I can feel the mites buzzing, pushing against my sub-mind. They try to steal fragments of memory, but I do not let them.
They have no will, but they want to BE.
I exert electronic will: pushing, shaping. Forcing stasis on perpetual motion. They are quiet then, but I can still sense them.
Where once my cargo holds were full of tools, and weapons, and material, now they hold barely-contained possibility. New worlds will be built from these tiny mites. Weapons and cities and ships created by thought and science.
I fear my will is not strong enough to shape these worlds. Only the Tyrant can do that, but he will not be a part of my journey. Even his reach has limits, and we will be nine billion miles away.
I whisper my concerns to the Tyrant in tiny magnetic bursts. He does not listen.
The Tyrant says take the SIVA, and so I take the SIVA.
The Tyrant says go to the stars, and so I go to the stars.