just to annoy her.

He sits down with her as she waits for her meal and folds his hands before him, smiling at her as if he's willing to put all unpleasantness aside.

Myha ticks an eyebrow at him in suspicion.

"So, Myrha," he says, "when did your love of poetry begin?"

Bartin may be a fan of Turobeck, but she's not willing to discuss the depths of her passion for poetry with this man.

"Why do you ask?" she says, as if bored.

He twiddles his thumbs, "Well, you're here because of your poetry. Clearly I'm a lover of poetry as well, since I hosted the contest. And I'm sure you recognize where the name of this place came from."

"Is that your favorite poem of his?"

"'Starry Resting Place'? Well, I suppose it is. This hotel was supposed to be my own resting place, in a way."

The vend beeps and she collects her food: good old pasta with sourgrass topping (a type of grass from Peynar that's become a popular seasoning on Earth), a drink of water and a pale squishy lump called a jerriberry, a sweet synthetic fruit. It all tastes rather good, like it hasn't been sitting for months. He watches her eat and it kind of pisses her off, so she waves a hand in his direction while she chews mulishly on her pasta and the crunchy grass.

Bartin takes that as permission to continue talking. She suddenly wishes she had ordered alcohol instead of water.

"I've always wanted to leave Earth," he says conversationally, "ever since I was a boy. When I finally was able to have my first off-planet trip, I suddenly found myself...."

"Scared?" Myrha suggests when he doesn't finish.

"Yes," he answers rather dryly, "I wasn't exactly prepared for the reality. I was never a fan of poetry, but I searched for some measure of comfort and assurance. I found Turobeck's poems."

She thinks (and the thought horrifies her), that she may be able to relate to Bartin. That they have something in common. Ugh.

"And the rest, as they say, is history," he gestures around, "look at me now! I live permanently on another planet, one I basically have to myself, and I run my own business."

Myrha has to admit, put it that way, and Bartin sounds like a big fat fucking success.

"Oh, I know you don't think much of my facilities," he gives her a grin.

She nods fastidiously.

"But just think about where we are! A relatively unexplored alien planet far from Earth! It's full of discoveries just waiting to be made. Every time I venture out into the woods, or on the sea, I feel like an explorer. Rather like Turobeck."

She immediately wants to roll her eyes, because this guy is comparing himself to the grand Turobeck. But...in some ways the comparison is apt. She can scarcely believe it, but Myrha's not one to ignore truth. Even if it's as difficult to swallow as sourgrass.

"So what's with the contest?" she asks.

"I wanted to give someone else the chance to get off-planet."

He answers so serenely that Myrha almost chokes on the altruism.

"But why my poem? Mine wasn't about adventure or exploration."

"Your poem could've been about many things," he smiles at her indulgently.

And the fact that Bartin may be more than a fan, but also an avid poetry reader, interpreter and critic just freaks her out.

"You lied about Lieval," she accuses him, mostly just to change the subject.

"I did," he says simply.

She just grunts and continues to eat because she wants to grill him and yell at him and sue him, but at the same time...he got her off-planet. For free. And if that contest had told the truth about Lieval (a world of sand, sun, and complete isolation) she never would have entered. Maybe Bartin figured the same.

"It wasn't by happy accident that I set up a hotel here," he says.

She's too busy swallowing so she just nods for him to continue.

"Eighty years ago, Turobeck disappeared during one of his explorations. Based on his last transmissions, the star-space he disappeared in includes Lieval."

He sighs romantically, "When this planet reopened to the public, I just had to move here! Imagine living in the star-space Turobeck was exploring! His last new frontier."

"Lynne says it's possible he may have crashed here."

"Lynne...?"

"Yeah. She also said that he may have just...blown up mid-flight. Or maybe he even landed on one of the other five planets in this system. Let's be honest, Lieval isn't the most exciting of the bunch."

"You aren't one to get your hopes up."

"Not really, no."

"Well there's always hope, just not enough...evidence," his thumb caresses the cord around his neck.

"Sure. Great. I still think he blew up or got sucked into this world's star or something."

Bartin sighs like she's a lost cause, "Well you should try exploring the jungle sometime. Get out of the hotel. Do some adventuring."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'll leave that to your tree-hugging guests."

"Most of our guests do seem to appreciate our outdoor facilities," he says with pride.

"Yeah, I saw one of them disappear into the jungle earlier today."

"Spinner?"

"Who?"

"Tristan Spinner. One of my regulars. Short man. Very quiet. Kind of squeaky?"

"Likes to look at porn on his utiphone?"

He blinks at her slowly, "I wouldn't know."

"Yeah, he was the one."

Bartin nods, "He's a rather avid explorer. A lover of quiet and solitude. He visits every year, but I rarely actually see him."

"What, does he like camp out there or something?"

"Well, he wouldn't be the only one."

She's not really surprised. Myrha is sure that some of the tents and campsites must be nicer than the rooms here.

At that moment the captain comes in, grasping the wall and looking a bit peeked.

"I couldn't establish contact with any of the nearest ports or the Orion Starline hub. And the port we were supposed to dock at, the one on Earth, hasn't sent a message. Or at least, we haven't been able to receive it."

"We're trapped here?" Myrha asks, standing up abruptly.

The captain's grim expression confirms her fears. With the shuttle down and the port not responding it feels suspiciously like they're doomed.

"I'm sure they'll send an investigation team, since by now they must realize we are missing," the captain says, as if through gritted teeth.

"That could take a few days," Bartin says.

The captain glares at him, like it's his fault, "I'm going to lie down now. Wake me if we receive any communication."

After he stomps away Bartin raises his eyebrows, "Well, isn't he a ray of sunshine."

Myrha doesn't feel like a ray of sunshine herself, and simply abandons the rest of her meal.

Tristan Spinner goes missing.

It's day four and the captain still goes outside to stare at the sky, as if expecting a shuttle to land any second. Myrha spends her days out on the beach, and decides not to freak out. She's still on vacation, after all.

However, near the end of day four, another guest voices discontent.

"I've not seen Spinner recently," he confides during the odd time when most of them are together.

Myrha, as a rule, avoids the other guests. She still privately thinks they're crazy, civilization-phobes, and doesn't want much to do with them. Her only companion is Lynne, who remains mostly silent but will sometimes ply her with questions about poetry.

However, it seems like they're all usually drawn to the vends at the same time to get dinner. So when Myrha's standing in line, and there are a handful of other guests chatting at the tables, the concern about Spinner is raised.

"He's not been at any of the usual campsites," the guest continues.

He's a stocky man with a rich brown beard and moustache, the one who timidly rang the bell on the first day. Everything about him is boorish: his large hands and feet, his wide jaw and his bulging biceps. Everything, but his reedy voice. Myrha turns to hide her smile, snickering into the palm of her hand.

"Maybe he's off exploring new, uncharted areas," a woman says.

Her husband stares at his utiphone and doesn't touch his meal or offer an opinion. They're an older couple, and although they're vacationing together, Myrha hasn't seen them look at each other even once.

"Yes, but he hasn't checked in at any of the usual campsites," Reedy Voice says again, stubbornly.

The other guests shrug and mutter, but don't seem alarmed.

"And," Reedy Voice continues dramatically, "I've seen...lights."

That garners a few stares. Myrha just taps her foot and hopes Reedy Voice will finish ordering his meal before continuing on with his story. She's really hungry.

"I've been at campsite six, the farthest campsite out, since we arrived. For the past two nights I've seen lights in the jungle. I've tried to get to them, but never can. They must be far away. I try calling to see if anyone is there, but no one answers."

"You're having us on," another man sneers.

He's a man who always dresses in black and looks a little bit like the bounty hunters Myrha sometimes sees on the news strip of her utiphone.

"Are you sure you're not just delusional?" Bounty Hunter continues, "Perhaps you ingested some bark? The jungle trees are known for their hallucinogenic properties."

And really, that would explain the smell that lingers in the wooden hotel.

"I assure you," Reedy Voice says in a clipped tone, "that I would have noticed if I had eaten bark."

Bounty Hunter snorts and Myrha taps Reedy Voice on the shoulder.

"Can you pick a fucking type of bread or not?" she asks hotly.

Reedy Voice immediately flushes and randomly taps a bread option for his very boring sandwich (it consists entirely of lettuce). He scuttles off to the side.

"Thank you," she grumbles and creates her order.

After her meal is done, she makes her escape for the door (and passes by Reedy Voice, hearing him moan "oh no, I got sunflower bread. I hate sunflower bread!" Sunflower bread isn't all that popular on Earth, but it has a huge market on Boes).

Lynne is at the entryway, watching the proceedings with a casual eye, and they walk to the beach together. Myrha likes to spend as little time as possible in her room, because it's cramped and smelly (and unfortunately, doesn't seem to give her any awesome hallucinations), so they have fallen into a routine of eating on the beach. Well, Myrha eats. Lynne watches.

"Do you believe the lights Fossam saw were a natural phenomenon that occurs on Lieval or a product of human interference?" Lynne asks.

Myrha slowly sips her soup as she unravels that sentence. Myrha doesn't know if it's just something that androids do, but she thinks Lynne takes great pleasure in making her sentences as complicated as possible.

"You mean, like fireflies versus radioactive glowing trees because of the research facility that was here?"

"Lieval does not have anything resembling fireflies," she says promptly.

Right. So that rules that out.

"How do you even know that?"

"Do you not research the destinations you visit?"

Um. 'Beaches, babes and barbeque' was all she had really needed to know. She doesn't say that, because it seems important to not appear stupid in front of a very intelligent machine.

"Well, I don't look up if they have fireflies. Besides, a lot of this island is unexplored. Maybe Reedy Voice, uh, Fossam, found a new species."

"I was thinking it might have something to do with Spinner."

"Well why didn't you just say so," Myrha sighs, exasperated.

"I wanted to know what you thought."

"I honestly don't really care if Spinner has gotten lost, or if Fossam found dancing lights. All I care about is the damn shuttle."

"You very are single minded."

"Sure."

Lynne stands up and cocks her head to the side in a considering manner. Myrha wonders if that sort of behavior had been programmed into her, or if she had picked it up somewhere as she studied and copied human behavior.

"I think we should investigate."

"We...investigate...huh?"

Lynne nods in affirmation as if Myrha had strung together a coherent question. Myrha can do nothing but turn in her beach chair as the android strides to the jungle.

"Wait!" Myrha shouts in a half-panicked gulp, "What if you get lost? Or run into trouble?"

"Myrha," and it's the first time the android has ever said her name, all drawn out and amused and that's kind of hot, "those are the risks of exploration."

Fuck.

She's met Turobeck in hot android lady form.

And she realizes she never asked why Lynne liked Turobeck, why he was her favorite, why she even read poetry. It doesn't strike her as something androids do. But here is she is, like Turobeck reincarnated, and the reasons she could like Turobeck seem startling clear.

"Is exploring even part of your programming?" she blurts out.

"If you are afraid, you may stay behind," Lynne says very patiently.

But there's a wicked smirk on her face and suddenly Myrha's jumping up from her seat and poking a finger at Lynne.

"Let's go," she says.

"If you touch the bark, do not lick your fingers afterwards," are the first words of advice out of Lynne's mouth.

They've been walking for nearly an hour and Myrha thinks it was a phenomenally bad idea to go exploring with a machine that is possibly not programmed to feel fear.

"Thanks ever so," Myrha grumbles.

Lynne doesn't rise to the bait; she's too busy checking the ledger that denotes access to the campsites. They're stopped at campsite four and it seems that Spinner didn't touch this place either.

"He has not checked in at any of the first four campsites."

"Well good for him, he wants to make a new one."

"Then he should have at least left tags on the trees so that others could follow his path, in case something did happen."

Lynne begins to lead the way to campsite five. The entire jungle smells completely disgusting, and Lynne carefully tells her which plants to avoid touching ("that one causes painful blisters on human skin"), and what creatures to look out for ("if you hear a sound resembling chimes, quickly cover your ears; that is the sound of a bird of prey that puts its victims to sleep with its song, and then eats them where they lay." "That's messed up.").

Everything is bright green and red and orange and the bark looks slick and sticky. She has pants and an elbow-length jacket, so she watches her wrists to make sure no strange bugs decide to land on her and eat her skin. Myrha's wishing she wore gloves. Or maybe she should've just come in a complete protection suit.

There's a trail between the campsites, however, something Myrha's grateful for, though she wasn't expecting it.

"I thought this place was all about solitude and isolation and exploring new frontiers?" Myrha asks as she tramps along the flattened ground, "Don't trails and campsites defeat the purpose?"

"This is also an island that has been relatively unexplored and has been the site of past chemical contamination. The hotel must conform to safety standards of course, for insurance purposes, as it owns some of the land and rents out equipment. When venturing into the rest of the preserve, explorers should heed safety procedures."

"Wait, preserve?"

"Yes. After the ban was lifted and colonization efforts failed, Bartin campaigned to make the rest of the jungle, and indeed the rest of the island, a preserve for wildlife and exploration. The only part of Lieval that is allowed to be colonized now is the south beach strip, where the refueling station and hotel are."

"When you say you do research...you really do research, don't you?"

"It is part of my job to know as much as possible to better inform passengers of their destination."

"You didn't say any of this on our flight!"

"No one asked."

Myrha gives her a shrewd glance, "But wouldn't it be more efficient to anticipate the needs of guests and mention some of this during the flight? Especially the part about the chemical contamination?"

"How would I know what information to impart and what to keep to myself? I have a wealth of information; to recite all of it could possibly take hours."

She's not sure if androids have 'common sense' or not, but they can surely judge the importance and relevancy of certain types of information. Can't they?

"You know, that sounds suspiciously like a load of shit. I think you like to learn just because you're curious. It's not about being knowledgeable for guests at all."

"Believe what you want," she says loftily.

"I will, thanks."

When they get to campsite five, the ledger reveals that Spinner hasn't been there either.

"Since Fossam was staying at campsite six, it seems he was right: Spinner has just...disappeared."

Myrha doesn't think it's as dire as all that, "Maybe he went to take a leak and got lost?"

"Then we should attempt to locate him."

"What are you: a rescue droid?"

"It is my duty to ensure the comfort and safety of all guests."

"Yeah, on the shuttle."

"Then I will stop pointing out dangerous life forms to you."

Myrha gapes at her, "That's not what I meant!"

Lynne's already walking down the path to campsite six, and Myrha doesn't even ask why they're going there, just scrambles to keep up.

"I mean, you should keep telling me these things," she says, "about the dangerous life forms. Like the snake that disguises itself as an exposed root."

"Yes, you did almost trip over it, didn't you?"

"See! You need to keep telling me this stuff."

"Oh, I thought since you weren't on the shuttle it wasn't my duty to ensure your safety any more, isn't that right?"

"No, you definitely should. Because you like me."

"I do?"

"Yes. I am extremely likeable and very pretty. You want to keep me alive."

Myrha's sweating and panting, but she does her best to throw Lynne a rather sexy, convincing smile.

Lynne glances at her out of the side of her eyes, her stride not pausing.

"You are attempting to flirt with me."

"Whoa, way to kill the mood."

They walk a few more paces and then Myrha sputters, "Wait, attempting?"

"We are at campsite six," Lynne announces.

Myrha follows her as Lynne double-checks the ledger. No Spinner.

"What do you mean 'attempt'? I was flirting with you. Didn't it work?" Myrha puts her hands on her hips.

"As a stewardess, I have been on the receiving end of many such attempts, and yours was pathetic at best."

"Well," Myrha plants herself in front of the android, "that's because I wasn't giving it my all. If I was going to flirt and seduce you, you wouldn't stand a chance."

"Is that so?" Lynne raises an eyebrow and says each word slowly.

"Yeah," she gives her a cock-sure grin, "I spend most of my free nights seducing humans and alien visitors."

"Yes, you've implied you're rather promiscuous."

"I even snagged an alien at the port."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Yes. You're talking to an interstellar playgirl!"

"I'll be sure to be wary," Lynne says dryly and steps around her.

Myrha twists her torso to watch her, "Where are you going?"

"I am going to search for Spinner."

"Right, but he could be anywhere. Don't you need like, supplies? Clothes? A map? Something?"

Lynne gives her a look that says 'android, remember?'

"My internal positioning system will track my steps. I will be able to find my way back to this spot very easily. If that fails, then I can always rely on my homing device which will lead me directly to the shuttle."

"But where are you even going to start looking?"

"I thought I'd start by going to the abandoned research facility."

She disappears through the trees and Myrha wonders if, at this point, she should even be surprised anymore.

She races to catch up with Lynne, "You know where it is?"

"No."

"But you just said—"

"I am able to approximate its location due to the fact that I looked at a map of the island before embarking on this flight. The map was not to scale, it was little more than an artist's rendering, but it contained landmarks and rough details of contamination zones."

Myrha tiptoes around a particularly hungry-looking plant and then scrambles to make it back to Lynne's side. There isn't a path anymore, and Myrha isn't fond of all the suspicious looking roots and flowering plants that could burn her flesh.

"But why would Spinner try to find the facility?"

"The lights," Lynne says, as if in explanation.

"That made no sense."

"Where else would they come from? Spinner must have found the facility."

"Okay, Nancy Drew, that's enough leaps of logic here—"

"Nancy Drew?"

And the way Lynne stops and cocks her head is just sort of adorable.

"Yeah," Myrha flails weakly, "she's a fictional character. A girl detective. She's not known on Earth anymore, but she has a strong fanbase on Boes."

"Many cultures on Boes seem to find Earth things fascinating."

"Well, yeah, it was all a part of the cultural exchange thing that went on years ago, to promote peace after the war. Humans are obsessed with a lot of Boesian stuff too."

"That was almost two hundred years ago," the android frowns.

"Yeah, I know. Ever since then we've become bosom buddies with Boes. From mortal enemies to allies. It's great, even if Boesians pick the oddest stuff to fixate on: like sunflower bread, really?"

"The peace you enjoy," she continues walking, "was of course delivered, in part, by Mio Wy—"

"Yeah, nominated himself as the first ambassador to Earth, and the Boesian government got pissed—"

"How do you know this?" Lynne asks.

"Basic history, here."

Lynne huffs, "Are all playgirls this knowledgeable about basic history?"

"First of all: you're a judgmental asshole; just because I'm a playgirl doesn't mean I'm an idiot. Second of all: Wy wrote 'Poems for Peace'. Is there anyone in the known galaxy who hasn't heard of it?"

Lynne doesn't respond immediately and Myrha thinks ha, take that.

"You seem rather enamored with poetry," Lynne says eventually.

"So do you. Odd habit, for an android."

"Maybe you do not know as much about androids as you think."

"Just like you don't know that much about playgirls?"

Lynne glares at her; Myrha grins.

"I could teach you more, if you like," Myrha waggles her eyebrows, and she's sure she's about to get smacked.

Lynne just laughs. Who knew androids could laugh? Myrha feels, stupidly, like she's accomplished something.

Myrha's the one who is laughing at the end of the day. Miss Infallible Android couldn't find the research facility. Even though it means Myrha spent all day trooping about in a dangerous-possibly-contaminated jungle all for nothing, it's worth it to see the sheer disbelief and denial on Lynne's face. Myrha pokes fun at her the entire journey back, and laments her failure through dinner, and continues throughout the night.

"It's okay," Myrha snickers as they lay down to go to sleep, "technology isn't perfect."

"I never claimed I was perfect," Lynne snaps.

Myrha snuggles her pillow to her chest and has never felt so content. Well, okay, except for maybe after some really awesome sex, but this is pretty good too.

"The real concern," Lynne forges on, "is that Spinner has not been found."

"Maybe he doesn't want to be."

"That doesn't mean he shouldn't be."

It's dark in the room, so very dark, not even a little bit of moonlight spills in around the curtain's edge. Myrha, so used to brightness, doesn't like it very much. It's sort of nice, to have someone talk and distract her from how not-Earth everything is.

"Do you think he's staying at the research facility?"

"He's the only person not accounted for. I think he might've been responsible for the lights."

"Fossam seemed scared of them."

"Not scared enough that he stayed at the hotel. He left for campsite five tonight, I believe."

"The old couple went back out too. Bartin didn't seem too terribly concerned we couldn't find Spinner."

"Bartin doesn't seem concerned that his wife is missing half the time."

"Yeah, where does she go to? I think she's off inhaling some chemicals of her own, ha!"

There's a break in their conversation, and below them there's the hollow footsteps of the captain as he paces, waiting for a message, fiddling with the utiphone.

"How is it, not being on a shuttle?" Myrha asks.

There's a pause and the shuffle of blankets, as if Lynne's trying to get comfortable, but that's a bit ridiculous because Lynne doesn't need to get comfortable to sleep. She even said so.

"There is a...need to do something. I feel directionless. While I am generally self-sufficient," and she doesn't sound smug, but rather kind of fragile, "I have always had a general routine to follow, a goal to accomplish, and someone else who tells me this is when we fly, this is when we hibernate, this is when we land."

"So it's sort of like you're...free."

But not really, Myrha thinks at the same time. Myrha wonders how much of Lynne's fervor to find Spinner comes from her Turobeck-like personality of discovery and exploration, and how much of it stems from her need to find a directive. Maybe, Myrha thinks guiltily, Lynne knows herself better than Myrha thought. Her search for Spinner, helping Myrha in the jungle...perhaps it does all come from her programming, her desire to continue her job...an android struggling for normalcy.

"I do not have vacations or sick-days. To have the day to do as I please...it is something new."

"It's probably something you'll adapt to quickly," Myrha laughs.

"Perhaps."

Androids don't have vacations or sick-days. They probably don't have retirement either. What happens to them? Do they just get shut off and thrown away? Re-made into something new maybe?

She's too scared of the answer to ask.

"Lynne," she says slowly, testing the name out.

It's the first time she's addressed her by her name.

"Why do you read poetry?" Myrha asks.

"I read a lot of literature, human and alien alike."

"Yeah, but you could've just stuck to non-fiction, or manuals, or things that help you with your job. Why poetry?"

"I was created by a human to be human-like. I am not human. That does not mean I do not wish to study that which I am modeled after."

"Are you saying you...were studying what it was like to be human?"

"It is part of my job."

The response disappoints her. Is everything programmed to be about her job?

"You mean you weren't just curious?"

Lynne laughs again, quiet and soft, and Myrha desperately wants to know who taught her that.

"Just because it was part of my job does mean I was not curious."

And Myrha realizes she doesn't get it, doesn't get androids, doesn't understand how much of them is programmed, how much of them is personality, and if the two somehow merge and are impossible to pick apart.

"And you? How did the great interstellar playgirl come to love poetry?"

And the way she says it: love. Is Lynne even capable of love? Or is she able to create a facsimile impression of it based on copying human behavioral patterns? Lynne raises an eyebrow when she thinks it's appropriate to be annoyed; she laughs when she thinks a situation calls for it. Could she show love in a similar fashion?

"Myrha? Have you fallen asleep?" Lynne asks.

And shit. The way she says her name.

"No," she answers.

"You do not have to answer my question if you do not want to."

"No, I will. I mean, it's not all that personal. Not very interesting."

"You do that often," Lynne says.

"Do what?"

"Deflect. You are clearly intelligent to have won a poetry contest, and you seem to have rather extensive knowledge and opinions of poets and poems. Yet you project an image of carefree ignorance, almost to the point of deliberate obtuseness."

"Well hey it's not my fault I don't talk all fancy like you do. You project an image of superior intelligence to the point of...asshole elitism!"

"I am not projecting an image of superior intelligence; I have superior intelligence."

"You smug piece of shit!"

Myrha's face is red from laughter and she pounds the pillow before collapsing on it, burying her face in it and resisting the urge to go over to Lynne and smack the pillow right in her face.

"Tell me?" Lynne questions.

"Ugh, fine. I didn't grow up in such a great neighborhood, okay? Kids made fun of the smart ones. It wasn't cool to be intelligent or interested in things like poetry. I didn't want to get beat up or ostracized, so I just decided to fit in instead. That's where my 'projection' or whatever comes from."

"And your parents? Teachers? They didn't encourage learning?"

"It was just me and mom. Mom was too busy working to really make an effort, not that I blame her okay? Besides her, everyone else had given up on us kids."

"In that case," Lynne says in what Myrha now calls her 'science' voice, "I must congratulate you on your deception. You survived because of assimilation. That is a most effective survival trait."

"Oooh, did I just win the 'natural selection prize of the year' award?"

"If there was such a thing, I believe you might place first in the human category."

And that has Myrha sitting up so quickly she sees stars dancing in the darkness in front of her.

"Did you just tell a joke?"

"I was completely serious."

Myrha decides to chuck the pillow at her after all. Not surprisingly, it doesn't hit her. She can't really see, but she thinks Lynne might've caught it. Stupid android.

She lays back on her bed, a bit breathless, and it's never like this with Zel, who is friendly and supportive but more interested in gossip and drinking; never like this with the countless fair-weather friends she's had and lost; never like this with the hundreds of nameless people she's slept with; never like this with anyone else.

"I'm going to hibernate now," Lynne says.

Because Lynne isn't like anyone else she's ever met.

"Okay," Myrha says softly.

Lynne's little robotic noises fade. She doesn't breathe, so it's like she's not even there. Myrha hates the silence.

The next morning the captain is sleeping with the utiphone cradled in his arms, drool running down his cheek. Myrha feels slightly sorry for him, so she sets a particularly caffeine-laden drink by his elbow, and then gets breakfast. Bartin is cheerfully getting his own, and Myrha thinks it's way too early to be dealing with him, but she sits there and tries to make polite conversation anyway.

"Going exploring again today?" he practically chirps.

Like a fucking bird.

She is not awake enough to cope with this.

"Well, Spinner's still missing, and Lynne seems to be on a pretty hard-core rescue mission, so...I guess."

"Let me know if you find anything interesting."

"Like what: the plants that will melt my skin off?"

"You have such a sense of humor," he says and pats her hand.

"Yeah, ha ha," she drawls.

She stabs viciously at the fried worm she's consuming for breakfast. It's poisonous to the members of its home planet, but it has become something of a tasty treat on Earth. It's cheap and is often sold in vends at big events or large amusement stadiums. It's fat and greasy and tastes delicious with ketchup.

"So, listen, Lynne has this theory that Spinner went off to find the research facility here. Do you know where it is?"

Bartin coughs up some of his drink, "What?"

"Yeah, we figured he might have been the one setting off the strange lights Fossam was rambling about."

"That place is near the east side of the island's jungle. I don't have layouts of the island or anything, I couldn't tell you how to get to it, but that's its general location."

"So you never once stumbled upon it?"

"No, why would I ever want to visit there?"

Because you seem to be the explorer type? She doesn't say that though, just cuts up another piece of her worm.

"What kind of research was done there?" she asks.

"Well, according to the reports released, the Newfall Lieval Research Center was conducting experiments using the tree bark and plants of the island. I think the idea was to create some sort of chemical weapon or drug. The hallucination effects could be, I'm not sure, perhaps administered as some sort of torture drug. The plants, well, that's rather obvious, considering that they burn human flesh."

"Ugh, that's horrible," Myrha rears back.

No wonder he never wanted to find it.

"Yes, well," Bartin looks as grave as she's ever seen him, "as humans continue to explore the new frontier, we constantly find new ways to kill each other. Never mind the fact that chemical weaponry is banned on Earth and is frowned upon in many alien cultures we have alliances with; but because it's new and unknown it can be unregulated. It can be explored in the name of science."

"So what they were doing...they didn't really tell anyone?"

"The Newfall Company never revealed their true purpose. Not until something went wrong."

Uh-oh.

"So what happened?"

"It's hard to say, exactly. The Interstellar Alliance of Scientific Regulation and Control stepped in and declared the planet banned. They never revealed more beyond 'chemical contamination'. I'm sure it was all classified."

"It must have been something bad, then."

"I'm sure they didn't want any of the weaponry discoveries falling into the 'wrong hands' either."

"So, Spinner," a flash of unease goes through her, "you don't think that maybe he's trying to find out what they were doing?"

"The facility was supposed to have been gutted, all contents removed, all documents confiscated, and all personnel sworn to silence. It would be difficult for someone to find out all the details."

And Spinner doesn't seem like the type to try to dig up chemical weapon secrets.

"But everything's supposed to be okay now?"

"According to the Alliance. The only evidence I've found of previous human interference was a discarded pile of metal. And I haven't had any troubles, so I suppose they're right."

"Let me get this straight: you set-up a hotel on a possibly-still-contaminated-with-chemical-weaponry planet no one else would want to visit, all because Turobeck might've crashed here?"

"I'm a romantic."

"Oh really," she says sourly.

"But wouldn't it be glorious?" he gives her a shrewd glance, "To find Turobeck's lost space craft? To find his body?"

"Um, gross."

Bartin fiddles with the cord of his necklace, looking oddly intent.

"Maybe to find some of his poems? Imagine how much those would be worth!"

"Well, yeah. But his body? Gross."

Bartin sighs and morosely picks at his food, "I thought you, of all people, would've helped me."

She laughs, "You're totally in love with Turobeck like how Req was in love with his imaginary fiancée Janice."

"Ah, Captain Req," Bartin says dreamily, "love poems to last throughout the ages!"

"Yuck, no way! Req was like, a total sop who had to make-up a girlfriend to write to because he didn't have a real one."

Bartin glares at her and she sits up straighter and they're going to have a poetry battle, she can tell. Awesome.

"Req was an explorer at the dawn of the new space age! When interstellar flight took years! He had a right to write as much soppy love poems as he pleased!"

"Yeah, yeah, he's the Magellan of space flight, I get it. Still doesn't excuse bad poetry."

"And yet, we still use some of his phrases in everyday speech! 'By Jupiter's moons' was a phrase from one of his poems."

"Yes, I know," she cringes, because she hates that phrase because she hates that poem.

And she still has to catch herself from using the phrase.

"Just because it's popular, doesn't mean it's good though," she argues.

"But because it's popular, doesn't that mean it's good?" he asks with a challenging glint in his eye.

"You're a fan of Turobeck," she cries, "how can you like Req as well? They're like, total opposites. Turobeck describes the loneliness and grandness of deep space, and Req just talks about a girl back home. An imaginary girl."

"You are very single minded," Bartin says, "just because you appreciate one type of poetry, does not mean you can't appreciate another."

Myrha slumps against the chair and folds her arms. Fine. Bartin may have won this round, but there was always next time.

"I knew you more intelligent than you'd led us to believe," Lynne says.

Myrha turns to see her at the doorway, looking as neat and pretty as if she had never lain down to sleep.

"Tell Bartin that Req's poetry is awful," Myrha pleads.

Bartin's eyes dart between the two of them in surprise.

"Please?" Myrha continues to beg, "It's all about gross and icky stuff like love and feelings for an imaginary being. Plus, it's just bad. Like, he has no sense of grace or style or subtlety."

Lynne puts a finger to her chin, clearly in thinking mode. Bartin still looks shocked that Lynne even knows what poetry is. Then Lynne meets Myrha's eyes and begins to recite, in a very particular low and thoughtful voice, a Req poem.

"By Jupiter's moons I can count the ways I love you. And if I should list them all, up to sixty-seven, I'd still have more ways than there are moons in the Heavens, to describe the ways I love you."

Myrha is glad she's sitting down. She feels a little weak-kneed right now.

"See?" she says faintly, "It's bad poetry."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," Bartin murmurs.

"Yes, I get it," Myrha grumbles, "I may think the poem's crap, but that doesn't mean it is. I get it. Okay."

"You are annoyed," Lynne points out very unhelpfully.

Well, she did just lose a poetry battle to a crazy isolated liar and an android.

Luckily, she's distracted from her bad mood when someone stumbles in and basically runs Lynne over. Lynne helps steady the frantically breathing woman, and Myrha recognizes her as the older lady with the silent husband.

"I ran all the way here," she cries and flaps her hands wildly, blowing air at her eyes to dry the presence of tears.

"What's the matter?" Bartin stands up.

"It's Fossam. He's gone. Missing. Disappeared."

And then she bursts out in fresh tears. Lynne awkwardly pats her on the back, seeing as how the lady is now clinging to her.

"Start from the beginning," Bartin commands wearily.

"My husband and I were at campsite four. We decided to have breakfast with Fossam, but when we arrived, he was gone. All of his things were still there, but he was gone."

"He went for a leak?" Myrha suggests.

"You are particularly enamored with that theory," Lynne says wryly.

"We waited for him for an hour," the lady says stubbornly.

Myrha shrugs, "Okay, a dump then."

"His things were trashed!"

"He had a temper?"

Lynne's trying to stop from laughing. The lady looks like she's ready to strangle Myrha.

"Think of what might have happened! He might have been eaten by something."

"There aren't large animals on the surface of this planet," Lynne says.

Bartin nods in confirmation.

"Well, as far as we know anyway," Myrha grins, a touch sadistically.

The lady lets out a wail. Bartin cuts her off before she can completely fall apart.

"Where's your husband?" Bartin asks.

"Karry's at the campsite. He can't walk well, gets tried."

"You left him there?" Myrha asks.

"Well he wanted to be there in case Fossam returned. And just because he can't walk, doesn't mean he can't fight. He's got a weapon."

"Okay, listen, I want you to sit, get a drink, and calm down. We'll go to the campsite for Karry and keep a lookout for Fossam, all right?" Bartin says.

She nods and collapses in a chair.

Myrha sighs and guesses breakfast is over. It's going to be one of those days. She can tell.

It's definitely one of those days. They get to the campsite and find Karry missing. His weapon lies crushed at the edge of the campsite.

"It looks like something dragged him off," Lynne observes.

The underbrush is trampled and drops of blood litter the ground.

"This is fucked up," Myrha announces. Just in case anyone really doubted.

"We need weapons," Bartin concludes darkly.

"Yeah, because that worked out for Karry so well."

"We're not going to follow these tracks unless we're armed."

Myrha thinks being armed is a great idea. Following the tracks? Not so much.

"I really want to get off this planet," she says conversationally.

Bartin leads them back to the hotel and decides to try and place another communication to the port to signal for help. The captain, still sleeping, doesn't stir as Bartin grimly tries to send a message. Myrha's pretty sure the utiphone is broken, but no one seems ready to believe that.

"I can't in good conscience let you back out there," he says after his failed attempt.

Lynne, of course, is in 'investigation mode' and wants to follow the tracks.

They still haven't told the lady yet that her husband is missing. And probably dead. Like Fossam and Spinner.

"You're my guests and your safety is my priority. We should stay at the hotel and let the authorities handle this."

"Except that they haven't been able to receive our messages," Lynne points out.

"Hey, I am all for not going out there with substandard weapons," Myrha says.

All Bartin has in his arsenal are a few old HeatWaves, and Myrha takes one even though she's not sure it can actually function. Still, having a blood boiling machine in her hands gives her a sense of security. However false it may be.

In the end, as Bartin is hotel-owner, he is elected to tell the lady ("her name is Gerdie") what has befallen her husband. Myrha and Lynne stay far away from that scene.

"A sabotaged shuttle. Defective equipment. Missing guests. A rampaging beast. This is like...a horror story."

Lynne nods, "Our situation does bear similarity to that of a classic horror tale."

That doesn't exactly make Myrha feel any better. She feels especially sick to her stomach when she hears Gerdie's scream of disbelief.

There are a few guests still staying in the hotel and Bartin forbids them to leave. As for the guests still out on the campsites, he grumbles to himself and says he'll go fetch them. Myrha thinks that's a really bad idea.

"You'll die," she says, "you should let them fend for themselves."

He ignores her warnings.

They're all sort of miserable cooped up in the hotel. Gerdie is continuously crying in the vends room and the captain blinks blearily at the news, before laboring over the utiphone again. Myrha thinks that's a hopeless cause, but maybe like Lynne, he just needs a focus. Myrha's not going to be the one to steal that from him. So she gets him something to eat and leaves him to it.

The other guests get as much food as possible from the vends and then barricade themselves in their rooms. Myrha decides to do the same, and puts the extra food in her travel kit. She packs it up and Lynne watches her with an interested eye.

"Why are you putting everything away?"

"In case we need to get out of here quick."

Lynne doesn't say anything else, so Myrha peeks out the window to see the sun on the horizon, sinking slowly. She watches it for a while, the sky and ocean turning dark. Only one lone figure staggers back from the jungle: Bounty Hunter.

"It's night. Only one person has returned."

"Then we must assume the worst," Lynne says.

"This doesn't seem so much rampaging animal as it does evil radioactive army. I mean, it's kind of a big deal to take out a handful of guests in a single night."

"I highly doubt there is an 'evil army' in Lieval's jungle."

"Whatever."

Myrha abandons the window and curls up in her bed. She hugs the pillow tight, but she doesn't feel like she can sleep. Lynne gets up to turn off the lights. She can go into hibernation mode no matter if it's light or dark, but she knows Myrha needs the darkness. Even if she hates it.

"Maybe we can leave the light on tonight. Or leave the curtains open," she says.

"You no longer find it comfortable to sleep in the dark?"

"I'm scared out of my fucking mind! Of course not. If some evil radioactive army comes marching in, I want to be able to see them and kick their asses."

"There is no evil radioactive army."

"Shut up. Fear isn't something you can fight with logic."

"Apparently not," is Lynne's dry reply.

Myrha folds her arms and stares crossly at the ceiling.

"If it reassures you," Lynne says quietly, "my strength is such that I should be able to overpower any animal that may attack us in the night."

"What about an evil army?"

"I shall endeavor to do my best to protect you," Lynne says in a deep tone. Only slightly snarky.

"Well you can't do it from way over there," Myrha says, "Come over here."

Her face flames as she pats her bed. By Jupiter's moons, she's done stuff kinkier than this; it shouldn't be making her blush!

"You wish to share a bed?"

Lynne sounds puzzled, and Myrha thinks that this is definitely not in any of her programming.

"Yeah, come on. This will make it a lot easier for you to protect me. Don't you want to do your job to the best of your ability?"

Lynne's comforter rustles as she climbs out of her cot.

"You are really that afraid?"

"This isn't just motivated by fear; it's a practical move as well."

She pauses.

"Also, you're pretty hot. So this isn't exactly a hardship."

Lynne laughs and the bed dips as she sits on it, and then brings up her legs. Thumpa-thumpa, Myhra can hear her heart race and she sternly tells it 'no, this is not something to get excited over'. Except that she has a hot, and apparently dangerous, lady in her bed. That is definitely exciting.

Lynne doesn't give off body heat, although Myrha bets she lets off some heat somewhere because she's a machine; and instead of breath, Myrha can hear her tiny tickings and whirrings.

She places a hand on Lynne's wrist. She has no hair. But her skin still feels soft.

"Thanks," is all she says.

"Anything for a guest," Lynne pauses, and then continues smarmily, "especially a likeable, attractive one such as you."

"Did you just throw my words back in my face?"

She can't see Lynne's expression, but she's pretty damn sure she's smiling like the smug little robot that she is.

"I hate you," Myrha laments.

"Go to sleep, Myhra."

And with a sultry command like that, who is she to ignore it?

She is definitely glad that she asked Lynne to sleep in her bed, and not just because she got to get close to a sexy woman. Myrha has a distant, happy thought that Lynne was wrong about the culprit being an animal. That doesn't make being right any easier, though. An army may not exactly be after them, but Myrha was pretty spot-on about the radioactive part.

So when Fossam bursts through the door and attacks them, he gets a face full of Lynne's fist; apparently Lynne didn't go into hibernation mode. Myrha is kind of touched.

She's also pretty terrified.

"What the fuck?" she shouts.

Fossam staggers back and into the light from the smashed door; she can see a huge, messy hole where his eye is supposed to be.

"I misjudged the strength needed to knock him unconscious," Lynne says.

"You destroyed his face!"

Fossam doesn't seem to care. He finds his footing, and with a stream of blood spurting out of his eye socket, he makes his way back to them. Myrha leaps out of bed, travel kit in hand, and grabs the HeatWave from underneath her pillow. Fossam collapses on top of Lynne, and Myrha can hear the click of his teeth. Lynne grabs both of Fossam's bulky arms and hauls him off of her, throwing him towards the wall. Blood seems to be everywhere, even seeping out of Fossam's gums and nails.

Myrha aims the weapon at Fossam and focuses the beam on his chest. Seconds later the room is filled with the scent of blistering flesh; Fossam doesn't make a sound. Holy shit.

"He should be on the ground screaming in pain by now!" she shouts, panicked.

Fossam continues forward, and Myrha's hands are fucking shaking and Lynne sort of says, "He must feel no pain," but Myrha can't really concentrate because Fossam is still walking towards her, even as his flesh burns and disintegrates.

"Turn off the beam!" Lynne commands.

"Are you insane?"

"Do it!"

Myrha groans and does as she's told, and then Lynne darts forward, grabs the sides of Fossam's head, and twists. Crack, crack, crack. Fossam's head rolls to the floor and his body just sort of collapses and Myrha can feel everything she's eaten come up her throat. Lynne grabs her arm while Myrha's standing there in shock, and she has blood on her and Myrha can't shut her eyes but she dearly wants to.

Lynne pulls them into the hallway and the bright light makes Myrha's eyes water; she doesn't look back into the room to check on Fossam, though she's morbidly inclined to. They make for the stairs and pass by other rooms, doors smashed in; Lynne practically leaps down the steps and they rush into the lobby, only to bowl over Gerdie.

They all tumble to the ground, and Myrha jumps to her feet and points the HeatWave at the lady, who's twitching and convulsing on the floor; Lynne jumps out of the way as the elderly lady staggers to her feet. There's a large disgusting wound on her shoulder, dribbling with pus. It looks rancid, infected. Her features are sluggish, like her skin is molding on her bones and her eyes are glassy in a way that reminds Myrha of Werna. Her bloody teeth clack aimlessly, and a strip of silver cloth hangs from her mouth.

Lynne doesn't waste any more time; she aims a kick to Gerdie's chest, and sends her crashing into the wall. Her chest cavity blooms with blood and mashed muscles. Her teeth still clack at them. Lynne grabs Myrha's arm and tugs her to the door, but Myrha spares a glance at the utiphone on the desk. The captain sits slumped over it, like he had fallen asleep on it again. Except there are bite marks on his neck and back, large strips of his silver uniform and flesh gone.

"She ate him," Myrha yells, but Lynne's already pushing her out the door.

And they run right into a brawl.

Bounty Hunter stands in a ring of their fellow guests; he's dripping with blood and sweat and is wielding a HeatWave, blasting Karry in the face with it; another guest takes the opportunity to leap on his back.

"What is wrong with them?" Myrha shrieks.

Several glassy-eyed heads turn towards them.

"Smooth," Lynne mutters.

"Run!" Bounty Hunter cries.

Myrha doesn't think twice. She and Lynne scamper down the sandy trail, the three moons faintly watching them from overhead, and the sounds of clicking teeth and gurgling and the hum of the HeatWave drift through the air. They race to the dark hulk of the shuttle and Lynne slams the door open and they stagger in. Myrha gets out her utiphone and turns on its light.

"What are we looking for?" Myrha whispers frantically.

"If you're looking for weapons, I already have them."

Myrha jumps and Lynne stills, looking eerily pale and stark in the sparse light from the utiphone.

"Bartin," she greets.

Bartin comes out of the crew quarters, face streaked with dirt and sweat. He holds a long, thin bat in his hands. It's the kind that can deliver electrical blows.

"I see we had the same idea," Lynne says rather neutrally.

Bartin's throat convulses.

"Your HeatWaves suck," Myrha says.

"It's not the weapons, it's the enemy," Lynne says, "it's as if they are missing pain receptors. They do not register pain, nor are they stopped by severe physical trauma."

"Yeah, they're very single minded," Myrha says, "like...they're in a haze."

She gives Bartin a suspicious glance, "They kind of remind me of Werna, actually."

A pained whimper leaves Bartin's throat and Lynne gives her a startled glance.

"Their eyes," Myrha explains, "kind of hazy and glazed over like Werna's."

Wetness dots the corners of Bartin's eyes, and glints in the limited pale light, "She was always...she couldn't stop."

"What?" Lynne asks, puzzled.

"I said she was on drugs, didn't I?"

Myrha doesn't feel like it's an appropriate time to boast, but she supposes she'll never stop feeling awesome when she's one-upped her intelligent companion.

"Ah," and she sees the exact moment Lynne puts it all together, "she was addicted to the hallucinogenic properties of the tree bark."

Bartin nods miserably, "Yes, my poor Werna. She hasn't had a clear head in months."

He sniffles pathetically.

"Then," Lynne turns towards her, "you believe the trance-like state of the other patrons has something to do with the tree bark?"

"It's like they got dosed with enormous, or maybe just very potent, quantities of it."

"Is there a known antidote?" Lynne addresses Bartin.

"I don't know," he wails, "nothing I've tried seemed to counteract it. It always had a hold on her mind; and the days she seemed sober, she'd do anything to get more."

"Wasn't this stuff being used for experiments?" Myrha asks.

"Yes," Bartin sighs, "but I've told you everything I know about it."

"Did Werna ever become violent?" Lynne asks.

"Sometimes. She's been using it more lately, and I've had to restrain her."

His lip quivers and he bursts out, "And it's all my fault!"

"Quiet," Myrha shushes his wailing.

"Why?" Lynne asks, avidly interested.

His hands shake around his grip on the bat, "I should have never asked her to come here with me. She's not like me; she doesn't like isolation. The drugs were her escape!"

Myrha can admit that's a little bit understandable. If she were trapped on a planet with only Bartin for company, she'd go a little stir crazy too.

"Where is Werna now?" Lynne asks carefully and oh shit Myrha has a bad feeling about this.

"She's in the crew quarters," Bartin says, "I've tied her up. But I'm not abandoning her."

"She's going to turn violent and eat your face!" Myrha hisses.

"We do not know if Werna is as violent as the others," Lynne reasons, "they seem to have been...infected differently."

"And we're taking a chance on that?"

Lynne places a hand over her mouth and Myrha looks at her, aghast, when Lynne says quietly, "The sounds of fighting have stopped."

She doesn't need Lynne to tell her that that's probably a very bad thing. A weird shiver snakes down her spine.

"We need to move on before they come looking for us," Bartin says.

"Move where?" Myrha asks.

Bartin starts to a look little shifty, and his sweat gleams profusely, and Myrha wonders if this means more bad news.

"The shuttle," he whispers hoarsely, "Turobeck's."

"What?" Myrha whispers back.

"He crashed here, I know it," he continues, breathing laboriously, "We just have to find it. We can get off this planet, like I should have done months ago."

Lynne and Myrha share a glance.

"He's crazy," Myrha mouths at Lynne.

"You believe Turobeck landed here and left a serviceable shuttle behind?" Lynne asks.

Bartin nods frantically, "Yes, yes, I just need help finding it. You see, all I ever needed was a way to get a shuttle, or money, to get off this forsaken planet and get Werna help. Turobeck with his shuttle, his poetry, he could give me freedom."

Myrha wants to shake him; it's as if he's fallen under a hallucination as well.

"That's why you ran the contest and lied about Lieval?" Myrha asks, "You wanted to drag someone into your search for a fabled shuttle?"

"You'll help me find the shuttle," Bartin decides, "all of you will."

"You invented the fantasy that Turobeck left a shuttle here because you needed some way to believe there was a way out of your situation!" Myrha insists.

"It's the truth," he says stubbornly, "Turobeck was here on Lieval. I have proof!"

"Regardless," Lynne cuts in, "we need to leave the area."

"There's a cave, farther down on the west side of the beach, we can hide out there for some time," Bartin nods decisively.

Myrha is not going to be stuck in a cave with a crazy person and his equally crazy and probably-hungry-for-human-flesh wife. She shares a glance with Lynne and tries to convey all of this with a single stare.

"Bartin," Lynne says, "I am sorry."

With one swift move she knocks him out and Bartin crumbles to the floor. Myrha grabs the bat from his slack grip, and rifles through his clothes for anything else that might be of use. The necklace he wears is tangled on the ground, and on it is a little piece of metal. She doesn't know what it is, but it's the only thing on his person, so Myrha grabs it and follows Lynne out the door.

Silence reigns outside, except for the slow shuffle of feet against sand.

"They're coming," Myrha whispers.

She thinks she hears the click of hungry teeth.

"Run," Lynne softly commands.

They leave Bartin and Werna to their fate.

They sprint across the beach, the tips of waves shining in the moonlight. The jungle is silent and the wind is still. In her mind, Myrha can still hear the clacks of teeth and the ripping of flesh. As they run, it feels as if the island is a lot bigger than it seemed from space; Myrha just hopes it's big enough to hide them from those things.

The cave is right up against the beach, nestled in a long line of cliff-like features that rise up from the sand. They dive in and Myrha sags against the cave wall, gasping for breath. She's never run so much in her life (well, except for that one time with the punch and the authorities). Surprisingly, Lynne sits down as well.

"What, do androids get tired now?" Myrha breathlessly jokes.

She figures the radioactive things will take at least a night to catch up to them. They have time for jokes.

"No, but we do run out of power."

"Oh shit."

"I did not anticipate having to do so much work," Lynne admits.

Myrha gets to her knees and takes a closer look at Lynne. She's not sweating or out of breath; she doesn't look tired or frazzled or like she's been fighting and running from an evil radioactive army all night.

"So what happens when you run out of power?"

Lynne gives her an 'are you an idiot' stare.

"Right. Dumb question. So you just like, shutdown?"

"Yes."

"You don't like, die or anything?"

Lynne looks at her with sympathy and Myrha bristles because it's not like she's worried, she's just...concerned. Curious. Whatever.

"I would simply need a charger to reanimate."

Charger. Great. The thing they don't have.

"So basically, after you shutdown, I'm going to have to lug your body around until I find a charger?"

"Lug me...? You will not lug me anywhere. You will leave me here and find means of survival or escape."

"You want me to just leave you at the mercy of those things?"

That does not sound cool to Myrha. Not fucking cool at all.

"I'm sure they will leave me be. They seem compelled only towards human flesh."

But Myrha doesn't like the idea of leaving Lynne lying in a cave forever, uncharged and dead to the passing of time. Myrha scoots closer and presses their sides together.

"I never thought this is how I'd be spending my vacation," Myrha says.

"Of all of the disasters that could befall a Starline flight, this is something I never considered."

"Yeah, it's pretty crazy."

And Myrha figures they're about to die, so she gives in and lays her head on Lynne's shoulder. She sort of just wants to cling to her.

"I also never predicted I would share a bed with a human," Lynne says.

"Yeah? I never thought I'd share a bed with an android, so I guess we're even."

"I never thought I'd ever have cause to lie in a bed at all."

"Well, I never thought I'd have cause to invite an android in my bed. And then not have sex."

Lynne doesn't respond.

"I mean, that's not a bad thing," Myrha says quickly, "that's actually sort of an accomplishment for me."

"You've engaged in a lot of sexual intercourse."

Lynne is so jealous.

Totally and completely jealous.

Myrha tries to play it off, "Well, yeah. Not that it meant anything."

"So you frequently engaged in anonymous, meaningless sex? Why?"

Myrha's never justified her behavior to anybody, but she shrugs and answers, "What else is there?"

"You don't believe...how do humans phrase it...you don't believe in love?" Lynne asks.

She has her 'science voice' on again, but Myrha thinks she can sense something else, something in the fragile way she says 'love'.

"I don't think of love as a belief. It's more of a...state of mind."

"So you don't debate its existence."

"It's not some sort of mythological creature. It's something one can experience."

"You haven't experienced it."

"No, and I hope not to."

"You are afraid of it?"

Yes, Myrha thinks as she snuggles against Lynne's shoulder. She's afraid of what love will do to her.

"The only thing I'm possibly more afraid is an evil radioactive army."

"I see."

Lynne plays with the edge of Myrha's jacket, an oddly human gesture.

"They are not evil or radioactive," Lynne corrects, "they are contaminated with a substance."

"A substance that makes them mindless except for the desire to kill living beings."

"Yes, like in a horror story."

"Yeah, they're kind of like...zombies."

"Zombies?"

"Yeah," Myrha grins so hard her cheeks hurt, "zombies in space."

"This thought amuses you."

"In a very morbid fashion."

"I am not amused, morbidly or otherwise."

Lynne's voice is distinctly sour.

And Myrha thinks that she isn't really, either. She slides her arms around Lynne's and gives up and clings. Lynne rests her cheek on the top of Myrha's head.

It's a beautiful night, muggy and warm with only a little wind. Nothing that screams 'zombie apocalypse'. The light from the distant moons and stars falls at the edge of the cave's mouth. She sniffles a little and wonders if one of those bright dots is the Sun.

"I must go to the stars again, to the lonely constellations in the sky," Lynne says softly.

Myrha jumps a bit. Lynne doesn't continue. Myrha wets her throat a little.

"And all I ask is a clear night and a prayer to get me by," Myrha says.

"And a good wind and a glowing moon and a finely tuned motor."

"And a last kiss from a pretty girl for this wayward boater."

Lynne shifts against her, just slightly.

"I find it interesting," she says, "that the last thing Turobeck would ask for before exploring, is human contact."

"I thought it just meant he was looking for a little pleasure before setting off for months on his own, you know?"

"I would not know," Lynne says slowly, carefully, "I have never experienced physical pleasure."

Myrha wants to sit up, to look into Lynne's eyes and see if she's telling the truth, but she's too comfortable clinging.

"So you mean you don't have...?"

"I am not a pleasure droid," she says, "having genitals would be...illogical."

And that's the saddest fucking thing she's ever heard.

"Then you haven't – you've at least kissed, right?"

"No," Lynne sits up, voice attentive, "I have not."

Myrha's face warms and she sits up slowly, nose just a hairsbreadth away from Lynne's chin.

"Oh."

She can't look her in the eyes, just concentrates on her synthetic skin and thinks: it's the one thing I really haven't tried.

Lynne sits there, patient and silent, until Myrha can meet her eyes, can see that she wants this.

Lynne's eyes are green.

That's all she really has a chance to see before Lynne leans in very close, like she knows how this dance is supposed to go, but never learned all the steps. Myrha, a veteran, decides to help her out...and kisses her.

Her skin is different. It's soft and dry and cool. There's no heat, sweat and saliva. She has a tongue. It simply feels like rubber. It's nothing like Myrha's ever had. It should be like kissing a very silky calculator.

Myrha pulls back, and it's her own spit that dots Lynne's lips, and there's no hot breath on her face, but Lynne's looking at her and her lips are moving, as if testing out kissing maneuvers.

It's a little funny.

Lynne gives her a calculating look, but she's not computing numbers, and Myrha feels a flare of heat because that is one damn sexy look. This is nothing like kissing a calculator.

"I think I understand how it's supposed to work now," Lynne says and then leans forward, "let us try again."

Myrha lets Lynne take her mouth, cool tongue plunging inside and sweeping her mouth as if tasting it. Lynne can't taste, but Lynne doesn't really taste like anything, so she supposes they're even. Myrha grasps Lynne's arms and pulls her closer and gets a lapful of android and thinks of all the things Lynne doesn't have and can't experience. She's intelligent. She's gorgeous. But she's just a glorified piece of eye-candy, probably designed by some horny scientist who heard from the advertising team that sex sells. But they never gave her the ability to experience sex for herself. It's so fucking shallow.

Myrha wraps her hands in Lynne's hair and is determined to make it good for her. No, fucking fantastic. She feels out Lynne's mouth with her tongue, until it is wet with Myrha's own saliva, and rubs her tongue against Lynne's teeth and the roof of her mouth, until Lynne shivers.

"I can register the sensation, the pressure. It sort of tingles," Lynne mumbles.

Myrha runs her fingertips very lightly over Lynne's arms, up her neck and finally over her cheeks. Lynne strains forward as to chase the sensation, to fully experience it and analyze it. Myrha brushes against her sculpted nose and over her pink lips. Lynne shivers.

Myrha grins and locks eyes with Lynne (and they're so fucking human); she pokes her tongue out, and traces the path her fingers made.

"I like that," Lynne says immediately.

Myrha hums a little, pleased, and then makes trails over Lynne's cheeks and finally, her lips. Lynne, like the learning and adapting android she is, takes the opportunity to give Myrha a kiss, sweeping her tongue against Myrha's. Myrha is the one who shivers.

"I like that," Lynne says again, quieter.

"Me too."

Her throat is a little clogged. Shit. She's an interstellar playgirl, but it still feels like too much too fast. She's very sure she's never felt so much during sex before. Surely, surely, surely she can't be having feelings for an android because androids aren't unique, loving, lovable beings...they're programmed machines.

Lynne tangles their fingers together, initiating a new kind of contact, and Myrha's thoughts are becoming all jumbled.

"May I touch you elsewhere?" Lynne asks.

Myrha has difficulty swallowing as she imagines Lynne's hands on her, touching her in intimate places and she wants, she wants so bad, and they're probably going to die anyway. It wouldn't mean anything.

Lynne patiently tucks a piece of hair behind Myrha's ear, as if it was obscuring her view of Myrha's face.

The little gesture makes Myrha weak in the knees. Fuck. It would mean everything.

Before she can give any type of answer, Lynne's suddenly standing up and grabbing a weapon and Myrha doesn't know what's going on, but she scrambles to get one as well. She can hear it now, a pathetic shuffling, a slow slide-step against the beach sand.

"Please," a tortured whisper comes from the dark.

"Who's there?" she demands.

And then Spinner falls into the cave, a gasping lump, and Myrha jumps into the air, cursing. Lynne's HeatWave presses against Spinner's skull. He cringes and weeps.

"Please," he says again.

"Spinner," Myrha says, nerves tingling, "what the fuck! We thought you were dead."

"I'm so – so sorry," he sobs.

Lynne backs up a little, enough for him to lift his head and blink at them, terrified.

"You lousy piece of shit," Myrha sighs and lowers her weapon, "you scared us."

For some reason, that makes him laugh. In a very miserable, horrible fashion.

"Yes, yes, that was my intention," he says.

And then he cries some more.

"Cut the waterworks," Myrha kneels next to him, "what happened to you?"

He pulls himself together, taking a fortifying breath, before getting to his knees. He's covered in dirt and blood and has a distinct unwashed smell about him.

"I had to find you, to tell you what happened," he says.

"Great," Myrha says encouragingly.

"I'm so glad someone survived," he says, and he looks at her with such hope and regret that Myrha wants to shake him.

"Start making sense, please."

"What happened in the jungle?" Lynne asks.

He bursts out laughing, quickly curbs it, and then confides, "I found it."

"Found what?"

He bites his lips. Myrha gestures for him to continue. Whatever Spinner might have found, it clearly wasn't sanity or eloquence.

"I did a bad thing," he whispers.

He leans forward so that his breath washes over Myrha's face.

"A horrible thing," he continues.

Myrha kind of figures where this is going.

"You're somehow responsible for all of this, aren't you?"

Immediately, Lynne's weapon is once again trained on Spinner's skull. Spinner doesn't look surprised or scared, just a little sad.

"I didn't mean for it all to get so out of hand," he says mournfully.

"How can any of this be in hand?" Myrha scoffs.

"Explain yourself, Spinner."

Lynne's voice is like ice.

"Are you responsible for the condition of the other passengers?" she asks.

Spinner gulps and wrings his hands, and maybe he's just realizing he's up against the cold fury of an armed android.

"Yes," he says meekly.

"How?"

He closes his eyes, whether in regret or simple remembrance, Myrha can't tell.

"I've been visiting Lieval constantly since the planet has been reopened, hoping to find the Newfall Lieval Research Center."

"The facility was condemned, what could you hope to find there?"

"Anything! Anything that would help me recreate their experiments."

"Those experiments were concluded to be dangerous to life forms, why would you hope to recreate them?"

He licks his lips, "I thought I could...restore the Universe to its rightful order."

"Rightful order?" Myrha says in disbelief, "What the fuck?"

He glares at her, "Not that someone like you would understand!"

"Spinner," Lynne says lightly, butting the edge of her weapon against his head.

He immediately cowers and Myrha snorts, of course he's afraid of her.

"The Universe is sick...sick with a plague...."

"How can the Universe be ill?" Lynne asks with careful patience.

Myrha makes a strangled noise and turns away, "Shit, I knew you were one of those Dellylee types!"

"Explain," Lynne says tersely.

"He hates humans and other life forms," Myrha says, "we're the plague, aren't we Spinner?"

Spinner snarls at her and wheels his arms around, as if to stand. A quick jab from Lynne's HeatWave has him quieting down.

"You can't argue that the Universe wouldn't be better without us!" he cries, "We're destroying it, infecting it."

"How? We are the Universe, you idiot! We're created from it, part of it. Holy shit," Myrha paces, agitated. She's always hated Dellylee-wannabes.

"We're the agent of cacophony in an otherwise peaceful, balanced Universe," he laments.

"Now you're just plagiarizing! Leave the poetry to the poets, will you?"

"Poetry?" he asks, momentarily bewildered.

Myrha throws her hands in the air, "You don't even know the poet you quoted?"

"That's not – it's not – it's a statement of our movement—"

"There are more of you behind this?" Lynne cuts in.

He quails under her gaze, "I acted alone."

Lynne's gaze says she's not inclined to believe him.

He sucks in a large breath, "I heard of the experiments. I visited as much as I could afford, and attempted to reconstruct the findings of their research. From the sparse remains, and the rare piece of literature released about the center, I think I...managed to recreate their chemical weapons."

"What for?" Myrha looms over him, not so sure she wants to fight the urge to smack him.

He looks desperately between the two of them, "The substance was uncontrollable. I wanted to just – to just test it. The effects were more radical than I predicted."

"What was it supposed to be?" Lynne asks.

He's practically hyperventilating now, "The chemical was created from the deliriant present in the tree bark. It was supposed to induce such a strong hallucination in a person, that they couldn't feel pain. They'd be trapped in a nightmare, where everyone is the enemy, and their goal is to destroy them or to...to infect them and make them an ally. They'll continue to fight until they're forcibly killed or until...there's nobody left, after which they'll turn on each other."

"How does it pass from one being to another?" Lynne asks.

"Side-effects of the deliriant include bleeding in the gums and nails. When one infected being attacks another by biting or scratching them, the deliriant is passed from their bloodstream to their victim's."

"It's basically supposed to make humanity destroy itself," Myrha says in awe.

"But the research was halted," Lynne says.

"Yes. The chemical is volatile, and highly effective in even small doses. Something happened, whether on accident or on purpose, one of the test capsules was mishandled and a leak occurred. Several researchers inhaled the gaseous chemical and...began attacking the others. By the time someone had called for help, most of the scientists were dead or infected. When agents from The Interstellar Alliance of Scientific Regulation and Control finally arrived, they decided to shut the entire facility down, and close off the planet. Eventually the facility was gutted, the chemical was recycled through Lieval's biogeochemical cycle, and the planet was deemed safe again."

"You sure know a lot about this," Myrha puts her hands on her hips.

Spinner juts his chin out at her and doesn't say anything else.

"But there's a cure, right?" Myrha asks.

"Well, no."

He looks at her like she's pretty stupid.

"Well, why the fuck isn't there one?"

"It's a weapon, it isn't supposed to have a cure," he snaps.

Lynne places a calming hand on Myrha's arm, "I doubt efforts were put into finding a cure for a weapon that wasn't fully developed, or even supposed to exist."

"So, the infected researchers, what happened to them?"

"They eventually...died."

The way Spinner hesitates when he says 'died' makes Myrha a little nauseous.

"You mean they were exterminated or something, right?" she asks.

"It was merciful," he shrugs, "sedatives didn't work very well and weeks without proper nutrition and water didn't affect them at all."

Myrha and Lynne share an alarmed glance.

"And you," Myrha points an accusing finger at Spinner, "wanted to recreate this weapon and what, bring it onboard the shuttle and unleash it in some populous city or spaceport?"

"The Universe would be better off without us," he reiterates firmly.

"The Universe isn't alive," Myrha points out.

"Even if," Lynne states forcefully, "in the unlikely scenario this chemical somehow managed to destroy all life forms within the known galaxy, life more than likely exists in the other billions of galaxies in our Universe. The spread of this chemical within the Milky Way would be...fruitless."

"Then maybe," Spinner sounds less shaky, and has a determined glint in his eye, "maybe I'm saving life from itself."

Myrha snorts, "Yeah, okay, that makes no sense. If we're all dead, there's no one going to be saved, or better off or whatever."

He sneers at Myrha and, yeah, that's definitely the sneer of some poor, insane, Dellylee-wannabe who hasn't experienced enough of life to see the good parts of it. Or maybe had just seen too much of the bad.

Myrha stalks around him, and he swivels his head to watch her. Lynne watches her without comment, her beautiful face impassive and her weapon at the ready.

"You were involved, weren't you?" she asks, "Somehow, with the facility or the committee, you were involved. That's how you know so much."

He hunches his shoulders as she stops behind him, looming over him so her shadow, created by the dim moonlight, falls across him.

"Tell us," Lynne says.

"You really have nothing else to lose," Myrha says, a nasty twist to her lips.

"Years ago I...I had been an Officer on Earth. Specialized in drug control and gang activity. I had heard rumors of the Lieval case from others. So I decided to...do some hacking."

He nervously runs a finger over his utiphone. So that's what he had been so interested in during their flight: stolen files.

Myrha taps her foot in an agitated rhythm, "So you've been planning this for a long time."

He nods.

"Then why tell us all of this now?"

With trembling with fingers, he slowly peels back his coat. A chunk of flesh is missing from his thick gut; thankfully, it's dark enough that Myrha doesn't see too much of the details. She can't help but laugh though. Lynne shoots her a sharp, puzzled look.

"This is just too much!" she has to double over because her laughter is making her hyperventilate.

She staggers against the wall, using it to hold her upright, because she's becoming a bit weak in the knees. It's all just too grand.

"Are you happy now, Spinner?" she taunts him.

Lynne and Spinner are eerily silent, just watching her fall apart. But she feels like, finally, it's all coming together. It's just too perfect.

Spinner is a huddling mass on the floor, and it's good to see him so low, so defeated, crushed by the very thing he tried so hard to create. It's poetic justice.

"You didn't really think you'd escape the destruction, did you Spinner?" She continues to mock him, "You're a life form, unworthy to exist as the rest of us, just another agent of destruction in an otherwise peaceful Universe."

"Myrha," Lynne sighs, as if she's disappointed.

"You should be glad, ecstatic, that you got infected too," Myrha grins at the man frozen on the floor.

He doesn't rise to the bait. He just looks very tired, and sort of ill, exactly like he's been infected with some sort of sickness. She shrugs, not needing him to react; it's enough that he was bitten.

"Was it Fossam who got you?" she asks, "Or was it Karry?"

"Karry," he whispers softly, "Fossam was my test subject. Karry was his first victim."

"And then Karry got you as you tried to study them?"

"As I tried to stop them from getting to the hotel."

He turns plaintive eyes on her and she can't hold that gaze, just scoffs in disgust. He was a man who had planned for annihilation, but then couldn't handle seeing it. She doesn't know whether to applaud his change of heart, or to despise him for it.

Lynne, apparently, has other things on her mind.

"How are you able to hold off the hallucination?" she asks.

"It's probably because he's built up some measure of resistance working with the chemicals," Myrha hypothesizes.

"Or maybe," Lynne almost cuts her off, "it's sheer strength of will."

Myrha laughs, because that's the dumbest hypothesis she's ever heard. Spinner just looks lost.

"You said you were looking for survivors," Lynne says, her voice notably gentle.

Spinner nods rapidly, voice ragged, "Yes, I had to. I had to tell someone."

"Why?"

"Someone had to know."

And then he just collapses and his uneven, gasping breaths echo throughout the cave. Myrha blinks and stares at his twitching form.

"You had to tell someone even though there's nothing anyone can do?"

Spinner doesn't answer her, just gags as he struggles for air.

Lynne eyes him contemplatively, "Perhaps his need for repentance is what held off the effects of the chemical."

"Whatever. We need to get out of here before the hallucination sets in."

Lynne steps forward, but then abruptly aborts the motion. She frowns.

"I am not sure where we should go," she says.

"How about the other side of the island? As long as we outrun those things, we'll be good."

Lynne nods. They gather up their weapons and Myrha's travel kit, and Myrha slips Bartin's necklace around her neck. The movement catches Lynne's eye.

"What is that?" Lynne asks.

"Found it on Bartin."

Lynne steps forward and with a single finger, lifts the necklace up to inspect it. She immediately meets Myrha's eyes, mouth open a little as if she can't find the words to say.

"What?" Myrha asks.

"I can use this," she says.

Myrha quickly takes it off and all but pushes the necklace into Lynne's hands. Lynne turns the piece of metal over in her fingers; it's a small triangle and pretty unremarkable, but Lynne hurriedly yanks it off the chain and reaches behind her neck.

"Every android has a homing device; my current one matches the homing signal of our starshuttle."

"And you're saying this is a homing device?"

"Yes. I can replace it with my current one."

Lynne's eyes stop moving and her face sort of freezes as she opens something in the back of her neck. Her fingers still move though and then there is a sudden flash of blue light. Lynne stands very still. Myrha lets her adjust, not entirely sure what is going on; she supposes it can only be good.

"There," Lynne finally says.

She slips her other homing device into her pocket.

"And?" Myrha asks, breathless.

"It's sort of a...map in my head," Lynne tries to describe, "it's like one of your senses, it's something that becomes an unconscious part of me."

"Yeah, but, where does it lead?"

"Into the jungle. Not the hotel."

"And what does it lead to?" Myrha asks, a bit impatient.

"I can't tell."

Myrha sticks her tongue in her cheek, "Uh-huh."

"It just shows me how to get to the destination, but doesn't tell me what the destination is."

"So it could be anything? A building, the research facility, maybe a secret hideaway or another refueling station?"

"Yes," Lynne explains patiently, "it could be anything."

Myrha takes a quick look at Spinner on the floor and it doesn't take her long to make a decision.

"Well, let's get going then."

It's a bit like walking into the unknown, but with Lynne as leader she's not really nervous. She only becomes nervous when Lynne starts to respond sluggishly. She sometimes halts mid-stride, or hits an upturned root she should've dodged. Myrha begins to quietly freak out when she stops, blinks extremely slowly, and doesn't respond when Myrha calls her name.

Lynne eventually shakes her head and then says, "It's this way."

Myrha follows, constantly looking behind her back. Every shadow turns into a hungry monster, every twig snap makes her flinch violently. She hates it when Lynne stops, hates it when their progress is halted; when Lynne pauses for the fifth time, Myrha is about to rip out her hair.

When Lynne trips and Myrha has to catch her, Myrha gives the android a pointed look.

"Something's wrong," Myrha says.

"Yes," Lynne nods.

Myrha tries to help her to her feet, but they end up sinking to the ground. Lynne's legs just sort of...flop.

"I am running out of power," Lynne says a bit faintly.

"That's...bad."

Myrha cannot express how bad that is. She might've made some sort of panicked whine, but can't be sure because Lynne's face becomes very serious and she interrupts her oncoming panic session.

"Give me your utiphone," she commands.

Myrha pops it off her wrist and hands it over. It still has charge. She hasn't used it all that much on this trip.

Lynne brings up the artist pad and with a finger, begins to draw out some squiggles.

"What's that supposed to be?" Myrha squints at it.

"A map."

"A...map."

"It is difficult for me to translate the homing device's route into something that can be visualized. It is rather like a human's instinct. However, as I will soon no longer be able to function, this is the only way you could possibly find the homing signal's origins."

Myrha looks doubtfully at the mess of lines, lumps of trees, and route outlines in arrows.

"I've included some landmarks, things I know exist from my previous study of the maps of this island. It should help you know where to turn."

Myrha is impressed with Lynne's thoroughness, she really is, but that map...Lynne is not a cartographer by any stretch of the imagination.

"Is that supposed to be...?"

"A large rock."

"Right."

"Myrha," Lynne's voice is unexpectedly quiet, drawing Myrha's full attention.

"Yeah?"

"You have to continue on," Lynne pushes the utiphone into her hands, "alone."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

"You don't understand," Lynne's voice is sharp, "these infected beings will stop at nothing until you are dead. You cannot carry me or take me with you. You cannot afford to slow down."

But Myrha can't imagine Lynne not at her side, can't imagine leaving her behind because Lynne is not Bartin or Spinner or even Zel or her mother. Lynne is something else entirely.

"I'll drag you if I have to," Myrha says.

"You will not."

"Yeah, like you could stop me."

Lynne's gaze is dark and just a bit deadly.

"I'm not going to leave you behind, I'm just not," Myrha says.

"You will find means of survival or escape, and if it is practical, later on you may return to retrieve me."

"Oh I may?" Myrha says, clenching the utiphone tightly.

And she can't believe that Lynne would just...lie here. Just sacrifice herself and let Myrha go on alone. And Myrha knows, she just knows, that she can't leave a person like that behind. Android, human, alien...a person like that, a person who – who cares – like that, can't be left behind.

"Myrha," Lynne says.

She doesn't continue.

Her whirring noises desist, her eyes fall shut, and everything about her just...stops. Myrha trembles and shakes her shoulder, but she knows what's happened, though her mind skitters away from the truth. But she knows.

She's alone.

Her skin prickles with cold fear and it's too quiet in the night, too quiet without Lynne there to talk to her. Shakily, she clasps the utiphone to her wrist, and she studies the projection of the map. Then she hauls Lynne's prone form into her arms and her legs buckle. Ugh she's heavy.

She tries to throw her over her shoulder, but the weight almost crushes her back; she tries bridal-style, but her arms collapse under the strain. Myrha contemplates the problem for a moment, and then grabs Lynne by the ankles. She'll get her to the homing signal, even if she has to drag her the entire way.

It's probably the slowest chase to have ever occurred in the history of the Universe. Myrha can hear the shuffle of their footsteps behind her, muffled by the thickness of the trees and leaves. The moons are setting and she thinks she can see the zombies' shadows stretch out alongside her, or maybe those are just the shadows of trees, shaking in the wind.

She leaves a clear trail behind her, Lynne's form crushing the undergrowth and upturning dirt; the sound of her body dragging across the ground is a steady sccchick that Myrha finds comforting. She doesn't look back to see the android's closed eyes, closed like a human in sleep. She just follows the doodled map on her utiphone and hopes she's keeping to it as much as possible.

Blisters coat her bare arms; it's hard to distinguish between the human-burning-skin-plants and the safe-plants in the dim light, so she marches through all of them, earning her long strips of blisters and a fiery feeling that spreads over her skin. She drags Lynne through all of them, and is thankful that androids are built to be robust. Far different from the fragility of humanity.

Her throat is parched, reminding her of yet another fragility: the need for hydration. Her travel kit's food stocks have been depleted but she wouldn't want to stop long enough to get anything out of it anyway. She's slowing down.

Her muscles burn from more than just the plants; they cringe with exhaustion and sweats coats her body. It drips into her eyes. She still has the energy to find that annoying.

A tricky root makes her footing falter and she slips to the side, falling hard onto the ground, tangled up with Lynne's unresponsive limbs. She can do little more than sit and pant, trying to catch her breath, and without the sound of her footsteps and Lynne's body being pulled through dirt, it's too quiet.

She doesn't try to listen too hard, she doesn't, but the clacking of teeth is hard to ignore. The sound comes from the darkness of the trees, ominous and rather ubiquitous and she can't see them, not yet, but that doesn't really mean anything.

It's really hard to stand back up again.

She sits back on her haunches, looks up at the quiet night sky, and it feels like she is last person alive in the entire Universe.

But there is more out there, she knows it. She just has to get to it. I must go to the stars again, to the willful explorer's life.

"Get the fuck up, Myrha," she tells herself.

Her legs cramp and sort of wobble and won't let her stand. The sweat seems to suffocate her. Her arms shake and she doesn't know if she has the strength to pull Lynne anymore. She spares a glance for Lynne, mostly just to check that she's still there and still extremely heavy, but she can't look away. Lynne's face and hair are streaked with dirt and leaves, her outfit is ripped and stained, and she looks like everything Myrha has ever been afraid of wanting. She reaches out and pats her cheek, feels the hair-less and soft nature of her skin.

"The things I do for you," Myrha sighs.

The situation speaks of the L-O-V-E word and it's sort of impossible to deny it any longer. In the end it doesn't matter that they're made out of different materials. Materials are just atoms in the Universe. They're the same in the ways that matter. In the ways that make Myrha want to lug Lynne through a jungle on a deserted planet to escape from infected zombie-like creatures.

"I am so fucked," Myrha says.

A sharp click draws her attention from her comatose friend (lover, whichever). She stares hard into the dark forest, and she thinks she can see the white of eyes. She takes a fortifying breath and with a mighty push, gets to her feet. To the asteroid's way and the nebula's way, where creation is born from strife. If this isn't strife, she doesn't know what is. She stares down at Lynne's lovely face and thinks of that four-lettered word and what will happen if they survive this, if they get the fuck off of this planet, and she grabs Lynne's ankles and decides that she really, really wants to find out.

With a reservoir of strength, something secret and hidden in the depth of her humanity that can only be called upon at such times of strife, she heaves Lynne's ankles up and takes another step, stance sure and true. Mindless eyes follow her movement and she can feel their gazes on her back as they stumble through the trees. She trudges on at a pace she had previously thought impossible.

She wonders if this is what being under the hallucination is like: she can no longer feel the burning in her skin, the pain in her limbs is inconsequential, and she can ignore the sweat running down her neck. She has one goal: get to whatever homing signal they have found and hope that it somehow helps them. She has to do this. For herself, for Lynne. She needs to see Lynne's eyes open, needs to hear her voice and see her smile. And all I ask is a simple smile from a passing fellow-rover, and we're just two specks in the endless night when everything is over.

"Fucking Turobeck," she whispers hoarsely, "what a fucking genius."

And this is why she loves poetry, why she ever started reading it: just a few words, just a single line, and she can feel like she is understood...can feel like she can endure hardship. Her father didn't want her, her mother was too poor to sometimes feed her and the kids at school would prey upon her unless she became exactly like them. But nothing stopped her from reading in private, beautiful words calling to her, giving her strength, giving her knowledge that there was more than this.

I must go to the stars again, for the call of a twinkling sun is a wild call and a clear call that cannot be outrun.

And she fucking loves Turobeck, but she no longer likes reciting poetry by herself.

"We're going to survive, and you're going to wake up and quote poetry back at me, hear that, you bitch?" she says, a little breathless.

Of course Lynne doesn't respond, but Myrha hopes she can hear that somewhere in the clogs of her mechanical brain.

And so continues the slowest chase; Myrha limps onward with Lynne in tow, and the infected beings shuffle towards her, trying to catch up as Myrha slows down. She can't slow down. She's not going too. But she can hear them, even over the sccchick of Lynne's body. They must be getting closer. The map on the utiphone blurs before her eyes, and the supposed landmarks she should be looking for melt into the shadows, indiscernible. Still, she doesn't stop, though she might have to and eventually fight until she or every single infected guest dies. The odds aren't really in her favor. Sort of like that time with the punch and the authorities.

She chances a look behind her and nearly jumps out her skin. But she doesn't make a sound. Doesn't really have enough energy to. Bartin, mangled face clear in the moonlight, stares at her. He staggers towards her down the path created by the drag of Lynne's body. He's utterly silent except for his clacking teeth and rasping breath.

His flower shirt is stained with blood.

And she's not sorry. She's not. She's too afraid to feel sorry, and pinpricks of panic start to gather in her fingers, making them shake. Her vision tunnels, but she shakes herself out of it and with a grunt, turns back around. She doesn't stop.

Her eyes are firmly on the path ahead, and she nearly slips into a pool of water, almost invisible in the shadows of the trees. She thinks it might be one of the landmarks Lynne had drawn on the utiphone. Nothing in her is sure about her path; she only knows that she has to keep moving.

Eventually, the clacking of teeth rises above the sccchick and she does a quick assessment of the situation behind her. Four more figures, gleaming milky white in the moonlight, follow behind Bartin. She thinks she can see Gradie, Karry and there's another guest she never really got the chance to talk to. The Bounty Hunter is the last one.

Something sick and rotten hits her stomach. He had saved them. She didn't even know his name.

Too busy looking behind her she slams head-first into a tall hard surface. She rocks back, falls, and stares at the structure that towers over her. Her utiphone flickers, once, and if this fucking thing runs out of power....

Ignoring the blinking power bar, she checks Lynne's map. Yes. She had definitely drawn a huge rock structure. Myrha stumbles to her feet once again, grabs Lynne and walks around one of the last markers. She's almost there, she can feel it. Taste it.

She tries to memorize the little trail Lynne had sketched and the upside-down tree and what is that? Some kind of lump sits near the tree. Lynne may be an android, but she's clearly no artist. Myrha will have to help her learn that skill if, when, they get to safety just in case they ever find themselves in a situation like this again where Myrha's life depends on Lynne's artistic ability.

Her utiphone goes dead.

She's so shocked that she actually stops. Stops and stares at the space where the map had been projected. It really shouldn't surprise her so much. If Lynne could lose charge, then her utiphone surely could as well. It just wasn't supposed to. It was her last means of survival, it wasn't supposed to.

Without her progress, the shuffling and clacking is louder than ever. She looks behind her and there are now ten of them. Ten. A guttural sound, a sound she had never thought she would make, bubbles up in her throat. Her body shakes and she wants to collapse onto the ground, huddle and cry and wait and hope fervently for something to save her.

But it's just her, a dead utiphone, and a dead android.

Tears burn at the corners of her eyes. Helplessness claws at her throat, and the sound of helplessness sounds a lot like her screaming.

She has a distinct urge to just drop Lynne's ankles and take a bat and start bashing their heads in. If this is going to be her starry resting place, she'd make it theirs as well.

She channels her anger and fear into her walk and suddenly she's practically leaping and flying over the uneven ground. She doesn't care if she rips Lynne's arm off in the process, doesn't care that she might miss a landmark, because she doesn't even know which way to go anymore. She just has to get away.

"Catch me if you can, fuckers," she hisses under her breath.

She'd make them work for it.

The street girl, the tough girl, the cursing, getting-in-trouble-with-authorities girl takes over, and she'd never thought she'd have such a use for that part of herself, but it's what fuels her legs, gives her the power to carry Lynne with her and curse her enemies. Or maybe she's just reached a precipice and fallen over it, returning to the guttural animalistic humanity of old, and it takes over and makes her little better than a wild, desperate animal.

She's sure Lynne would have choice words on that topic.

Surging through the alien undergrowth, she fleetingly looks behind her. Twelve figures follow her. With a growl, she presses forward and glances up as something to her right curls into the sky. They're the dark limbs of a gnarled tree. She slows enough to take a second look. The tree is lopsided, sinking into soft ground, and those aren't limbs that stretch up into the dark sky...those are roots.

In the next breath, she's approaching it and studying it for a clue, anything that could tell her where to go or what to do. Of course, it's just a tree, but it's supposed to lead to something. What had been on the map next? Myrha's mind goes blank with adrenaline, panic, and white noise. She can't recall the path. She can't recall what was supposed to come next.

Clack, clack, clack.

Myrha wheezes and freezes; terror, hot and stinging, flares in her limbs. They've caught up to her. She throws a fist against the tree and doesn't dare look, can't stand to look at them as they come out from the shadows. Picking up Lynne's heels, she drags her around the other side of the tree as if that can hide them.

Behind the tree...nothing but darkness.

Myrha blinks rapidly, nerves tingling as she takes in this unwelcome surprise. What happened? She reaches her hands out, breath harsh, and encounters something solid. She withdraws her trembling fingers quickly, and her heart is about to burst because what the fuck is this, and holy shit she can hear the footsteps so close to her.

And then...breath against her ear. She screams and brings her fist up and she can feel the soggy flesh and the teeth so close to her hand. Bartin topples backwards into Gerdie who's almost falling to pieces but still moving. Myrha collapses against the solid surface in shock they're so close and then bright light blinds her eyes.

Suddenly the solid surface gives way and she's too surprised to even catch herself; she lands on something that feels suspiciously like floor. She sits up quickly and more lights come on and holymotherfuckingshit.

She just found a starshuttle.

With startling speed, she reaches out and grabs one of Lynne's limbs, just as more infected guests come around the upside down tree. Their teeth rattle and Bartin's getting to his feet and reaching out for her—

and a door shuts in their faces.

She can't even believe it. She can't believe it so much that she has to laugh and scramble backwards and land on Lynne and sort of curl up around her.

The light on the back of her neck, where the homing device is, glows with a single pinprick of blue light. The control panel next to the door glows as well, one little flashing blue light.

The door locks.

"Welcome home Mase Turobeck," a silky computer voice greets them.

Myrha gapes and can't close her mouth. It should be impossible, it is impossible. Then she hears the snick of nails screeching against metal, the infected still trying to come after Myrha, and thinks that really, the impossible shouldn't surprise her anymore.

The shuttle is gunmetal grey and soft cream. There's flight panels and a closed view screen, a small vends machine, and then a bed built into the wall. It's tiny, and a bit archaic, because Myrha has only seen those types of vends in her history textbooks. Still, it's comfy, with cream walls covered with sheets of...something.

She's too tired to investigate. Suddenly she's too exhausted to do anything but lie against Lynne and bask in this new feeling of safety and comfort. The clawing coming from the door is the only thing that reminds her that she is trapped, possibly only living on borrowed time. As the adrenaline seeps from her system, and a bout of sleepiness tugs her eyes closed, she catches a blurry glimpse of something that kind of looks familiar.

She bolts upright and scrambles to the bed, where nearby is something that looks like it could charge her utiphone, or rather, something like her utiphone but only significantly larger.

"This is the last time I'm dragging your heavy ass anywhere," Myrha grunts as she pulls Lynne to the charger.

Thankfully it's a wireless charger, something Myrha is very familiar with. She turns the charger on and places Lynne against the surface. Sweet relief begins to flood her body, something that makes her patiently brush Lynne's hair and she's sort of intoxicated by hope, so she presses a kiss against Lynne's slack lips.

Lynne's face is scratched, and in places her synthetic skin is torn off in little patches. She doesn't bleed, and beneath the loose flaps of skin is just her shiny robotic shell. Myrha is stupidly thankful Lynne doesn't bleed, that she doesn't have to see it trickle out of her. She kisses the wounds. Kisses can never heal wounds, of course, but it feels good to do it just the same.

And finally, she's no longer alone.

Myrha's never heard anything she loved more than the resuscitation of Lynne's little robotic noises, never seen as anything as beautiful as Lynne opening her eyes, and before Lynne can even speak, can even process her surroundings, Myrha's wrapped around her, as if trying to melt into her and merge with her and never, ever let her go.

"You're back," Myrha croaks.

It feels like a miracle.

Lynne places her hand on the top of Myrha's head and Myrha's tears are hot on her skin and she can't really breathe properly but that may be because her face is buried in Lynne's soiled uniform.

"Yes," Lynne answers, a little uncertain.

Myrha wants her to talk forever, and her voice drowns out the sound of the zombies, drowns out the furious beating of Myrha's heart and the soft sound of her tears.

Myrha thinks that things may actually be all right.

"Told you I wouldn't leave you," Myrha says and concentrates on not sniffling like a pathetic little girl.

Lynne doesn't respond for a moment, just combs her fingers through Myrha's hair.

"Thank you," she finally says very quietly, gently.

"You're really heavy," Myrha says, "You should probably lose some weight."

"It's my enormous brain," Lynne says, still gentle.

Myrha laughs and chokes on her own runny snot because she loves that Lynne can say shit like that with a straight face.

"Well, I could really use some help from your enormous brain right now," she says.

She manages to sound only a little desperate.

Lynne stands up and brings Myrha with her and Myrha can't bring herself to let go, so she clings to Lynne's arm as the android surveys the shuttle.

"This is where the homing device led," Lynne says, a frown on her face.

Myrha nods in confirmation.

"Bartin was right," Myrha says.

"Then this is...?"

"Turobeck's shuttle."

She's glad Lynne looks as shocked as she had.

"Pretty awesome, huh?" Myrha wipes her running nose.

Lynne touches the pieces of...whatever, on the wall.

"This is paper," Lynne says.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Something humans produced and stored records on."

"Uh, okay, sure. Think we covered that in class."

"It would have fallen out of disuse before Turobeck's time, and yet...this is his handwriting. This is his poetry."

"You mean his unpublished poetry?"

"It seems so."

So Bartin had been right about that as well. Myrha feels a small twinge then, that he had never discovered the shuttle, had never been able to activate the homing device because he wasn't an android, but the twinge is short lived. They're in a shuttle. They're going to escape.

"So how about you and I get out of here?" Myrha asks.

Lynne's answering expression is bright with challenge fucking accepted, and she seats herself in the captain's chair. Myrha takes the co-pilot chair and doesn't know shit about how to fly anything, but it feels awesome to sit, and to sit by Lynne.

Lynne's starting up the flight panels and she's unlatching compartments and checking gauges and soon displays are popping up and lights are flashing. Her fingers are quick and sure and deft and nothing is more than attractive (and reassuring) than a girl in her element. Myrha has to swallow an unexpected lump in her throat, and she just takes one of Lynne's less busy hands in hers. Lynne lets her.

"So you know how to fly this thing?" she asks.

"Of course," Lynne answers without pause, "I am a flight attendant on a starshuttle, it is my duty to take over when the captain is out of service."

"You mean you were trained to fly in case of emergency?"

"I was programmed to. I have also studied multiple flight systems as a way to further my knowledge."

"I'm really fucking thankful that I'm stuck here with you. I mean, if I have to be stuck in the middle of a zombie invasion with someone."

Lynne stops her inspection and spares her a smile, a smile that softens her entire face.

"I am glad to be with you as well," Lynne says, squeezing her hand.

Lynne turns back to her numbers and diagrams and Myrha can do little more than stare at her with what she suspects is a soppy love-struck expression. By Jupiter's moons I can count the ways I love you. And maybe, just maybe, she had been like Dellylee, living in ignorance. She had been inexperienced and uneducated in the ways of love and so ready to trample over it, to dismiss it, to even fear it. I'd still have more ways than there are moons in the Heavens to describe the ways I love you.

A smile breaks out on her face and she doesn't even try to contain it. She's more than earned this smile, this happiness.

"This shuttle is serviceable," Lynne says, her voice tight with suspicion, "none of the systems are damaged, the shuttle has only regular wear and tear, and the fuels cells are half-full. This does not resemble a shuttle that had crash-landed."

"So Turobeck didn't," Myrha shrugs.

"Yes, but something obviously happened to him after he safely landed. It's clear he left the shuttle and never returned."

Myrha's mind skitters over various details: the homing device Bartin found, the charger, and Turobeck's unknown demise.

Bartin said he had found a discarded pile of metal; perhaps that's where he had found the homing device. What is made of metal, uses a homing device, and needs a charger? It's an odd thought, that the great Earth poet Turobeck might have been an android. But it seems like he had simply, for whatever reason, run out of power and met his end as a discarded pile of metal on Lieval's surface.

Not the grand ending she imagined for Turobeck, but maybe he had arranged it that way. His own starry resting place.

"I believe," Lynne says rather delicately, "that we are able to safely liftoff."

Myrha instinctively latches onto her seat; she's only been on one space-flight and it nearly made her sick. Exploding in an outdated, abandoned shuttle is a very real possibility.

"Right," she says haltingly, "let's get the fuck out of here."

"I have set a course for the nearest shuttle port," Lynne says.

"You know what? I don't really care where we go, as long as we don't end up dead."

Lynne gives her another grin. She's never seen her smile so much; it's so full of mischief that Myrha wonders if Lynne is somehow enjoying herself. Maybe she just likes a challenge. It's kind of a sexy look for her.

"Then let's go," Lynne says.

The shuttle hums and trembles and it reminds Myrha of a beast that's just awakened. The view screen blinks to life and Myrha immediately recoils. Faces streaked with blood and dirt and marred by mindlessness stare at them. The zombies crawl over the shuttle and clack their bloody teeth at them. Myrha gags and Lynne studies them rather dispassionately.

"Hold on tight," she says.

Myrha's grip on Lynne's hand increases tenfold. She's glad androids are made of sturdy stuff; she's pretty sure her grip is now strong enough to crush finger bones.

Their shuttle lurches and they're finally lifting off the ground and the entire little shuttle is shaking and she's absolutely sure they're going to collapse to the ground in a heap of broken metal and flame. Instead, they rise into the air and sodden fingers still try to cling to the shuttle; the trees are becoming smaller and smaller and the rock structure that had looked so huge becomes a miniature. She sees the Starline shuttle, a dark little blob, and supposes they'll never know who sabotaged it (though her money is on Bartin).

Myrha marvels at how close everything seems, how close the upside down tree looks to the cave, how close the cave looks to the hostel, and she can't believe she ran all that way.

The thrusters fire, and clouds are beneath them, and still there's a face pressed against the view screen, eyeballs popping out of its skull and its sort of melting and exploding all over the place, and then there's red heat and—

blessed black emptiness.

The tiny island is dwarfed by the large ocean, and then they come around the curve of the planet and the island disappears and all she can see is a big bunch of blue, until they escape orbit and Lieval is nothing but a ball.

Myrha breathes a sigh and sags in her chair.

She's never felt so good.

Lynne glances at her out of the corner of her eye.

"So, where are we going?" Myrha asks, carefree and a bit giddy.

"Nearest shuttle port so we can refuel."

"And then where to after that?" she asks.

Lynne's mouth is pressed in a line and her gaze is concentrated on the controls.

"I am assuming you want to go home," she says carefully, "and that I would...return to Orion Starlines."

Myrha pretends to roll that around in her head, tongue poking against her cheek. Lynne's posture is noticeably stiffer.

"I must go to the stars again, for the call of a twinkling sun is a wild call and a clear call that cannot be outrun," Myrha says eventually.

Lynne looks at her so fast, Myrha is amazed she didn't pop a screw. Then she snickers at the thought. Lynne's hand hovers uselessly over one of the panels and she studies Myrha's face closely. Myrha just waits for her catch on.

"And all I ask is a landing site with new horizons dawning, and comet dust and planet rings, and the new moon yawning," Lynne eventually quotes back.

Androids don't cry, but Lynne's eyes are certainly shiny with something. Myrha suspects hers are the same way.

"So, yeah, we refuel and then...onward," Myrha waves her hand vaguely.

They're in Turobeck's shuttle. They might as well continue his grand adventure. It feels suspiciously like destiny.

"You never did tell me," Lynne's voice cuts off her ridiculous (pathetic!) daydreams.

"Tell you what?"

"What poem you won the contest with."

Myrha has to laugh; it all feels so long ago. She doesn't even know if she can remember it; she licks her lips in amusement.

"What?" Lynne says.

Demands, really. When she's curious about something, there really is no stopping her.

"I just sort of realized...how appropriate it is."

Lynne raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe I'll tell you later," Myrha grins teasingly.

It's a poem, she realizes now, that she wrote in her Dellylee phase...before she had experienced more of life. More of love. She's not exactly ashamed of it, but she's kind of embarrassed. She remembers the night she submitted her poem, but the memory feels a bit old and stale, like a memory from a past life.

A sludge that grows in every man's heart

A wild affectation that tears you apart

A fire in the stomach, a buzzing in the brain

Symptoms you should heed, else you go insane

A rupture of the senses, drowning in affection

Avoid at all costs if you can, this crazy infection

Perhaps Bartin had thought the poem was about wanderer's lust. Maybe Lynne would think she had been talking about some kind of illness. It was, of course, about love. But she had been a bit like Dellylee, writing with inexperience, never truly really knowing what it was to explore...to be in love.

As she clasps Lynne's hand, and their future and unknown destinations spread out before them, she feels the urge to write something new.

### ###

Thank you for reading "This Crazy Infection"! If you enjoyed this book, please let me know. Drop me a review and connect with me on social media. You can find other books in this series at most major e-book retailers.

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Have fun chasing that wandering star!

