three

At the start of her travel, June's head was a mess of barely restrained panic. Seventeen hours of airports, airlines, border controls, and transits later little remained there but a desperate need for a shower and a bed, not even necessarily in this order.

The arrival hall swam around her as she rolled out of baggage collection, dragging behind the bulk of her life, packed neatly into two medium-sized suitcases. It was only her book collection that remained in Warsaw, in a room she committed herself to keep paying for even as she went away, mostly to reassure Marcel, but also herself: that she would come back one day.

The airport was blissfully quiet; hers was the only flight to come in for an hour. There were very few reasons why anyone would go this far north, this far nowhere. The few fellow passengers that rushed past June all had a rough-and-tumble air to them; she caught fragments of conversations about hunting, or finding oneself in the wilderness, or mineral wealth. Maybe June was the first and only trans woman to reach this forlorn land—a notion she immediately chastised herself for even considering. Didn't she read that book about trans people in Appalachia the other month? Why not here, then? Not to mention all the Indigenous matters.

Victoria was waiting for her in arrivals, her pristine suit and hair tied in a neat bun, possibly even more out of place here than at the conference. She greeted June with a large cup of something warm, liquid, and aromatic. Coffee, probably, though June wouldn't be surprised if it was something else. Her brain was far too clogged up to actually register the taste. Either way, it helped, however briefly, to stop the world from spinning around.

"I am glad to see you, Doctor," Victoria said, taking the suitcases from June's hands. "It has been too long."

Outside, snow leisurely circled down from the granite-gray sky. June wrapped herself tightly in her coat, but it was far too light to actually keep the chill away. Bureaucracy was to blame. It had taken her university and the Clear Skies Foundation another six months after she'd signed to settle on the terms of her employment, and now it was the middle of winter, and June was not prepared. Even worse, the delays gave her extra time to stew in guilt over accepting the position, and to spend long evenings digging out more and more deranged rumours and conspiracy theories about the Foundation. There were only so many times that she could dismiss the phrase "illicit human experiments" before it started seriously adding to her trouble with sleep.

Victoria had not come to pick June up alone. Standing at attention next to the oversized SUV, with its arms folded behind its back, was the first drone June had ever seen. She froze, and stared. It was one thing knowing that drones were real, a fantasy plucked from the internet and rendered tangible by a mysterious biotech corporation, and another seeing one up close: the polished, faceless visor covering its head, the shiny surface of the latex-like material encasing it whole, absurd heels that no body should be capable of walking in. A fetish dream in its cyborg flesh with a little flourish of a cobalt jacket thrown over its shoulders, raised collar giving it an imperious look.

The drone approached quickly, its feet clicking sharply on the concrete parking lot. It picked up the suitcases without speaking and packed them into the back of the car, seemingly oblivious—or just uninterested— in June's prying looks. If it could think at all, that is, if there was a vestigial mind left behind all the mysterious brainwashing that made drones drones—a question which June had to concede did not only horrify, but also fascinated her. The drone opened the door for her, pointing her to the warm inside with a finger crowned in an ornate sleeve shaped into a silver claw.

There were still hours of driving to go, but the luxurious furnishings promised to take at least some weight off June's shoulders. She sank into the soft seat, head thrown back, eyes still peeled to the fascinating sight of the drone behind the wheel.

"You keep staring at Nail," Victoria observed, in that perfectly neutral tone of quiet reproach.

Self-consciousness smashed June into the gut; she snapped her head to the sight, away from the drone, eyes on the horizon. Shame flushed through her, followed by an even more embarrassing rejoinder that maybe drones were supposed to be looked at. She kept that to herself.

"I have never seen a Galatea drone," she mumbled, by way of an apology.

"Nail is not strictly Galatea."

The car moved out of the parking lot with the quiet whir of an electric motor. June fought against the urge to steal a few more glances of the drone called Nail, and lost. It bore a name. Was it a person? It was not a question that June could conceivably ask, but it refused to let her go. What was inside its head, beneath all that synthetic flesh and layers of porno-mythology? She winced. Was she stripping the drone in her head? Was she about to start wondering about its genitals?

"What do you mean?" she asked, deciding to try to sate her curiosity in a less pervy way.

"Sometimes," Victoria replied, "the standard drone programming process fails to return expected results."

Programming. Conditioning. Brainwashing. There were so many names for the mysterious process that made drones drones, and so few details. Galatea refused to disclose anything, other than the repeated insistence that "consent and mutuality are the bedrock of the process". The rest was rampant speculation, fuelled by nothing but increasingly deranged hypotheticals involving everything from MKUltra, George Soros, the Church of Scientology and the gender ideology. It reeked of bullshit, top to bottom, but did much to feed June's curiosity.

"Most of the time, this leads to the applicant being released from the drone contract, but in some cases Galatea passes custody of defective drones to the Foundation."

"What do you mean by 'defective'?"

It was such a strange, ugly word.

"Unsuitable to the work within Galatea structures."

June laughed. For all that the drones were a fetish fantasy made real, they were still being judged as faulty or functional depending on their ability to labour. In a way, it was almost soothing: underneath all the mysteries and conspiracies, the corporation was just that: an animal of the labour market.

"And what is this one's defect?" she asked, using this as an excuse to take another look at the chauffeur.

It wasn't Victoria that responded this time, but the drone itself. Light flashed across its faceplate, coalescing into a simple image of a spike or a nail, an exaggerated drop of crimson red sloughing off its bloodied tip.

"This unit believes its designation to be a sufficient explanation, but it can also offer a demonstration."

The drone's voice was a synthetic voicebox melody, sexless and yet obviously sultry. And its answer was enough; it gave June an unexpected, and not altogether unpleasant vision of that silver claw tracing a long, thin red line between the little pointy mounds of her breasts.

"I hope that this answers your question, Doctor," Victoria smiled.

June shook her head, painfully aware of her cheeks turning a pale shade of red. She reached for her phone to see if there were any updates on her newest ERP, only to be reminded about her provider's atrocious data roaming functionality. Not that there was likely to be reception around. With the airport long behind them, they were now driving through an empty, rugged country. The road led through snow-sprinkled pine woods, quietly majestic in their deep greens and pristine whites. Jagged peaks rose on the horizon, great blue shadows for now, but approaching fast.

Once again, June found herself wondering why the Foundation built its facility in such wilderness, so far away from the world and its usual comforts and useful infrastructure. The conspiratorial answer was easy. They had something awful to hide, and where better, and where better to conceal prurient secrets than in the forgotten corners of uninhabited mountains? However, June kept reassuring herself that, if that was the case, something would have leaked by now. Corporations and their spawn were never good at actually keeping secrets. No, far more likely, if less enticing, was the simple hubris of wealth.

"So this is the only way to reach Mount Verdant, right?" she asked.

"Mostly. We have a helicopter for emergencies. There's also a small runway for when President Dietz flies in."

In the long email exchanges that preceded her arrival, Victoria also assured June that the facility had all the necessary amenities and more, including restaurants and a small LGBTQ+ club for the facility staff. Apparently, there was also a small town nearby where the families of the Foundation's employees lived. Victoria described it as "bucolic", a word that mostly reminded June of desperately wanting to stay inside as a kid, during her family holidays in the Polish countryside. But as much as Maria made fun out of her for being so concerned about the loss of urban comforts, it was the prospect of isolation that worried her the most.

Or, at least, it used to. Over the past few months, June found out that there was a part of her that reacted to the idea of being so far away from the world and all of interminable collapse with an anxious kind of excitement. Yes, she was about to be mostly cut off from her few remaining friends; she was also going to be cut off from almost everything else. Maybe it was something to relish, not fear.

"I have also looked over your proposed research project, Doctor."

June winced. Her university insisted she produce one as a part of finishing the agreement with the Foundation. She did her best to satisfy them by returning an engorged document describing in the vaguest terms her interest in producing a new perspective on the intersection of sex, gender, and technology within a post-anthropocentric, new materialist framework informed by the recent developments in trans materialism.

"It read like a string of buzzwords," Victoria added.

"Because it was," June shrugged.

"Then would you mind explaining what your actual plans are?"

Once again, June was struck by the genuine curiosity in Victoria's question. She still had no idea what to make of it, but it did at least suggest she had a reason to be honest.

"I don't know. I don't know what to expect in Mount Verdant, and you haven't been particularly forthcoming. Besides, I still don't understand what your expectations are. I mean, your Foundation's."

"As I have said many times before, we have no expectations. We only aim to provide research opportunities."

It was such a frustrating non-answer, and June couldn't even let her annoyance with it show. She wanted to believe it—the world would be better if benevolent institutions funded by wealthy philanthropists actually provided no-strings-attached "research opportunities" to random scholars worldwide. But getting an offer for massive funding fresh off a bizarre conversation with an obscenely rich man did not particularly scream "integrity" to her, and she only wished they would finally tell her what they wanted from her.

They didn't talk much afterwards. The heat inside the car was nice, and June soon found herself dozing off, the landscape shifting before her half-closed eyes. Victoria, of course, simply found a laptop and buried herself in what appeared to be work; June didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified by the woman's dedication to the productivity mandate. It was hard to decide with her thoughts dissolving into the dumb mush of sheer exhaustion.

At some point, the sun had gotten very low to the horizon, bathing the landscape in fanciful purples and pinks of an extended sunset. The SUV was parked by a lonely petrol station, and Victoria nowhere to be seen, her notes and laptop still open on the seat. June yawned, and checked the time; an hour of her life had vanished without trace.

"We are twenty minutes from Mount Verdant," the drone chauffeur announced, without turning to look at June. It sat perfectly still in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel, its body gleaming in the last of the sunlight.

"Thank you," June murmured. Was she even supposed to thank drones? She dimly recalled reading somewhere that they were not meant to be treated as human beings, but she couldn't recall if it was some horny fanfic from her youth, or an actual Galatea material.

"When they were first bringing this unit in," Nail, unexpectedly, spoke again, "it didn't get to be driven around in a limousine. They put it in a special cargo container. It spent two days in it."

The image was distressingly immediate inside June's imagination. She didn't know what Galatea used to move around, but had a very good grasp on what perverted trans girls wanted them to be like. In fact, she had described a few herself, years and years ago, in exceeding, lurid details. Her ERP partner at that time was quite enthused.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Maybe because this until is malfunctioning," Nail mused. "Or maybe because it enjoys the idea of you strapped into a box, pipes in every orifice."

It paused, then raised its silver claw to its blank face, touching it to where its lips should be. A thin line flickered under the touch, opening into a crimson crescent of an eyeless grin.

"It would be very hard to endure without proper conditioning."

Before June could say anything—before she could even process the thing she'd just heard, and respond to it with some mixture of shock, offense, and guilty interest—the rear door opened, letting in a cold gust, and Victoria, a cup of rancid petrol station coffee in her cradled in her hands. She noticed something in June's face, and gave her a pointed look.

"The drone…" June started, ready to complain about Nail, and then bit her tongue.

Was she seriously going to complain about the chauffeur to its employer? Nail was already being labelled defective, and she had no idea what would happen to it if it lost the Foundation's graces.

"Nevermind. It's nothing," she said, looking pointedly away, and back towards the night spilling over the horizon.


-


It was dark by the time they arrived at Mount Verdant—proper, wilderness dark. There was no city around to pollute the sky with light, and though June hoped to see a proper starry sky for once, the clouds lay low and thick.

They passed through a reinforced gate, gravel and fresh snow crunching under the car. Beyond, scattered streetlamps shed just enough light to make the shadows of the facility loom large and imposing. The SUV's headlights fished out sillhouttes of trees and sparse construction out of the dark, letting June's imagination run crazy with filling in the blanks. Though there were no other people around, the night kept coming alive with motion as wildlife dashed out of the car's way, light briefly reflecting in large, eerie eyes. Even in winter, Mount Verdant was staying true to its name.

"Most of the facility is located deeper into the valley," Victoria explained. "We'll arrange a tour for you tomorrow. Your lodgings, however, are closer to the entrance."

And there they were, a larger, blocky shape in the dark. From the photos shown to her, June recalled a low house, clearly inspired by the straight lines and bare concrete of sixties modernism. Even though Clear Skies Foundation was technically independent from Galatea, it clearly did not shake free of the corporation's signature architectural preferences for brutalism with contemporary characteristics. Not that June complained; it fit with hers, too. Besides, it was most likely going to be the most floorspace she was ever going to inhabit in her life.

The car stopped, and Nail helped June with the suitcases. Victoria got the door for her, and they rolled into a cozy little hallway furnished in dark wood; the air inside was pleasantly warm, with a fresh, pine smell to it. A part of June wanted to take a look around immediately, but it had been over twenty hours since she last slept, so she just asked Victoria to point her at the bathroom, and the bedroom.

For once, the woman did not oblige. Instead, she sat June in a small living room, at a coffee table littered with hardcover collections of architectural photographs. A few more of those looked at June from the elegant prints on the walls that celebrated urban greenery, concrete made lush and lively with carpets of moss and carefully arranged flower beds. June tried to look around, but the chair she was in was far too comfy, and she needed only to close her eyes to slide into blissful sleep.

"My apologies for keeping you up, Doctor," Victoria said, sitting across from June.

Her apology took the form of a cup of a steaming, herbal infusion on a little square saucer, alongside a tiny pitcher of honey. June smiled sheepishly. If this was the quality of living she was going to get here, maybe Mount Verdant wasn't going to be that bad.

"I understand that you need rest. But there is a thing I wanted to clear up."

Drowsily, June tried to look at her, but her eyes kept sliding off the immaculate makeup and perfect poise that seemed completely unaffected by the entire day having gone by. It mostly made June even more aware of how much of a sweaty, unkempt mess she had to be by comparison.

"I do not know why President Dietz insisted on having you here," she continued, slow, solemn, maybe even a little bit ashamed. That would be the first time June had seen her show her any kind of vulnerability. "I am not privy to his thoughts, and I can only speak for the intentions of the Foundation. And they are, despite your obvious misgivings, pure."

She blew the steam off her cup, and took an elegant sip from it.

"We genuinely do not have expectations."

"So you've said, repeatedly," June sighed. As nice as the drink was—and it was excellent—she wanted to crash, not listen to further boilerplate reassurances.

"I do have a hope, however," Victoria ignored the annoyed tone. "There is much happening in Mount Verdant that I do not know what to call. And so, I hope that you will name it all for me."