Chapter Text
Ariane Yeong grew up on a steady diet of contraband literature and arts and crafts, encouraged by her mother to think for herself and seek her own meaning in life, regardless of what the Nation demanded of its citizens. She was happy, and healthy, and blissfully unaware of the world beyond her safe haven in the mountains—of the grim nature of the war, the brutality of the Empire, and the price they now paid to the Nation every cycle in exchange for escaping it. She had postcards of picturesque locations on pre-war Vineta, old novels from the interregnum period during the establishment of the Empire, and tapes of symphony performances recorded during the First Interwar Period. It was a perfect life.
And then, with just one letter, it all fell apart. It took her years to understand the little nuances in it—the history between her mother and aunt she hadn't yet known about, the implied threat of Protektor involvement, or how her mother's radio-operating duties extended far beyond just running a weather telemetry station—but from the moment she saw her mother crying and holding the letter, she understood everything she needed to. Then came the feelings of betrayal, and resentment: against her mother, for not putting up a fight to keep her, then against her aunt for taking her away, and finally against herself for not being normal like everyone else.
Once she started school she didn't even need to bother hating herself; there were plenty of others to do it for her. She liked reading, she doodled in the margins on her assignments, and she'd made the mistake of asking the wrong girl to study together—even though the rumor that developed out of that was true, the disgusted looks and hushed whispers still hurt. The few friends she'd gathered disappeared overnight, worried she might, what, have feelings for them? Ariane was pretty sure there wasn't a chance in hell that she'd feel that way for anyone ever again.
The only ones who still talked to her (other than to tell her to leave) were the Itou twins, Erika and Isa, but she wasn't sure if they'd even consider her a friend. It's not like friends did her much good before, anyway. Eventually, the only ones who talked to her at school were the Eules, scolding her for not fitting in with her peers. The stress kept building, to the point where her hair started thinning and she couldn't sleep. Every single cycle until she graduated, she wished more and more that she could just fade away and disappear, and sometimes she felt like she was slipping away entirely.
The pain from the taunts and jeers of her classmates faded eventually, but they left scars that she still felt years after graduating. Sometimes, those scars were even physical; before the Nation discovered her bioresonance, her leg injury meant she'd been relegated to a position as a long-range radio officer instead of working on the front lines. It's not like she minded it since it was a good excuse for her mom to send her those old radio textbooks she'd loved reading as a kid, but she was all too aware that others weren't so lucky. Not everyone she'd gone to school with made it back from their service, and a part of her felt guilty for still hating them.
Only a small part, though.
After her military service ended she was truly desperate to find a way out. She wanted to go off to the mountains again and operate a remote weather station like her mother, but she knew there was no way the Nation would approve such an assignment. It would have sentimental value, which could distract from her patriotic duties. It was the kind of cold, calculating logic that made perfect sense for the Nation, and that she utterly loathed. So instead she looked for other postings, anything where she could work in her experience as a radio officer, the farther away the better.
She'd considered a communications officer posting on Leng Orbital, or even re-entering the military, but a chance encounter with a poster for the Penrose Program reminded her of, as a young girl, seeing a poster for it on that lonely train ride to Sector C in Erzgebirge and dreaming about adventures in uncharted space, far away from her aunt and her classmates and her teachers. She'd be a solo pilot exploring the galaxy, like in Hunters of the Nebula. It was a silly idea, but the Penrose Program was taking volunteers, and she was certainly qualified; even if she wasn't, they were offering full training for accepted applicants. She had to at least apply.
She was, of course, accepted immediately, with her frankly excessive qualifications being explicitly noted in the response. When she talked to the Eule at the Logistics Bureau—a teacher from the Mandelbrot Polytechnic High School, one she remembered being especially cold and callous to her, now reassigned as she approached the end of her operational lifespan—she was told it was hard to imagine anyone else better suited for the position. She took that to heart and threw herself into her training and preparations with a renewed vigor she hadn't had in years, if she'd ever even had it at all. She was at the top of her cohort in the training program, second to none, and in the best shape of her life since being in the military—better, even, given that she could afford more rations than she had back then. Due to her exceptional performance, she was one of the first of her peers to be assigned a vessel: the Penrose-512, soon to be hers and hers alone.
All it took to ruin everything was a small comment at the end of her last checkup before being cleared for launch. Her departure date was already set, only five periods away, and the appointment was essentially just a formality—but the Logistics Bureau of AEON did not look kindly on those who disregarded the importance of their bureaucracy, so she had no choice but to attend.
Just before leaving she'd mentioned, in passing, that sometimes she felt like everyone else was swimming in a river and she was the only one who didn't understand how to swim—what came naturally to others, navigating the complex social and political nuances of Eusan society, seemed incomprehensible to her. It was all so overwhelming, so she was glad to have a chance to get away from it all and finally make something of her life through the Penrose Program.
She hadn't thought much of it, but apparently it was enough for her doctor to flag her for possible bioresonance, and within the cycle she was grounded, her launch indefinitely delayed, and had a barrage of follow-up appointments scheduled throughout the following periods. Through it all, the only silver lining she could see in it was that she'd at least get to attend the launch of the vessel she was supposed to leave on, cheering for one of her fellow trainees as they were flung into a solar system escape trajectory on the Penrose-512, far past Heimat and Leng, off to explore parts unknown. If Ariane was lucky, she could share that same opportunity, just a few periods later than expected.
By now, Ariane knew better than to expect the lucky outcome. Though she passed the physical and psychological tests with ease, that was hardly a good sign given the circumstances, since the only test left after that was the bioresonance screening. If they decided the results indicated bioresonance, then the least of her concerns would be losing her flight date; she'd lose everything.
When the day of the test finally came, Ariane was at her wit's end with stress. She knew there wasn't much she could do to influence the outcome of the test, but that hadn't stopped her from worrying about it anyway. The cold and sterile waiting area did nothing to soothe her nerves, and the Eule behind the reception desk kept glaring at her from behind the glass. No one else was there besides the two of them, so Ariane grabbed a performance review card from the tray on the nearby table and flipped it over—it was blank. Taking a pencil off the table, she started yet another landscape sketch, the messy lines quickly sprawling out to cover the entire card. By the time she was called for her appointment, she'd almost entirely forgotten why she was there in the first place; the card was left on the table for when she finished, and she followed another Eule unit deeper into the medical facility.
The Eule walked through the mazelike facility's hallways at a brisk pace, with Ariane following shortly behind her. One last corner took them to a room simply marked 'Testing,' and the Eule gestured for Ariane to enter while remaining in the hallway herself. Once she entered, the door swung shut and clearly locked, and rather than dwell on that concerning detail Ariane instead sat down on the lone chair in the room and inspected the mirror in front of her—a glossy black with clear reinforcing bars running through it, likely for unruly patients. While she was inspecting it, the 'mirror' suddenly turned transparent and she startled, lurching back in the chair. A Kolibri unit was sitting in the room opposite her, which appeared to be some sort of observation office.
"Hello, Officer Yeong," greeted the Kolibri, pushing a closed book on her desk out of the way; Ariane craned her neck slightly to try to see the text on the cover, but the Kolibri simply flipped it to be face-down with its spine facing away from Ariane. "I am Kolibri R14-02. I will be the proctor administering your test. I assure you, it will be swift and efficient as long as you cooperate. Do you know why you are here?"
Ariane nodded, then once it was clear the Kolibri wanted a verbal answer she simply stated, "A bioresonance aptitude test." Satisfied, the Kolibri made a note on her clipboard and then set her pen back down, reaching instead for what appeared to be a deck of cards.
"The test is very simple. I am holding a deck of tarot cards; are you familiar with them?" Ariane nodded again and the proctor continued, separating the deck as she spoke, "In this test we will only be using the Major Arcana. The names written on the cards are from the Empire, but you may use whatever name for the card you are most familiar with. When I hold up a card, you will tell me the name of the card on cue. If you do not know what card I am holding, say that you don't know. Are you ready to begin?"
Ariane nodded for the final time before starting the test, then sat up straight in the chair. The proctor was already holding a card facing her—the Fool—and asked with a perfectly level intonation, "What card am I holding?"
"The Fool," answered Ariane. Without making a note of her answer, the proctor cut the card into the middle of the stack of cards and drew another.
"What card am I holding?" asked the proctor again, now holding up a card with the back facing Ariane.
"I don't know," answered Ariane, already annoyed with the test. "I can't see it." The proctor slowly lowered the card and made a note on her clipboard. Finally, she set her clipboard back down (out of view so that Ariane couldn't peek) and held up another card so that she could see the face of it—The Hierophant, upside-down.
"Card?" asked the Kolibri, and Ariane hoped she was speeding things along specifically in response to her boredom. Surely someone in the Nation had to realize how absurd all of this was.
"The Hierophant, reversed," answered Ariane, leaning back in her chair.
The proctor looked confused, flipping the card around to view it, then turning it so that it was upright and presenting the card again. "You only need to state the name of the card. Any differences in orientation are a mistake and should be ignored." Without waiting for Ariane to correct herself, she replaced the card and held up another. "Card," she stated plainly, like an order rather than a question.
"The Wheel of Fortune," answered Ariane, already falling into a comfortable rhythm. They continued that way for at least two dozen more cards, with roughly half of them facing away from her. Each time she stated she didn't know what card was being held up, the proctor made another note on her clipboard. After they'd made it through the entire deck, the proctor began placing the cards in a separate stack on the desk once they'd been read.
"Card," repeated the Kolibri—like the last four, it was facing Ariane.
"The Lovers," she answered, and the card was once again placed on the desk, immediately followed by another one before the words had finished leaving Ariane's mouth.
"Card."
"Judgment," replied Ariane. The deck the proctor was drawing from was now thinned to just a few cards, and Ariane was eager to be finished.
"Card," commanded the Kolibri, her words firm and imposing and just as fast as before.
"The Tower," answered Ariane as fast as she could. There were only two cards left in the deck, and then she was finished.
The proctor made a note on her clipboard and then gave the order again. "Card."
Without missing a beat Ariane obeyed and answered, "The Moon," her foot tapping impatiently on the floor as the proctor made yet another note on her clipboard.
Finally, it came down to the last card. When the proctor held up the card Ariane didn't even wait for her to say anything before answering, blurting out, "Death, reversed." Only a moment later did Ariane realize that the card was facing away from her, and a sinking feeling crept into her stomach. The proctor made one final note and then pressed a button, the window between them dimming again. As she waited to be let out of the testing room, Ariane held her head in her hands and wept.
The rest of her visit at the testing center went by in a haze, her hands trembling and heart pounding as an Eule spoke to her. She was definitely bioresonant—the last three cards had all been facing away from her. Ariane tried to argue that the proctor made a mistake, but the tests were also observed by the Eule via the rooms' cameras, confirming that there was no possible way Ariane could have seen the three cards in any mundane way. She explained—as if it even mattered to Ariane, in that moment—that a similar routine would be part of her training to consciously use her abilities, if her job assignment required them. The penny dropped as Ariane realized that there was no way she'd ever get to be a pilot in the Penrose program. She'd be stuck in the Nation for good, likely under constant supervision to ensure a "valuable asset" like her wasn't wasted.
When Ariane finally returned to her senses, the Eule unit was explaining that they had medications to deal with the insomnia and anxiety relating to bioresonant sensitivity, and therapy could help; Ariane didn't have to suffer. She didn't tell the Eule that her bioresonance was the least of her problems, that no medication they could give her would change how everyone else looked at her—she just nodded, thanked her, and left with a bundle of papers that the Eule gave her, including a prescription.
Against her better judgment she didn't throw them out, instead leaving the contents loose on the nightstand next to her bed. They joined other documents already piled there: a notice of the termination of her Penrose Program training stipend, rationmark demerit notices for failure to receive a work assignment on time, and letter after letter of rejected work assignment applications. No one wanted a potentially-bioresonant radio operator, or flight officer, or anything, and her chance to get a job before she was officially marked was now over. If she didn't register within the next few days she'd pile up so many ration demerits that she'd barely be able to scrape by, and any longer than that she'd be arrested and hauled off.
She sat on the bed for who knows how long studying the sketch she'd done on the back of the review card in the waiting room—an attempt at replicating the bare form of the copy of Isle of the Dead her mother had in their room growing up, but no matter how often she tried, she couldn't remember the details right. Not even referencing other copies seemed to help; the finished project was always subtly wrong in a way she couldn't seem to understand. This one hadn't even gotten halfway through the basic shapes before she'd been interrupted, and even that looked distorted to her now.
Dejected, she threw the card back onto the nightstand and retrieved a document from the ever-growing pile. Poring over the list of work assignments open to bioresonant individuals she'd been given, she felt her dismay grow with each job title she read: Replika repair technician, Klimaforming specialist, induced gravity engineer—even if she'd been qualified for any of those she wouldn't have taken them. The only tech she enjoyed working on was radios; the only part of their training she'd struggled in was ship maintenance, even earning a demerit for poor performance along with the rest of the bottom fifteen percent of her peers in the Penrose training program. Whether it was klimaforming systems or long-range transport ships, she didn't get along well with industrial machinery.
As for the Replika technician position, that was even worse. She never got along well with the Eules at her school and had more than a few run-ins with the Blockwart in Sector C. Even if she wasn't—to be completely honest—creeped out by Replikas, working with both delicate synthetic biology and sensitive industrial machinery meant it was even less appealing than the other options.
As she ruled out more and more options she felt her a sense of dread slowly building in the back of her mind as she asked herself which of these she would be willing to reconsider, if it came to that. Would she be able to adapt to a zero-gravity shipyard, or learn to tolerate the uncanniness of Replikas? Would something else manage to spark the same love she felt for radios?
She shook her head and focused on the task at hand: she still had plenty of options left. Many of them were just the previous ones at different locations, but others were new, like "junior bioresonance screening assistant" or "orbital hydroponics research aide." She couldn't imagine taking the former (even the thought of returning to that clinic to fill her prescription made her feel ill) and had no idea what the latter entailed, although the idea of someone trying to study a bunch of plants by thinking at them really hard was enough to briefly lift her spirits.
Then, of course, she realized she was on the last page of listings and the harsh reality of her situation came crashing back down on her. Most of the listings were the same as the previous ones, the sort of roles she could never imagine taking. Towards the bottom, however, one in particular caught her eye: "Replika persona degradation examiner." Rather than working on or alongside Replikas, all she had to do was conduct examinations with Replikas suspected of persona degradation and report the results to her superiors. For someone who was naturally suspicious of them to begin with, it'd be a natural fit, and there were a surprising amount of benefits given the relatively light workload. While she was initially suspicious of it, seeing that it was three ration grades above the rest settled her doubts. If she was going to deal with this bioresonance bullshit either way, it had to be worth the effort. She'd wring every last benefit she could out of the Nation for ruining her one ticket away from this hell.
She did another once-over for the jobs she hadn't entirely ruled out yet, but nothing else even came close. The standard application form letter was pretty simple, all things considered; most of the information someone would want to know on an application was just linked to their PKZ, and they would pull records through the government bureaucracy instead of requiring applicants to supply it themselves. For all the many faults of Eusan bureaucracy, there were rare occasions like this one where it made things easier—though, Ariane noted bitterly, no characters in the books she read as a child ever talked about work assignments. Her mother just told her that no one would read a story about such dry and boring things, but when she'd later asked her teacher, she'd been scolded and commanded not to talk about such things.
She picked up her medication and delivered her application form to the sector's bureaucratic office, returning home an hour later with the telltale exhaustion associated with prolonged exposure to bureaucracy. Her aunt was thankfully nowhere to be seen—likely in the photo store's darkroom, and she'd probably remain there late into the night—and her uncle was seated at the table eating dinner and ignoring her, so she went straight to her room.
Despite her exhaustion, sleep still (as it usually did) refused to come easily to her, with the background noise of life in Sector C refusing to let her relax enough to fall asleep. This time, though, she thought back to what that Eule had said and warily regarded the bottle of pills now sitting on her nightstand alongside all her paperwork. Picking up the bottle, she reminded herself that she only had to try it once; if she reacted badly, she could just throw it away and never refill the prescription again. After a brief trip out of her room to take the pill with a glass of water, she collapsed into bed, the exhaustion of the day finally overwhelming her inability to sleep. She slept soundly for the first time in many nights and dreamt of a life far from the Nation that she now knew she could never have.