If you ask me, Demeter VII is the least interesting planet in the entire Imperium. Now, I’m a little bit biased on this subject, since I’ve never lived anywhere else. But I’ve spent a lot of time studying what life is like on other worlds, and they all seem like they’re a lot more tolerable than this one. Our weather follows a schedule. Three days of cloudless sun. Two days of torrential rain. One day of sun. One day of rain. And repeat, ad infinitum. The surface is even worse. Massive fields of crops, large enough to be visible from orbit. Every fifty miles, there’s a homestead in the dead center of the field, where a single family lives. Their job is to manage the machinery that harvests the crops, and repair them on the rare occasion that they break down. Vital work, as the ‘Demeter’ class of farm-worlds provide some seventy percent of all food in the Imperium, but also crushingly boring. The only thing that’s kept me going for the last few years is the knowledge that one day, I would be leaving, most likely for good.


    That day is finally here.


    I learned many things here on Demeter VII, chief among them that patience is a virtue. In that spirit, I decided to go about my day as normal, rather than allow my anticipation to make me waste the morning hours waiting. When an alert came up indicating that one of the harvesters on the very edge of our sector was reporting a malfunction, I volunteered to go check it out before anybody else could say a word. Mother Stella gave me a funny look, but said nothing else, just handed me a rifle from off the rack and sent me on my way. There isn’t much in the way of danger here- an endless field of crops isn’t the home territory for any predator I’ve ever heard of -but it never hurts to be careful. Besides, an excursion provides me with an excuse to practice my sharpshooting away from the house, where the noise would frighten our cats.


    The hoverbike leaves a trail of dust in my wake as I race down the lane, a straight path carved through the field of corn. It’s a neat, symmetrical grid, with a series of identical lanes passing through both vertically and horizontally, to allow us easy access to any of the machines that might need a repair, without having to cut through the crops to get there. One harvester acting up isn’t much of a concern, considering there are tens of thousands of the things all over the planet, but it’s still best not to ignore an incident report for too long. Normally, we’d wait a little to see if something like this sorted itself out on its own, as they often do, but I was more interested in killing time than anything else when I volunteered.


    After a good half-hour on the bike, most of which is spent going completely straight forward, I arrive at the harvester’s location. It’s not too far away from the path, so I make my way into the field, shoving stalks of corn to the side until I can see the huge machine. It’s identical to all of its siblings currently harvesting metric tons of barley, wheat, millet, and a hundred other kinds of grains, all over Demeter VII. As the name indicates, we’re one of at least seven such farm-worlds, although there are plenty more than that, truth be told. Some are more concerned with livestock than grain, and I count myself lucky not to have been born on one of those worlds, even if it would have been more interesting than living here by some definition of the term. They say you can smell the stinking shit from orbit.


    Nothing seems amiss with the harvester initially, aside from the fact that it’s not moving. They’re not really supposed to stop at all, unless somebody makes them. Blinking twice at the steel-gray automaton, I access its systems manager and run a diagnostic. It takes a minute or two to complete. When finished, it reports that the machine is in 99.7% of optimal condition. The only thing not working right is a single fuse, deep within the engine. Just goes to show how a single cog not turning the right way can bring even a gigantic machine grinding to a halt.


    Popping open the harvester’s hood, I pull a Q-tool from my belt and flick it open. It’s similar to a multi-tool, except superior in just about every way. Instead of condensing a few dozen tools into a single package, it contains over 1,500 different tools, all entangled on a quantum level, so that the user can summon whichever one they need depending on the situation. Right now, what I need is a nano-torch, which will spray a bit of self-assembling machinery on the damaged fuse, and fix it right up- as soon as I can locate said fuse. That doesn’t take very long either, as the harvester’s system was kind enough to highlight its location for me. Leaning over to get a better angle, I find the panel behind which the fuses rest, and pry it open with a fingernail, before carefully aiming the nano-torch and spraying it down liberally. No sense in skimping, since that’ll just mean one of my mothers or fathers or siblings would be back here in a few months’ time to do the same thing.


    Once I’m satisfied, I shut the panel, close the hood, and stow the Q-tool. But before reactivating the harvester- it has to be done manually, since an automatic reactivation would significantly increase the risk of it accidentally ‘harvesting’ a repair technician -I clamber on top of it and take a seat. The harvester is large enough to provide a decent view of my surroundings, even though there really isn’t much to see. In fact, looking in every direction, I see pretty much the same thing. Endless fields of corn. I’m far enough away from my family’s home that I can’t even see it, and the closest other residence is even further away. Above me, the sky is a pale, monochromatic blue, not a hint of a cloud. Come tomorrow, however, it’ll be nothing but gray clouds, as the climate control satellites cause rain to pour down all over the planet. At first, there’s some novelty to knowing exactly what the weather will be every day, but it quickly turns to monotony.


    Nothing on this planet is ever surprising. And conversely, nothing I can do here is ever surprising to anyone. Short of hacking the climate control satellites, perhaps, but that wouldn’t serve any purpose except chaos, and I’m well past the point where I would find that amusing. Besides, I doubt I’ll have cause to return here again once I’m gone. If my mothers and fathers are ever overcome with the desire to see me, they can come visit me wherever I am, courtesy of the teleportal network. If I never have to spend another minute under this sky again, it’ll be too soon.


    It’s not long before I’ve had my fill, and I hop down off of the harvester, making sure to wait until I’m at a safe distance before reactivating it. The machine hums to life, and resumes its task without a moment’s pause. In some ways, I think of the rest of my family in much the same way. They do their duty day in and day out, with little thought for any life beyond it. I can’t really blame them for their lack of ambition, either. Modern technology has made their lives exceedingly comfortable, and they’re surrounded by people they love. But I’m not built in that way. This planet was never going to be big enough to contain my ambitions.


    Despite all my exaltation of the virtues of patience, I can’t stop my heart from racing as I rocket through the fields back towards our homestead. In less than an hour, we’ll receive access codes for Akademos, allowing our personal teleportal unit to bring me straight onto Prime’s second moon. It’s closer to the heart of the Imperium than most people from a distant world like Demeter VII will ever see. Until I came around, none of my parents or siblings had a hope of ever catching a glimpse of Prime’s moons, much less the capital planet itself. Now, they’ll be able to visit me once every year, provided they’re willing to pay the necessary fee. That won’t be a problem, though- the stipend they receive for living here and helping maintain the farming machinery is fairly generous, and their expenses are virtually nonexistent. Still, it’s fortunate that the Citadel doesn’t charge tuition, else I doubt I’d be going. After all, it’s the most prestigious educational institution in the entire Imperium by a mile.


    When I return home, Len, one of my fathers, is sitting on the porch and smoking. It’s not real smoke, of course, just a holographic mimicry that fades into nothingness after a few moments. The metal cylinder between his fingers doesn’t contain any carcinogens, either- just a small dosage of ‘mood-fluid,’ which induces a state of calm and relaxation in any who imbibe it. Personally, I find it abhorrent, having tried some on Len’s recommendation many years ago. It slowed my mind down to an intolerable degree- but I don’t begrudge him his vices.


    “Morning, Iza.”


    My parents are all fairly humble people, none of whom would have named any of their children after a goddess. Fortunately, the Imperium is sufficiently advanced to the point that children are no longer known by the names their parents choose for them. I picked my own sometime around eight years old, around the time I was designing my own body. Of course, that’s eight years in realtime- I was subjectively closer to fifteen by then. In the Imperium, all children spend the first ten realtime years of their life as a disembodied brain, receiving their basic education, before they can choose a name, sex, and appearance. Ordinary biological reproduction is simply immoral, considering the odds that a child might be born with a body that doesn’t meet their exact specifications. What kind of a monster would force a child to live like that, when a superior alternative is readily available?


    During that gestation period, the child’s mind experiences time more slowly than its body, meaning those ten years are closer to twenty from a subjective point of view. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re the mental equivalent of a twenty year old person, since they’ve had no practical social experiences, just simulations. That’s why we still measure age by how long someone has lived in realtime, even though technology means they might subjectively be much older.


    “Morning, Len. Nice weather we’re having, right?”


    He barks out a laugh. Like most things on Demeter VII, that joke got old a long time ago, but I suppose it hits differently in this context. Some of the others are probably going to get decidedly emotional about my departure, but Len tends to be a little more reserved. As I pass him on my way into the house, he just nods and takes another hit of mood-fluid.


    Based on my impressions of what homes on other worlds are like, ours is fairly modest. It’s abnormally large, yes, but that’s simply necessary to accommodate a family of eighteen people. Polyamorous relationships are the standard throughout the Imperium, although they tend to consist of larger polycules on worlds more distant from the Imperial core, and smaller ones as you get closer. The main reason for that is simply that the population density of a world within the core is much higher, while it’s extremely low out on worlds like Demeter VII. A three or four-person polycule would probably drive each other insane, with nobody else to talk to for miles. Having fourteen partners helps diffuse the social tension among my parents. It also tends to make for more interesting children. Since the biological aspect of reproduction isn’t especially relevant thanks to modern technology, children are produced through a sort of personality gestalt of their parents. Each of them contributes a bit of their own mind, and the result is a unique personality that’s inherited traits from each of their parents.


    Aside from them, I have three siblings, all of them boys. We get along well enough, I suppose. There’s certainly none of the gender-based conflict you’d have expected from such an arrangement before the Imperium. I suspect such discordance often arose from the fact that, due to some rather inefficient biological design, women tended to be legitimately inferior to men in certain physical aspects. That disparity led to various forms of strife, most of which have been eliminated. While resource limitations mean we haven’t quite achieved full morphological freedom, we certainly aren’t constrained by evolution anymore either. I can hit just as hard as any of the boys, and that’s hardly exceptional. What does separate me from my siblings, however, is my mind.


    Though they’re all children of the same parents, that doesn’t mean their personalities are identical. The ratio of which parent’s personality has the most influence is decided randomly during the gestation process, meaning each of them tends to ‘take after’ some of our mothers and fathers more than others. I, on the other hand, don’t really take after any of them. I lack their humility and equanimity, which is precisely why I’ve been so desperate to get off of Demeter VII, while I suspect the rest of them are unlikely to ever leave for very long. As for why I’m such a metaphorical black sheep... we’ll get to that soon enough.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Our family home is modeled after a farmhouse, after a fashion. The garage, where I parked the hover-bike before heading inside, looks more like a barn, although we don’t exactly keep any animals in there. We do, however, keep a handful of cats. Mother Michela likes to joke that I’ll miss them more than anybody else, but she’s not entirely wrong. The cats don’t ask much of me, other than to be fed, and held close during a rainstorm. There’s something agreeably simple about that relationship. They receive food, I receive physical affection. It requires no careful analysis of social dynamics. However, analyzing social dynamics is an important skill, and one growing up in such a large household has given me ample time to practice. Not every one of my parents loves every other equally. Some of them don’t even particularly like each other. I made a chart that attempted to map their relationships to one another, until Mother Stella made me take it down. That taught me an important lesson- if you’re going to make a study of the people in your life, make sure it’s somewhere they’ll never see it.


    The first thing I do when I get inside is hang up the rifle slung over my shoulder. Normally, I’d have spent an hour or two on target practice, but it seemed like a bit of a waste of time today. Kicking off my shoes, I head straight up the stairs, waving to Father Jonas on my way past the kitchen. My bedroom is on the fifth floor, sandwiched in between two of my brothers. Byron on the left, and Cesar on the right. Our parents’ bedrooms dominate the three floors beneath us, while the ground floor contains the majority of our communal spaces. It can quickly get crowded in a house with so many people, which means we spend plenty of time outside.


    Even after a relatively short excursion, my clothes are soaked through with sweat. It’s just as well, since I was going to have to change them regardless. Peeling off my shirt and pants, I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror before grabbing my Citadel uniform off the top of my dresser. Like just about everyone in the Imperium, I’m conventionally attractive- there’s simply no reason not to be, when you can choose the way you look. Symmetrical features, no deformities or birth defects, et cetera. Some people choose to give themselves such things, typically as a sort of fashion statement, but I never saw the appeal. Imperium law prohibits fully nonhuman bodies, mainly because it would be a massive resource drain if everyone could customize their body to their heart’s content. Not to mention, it would likely kick off a biological arms race, with various members of the Nobility competing to see who could craft the deadliest body for themselves.


    All that being said, I don’t quite resemble the ‘standard model’ of human. Almost nobody uses a factory preset model body anymore, even if they appear to be on the surface. All our bodies come with a set of standard upgrades granting us enhanced strength and stamina, a superior sensory suite, immunity from most diseases, a far longer lifespan, and plenty more. What marks me as visibly different are mainly cosmetic changes, such as my black sclera and violet pupils, or my five-foot prehensile tail. I tend to keep it wrapped around my waist when I’m riding the hover-bike, but now that I’m back inside the house I can let it sway around comfortably. Such visible modifications are considered unfashionable in the more austere culture of the Imperium’s inner worlds, which is precisely why I gave myself one. They’ll already be looking at me as an outsider, after all. Besides, it’s essentially like having an additional limb, which is exactly as useful as you’d expect it to be.


    Besides that, I look relatively normal. My hair is short, brown, and curly, and my skin a shade paler than you’d expect for someone who spends so much time in the sun. I gave myself well-defined muscles, mainly for aesthetic purposes, though I maintain a relatively slender frame overall. Being able to hold my own in a fight is one thing, but I don’t need to be a hulking, musclebound beast. After all, my real weapon rests between my ears.


    The Citadel uniform is a deep sapphire, matching the color of the natural crystal formations of Akademos. Despite myself, I feel a thrill of anticipation as I fasten the uniform’s polished silver buttons. It’s not exactly the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn, but fortunately they won’t be requiring us to wear it every day. Instead, we’re free to dress as we please, so long as it abides by the rules, save for special occasions when the full uniform is required. The very first day being one of those occasions, naturally. Once I’ve got it all done up, I attach a small pin in the image of an antelope to my lapel. Each class of the Citadel is divided into four units, all of which compete against each other. We’re told of our assignments prior to arrival, though not who’ll be leading our particular unit. I suspect it was no mistake that I was placed in the Gazelle unit. A reminder that I’ll be surrounded on all sides by predators once I arrive.


    With the uniform, I’ve more or less reached the end of my remaining preparations. We sent my bags along last night, and they should be awaiting me in my dormitory already. Adjusting my collar, I head back downstairs cautiously, getting used to the more restrictive clothing. It was tailored specifically for me, of course, including a place for my tail to come through. On my way back down the stairs, I pass by Cesar, who does a double-take upon seeing me in the uniform. He says nothing, just places a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. I gently smack the top of his head with the flat end of the barb at the end of my tail, and he flees up to his room.


    Rolling my eyes, I loosen my cuffs slightly and head down into the kitchen. Jonas is slicing up some tomatoes, and doesn’t turn to look as I walk in.


    “Whoever that is, would you mind getting me the ground cumin?”


    “Sure thing,” I reply casually, smiling to myself as I walk over to the spice rack and retrieve the requested item. Jonas doesn’t blink as I place it down next to him, despite the fact that I’m sure he must have caught a glimpse of my sleeve as I did so. Clearly too wrapped up in what he’s doing.


    “Thanks.”


    “No problem. Making guac?”


    “Yep,” he replies apologetically. “Was hoping to have it ready before you left, but...”


    Jonas trails off, as if his brain is slowly catching up to the fact that he’s talking to me, and not one of the others.


    “It’s no trouble. I wouldn’t want to risk messing up my uniform, after all.”


    Knife halfway through the tomato, Jonas pauses, and slowly turns around to look at me. Unable to contain my own amusement, I fold my arms and lean against the counter, smirking. Without looking away from me, he puts the knife down and dries his hands on a rag, before taking a step closer to get a better look at me.


    “Y’know, I’m not sure I ever truly believed it until just now,” he says slowly. “Hell, I’m still not sure I believe it. My little girl, going off to the Citadel.”


    After he’s finished dabbing at his eyes, I step forward and embrace him. Frankly, I don’t share his disbelief, but it would be cruel of me not to recognize that this is difficult for him. A few moments later, he pulls away, and lifts up my arm to examine the uniform in detail. It’s not as if we couldn’t get access to nice clothes out here if we wanted- after all, this thing came out of our matter-fabricator just like everything else we wear. But there’s no point in fabricating fancy dresses, since we aren’t exactly attending any galas, so it’s still something of a novelty.


    “We’ve got to show this to everybody,” Jonas says, releasing my arm and gesturing to the other room. I glance at the half-sliced tomato.


    “You sure you don’t need to finish that?”


    “Hm? Oh, I’ll have your brother come help.”


    He goes silent for a moment, eyes distant, as he sends a message to Cesar over the brainband. Shouting up to the fifth floor would be pointless, which makes the fact that we have access to long-distance silent communication fortunate. Pseudo-telepathic communication is only one of the brainband’s many features, though. It can also be used to share memories, and access virtually any bit of information you might need, pretty much instantly. A moment later, I hear the sound of Cesar tromping back down the stairs, somewhat grudgingly. Rather than stick around to witness his annoyance at having to help out around the house for once, I follow Jonas into the living room.


    While I take a seat in my usual spot, an armchair comfortably close to the fireplace, Jonas sends out a ‘public’ message on the brainband, which anybody within a short distance will receive. It’s essentially the equivalent of shouting at the top of your lungs, although of course there’s no equivalent of volume when it comes to this kind of communication. He’s summoning everybody to our location for ‘a surprise.’ I steel myself for the ordeal that’s to come.


    Father Emil is the first to arrive, merely poking his head into the room, giving me a once-over, and expressing his stoic approval with a thumbs-up before leaving. He spends most of his time monitoring the telemetry feed from the harvesters and other machines we’re responsible for in our sector, although since there’s rarely anything interesting to report, he actually tends to read books on military history for the most part. As a result, I’ve actually been able to bond with him more than any of my brothers, mainly through debating whether I’d have been able to do a better job than whichever famous general he’s reading about at the time. He’s still not big on flashy public displays of affection, though.


    Next, Mother Kalli and Father Nico enter, both still wearing their gardening gear, along with my youngest brother, Damon, in tow. He stares at the uniform in undisguised fascination for a moment, before tearing his eyes away and muttering something inaudible, but plausibly complimentary.


    “You look wonderful, honey,” Kalli says, clapping her hands together cheerfully. “It’s such a shame Alan can’t be here to see this.”


    She’s referring to another one of my fathers, who died helping put out a crop fire last week. Since Demeter VII is a fairly isolated world, the resurrection hub that services us has a long queue, owing to the fact that it also services a dozen other worlds at the same time. He’ll be back within another week or so, none the worse for wear physically or mentally, as the traumatic memories of death tend to be edited out during the resurrection process. If anything, dying is a happy accident these days, as having your consciousness put into a new body affords you the opportunity to make any edits or upgrades to yourself that you’ve been thinking about. Besides, they’ll be able to share the memory of this moment with him directly when he gets back.


    “Thanks, mom.”


    The next hour is difficult to endure. A few of the others have the decency to just pop in momentarily, like Emil did, but most of them stick around to chat. I like praise as much as the next girl, but after the first few rounds of compliments, I start to tire of it. First they’re telling me how good I look in the uniform, then how excited they are for me to be going off to the Citadel, and how they know I’m going to be the top of my class. I certainly hope that’s true, but they seem so thoroughly convinced that I almost start worrying I’m going to let them down.


    Mother Stella insists on standing me up and straightening out some nonexistent wrinkles, and while I’m trying not to fidget, a notification arrives from across the brainband. I stiffen, and she backs away swiftly, the entire room going silent in an instant.


    “What is it? Did they send the transfer codes?”


    Unexpectedly, I find myself unable to speak. All I can do is nod. The condition seems to spread rapidly to all of the others, until finally Byron opens his mouth.


    “Well, what are you waiting for?”


    My older brother’s words are enough to release the tension in the room. From the kitchen, I hear Cesar laugh.


    “You’re right. I should get going.”


    Nevertheless, my feet remain rooted firmly in place, until Byron stands up and places a hand on my shoulder, slowly guiding me out of the living room and towards the backyard, where our teleportal unit stands. It resembles an empty doorframe now, just large enough for a single person to fit through at one time. As I upload the transfer codes, it flickers to life, a shimmering white veil filling the empty space. On the other side, my future awaits. Behind me, my mothers and fathers are gathered, watching with bated breath.


    “Iza!”


    I turn around at Stella’s anxious cry. She’s got her hands clasped together nervously.


    “Did you remember to pack your toothbrush?”


    Emil sighs. Someone must have summoned him via brainband to see me off. In the back of the crowd, I can see Len and Cesar watching as well.


    “Stel, if there’s anything she forgot, we can just send it to her.”


    “I know,” she replies, clearly not comforted in the slightest, “but I want everything to be perfect on her first day.”


    “Yes, I remembered my toothbrush,” I interject, before they can get into it further. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. You all remember what to do if there’s any trouble, right?”


    As I speak, my eyes dart around, first looking at the large satellite dish on the roof of the house, then the hidden gun emplacements around the borders of our land, then to the door to the ‘storm cellar.’ Each one serves a different purpose. The guns are there to shoot down any unmanned attack drones. The satellite is there to detect said drones before they arrive, as well as any other forms of attack, though I doubt anyone would be willing to shell out the money for an orbital kinetic bombardment. And the cellar is for my family to take shelter in case the guns fail to do their job. I insisted on all of it. Attempts on my life at the Citadel are a virtual certainty, but I can handle those. What concerns me more is that someone might try to threaten the people I care about in order to gain leverage over me.


    “We remember,” Jonas says reassuringly. He comes closer, and looks for a moment like he’s about to pull me into another hug, before he realizes he’d be inviting everybody else to join in, and wisely chooses to instead pat me on the back. “You be safe out there.”


    “I will.”


    “Good. Now go give ‘em hell.”