Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happened in the middle of grain-out, because of course it fucking did.

It was like a law of physics. Nothing would happen on a slow day or while you’re waiting for the wort to boil. But the second you have to do something physically intensive and awkward, everything happens. Salesperson wants to upsell you on equipment that’ll get you an extra zero-point-one-percent efficiency? Right in the middle of grain-out. Boss wants to have an emergency meeting with you because he found a competitor doing something cool and he wants you to copy it? Right in the middle of grain-out. Aliens invade the planet? Right in the middle of grain-out.

No, really: Aliens invaded the planet right in the middle of grain-out. Even the Affini didn’t have the courtesy to wait until I was in the taproom with my precise-to-the-molecule ten ounce shift beer.

I was raking the last of the spent grain out of the lauter tun, as per usual. The bushings and hydraulics on the rakes had been dodgy for years now, but Hurley didn’t want to spend pennies that could go to his bonus, so I had to jump into the lauter tun and sweat my ass off to finish the job. There were, technically, regulations against this, but good luck getting anybody to enforce them. I at least had a walkie-talkie to call my assistant Mags if I needed help or got stuck. A confined-space death is the last way I’d want to go. Claustrophobia is a bitch.

The walkie-talkie squawked and I steeled myself for another lecture from Hurley about one thing or another. It was on the public channel, and only he was arrogant and clueless enough to ignore both radio regulations and common courtesy. Instead, a strange polyphonic voice garbled from the old radio:

We are the Affini. We are here to help. You are all safe now that we are here. We will ensure that every cutie on this world is happy, healthy and comfortable.

I had no idea how to react. Thankfully Mags, from somewhere else in the brewery, did: “Holy fucking shit!” I heard her running towards the brewhouse. “Brent, you hearing this?!”

“Yeah. Gimme a sec, I’m almost done with this.”

“You seriously gonna keep working when the weeds are on our doorstep?!”

“What the hell are we gonna do, Mags? Hide in the cold room and hope nobody finds us?”

“Works for Tracy when she wants to avoid Hurley.”

“Oh fuck off!” sounded distantly from the bar and I snorted in amusement. Even at the end of the world some things never changed.

I finished raking out the spent grain and muscled the dumpster out to the back alley. I returned to find the brewery empty, and the staff and boozers - sorry, esteemed guests of New Rochefort Brewing Company - gathered around the televisions in the taproom. The Affini broadcast continued to repeat on all channels, and everybody in the brewery had something to say about it.

Oh hell. Might as well join them. It’s not every day that aliens take over the world. The kettle had just hit boil and would be fine for a few minutes.

I stepped into the taproom and noticed how empty it was, even for a Tuesday night. The ultrawealthy elite who liked to stop in and bitch about their portfolios going down a tenth of a percent were nowhere to be found. The Accord or Halcyon had probably let them know that this was coming so they could turn tail and leave. Good riddance. Most of the people present were staff, and a handful of the not-quite-elite Hurley let in here because they were his buddies. As the Affini message repeated again, I stepped behind the bar to pour myself a pint. Might as well have a beer to greet the end of the world. I might not have a boss to put a citation on my Halcyon Industries record for it by tomorrow anyway. I took a long drink of the Czech pils that I favored and sighed.

James, one of Hurley’s buddies who regularly anchored the far end of the bar, belched loudly and gestured to the TV. “You believe this shit?”

“I don’t take your meaning,” I said flatly. I wasn’t one to humor James even on the best of days, as he spent most of his time harassing the staff and falling off his barstool.

“The Affini! Saying they’ll ‘take care of everyone’, give everybody everything they need to live and coddling them. It’s nonsense! Even if they could, it’d be against everything us red-blooded Terrans worked hard for our whole lives!” I knew for a fact that James lived with his mom off of his late father’s estate, but I kept my mouth shut. He wasn’t worth the time or effort, especially at this point. I ignored him and walked to the window.

Even through the perpetual sunset light of New Rochefort, the massive Affini ship was easily visible, a colossal flower covered in twinkling lights. Anyone that could build a ship that massive could probably back up whatever promises they made. They certainly couldn’t be worse than Halcyon squeezing every red cent out of you every hour of every day. Especially if they put on lightshows like this. The scintillating lights of the Affini ship kept shifting in patterns I could almost make out. Maybe if I looked a little closer, I could figure them out. They certainly were interesting. Fascinating. Maybe I should get a telescope to-

Clap. James slapped his hand on my shoulder and leaned past me, gesturing angrily at the Affini ship in the sky. “‘The Sun Never Sets On Halcyon,’ you bastard weeds!” he shouted with beer on his breath.

“Sit down and drink some water, James. You’re drunk.” Besides, “The Sun Never Sets On Halcyon” was an idiotic motto, even if it was technically true. Trappist-1e was tidally locked with its sun, meaning one side always faced the angry red dwarf star and one side always faced away. The day side had been cooked to lifeless desert eons ago, while the dark side remained a silent graveyard of glaciers. The Sunset Belt, as Halcyon poetically called it, was the only place inhabitable by Terrans, and both Halcyon and the Accord had set it up as a haven for the ultra-wealthy. They’d plucked the company motto from some long-drowned nation on Old Terra as a way to rouse the nostalgia for empire and dominion the elite still clung to, even in the face of the Affini gradually subsuming the Accord.

“I will not be silent, as long as the Terran spirit stays aflame!” Fuck, he’s really drunk if he’s spouting prose like that. I might have to grab Mags and bounce this guy.

“James, we did this last week, do you really wanna push the issue?”

He got up close and personal, rheumy eyes glaring as he scrunched up his face. “What’s the deal, Brent? You a plantfucker now?” He said plantfucker with a blast of beery spittle.

“That’s it, you’re cut off. Leave before I call Halcyon Peacekeeping. Now.” The rest of the bar was silent, except for the repeating Affini message. Most of them were staying well back from the potential conflict, but I saw Mags come closer from my left, ready to jump in to help if necessary.

James barked a short laugh. “You think Halcyon is going to do anything to the scion of the house of Whitestone?”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “You’re not the scion of anything, James. You live at home with your mom and get drunk in here as often as she’ll let you. The only person who thinks you’re worth a damn is my asshole boss, who’s probably light-years away by now.” Some dam that normally held back my disdain for all the Halcyon assholes had broken, and I couldn’t keep back the years of bile spilling out from me. “You and every other prick bragging about Pulling Yourself Up By Your Bootstraps even though Daddy’s the one who carried you your whole life, I hate your fucking guts. I’ve busted my ass for twenty years to get where I am, and the hardest work you’ve ever done is a hundred reps of that pint of beer I made. So put down your fucking beer and get the hell out of here, James.” Most of the people behind him were mortified, but Tracy grinned and did a little silent fistpump.

James bellowed wordlessly and wound up to throw a punch. He telegraphed it enough that I easily stepped out of the way, and let him tumble to the ground in front of the bar. He grunted, pulled himself up, and grabbed one of the display bottles of barrel-aged stout on the bar. He grabbed it by the neck, and attempted to smash it against the bar three times before finally succeeding. “Goddamn plantfucker!” He charged with the broken bottle, much faster this time, and managed to cut through the sleeve of my work shirt into my arm. I yelled in pain and whirled around on him, only to find that Mags had tackled him and knocked the broken bottle out of his hand. He shoved her away and got up, rage flaming in his drunken eyes. “You want a piece of this, you fucking dy-”

I punched him as hard as I could, right in the side of his face, and felt a white-hot nova of pain flare through my knuckles. I ignored it as I grabbed him by one arm and Mags grabbed the other, and we marched him half-conscious to the front door. We tossed him out and he crumpled in a heap on the pavement. “Either Halcyon will find you or the Affini will, I don’t give a fuck which. Either way, don’t ever come back to this fucking brewery.” I slammed the door and locked it for good measure. I’d consider reopening it when his ass was gone.

Mags handed me a fresh beer. “You okay, Brent?” Damn but it was good to have a no-nonsense butch on your side.

“I’ll be okay.” I winced as I tried to grasp the beer with my right hand, and took it with my left instead. “Might have to cancel today’s brew with the way my hand is.”

Mags chuckled. “I don’t think anyone will blame you if you cancel a brew for an alien invasion.” I couldn’t help but love that lopsided smile of hers. I had to admit to having a crush on her, with that salt-and-pepper buzzcut and the Triumph Vega she rode to work every day. But I doubted the chapter leader of the local lesbian motorcycle club would ever be interested in a guy like me.

I smirked. “I’ll let the boss know. If anybody’s gonna catch heat for this, it may as well be me. Wanna turn off the kettle and drain it?”

“Lemme take a look at your arm first.” Between her time in the Cosmic Navy and occasionally acting as a street medic, Mags was the best-trained person in the brewery to take care of injuries. Which was good, because I managed to incur most of them. “It’s not deep, it’s already scabbing over. But I’ll clean it up and get some gauze on it.”

After she took care of my arm and went back to the brewhouse, I grabbed my phone and texted Hurley. Hey boss. Had to cancel today’s brew. Hurt my hand. Aliens invading. I had a gut feeling it wasn’t going to matter either way.

Before I had even put my phone back into my pocket, it dinged with a response. Hello petal! Claus Hurley is indisposed, as he has been domesticated following his adorable attempt to shoot one of us with a pistol. If you are injured, I will have somebody come to you right away!

I hesitated. Did I answer and let the Affini know exactly where I was? Or did I just not answer and give them a reason to check on me anyway? I didn’t like the sound of this “domestication” business. I figured I'd try to split the difference. No I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.

The phone immediately dinged again. Too late, cutie~! One of our medics will be there shortly to check on you.

Well shit.

Mags returned, and I met her halfway. “So, apparently Hurley’s been picked up by the Affini for… domestication? Whatever that is.”

She goggled at me. “Well, I don’t like the sound of that. But it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. So where’s that leave us?”

“No idea, honestly. But they’re also coming to check on my arm, it sounds like, even though I told them it was taken care of.”

“Oh shit.” Mags actually looked worried, which was unusual.

I thought for a second - if they wanted to “domesticate” me too, I didn’t want to get anybody else involved. And even if they weren’t out to take me to the mines or whatever, I didn’t need to scare everybody in the building.

“I’ll meet them outside. You keep folks in here and take off out the back if the Affini start eating my brains or something.” I paused. “I think given the circumstances, drinks are on the house tonight.”

Mags grinned. “Sounds good to me, boss.” She clapped her hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” I took a deep breath and ventured across the bar, out into the eternal sunset. James was, thankfully, gone. If they’re gonna eat anybody’s brains, let ‘em be his. I heard Mags announce that drinks were on the house and the cheer that erupted in response.

I looked back at the brewery and smiled. Even if the Affini changed everything, I hoped I could keep this little bit of the world intact. Hurley might have been a jackass, but at least New Rochefort had given me the chance to create things that I loved, that other people loved too. Brewing could be a bastard thing sometimes, but it gave me more joy than a thousand Halcyon executive salaries.

Not that I’d turn at least one down, mind you.

A shadow crept up the cobblestone street, which Halcyon Consumer Experiences had doubtlessly tweezered to fuck in a thousand AI simulations to get just right to be completely ignored by all the ultrarich twerps. The figure that cast the shadow crested the hill, resolving itself to be humanoid. Another few seconds, and I could tell that the figure was at least a meter taller than the average Terran, and looked distinctly feminine. Another few seconds, and I saw the wheaten skirt she was wearing, the corset of vines that terminated in a black-and-gold bodice with long sleeves, a floppy brown conical hat, and brown-black hair. It seemed like she’d stepped directly out of a harvest-themed Renaissance faire. A few more steps, and the cyan eyes shining from her greenish face turned to me.

“Pardon me, sweetling. May I ask where I might find a Terran named Brent Fischer?”

“You’re talking to him.” The polyphonic voice, soft and demure as it was, still felt like it was seeping into the wrinkles of my brain, worming its way into every crack and crevice. “What can I do for ya?”

The Affini smiled. “My name is Circeval Purpurea, Thirteenth Bloom, and I am here to take care of you.”

Chapter Text

“‘Take care of me’”, I repeated hoarsely, my mouth suddenly dry. “You’re one of the aliens, right? The Affini?”

“That’s right, petal.” The Affini’s smile widened, and her eyes swam with rivers of cyan and green. “You have seen our broadcasts, I assume?”

I smirked. “Kinda hard to miss them when you can’t turn them off.” She giggled at that, a surprisingly human gesture from a giant plant alien. “So what happens to us now?”

“Well, the first thing that happens is that I take a look at that hand of yours.” Circeval lowered herself to my level in a strange simulacrum of kneeling down. “What happened to it?”

“Um…” How did I explain to an alien what bouncing somebody from a bar meant? Would punching somebody make me next in line for whatever domestication was? Had I fucked up before I even knew what the game was? “Somebody was making trouble in the brewery and I had to keep him from hurting someone.”

“Oh dear.” Shades of orange and deeper blues entered Circeval’s eyes. “Is everybody quite all right?” She took my hand in hers and inspected it closely.

“I had to toss him out on his ass, but everybody inside is -hssss!” I winced as the Affini extended several tiny vines to gently poke at and palpate my knuckles, which brought back the pain in several brief flares. “-is fine. It looks like he scuttled off before you got here. Ow.”

“My apologies, sweetling. I didn’t intend to hurt you.” She didn’t stop when she said that, but a few moments later she seemed satisfied with her work. “I don’t detect any bone breakage, but you likely have a bit of a contusion. May I administer an analgesic, Brent?”

“I have some ibuprofen in the brewery, I should be fine.”

Circeval smiled and shook her head. “Affini medicine is far more advanced than what you’re used to. It’s far more effective with fewer side effects.” Before I could say anything, a slim vine extended from within her, and a purple-black flower at its end blossomed before puffing a bit of mist at my knuckles. Within a moment, the pain in them turned to ice cold, to gentle warmth, to mild tingling and then to nothing. “That should alleviate the worst effects, but I suggest you take it easy on that hand for the next week.”

“The next week.” I pondered for a moment. What would I be doing with that next week? I didn’t have a boss anymore, it seemed. What would happen to my job? Or the brewery? Was I about to be sent to the mines everybody kept talking about? “What’s going to happen?”

“Well. To put it simply, little one, we first ensure that every sophont on this world has their needs met. Any deficiencies in physical or psychological health, in living accommodations or other conditions, we ameliorate. Then we update this world’s technology and infrastructure to bring it in line with the standards of the Affini Compact. We weed out whatever feralism or other nastiness remains. Ultimately, Brent, what happens is that everybody on this world becomes their happiest, best selves.”

I balked. “That’s… a lot to take in. You’re actually just here to help?”

Circeval brightened, her eyes and the tips of her pointed ears suddenly shining a strange shade of rose gold. “Precisely! The mission of our civilization is to ensure the happiness and health of every sophont in existence, across the entire cosmos. That has been our drive and our purpose for a thousand centuries now.”

The sheer unreality of that number slammed into my chest like a lead weight. “For how long?” A drunken barfly impotently shouting corporate slogans out the window felt more comical than ever at this revelation. These creatures were out taming the universe while we were still hiding from apex predators in caves.

And this one, for some reason, decided to dress up as a goth scarecrow and fix my booboos. It was hard to make any sense of it.

She giggled for a moment, little swirls of purple appearing in her eyes for a moment. “Oh, your expression is so adorable right now, cutie!~” Circeval pulled out what looked like a wooden tablet and tapped it several times while I stared at her. “Godeti and Abronia will be so jealous when they see this!” Is she taking fucking pictures of me right now?

My train of thought jumped the tracks and derailed. I simply couldn’t parse the absurdity of the different data being thrown at me. It was like finding out that God existed, and that He looked at you the same way you’d look at a cute puppy. I’d thrown off most of my Catholic upbringing years ago, but an old nugget of leftover religious conditioning felt awe and reverence for these creatures at the same time I felt indignant over being treated like a stray dog.

“So, uh.” I stammered and tried to collect my thoughts. “What happens to this place tomorrow? You apparently ‘domesticated’ the guy who owns it, whatever that means. Do I still have a job?”

The Affini grinned wide, revealing a shocking array of sharp, thorny teeth, and petted the top of my bald head with a vine. “Oh my dear little leaf, you don’t have to worry about having a job anymore. The Affini Compact provides for all its charges without requiring anything in return.”

“Well, what do I do for money? Or paying rent?”

“Those things simply do not exist within the Affini Compact, dear. Scarcity does not exist within our culture. Your old capitalism is gone, as are all the forces keeping it in place.” Circeval spat the word as if it were an ancient curse.

All the forces keeping it in place. “So, the Accord and Halcyon? They’re gone too?”

“From this system, and from every system we have integrated into the Compact. Terra itself should be free from the Accord before long.”

A dozen emotions fought within me. “I think I need to sit down. This is kind of a lot.”

“Oh dear.” Circeval knelt down next to me again. “Do you need any help, Brent?”

“No no, I’ll be fine, just… that’s the kind of thing that takes some processing.” All the flavors of bullshit I’d been fighting my entire life had, apparently, vanished in an instant, to be replaced by omnibenevolent plant aliens.

“All your questions will be answered, petal. But there’s one question you need to ask yourself first.” Circeval started petting me again, and I couldn’t muster the indignation or function to object to it. “What do you want to do now?”

Somehow, the answer came to me in an instant, and leapt out of my mouth before I could even consider my words. “I want to keep making beer. Here.” I looked back at the brewery. Mags and a few other folks looked out the window at me and Circeval, equal amounts of curiosity and awe and fear on their faces. I gave them a quick smile and thumbs up before looking back to the Affini. “It’ll be nice not to have to work anymore, but brewing is in my blood. It’s my calling. If I can keep doing that without all the bullshit I think I’d be happy.”

Specks of purple and gold began bubbling up in Circeval’s eyes. “I admire your passion, little one. Although I confess, I do not know much about what your ‘brewing’ entails.” Something entered her voice, a new level of harmony or a suboctave magnifying her words. “Would you show me around the brewery, Brent?”

“I’d be happy to.”

Convincing the guests that the Affini wanted to come in purely out of curiosity took a minute. Convincing Mags took a bit longer. But eventually, Circeval ducked through the door and warmly greeted everyone on behalf of the entire Affini Compact. A few people were obviously terrified out of their minds, but the rest seemed more curious than anything else. Mags in particular overcame her reservations and started chatting with Circeval in short order, and the two seemed to become fast friends. After a while, though, the conversation died down and Circeval returned to her interest in the brewery.

“How about I start you off with a beer? Show you what all the fuss is about?” Before she could answer, I grabbed a dimpled half-liter glass from the shelf and poured her a glass of the Czech pilsner. I set it down and looked at her expectantly. “I dunno what your biology is like, but I assume you have a way to at least taste it.”

“Thank you, Brent.” She did, of course, but I didn’t expect it to take the form of her extending a vine from her chest and setting it into the liquid, the rest of her body remaining stock still. Well that’s a new one. “Oh, how interesting! A fermented extraction of grains and flowers, infused with carbon dioxide.” Circeval looked down at the now-empty glass and frowned for a moment. “But ethanol is not healthy for Terran bodies, is it?”

“I mean, ultimately, no. But we enjoy it in moderation.” I thought about having to bounce James. “Most of us, at least.”

“Hmm. But wouldn’t you rather have something safer, with much better effects?” Several vines slithered up the bar, each bearing a differently-colored flower. I saw a patron stumble backwards in fear out of the corner of my eye. “I myself am a xenopharmacologist. I specialize in creating xenodrugs, for the health and enjoyment of many different species throughout the Compact. Why would you want to keep making beer when we can make something better for you?”

“It’s about way more than the alcohol, Circeval.” I felt myself delving into the sea of passion I had for brewing, one that twenty years of bullshit and struggle still hadn’t managed to dry up. “Beer is one of the first things Terrans invented. Before we had water purification or filtering, turning water into beer was the best way to make it safe to drink. Nothing pathological to our species can live in it, that we’ve discovered so far at least. And that means it’s been part and parcel of Terran culture for as long as it’s existed. Some historians think we developed agriculture not to grow wheat to make bread, but to grow barley to make beer. The history of beer is the history of Terra.”

Unlike one of Hurley’s corporate buddies or my parents, Circeval actually seemed interested in my passion for the subject, so I kept going. “Brewing is a way of exploring history, of exploring our culture. Revolutions and renaissances started in bars over beers. Different styles developed around historical events, around institutions, around things as small as tax rates. And besides, it tastes good.”

I poured myself a glass of Czech pils and took a long pull, savoring the toasty, doughy taste of the malt and the spicy bitterness of Saaz hops. Barley and hops were no longer cultivated on Terra, but on a handful of other worlds. I wondered what they would taste like if they were grown in their original soil, in their original climates, unchanged by whatever the agricorps had done to make them grow on places like Efteraar and Kevera.

I put down my glass and met eyes with Circeval again, who seemed rapt in listening to my logorrhea. “Intriguing. We Affini use xenodrugs to make florets and independents alike happy, and they hold the highest regard in our culture. It seems as if beer rests on a similar pedestal for you.”

“Without a doubt.” I grabbed my glass and gestured to the brewery window, where stainless steel reflected dim light back into the taproom. “Want to see where the magic happens?”

“Absolutely, petal.” Circeval gestured with one of her vines. “Lead the way.”

I glanced briefly at Mags, who smirked. “You can never resist giving people the full monty when it comes to that, can you?”

I grinned. “Sure can’t.”

Mags winked at me and saluted. “Just promise me you’re not gonna make some blue alien beer, Brent.”

“Not unless it’s the good shit.” We both laughed, and I led Circeval into the brewery.

I showed her the old rickety roller mill, the twenty-hectoliter brewhouse, the rows of fermenters, the endless meters of pipes and hoses and wires. I briefly explained the process of brewing: crushing grain, combining it with hot water to convert starches to sugars, drawing the wort from the mash and boiling it with hops, cooling it down and putting it into a tank. Pitching yeast into it and controlling every aspect of fermentation so that it would transform sugar to ethanol and countless different flavor compounds, to precise measurements and standards. She seemed politely interested, although it was obvious that what I did was child’s play compared to whatever chemical engineering she did.

“You work so hard and use all of this just to make beer?”

“It’s part of why I love it, honestly.” I gestured broadly, my passion winding back up for another round. “For me, brewing is the confluence of art and science and history. Of physical, intellectual and social labor. When you do it right, it encompasses a bit of everything, so you have to learn how to do everything. And it’s when I’m able to do all of those things that I feel happiest, that I feel like I’m fully here in the world.”

Circeval had walked slowly past the rows of brewing awards, the posters about the brewing process for the guests to look at, the safety placards for the guests to completely ignore. She set her eyes on a frame hung on the side of the brewhouse controller itself:

Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag.

Having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its walls for you.

“What is this, Brent?”

“That’s a poem from one of the first known Terran civilizations. The Mesopotamians worshipped a goddess named Ninkasi, who created beer and watched over those who made it. Beer was central to their culture and way of living, and Ninkasi was revered as one of the most important goddesses in their pantheon. Some historians thought it described a recipe when they first found it, but it seems to be more like a hymn of reverence than anything else. It reminds me of just how important brewing is to me.”

Circeval didn’t seem to hear me at first. She stared at the poem, at the replica of the cuneiform tablet below it, drinking it in like it was life itself. Her eyes were changing colors again, writhing with currents of pink and gold and purple. “A hymn of reverence…”

She turned to me, her eyes beacons of strange light, her grin full of thorns. “I think the Affini would be more than happy to let you continue running this brewery, Brent.”

“And I would like to help.”

Chapter Text

After injuring my hand, Circeval had told me to take it easy for a week. Without a boss or a corporate mandate immediately breathing down my neck about downtime or personal responsibility, I took the advice. I hadn’t had anything resembling a vacation in years at this point, so I welcomed any kind of relief from the endless grind.

That week was all it took for the Affini to completely transform Trappist-1e.

The day after the Affini landed, I let myself sleep in for once. Between the demands of being a Halcyon subcontractor, and the “endless sunset” of the planet wreaking havoc with Terran circadian cycles, the alarm clock played a critical role in keeping me relatively sane and employed. For the first time in years, though, I allowed myself to turn off the screeching alarm and its verification puzzle, and simply turned back over and went back to bed for another couple hours. I’d already told Mags and the bartenders to take a day off last night, so I didn’t figure anybody would miss me.

Once I woke up, I tossed together my usual breakfast of instant coffee and synthcubes, and took a long shower. I’d been too exhausted to take one before collapsing into bed last night. I guess dealing with a shitty old brewhouse, belligerent drunks and condescending plant aliens really takes it out of you. I quickly brushed my teeth and shaved, keeping my goatee neat and trimmed. I wasn’t a big fan of it, but it was part of the image I cultivated as a brewer. Besides, with my bald head, I was afraid of looking like a hard-boiled egg without it.

I had practically nothing in my closet but work pants and collared work shirts, so I shrugged and tossed a set on before heading out for a walk. For once I wasn’t chained to my routine, and I relished the opportunity to relax in the park for a while. And see what the Affini were getting up to as well. I shoved a random well-worn paperback from the shelf into my back pocket - they were all due for a reread - and went out into the brave new world.

I didn’t know what I expected when I walked out the front door of my apartment building, but a little part of me was disappointed to see the Halcyon skyscrapers and luxury hotels still standing against the blood orange sky. In all honesty, the mental image of all the suits and corporate parasites getting their toys smashed to the ground by the Affini was too good not to hope for it a little bit. But all the buildings looked the same as always. For the most part.

There was a mesh of giant vines that had grown up around the sides of Kingfisher Tower, for instance.

I decided to make a slow loop around the neighborhood to the local park, before checking in on things at the brewery. I didn’t have to fit in a full workday, but I might as well grab a pint and make sure nothing had exploded overnight. Hopefully I didn’t walk in on some random Affini dismantling the boiler or something.

Dingy, cracked pavement dominated my neighborhood, where most of the service workers and low-level employees of Halcyon lived. A few stunted trees trapped in squares of wilted grass dotted the area here and there, but for the most part everything was gray or brown. As I traveled further down the sidewalk, though, spots of healthy, vibrant green popped up here and there - new trees, planters and grass. Vines grew up the sides of older buildings, seemingly grown to support their fragility.

Most vibrant, though, were the Affini installing these things.

They looked drastically different from the one Affini I had met last night - tangles of verdant vines coiling and flexing like muscles, plates and masks and trunks of rich mahogany or pale birch wood, rainbow riots of flowers of every shape and size. Some maintained humanoid forms, as if they were giant dryads or fae or ents come from some far-off fantasy realm; some maintained other forms, like stocky tigers or three-eyed foxes or sea serpents; some refused to take any specific shape at all, giant tangles of vines and mulch whose only indication of sentience took the form of vines performing a multitude of complicated tasks.

Several of the Affini glanced at me as I walked by and smiled, their mouths unnervingly full of sharp, pointy teeth. A few of them waved hands or vines or other appendages at me. It wasn’t until I turned the corner into the commercial district that one peeled off and decided to strike up a conversation.

“Good morning, petal.” In spite of the soft orange-and-white blossoms adorning her body and the wavy “hair” made of vines, the Affini seemed to be made entirely of sharp edges, acute angles, asymmetrical cuts. Something in the cant of her metallic purple eyes and her too-wide grin set me on edge. “I am Valencia Sinensis, Seventh Bloom, she/her pronouns. How are you doing today?”

“D-doing well, thanks.” I felt frozen in place. I wanted to rush away but something about her transfixed me in place, stuck me to the spot. “I’m Brent Fischer, I’m just on my way somewhere.”

“Oh dear. Don’t let me keep you, little one. I simply wanted to say hello!” The cloying condescension in her voice didn’t make her seem any less like a predator waiting to pounce. “We are revitalizing the area, making it more hospitable to every sophont who lives on this planet. And this little neck of the woods seemed so drab, it needs an Affini’s touch to liven it up!”

“Y-you’re doing a lovely job so far, I think.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say~” A subharmonic pulse seemed to enter her voice, nailing my feet even more firmly to the ground. What was this Affini doing to me?

“For the Everbloom’s sake, Valencia, be nice!” A rustling giggle from behind Valencia turned into a creature of lanky green limbs and countless trumpet-shaped yellow flowers. “My apologies, little leaf, but my friend here is ‘on the hunt’, so to speak, and tends to be slightly forward.” One of the trumpeted flowers extended and misted something in my face, which snapped me out of whatever trance I’d been stuck in. “Abronia Arenar, Twelfth Bloom. Don’t worry, petal, we’re just being friendly. Besides…” Abronia hesitated for a moment, then spoke in something that sounded like three flutes playing an impossibly complex and fast harmony to Valencia.

“Ahh, I see.” Valencia smiled mischievously, then patted me gently on the head. “Be on your way, little one. Please let us know anything you might need.”

“Yes Ma’am,” I blurted before resuming my walk, this time at a much brisker pace. I glanced back at the two Affini, now talking and giggling at each other. What the hell had that been about? The whole exchange had been wildly unsettling. Circeval was nice enough, but Valencia seemed to want to devour me whole. I needed something to calm my nerves. I was already heading towards the brewery… but if the Affini had their vines in things deep enough to start renovating the entire planet overnight, they might have something to say about having a beer before noon.

If money no longer mattered, I could treat myself to something. Provided somebody was working, that is. I suspected a lot of people weren’t as passionate about their work as I was, and the day after an alien invasion would probably mean a lot of people calling out of work.

Nevertheless, the little cafe across the street from the brewery - the Bellona - seemed to be open, with a handful of Terrans and Affini sipping from steaming mugs on the patio. I didn’t go there often, but it was a cozy little joint and I figured a cup of tea would help me chill out a bit. I could watch things from the patio and get some reading done before checking on the brewery. Hopefully I wouldn’t be accosted by any more hungry Affini.

A little bell jingled as I opened the door, and a thin, reedy voice shouted “Welcome to the Bellona!” I crossed the creaky wooden floor to the countertop, marveling at the details on the walls and crossbeams, the weathered but well-maintained furniture. Even for a megacorp like Halcyon, this much natural wood must have cost a fortune. Anything for their vacationing trillionaires, I guess.

The woman at the countertop looked as thin and reedy as her voice, long mousy hair framing the large round glasses on her face. “Hi there! What can I help you with today?”

“Uh, hi! What kind of tea do you have? Looking for something relaxing. It’s, uh, all a bit stressful right now.”

She chuckled. “I get that. I came in today because I had no idea what else to do. What do you do when the world ends and giant plant aliens take over, anyway?”

The laugh was infectious. “I’m still figuring that out myself! I think I’m gonna keep doing my thing, though.” I decided to introduce myself and held out my hand. “I’m Brent Fischer, head brewer across the street at New Rochefort. I’ve been in here before but it’s been a minute. And, well, it’s still a bit early for a beer.”

“Oh cool, good to meetcha! I’m Mel.” She took my hand to return my handshake and grinned. “Sorry I’ve never stopped in, I’m just not really a beer person.”

“S’all good. People drink what they want to drink. No skin off my back. I’m not usually a tea person either, but…” I massaged my bruised knuckles. “Well, the last day has been a lot.”

“Well, if you’re looking for something relaxing, how about a lavender chamomile rooibos tea? It’s one of my personal blends.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Great! If you want to find a seat I’ll bring it out to you. Let me just ring- oop!” Mel laughed nervously. “I keep forgetting that money isn’t, like, a thing anymore. At least, not according to the aliens.”

“I know, it’s gonna take a while to get used to, huh?” I tried to smile reassuringly. “I’ll be out on the patio. Gonna be a good day for people-watching.”

Mel threw her head back in a genuine laugh. “You can say that again!”

I found a table at the edge of the patio and settled in, facing down the gentle slope of the hill the brewery and the cafe both stood on. Halcyon had stocked the area with little boutique shops, restaurants, cafes, crypto exchanges, speculation casinos, everything the bored trillionaire could ever want. Thankfully, this little nook of New Rochefort mostly had restaurants aside from the brewery, so very few bitbetters getting drunk and rowdy. Hopefully they’d dry up entirely with the Affini here. I could use so much less noise in my life.

Mel came out with a mug and a little earthenware teapot with the tag of a teabag dangling from it… and an hourglass? “Let it steep for five minutes, until the hourglass runs out, then take out the teabag and drink away. If you leave it too long the chamomile and lavender will get bitter and astringent.” She bounced in place for a moment before chirping “Enjoy!” and walking back inside.

As the sand in the tiny hourglass whispered its way to its destination, I sat back and drank in the midmorning. There was still a bit of a chill in the air, a nice reprieve from the usual sweltering heat of the brewhouse. In spite of the fact that giant plant aliens had taken over the planet last night, a silent calm filled the air. No drunks, no gamblers, no stock orders being shouted over comms, no Halcyon delivery trucks almost running you over to meet their quota, no Peacekeepers making you feel undesirable. I hadn’t experienced a quiet like this since Gramma’s place in the Snoqualmie bayou, and here there weren’t any gators or coyotes trying to get into the squirrel traps on a regular basis. All I could hear was the breeze cascading down the cobblestone streets, the distant singsong of Affini speech, the occasional soft buzz or grind of what I assumed was Affini construction. I took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out.

The hourglass ran out, and I removed the teabag from the earthenware pot. Steam rose from the near-boiling tea inside it as I placed the bag on the saucer, a ruddy pink liquid pooling beneath it. I poured myself a cup, and used it to warm my hands. Lesser souls might have flinched and cursed at its heat, but twenty years of handling blazing hot hoses and fittings had given me a certain amount of resistance. Brewer’s hands, I called ‘em. I blew on the tea and took in its aroma: the crisp, apple-like punch of the chamomile, the woodsy floral notes of the lavender, all supported by the deep tobacco and vanilla character of the rooibos. I took a deep smell. Held it. Let it out. I took a sip.

Brewer’s hands didn’t mean brewer’s lips, though, and I tried not to curse as I nearly burned my mouth. Better let that sit a minute or two. I set the cup back down and sat back in my chair, staring up at the perpetual sunset sky again. The tea’s aroma and the morning quiet had already soothed my nerves quite a bit. I could wait a few minutes for the tea to cool to a reasonable temperature.

While the tea cooled down, I pulled the paperback out of my back pocket and started reading. Ancient speculative fiction held a certain mystique for me, especially the type that made bold, wild claims about what their future would be like. The far-flung optimism and wonder of old stood in stark contrast with how mundane the day-to-day of life in the Accord ended up being. Even when these books wrote about autocratic states, like the Plan of Man in this one, they portrayed them as vast, towering, incomprehensible things that evoked awe and terror. They simply couldn’t capture the suffocating sameness most people in the Accord experienced day-to-day, even in the far reaches of places that would have seemed utterly fantastical back then.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, the Starchildren had come to rescue us all from the Plan of Man, smashing its authority to atoms planet by planet. I felt like I’d landed squarely in one of the fantastical realms of my old paperbacks.

I sipped the tea and let its warmth pool in my stomach, the soothing calm of the lavender and chamomile suffusing throughout my body. A satisfied sigh escaped my lips, and I let myself sink back into my chair and enjoy the morning. I had no idea how much time I let pass on that porch, under the orange-tinted clouds and the gargantuan flower of the Affini ship floating far above, but for once I didn’t have to care.

It must have been past noon when I finally finished the pot and returned it to the counter, giving Mel my regards once more. As per usual, my brewer’s brain percolated with ideas, wondering what I could incorporate into a beer from the flavors and aromas that had tantalized me today. The fruity and floral characteristics of lavender and chamomile could work well in the crisp simplicity of a Belgian saison, or the robust notes of the rooibos might mesh with the full body and roastiness of a stout. Head abuzz with unfettered brainstorms, I decided to finally check in on things at the brewery.

In spite of having given folks the day off, I found the lights on when I entered the building. “Hello? Anyone here?” For a moment, only silence met me. Then I felt, more than heard, a hum that had somehow already become familiar to me.

“Good afternoon, Brent.”

Circeval Purpurea appeared from inside the brewhouse, eyes aglow with excitement and mischief.

The Starchildren had come, and it looked like they were determined to stay.

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon.” I coughed nervously. “I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised to see you here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t help but indulge my curiosity, petal.” Circeval flowed over to me and grinned. Being surrounded by the sharp thorns of Affini smiles would take a while to get used to. “I wanted to evaluate the efficiency and safety of your brewhouse systems if we’re going to be working together!” A chiding click escaped her mouth as she shook her head. “I must say, you Terrans are almost as careless as Rinans sometimes. So many ways you poor things can hurt yourselves!”

I shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “All part of the job description. Anybody who hasn’t learned how to be careful in a factory job after this long, they’ve earned whatever bang-ups they get.”

A whorl of crimson entered Circeval’s eyes and I tried not to shrink back. “Nobody deserves to get hurt, little one, no matter their circumstances. I certainly can’t imagine you’ve enjoyed whatever injuries you’ve incurred during your lifetime.”

Depends on how you define “injury.” I shoved that intrusive thought aside. “I mean, no. But I’ve earned my stripes and learned my lessons. If you don’t take the potential dangers of brewing seriously, you shouldn’t be in the industry! Some people learn that lesson the hard way. I’m just glad nobody I know has ever gotten seriously hurt.”

Circeval’s eyes narrowed. “Which of those risks do you consider necessary, Brent?”

“All the ones necessary to make the best possible product!” Lecture mode took over once more. “Chemicals will always be necessary to clean things. Pressure will always be necessary to carbonate and serve. Heat will always be necessary to heat strike water and boil wort.” I found myself rubbing my right leg, the one that had gotten a boot full of hot wort ten years ago. It wasn’t scarred or mutilated, but it didn’t grow hair anymore thanks to that accident. “If you have better ways of doing those things-”

“We do.” Circeval curtly cut me off. “In fact, that is exactly the reason I came here today, sweetling. I am seeing what improvements the Compact can make to your brewhouse so that you no longer have to worry about injuring yourself. Our promise of joy and safety to all the sophonts we meet is all-encompassing, Brent. Even so much as a strained back or a bruise is anathema to our cultural mission.”

I gaped at her for a moment. Surely the Affini weren’t so obsessed with safety that they’d demolish everything I’d spent years building here. “I’m open to any suggestions, but I really don’t want you tearing my brewery down just because you don’t think it’s safe enough.”

“We would hardly be ‘tearing it down’, petal. We would be refitting it to comply with our standards of safety and effectiveness.” She turned and pointed accusingly at the boiler room. “Starting with that. We have much better ways of heating water, and that unit desperately needs to be replaced with something less dangerous and ramshackle.”

I guffawed. “Stars, please do! That thing is the most notorious piece of garbage for light-years. You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve had to replace the tubes, the burner, the stack… that thing is the jankiest Ship of Theseus in the Accord. Whatever you put in its place can’t possibly be any worse.”

Circeval smiled. “I am glad that at least some of my proposals are met with approval. I have other plans I would like to pass by you, and I would greatly enjoy your input as well. Ultimately, however, the shape of this brewery will be determined by the requirements of the Compact. Your input will help keep it as close to your desires and needs as possible.”

I pursed my lips. “You’re the post-scarcity aliens. I guess I can’t do much better than that.”

The Affini’s smile widened, her eyes percolating with pinpricks of gold and purple. “You have no idea, little leaf.”

Looking back on my favorite novels again, Clarke had been right: Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. The Affini Compact’s capabilities went far beyond my expectations and gave me no end of tools to make brewing a thousand times easier and safer than I could have dreamed of. My discussion with Circeval went from begrudging concessions, to intriguing brainstorms, to loquacious hyperfocus in no time at all.

I had a saying that I drilled into the heads of anybody who decided to train under me: Ninety percent of brewing is cleaning. Don’t expect it to be glamorous. Expect it to be ugly and dirty. I couldn’t even fathom the amount of trub and spent yeast and other effluent I’d been soaked in over two decades in the industry, nor could I begin to delve into the depths of foulness I’d smelled from backed-up drains or spent grain left to rot. A neat freak would run away screaming from the things an average brewer had to deal with, but a brewer had to be a neat freak to make high-quality, unspoiled beer; that was the central contradiction of making beer for a living. That necessity for sanitation brought the dangers of concentrated chemicals, blistering heat, and moving machinery.

Circeval proposed solutions that blew my mind: Targeted chemical foams that would leave my skin unharmed but eradicate the most stubborn organic soil and stains. Swarms of insect-sized drones that would consume trub or debris and leave behind nothing but trace gases, while sterilizing whatever surfaces they contacted. Engineered phytobacteria that would ensure the carbon dioxide level in the brewery stayed below a safe threshold at all times, while targeting and eliminating any common contaminants. Automated yeast propagators with integrated stasis circuits that could build up a proper pitch of yeast for a batch of beer, then hold it in perfect condition until brewday.

The Affini even had what they called “compilers”, which were as good as magic. They could make whatever they wanted out of base material, or unmake things as well. Suddenly I didn’t have to worry about supply chains, crop mutations or muscling around dozens of bags of malt - the compiler attached to the grain mill and grist case would create all the malt for a given recipe with the press of a few buttons. And instead of an hour’s worth of sweat, blood and tears to get rid of the spent grain every time I brewed, the lauter tun would simply decompile it, requiring only a quick rinse and inspection of the vessel afterwards.

Best of all, the crotchety old boiler could go away completely, and the same refits that would make ingredients and cleaning a breeze would heat the water and boil the wort directly. I couldn’t understand the mishmash of technobabble that Circeval threw at me, but something about localized fifth fundamental field excitation meant that things would be heated evenly and without the risks or hassle of external calandrias, steam jackets or direct fire. Similar technology could manage temperature control for the fermentation tanks, accurate to a nanokelvin.

At some point Circeval handed me her tablet, and I went about making lists, sketching layout changes, making diagrams of the valve and pipe configurations I’d want for certain solutions we were discussing. The motes of purple in her eyes seemed to grow more vibrant and numerous as time went on, a strange sensation like unheard music pulsating louder and louder in the background. I fell into the kind of groove that could carry me all day, a degree of focus and energy that felt almost trancelike.

As the orange sky took on the slightly redder hue of a New Rochefort evening, I let out a long sigh. A mere day since the Affini landed, and the shape of my brewery, my world and my life were already transmuting into forms I could barely comprehend. Thankfully, they seemed determined to make every one of those shapes the best they could possibly be, demanding nothing short of absolute perfection. “So what’s the timeframe on all of these things? We’re well-stocked on inventory right now, but if I go longer than a month without a brewhouse, we’re gonna start running out of beer.”

Circeval frowned. “Unfortunately, Brent, the refit will probably take longer than my initial estimates, especially with the compiler modifications for the mash-lauter tun and the boiler replacement. And then there is the matter of making sure the building itself meets Affini safety standards, and that all facilities are integrated into our infrastructure network..”

My stomach sank. “How long are we talking, then?”

“Probably about… three days, give or take.”

“Three what?”

Circeval giggled. “Gotcha.”

I goggled. Indistinguishable from magic, indeed. “Well, I guess that won’t be an issue then. When do you plan on starting?”

A titanic whunk shook the building. “Oh, we already have, petal. Our first priority is getting that ticking time bomb of a boiler out of here before it can harm anybody. The new heater will be installed and operational by tomorrow morning.”

“I… holy shit.” I simply didn’t have words. The alacrity of the renovations certainly spoke to Circeval’s eagerness. Part of me wanted to protest, part of me wanted to thank her, but most of me simply had no idea how to process the speed and decisiveness with which the Affini worked.

“Language, little one~” Circeval sing-songed her words and gave me a condescending pat on the head. “Just leave it to us. We’ll take care of everything. Soon you’ll have a brewery like none other in the Compact!”

You can say that again. The potential of my work in the brewery suddenly skyrocketed - if I didn’t have to spend whole shifts cleaning tanks or scrubbing floors or wrenching on boilers, the world was my oyster. I could perform proper multi-step decoction mashes to make the most authentic German lagers possible; I could make wild ales and sour beers without worrying about contaminating the rest of the brewhouse with wild yeast and bacteria; I could source the strangest and rarest ingredients without leaving the brewery.

The question was, would the world the Affini were building leave room for other people who had the same passion I did?

My stomach growled, pulling out of my reverie. I suddenly realized that evening was near and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Oh my. When was the last time you ate, Brent?”

“This morning. Just had my usual breakfast of synthcubes and coffee.”

“Synth- oh no dear, that just won’t do. Let’s go and get a proper meal in you, petal. I’m happy to say you never have to stomach those awful things ever again.” She consulted her tablet and, after a moment’s searching, perked up in excitement. “Ah! One of the eating establishments down the street has been set up as a communal dining hall until we have ensured proper housing and resources for all sophonts. Would you care to join me, Brent?

I shrugged. “Sure, why not? We can keep batting ideas around while we eat too.”

Circeval shook her head. “Little one, we do not want you to overtax yourself. I appreciate your passion and dedication, but play and rest are as important as work! Let’s simply enjoy a nice meal, shall we?”

“You’re the boss, I guess.” My stomach growled again. “Let’s get going.”

When Circeval described the restaurant’s conversion to a “communal dining hall”, I had envisioned something like a soup kitchen or cafeteria. Instead, one of the fine dining restaurants had simply had additional seating put in, and Affini and Terrans alike briskly traveled back and forth between tables and the kitchen to serve food. A particularly chipper woman, wearing a revealing white dress patterned with lavender blossoms, invited us to sit down or take food to go. Circeval and I sat down, and I glanced around at the rainbow of folks around me. Lots of Terrans, mostly working-class folks from Halcyon’s various public-facing enterprises, but plenty of Affini accompanying them as well. A few of the Affini were even hand-feeding their Terrans, most notably one covered in waxy green leaves and tiny red berries who held a squirming, blissed-out woman in her vines. Odd, but none of my business.

“What would you like, Brent? The kitchen has been retrofitted with compilers to serve sophonts as quickly as possible, so you may have literally anything your heart desires. Within reason, of course.”

“Damn, and here I was hoping to find out whether a gram of uranium really has a billion calories.”

Circeval chuckled. “I don’t think we’re going to be testing that out any time soon, little one.”

I racked my brain. If compilers could make anything… what was I craving? Was there anything special I missed having?

The same bubbly woman who had seated us came to the table. “Hi! What can I get the two of you?”

“Lobster bisque,” I answered without thinking. “And some nice crusty bread.”

“A Sequoia-Six mineral water, if you please,” Circeval smiled.

“Okie dokie! Coming right up!” The woman practically skipped her way towards the kitchen. Barely a minute later, she returned with a large bowl filled with a clear purplish liquid, a large bowl of soup and a small loaf of fresh bread. “Enjoy, you two!”

“We certainly will, cutie~” Circeval tousled the woman’s hair with one of her vines, and the woman wiggled and made a high-pitched happy noise as she leaned into the affection. She skipped off again, this time a tiny bit unsteadily.

One whiff of the bisque and my stomach roared in response. I stilled it by taking a big spoonful, but immediately made an embarrassing noise of satisfaction after tasting the soup: Rich without being overwhelming, creamy without being overly thick, redolent of the savory-sweet character of lobster and the subtle accents of tarragon, lemon and white wine. I ripped a chunk of bread off the loaf, inhaled its fresh, doughy aroma, and sopped up some of the soup with it. The food was so singularly, powerfully delicious that it was several minutes before I looked up and remembered Circeval’s presence again. She simply stared at me with a small smile on her face, one of her vines dipped into the now nearly-empty bowl of mineral water, her eyes bonfires of gold and violet and pink.

“S’good stuff”, I mumbled through a mouthful of bread.

“I’m sure it is, Brent. I’m glad you like it! I admit, you’re quite adorable when you’re enjoying your food like that.”

My brain slipped a gear and I blushed crimson. I was adorable? I was no such thing, dammit. My partners over the years had found me attractive, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. Adorable clearly lived worlds away from wherever I was.

Circeval seemed to catch on to my feelings about that. “My apologies if I overstepped, petal. We Affini find all sophonts cute and tend to be very forward about that.”

“It’s no problem. You just caught me off guard.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin and took a sip of water. “The waitress didn’t seem to mind, though.”

“The waitress is somebody’s floret, Brent, and she had some apocynai in her system. It was quite unlikely that she would mind.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Floret?”

“One of our pets.”

The gear slipped again. “Is that what they mean when they say ‘domestication’?”

“There are two senses of the word, Brent: When an individual is turned into a pet, they are domesticated. In a larger sense, a domesticated culture is one that we have incorporated into the Affini Compact, to ensure their safety and happiness.”

I swallowed. “Are you going to domesticate me?”

Circeval tilted her head and flashed her teeth at me again. “Would you like me to, darling?”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t know a thing about it,” I demurred.

The Affini chuckled. “It’s okay, Brent, really. We Affini cannot help but flirt. It’s our culture’s primary export.”

“Between you and Valencia, it sure seems to be.”

“Valencia.” Circeval’s eyes flashed a kaleidoscope of colors for a split-second, before returning to their previous state. “Well. That girl always was incorrigible. Still, I have a feeling she will leave you be.”

I polished off the last of my soup and leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction, patting my stomach. “Not having to pay for things is dangerous, I’m tempted to get a second bowl.”

“Oh please do, Brent, if you are still hungry. Trust me, you will never experience want or privation again.”

“Circeval, I’m absolutely stuffed to the gills. It’s just that tasty, is all.”

“Gills? I did not think any of your species possessed those.”

“...it’s a figure of speech.”

“Ah, I see.” The Affini giggled. “Well. Shall I accompany you home?”

She sure does want to spend a lot of time with me. “Sure, I guess.”

We stepped out of the restaurant and began walking. It was a full ten seconds before I realized we were walking in two different directions. “...Circeval? My apartment is this way.”

“Oh roots, did I forget to mention? The Engineering Corps inspected your old apartment building and found that it had multiple structural defects. We have evacuated the building and moved all its residents and their possessions to a number of the suites at the Tripletree Luxury Complex. Considering it only seemed to be used by a tiny handful of powerful industrialists who will no longer have need of them, it only makes sense to turn it into a residential complex.” She put her vine on my shoulder. “I apologize, I should have mentioned it earlier.”

I balked. “Did they move all my stuff over?”

“Oh yes, Brent. You’ll find everything is quite in order.”

A little part of my brain screamed in alarm. I hoped they’d taken all the old paperbacks and the family pictures and the old beer memorabilia I’d picked up during my travels in the industry.

Then my stomach dropped off a cliff.

They probably saw the back of my closet. Probably saw the duffel bag stuffed back there so nobody could find it easily. The Affini didn’t seem to have much of a concept of privacy so there was even a chance that they’d looked in there. I felt my breath quicken, felt cold sweat break out on my forehead, felt the world recede to a great distance.

“Brent?”

My parents had never understood this shit. Most of my friends didn’t either. Mags was about the only person I knew who might. The Affini were completely alien, there was no way they could understand it either. They couldn’t know. Nobody could know.

“Brent?!”

They’d probably domesticate me if they found out. Or worse. Who knew what the Affini did to weirdos like me? They wanted to make things better for everyone, but once they found out about me, my gross ass probably wouldn’t count as “everyone” anymore.

I felt a pinch in my right arm, and as the world dissolved and my limbs went warm and limp I felt myself picked up and carried by strong, soft vines. My brain eked out one more burst of panic before darkness took me.

They can’t find out about Bryony.

Chapter Text

“Kneel before me.”

I knelt before the Goddess, Her majesty consuming all the world around me in waves of color and heat and music. My body was nude, save the bonds and shackles and straps that signified my service to Her Magnificence.

“Look at me, my most precious Acolyte.”

I looked up at Her, and beheld a peak greater than Olympus, an ocean vaster than Nun, a tree whose branches and roots dwarfed Yggdrasil. Her eyes blazed with currents of amethyst and emerald and gold that threatened to consume me, should I spend too long in them.

“What do you offer me?”

“I offer my craft, Goddess.” I set the sa-gub jar before Her with the traditional long reed straw, and She partook of the beer I made with approval.

“What else, Acolyte?”

“I offer my service, Goddess.” I bowed forward in obeisance, touching my forehead to one of the countless roots weaving through the ground before Her.

“What else, Acolyte?”

“I offer my body, Goddess.” I ripped the straps that restrained my breasts and cunt from my body and threw them aside.

A primordial growl emanated from Her, as Her eyes radiated heat and light greater than any star. “What else, Acolyte?”

“I offer my pain, Goddess.” I lashed my back with the scourge that I had not realized was in my hand, the cleansing flame of agony bringing focus and clarity to my being. I offered Her the scourge and She licked the blood dripping from it with glee.

“What else, Acolyte?”

I racked my brain. “What else do I have to offer, Goddess?”

A clawed Finger delicately lifted my chin so that Her eyes locked with mine, Stars roiling with the sacred flame of Her essence. “Offer me all that you are, Acolyte. Offer me every iota of your being - body, mind and soul. Offer me all these things, and you will be Mine, forever.”

I could only whisper in awe. “I offer you all that I am, Goddess. Now and forever. I am Yours.”

The Tree that dwarfed Yggdrasil grew greater yet, and beloved Darkness enveloped me as She took me as Her own.

The void of sleep slowly gave way to the darkness behind my own eyelids, strange dreams fading as consciousness struggled to meet the waking world. Exhaustion pinned me to the bed with its stony weight. The impossible comfort of the mattress and my cocoon of bedsheets didn’t make it any easier.

Wait a sec.

This wasn’t the bog-standard mattress in my Halcyon-run apartment, which had all the comfort and plushness of a cardboard slipsheet. And these weren’t the same papery, scratchy bedsheets either.

All at once the previous day’s events struck me with the force of a hammer, and I bolted upright in bed.

“Good morning, Brent.”

I looked to the source of the musical voice, and the ember of anxiety settled a bit. Circeval smiled and something about her seemed to emit a pulse of relief.

As wakefulness seeped into my brain, my surroundings came into greater focus. We were in one of the Tripletree Luxury Complex’s executive suites, which I mostly recognized from the constant advertisements on the brewery’s televisions. Rusty light glowed in the large picture window behind Circeval. A neatly stacked pile of old paperbacks showed that the Affini had, in fact, retrieved everything from my old apartment. Beyond sensing the vast improvement in my bedding, I felt a ghost of extra sensitivity in everything I touched, like a thin skin of electricity on everything around me.

Also, I was completely naked under the covers.

I blushed and held the sheets to myself as I stammered at Circeval. “H-hello.” I swallowed and took a deep breath. “What happened?”

The Affini’s eyes rippled with navy blue for a moment. “You had a panic attack, Brent. Bad enough that I needed to sedate you. I do hope you are feeling better now.” One of her vines extended to rub my shoulder, which sent a ripple of sensation through my whole body. I had to work hard to suppress a whimper.

“I’m doing okay now, I think.”

Circeval cocked her head inquisitively at me. “Do you want to talk about what brought on your anxiety, Brent?”

My stomach turned over as I remembered the spiral. I knew I was probably catastrophizing the Affini’s potential reaction to… that. But that was still something personal. Private. Intimate.

“I think I just got overloaded by the sheer amount of change in everything, honestly.” It wasn’t quite the whole truth, of course, but it wasn’t a lie either. Even giant plant aliens from beyond the stars couldn’t expect the average Terran to shrug off every part of their existence being flipped upside-down without so much as blinking.

A placid smile crossed the Affini’s face. “I understand. Many species react negatively when any routine, even a negative one, is disrupted. I apologize for the toll our arrival has taken on you, Brent, but rest assured: You, all of you, will end up safe and happy in the end.”

“I mean, it sure as hell beats Halcyon and the Accord.” The idea of life without the Byzantine labyrinths of bureaucracy and expectation and capitalist demands took a small degree of tension away from my shoulders. “And the florets, they sure don’t seem to mind it all.”

Circeval grinned, showing that mouthful of unnervingly sharp thorns again. “In a manner of speaking, Brent, a floret would be incapable of minding. Our xenodrugs and haustoric implants guarantee that.”

The tension returned. “I-I see.”

A whisper swept through Circeval’s wheaten form as the colors in her eyes shifted. “You needn’t worry, Brent. Only those who volunteer, or who are incapable of living peacefully within the Affini Compact, are taken as florets. You remain independent as long as you wish to be.”

I took a deep breath, and tried not to think about the implications of those words. “All right. So what happens now?”

“Well, if you are feeling awake and healthy, we can continue planning our improvements upon the brewery. I imagine your coworkers may be curious about the alterations we’ve made. But I do encourage you to rest if you require it.”

Aw fuck. The horror of personal secrets coming out receded as my professional brain flicked on and whirred to life. “Nah, I’m okay. I definitely want to get ahead of the issue, especially since some folks might freak out about it.” Mags in particular would probably want to know what the hell was going on. I rolled out of bed and walked over to the nearby closet and flung it open without thinking.

And froze solid in dread.

Some of my old work clothes were there, yes. But so was a myriad of more casual clothes in a rainbow of colors. And I couldn’t help but notice the left side of the closet was entirely stuffed with tights and cutesy shirts and dresses. My eyes flicked over them, trying to figure out whether any of them came from that secret suitcase I’d been worried about.

“Circeval, what is this?”

“Your clothes, Brent. I saw how bare your old closet was and elected to compile you a wider range of clothing to give you more choices.”

“But-” I tried to swallow the unease that thickened my voice. “Some of these are women’s clothes. I don’t wear those.”

“Oh dear.” Circeval’s eyes pulsed with a wave of dark colors. “I apologize, petal. I am still getting accustomed to Terran gender schema and its signifiers. Do you not like them?”

I resisted the temptation to draw my fingers down a long, gossamer gown adorned with patterns of sea green and powder gray. “I’m not saying they’re bad! I’m just saying they’re not me.” I tried not to imagine how I, how Bryony would look while dancing and twirling in it. “I have a pretty neutral style I tend to stick with.” I struggled not to simply grab the dress and hold it like a desperate lover.

“I understand.” Circeval put her hands on my shoulders. “I meant no offense, Brent, I simply wanted to give you a wide selection of options. Keep whatever you want, try on whatever you want, and simply leave whatever you do not. We should have a compiler installed here within a few days, and then you can compile or decompile new clothes as you see fit.”

I blinked in surprise. “I thought compilers were just for- I guess ‘businesses’ isn’t the right word anymore, but-”

“All sophonts have access to a compiler in their home, petal. We consider them a basic necessity.”

I reeled. Even the most optimistic of the sci-fi paperbacks in my pile couldn’t have conceived of such luxury being considered a prerequisite for existence. “Th-thank you.”

“No need to thank me, dear! This is simply what we do. This is who the Affini are.” Circeval’s vines held me close to her, and I felt a subliminal hum that felt as cozy as a favorite blanket. “Now, pick out some clothes and let’s go get breakfast, shall we?”

“So what the hell’s all this?!”

Circeval’s insistence on a full, nutritionally complete breakfast had brought us to the same restaurant as last night, and kept us there for a significant amount of time. She fussed over how long I chewed each bite, how quickly I ate, making sure I finished every bite on my plate. I felt like a wayward child being taught how to live in civilized society. Who knows, maybe that’s exactly what the Affini thought of all Terrans. In any case, it meant that Mags beat me and Circeval to the brewery, leaving me to explain things with a stomach overfull of eggs and pancakes and coffee.

The Affini beat me to the punch, though. “Brent and I are collaborating to redesign the brewery, so that it meets Affini standards for safety. Consider it a bit of ‘sprucing up’ to make things better around here.”

Mags snorted derisively and crossed her muscular arms. “I come in to where I work, and find some random Affini’s dismantled the boiler! How is that ‘sprucing things up’?!”

“We spent all day yesterday discussing and planning it, Mags,” I interjected. “It’s not like they’re doing this completely randomly. They just want to make sure I can do what I do as safely and easily as possible.”

“That’s good to hear, at least.” Mags raised her eyebrow at me. “What’s Hurley got to say about all this? Or Halcyon?”

“None of those are your concern anymore, little one,” Circeval interjected. “Neither Halcyon nor the Accord hold any power on this planet anymore. Brent expressed a desire to continue making beer here, and I saw no reason not to accommodate and encourage that.”

“And Hurley?”

Circeval chuckled. “I do not think Claus Hurley will be thinking about this place for a long, long time.” A vine emerged from her chest, holding a tablet, and she made a handful of swift motions before handing it to us. Onscreen was an adult in what looked like a frilly onesie, printed with cartoonish spaceships shaped like the great green omen parked in space above us. He giggled around his pacifier with a familiar laugh, and-

Holy shit, that’s Hurley.

“What the chicken-fried fuck is this?” Mags asked with a note of horror. “Why is our old boss in baby’s clothes and a fucking dia-”

“Language, Margareta.”

“Mags, please. Nobody calls me that.”

“My apologies.” Circeval paused. “Claus Hurley attacked the Affini checking on him with a pistol and threatened violence to anybody who ‘wanted to take his stuff away’. We judged that domestication would be the best way to prevent him from being a danger to himself or others.”

That certainly sounded like my old boss. He’d freak out and threaten to fire me if I so much as grabbed a pen from his desk to get work done.

“That doesn’t explain the baby stuff though,” I said.

Circeval’s tone became serious as specks of red flickered in her eyes. “Upon further evaluation, Claus Hurley’s attachment to capitalist acquisition and his tendency towards destructive competition identified him as a danger to himself and others. While he only attempted physical violence towards the Affini who now owns him, the Affini Compact considers extractive exploitation to be its own kind of systemic violence as well. Given those predispositions, we thought it best to regress him to a childlike state. That way, we can raise him without any exposure to the systems of oppression that harmed him and those around him.”

I could only stare wordlessly in horror. Suddenly the idea of the aliens eating my brains didn’t seem so farfetched. Sure, Hurley had been a world-class asshole, but he was hardly the architect of the shitty world we lived in. Reformatting his brain and raising him from scratch seemed… a little extreme.

As usual, though, Mags framed it better than I could. “That’s fucked up.”

“This is not how we address every sophont’s needs, of course. The psychological profile we constructed from Claus’s mnemonic regression indicated that this is what would make him happiest.” The words “mnemonic regression” only made me worry more. Especially if they could take my own brain and just shuffle through everything in there to get what they wanted. “Rest assured, we would not have made him little again unless we were certain that that would be the best thing for him.”

“And who put you in charge, huh?” Mags snarled.

“The basis of the Affini cultural mission, the thrust of our entire civilization, is to be caretakers of all the sophonts of the universe. We are not ‘in charge’ of anything but your happiness, petal.”

Something dark passed across Mags’s gaze. “I’ve heard that one before.”

I took a deep breath. “I guess… well, neither of us want that to happen to us. We don’t need our independence snatched away from us for no good reason.”

“And it won’t be, I assure you. We only domesticate those who are dangerous to themselves and others, or those who volunteer. There are a good many florets who made their own decision to become pets.”

“Pets!” Mags exploded. “Pets. Getting treated like a disposable cog or a pest to be squashed my whole life has pissed me off enough. I’m not getting turned into anybody’s pet.” Mags stared at me for a beat, then pointed an accusatory finger at Circeval. “And neither is Brent, if you know what’s good for you!” She stomped off, smoothing down her screw cut as she stalked towards the door.

“Mags, what the hell-” My words simply bounced off the front door as she slammed it shut behind her. What the hell did she mean by that?

“Oh dear.” Circeval sighed, a surprisingly human gesture. “Her feralist ideas may need to be addressed at some point.”

“Please don’t domesticate my friend,” I blurted out. “She’s a bit of a hothead but mostly because she’s super protective of her friends. She doesn’t mean any harm.” And, I thought, remembering some of the stuff she’d mentioned about her relationship with her wife, she might understand the “pet” thing better than the Affini thought.

“I understand your unfamiliarity with our methods, Brent. But please, trust that we know what we’re doing.” Circeval smiled. “I believe your friend will come to accept our presence soon enough. In the meantime, my colleagues are working on the 3F excitation system for your boil kettle. Would you like to learn how a five-dimensional solenoid works?"

A what? “I’ll, uh, give it a shot at least. I think first we need to figure out what we’re telling the bartenders, and what we’re gonna do if they all run away screaming.”

“Of course, petal.” Circeval turned to enter the brewhouse, and I followed. Another step further into the brave new world that had gobbled up the planet, a whole species of Jonahs navigating the depths of an alien, colossal whale.

Chapter Text

Several hours later, I had all but forgotten about Hurley’s fate and Mags’s outburst. There was simply so much to take in about the new brewhouse, and about the brewery’s potential future. Now that a multitude of factors had just been taken off my plate, I could focus so much more on the creative end of things. Instead of keeping the aging boiler from falling apart, or sitting in endless strategy meetings with Hurley and a half dozen Halcyon suits, or attempting to keep the bartenders from walking out when Hurley’s buddies got a case of wandering hands, I could simply focus on making the best beer possible.

But that potential was daunting, too. Hurley had given me a small amount of creative freedom, sure, but most of my output was hamstrung by what Halcyon’s marketers and distributors wanted. That turned my brewing schedule into an endless merry-go-round of the same traditional styles, over and over and over again until I could do half of my job in my sleep. Now? According to Circeval, Hurley and Halcyon no longer held any sway over me or the brewery, and I had complete control over what to make next.

So what would that next beer, the first beer I made free of the yoke of capitalism and market demand and the buzzing of a swarm of faceless suits, be?

“...Brent? Have you decided on your next beer?”

“Oh! Sorry.” I shook myself out of my reverie and came back to the bar, where Tracy’s furrowed brow indicated both concern and annoyance. I’d seen that look before, mostly when James or his ilk acted up or were obviously intoxicated. “Black Abbey Stout, please.” The last few days had taken a huge bite out of my mental endurance and I wouldn’t mind something a bit stronger to take the edge off. “Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to apologize for, dude.” Tracy snorted and smiled wryly. “How dare you be distracted, it’s not like aliens just took over the world or anything.”

I barked a short laugh and nodded. “Yeah, could you imagine if something like that happened?” Circeval had taken her leave not too long ago, and now it was just the two of us in the taproom, the russet light from the windows playing strange games with the warm downlights above. “Nah, just business as usual around here. Better watch out or Hurley will write you up for standing still too long.”

That got a genuine laugh out of her. “Yeah, and then Halcyon will take it out of my pay.”

“Which we need to pay rent.”

“And buy groceries.”

“For the potluck company holiday party.”

She cackled at that one. “Stars, I still can’t believe he pulled that shit. Even James thought that was tacky.”

“I think he was just pissed ‘cause Hurley asked him to actually bring something if he wanted to come drink on the company dime. I’m surprised he didn’t just bring a brick of synthcubes.”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “Woulda been better than his momma’s lemon bars.”

“To be fair, I think those actually were made with synthcubes.”

We laughed again, then let a lull of silence fall naturally, gently, between us. After discussing the way the taproom usually ran with Circeval, we decided to simply let bartenders come in when they wanted to come in, if they wanted to come in. When we messaged everyone with our decision, the majority of bar staff decided to keep doing shifts at the brewery, albeit on a more casual basis. Tracy, in particular, was over the moon at the prospect of continuing to sling beer without worrying about Hurley’s watchful eye, or James’s drunken antics, or whether she’d make enough in tips to make rent that week. She’d always been the most social and enthusiastic of the bartenders.

Some of the bartenders wanted to take a break before figuring out what to do in the new world the Affini Compact had plunged them into. A few of them decided they were done with the bartending gig for good. One bartender, Erin, responded with half a page full of nonsense and heart emojis, followed by a clarification from her new Affini that she would not be coming in for the foreseeable future.

Mags had not yet responded.

Tracy must have noticed my mood sag, as she tapped the bar to get my attention again. “Hey. In all seriousness man. Cheers.” She grabbed a tasting glass from the shelf - she didn’t drink often, and when she did she didn’t drink much - and poured herself a few ounces of the same stout I had in front of me. She held up her glass in expectation for a moment before smirking, “Hey, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“‘Cheers’? To what?”

She grinned ear-to-ear. “To you owning this place, man! No more Hurley, no more Halcyon, no more fucking Accord. You’re your own boss now, no more suits and assholes to keep you from doing what you do!”

I smiled thinly and raised my glass. “I don’t quite think I’m the boss of anything. I don’t think the Affini like ideas like that. But… yeah. Here’s to being able to just do what I do.” We clinked our glasses and I took a long sip of the inky black stout, holding it on my tongue for just a moment before swallowing. Considering the name and inspiration for New Rochefort Brewing had some from a long-gone Belgian monastery brewery, I’d elected to introduce some Belgian influence to New Rochefort’s imperial stout: a Belgian abbey strain of yeast that gave it notes of stone fruit and phenolic clove, a special European crystal malt that gave the beer a distinct fig-and-raisin characteristic, a dark invert sugar that added hints of toffee. These combined with the rich, chocolatey heft of a more standard imperial stout recipe to make it something special.

“I wish I could do that.”

I was really getting lost in my head today. “Do what?”

“Just taste beer like that. Like, you’re enjoying it, but you’re also analyzing it, appreciating it. I know what I like and I go, ‘yum, that’s good!’ But you have a way of thinking about it that’s really cool. And you obviously still like drinking it. It’s like, the best of both worlds. Or something.” She clinked my glass again and downed the rest of hers, setting it in the sink.

I pondered for a moment. “Thank you. I… guess I never really think about it like that. I’ve been drinking and making beer for so long that I just kinda take it for granted.” I took another swig, then held the snifter in both hands for a moment. Hefty beers like this opened up more at cellar temperature, and tasted a bit dull to me when served ice-cold directly off the draft lines. I’d had to fight tooth and nail to keep Hurley from keeping all the glassware in the freezer so everything was served as frigid as possible. Besides, then the ice crystals just watered down the beer, and the nucleation of carbon dioxide on them just made the glasses look dirty.

Another placid moment passed, thick and rich as the beer in front of me. Then the taproom door slammed open.

“Hi! Um, do you, uh, have a restroom somewhere I can use? Quick?”

I remembered the thin, reedy voice from yesterday. I looked up and recognized the mousy brown hair, the thick round glasses, the skinny frame as straight as a rail. “Oh hey, you’re from the cafe! Good to see you again. Are y-”

“Bathroom.” She blurted out in near-panic. “Please?”

Something activated in Tracy and she stepped out from behind the bar. “Oh sure, no problem at all! I’ll show you where it is.” She snapped her head to look at me and I saw the look in her eyes. The one that said, one of Hurley’s pals is being a gropey motherfucker and I’m taking this girl out the back exit. “Brent, would you mind tending bar for a minute?”

“Sure, no problem at all.” Hurley used to bitch whenever Tracy rescued somebody his friends had decided to victimize, and I had to run interference for her. But now there was no Hurley, and I had full confidence in Tracy’s judgment and methods. I stepped behind the bar and, after a moment’s consideration, downed the remainder of my beer before setting the glass in the busser tray. Not that I thought most guests would care about the brewer having a beer in front of him behind the bar, but there was a new sheriff in town, so to speak. Best to not risk looking bad in front of the Affini.

A few minutes passed before the door opened again. This time, another familiar face flowed through the door, ducking her massive height through the frame before standing again, all asymmetrical angles and orange-and-white blossoms in the shape of a classic movie star.

“Oh hello again, sweetling,” Valencia Sinensis purred at me through a grin full of sharp teeth. “It is so very lovely to see you again.” She sauntered leisurely across the taproom, seeming to drink in the sights as she looked around. “So this is where you were so eager to get to yesterday, I assume? What a lovely little establishment!”

“Th-thank you ma’am!” I did my best to hide my anxiety, the same way a particularly large bear might try to hide behind a skinny sapling. “Is there anything I can help you with tonight?”

“Oh, I am merely curious, petal. I wanted to see what my colleague Circeval had been so preoccupied with since our arrival.” She glanced around again, her eyes awash with shifting kaleidoscopes of color. “I must say, she does wonderful work. And so very quickly!”

I smiled. “She’s really done a number on this place, hasn’t she? I can’t wait to give the updated system a test run!”

“The updated…?” Valencia let out a husky chuckle and rubbed the top of my head affectionately with a vine. “Oh you silly little leaf.”

“Buh.” Regrouping was difficult, with how nice the short headrub had felt and the sparkling trails of sensation her vines left behind.

“I did have a question, though!” The Affini leaned over, pinning me to the wall with her gaze, her smile growing and growing and growing. “I was having a stimulating discussion with a lovely young lady across the street, and I must have said something to offend her, because she excused herself and disappeared. She didn’t happen to pass through here, did she? Glasses, long brown hair, incredibly cute, couldn’t stop talking about tea?”

I swallowed thickly, attempting to rally my wits and courage. If Mel didn’t want to talk to an Affini, that should be the end of things, right? I was perfectly justified in letting Tracy showing her out the back. And it wasn’t like the Affini could tell I was fibbing… right? Even if they could, that wouldn’t be grounds for domestication.

Right?

“I haven’t seen anybody like that come through here,” I replied. “It’s just been me and my coworker, and she’s in the bathroom right now.”

Valencia rubbed her chin with one hand in a surprisingly human gesture. “Are you quite sure, dear? I could have sworn I saw her come this way.” Something in her eyes shifted, and she leaned forward. “You can trust me, little one.”

I stumbled under the strange pressure of her voice trying to push me down. “I’m sure! I haven’t seen her or anybody like that.” I scrambled for purchase, for a way to defuse the situation, for a way out of this Affini’s predatory attention.

In a single motion, Valencia closed the distance between herself and the bar, and leaned forward to place a single clawed finger under my chin so that we were locked eye-to-eye. For a moment I felt like the maelstrom of color in her eyes would capsize me, drown me, leave me lost at sea. Then the pressure receded as I felt her hunger focus elsewhere.

“Do not worry yourself, little one. Today, you are not my prey.”

I whimpered softly in response. Fucking hell, I whimpered. Not exactly something I was proud of.

“Well then. Thank you for your assistance, sweetling! I suppose I shall simply have to keep looking. In the meantime, do keep an eye out for my adorable little teamaker. I would simply be delighted to spend some time with her again.” Valencia ducked through the door and flowed back onto the streets of Trappist-1e, a verdant tempest seeking out its teapot.

A few moments passed, silent except for my own heartbeat in my ears, and the word prey echoing through my thoughts. What the hell did Valencia mean by that? Between her obvious hunger for Mel and what I’d seen of Hurley’s fate, I was starting to worry about what the Affini really wanted from us.

And what did Valencia mean about Circeval’s “wonderful work”?

The sound of the toilet flushing in the women’s restroom brought those thoughts to a halt, as Tracy reentered the taproom. “I got her a cab, she’s on her way home now. What kind of creep was following her?”

I stared into the middle distance. “An Affini.”

Tracy’s eyes went wide. “An Affini? An Affini made that poor girl panic like that? What the hell did it want?”

A meal. “I have no earthly idea, to be honest. She said she just wanted to talk to her, but she seemed, uh… really set on it.”

Tracy scoffed. “Yanno, not having to worry about money or jobs is nice, but the damn weeds could be a bit less weird about it.” A note of worry crossed her face. “Let me know if any of them talk about me like that, okay?”

“Will do. And, uh… same for me.” Circeval was enthusiastic about the brewery and our partnership, but I couldn’t imagine her being halfway as ravenous as Valencia obviously was.

“Roger that, cap’n.”

“Very funny, Tracy.”

“So what’ll it be next?”

I flopped into bed and texted Tracy that I was home safe. That last taster of barleywine might have been a bit much, but it wasn’t often that I simply relaxed and got a bit of a buzz on. Besides, I’d stopped by one of my favorite food stands on my way home and stuffed myself with Viburnian fish bao and curry chips. That’d soak up some of the booze.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes, then reminded myself to at least get undressed before flopping into bed.

And slug a few glasses of water to be on the safe side.

I sat up and stripped down to my boxers, before throwing my dirty clothes onto the suite’s sofa. I’d figure out the laundry situation here later. I stepped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Same old bald head. Same old goatee. Same stocky bearbait body. I dunno what I expected to see.

Although I swear my skin looked a tiny bit softer, and the usual five-o’-clock shadow on my cheeks seemed a little bit lighter.

Probably just wishful thinking.

I grabbed one of the plastic-sealed glasses from the counter and tore off the wrapping, then turned on the faucet. I chugged one glass of cold, clean water, then another, then another. Maybe it was the Tripletree’s filtration system, or maybe it was the Affini doing something to clean the water supply, but it tasted cleaner and fresher than the faucet in my old apartment ever had. I filled one more glass, then took it out into the suite with me.

I stood in the middle of the room for a moment. I should go to bed. I should go to bed.

But I thought about the closet. Thought about what Circeval had said.

I hesitated for another moment.

Then I walked over to the closet.

I shuffled through the clothes until I found that one dress again. Sea green and powder gray, princess neckline, bouffant puffing out below the waist. I ran my fingers down it, and gasped at just how soft and smooth it was. Orders of magnitude more delicate and comforting than any of my rough, rugged work clothes. I yanked it out of the closet and held it against my body, smoothing its silken fabric against my body.

Memories swam to the surface unbidden. Of my ex Demi, who indulged Bryony a handful of times before deciding she didn’t want to be with somebody “less manly than her”. The night I first told her about Bryony, the next day when she surprised me with a few things from the local secondhand store, that night when Bryony got to waltz for the first time. That night Bryony got to experience the joy of simply being, of fully inhabiting her body and mind as giddy excitement and red wine spun her round and round.

I grabbed my phone again and connected to my music service. Tchaikovsky. Waltz of the Flowers.

I didn’t dare put the dress on. But I held it snug to my body as I tried to remember the steps of the waltz. Until I simply stopped caring and let the music take me, let the feeling of being Bryony take me, and found myself twirling like a ballerina through the suite.

Imagining Demi leading me through the first steps. Tracy leading me into a more confident sway. Mags twirling me.

Circeval dipping me, leading the dance, letting me absorb the joy of music and motion with wild abandon.

At some point I stopped feeling my goatee, my body hair, my stocky shoulders, and simply felt Bryony moving to the music. As if taken by the Spirit in an old Southern church, partaking of the ecstacy and frenzy of the Maenads, making an offering of herself to Ishtar and Ninkasi alike.

Eventually I collapsed onto the bed, clutching the dress, tears rolling out the corners of my eyes, spinning not from the beer but from desire and hope and music. As I turned out the lights and fell into deep sleep, I thought - I hoped - I could see Circeval’s eyes glowing with a deep aubergine lustre.

Chapter Text

“Brent?”

Her voice pierced the veil of dreams, hazy visions of divine ecstasy and frenzied agony, a sacrament of communion with a Goddess of thorny teeth and endless, endless touch.

“Bre-ent~! Time to wake up, sleepyhead!”

I bolted awake, cold sweat erupting from my forehead. Shit. I’d overslept, and Hurley was gonna give me an earful, and I’d get another point on my Halcyon records and-

Wait. I took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. I didn’t need to worry about Hurley or Halcyon anymore. The Affini had changed all of that overnight, and now I effectively ran the brewery solo.

“Brent, are you there?” Okay, not quite solo.

I fumbled for the intercom switch next to the bed, finally mashing my finger on it. “Sorry, give me a few minutes!” I threw off the covers and sat on the side of the bed, yawning with a stretch accompanied by several cracks and pops. Two decades of brewing hadn’t been kind to my joints, even before considering the lurking phantom of my family history of rheumatoid arthritis.

My right hand fell upon something silken as the stretch ended, and I looked down at the gossamer dress with ghostly details of green and grey.

Oh.

Right.

I snatched the dress from the wrinkled mess of the bedsheets and smoothed it out, before putting it gently, reverently back on a hanger in the closet. I thumbed through the clothes on the other side of the closet - the men’s side - and found an acceptable polo shirt and khakis to throw on.

I snatched a fresh pair of boxers from the dresser, then shoved my legs into the khakis and pulled the polo shirt over my head. They fit just fine, but something about the fabric felt… off. Certainly I didn’t expect them to be the perfect silken caress of that dress, but they seemed to scratch and scrape and shift in all the wrong ways. And the compiler’s measurements must have been fractionally off, as the khakis hugged everything just a little too tight. A grunt of frustration escaped my lips, but I brushed off the unpleasant sensations and went to shave.

Huh.

It didn’t look like I needed to shave today after all.

I shrugged, then brushed my teeth and washed my face. People rarely noticed an extra bit of scruff around my goatee if I’d misjudged. Besides, no authority existed to critique how professional my appearance was anymore.

“Professional appearance.” What a joke. Unless you were working an event that required you to gladhand investors or schmooze with the patrons, the best garb at a brewery was the same work gear you expected to wear as a factory worker, and you expected it to put up with the same sort of abuse. To this day I couldn’t count the number of steeltoed boots I’d worn down to the insoles, the work shirts littered with holes and stains from hot wort and chemicals, the pants whose cuffs looked like they’d been gnawed on by rats.

And industry vets understood that. Back in my greenhorn days, I’d made the mistake of wearing a suit and tie when interviewing at a brewery on Duri, and been all but laughed out of the building for it. You come in dressed for the job you want, and if you want to muck around with spent grain and sodium hydroxide, you better look like you know what you’re signing up for. The more grody I looked going into a job interview, the more likely it seemed that I’d be taken seriously as a professional brewer.

With everything the Affini were doing to my brewhouse, though, who knew how long that’d remain true?

I’d been deep enough in my thoughts that I almost ran facefirst into Circeval’s stomach as I exited the suite. “Oop! Careful there, little leaf!”

I made a garbled, startled noise before collecting myself. I looked up at the Affini, eyes shimmering with vibrant colors and a thorny grin glinting from her gentle pistachio-colored features. Her soot-black bodice and her skirt of wheaten gold reminded me of a harvest goddess, towering over me with the presence of a force of nature, her-

SNAP. “Come back to me, petal~” Circeval giggled and patted my head, which only drew more unintelligible noises from my lips. What was with me this morning? “I hope you don’t mind me waking you up early, Brent, but I have an exciting surprise for you!”

“...Surprise?” Good job on the whole using words thing, dude.

“Yes indeed! Barring some final testing and fine-tuning, your brewery should be operational again!”

I popped fully back to myself again. “Oh, perfect!” As weird as everything had been over the last few days, a career’s worth of conditioning brought me right back into the grindset of let’s make some damn beer, and I spun on my heel to hustle to the elevator. “Let’s get going, and you can show me everyth-”

A vine lashed out and wound around my waist, its pressure gentle but ironclad. “After breakfast.”

I huffed in annoyance. “A brewer’s breakfast will sustain me just fine. I don’t wanna get behind on the schedule or anything.”

“A ‘brewer’s breakfast’?”

I smirked. “Handful of malt and a mugful of hot wort. It’s helped me start long days more than a few times.” Considering the general pay grade of the industry, sometimes it was the best way to save a bit of money and have a breakfast of something other than synthcubes and coffee.

Circeval frowned and something in my stomach dropped into the ground. “Oh dear, that’s no way to sustain yourself with such a demanding task, petal! Let’s get something proper in your stomach first.”

I sighed. “Okay, sure. But let’s not make it as long as yesterday, otherwise the day’ll be over before we can even get started.”

Circeval giggled, and a smile lit up her face again. “This is the Affini Compact, petal. There’s no longer any need to rush, anywhere, for anything. We have things well in hand. Besides, don’t you like it when somebody dotes on you?”

Heat flushed my cheeks, and I wondered just how crimson I was in the moment. “O-okay. But. Well. I don’t feel like having something sweet and heavy like pancakes. How about we stop at the Bellona this time?”

The Affini’s face lit up in beatific joy. “I would like nothing better, little leaf.”

The copper firmament of a Trappist-1e morning bore witness to just how much New Rochefort had continued to change over the last few days. This time the Bellona’s patio bustled with activity, although now the area had been expanded and revamped to accommodate Affini as well as Terrans, so it still didn’t feel crowded. Small groups of Terrans chatted excitedly over everything that had happened over the last few days, drinking from steaming mugs and munching on pastries; clutches of Affini dipped their vines into large bowls of mineral water while chatting and watching the Terrans around them; a few individuals simply sipped tea and stared out into the deep orange of the day.

And then there were the Affini with their florets.

I remembered Circeval talking about the way Affini took pets the other night, and since then I’d learned more and more about domestication through sheer osmosis. But I hadn’t seen many Affini with their pets again until now. Suddenly, it seemed like Affini carrying or guiding blissed-out Terrans were everywhere. A gangly creature drooping with deep green leaves and countless berries held a man’s hand as he wobbled across the cobblestones. Two large Affini with explosively colorful blossoms doted and cooed over the limp, redheaded woman one of them held close to her chest. And at a nearby table, a stout, feminine Affini covered in sienna-colored bark with a head full of green curls fed a man a croissant sandwich, bit by bit. She tapped the side of his jaw, and he opened up to take a bite. She swirled her vine in a circle in the same spot, and he chewed. She traced a gentle line down his deep umber neck, and he swallowed with a shiver and a smile. They repeated the process, bite by bite, both of them seemingly enthralled by this simple ritual.

“Oh, he is just adorable.” I nearly jumped out of my skin as Circeval spoke, realizing that I’d become enthralled by the same sight at the expense of my own coffee and sandwich. I took a large bite out of the sandwich, hiding the strange fluster I felt as Circeval leaned over to stroke the man’s bald head with her vines, which he leaned into with an audible purr.

“Why thank you! Little Fiaro has taken to gesture training so well in just the last few days. I swear, if they could grow implants any faster he would already be mine.” The last word rumbled with a subharmonic that almost made me choke on my sandwich. I supposed Valencia wasn’t the only Affini out there who was hungry.

Circeval grinned wide. “I’ve known that feeling before. But for now, I have an interesting project I’ve been working on. See that building across the street?”

The Affini turned, and I could see the winglike pattern of her multiple eyes shimmer in curiosity. “‘New Rochefort Brewing Company’. Oh, how cute!”

Before I could protest that my brewery was not cute, Circeval continued. “I am helping this sophont to improve and run it! This is Brent Fischer, head brewer of the brewery. Say hello, petal!” One of Circeval’s vines rubbed my head, and suddenly I knew exactly why the other Affini’s floret purred at the same touch. The affection and sensation flooded my perception and shorted out my thoughts. I would have protested Circeval touching me like that without my consent, but my brain couldn’t figure out how to make words again until it was too late.

“A pleasure to meet you, little leaf! I am Oba Adansonia, Ninth Bloom, she/her or bao/bab pronouns!” One of her massive hands reached out to pat the top of my head, which just took words even further away from me. “Oh, what an adorable little morsel!”

I tried to speak up again to protest, but Circeval simply shoved my coffee cup into my hands as she and Oba continued to chat. I flushed and groused internally. It felt like I was a little kid again, and my parents were talking with the priest of the local parish after another interminable morning at church. Let the grown-ups talk, sweetie.

As the two Affini began switching to their strange, polyphonic language, I focused on my breakfast. Thankfully, the coffee here was every bit as delicious as the tea I’d had the other day. The Colombian-derived beans, grown on the same moon of Dionysus that cultivated some of the hop varietals I used in brewing, gave the coffee a rich, nutty character with low acidity, and a hint of floral aroma. I took another sip and let the warmth suffuse through me, the caffeine simultaneously bringing a degree of clarity to the world while grounding me. Another bite of the breakfast sandwich brought vibrant flavors of scrambled egg, chorizo sausage, cotija cheese and tomatillo salsa to my lips, and I sighed in contentment.

Let the grown-ups talk. I was busy enjoying breakfast.

After I polished off the last crumbs of toasted bread and sauce, I leaned back with my coffee and continued people-watching. Sophont-watching? Whatever it would be called now, I suppose. Along with the sudden surge in bright, verdant color that the Affini brought, the soundscape of New Rochefort had completely changed as well: from rushing vehicles and loud, drunken businessmen, to blissful quiet, to the hum and babble and laughter of Affini and florets. The peaceful hush of breakfast two days ago had been a wonderful change, but so was this. And a new degree of vibrance had entered life here already.

A tiny part of me ached at not feeling as vibrant as the world around me. But that’s who I was - the no-nonsense guy who was creative, but got shit done. That’s who Brent Fischer was.

“Are you about ready, Brent?” Circeval brought me back to reality again as she spoke, a gentle smile on her face. Oba was once again preoccupied with her blissed-out floret.

“Sure thing. Let’s see how the old girl looks now.”

Circeval did a good job of giving the impression of raising an eyebrow. “I did not think that machinery had gender, Brent.”

I chuckled. “It’s a figure of speech.”

As we said our goodbyes and walked over to the brewery, I realized that I hadn’t seen Mel working the counter that morning. Maybe this was just her day off.

I hoped.

Even knowing the Affini had technology orders of magnitude more advanced than our own, I’d underestimated them.

People other than experienced brewers designing and building a brewery tended to result in boneheaded decisions: A marginal, trivial problem “corrected” by an overcomplicated system whose problems were worse than what it purported to solve. Ridiculous, impractical placement of things like valves, switches and connectors by people who’d never have to use them, so they didn’t care about the ergonomics. Endless undersizing or oversizing things like power supplies and tubing. Machinery crammed in as small a space as possible without an iota of foresight for maintaining it. And never, ever a thought for the brewers who had to duck underneath pipes or squeeze into tight spaces or squeegee the floors. My eye twitched when I thought about the number of facilities I’d worked at with badly-located, undersized drains, which meant that cleanup after spills or messes took three times as long and was half as effective.

Not the Affini, though. Every convenience catered to, every stumbling block avoided, and some innovations I wouldn’t have thought of. Endless meters of clumsy, coiled hose replaced with brilliantly-designed hard piping and easy switching solutions, block-and-bleed assemblies for each tank with dump pipes that fed directly into the drains at perfect angles, you name it. Even the blowoff pipes were designed to reclaim CO2 while top-cropping yeast to the stasis propagators and dumping excess trub.

And the floors were no longer poorly-sealed concrete with endless pitting and breakage and pockmarks. It wasn’t even that shitty rust-red sealant that clung to every grain of trub and garbage it could. No, this was perfectly sloped tile, which Circeval claimed to have a hydrophobic coating that would allow any spilled liquid to simply slide down the drain.

I grinned like a madman. “This place is a dream.”

“No dream, petal.” Circeval spread her arms wide in triumphant display. “This is the Affini Compact.”

I clomped up the steps to the brewdeck, noting the fresh anti-slip coating on every step, and punched up the HMI for the brewhouse. The display, now larger and with much more detail on every part of the system, seemed to give me access to everything.

Until I tried to actually change something.

A poit! sounded from somewhere, and a little hologram of a cartoonish triangular pine tree with seven eyes in a hexagonal formation popped into existence on top of the machine. “Ah ah ah! You didn’t say the magic word! Go ask your local Affini for help starting up the brewhouse!”

I scowled. “What the fuck?”

“Language, little one,” Circeval said as she stepped to the bottom of the brewhouse steps and extended several vines upward. “That is simply a safety lock, in case some naughty sophont tries to operate the system without permission! I trust you to be able to operate the brewhouse on your own, with a little supervision.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Can I no longer operate my own brewery by myself anymore?”

Circeval responded, confusion in her voice. “In any industrial facility like this, an Affini will always need to be present! That is simply how things are done. After all the hazards you described, there is no way you can be allowed to operate this system alone!”

Oh hell no. “I’ve been operating breweries solo for twenty damn years now, I don’t need some weed barging into my space and-”

“Brent Miles Fischer.” Circeval’s voice resonated and locked me into place with a whimper stuck in the back of my throat. “You are in the Affini Compact now. We are here to ensure the safety, care and abundance of all sophonts. Whatever you need from me, all you need is to ask for it. If you cannot ask for something as simple as a workstation unlock, I worry about your ability to live independently within the Compact.” The Affini put her hands on her hips with a huff. “Now, petal… do you need anything from me?”

I sighed, and resigned myself to her demands. She did completely refit my brewery to standards far beyond my wildest expectations, after all. “Circeval-”

“Miss Purpurea.” A glint of rose gold in her eyes and the thorny smile on her face froze me solid. I was astonished I couldn’t see my breath turn to frost in the air.

“M-miss Purpurea, will you please unlock the HMI?”

“Thank you, Brent~” The pulsing hum of her presence thawed the room, and I involuntarily sighed in relief as her vines pressed a rapid sequence of buttons to unlock the brewhouse.

What the hell were the Affini?

The novelty of an all-powerful computer interface quickly distracted me. I had control over every single valve, pump and solenoid in the brewery, with automated process macros that practically ran the brewery by themselves while allowing me granular adjustments on each component. At the same time, every piece of machinery also had a manual control or handle on it, in case I wanted to do things the old-fashioned way. Even processes like dumping trub, which tended to be purely manual, could be automated by incredibly fine monitors of flow and turbidity.

I looked back at Circeval, and I swear she looked smug. “Is there anything you require us to adjust or change, Brent?”

I smirked right back at her. “Not that I can think of. I guess the best thing to do at this point is to push the system through a water brew.”

A few of her tentacles wiggled inquisitively. “A water brew…?”

“Basic shakedown of a brewsystem, using just water to go through all the process steps to test the automation, connections, every part of the process, without actually wasting ingredients or leaking anything but water on the ground. Then we can figure out how to CIP the system and passivate the stainless.”

Circeval smiled again. “No need for that. The cleaning drones we discussed the other day removed every bit of dirt, machine grease and manufacturing residue down to the subatomic level, and the interior of every vessel is coated with a molecule-thick passive coating far safer and less reactive than the metal oxides you create during your normal passivation processes.” She actually seemed to shudder at this. “I would not dream of getting you anywhere near high-temperature acid, dear.”

I barked a short laugh. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Now…” I hit what I thought was the correct combination of buttons on the interface, then turned to grin at the Affini. “Ready to roll?”

Circeval’s eyes shone beneath the brim of her wheaten witch’s hat. “Mr. Fischer, you may… indulge yourself.”

I pushed the “Start Process” key, and… nothing. Then the hologram tree poit!ed into existence to admonish me again.

“...Miss Purpurea, will you please unlock the workstation?”

Chapter Text

I flumped down onto the barstool with a satisfied sigh. Not only had the water brew gone off without a hitch, but so had several other tests. A trial run of the grist compiler, mill and mash hydrator showed that mash-in would run without issue, and the grain-out decompiler worked like a charm. The wet cereal-like slop of spent grain, which weighed a ton and would harden like rock on every single surface if somebody was careless enough to let it, vanished without a trace. I sprayed the inside of the mash-lauter tun with the brewdeck hose to be sure, but it seemed moot. Every other little test I could think of ran flawlessly as well.

Tracy leaned over the bar. “Shifty time?”

I grinned. “Shifty time.”

“What’ll it be, then?”

“New Bacchus IPA, please.” A moment later, and the aroma of mango, pine resin and candied orange greeted me from a nonic pint glass of bright amber liquid. Getting Hurley to spring for something other than generic shaker pints had been a fight, but to me it was worth it for the improvement in presentation and the way the different glasses helped to better capture volatile aromatics. In particular, nonic pints and snifters did wonders for the aromas of hoppy beers like IPAs. I took a long sip, enjoying the bright tropical characteristics of Dionysian hops and the pungent, piny bitterness of old Terran varietals.

I sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the flavor of the beer and the cozy murmur of the bar wash over me. Then, something nagged at the back of my brain, just a little bit. “It almost seems too easy,” I mumbled to myself.

“How’s that, petal?” Circeval flowed next to me, somehow occupying two adjacent barstools without fully sitting on them, tilting her head in amused curiosity.

“It’s…” I fumbled to find the right words. “I mean, I appreciate the safety, and I appreciate how much simpler it makes everything.” I thought about simply being able to compile and decompile grain, trub, everything that normally took time and effort to take care of. “But it almost feels like cheating.”

“Is it, though?” Circeval straightened up and stared intently at me, pinning me to the spot with her gaze. “As far as I am concerned, we simply removed the biggest obstacles to you pursuing your craft. Could you not spend more time researching ingredients, recipes and techniques when the most mundane aspects are made trivial?”

“Beer is so defined by process, though. Recipes are all well and good, but you could have a hundred different breweries try to brew the same recipe and end up with a hundred different beers, just because of different equipment and techniques.” I took another drink before I could completely lose myself down that particular train of thought. “What I tested out today seems to remove so much of that.”

Circeval smiled gently. “Only as much as you want to remove, Brent. Remember, there are manual controls for a good many of the brewery’s components, and you still have ultimate control over all the various process variables.”

I twisted the corner of my mouth. “If all I do is tweak values on a computer, though, have I really earned it? Am I really brewing if that’s the sum total of my contribution?”

“If we really wanted to, petal, we could simply compile the beer directly. Then you would truly have no involvement.”

I cringed. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

A pulsing heat radiated from Circeval as she spoke again. “Brent, you have spent twenty years working and learning, building a temple of knowledge and expertise more valuable than your simple physical labor. Few people would know how to use this system with the same level of skill and accuracy you hold yourself to.” She rested one of her vines on my shoulder, and it seemed to leech away some of the uncertainty and recrimination, leaving gentle warmth in its place. “You do not need to prove yourself to me, or to anybody else. You deserve this.”

You deserve this. Old Catholic guilt turned those words into bile in my stomach, into a tiny knot of anxiety. “I… guess so. Still. There’s a certain amount of value to doing some of these things manually. Honoring old practices and such. And like… there’s a bit of ritual around it.”

“Ritual.” Circeval seemed to turn that word over in her mouth, savoring it, drinking deeply of its implications. “I think I understand, petal.” She pondered for a moment. “Would observing old brewing practices or rules help in that respect? Perhaps you could try brewing according to old German purity law? Reinheitsgebot, if I recall correctly?”

I sneered. “There’s ritual, and then there’s bullshit.”

I saw astonishment on Circeval’s face for the first time. “How so, little one?” Tracy saw me winding up for a rant and promptly about-faced to the other end of the bar.

“I mean, it has value as one of the earliest food purity laws on record. But it had so many negative consequences beyond that!” I began counting off on my fingers. “One, it acted as protectionism for Bavarian royalty and bakers, which made wheat beers only legal to be made by and for royalty. It was class warfare. Two, restricting ingredients like wheat and rye was disastrous for all the countless local styles where Reinheitsgebot became law. We still don’t know all the historical styles of beer that were made extinct because of it. And three, after a while it made modern production methods significantly more arduous for no good reason. You can’t make easy adjustments to water minerality, you can’t add yeast nutrient to aid fermentation… Hell, if you want to adjust the pH of the wort, you can’t just add a food-grade acid. You have to have an entire vessel dedicated to making an acid wort with Lactobacillus culture that poses a constant contamination risk to the rest of the brewery if you get something wrong!”

At this point, Circeval seemed to be drinking in my passion for the subject with a small grin on her face. “Ensuring food safety is an important thing though, is it not?”

“I mean, of course it is! But Reinheitsgebot had so many other negative effects that I don’t abide by it or promote it. At this point it’s just antiquated and restrictive.” I finished off the last of my beer and sighed. “If anything, I’d love to explore some of the older, weirder stuff.”

Tracy grabbed my empty glass off the bar. “Got that out of your system, dude?” We both chuckled. It wasn’t her first time hearing that one. “What do you want next?”

“Vienna lager, please.” I glanced over at Circeval. “Anything for you, Miss Purpurea?”

The Affini’s smile grew. “I confess, the consumption of ethanol does little for me. However, we Affini do have something relatively equivalent that we enjoy.” She glanced up at Tracy. “Would you be so kind as to compile me a bowl of durataxin blend alpha-three?”

Tracy raised an eyebrow. “Do what now?”

“Oh, how silly of me! I forgot to mention that we installed a compiler behind your bar as well. Did you not notice the console at the other end of the bar?”

“Oh, that’s what that is. Hold up a sec.” Tracy hesitantly punched a few keys into the interface, and a familiar poit! portended the appearance of a nagging little pine tree.

“My mistake, dear. Compiler, please accept override-” A small symphony seemed to compress itself into a half-second of rapid-fire polyphonic noise coming out of Circeval’s mouth, and then the chibi hologram disappeared, immediately replaced by a vase-sized glass of cobalt blue liquid. The Affini extended a handful of vines and brought the glass in front of her, placing the tip of one vine in the liquid.

I watched as the level of fluid in the glass fractionally reduced. “So that’s kinda like alcohol to you, then?”

Circeval nodded. “Durataxin is an old fermented substance from the Core Worlds in Triangulum, and has a euphoric, intoxicating effect on us similar to how ethanol affects Terrans. I had the thought that perhaps we would share a drink, after today’s success.” She removed her vine from the drink, and used it to raise the glass to me instead. “Cheers, petal.”

“Prost.” I clinked my fresh glass of beer against hers, the difference in size almost comical, and took a long drink. The deep copper lager tasted like breadcrust and freshly-baked pretzel, with a mild honey sweetness. Its bitterness just balanced the maltiness, with a hint of herbal, lemony hop aroma. It was one of my favorite things to drink in all the world of beer. “Here’s to making great beer together, Miss Purpurea.”

Circeval grinned, eyes flashing above her thorny teeth. “To the brewery, and to Ninkasi.”

“Welcome home, little leaf~”

I giggled as Circeval opened the door to my temporary new home (was it temporary? Was it home?) and ducked through the doorway, making sure that my head didn’t bonk the frame as we entered. I wasn’t sure I would have noticed at this point. I didn’t even remember when she’d started carrying me piggyback.

The night had gone on longer than I expected, one beer turning into several before we even left the brewery, which is when Circeval asked me to show her my favorite sights around New Rochefort. I started with the Viburnian bao joint I’d stopped at the night before for a snack, then steered us to a dive bar close to my old apartment that I’d developed a fondness for. A well-appointed bar with handcrafted, curated beers scratched one itch, but a dim, dilapidated joint with mass-produced swill and a gruff no-nonsense bartender scratched an entirely different one. Circeval seemed to raise an eyebrow at the One Echo Oasis as we walked in, but seemed much happier when she saw me shooting the shit with Nancy as she poured drinks and bantered with the regulars. Nancy seemed wary of an Affini walking through the door, but once I told her Circeval was helping me with the brewery she relaxed a bit.

Another few rounds and a bit more pontificating about beer and brewing, and we started on our way again, making it a few more blocks before I detoured us to my favorite kebab joint. The bready aroma of the durum baking and the spicy savor of the shawarma drew me in before I even knew where we were heading, and within a few minutes I was munching on my favorite drunk food. A two-year stint at Vejr Bryghus on Efteraar had given me a taste for Danish-style kebabs, especially after a few drinks. The fresh, doughy flavor of the durum wrap, the juicy, fatty spiced meat, the tangy dressing and crisp veggies, the wonderful heat of the chili sauce. Perfect for soaking up a fraction of the excess booze I’d been drinking.

All the while the alcohol loosened my tongue, and I talked to Circeval about anything and everything. Almost everything. She listened attentively, although maybe a little bit condescendingly sometimes. Circeval was the one from a precursor species though, I guess. I garnered the attention of a number of other Affini as we passed, who seemed to operate under the misconception that I belonged to Circeval. I bristled a bit at first, but after a while it was easier to just roll with it and accept the pets and coos that inevitably followed. It was fine. The pets felt nice anyway, especially after a few beers.

As midnight passed, Circeval insisted that we make our way back to the Tripletree. I continued to point out favorite destinations and landmarks as Circeval carried me back, some of my vitriol towards Halcyon and the Accord welling up as I did so. At one point I flipped a drunken middle finger to Kingfisher Tower, now thoroughly tangled in structural vines and throbbing with yellow and green bioluminescence.

As we entered the suite, Circeval straightened out the bedsheets and gently laid me on the bed, as if laying an infant down for a nap. I recognized that this was the second night in a row I’d overindulged and made an apologetic noise. “M’sorry, I don’t usually drink ‘is much.”

“It is quite all right, little one. I very much enjoyed our outing tonight! And we Affini are not unused to seeing intoxicated sophonts.” The Affini giggled, a rustle shaking the seeds and straw of her dress as she pulled off my workboots. “In fact, we tend to prefer a baseline level of xenodrugs for those in our care, to alleviate their anxiety and whatever ailments they may have.”

I barked a laugh. “Trust me, ‘m not feelin’ anxious right now. And y’r taking plenny good care’o me.”

“Well then. Shall I see you in the morning for a proper brew on the new system?”

“Prolly not at this point.” I sat up and felt exactly how dizzy I really was. “Gonna be feelin’ this one in the morning. Thanks for takin’ good care of me tonight though.”

“‘Feeling it in the-’ oh!” Circeval whipped out her tablet from within her and typed something rapidly. “The consequences of Terran ethanol metabolization: dehydration, excess acetaldehyde from the relatively slow action of aldehyde dehydrogenase, traces of methanol metabolizing to formaldehyde, the production of fatty acid ethyl esters… and you have consumed enough to have activated cytochrome P450 2E1 enzymes as well.” Circeval frowned. “I would hope that this level of consumption is not common for you, Brent.”

“Nah, just ev’ry once in a while." This was true. I'd learned my lesson early on in my brewing career about overconsumption, and watching a few close colleagues drop out of the industry after starting to abuse alcohol. It was not something to be taken lightly. You had to regard it with a healthy dose of caution and respect. "I should chug a few glasses o’ water to keep it from bein’ too bad, though.”

“No need, petal.” I felt two pinches in my right wrist and gasped. “I’ll take care of it for you.” Two thin vines had snaked out from within Circeval’s form and poked into my arm, a deep crimson pulsing through each one.

“Circeval, what the f-”

“Hush, sweetling.” I shut my mouth like a steel trap. “I am simply filtering your blood, removing excess ethanol and metabolites, and introducing some novel enzymes that will hasten the processing of the nastier things in there.”

“Filtering it through what?” A tingle of worry threatened to ignite into a panic attack, until something poured a bucket of water on that stray ember and flooded me with an eerie, unnatural calm.

“Through my body, of course~” Circeval flashed those sharp, sharp teeth again and giggled. “The phytotech bodies of Affini have a wondrous variety of capabilities, especially when it comes to taking care of our little ones.” Something in Circeval pulsed in time with my heartbeat. I couldn’t tell if it was her syncing up with me, or the other way around.

It didn’t matter either way. Everything was fine.

“There we go, cutie.” I smiled and felt a pleasant warmth pulse through my body as Circeval did her work, petting me gently as she performed her bizarre alien dialysis on me. “We can take our time when it comes to the brewery. But I will not let you damage your organs and leave you feeling icky in the morning.” She seemed to grow larger as she spoke, her voice booming with harmonies and subharmonics, colors entirely new to the universe swirling in her eyes. “Besides, isn’t it time you saw some of my handiwork?” Prickling heat flowed through my veins as Circeval seemed to dwarf the world itself, holding me in the palm of her hand like a Titan would a flea. “Isn’t it time you experienced what an Affini xenopharmacologist can do?” The heat in my body turned incandescent even as the calm flowed through me like the breath of a Goddess, Circeval’s visage magnifying and changing in strange, fractal ways. Were I not already laying down, I would kneel in supplication. Were I not pinned to the earth by Her Presence, I would dance and whirl in ecstasy for Her. My blood continued to flow into Her, through Her, a tiny sacrifice to Her Magnificence.

“All done!” And as quickly as it had begun, it stopped, Circeval withdrawing her vines and pressing a cool, sticky leaf to the wrist she’d stuck them in. The inferno in my blood cooled to a comforting warmth, a cozy blanket inside my very veins. She seemed to release me from whatever spell I was under, and I sat up again, the dizziness of booze gone but something else in its place.

“Th-thank you, Circeval. I, uh.” I hesitated. I had no fucking idea what to make of all that. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re quite welcome. And you don’t need to have any idea, really! Our knowledge of biochemistry is quite far beyond yours, and it would take a great deal of time to fully explain what I just did.”

Did she hear what I was just thinking? “That’s fair. It’ll be nice to not have a hangover in the morning, if all that really worked the way you say it did.”

“Oh, I’m not reading your thoughts. There may simply be a slight disinhibition effect from the treatment I gave you, however. You may simply be thinking out loud without realizing it, Brent.”

“Bryony.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s Bryony. Not Brent.” Some distant part of my mind screamed in protest, but the ocean of warm calm in my veins simply swallowed it up.

Circeval smiled.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

“You know.” My terror thrashed to stay afloat in the cool ocean of reassurance coursing through my bloodstream, its presence only felt as a mild squall of acid in my stomach.

“Of course, darling.” Circeval continued to pet me gently, stroking my head and tracing small patterns on my arm with her vines. Whatever anxiety wasn’t being drowned in whatever she’d dosed me with seemed to discharge itself through those vines, preventing the deluge of my thoughts from flooding me with panic. I wondered if there was something deliberate in that.

“There is, in fact.” Oh right, the disinhibitor effect. “I am using my biorhythm to help calm you and draw you into a minor trance state, emphasizing it through both presence and touch. Along with the medication I just administered directly to your bloodstream, I am hoping to have a calm, honest discussion of things with you.”

I nodded, the distant shrieks of alarm receding as the homunculus of panic slipped below the waves. “I understand. So you did look through that bag when you moved my stuff here.”

“We did, yes. But that only confirmed our initial prognosis after analyzing the data we gathered on you.”

“The data you-”

“My dear Bryony, how could we possibly maximize the efficacy of care to each dear sophont in our vines if we don’t know as much about you as possible? The Bureau of Xenosophont Wellness and Care developed a file on you from everything we have found in Accord networks and data centers, the same way we do with every sophont. I collated and reviewed it as soon as your phalangeal injury was brought to my attention.”

Careless. I admonished myself for trying to be a damn hero when James got rowdy the other night. Maybe I could have kept this whole thing under wraps if I hadn’t been dumb enough to draw attention to myself.

“Oh darling.” Circeval slipped a single claw under my chin and tilted my head up to meet her eyes. “There is no slipping under the radar with us.” The amethyst and emerald and gold in them felt familiar. “The Affini endeavor to make our knowledge of every sophont and their needs total and absolute.” They made me feel safe. “All your injury did was make the inevitable happen a little bit quicker.”

“The inevitable?” My head felt as if it were full of cotton, light as a cloud but opaque to my own thought processes. Circeval continued stroking and petting me, gentle waves of comfort softly rocking me, a tiny dinghy on her endless sea.

“Dirt, you are so adorable with my xenodrugs in your veins.” Circeval grinned, chuckling with the rumble of a predator in wait. “I told you that we Affini make every sophont their happiest, best self. That is our universal promise to every cutie across the cosmos. Every iota of our bureaucracy, our infrastructure, our entire spacefaring apparatus, serves to keep that promise.” She shook her head and smiled again. “Did you think you could hide so much as a single kernel of what you need from us, little leaf? From me?”

A gust of anger roared, growled, sputtered out in the endless deluge. “So you spied on me. You went through my property. You violated my privacy and my trust.”

“I did what was necessary to ascertain and fulfill your needs, petal. Surely that is better than letting you wallow in secret misery forever.”

“There is no secret misery, Circeval!” The gust rose to a storm, a hurricane of wrath whipping the ocean to a froth. “I’m doing fine the way I am!”

Steel blue welled up in the hammered metal of Circeval’s eyes, a sorrowful expression crossing her face. “Are you, little one? You’ve never danced alone, dreaming of being unburdened and free, a dress held close as if it were your only source of oxygen?”

The ocean of calm froze solid in an instant. “You saw that?”

Sharp teeth emerged in a grin once again. “As I said, Bryony: total and absolute. Why try to keep secrets from us when we can make them a wonderful reality? When I can make them a wonderful reality?” Something in her pulsed hunger through my veins, even though she was no longer filtering my blood. I recalled Valencia’s hunt for Mel and felt a distant echo of alarm deep in the hadal depths. “What is keeping you back? What is keeping Bryony back?”

The words slipped out before thought could catch them and reel them back to the already-capsizing boat. “It’s the only way she can be safe.”

The endless cotton wool in my head sparked and smoldered, pulling back the curtain on a montage of torment: My father’s rage at anything that dared transgress the boundaries of his beloved Church. Swearing my younger brother to secrecy after he walked in on me trying on a shoplifted dress. Demi breaking up with me and calling me disgusting. Countless instances of James and Hurley laughing to themselves when somebody like me walked into the taproom.

A wave crashed on the deck, and more words spilled out of me, the hull finally compromised. “I can’t be a brewer and be Bryony at the same time.” I was a brewer, by trade, by passion, by identity. And brewing was a hypermasculine industry even in its most progressive corners. Bryony couldn’t survive there. I had to keep her safe, keep her secret, or we would both drown.

“Yes you can, darling,” Circeval purred. “The Affini Compact has none of the social taboos or misconceptions about transgender people that the Terran Accord did. Now that we are here, your safety and happiness are guaranteed.”

I looked up. “Even as Bryony?”

Circeval caught the tear that had squeezed out of the corner of my eye with her finger, brought it to her mouth to taste it, and smiled with eyes full of divine light. “Especially as Bryony.”

Even as the boat actively sank, part of me still insisted on rearranging the deck chairs. “I’ll never look the way I want to though. People like Brent. People like the way he looks. I’ll never be beautiful. Not the way other people get to be.”

“You are already beautiful, Bryony.” Circeval’s words rang through my being like church bells. “Besides, there is so much we can do to shape you into the sophont you need to be.”

The old despair from decades of dead-ends and disappointment welled up. “Hormones take years, and they can’t reverse pattern baldness. And they can’t quite get rid of facial hair, especially this fucking thing.” I pulled at my goatee as if to wipe it off my face, an old habit I could never quite shake.

This time, some of it came off.

Circeval’s eyes shone like beacons. “You vastly underestimate Affini medicine and biotechnology, little brewer. Have you not noticed anything unusual over the last few days?”

The ill-fitting pants, the disappearance of my five-o’-clock shadow, the dull electric throbbing that had started in my chest a few hours ago… “Did you shoot me up with hormones?”

“Something far better, Bryony. Affini xenodrugs are far quicker and more effective, and significantly more targetable. For instance…” She reached inside herself to retrieve her tablet, and typed something on it for a few moments before turning it to me. “...this is the predicted outcome of your current class-G regimen.”

On the screen was a detailed picture of me. But not me. I didn’t have thick honey-brown hair spilling down to the middle of my back, for instance. Nor did I have the luxurious curves of hip and breast I saw in the picture. I didn’t have the soft, round face with pillowy lips that stared back at me with bright, glimmering eyes.

I didn’t have those bright, glimmering eyes.

But I knew Bryony did.

“We can change it however you like, Bryony. But based on the data we gathered on your family genetics, your network search history and other factors, we determined that this would be the appearance you most desired.”

It was. God it was.

But still.

“You could have asked,” I whispered, not daring to speak loudly enough to breach the dam holding me back from outright sobbing.

Circeval’s claws traced delicate tracks across my scalp, eliciting a gasp and a whimper I couldn’t quite control. “Why would I give you the opportunity to say ‘no’ to your needs, petal?”

I couldn’t argue with her logic. This Affini had outsmarted me at a game I hadn’t even known I was playing ever since they landed. Brent never stood a chance. The Plan of Man had failed, and the Starchild stood ready to take its place.

A wave crested, then fell. The hull of the ship finally cracked, and doubt sank soundlessly into the depths forever.

Brent sank, and Bryony rose like a mermaid breaching the shining sea.

“There we go.” Circeval held my hand, as part of her form split apart to massage me with countless vines. “Good girl~”

The dam finally broke, and I embraced her as sobs wracked my body. “Thank you, Circeval, thank you.” We stayed like that for a moment, the tension of the storm leaving my body as Circeval continued to hold me close.

A minute of silent calm passed. Silent, except for the strange sensation continuing to radiate from Circeval. I sat up and looked in her eyes again.

“C-can I… see that picture again? Can I see her again?”

“She is you, dear Bryony. But I can do one better, if you trust me to.”

I sniffled. “Anything.”

“Then hold still.” A mauve flower, veined with bright teal fractals, appeared at the end of one of her vines. A nearly-invisible needle flicked out, which she deftly buried in my thigh. There wasn’t even an iota of pain. Just a shimmering static that flowed through my blood and surfaced as bright sparks of sensation on my skin. “And look at me, Bryony~”

I took a deep breath and stared into Circeval’s eyes, vortices of unknowable color and depth, hurricanes of endless passion and wisdom and kindness. The eyes of a Goddess. Time became molasses in the wake of Her Gaze, space itself dwarfed by Her Presence. She spoke in tongues I could not fathom, yet I could not help but hang on Her every Word.

“Now, little Bryony,” She said at last. “Come with Me.”

Circeval led me into the bedchamber, where the warm light of the hearth spilled upon every stone and plank, highlighting every color in the countless dresses arrayed before me. “Would you like to choose something to wear? Or do you prefer that I choose for you?”

Normally I would defer everything to the Goddess. But tonight I knew what I craved, what I needed. My eyes quickly browsed the racks before me until I found the perfect dress. Princess neckline, with patterns of sea green and powder gray, unimaginably soft. “This one, if it please my Goddess.”

Her Eyes shone with rapturous joy. “Oh, it does, my treasured one~” She tapped my shoulder and I immediately lifted my arms in response. Old clothes came off, and the magnificent dress went on. “There we go, dearest Bryony. See how wonderful you look.”

She turned me to a mirror that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and I saw the way that I filled out the dress, the way that it perfectly hugged my curves and poofed out below my waist. My honey-brown hair ran like a silken waterfall down my back. My eyes gleamed with a joy that hadn’t been free to roam the world until this moment, whole galaxies glittering in my blown-out pupils.

“I’m beautiful”, I whispered.

“You are, my lovely acolyte,” the Goddess crooned in my ear. “But there is more I must show you.” She guided me out of the bedchambers, and down a flight of stairs into a cavernous ballroom. Soft ivory walls gleamed with golden rococo accents; royal blue curtains pulled back from tall, enormous windows to show an endless garden draped in twilight; three enormous chandeliers hung from a ceiling rich with baroque detailing, including paintings of Affini arriving to shower all the sophonts of the universe with endless love and joy; rich, unblemished wood paneled the floor in patterns that made me dizzy if I attempted to make sense of them.

The Goddess led me to the center of the ballroom, and from somewhere unseen, a piano began playing a gentle refrain.

“My darling Bryony… may I have this dance?”

I grinned and curtsied. “You may, my Goddess.”

The Goddess led me in a simple waltz, which grew faster and more complex as the music swelled, the piano reaching a jaunty tempo as stringed instruments took the melodic lead. My feet never faltered, never misstepped. My Goddess would simply never let that happen. As long as I followed Her lead, nothing could go wrong ever again.

Though the world outside slept under the blanket of night, inside the ballroom an entire universe of light flourished, pouring out of the Goddess’s eyes until time and thought dissolved into boundless joy, boundless relief, boundless gratitude.

Chapter Text

Red. The burning carmine of passion, the sweet vermillion of warmth, the pulsing crimson of life. Red fire illuminating the altar, red ichor filling the chalice offered to the Goddess, red spilling between our lips as our tongues meet. The deep red of the womb of rebirth, embracing me until I erupt like a phoenix into my new self. The sailor’s warning of a blessed new dawn.

Dawn.

Dawn…

Bloody visions evaporated as I returned to wakefulness, the rust of morning light creeping through the window. I yawned and stretched as thought and memory returned to me, Hugin and Munin soaring across the gulf of space to perch at my bedside. I rubbed my face and felt nothing but smoothness, and the crows cawed with the revelation of what had happened last night.

Oh right.

Cat’s out of the bag, huh?

I smiled and shook my head, remembering the tempest of last night. The Affini had me in checkmate before I even realized we were playing chess. There was no point in pretending anymore. No point in trying to shove myself back into an old suitcase and stuff myself into the back of the closet.

There was no point in denying Bryony anymore.

“Good morning, Bryony~” Circeval’s voice hummed from the balcony, a rich harmony resonating in my bones. “Come join me for a moment, now that you’re awake.”

I sat up, finding myself in a soft, silky lavender nightshirt and matching pajama pants. An old part of my brain warned me about what people might say if they saw me, but I simply ignored it. There would be time to deal with all my old hangups later. Right now, the feelings of relief and freedom warmed every part of my being like Gramma’s old quilt. I slipped my feet into the lavender slippers - which also had cute little bunny ears - I found sitting next to the bed, and walked to the balcony.

Given the whirlwind of the last several days, I hadn’t taken the time to check out the suite’s balcony. The view before me made me wish I had. I could take in the entire city of New Rochefort in one wide vista, could see the way the avenues and cobblestone walkways spread out from Kingfisher Tower like a spider’s web. Halcyon, in its infinite arrogance, seemed to have designed the view from the Tripletree Luxury Complex so that Kingfisher Tower appeared taller than even the Koningshoeven Mountains to the west.

Now, the Affini ship twinkling high above made Kingfisher Tower look sad and diminutive in comparison.

“It is a beautiful, strange little world, is it not?” Circeval wrapped a vine around my shoulder, and I couldn’t bring myself to shy away or shrug it off. “So much of it uninhabitable for you cuties, and yet you still found a lovely little corner of it to make yourselves at home.”

“It’s the mountains, apparently.” Along with loving my old sci-fi novels, I had a fascination for a lot of the actual science behind them as well. “Tidally locked worlds tend to have extreme weather patterns around the sunbelt line, where the hot air of the sunlit side and the cold air of the dark side meet. But we’re in the rain shadow of the mountains, so the air here stays cool and dry and calm.” Halcyon and Tripletree had learned their lessons from Efteraar and the unfriendly weather of its supercontinent; here, it hardly ever rained, and rarely wavered from its 20°C average.

The Affini grinned. “I adore when you go on your little tangents, petal.”

I blushed and short-circuited. “Th-thank you? I think?”

Circeval giggled and pet the top of my head. “Well. I brought you out here for a reason, although I will never say no to your wonderful company.” Her soft smile melted my heart just a little bit more. “May I assume that, after last night, you intend to remain… ‘out’, as Bryony?”

“Stars, yes,” I blurted out before old anxieties could snatch the words back. “It’s been forty years. I don’t think I could go back in the closet if I tried.”

“Well, certainly not with all the clothes that are in there!”

“That’s not…” I cleared my throat. “Anyway. Yeah. I wanna go forward with this. I want to finally live as Bryony.”

“I’m so happy to hear it, little one.” Her eyes pulsed with that familiar emerald and amethyst and gold. “Then we have a few things to discuss. And an errand to run.”

I looked up at her quizzically. “An errand?”

“To address your future medical care, of course.” Circeval gestured to the ship high in the sky. “We have field xenoveterinarians here on the planet for immediate and emergency care, but until we have fully established our presence here, we will need to head up to the Chaleuria for your needs.” The Affini smiled. “Besides, I have a feeling you will enjoy seeing our ship up-close.”

The Starchildren, wasting no time in making their superiority apparent even though the Plan of Man is already gone. “Sounds like a plan to me.” I furrowed my brow in thought, a tiny ghost of nervousness dancing in my stomach. “What do we tell the brewery staff, though?”

“Oh, not to worry,” Circeval said airily. “I informed all your coworkers that we would be indisposed until tomorrow to address the needs of your transition.”

My stomach did a somersault. “You-” I scrambled to the nightstand for my phone, but it was nowhere to be found.

“Here.” Circeval held my phone out to me, the teeth in her grin sharp as knives. I opened up the mail tab - the phone didn’t seem to have a lock screen anymore - and my stomach about jackknived its way out of my body when I saw the message addressed to every single staff member of the brewery.

“Hi, I’m Bryony! You may know me by a different name that I’m not allowed to say anymore, because it isn’t nearly cute enough for a wonderful woman like me…”

Part of me wanted to scream and run and hide. But then I saw a flood of positive responses, messages of congratulations and support. Erin, the former bartender who had gone floret, started her message with “LOL CALLED IT, CONGRATS BABE”.

And one that quelled the storm of uncertainty immediately.

“Proud of you hon. See you tomorrow. -Mags”

Tension flooded out of my system, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Circeval. Just… give a girl some warning next time, will ya?”

“As I said before…” The Affini lifted my gaze to hers, and her eyes bored into me as she breathed petrichor and sweet grain into my face. “Why would I give you the opportunity to say ‘no’ to your own needs?”

“I… I understand.”

“And if you would be so kind, little leaf, I would prefer that you call me Miss Purpurea.”

“Yes, Miss Purpurea.” I felt myself blush and squirm.

“What a good girl you are! Now, let’s get some breakfast in you, and then I can introduce you to an old friend.”

“Welcome aboard the good ship Chaleuria, little leaf!”

The bearded, uniformed Affini swinging one leg over the back of the chair to sit down in it and bellowing boisterously at me was the thousandth extraordinary thing I’d seen today, but he still ranked up there. I was still reeling from the sheer scale of the Chaleuria. I’d known it was big, yes, but it wasn’t until our shuttle approached the titanic blossom of the Affini ship that I got any sense of just how enormous it was. By Cir- Miss Purpurea’s estimation, the Chaleuria was roughly twelve kilometers long.

And she called it a scout.

That anybody in the Accord had ever thought they stood a chance against something like this bewildered me.

That feeling only cemented itself further as we entered the ship’s forward hab ring and Miss Purpurea began pointing out landmarks, colleagues, and different species the Affini had apparently already absorbed into their society. It wasn’t until she pointed out multiple species from the Andromeda galaxy that the sheer scale and power of the Affini Compact really sank in.

A thousand centuries of turning entire galaxies of sentient beings into happy, healthy pets. And here I was, getting examined by one of them cosplaying as a starship officer from one of our own culture’s ancient television shows.

The Affini were just full of surprises.

“Now, what brings you here today, petal?”

“We are here to begin a treatment plan for gender transition,” Miss Purpurea replied, not giving me a moment to respond. “I have already begun a course of class-G xenodrugs for her, but we will need to iron out the fine details, and decide on any other courses of action as well.”

“Marvelous!” The Affini clapped his hands with a mossy thump, then took my hand in both of his to shake vigorously. “I am Bryo Sphagnum, Tenth Bloom, he/him pronouns according to your schema. I am quite honored to be your xenoveterinarian!”

“B-Bryony Fischer, she/her pronouns now I guess.” I smiled nervously and shook back to the best of my ability.

“How lovely to meet you, Bryony!” The xenovet whipped out his tablet and tapped it rapidly. “Your Affini tells me she has already started you on a course of xenodrugs to override your current hormone production. Can you confirm that this image and these specifications are to your preference?” The Affini turned his tablet around and showed me the same image Circeval had last night. The curves, the honey-brown hair, the soft lips. This time, it also included the clothes I’d chosen for myself this morning as a secondary layer: An off-the-shoulder billowy blouse, jeans and flats. A pang twitched in my chest as I affirmed these choices. “Marvelous. Do you want to grow this hair out naturally, or would you prefer to proceed with a follicle transplant procedure?”

I scoffed and felt a bit of bitterness pool in my belly. “Pattern baldness hit me before I even hit 20, and I’m not interested in having my ass hair moved to my head. I can probably make do with a wig.”

The mossy fellow guffawed. “Nonsense! What we can do is create bio-identical hair to your liking in the compiler, with specially engineered rootlets. When we perform the transplant, each rootlet will find an inactive hair follicle and bond with it. Targeted xenodrugs will interact with the follicle cells to reactivate them, and knit the new hair cells into the bioidentical transplants. You will grow your own hair again almost instantly, and nobody will ever be able to tell the difference!” Bryo brought up a color palette next to the body diagram. “We can even make it grow in colors and patterns that your species normally cannot grow naturally.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The tears blurring my vision did all the talking for me. I’d written off transition so long ago in part because of losing my hair so early in life, before I had the ability to even take the reins for myself. I’d spent my entire life mourning the woman I wanted to be, and now everything she ever needed to be had just fallen into my lap.

I knew trans women - other trans women, I guess - who had struggled for years to get hormones and name changes and a semblance of livelihood. And the Affini were just giving me care and resources none of them had ever had.

Whatever else I was feeling, Catholic guilt always found a way to butt its nose into things.

“...Aren’t there other people who need this more than I do?” I mumbled.

“Oh my darling Bryony.” Miss Purpurea placed her hands on my shoulders and rubbed them for a moment. “You operate under the misconception that there is only so much care to go around - that our resources and benevolence are finite.” Her eyes flared with rose gold and violet. “We have spent the last hundred thousand of your years showing cuties like you otherwise. I assure you, everything you desire you will receive, today and forevermore.”

The radiance of her eyes drew me in, twin stars whose gravity threatened to rip me to shreds and forge me anew in Her image.

Perhaps, if I pleased Her, She would take delight in-

“Oh, you two are so adorable together!” Bryo chuckled with the thump of a dead log on a forest floor. “While we are here, perhaps we should schedule her im-”

“Not just yet, friend,” Miss Purpurea interjected. “Right now we’re merely discussing Bryony’s transition.” She turned to me again and traced a thin vine down the side of my neck, making me whimper. Just a little bit. “Is there anything you require, dear?”

“Bottom surgery.” Once again, the words fell out of me without a moment’s hesitation. “Um, not right this second. But soon.”

Bryo nodded. “Easily done. Simply give the word, Circeval.”

Odd that Miss Purpurea would be the one in charge of making that decision.

“Is there anything else, little leaf?”

“I…” A dozen thoughts derailed themselves as I tried to sort them out. “I don’t know. It’s all kind of a lot right now. I never expected to do any of this my whole life, and now it’s all just falling in my lap at once.”

Bryo nodded again. “From what I understand, gender schema are rather more strictly enforced in the culture you sprouted in than in ours. It certainly must be a bit of a culture shock. But the more difficult the task, the sweeter the victory, yes?”

I thought of the picture I’d been shown several times now, thought of myself in the dress from last night’s dream. Sweet as honey, rich like chocolate, heady as lilac wine. “Yeah. It is.” I smiled.

“Masterrrr!” A high voice called as another Terran ran into the room, costumed in a uniform similar to Bryo’s but in tan instead of red, with a large metallic sash running from shoulder to waist. “Isn’t it time for lunch yet?”

“Almost, my floret!” Oh. Bryo snatched the Terran in his vines and showered them with pets and affection, tousling their dark curly hair and drawing a blush from their tawny skin. “Would you be so kind as to introduce yourself to my friends, little one?”

“But Master-”

A rumble like the heartbeat of a Titan briefly passed through the room, and the floret immediately yelped before shutting their mouth.

“Circeval, Bryony, this is my merry little pet Akio Sphagnum, Third Floret, they/them pronouns.” The Affini lavished them with even more affection.

Akio pouted. “I am not a merry pet!”

“Come now, Akio, I will finish my work with these two, and then we shall have lunch. How does that sound?”

The floret immediately transformed into the very epitome of carefree joy. “Yay! Thank you, Master!”

I recalled the messages from Erin, the images of Hurley, all the various florets I’d encountered so far. Then I thought about Bryo casually handing my medical decisions over to Miss Purpurea. I wondered how far off I was from ending up the same way.

Those thoughts evaporated as Miss Purpurea pet me again. “If you have a floret to attend to, Bryo, how do you want to proceed from here?”

Bryo, continuing to dote on the squirming Akio, pondered for a moment. “Go and treat Bryony to a nice lunch. I will finalize her precise class-G regimen and compile the follicle transplant prosthesis. Come back after lunch, and I can take care of both. The transplant should not take more than an hour.” Bryo reached out a vine to pet the top of my head vigorously. “And then you’ll have the hair you’ve always wanted, little one.”

I felt the tears well up again. “Thank you so, so much.”

“It is an absolute pleasure, Bryony! Now, if you will both excuse me, my floret must be absolutely ravenous for their lunch!” As we walked out of the vet’s office, I heard Bryo continuing to dote on his floret. “I dream of a galaxy where your eyes are the stars, and the universe worships the night…”

Miss Purpurea turned to me. “This must be so exciting for you, Bryony! Let’s find somewhere nice to eat for lunch, to celebrate. What would you like to eat? There are already a number of Terran establishments aboard this hab ring, along with a great deal of eateries from other xenosophont cultures. I daresay you’re spoiled for choice here!”

“Um.” I hesitated. I had no idea what was on board here, and I didn’t want to request anything unreasonable. And the sheer volume of newness since yesterday was already overwhelming. “Would it be okay if I asked you to choose, Miss Purpurea?”

Emerald, amethyst, gold. “I would like nothing more, sweet little Bryony.”

Chapter Text

Brush, brush, brush.

“I can brush my own hair, Miss Purpurea.”

Brush, brush, brush.

“I know you can, petal. But detangling your new hair transplant and stimulating the rootlets is a delicate task, one that is best suited to the vines of an Affini.”

Brush, brush, brush.

I squirmed in my seat a little bit, Miss Purpurea not missing a beat in continuing to brush my hair. “Can I at least open my eyes?”

Brush, brush, brush.

Miss Purpurea giggled. “And ruin the surprise? Only a little bit longer, dear Bryony. Just stay nice and still for me.”

A shiver ran down my spine at the Affini’s command, and I stopped squirming. As far as I could tell, the follicle transplant had gone smoothly and quickly, without any issues. My scalp hardly even hurt, beyond a dull ache that felt slightly sharper where my hairline ended. But both Miss Purpurea and my xenovet declined to show me the results just yet, insisting that the reveal be a big surprise. I swear I heard them taking a few pictures of me as they were saying this too.

In the meantime, I supposed I could just sit back and enjoy being pampered, and let Miss Purpurea brush my hair. My hair. Emotions welled up again as those words resonated and warmed my entire being. Almost twenty years of having given up on transition after pattern baldness took hold, the Starchildren came down to say, “We’re not letting you do without anymore. Privation ends today.” The gentle rhythm of Miss Purpurea’s brushing drew me into deep, slow thoughts, whales traversing the abyssal depths behind my closed eyes, as I recalled the events of the afternoon.

Miss Purpurea’s choice in lunch options had taken us to a massive commercial district just off the main avenue of the hab ring, packed with restaurants and boutiques and brilliant green public spaces. Our path took an outward curve along the district’s edge, Affini structures towering to our left as more modest stands and tents peppered the verdant parks to our right. At last, Miss Purpurea paused at the edge of a half-circle of ornate food stands bordering a fountain square, Affini and florets alike clustered on ivory benches or in the shade of lush trees.

“I have an old friend whose floret runs a lovely little stand here… Ah!” Without a word of warning or request, Miss Purpurea scooped me off my feet and carried me to a stand at the far edge of the square, which roughly resembled an old noodle stand I’d patronized on Efteraar. If it had shrugged off the grime and pollution of a hundred years in an industrial district, that is. Miss Purpurea emitted a series of whistles, squawks and warbles, her eyes alight with enthusiasm. A similar song of strangeness hollered from the back of the stand, followed by the sound of something cantering to the counter.

Before today, my knowledge of alien species remained limited to what I knew from the gossip circles of work buddies and barflies: The impending threat of the Affini, the conquered and propagandized Rinans. As a result, my visit aboard the Chaleuria doubled as an accelerated catch-up course in how strange the different flavors of sentient life in the universe could really be. Another lesson stood wiping its paws as we approached: Pale blue-gray fur, antennae, compound eyes, two arms and four legs, and the obvious impatience of a short-order cook.

Miss Purpurea spoke before I could find a way to stuff my foot in my mouth. “Hello, little leaf! It is so good to see you again.” The creature grunted something in response, its antennae wiggling. Miss Purpurea giggled in response. “As chivalrous as always! I would like to introduce you to my colleague, Bryony Fischer. She’s a brewer from the planet we’re domesticating right now.” Miss Purpurea scootched me forward, like a kindergarten teacher introducing one shy schoolkid to another. “Bryony, this is Kuutip Oenothera, Seventh Floret. He runs this adorable little noodle stand with his Mistress, Biennis Oenothera.”

“Pleased to meetcha.” I attempted to shake Kuutip’s hand above the altogether-too-tall counter of the stand, but he just tilted his head to one side and made a confused chirp. I chucked awkwardly. “Sorry. Guess I gotta get used to that sort of thing.” Whether “that sort of thing” meant finding out the cultural expectations of different alien species, or the Affini designing everything to make me feel helpless, I wasn’t sure.

“Don’t worry Bryony. Mothtaurs have their own complicated rituals and expectations of chivalry, but they do not expect other xenosophonts to fully understand them.”

I blinked. “‘Mothtaurs’?”

“Their name for themselves is impossible to pronounce for unmodified Terran mouths. But one of our earliest Terran cotyledons called one of them a ‘mothtaur’, and the term just stuck!” Miss Purpurea tousled the graying fur on top of Kuutip’s head, and he seemed to take it with amicable annoyance.

Right. Affini. Cosmic dorks.

“So what would you like, Bryony? Kuutip’s little stand here specializes in noodles, but he can cook almost anything you can think of.” A grin, a pulse of something. “Or I can always choose for you, petal~”

Words stuck in my throat for a moment before I could speak again. Then I remembered the noodle shack on Efteraar, and thought of the dish that filled me with the most nostalgia. “Can you do Sichuan dandan noodles? With minced pork?” The Mothtaur brightened up and nodded vigorously, making an excited trill, then turned around and disappeared into the stand. The clank and sizzle of a wok sounded from its depths, followed by the rich, fiery aromas of Sichuan peppercorn and pork.

I spent a moment simply absorbing the sounds and aromas, drinking them in like somebody dying of thirst, before turning to Miss Purpurea again. “So what’s a… mothtaur doing cooking Terran food, anyway?”

Miss Purpurea smiled. “Kuutip has a passion for cooking similar to your passion for brewing, and he has had a long lifetime to explore new styles and techniques. Terran cooking is only his latest fascination. And his owner is only too happy to indulge in his special interests!”

Huh. So not all florets are mindless blissed-out lap pets, huh?

Another warble interrupted my thoughts as Kuutip set a massive, steaming bowl on the countertop. “Thank you so much, sweetling!” Miss Purpurea took the bowl and gave the mothtaur more pets. “Shall we take one of the benches, Bryony?”

“Sure thing.” We walked a few meters to a bench set at the edge of a small green space in which a bee-like alien lazily rolled.

Miss Purpurea leaned down to the creature, in a way that would be impossible for Terran anatomy. “Would you mind if we sat here, little one?”

“sure thing, miss,” the creature buzzed. “i wouldn’t turn down some apocynai and a belly rub in the meantime, though.”

“Of course, petal!” A thin vine with a brilliant carmine flower at its tip snaked over to the… bee-person, and buried a thin needle into its abdomen. It shivered for a moment and sank back into the grass, resuming its rolling around as Miss Purpurea’s vines rubbed the fuzzy carapace of its abdomen. “Are you here all by your lonesome, dear?”

“yeah, Miss Cordelia is helping out at Sproutville Center today, and told me to go get some fresh air. pretty sure it’s all fresh around these parts, though.”

Miss Purpurea giggled. “Of course it is! I am Circeval Purpurea, Thirteenth Bloom, and this is my colleague Bryony Fischer. I believe this is her first time meeting a Beeple, yes?”

“Beeple,” huh? Makes sense. “Yeah, it’s my first time meeting a lot of things up here.”

“rude. just because i’m not people doesn’t mean i’m a thing. most of the time.”

I stumbled to backtrack. “It’s just a figure of speech. I haven’t met any sophonts other than Terrans before the Affini showed up.”

“s’all good. you can call me jinx Collodi. i’d get up to shake your hand but i’m slightly indisposed at the moment.” jinx continued to squirm and wiggle on the grass as Miss Purpurea doted on them, still holding the steaming bowl in one hand.

“Um…” I hesitated. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can I have my noodles? They’re probably getting cold by now.”

“Oh, I doubt it, Bryony,” Miss Purpurea giggled. “Most of the dishes used in stands like these have microstasis units built into them, which keeps them as hot and fresh as the moment they were plated until you eat them!”

“How-”

“don’t worry about it honeybunch,” jinx burbled as Miss Purpurea continued to pet them.

“Listen to the nice berson, Bryony.” Without averting her gaze from the beeple, Miss Purpurea extended a set of vines from her back, to which she handed the chopsticks and bowl of noodles.

I supposed Affini physiology was uniquely predisposed to multitasking.

“Take a seat, little leaf, and we can have lunch.”

I looked up at the clean white bench, which was obviously sized for Affini. “...How?”

Miss Purpurea swiveled her head all the way around to look me directly in the eyes, making her look even more inhumanly surreal. “All you have to do is ask nicely, little one~”

“I-” She’d already grabbed me to take me to the lunch counter, and she already made me ask for help with other things I was perfectly capable of doing. Was she really going to make me do this? “Miss Purpurea, can you please help me up?”

“Of course, little one! Thank you for asking so nicely.” Another set of vines grasped me delicately around the waist, supporting me from the bottom, and set me atop the bench.

“it’s only hard the first time,” jinx quipped from below.

“Open wide, Bryony~” Miss Purpurea seized a clump of noodles with the chopsticks, dotted with spring onion and minced pork, oozing with deadly crimson portent.

I crossed my arms. “I can feed myself just fine, Miss Purpurea.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can, sweetling! But you need to save your energy for the procedure you’re getting in a little while. And anybody living in the Compact needs to internalize that it is okay for an Affini to provide assistance.” Her eyes gleamed with strange filaments of purple and gold. “It would make me very happy if you would indulge me, Bryony, just for a little bit.”

The filaments danced, and I felt the embarrassment and trepidation start melting away at the edges. “...Just for a little bit.” It didn’t keep the flush out of my cheeks, though.

“Splendid!” Miss Purpurea seemed to wiggle with joy for a moment, even as she continued to dote on jinx. “Now, little leaf, if you would be so kind as to open wide.” Something tapped the left side of my jaw as I opened my mouth to receive the parcel of noodles. I bit down, and immediately I knew the Mothtaur chef was the real deal: The fiery heat of the chili oil ignited on my tongue, spicy enough for a thin sheen of sweat to form on my forehead and upper lip. At the same time, the numbing citrus of the Sichuan peppercorns outflanked my taste buds, creating precisely the sensation that my nostalgia longed for, Li Weng’s old noodle shack crisp and clear in my memory. The savory, unctuous pork, the light chew of the noodles, the crunch of the spring onions and peanuts, all combined to perfect the experience.

“Good girl~” The mere recollection of those words brought a wave of heat to my cheeks as Miss Purpurea continued to brush my hair, the long, rhythmic strokes keeping me submerged in a deep well of memory. She started brushing the hair along my left temple, and the strokes touched the side of my chin and neck in a way that mirrored the gestures she’d made when feeding me. The circle on my jaw when she said, “Chew.” The stroke along the side of my neck when she said, “Swallow.”

At one point, she’d placed another bite of noodles on my tongue and tapped my mouth shut, without giving me permission to chew. Even though I was mostly humoring her through this whole thing, I felt compelled to not begin chewing until she gave me the order to do so. So I sat there, the fine mist of sweat on my face growing, a single drop trickling down the side of my face to drip off my chin as the searing heat of the chili oil seeped into my tongue. My face flushed all the way to my ears, my breath quickened, and the tiniest of whimpers escaped my throat as I stared into Miss Purpurea’s eyes, awaiting permission to finally quench the roaring, numbing flame in my mouth.

She simply returned my gaze with those mesmerising eyes, emerald and amethyst and now rose quartz embedded in oceans of hammered gold, Her smile of thorns growing wider and wilder with every moment. Her mouth didn’t move, but I thought I heard Her whisper. “Savor the pain, little acolyte.”

Brush, brush, brush. A chuckle from above me brought the cetacean thoughts back up to breach the surface once more. “What’s on your mind, little leaf?”

I swore I could feel the sweat dripping again. “N-nothing, Miss Purprea.”

Another knowing laugh, then a pat on the head. “It is okay, Bryony. I simply noticed you seemed a little bit flushed, and… excited by something. Affini senses are very sharp, as you know. But I will not pry.” The brushing stopped, replaced by the sensation of vines gently caressing my shoulders. “Now, my dear Bryony…”

“Open your eyes.”

All the mockups Miss Purpurea and Bryo showed me over the last day could not have prepared me for the sight in front of me. A trillion terabytes of images could not have matched seeing myself, truly seeing myself, in the mirror in front of me. My honey-brown hair fell in glossy waves down to my shoulder blades, whispering past my ears and shoulders with a sensation that my imagination could never have adequately replicated. The changes in my facial hair and structure, which seemed minute and inconsequential last night, fell into place when framed by the luxurious waves that spilled around them. The blouse, which had made me self-conscious when Miss Purpurea insisted on it this morning, now made sense on my body.

A less charitable past me might have pointed out the remaining traces of my masculinity, landing piercing blows with words like brick or clocky.

But right now, I was simply Bryony.

And here come the tears again. I started to well up and sob, even with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. “Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.” I wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my sleeve and a laugh-hiccup lurched its way out of my mouth. “I guess I’m gonna have to get used to crying a lot more with all of this, huh?”

Miss Purpurea smiled gently, her eyes gleaming with emerald and sapphire. “That does tend to be the result of feminizing hormones, yes.”

This time I just plain laughed, not caring about how deep the guffaw that came out of my mouth was. I could think about voice stuff later; for right now, the simple fact of having hair again made every other insecurity irrelevant. “That’s not quite what I meant, but yeah.”

I caught my breath and sighed. “So what now? We spending more time on the ship, or heading back down to the planet?”

“Oh, we are already on our way back to New Rochefort, petal! Both Bryo and I have business planetside, so we decided to take a shuttle while you were unconscious. Your follicular implant is a relatively non-invasive procedure, so any recovery needs are easily taken care of here.”

I blinked, then turned my head and took in my surroundings. It was still quite a spacious suite for somebody my size, but certainly felt smaller than the facilities aboard the Chaleuria. A long window to my left revealed the curve of Trappist-1e rising to meet the shuttle. I could see the cosmic blossom of the Chaleuria itself silhouetted against the ruddy crimson of the star itself.

“And I must say, you have been a splendid patient so far!” The booming voice of Bryo Sphagnum preceded his entrance into the room, ever a larger-than-life presence. “All signs indicate that the transplant has taken root with zero issues, and you should be able to treat the new hair as your own within a day!”

I whirled around, and… he was already in a different costume. His vines had woven themselves into an impression of a tattered old bathrobe, tank top and boxer shorts, his legs terminating in a wooden impression of feet clad in flip-flops. The same absurd mossy beard remained on his face. Far from the military precision of his previous costume, he resembled some bum hanging out in his apartment with a drink in his hand.

Miss Purpurea reacted before I could, though. “Bryo, what the frost are you wearing?”

Bryo shrugged. “The noble xenoveterinarian abides, dear Circeval.”

Miss Purpurea merely shook her head in response.

“There is merely one more thing you need, Bryony,” Bryo rumbled. “The transplant should heal without issue, but I would like you to wear this over your hair for the next twenty-four hours.” He revealed a white headband, with a piece of navy blue cloth trailing from its edges. “This will both monitor the healing of the transplant, and prevent any kind of damage to you and your new hair. Hold still now, petal!” He crowned me with the headband just below my hairline, and draped the cloth over my hair.

I blinked at my reflection in the mirror. All I could think about was my late aunt, Sister Byrgius, who’d joined the Order of Saint Leibowitz before I was born and came to visit Gramma once in a blue moon. I looked like a nun. It played weird havoc with the Catholic upbringing I’d been trying to shrug off for the last few decades of my life.

The two Affini began talking to each other in their own musical tongue, and I excused myself to watch out the window as we entered the planet’s atmosphere.

Somewhere down there was my future as Bryony. Down there, her boots would be clanking on the brewdeck, her hair would be blowing in the breeze off the Koningshoeven Mountains, her dress would spin as she waltzed with-

Waltzed with who?

Images from last night’s dream popped into my head, the twilight ballroom and the piano echoing from its distant ceiling. Of waltzing with Circeval. Miss Purpurea. Imagining a world without her was starting to feel difficult.

It had taken only a week for the Affini to completely transform Trappist-1e, and it had only taken a week for Miss Purpurea to completely transform me.

What other transformations did the Affini have planned?

Chapter Text

I couldn’t sleep.

I turned over in bed again, flipped over the pillow, and thumped my head back down. I’d gotten so used to living with a head shaved bald at all times that I’d completely forgotten what it was like to sleep with a full head of hair. I couldn’t quite get used to the sensation.

That wasn’t the issue, though.

Nor was it my nerves about returning to the brewery as Bryony in the morning. There was a little of that there, to be sure, but my worries had largely been assuaged by the numerous supportive messages I’d gotten since Miss Purpurea decided to message the staff about my transition. In particular, hearing from Mags again was an enormous relief.

After the whirlwind of the last few days, of the brewery being entirely transformed and Miss Purpurea razing the walls of my self-denial with the inexorable force of a typhoon, she and Bryo decided that I simply needed a quiet, relaxing night alone. Not without leaving a vine in my business, though: Miss Purpurea had presented me with an Affini made tablet and the new compiler that had been installed in my suite, showing me the basics of how to use each one. “Message me with whatever you need, petal, but after the last few days you could probably benefit from some peace and quiet.” Then she returned to her work, whatever mysterious duties she might have in the Affini takeover of New Rochefort.

And now? If anything, it was too quiet.

My old apartment had been located in Achel, a residential neighborhood smashed up against the seedier parts of New Rochefort’s commercial district. I’d spent years falling asleep to the lullabies of promoters shouting in front of crypto casinos and strip clubs, the thumps and yells and constant noise from other residents that easily penetrated the paper-thin walls of my apartment, the occasional roar of a poorly-maintained Halcyon service vehicle. The incredible pace of the last week had kept me from noticing how quiet the Tripletree Luxury Complex was, and now that I finally had some time alone, sober, unburdened by old insecurities, I realized just how deafening real silence had become.

…No. That still wasn’t it.

I flipped over the pillow and turned again. It still didn’t help. I seethed in frustration, finally grunting out an obscenity and sitting up in bed. I grabbed the tablet off the nightstand. Maybe a bit of reading and light music would help me nod off. I shuffled through the icons to find the music program - according to Miss Purprea, this tablet had access to every single piece of music, writing and art the Affini had found throughout their interstellar travels, including everything they’d sucked out of the Accord’s datacenters.

The Class-G xenodrugs that were changing my body so rapidly hadn’t changed my beefy mitts that much yet, though, and I managed to fat-finger an entirely different icon. Smooth move, dingus. I moved to close the window, then froze as a loud WHACK! from the tablet showed me exactly what I’d clicked on.

The angry crimson of fresh marks on a sweaty, quivering back. The calm but desperate breathing of a woman deep in subspace. The creak and ebon shine of leather restraints. And towering above her tawny skin and mewling voice, a grinning figure of viridescent sinew, mahogany plates and amaranth petals, whose commands resonated through my being with the deep thrum of a gong even through the tiny speakers of the tablet.

My finger hovered over the button to close the window, but it refused to move. I watched as the Affini used her vines to lash the woman again. And again. And again. All the while chanting mantras of submission and servitude that filled my veins with warm, gooey sap. I felt something like the awe of the sublime clutch my heart, the sudden knowledge of being confronted by a Force I couldn’t possibly resist. If I even wanted to resist.

I swallowed and felt a sheen of sweat like the one the Sichuan noodles had caused at lunchtime. There were no noodles to excuse what I felt this time, though, nothing to hide that this was another part of who Bryony was. Another part that Demi wanted nothing to do with after a few nights of indulgence, another part that I’d kept hidden out of embarrassment, another part I’d relegated to fantasies and daydreams. People grunting and slapping the meat of their bodies against each other had never felt like intimacy to me. This? The service and surrender and suffering? That was intimacy.

Apparently the Affini understood that, too.

I continued to watch as the floret’s masochism crescendoed to a scream, as the Affini’s sadistic hunger rose to meet it, as the two met at the apex of sensation and need. Unlike the usual pattern of Terran-made videos, though, this one continued into aftercare, followed by the couple - were a floret and their Affini owner a couple? - watching a movie together. The Affini had its vines wrapped gently around the floret as they snuggled on a sofa, a mug of hot cocoa in the floret’s hand.

Hmm. Hot cocoa.

I finally paused and minimized the video and brought up a chat window with Miss Purpurea.

zymurgatrix: Hey, Miss Purpurea?

CogitoErgotSum: Hello, petal! My, you’re up late tonight.

zymurgatrix: Yeah, I can’t sleep for some reason.

CogitoErgotSum: So I gathered from your tablet activity.

zymurgatrix: You’re spying on my [automod: Language, little leaf!] dang net activity?!

zymurgatrix: what the [automod: Not on my watch!] heck

CogitoErgotSum: Do not concern yourself, little one. It is simply another way we Affini endeavor to take the best possible care of you. We do not judge or punish.

CogitoErgotSum: We may tease, however :)

CogitoErgotSum: Especially if it turns out a sophont has been watching something that piques our mutual interest.

zymurgatrix: ?!

CogitoErgotSum: Worry not, Bryony. ;)

CogitoErgotSum: The more pressing issue is helping you to get some sleep. It looks like a cup of hot cocoa might do the trick. And, if I may make a further suggestion, I can add a mild soporific xenodrug to it as well. It should give you a full night’s rest with no issue.

zymurgatrix: Sure, that sounds good.

zymurgatrix: Thanks, Miss Purpurea.

CogitoErgotSum: You are perfectly welcome, dear. One more thing: Have you tried sleeping with a cute little stuffed animal?

zymurgatrix: Not for a long time. I had a few as a kid, but I got too old for them after a while.

CogitoErgotSum: Oh petal, you are never too old for a nice comfy stuffie!

CogitoErgotSum: I will have your compiler make you some sleepytime hot cocoa and a cute new friend for you to sleep with. Drink the cocoa and go right to bed, little one. I will see you in the morning. Sweet dreams~

zymurgatrix: Thanks, Miss Purpurea.

I put the tablet back on the nightstand, just as a slight electrical buzz and a whiff of cinnamon heralded the arrival of my sleep aids. I slipped my feet into the lavender bunny slippers and plodded over to the compiler.

Then I froze. No way.

Next to a gently steaming earthenware cup sat a floppy duck stuffie, the exact wear of its exterior and beak hauntingly familiar. My father had thrown it out when I became a teenager, roaring that wanting to hold on to a “child’s toy” at my age was “sinful and degenerate”. Learning to sleep without a stuffed animal had been such a painful thing that I’d practically forgotten about it.

And now? Miss Purpurea had returned Ducky to me.

I grabbed the stuffed duck and clutched it close to me, feeling a few tears squeeze their way out of the corners of my eyes. Something about the stuffed animal made the gnawing silence of the room recede a little bit, filled me with a hum of comforting warmth that repelled the gremlins of insomnia. A gigantic yawn shook itself loose from deep inside me as I took the cup of hot cocoa and took a sip. In spite of the cup steaming as if it were red-hot, the cocoa itself was precisely the right temperature, a gentle heat warming my entire body as I took the first sip. The taste struck my tongue and I moaned involuntarily: Rich and sweet, with a deep, complex flavor that spoke of copious amounts of real chocolate. Memories of Gramma’s seeped into my mind unbidden, the coziness of dozing under the old quilt with Ducky as the grown-ups chatted and bickered and laughed. I smiled, and a few more tears made their escape.

I finished the cocoa and flumped into bed, the soporific like boulders pulling me into the depths of a bottomless sea. The warmth of hot cocoa and Ducky’s hum and old childhood memories drew me into a deep, restful slumber with a smile on my lips.

“Looks like you’ve been busy the last few days, hon.”

I laughed as Mags and I wrapped our arms around each other, the familiar old rapport starting to click back into place again. After hearing the news from Miss Purpurea, she’d apparently done some scheming to have a little “welcome back” shindig for me once I returned to the brewery. My late arrival to work was greeted by a shout of congratulations, an avalanche of hugs, and a beer shoved into my hand.

“A bit, yeah. Time flies when aliens take over the universe.” We both laughed again, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. “It seems like you’re a lot more… okay with things now.”

“Yeah, a bit.” Mags grinned like a maniac. “They gave Becca top surgery.”

I lit up with my own grin. “Really?!”

“Yeah! No fights with insurance companies and shitty bigot doctors, no money or loans, no nothing. A w- An Affini came to us asking what we needed and offered to give us both a checkup, and she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about it.” Mags guffawed, a tiny flush of rose rising to her bronze cheeks, the same blush she always had when gushing about Becca. “It’s been like, a day, and she’s mostly healed up. She’s so damn happy now that those bastards on her chest are gone.”

“Affini health care is fuckin’ magical, ain’t it?” I could barely keep the grin on my face from splitting my cheeks open. “Look at me! It hasn’t even been a week and they’ve done more than I ever expected to get in my entire life.”

Mags gave me her old sardonic smile. “Yeah, you’re looking good, Sister Bryony.”

I blushed. “It’s only for a day! It’s for my hair!”

“Uh-huh. A medical habit, I see.”

Before the teasing could go any further, a familiar face bounced over with a pint in each hand. “Hey you two!” Erin shoved a beer towards each of us, not moving until we took the glasses. “So happy to see you again!”

I smiled. “I gotta admit, I didn’t expect to see you here. Your, um, Affini said you were taking some time off.”

Erin giggled. “There was no way I was gonna miss seeing you as Bryony for the first time, girl!” She threw her arms around me with greater force than I expected from her thin figure, and gave me a smooch on the cheek. “You’re looking fantastic! I’m so happy for you!”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Happy for you too, Erin. You seem super happy with your new…” I struggled to find a proper word.

“Owner!” Erin wiggled and looked up, obviously thinking about her Affini with utter adoration. “Miss Scorodonia is just so wonderful!”

“And so’re you, dear flower.” A stout figure made of fuzzy stems and leaves, dotted with frozen fireworks of ghostly green flowers, lifted Erin off her feet and hugged her. The floret squealed in joy and nuzzled the Affini’s chest joyously. “Pleased as punch to meetcha, petals,” she said as she reached out a vine for a handshake. “I’m Woodsage Scordonia, but y’all can call me Woody if’n ya like. She and her pronouns if’n ya don’t mind.”

“...Good to meet you too, Woody.” The Affini never ceased to surprise me.

The Affini looked around at the brewery. “So this is what Circeval’s been busy as a beehive over, huh?” Woody crossed her beefy arms and nodded to herself. “Fine work, gal’s got a good calyx on her shoulders I tell you whut.” A vine reached out to pat me gently on the head and I squeaked in surprise. “An’ she picked a goodun, too.”

I flushed and stuttered. “I’m not her floret or anything! She’s just helping me out here now that Halcyon and my old boss are gone.”

Woodsage rumbled with a contralto chuckle. “I’m just teasin’ and flirtin’, honey. Something all us Affini love to do when we come across cuties like y’all.”

“And we do find all you little Terrans absolutely delectable, dear.” The hairs on my neck stood up as a familiar Affini entered the conversation. “I’m so happy you found yourself a new pet already, Woodsage.”

“The poor thing was sufferin’ somethin’ fierce, and she just latched right onta me when I went to check on her!” Woodsage tousled Erin’s hair again, causing the floret to wiggle and squeak in joy. “Little ones, have y’all met Valencia Sinensis? She’s a colleague of mine from the Chaleuria.”

“We’ve met,” I responded in a strained voice. I could never get over the sense of being prey whenever she was around. Judging by the sight of Mags standing frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the predatory Affini, she probably felt the same way.

“And it is lovely to see you again, little one. Why, you are positively glowing!” Valencia leaned down, her eyes shimmering with chromatic chaos, grin full of needle-sharp teeth. “No wonder Circeval seems so smitten with you.”

I reeled. “Smitten with-”

“Val, leave the poor thing alone! Yer scarin’ the tar outta her!” Woodsage scolded Valencia. “I’m sure she’s already overwhelmed with the week she’s had. Ain’t that right, honey?” Woodsage patted me on the head again, and I managed to eke out a noise of agreement.

“Besides, Valencia, you could stand to learn something about subtlety,” Miss Purpurea smirked as she strode into the taproom. Apparently, somebody also turned up the lights in the room as she came in. “You have a habit of coming on a bit strong.”

Something new entered Valencia’s grin. Something hostile, nasty, envious. “Some of us prefer not to dawdle when we find a new cutie, old stump.”

Miss Purpurea’s hair seemed to stand on end, the wheaten ends of her skirt sharpening. “And some of us have learned to appreciate the slow, gentle approach, sapling.”

Mags and I both took a step back, and Woodsage rattled with a noise that might have been a sigh. “Y’all will have to forgive these two, they have a bit of history together.” She chewed the straw in her mouth and turned to the two other Affini, who were practically shooting electricity at each other with their eyes. “Will y’all cut it out already? Fighting like this at poor little Bryony’s party, I swear to the Everbloom…”

Miss Purpurea physically softened, closed her eyes and nodded. “Our elder is right, Valencia. This is the wrong place to squabble like this. Besides,” the Affini smirked, “I believe you are dawdling in your own tasks right now, are you not?”

Valencia’s form frayed into lashing vines for a split second as she gnashed her teeth. “She has not been seen in-” The Affini caught herself, composed herself, then sighed and nodded. “...You are correct, Circeval. I apologize to you all. Especially you, little Bryony.” I tried not to flinch as she patted my head one more time, then strode in a straight line out the front door.

“What the hell,” Mags muttered under her breath.

“You will have to forgive Valencia, petals. She does have a habit of getting a touch dramatic at times.” Miss Purpurea knelt down and put a vine around my shoulders. “How are you feeling, Bryony?”

“Feeling fine, Miss Purpurea.” I saw Mags raise an eyebrow in my peripheral vision. “That was just… I haven’t seen you like that before, is all.”

“As my friend Woodsage said, Valencia and I have a bit of history. Nothing for you to worry about. I do hope you are enjoying the party Margareta planned for you!”

Mags huffed. “Mags, please.”

“I am.” The joy of seeing my friends and coworkers as Bryony bubbled up into a giant grin again. “I really appreciate it, Mags.”

Her old lopsided smile popped back into place. “You can thank Circeval here as well! She helped out while you were sleeping off everything from yesterday.”

I smiled and… bowed? “Thank you, Miss Purpurea.” I wasn’t sure what had compelled that, but it had simply felt natural, felt like the correct thing to do.

“Think nothing of it, little one. You deserve to be celebrated, Bryony.” She drew herself up to her full height and clapped her hands. “Now, are you ready to make your first beer on the updated system?”

“I-” I looked at the beer in my hand, then back up at Miss Purpurea. “I’m already a few beers deep. It’s not safe to operate a brewery under the influence.”

“Are you certain, petal? The brewery is now significantly more automated than before, and I can accomplish whatever tasks you feel uncomfortable performing. Regardless of your level of intoxication, I will ensure your absolute safety.”

I nodded emphatically. “It’s a matter of principle for me.” I’d spent long enough in the industry to know which habits to head off at the pass. Working with alcohol brought all the risks of addiction and self-destructive behavior that booze presented, and I’d seen what that wrought on brewers and other folks in the industry. Too many friends had exited the trade because of alcohol, in one way or another. Some in worse ways than others.

It wasn’t just a matter of the catastrophic harm that being drunk around heavy machinery, harsh chemicals and boiling heat could do. It was the vast myriad of other harms that alcohol abuse could wreak upon the people around you. It was a lifetime of working with bosses and coworkers like Hurley, of being around drunks like James. Of growing up with Dad and his roaring, ethanol-fueled rage. I would not start down a path of hurting other people like that.

Miss Purpurea stared at me thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded and smiled. “I understand, Bryony. We will start brewing on the system tomorrow.”

“Besides,” I grinned, “I haven’t even developed a recipe yet!

The Affini giggled. “I suppose that is true. Continue enjoying your party, Bryony - I will be performing some last checks on the system in the meantime.” Miss Purpurea patted me gently on the head, then returned to the brewhouse. In spite of the active conversations still going on, a strange quiet seemed to settle over the room.

I felt Mag’s stare on me before I turned to resume our conversation. “...She’s already important to you, isn’t she?”

I balked. “I mean. Yeah! She’s helped me turn the brewery from a ramshackle mess to something I couldn’t even dream of before. She helped me come out as Bryony and live a dream I’d given up on decades ago. She’s changed my life in impossible ways in less than a week. I have so much to thank her for.”

“I get that.” Mags smiled gently, a little bit sadly. “It hasn’t even been a week, and I’ve seen the Affini help people in a thousand thousand ways that I could never have imagined. Even if they’re a bit weird sometimes, they’re better than Halcyon or the fucking Accord could have ever been.” She hesitated, downed the rest of her beer, then set down her glass and clapped her hand on my shoulder. “Just… be careful. Don’t let Circeval take you down a road you don’t want to travel. Be Bryony for your own sake, not for hers or anybody else’s.”

“That’s my plan, Mags.” I took another sip of lager and let its grainy, doughy flavor flood my tastebuds with golden joy. “I appreciate it. It… probably looks like I’m in pretty deep. But I’m still me. It definitely doesn’t feel like the Affini are trying to change that.”

She sighed. “I know. Just come to me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will.” We bear-hugged again, and a surge of emotion made me tear up a bit. Mags and I had always been close as work buddies, but there was a new level of camaraderie in that embrace that hadn’t been there before, a closeness and care that part of me had always pushed away. That Brent had pushed away, to keep Bryony safe. But I didn’t need to do that anymore. “Sorry I didn’t talk to you about all this before it landed on you all at once.”

“It’s fine, hon.” That lopsided grin. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”

“Hey!”