Chapter Three
Avena
Iwoke with the taste in my mouth. Bitter. Burned. Faintly sweet.
Coffee.
I opened my eyes. Silver citylight filtered through the ceiling above my bed. The room had returned to its proper temperature, yet cold clung to my skin. My toes curled beneath the blanket, searching for warmth they should not have needed.
There was no snow. No fire. No cabin.
No Declan.
I lay still while my breathing settled. The bracelet around my wrist radiated heat. Blue-white light pulsed beneath the skin of my forearm, bright enough to reflect against the ceiling. My breath hitched, and I closed my fingers around it.
“Control,” I whispered, breathing through my nose.
The lights faded, not immediately, but slowly. That concerned me almost as much as the dream.
“Qelos?”
“Good morning, Lady Avena.”
“What is the current time?”
“Five fifty-three.”
I had begun my rest cycle at twenty-two hundred. Nearly eight hours had passed.
“Did I experience any unusual neural activity during my sleep cycle?”
“Synchronization remained within acceptable parameters.”
“Acceptable is not the same as usual.”
A brief pause followed while the house accessed information. “Your initial synchronization produced elevated sensory activation and several autonomic fluctuations. All readings returned to baseline upon completion.”
Sensory activation. A cold, clinical term for the snow beneath my feet. The warm fire against my hands. Declan’s fingers closing around mine as the cabin disappeared.
Nothing. Just my cool hand. Exactly the same as it looked every day.
“Qelos, are vivid dreams considered normal during synchronization?”
“Dream activity may occur during adjustment to Steward integration.”
“May two individuals experience the same dream?”
“I do not possess sufficient context to evaluate the question.”
This was not unexpected.
“Cancel inquiry.”
“Canceled.”
I sat up and pressed my feet against the heated floor. The surface was smooth, warm, and entirely without variation. For some reason, I thought of floorboards.
They’re all different.
That’s kind of the point.
The main room brightened when I entered. Morning cloudlight spread across the glass walls, revealing the white towers and suspended gardens beyond them. Silver transit lines threaded between buildings in perfect, silent arcs.
The possibility.
Declan had picked up a pot with his own hands. He had poured a dark liquid into a plain white mug, changed its flavor when I disliked it, and waited while I tried again. None of those actions had been necessary.
Feed it. Clean the hearth. Don’t leave it alone too long.
Everything worth having usually is.
“Would you like your morning meal?” Qelos asked.
“Yes.”
A panel opened beside me. Forty seconds later, a white dish emerged containing my breakfast, which had the exact nutritional balance recommended for my post-integration recovery.
I carried the plate to the table to eat.
Sitting at the perfectly white composite table, I ate three bites before setting down my eating utensil. The food was flawless. As usual.
“Qelos.”
“Yes, Lady Avena?”
“Do we have coffee?”
“Please clarify the requested item.”
I should have expected that.
“A beverage. Dark in color. Served hot.”
“Would you like Veiran tea?”
“No.”
“Mineral infusion?”
“No.”
“Warm nutritional suspension?”
“No. Cancel request.”
“Canceled.”
A lower-level technician arrived six minutes later carrying a narrow diagnostic case.
He placed two fingers against his heart, offering me the formal acknowledgment due a newly elevated Steward.
Standard. His gray uniform bore no House markings.
Also standard. Technicians surrendered family distinctions while working within private integration systems.
“Lady Avena.”
“Technician.”
“I require access to your bracelet.”
“Your compatibility remains exceptional,” he said.
“So, I was told.”
“Neural yield exceeded the Ministry projection by fourteen percent.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Variance is expected during initial synchronization.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
His eyes lifted from the display. “It is somewhat uncommon, Lady Avena.”
The filament retracted.
Until yesterday, that had never mattered.
“Was there any unusual activity from the Anchor?”
“No.”
“What would qualify as unusual?”
“Movement. Conscious response. Destabilized output.”
“Dreaming?”
“Anchors do not dream.”
“How can you be certain?”
“The suspension process prevents the necessary cortical activity.”
“But my own activity increased.”
“You are the Steward.”
“I understand my classification.”
Bright blue light warmed the underside of my wrist. The technician saw it. His gaze dropped, then returned politely to my face. I forced my hand to relax.
“Initial integration can produce emotional irregularities,” he said. “They generally resolve within three sleep cycles.”
“And if they do not?”
“Assessor Selari will determine whether recalibration is necessary.”
I thought of the woman who had believed her Anchor recognized her voice. The Ministry had corrected the situation. She had not returned.
“My readings will normalize,” I said.
“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”
You’re real, aren’t you?
By the time I reached the Ministry, I had almost convinced myself the walk had cleared the residual effects of synchronization. Then I entered my work chamber and read the same paragraph four times.
“You have reviewed that passage repeatedly.”
Orenth Tazrek stood beside my desk holding two cups of Veiran tea. His charcoal Ministry uniform fit without a crease. Dark hair was secured neatly at the nape of his neck, and not a trace of luminal activity showed beneath his skin.
Orenth had possessed better emotional regulation than anyone in our division for as long as I had known him. He placed one cup beside my hand.
“Four times,” he continued. “Five, if you intend to begin again.”
“Do you always monitor my reading?”
“No. Only when it delays mine.”
There was no change in his expression, but I recognized the remark for what it was.
A joke. Orenth’s humor was infrequent and precise, and it usually took several seconds to identify.
I picked up the tea. It had been heated to the temperature I preferred. “Thank you.”
“You have not eaten enough,” he commented as he raised the tea to his lips.
I glanced at him.
“Your bracelet transmitted a nutritional deficiency notice when you entered the Ministry.”
“I was unaware you received my domestic alerts.”
“I do not. You dismissed the same warning twice while standing beside me.”
Orenth took the seat opposite mine and opened the cultural arbitration file between us.
“You are experiencing post-integration fatigue.”
It was not a question.
“I slept nearly eight hours.”
“Sleep duration and neural rest are not identical.”
“You sound like the technician.”
“He is correct.”
“That does not make the comparison flattering.”
Orenth considered this. “I did not intend it as flattery.”
“I know.”
For the first time that morning, I almost smiled without thinking of Declan.
Almost.
Orenth expanded the document between us.
Images rose from the projection: a damaged human settlement photographed shortly after annexation.
Brick buildings crowded both sides of a narrow street.
Painted signs hung above doorways. People sat at small tables beneath mismatched coverings, drinking from ceramic cups.
Orenth enlarged one of the tables.
“Communal consumption,” he said. “Redundant preparation sites. No nutritional controls.”
The image showed five humans crowded around a surface barely large enough to hold their cups. One threw her head back in laughter. Another reached across the table, hand resting on the shoulder of the man beside her. No one appeared efficient. Everyone looked happy.
“What are they drinking?” I asked.
Orenth consulted the file. “A stimulant derived from roasted plant seeds.”
My fingers tightened around the tea.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“You know it?” Orenth asked.
“No.”
“You identified it.”
“It was a reasonable inference. I read about it once.”
“It seems unnecessarily complicated,” he said at last. “The cultivation, roasting, grinding, and thermal preparation require significant labor for limited nutritional return.”
“It may not be intended for nutrition.”
“The file classifies it as a consumed substance.”
“Perhaps nutrition isn’t the purpose.”
Orenth turned his head slightly. “What other purpose would it serve?”
I studied the humans in the image.
The cups were all different. One had a broken handle. Another was decorated with faded flowers. Steam rose from the dark liquid while the people leaned toward one another.
“Sharing it. Personal interaction.”
“Nutrients can be consumed in company without requiring inefficient preparation.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I’m not certain,” I admitted.
Orenth’s attention sharpened.
He did not look alarmed. Orenth rarely looked anything. But I had worked beside him long enough to recognize concern in the slight stillness of his hands.
“You have never been uncertain during a classification review.”
“There is a first occurrence for everything.”
“That is statistically true and not reassuring.”
He closed the file.
“I can complete the recommendation.”
“That is unnecessary.”
“Your concentration is impaired.”
“I am capable of performing my duties.”
“I did not say you were incapable. I said you were impaired.”
I stared at him.
Declan’s voice returned without permission.
You okay?
Orenth had already found an answer without my assistance. Fatigue. Impairment.
Recalibration was needed.
Blue-white light shimmered beneath the skin near my wrists. I quickly tried to cover it, but Orenth noticed.
“Is that an integration response?”
I pressed my hands against my lap. “Yes, I’ve been told it is normal. Only some residual fatigue.”
His gaze stayed on me for another second, assessing my response. Then he reopened the file.
“A reasonable explanation.”
It was not.
We finished the classification review in forty-three minutes. Orenth recommended preservation of the images for anthropological value, despite maintaining that the preparation of coffee represented a wasteful use of resources. It was a compromise.
From Orenth, it was almost generosity. He left for his next appointment after transferring two of my afternoon files to his own schedule. I did not ask him to return them.
For several minutes after Orenth left, I sat alone with the image of the humans gathered around the table. Then I opened the cultural archive.
“Search,” I said quietly.
The interface brightened.
“Coffee.”
Thousands of records appeared. Agricultural reports. Trade routes. Nutritional analysis. Historical restrictions imposed after annexation.
The second showed two soldiers seated on the lowered door of a ground vehicle. Their clothes were stained. Their faces looked exhausted. One passed a metal cup to the other.
The third showed an older man on a dock beside a lake. A dark blue mug rested near his hand as he looked out over the water. My breath stopped.
Before I could further assess the feeling, a warning appeared across the archive.
SEARCH PARAMETERS FALL OUTSIDE CURRENT ASSIGNMENT.
CONTINUE?
Nothing was wrong. Everything was exactly as it had been yesterday.
Qelos greeted me when I returned. My evening meal arrived on schedule. I ate enough to prevent another nutritional warning and spent two hours reviewing arbitration decisions without retaining any of them.
A dream.
I stood beside the bed.
“Qelos?”
“Yes, Lady Avena?”
“Would delaying synchronization affect integration?”
“Deviation from the recommended rest cycle may reduce stabilization efficiency.”
There was the answer I needed. I would sleep because it was responsible. Because my body required rest. Because proper integration mattered.
Not because I wanted to see him.
“Begin rest cycle.”
“You are initiating rest nineteen minutes earlier than scheduled.”
Of course Qelos noticed.
“Adjust the schedule.”
“Adjustment recorded.”
My bracelet warmed, and my pulse quickened. I told myself it was a physiological response to new synchronization. Nothing more. Warmth traveled up my arm. The ceiling blurred. Light dissolved into white.
Then cold air touched my face. Snow gathered beneath my feet. Dark pines rose around me, and the cabin glowed through the trees. Declan stood on the porch holding the plain white mug.
The moment he saw me, relief changed his entire face.
“You came back.”
My hands unclenched without my permission.
Blue-white light bloomed beneath my skin.
This time, I did not hide it.
“So did you.”