There is only the suit now, and Brisbane is barely aware of it. There is no more pain, no more feeling. He is a passenger in his own body. Carmilla is fully at the driver’s seat, telling each limb what to do, judging sensory input and acting accordingly. The AI isn’t even talking to Brisbane any more, not even cursory requests for permission. Having taken bodily autonomy from him, permission seems passé.

It’s like watching a film, or playing a game. He sees his arms swing and his boots make steps on the alien landscape. He sees his head swing round and his hands scoop up water from a spring. He cannot taste this water, but it doesn’t matter. Carmilla is maintaining hydration. She snatches up floating fungus balls and sucks nutrition out of tangled hyphae.

He has walked and jogged without rest since the Clandestine came down. He has been fed rations from the ship. He has to admire the damn software. It is committed. As for Brisbane, his self is just waiting for the brain to die. His body is a zombie in thrall to military AI. Magnificent suit. Advanced Interface Agent indeed.

Rocky terrain gives way to grass, scrubland, trees. Wild animals he cannot identify attack, but Carmilla emits a painful sonic assault and they whimper away.

There is a strong signal that Carmilla has Brisbane head to. He can see the pulses of its transmitter and the directional aids in arrow form. She will drive this body on this vector until it either arrives or dies. Brisbane isn’t even sure the suit wouldn’t continue after the heart stops and the brain activity ceases.

A house in the wilderness. Brisbane watches as his body walks a wide circuit of it, spots a vehicle, a jeep or something, overrides its security and drives it towards the beacon. There is some shouting, but Carmilla chooses to ignore it.

The jeep makes good time off-road, and the terrain improves as they close in on the beacon. The trip changes to a single road cutting through the wilderness, which might lead to the signal.

Bio-indicators on the visual field begin flashing red. Brisbane is too far gone to understand them.

The jeep stalls, sputters and stops; batteries dead.

The alarms—

When Brisbane comes to, he is staring at the stars. The sky is in the middle of a pretty meteor shower. He is supine in the back of a truck, along with sacks of a potato-like root. Hitching? Or did a good Samaritan pick him up? Either way, Brisbane realises something shouldn’t be happening here. This is food. He is toxic. His Exotic effluence will kill those who come in contact with it. Or those who eat these potatoes.

“Carmilla,” he says. Or does he think he says it? Is it in his mind? There is no response, and he has no reason to believe she heard him.