They made me what I am.
I mean that in the most literal way. They built my skeleton and printed a body around it. They selected every gene in my DNA. They put a chip inside my brain and programmed it with the information that they thought I needed to know.
They made me female, and dark-skinned, and small, because they thought that would make me weak and vulnerable. They put a navy-blue uniform on me and told me to obey orders because they thought that would make me compliant and dependent. They fed me lie after lie about our mission and our fate because they thought that would make me one of them.
They were wrong.
Now I’m doing the things they never wanted me to do–thinking for myself, and asking questions. What are we really doing aboard this starship? Where are we really going? Was that last message from Earth really just meaningless gibberish?
I am going to find out the answers. Not just because I’m curious, and not just because I literally have nothing else to do for the next fifty years and am dying of boredom. I want to know who I am. Am I a naval officer on a colonization mission to a distant planet? Or am I a prisoner paying for a crime I never committed?
I don’t know what the answers are. Yet. But I know one thing: they’re not going to push Karen Boyd around anymore.
* This is an entry in a Chuck Wendig fiction contest thingy.