Lydia Tereshkova felt absolutely ridiculous.

She was currently sitting in a plush office, decorated with wood paneling on the walls, velvet curtains on the windows and several large, overstuffed leather chairs dyed a deep shade of red. It was all fake, of course, synthetic and manufactured; USSE geneticists had only recently begun to restore Earth’s forests from extinction, so real wood for use in furniture was nonexistent. Relict populations of cows still existed on the orbital colonies and the moon, usually altered to be suitable for life in space, but Earth-bound bovines would not be resurrected for many decades yet, thus making real leather a vanishing rarity. This office was all synthetic plastics and carbon plates and algae-fibers, trussed up to look like wood and leather. Even the sunlight peeking in the windows was fake; there were no portholes this deep in the belly of the Radiolaria Galactica. All in all, it was a very convincing illusion.

Lydia had a hard time appreciating the sophistry of her surroundings, however, trapped as she was in a rather absurd scenario. You see, alighting on her lap was a large, fluffy and altogether grumpy looking Persian cat, who was eyeing her with a sharply analytical gaze. Gingerly, she reached out and scratched between his ears, and he purred in response.

This was the ship’s counselor, Mr. Snuggles… and Lydia, already disinclined to go to therapy in the first place, felt all the more silly that her therapist was a talking cat.

“Now, shall we begin?” Mister Snuggles said in a deeply resonant male voice. Lydia thought he wouldn’t have sounded out of place narrating trailers for hit films, which made the absurdity of the situation all the more pronounced.

“Uh…” she responded helpfully.

“Why don’t you start by telling me about your day, meow?” said the cat, pronouncing ‘meow’ like a human might instead of making an attempt at a realistic feline noise. He punctuated this by licking his paw before rubbing it on one of his ears.

Lydia rolled her eyes; that was such a therapist thing to say. “Shouldn’t I begin by telling you about, I dunno, my traumas? My parents? My depression? All the reasons I’m here in the first place?”

“Oh no, I have all that already. It was in your service file,” Mister Snuggles responded. He was an AI after all, holographically projecting himself as a cat, so downloading every detail the Revolutionary Army had collected about her life took him mere microseconds. “More to the point, Ms. Tereshkova, I know you don’t want to be here, meow.”

“…Call me Lydia,” said Lydia, reckoning being called Ms. Tereshkova would get very old, very quickly.

“Very well, Lydia. If you like, you can call me Snuggly-Wuggly.”

“No thank you,” Lydia instantly and coldly responded. “More to the point, Mister Snuggles, you’re completely correct. I don’t want to be here.”

“Indeed,” said the cat, pattering around in a circle a few times on Lydia’s lap before settling into a comfortable loaf position. “According to my files, you are here because you were ordered to be. That’s more common than you might think; soldiers tend to think they’re rough and tough and don’t need therapy, when in fact they’re the ones who need it most of all, meow. That said, the traditional approach, or at least the approach most commonly depicted in the cinemas, won’t work in such circumstances. So instead of me asking about your mother, we’re going to take this step by step, slowly and painlessly, and work our way up to the big stuff. To begin with, please tell me about your day.”

“Fine,” Lydia said bitterly, deciding to get this over with as quickly as she could. “Let’s talk about my day.”

******

There weren’t many people in the gym at 4 AM, and that was just how Lydia liked it. She’d always been an early riser, a habit she hadn’t broken even during her time on Mars. More to the point, she wanted the gym to herself; she couldn’t bear the thought of other gym-goers watching her with sympathetic eyes, whispering to themselves about the decrease in gravity that accompanied her presence, feeling sorry for her.

In other words, she didn’t want to be seen as weak. She’d gone through something similar when first adapting to her robotic legs, preferring to take her physical therapy in private and only present herself to others once she’d regained her old strength and range of motion. Now was much the same; as she sweated away at the bench, straining her arms to raise the weights towards the florescent lights on the ceiling, she did so with abandon because she knew she was alone.

Well, almost alone.

Kometka was there, of course. She was always there, stoic, unblinking, constant. Her presence was, in truth, a bigger source of comfort for Lydia than anything, because she knew Kometka would never, ever judge her, think her weak, think her pathetic. She’d lost appreciation for that fact during her time on Mars, but now it rebounded stronger than ever before.

And so, in the center of the cavernous gym, a half-robot woman from Mars lifted weights while a fully robot woman from a doomed alternate timeline watched. The only noise was the clanking of the bars, and the soft whirr of the air circulation.

At least until Kometka spoke up. “Alright, that’s enough for today,” she said firmly.

“What? I can keep going!” Lydia protested.

Kometka silently walked over and grabbed the weight, the one Lydia had been struggling to lift with both arms, in one hand… and effortlessly swung it back into its rack with a single smooth motion. “No, you’re done. Any more and you’ll start straining muscles. Let’s get breakfast.”

Kometka and Lydia had discussed this at length already, many times; Lydia wasn’t allowed to push herself. She was still biological, after all, from the hips up and from one eye down, and muscles could very much be ripped and torn by too much exertion. As she had done after the Third Great Surge, Kometka took on the role of Lydia’s physical trainer, with her primary responsibility being to care for her pilot in the ways Lydia often neglected to care for herself. Lydia had learned long ago that arguing with Kometka was futile at best and humiliating at worst, and so offered no further protest.

“Fine, fine,” Lydia said, standing up and grabbing a damp towel. “To the mess hall, then?”

“Zehra’s lab, actually,” Kometka responded. “I took the liberty of scheduling us a breakfast meeting. That mad scientist doesn’t take so much as a single minute off her work, so it was the only way we could see her.”

Lydia chuckled fondly. “Yeah, that sounds like her alright. Glad to hear she hasn’t changed in seven years.”

The two headed for the showers, and the warm breakfast that waited after.

******

“You know,” said Mister Snuggles as he stretched, “I think it would be good to have Kometka sit in on some of these sessions… later. Perhaps in a few months’ time, once we’ve established a baseline, meow.”

Lydia groaned. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Mister Snuggles eyed her, and one of his ears flicked. “You’re opposed to her presence?”

She shook her head firmly. “Not that, no. I’m not opposed in the least; wherever I go, she goes. I’m more annoyed you think this… therapy is going to stretch out past a few weeks.” Lydia spat out the word ‘therapy’ as if chewing on a particularly hateful swear word, the kind that would make church grandmas clutch their pearls in horror.

Mister Snuggles took note of Lydia’s feelings, but deliberately didn’t engage. “We’ll see, meow. Now, on to breakfast. This was the first time you’d seen Zehra in seven years, correct? I’d like to hear all about your reunion.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Fine. Did you ever hear the expression ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same?’”

“I have,” Mister Snuggles nodded, which was a sight far more adorable than it had any right to be; Lydia fought hard to maintain her bad mood.

“That’s an apt description of Zehra. To some extent, all my friends have changed in one way or another, except her. That’s oddly comforting, in its own way.”

******

Lydia stared, half-smiling, at the pair of legs that spilled out of the chest cavity of a Gravity Frame. Their constituent torso, arms and head were all buried deep in the Frame’s interior, although a small lion-like tail was poking out. Lydia resisted an urge to grab that tail and yank.

She cleared her throat instead. “Zehra?”

“Who? What?” echoed a voice from inside the Frame. “I’m busy!”

“One moment. I’ll handle this,” came a peppy voice from the side. An instance of Sveta, controlling a Telepresence Doll, gracefully swooped in between Kometka and Lydia. She screeched to a halt just in front of Zehra’s protruding legs and swiftly grabbed her tail, giving it a mighty yank. There was a yelp of pain from inside the Frame, followed by a loud banging and several smaller metallic clangs. When Zehra finally emerged from the Frame, she was rubbing a bump on her head and muttering a long string of curses in a language Lydia didn’t recognize.

"Ya bent el sharmoota! Ya bent el kalb el maseor! Kolly karah, ya Sveta!" She looked around wildly, hair frazzled and eyes full of rage, before spotting Lydia. “Oh hi, Lydia. Long time no see, gao~n.”

“That was a quick mood shift,” Lydia said, chuckling. “How come it hurts when your tail is pulled, though? Isn’t that thing fake?”

“Pshaw, as if the great Zehra Aslanbek would settle for a fake tail,” Zehra said proudly, placing her hands on her hips and thrusting out her chest while her tail swished around proudly. “It’s good to see you, Lydia, but weren’t you supposed to come in the morning, gao~n?”

Lydia blinked. “It’s 6 AM.”

“Wait, really? ALREADY?!” Zehra gasped, frantically looking around.

“Yup. 6:02:45, to be precise. You worked through the night again,” Sveta said, sounding stern.

“P’shaw,” Zehra said flippantly, flicking her hand at the wrist. “These Gravity Frames won’t invent themselves. Science marches on, gao~n, with the great and almighty Zehra Aslanbek in the lead!” She thumped her chest proudly as she sang her own praises.

“Science needs to march straight to bed, if you ask me,” Sveta retorted. “Squishy biologicals need to get their sleep!”

Lydia, whose cheeks had been puffing up larger and larger as she struggled to contain a laugh, let out a small whine, which caused everyone’s eyes to snap to her; even Kometka was shooting her a questioning gaze. Somehow, that last gesture pushed her over the edge, and she dissolved into a fit of rampant giggles.

“Y-You haven’t ch-changed a b-b-b-bit,” Lydia chortled, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I’ve changed tons!” Zehra shot back, grinning. “See all these gray hairs, gao~n?”

Lydia shook her head. “Not what I meant. You’re… you’re still you, still Zehra, almost exactly the same Zehra I know from seven years ago. Hell, you’re even still a biological human!”

Zehra made a bitter face. “Don’t remind me, gao~n. Well, since we’re the only two biological humans in the room, and it’s apparently morning already, shall we have breakfast and catch up?”

Lydia nodded. “I’d like that.”

******

“Hmm,” Mister Snuggles said, tapping his chin with his paw. “Does most of your friends becoming uploads bother you?”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m not bigoted against AIs, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t see how any child of Mars could be. It’s just… uh…”

Mister Snuggles tilted his head and patiently waited for her to find her words.

“I…” she stammered, “everyone is… I spent the last seven years holed up on Mars, hiding from everything and everyone. And now that I come back, everyone is a robot, and married, and they’ve moved on with their lives while I stayed frozen in time. It’s disconcerting. I think seeing Zehra still biological, still much the same as she was before I left, grounded me. Does that make sense?”

Mister Snuggles nodded. “It does. The upload process raises a lot of metaphysical questions, changes the way we interact with life and death and ourselves. For you to suddenly be confronted with all that, all at once, must be overwhelming, meow.”

Lydia sighed and motioned to her legs. “Look at me. I’m half-robot already. Hell, my girlfriend is an AI. I’m the last person who should be weirded out by all this, right?”

“Not at all. Your unease is reasonable, and your concerns are valid. These things take time, Lydia.”

“I suppose,” she admitted. “Still, that’s why what Zehra told me next was so reassuring.”

******

“To be honest,” Lydia said as she munched on a stale algae muffin, “I’m surprised you haven’t done the upload thing yourself, Zehra. You invented it, after all. Do you have concerns about its safety?”

Zehra wiped some crumbs off her lips, then shook her head emphatically. “Of course not, gao~n. The process is completely safe, and we’ve never lost anyone. I don’t design unsafe technology, gao~n!”

“Then why…” Lydia trailed off.

Zehra’s eyes glazed over, and her face darkened. She hunched over, seemingly shivering. “Technically, the upload process involves killing the original biological body. The prospect of dying is…”

“Terrifying,” Lydia finished. She understood that fear all too well.

“Yes,” Zehra responded, seeming very small. “More than that, I don’t want to… I don’t want to risk anything that might cause me to meet HER again.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Her?”

Sveta cleared her throat. “It’s a sensitive topic, and one we literally cannot talk about. Suffice to say, Zehra had a near-death experience she found unsettling, and that’s the source of her hesitancy.”

“Hmm,” Lydia said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I understand that all too well. Confronting the source of one’s trauma can be hard.”

“Indeed, gao~n,” Zehra replied, and a long silence descended over the breakfast table. Even Sveta wasn’t sure what to say. Kometka, meanwhile, just studied everyone with her unblinking red eyes and perfect poker face, adding to the awkwardness.

It was Lydia who finally broke the silence. “These muffins suck.”

“They do, gao~n,” Zehra said, eagerly seizing on the change in topic. “Ah, how I miss Vicky’s cooking. Hell, I’ll admit it, I miss Vicky altogether, gao~n. How dare she run off to farm on the moon and leave me all alone?”

Lydia snorted. “You miss her, huh? Even including her thigh-baring short skirt?”

“ESPECIALLY that, gao~n,” Zehra said emphatically, and the two burst into laughter. Sveta looked at them both with a soft but worried smile.

******

“And that’s about it. Everything after that was simulator training and boring meetings with staff officers. Certainly nothing worth discussing,” Lydia concluded.

“I see,” Mister Snuggles said, leaping off Lydia’s lap and pattering over to his desk. He bounded up onto it with a graceful jump, then turned and stared at Lydia. “If I may ask a difficult question, then?”

Lydia shrugged. “Sure.”

“You mentioned to Zehra that ‘confronting the source of one’s trauma can be hard.’ In your case…”

“You’re talking about Moby,” Lydia interrupted, her voice low and filled with anger.

“Yes, I am,” Mister Snuggles continued calmly. “You willingly came back to this ship knowing she was here. The Admiral offered to keep you apart, and you refused. Why?”

“…I don’t know,” Lydia admitted, her mouth twisted into a grimace. “Of all the things in my life that lack resolution, she’s the outstanding example. Maybe I just want to clear the air. Maybe I want to scream at her, cuss her out. Maybe I want to hit her in her smug face.”

“Because you hate her?”

“No, that’s…” Lydia stopped and took a deep breath. “I know it wasn’t her fault. She was used by the Sarcophage every bit as much as I was. She’s a victim too. It’s just… I don’t know if I can accept her as an ally. Not after everything I lost. I just want some kind of resolution, even if I don’t know what form it will take.”

“Hmm,” Mister snuggles said pensively. “I think, for the moment, it would be better to stay clear of her, at least until you have a better handle on what exactly your feelings towards her are. Perhaps a month or two in the future, we could arrange a meeting under controlled circumstances, here in my office. Or not, the decision is entirely yours. Either way, this is something you need to confront, Lydia. Not immediately, not now, but soon.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”

*******

Destiny is a funny thing, a comical admixture of tragedy, hope and irony in equal proportion, a motive force that delights in causing the unexpected and chaotic. Lydia finished up her session with Mister Snuggles in a rather foul mood, but also felt strangely relieved. Somehow, letting out her emotions as she did had relieved a pressure inside her, despite her glowering. She felt strangely light as she walked back to the ship’s turbolift with clanging, determined steps.

Then destiny, that rapscallion, played its trick.

The turbolift door hissed open, and Lydia’s jaw dropped. Inside the lift car was… herself. Sort of, anyway; this version was a decade younger, and in contrast to Lydia’s short-buzzed hairstyle, her doppelganger’s reddish hair hung down to the small of her back, neatly styled in a utilitarian straight cut. Her eyes had black sclera, and her pupils were slit like those of a lizard. As she spoke, Lydia caught sight of a dozen sharpened, glinting teeth.

“Oh,” Moby said, surprised.

Lydia stared. She had not been expecting this, and wasn’t sure how to react. The turbolift door, obstructed by her foot, beeped angrily as it tried to close.

“Hey,” Lydia said, her anger drained away into a vast pit of nothingness.

“Hey,” Moby replied. “I can take another…”

Lydia stepped inside, and the door whooshed shut behind her. “No, it’s fine. I’ve been wanting to talk anyway.”

Moby’s eyebrows raised. “Really?” she asked apprehensively.

“Yeah,” said Lydia, and she took a deep breath. “This is… this is hard. I…”

“Take your time. You’re under no obligations to me, Lydia,” Moby responded softly, her tone at harsh juxtaposition to her feral appearance. She shrank into one corner of the turbolift, so as to give Lydia more space.

Lydia took another deep breath and clenched her firsts. “Right. I just wanted to say…”

Just then, a loud klaxon sounded through the turbolift, followed by Laria’s voice.

“BATTLE STATIONS! ALERT 15! ALL ALERT SQUADRON FRAME PILOTS, PREPARE FOR LAUNCH! ALL HANDS, PREPARE FOR EMERGENCY WARP!”

“Laria?” Lydia asked into thin air. “What’s going on?”

A small, six-inch tall hologram of Laria’s head and shoulders popped up in midair. “We’ve received a distress call from Barnard’s Star. Apparently, Sveta and Hunter are in trouble. We’re moving to rescue them immediately. Lydia and Moby, please proceed to the CIC sphere at speed for a briefing with the Admiral.”

“Understood. We’re on our way,” Lydia responded, and the hologram vanished. She turned to Moby. “Talk later?”

“If you want to, yes,” Moby replied. “Lift, take us to the CIC sphere please.”

With an affirmative ding, the lift zoomed away in its pneumatic tube, taking the two not-quite-enemies to the ship’s command center. Elevator rides with more than one passenger are, by their very nature, awkward and uncomfortable things… but this particular one ramped that up to a frankly ridiculous degree.

In that moment, Lydia would have given anything for some elevator music.