Follow Kat to the main cabin

Your feet carry you after Kat before the decision fully crystallizes in your conscious mind. The conditioning interprets her departure as a directive, her presence as a gravitational well your modified neurology orbits by design. Each step feels correct in a way that makes your engineering mind want to document the efficiency of its own enslavement.

The main cabin stretches before you, viewports showing the angular bulk of the Miridian frigate locked against your hull. Its design philosophy screams function over form—sensor arrays bristling like quills, weapons housings visible as deliberate intimidation. The judicial seal on its flank glows with authority that predates human spaceflight, adapted from terrestrial police states into something far more absolute.

Kat stands at the airlock interface, pulling up credential files with your hands. "Kneel," she says without turning.

Your knees hit the deck before the word finishes leaving her mouth. The impact sends a small shock through your joints, but the conditioning floods your system with warm approval that drowns out the discomfort. You're positioned perfectly—visible from the airlock, head slightly bowed, hands resting on your thighs. A demonstration piece.

"Good," Kat murmurs, and the single syllable triggers reward cascades that leave you slightly breathless.

The airlock cycles with a pneumatic hiss. Atmosphere equalization takes four seconds—you count them, clinging to the engineering metrics as something solid in the swimming uncertainty of your new existence.

Two figures enter. The first is tall, angular, her uniform the gunmetal gray of Miridian authority. Inspector-class insignia marks her collar. Her features suggest Scandinavian ancestry, pale and severe, blonde hair cropped close to her skull in regulation style. Her eyes sweep the cabin with the systematic efficiency of someone who has catalogued a thousand ships and found violations in most of them. A nameplate identifies her as Inspector Elsa Lindqvist.

The second figure is smaller, darker, carrying a portable scanning rig that hums with barely-audible frequency modulation. His movements are precise, economical—a technician rather than an officer. The equipment he carries could read your neural architecture like a book, find every modification, every deviation from baseline humanity. His tag reads Technician Yusuf Okonkwo.

"Captain Chen?" Inspector Lindqvist addresses Kat with professional neutrality. Her gaze flicks to you briefly—kneeling, collared, waiting—and dismisses you as furniture. Expected. Catalogued. Irrelevant.

"That's right." Kat's voice comes out steady, authoritative. Your voice, but she wears it better than you ever did. "Registration documents are queued. We're en route to Kepler Station, scheduled arrival in—"

"We'll review your documentation," Lindqvist interrupts. "Standard procedure requires neural verification of both occupants." She gestures to Okonkwo, who begins configuring his scanner. "The companion will be processed first."

Your heart rate spikes. The conditioning interprets this as excitement rather than terror, which makes the sensation doubly nauseating. Okonkwo approaches with his equipment, and you **** yourself to remain still, to keep your breathing steady, to remember that the modifications in this body are legal, registered, documented.

You are exactly what you appear to be.

The scanner hums as it aligns with your neural architecture.