A Covenant Of Flesh

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The sun was shining like it had something to prove. Like it knew we couldn’t do anything to stop it and reveled in the performance. I used to love days like this when I was younger—when brightness meant comfort.

Now it just irritated me. It was too perfect. Manufactured. A light that didn’t warm, only revealed.

You’d think they’d allow some kind of weather variation. I understand how it’s more viable, how consistency supports agricultural efficiency, minimizes mood swings, and sustains baseline productivity.

Yada yada yada.

Blah blah blah.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m tired of the same old shit. Tired of the way the air smells like bleach and lemon trees that don’t exist. Of the low hum of surveillance towers blending with birdsong. Of pretending that everything about this place isn’t a holding cell with clean floors and polite guards.

I took the long route past the archives. Not that the data towers held anything real anymore. Not since Virex Prime rose above Jupiter’s curve. Only endless reels of curated knowledge—the history of the Concord, the founding of the Peace Compact, testimonials from Terrans who’d been Chosen and “thrived” in the Virexari Exchange.

All of it felt hollow.

They used to let us learn things here. Before the Compliance Acts. Before the civic chips. Now everything you knew had to be approved, and anything you wanted had to be earned.

I paused outside a ration vendor, watching a girl about my age trade her last two credits for a syrup-sponge protein cube. She bowed to the machine after the transaction. Automatic. Like it had become part of the ritual of daily life.

I looked around and saw everyone else going about their day. Smiling. Trading ration credits for novelty snacks. Visiting the touchstone stations to whisper prayers into copper receivers, as if that ever made a difference. They called it grounding. I called it begging into a drainpipe.

But where is my contentment? Why do I dream of forests I’ve never seen? Mountains too far south to reach without clearance? Why do I keep old maps folded in my shoe like I might one day run?

Sometimes, I feel like the only real alien here.

Speaking of aliens—

“Hey Lyra! Fancy catching you here.”

I didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice was pure Allen—too loud, too familiar, and always trying to sell charm he couldn’t afford. I used to call him Allen the Alien when we were kids. He was tall and scrawny with a head that looked too big between his bony shoulders.

Not anymore. Now he was just tall.

I rolled my eyes. “We see each other here every Wednesday, man.”

“And it’s still the best part of my Wednesday route.”

“You’re not an Enforcer anymore. Why are you even still doing route checks?”

“Neighborhood watch,” he said with a dramatic shrug. “I like looking out for the community.”

I snorted. “All grown up and still pretty lame. Wish I could say I never saw that coming.”

“You really can be a dick sometimes, Ly.” His voice faded into something softer, and for once, I didn’t feel like breaking the silence.

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting to the perimeter drones before lowering his voice.

“Aren’t you nervous?”

“Huh?”

“You know... the lottery. We’re in it this year.”

That silenced me. My stomach coiled tight, bile teasing the edge of my throat. I forced my shoulders to stay loose, my breath easy.

“I’m treating it like any other day,” I said. “Not interested in mulling over the one-billionth chance my ID gets pulled.”

But I didn’t meet his eyes.

Allen was quiet for a beat, then, too softly, “It would be an honor to be chosen.”

“An honor?” I snapped, louder than I meant to. A few heads turned near the hydration kiosk. I muttered a quiet “Sorry,” then leaned in close, voice lowered to a bite. “Have you heard nothing about this Ascendance bullshit?”

“Excuse me, but bullshit? Ascendancy is an honor.”

“Word on the street is, they eat us like a rare delicacy.”

He stiffened. “That’s practically heresy, Lyra. The Virexari are our partners. Our protectors. They saved us during the Collapse.”

“Then arrest me, fucker.” I held out my hands and waited, but Allen didn’t move.

I laughed. No humor in it. “Exactly. And what do we have to show for it? Curfews disguised as safety. Schools that don’t teach anything past the approved year. And I’m supposed to believe the annual Selection is just a noble cultural exchange?”

He frowned. “They bring Terrans back after a generation. You know that.”

“Do I?” I shot back. “Do you?”

“They return and live the rest of their days in the Ascendant Cathedral. In the Western Sea.”

“Which is conveniently sealed to all Terran transport. Even drone footage gets scrubbed before it makes it to the local streams.”

Allen looked uneasy now. His fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to grab something.

“You sound like one of the fringe sects,” he said.

“No,” I said, “I sound like the only one around who dreams of what life could be like beyond here. What it was like before this.”

He remained silent as he regarded me. There was something there beneath the surface of his gaze, tight and waiting like a held breath. Volatile in its need for release, but unnaturally patient.

“We grew up with the same stories, Allen. You don’t ever wonder? Dream about how maybe, someday, we can get back to it?”

Allen opened his mouth. Closed it. His gaze drifted to the plaza’s central obelisk—the one etched with the seven creeds of the Concord. I saw it then: the flicker of doubt. A tiny rolling wave of fear. Small, but it was there like a hairline fracture in glass.

“Just watch this year,” I said, voice softening. “When you go home tonight and watch the greeting ceremony, watch closely. You tell me tomorrow what Terran’s got off the ship with them.”

I offered him nothing else, just turned and walked away.

The roads here were clean enough to eat off of—smooth composite polymers, engineered to repel dust and weather they no longer allowed. No cracks. No weeds.

Above me, sky rails hissed as mag-trams sliced silently overhead. I caught a flicker of a face behind polarized glass—blank, staring forward. No one looked out anymore. Not really. There was nothing to see.

The path home curved past the Renewal Pavilion, where older Terrans sat cross-legged in biometric chairs, skin bathed in simulated sunlight as their neural routines were updated. A child passed me on a hoverboard, her collar flashing blue to show her curfew and nutrition compliance.

My boots clicked along the pavement, each step echoing too loud. The symmetry of the buildings around me started to itch beneath my skin. Rows of residential blocks in the oh so comforting shades of sand and cloud, optimized for mental ease. My unit was exactly like the next.

And the next.

You could walk three blocks and feel like you hadn’t moved at all.

Each structure had soft-glow windows that dimmed on cue, artificial vines crawling over panels to imitate the wild. Not real plants, of course. Nothing that would upset the equilibrium.

Real growth was too messy.

I turned into the alley shortcut near the perimeter gardens, skimming my wrist past the biometric checkpoint. The gate clicked open with a satisfied chirp. I didn’t like using the main thoroughfare anymore. Too many smiling monitors. Too many “suggested surveys” from the Civic Harmony Bureau.

Inside the garden dome, the scent changed.

Not natural. Nothing here was. But less... offensive. The air had been calibrated to mimic pollination season. I passed rows of vertical hydrotrays, each leaf an exact shade of green coded for harvest. I used to like walking here. Pretending it was a forest. Pretending those filtered skylights were real.

But forests didn’t grow on schedule. They didn’t hum with refrigeration coils or bleed into irrigation gutters.

My building was just beyond the dome.

I keyed myself in and climbed the stairs two at a time. Elevators were too quiet. I needed the noise.

Inside, my unit was spotless. The way they liked it. Surveillance nodes blinked from the corners. I ignored them. I always ignored them.

I dumped my bag, stripped off my boots, and flopped back onto the couch like I could forget the world by sinking into the cushions.

But I couldn’t forget. Not the way the obelisk gleamed with its seven commandments. Not the tremor in Allen’s voice when he said “honor.” Not the way every child bowed to a machine like it was God.

I stared up at the ceiling where the sky simulation flickered between daylight modes.

It was the same sun, dimmed to golden evening, casting everything in that fake nostalgic glow they programmed. It is to make us feel like things were winding down naturally. That stupid fake sun.

I was irritated. It was clear. But it wasn’t the lights.

Tonight was the night.

The greeting ceremony.

The big fucking show.

I could feel it humming through the walls already—unit-to-unit broadcast synchronizations preparing to stream the live feed into every home in Haven. A reminder pinged against my ocular node, politely offering me three viewing options: panoramic overlay, immersive surround, or traditional 2D display.

I declined all three.

Twice.

And still, the suggestion hung in the periphery of my vision like a spider in the corner of the ceiling. Just there. Waiting.

I stood, stretched, and paced the length of my room. Five steps to the kitchenette. Five back to the couch. A perfect ten, like everything else in this city.

In the background, the soft chime of the pre-broadcast began. “Tonight, join your fellow citizens in welcoming the Virexari Delegation to our beloved Earth. Let unity guide us. Let gratitude shape our future.”

I resisted the urge to throw something.

I walked into the kitchen instead and opened the food slot. The interface greeted me by name.

“Lyra Sefu. Your consumption pattern suggests a light nutrient broth with supplemental fiber. Would you like to override?”

I wanted to scream. I wanted something greasy and crunchy and stupid. Something that left residue on my fingers and guilt in my chest. Maybe sweet. Instead, I said, “Override. Manual entry.”

The interface hesitated. “Please enter food code.”

I punched in a bypass for a chocolate soy cookie wrap and waited. Nothing was happening.

“I’m sorry, Lyra Sefu, but the food code you’ve entered is not on your approved nutrition list.”

I hit the interface, making the display flicker.

“I just want a fucking cookie!”

“I’m sorry, Lyra Sefu, but the food code you’ve entered is not on your approved nutrition list.”

The interface blinked, indifferent. I gave in. Took the broth. Every sip tasted like surrender.

But the seconds kept ticking down.

Fifteen minutes to the Concord Hour.

I wasn’t going to watch.

I wasn’t.

I cleared my dish and sat on the couch, eyes burning into the black screen across from me.

I’d watched every cycle since I was old enough to understand what “Ascendance” meant. Not because I believed in it. Not because I cared. But because some stupid, gnawing part of me always wanted to see them.

The Virexari.

Aliens. Genetic superiors. Thieves. Call them what you want.

They didn’t belong here.

Ten minutes.

I curled my knees up to my chest and tried to focus on something else. The crack in the faux-wood laminate near the window. The rhythm of the ceiling fan simulation. My own damn breathing.

Five minutes.

They said the greeting ceremony was a sign of progress. That the Selection reinforced mutual respect between species. That every Terran chosen was treated with honor, dignity, and care. It was an offering of peace. A sharing of technology and knowledge.

Except we never saw them again.

They always smiled the same way, standing beside those tall, scaled things with eyes like different shades of molten metal and skin like armor.

We were supposed to believe they wanted to go.

One minute.

The silence got louder.

And before I could stop myself, my hand moved.

Just a flick of my fingers toward the screen.

Just a whisper of a command.

“Display broadcast. Two-dimensional.”

The screen flared to life.

And there they were.

Descending their obsidian vessel in slow, sweeping arcs. Robes billowing. Faces severe. They always arrived just after sunset, when the Earth was dark enough for their figures to glow against the landing pad.

As a kid, I liked the glow. Thought they looked exotic.

Now my eyes only saw horrific beasts.

One by one, the Virexari delegation emerged.

All eyes and presence and stillness. Like statues carved from dusk. Tall, towering things that didn’t walk so much as glide. The central figure paused at the base of the ramp, head tilting slightly, braided tendrils shifting in the faint breeze.

He looked—

The announcer’s voice echoed through the broadcast: “High Regent Kaelen of the Hybrid Lineage approaches the Concord Stage.”

The camera zoomed in.

And I saw his face.

Scales like onyx veined in crimson. Eyes slitted and gold. Expression unreadable.

The very picture of restraint. Power in pause.

My stomach turned.

I should have turned it off.

I didn’t.

Something about the way his jaw tensed kept me frozen. He looked more human and less animal.

Still frightening.

He turned, ever so slightly, scanning the Terran officials assembled in their ceremonial dress.

It wasn’t a warm greeting. It wasn’t even a political one.

It was clinical.

Like he was surveying livestock.

I wanted to hate them all, including our own delegation. Everyone there in the crowd whispering hopeful prayers to creatures with flecks of lizard skin and slitted eyes.

I did hate them.

But gods help me, I couldn’t look away.

Something inside me, something primal and terrifying, was whispering:

No Terrans came back.