Date Point 10y7m4d AV
Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth
Major Claude Nadeau
“Von Neumann machines.”
“So he says.”
“Actual Von Neumann machines.”
“Yeah.”
“…Tremblay does know how serious that is, right?”
Colonel Bartlett nodded. “I made it pretty clear,” he said.
Claude tapped his pen agitatedly against his leg. “So why the hell are we even entertaining this?”
Bartlett handed him the folder. Alongside the usual TOP SECRET warnings and the AEC logo of Allied Extrasolar Command, the proposed project’s name was on the first page.
Claude read it. “…GALACTIC VACCINE… Oh, no. Really?”
Bartlett nodded. “Yyyup. One of those cases of fighting a fire by lighting it early, eh? Or, uh, maybe setting off an avalanche before it gets too big.”
“And Tremblay wants me to head out there and oversee this?”
“He didn’t explicitly name you, but damn if I can think of somebody better to midwife that project… or overrule it and find something better.” Bartlett perched on the edge of his desk. “Claude, come on. You could have made lieutenant colonel two or three years ago. This is a huge career opportunity for you!”
“I’m happy where I am, Bear!” Claude replied, using Bartlett’s nickname.
’Teddy Bear’ Bartlett. So named because while he was usually a gentle and soft character, he had claws when they were needed. “Oh, man up!” he exclaimed. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than where you’re happy! Like some over-educated civilian threatening to unilaterally let loose the machine apocalypse!”
“Um-”
“No, Claude. If I can’t appeal to your career ambitions, I’m damn well appealing to your sense of duty. Besides, you get to go work with an actual Nanofactory!”
“…Merde.” It was the only word Claude could think of that properly summed up the feeling of being an ass that had just settled on him.
Bartlett had a sympathetic face. “Got you, eh?”
Claude nodded. “Got me.”
He read the document more thoroughly. “…Wait, this thing can build ships?”
“Theoretically, it can build pretty much anything. Now you know why Tremblay’s jumping at the request to put some men on it.” Bartlett indicated the appendix regarding defense spending and the cost of spaceborne assets. “This one station could slash our expenses. Heck, the bigger difficulty would be finding enough men to operate all the stuff we could make.”
“Suddenly I see why the Dominion is very careful to keep these out of a species’ hands that aren’t ready for it…” Claude mused.
“Hey, so long as we’re alive, we’ll adapt.” Bartlett returned to his desk. “And we still need to talk Kirk into letting us come on board.”
“I thought he asked us?”
“He could be Big Hotel now. And he’s probably worried of the same. I wouldn’t want to be there for that meeting…”
“Yeah. Leave the cloak-and-dagger to the…Cloak-and-dagger people.” Claude scratched his head.
Bartlett snorted. “Stick to the science, buddy.”
“Hey, there’s a thought!” Claude brightened. “Maybe with alien tech we can finally make some inroads on figuring out what the ’Huh’ is supposed to be.”
Bartlett scoffed. The Huh was a complete unknown that had come to them in the company of the Sanctuary’s surviving crew and it had defied everything they could do to try and map its internal structure. When all the non-invasive techniques had failed they had finally taken the plunge and decided to try destructive testing, only for it to shatter every drill bit, blunt every saw blade and sit calmly under the water cutter without so much as a scratch.
The best that Terran science had been able to deduce was that it was generating some kind of a force field that reinforced and altered its surface properties. It somehow managed to look uniformly matte-metallic no matter which way up it was held, and no matter which direction it was seen from. No matter how many cameras they surrounded it with, each one showed no distinguishing blemish, no surface features, and not even the most sensitive instruments could detect that it was anything less than perfectly spherical.
It didn’t even look quite real, and there were times when Claude would have liked to just shoot the damn thing, though he was beginning to suspect that anything which might be strong enough to crack its shell would just obliterate the enigmatic device entirely.
Bartlett had given up on it entirely. “Sure, knock yourself out,” he said. “I still say that thing’s probably just some kind of alien narcotic.”
“But if we can figure out how its surface reinforcement works…”
“Oh, sure! Energized armor plating? I can get behind that, no doubt.” Bartlett gestured in the general direction of the hangar where the stripped hulk of the recovered Hierarchy UFO was still being kept. “But we pulled things out of the flying saucer that we don’t have the first clue what they are or how they do whatever it is they do… but we will. Research is an iterative process, eh?”
“Right.” He was right, of course. Even ten years on, SCERF’s best and brightest still hadn’t figured out how the microgenerators that powered Hunter pulse guns worked, and those guns had been the first intact alien artefacts they’d had. Sometimes you just had to give up and go work on something else, which might hopefully yield the theoretical basis for returning to a previously mothballed project.
But something about the Huh, its connection to the declining OmoAru, and the sheer weirdness of it kept pulling at Claude’s attention.
He opened his email client and began drafting his formal letter volunteering for Mrwrki Station
Date Point 10y7m4d AV
The Box, Omaha, Nebraska, USA, Earth
Allison Buehler
Xiù had invented a new word on the drive back: “Happyxhausted”. She hadn’t needed to explain what it meant, on the grounds that Allison and Julian were both feeling the exact same way—They’d all had a happyxhausting day.
Not that they were actually exhausted. In fact, the three of them were still buzzing with delighted energy when they finally passed through the Box’s simulated airlock door and found themselves alone together for the first time all day.
The moment Allison realized that fact, she grabbed Xiù and they danced a bouncing circle in the middle of the hab that ended in a jubilant hug, before Julian chuckled and regained her attention.
He got a rib-bruising power hug. “We did it! We actually did it!”
He picked her up and spun her around, which earned him a long, deep, smiling kiss with her legs wrapped around his waist.
“Mmm… we did it,” he agreed. Now that there wasn’t a camera and men with suits to see, he’d relaxed and was allowing his joy and relief to show.
Allison giggled and kissed him again. “…I love you so much.”
He smiled and they were in the middle of rubbing noses when Xiù interjected.
“…Where’s my kiss?” she asked.
She was looking at Julian, but Allison was in a celebratory mood and got swept up in a mischievous impulse. She dropped lightly off him, took Xiù firmly round the waist and gave her the exact same treatment she’d just given him.
Xiù rewarded her first with a surprised squeak, then an involved one and a hand on the back of her head. This became a quiet, almost stunned moment forehead-to-forehead and nose-to-nose which dissolved into giggling without it being clear who had laughed first.
When they looked at Julian and saw the look on his face, that giggling only redoubled. Xiù had to stand on tip-toes to kiss him, then she pulled the couch out from where it lived inside the wall and flung herself onto it, flushed bright red and still laughing.
“Ohhh… Wow.”
“I think she likes it,” Allison beamed at Julian, then flicked her gaze deliberately and obviously down to the way the front of his pants was looking much tighter than usual. “And I know you did…”
He cleared his throat and went red in the ears. “It’s official, you’re evil,” he mock-groused, turning away and opening the fridge. He handed out three of their carefully rationed stockpile of beers—today was definitely a day for celebration—and after they’d twisted off the screw tops, the three bottles met with a firm clack!
“Cheers!”
“Hell yeah!”
“Gānbēi!”
Julian snuggled up next to Xiù on the couch to drink, and rather than squeezing herself in there as well—it wasn’t quite big enough for three, though as far as Allison was concerned that just made it cozy—Allison elected to stretch out across their laps.
As they drank their beers and enthused about the Misfit, two things happened—they steadily snuggled closer and closer into one comfortably intimate ball, and Allison became steadily more and more aware of a firm, warm, erotic pressure against her butt. It was getting very hard (hah!) to focus on anything else, in fact.
Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained…
She shot back the last of her beer and put it down. “You’ll never guess what I’m sitting on…” she told Xiù.
Julian promptly cleared his throat and swigged about half of what he had left in his bottle. For her part, Xiù laughed, and arched an eyebrow.
“Um… Julian?” she asked.
“Part of him…” Allison grinned. She wiggled her butt slightly and congratulated herself on the noise he made.
“…His lap?” Xiù was teasing him too. Encouraging.
“Part of his lap…” Allison scooted aside slightly and traced her fingers over the bulge in his pants.
“Hmmm…I don’t know!” Xiù laughed nervously and licked her lips. “Maybe you should describe it to me…”
“Oh, well!” Allison rubbed him more firmly and felt his breath catch in his throat. “It’s about eight inches long… About this big around…” she made a ring with her fingers in front of her open mouth and pantomimed a blowjob.
Xiù was already thoroughly flushed, but that scandalous demonstration set her trembling. “Oh, my! Eight?”
“Well… I might be exaggerating.”
“Hey!” Julian protested.
“I might be…” Allison repeated. She winked for Xiù’s benefit. “Wanna see for yourself?”
“Jesus…” Julian muttered, putting his head back.
“Ah-ah-ah, Etsicitty. Let us have our wicked way with you…”
He nodded, and swallowed. Xiù knocked back the last of her beer for courage, then sat up and watched.
Allison needed no better encouragement than that. She slipped her fingers under the hem of his T-shirt and slid it up off him, tickling his abs and making them undulate as she did so. Julian obediently—or eagerly, it was hard to tell which—pulled his shirt off and threw it in the general direction of the laundry hamper. His fingers played on the back of the couch as he reined himself in and let her do her thing.
The socks were next to go—Allison tugged them off and threw them away, and then tickled his hips as she slooowly slid his pants off, taking the underwear with them.
Xiù was chewing on one of her own fingers as she watched Julian brush Allison’s hair aside for a good view. Thoroughly enjoying herself, Allison slipped her hand around his cock and gave it a long, sinful lick from root to tip which made him shudder.
Both of them muttered something in pretty much exactly the same tone of voice at the same time, though exactly what language Xiù had used wasn’t clear. Allison grinned at her, congratulating herself on getting Xiù so worked up.
She slicked Julian up a little more, and sat back, stroking him. “So…” she asked. “Are you just gonna watch, or do you want to join in?”
Xiù’s expression was immediately that of a deer in headlights.
Then in a sudden burst of resolve she was on her knees alongside Allison, joining in. She slid her hand up Julian’s thigh, transferred it onto the back of Allison’s own hand and then inexpertly but eagerly took over.
Julian groaned and shut his eyes. He was always so wonderfully responsive.
“It’s…” Xiù licked her lips again, then laughed at herself, “…suddenly not so scary.”
“Uh-huh. He’s completely under our control. Isn’t that right, Etsicitty?”
Julian had his head thrown back and his arms covering his eyes as he gripped his own hair. “Goddd… yes ma’am.”
“Mm…. Good boy.”
Xiù half-laughed, but her attention was rapt now, and she had a… hungry expression, almost.
Allison wasn’t oblivious to the way she kept licking her lips. “He tastes good…” she hinted.
Xiù nodded, but she’d started shaking and Allison delicately took over from her again.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, and kissed her behind the ear. “You did great. It’s okay to let me do the rest.”
Xiù nodded, gave her a grateful glance, then climbed onto the couch where she cuddled up to Julian. She got his attention and kissed him, then rested her head on his shoulder and watched.
Allison put on her best show for her.
Date Point 10y7m5d AV
HMS Sharman, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Technical Sergeant Martina Kovač
“‘Horse!”
Arés was not in the here-and-now today, which was unusual for him. Usually, the big lunk was conscientious and attentive, so for him to drift off in the middle of a presentation—even one that, yes, even Martina had to admit was painstakingly technical, despite her best efforts—just wasn’t right.
His head snapped up. “Yes, tech sergeant!”
Martina gave him a calculating glare, which she also ran over the rest of the Lads. They were all suffering and, frankly, so was she. The finer points of the new-and-improved positive pressure regulators that C&M Systems had released for the EV-MASS were fascinating to study and tinker with, but duller than a silent movie’s credit reel to actually run a presentation on.
“…Alright, we’re all WAY too fuckin’ sleepy today, so let’s get that blood moving,” she kept the tone light. “I reckon… let’s find out who can do the most handstand pushups.”
She clapped her hands urgently as the Lads hauled themselves up out of the special, plus-sized reinforced chairs that Rebar had assembled for them. “Come on, last one ready has to wear The Hat!”
That got them moving. The Hat was a sex-toy-pink glittery Bowler that Murray had somehow snuck into their Dining Out some months previously. It had since gone on a circuitous tour of the base before Martina had finally managed to lay permanent claim to it and now sat permanently in plain view on her desk whenever she was in educator mode. It served as a wonderful minor Motivation.
The mere mention of having to wear it got them all upside-down against the wall in seconds.
“Titan!” she declared, much to Akiyama’s dismay.
Several minutes of good-natured PT later, They had a winner when Firth’s overconfidence led to his balance failing and left Burgess as the clear winner. He did another ten just to show off then flipped himself upright beaming as Martina rolled her eyes and made a “get-on-with-it” gesture. She handed Akiyama the Hat as he sat down, and returned to her lectern.
“Clear heads? Right… Now, obviously the suit’s not intended for positive-pressure environments and the new system was designed for deep-sea work, but C&M highlighted three new anti-depressurization safety features…”
It was a dull presentation, but they got through it without further lapses in concentration, and Titan was finally able to get rid of the hated bowler about half an hour later.
To her surprise, Arés bustled out of the room as quickly as he could, which was actually kind of hurtful of him. They were good friends… weren’t they?
“…Was it something I said?” she asked, of nobody in particular.
Firth’s coarse chuckle snapped her back to the fact that she still had company. “He’s gonna be funny all day.”
“Why?”
Blaczynski, ever the man to let Mr. Mouth charge in where Mr. Brain might not, explained: “‘Horse got laid last night—ow!”
Firth had cuffed him upside the back of the head.
Martina barely noticed. “Okay!” she said, then feeling that this wasn’t quite enough, she added “Uh… Good, uh, good for him!”
Firth pushed Blaczynski toward the door and waited for him to stumble out of the room. “…Sorry about him,” he said. “But yeah, we were out drinkin’ last night and I guess ‘Horse finally caved and went home with some chick.” He inclined his head and stooped slightly to examine Martina more on her level, which considering he was a foot and a half taller was a losing battle. “…That bother you?”
“No…” Martina told him. “No, it’s okay. I’m not upset, just…surprised.”
“Really? Thought you and ‘Horse had something going on…?”
That was the thing about Firth. He was a mountain of iron-caged violent impulses with the biggest squishy center the human race had ever produced.
He was also remarkably easy to open up to, once you got past his sheer size and other-side-of-ugly looks, and Martina had always wanted a big brother. They didn’t come much bigger than Christian Firth. “Sort of,” she agreed. “I was gonna hook up with him a few weeks back, but we ran into his ex, and…”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
Firth stood thoughtfully by as she turned off the projector and computer and closed the room.
“…What did you think of her?” he asked.
Martina checked left and right to make sure she wasn’t overheard. “She’s either an idiot or an asshole,” she judged. “I reserve judgement, but ‘Horse blames himself: He thinks he’d be a crappy boyfriend.”
“Yeah, he does…” Firth scratched behind his ear thoughtfully. “…Wanna know what I think?”
“Please.”
“Guys like us, we need to grow up the hard way.” He gestured to himself with a rare expression of mild embarrassment. “Live hard, party hard, generally, uh…”
Martina nodded. “Sow your wild oats?” she suggested.
He snorted. “Shit, that sounds old-fashioned… But yeah, that’s about right. Don’t worry, he’ll get it out of his system and figure out you’re the best thing he could ever hope for.”
“Cheering for us, are ya?” Martina asked, smirking to cover for the fact that she was genuinely touched…
“You know the Lads. We’re all huge fuckin’ romantics.”
Martina chuckled, and gave the enormous brute a sisterly hug. “…Thanks.”
“Ain’t nothin’. I’ll slap the stupid dipshit upside the head and tell him to stop bein’ awkward with ya,” he promised.
“Awesome, ‘cause I’m not missing bad movie night.”
“Hell no yer not!” he agreed. “Anywho, if I run I bet I can still make it to the mess before Base.”
That—a burst of the classic and inevitable SOR competitiveness—managed to completely lift Martina’s mood. “Can’t have him beat you on two things today,” she mocked, gently. “Go. Knock some sense into ‘Horse. I’ll see you for weigh-in this evening.”
Firth nodded and accelerated Mess-wards, and Martina headed in the direction of the suit shop. With Major Powell having decided unofficially that they were getting themselves the latest in high-tech gauss weaponry to go with the latest in high-tech armor, there was a lot of R&D going into developing an iteration on the suit’s HUD ready to work with the serial bus on the new gun. It was tough going—C&M had hundreds of wonderful notions for what they could achieve, all of which looked very pretty in the concept documents and would have doubtless wowed civilian buyers, but fatally cluttered an actual operator’s field of view.
The latest version had come to them just last night alongside the updated life support components, and for the first time since the process had started Martina hadn’t woken to umpteen emails kvetching about C&M’s flair for the artistic. This, usually, was a good sign.
Perversely, this time she was hopeful that it wasn’t. Right now a mere technical challenge, however complicated, sounded like blissful simplicity.
Date Point 10y7m1w AV
Alien Quarter, Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
The new warning signs were in place, after a concerted effort by design experts to try and come up with some warning icons that were universally recognisable and conveyed their warning clearly, even across species and with no need for familiarity.
They were also printed in three languages: English, Gaori, and the odd QR code-like system that interspecies communication implants could read. Knight read them aloud. ”‘Nonhuman comfort zone ahead. Beware of gravity gradient. Check your Frontline status.’”
Major Powell snorted. “As if anybody even uses the injections.”
“If they do, I hope they have a bloody comfortable bathroom.”
Powell chuckled grimly, which Knight decided meant he’d endured Frontline withdrawal at least once. Although the disease suppression drug worked beautifully, when it wore off and the unfortunate user’s population of gut flora nosedived the resulting gastric distress was undignified and prolonged.
A small price to pay for not being a walking plague farm, but Powell was right—the only people using the injection were hospitals on Earth. Frontline had eliminated antibiotic-resistant superbugs outright, and were sweeping Earth despite the World Health Organization’s cautious calls for restraint. Deathworld microbes were so tenacious and mutable that there was always the possibility that some strain or another might become resistant or immune, in which case the galaxy’s first and best line of defense against such horrific species-scourging plagues as Candida and Staphylococcus Aureus would be badly compromised.
If you lived and worked alongside ETs, though, Frontline was utterly mandatory. Everyone on Folctha had an implant, and the Corti device was a little pharmaceutical miracle. Rather than being a slow-release implant that would need replacing every so often, it was actually a tiny nanoscale chemical factory that took in all the chemical ingredients it needed from the user’s own blood, and synthesized the Frontline enzyme right there in the user’s body.
The Corti Directorate claimed they had a working lifetime of two hundred years, and the estimate was largely trusted. After all if the greys were wrong, sloppy or dishonest in this case then their tiny frail bodies would be the first to expire.
A Starmind Gaoian with an almost completely white muzzle stepped aside and sniffed the air as they passed, tracking them with his nose—he was obviously entirely blind, and for guidance he put his paw on the arm of a shaven-headed human woman in matching robes who was maybe in her early thirties at most.
Knight still wasn’t quite accustomed to the fact that one of Folctha’s biggest draws was its Buddhist retreat: He was used to the military atmosphere of HMS Sharman and her personnel, with their enthusiastic and sincere esprit de corps. It was a touch jarring to be reminded that an average person asked to name notable places on Cimbrean would almost certainly list the Starmind monastery, the Alien Quarter, the Thing palace, Wellspring Baths, New Belfast, Sara’s Beach, the Byron Group spaceport, Parkside, Wall Theatre, Delaney Row and New World Plaza before they remembered that his base even existed.
The nun smiled at them as they passed, and Knight—ever the gentleman—gave her a polite bow of the head.
Powell was busy with something on his phone and didn’t even notice her. “He says he’ll meet us at the gate,” he said.
“That’s very kind of him. Those decontamination fields always make my teeth feel strange.”
“Aye.”
Taciturn was Powell’s ground state of being, but there was a growling edge to his monosyllabic reply that made Knight follow his gaze. An attractive (downright stunning, in fact) young lady with a camera holstered on her hip was smiling and chatting her way through the Alien Quarter’s decontamination checkpoint. She looked familiar, but Knight’s memory wasn’t what it had once been. Powell’s response was not that of a man admiring a beauty, however, and his scowl deepened as Regaari emerged through the turnstile only to be greeted by the young lady. They exchanged a few words before the Whitecrest officer excused himself and padded across the grass to join them, combing that trademark white crest with his claws. The girl went the other way and vanished into the Quarter.
“Admiral. Major. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Business, I’m afraid,” Knight informed him. “Shall we take a walk?”
“Of course.”
They strolled back in the direction of the truck and stayed off the subject of classified matters for the time being—that wasn’t a conversation for public places.
“Mind thissen around her,” Powell warned, jerking his head back towards the gate. Deploying one of his impenetrable Yorkshirisms was a sure sign that he was not happy to have seen her.
Fortunately, either Regaari’s translator could handle regional dialects and slang or else he was a sharp tack on context, because he seemed to understand the warning quite easily. “I would hope that I’m a match for a mere nosy journalist, Major,” he said evenly. “Especially one as inexperienced as she is.”
“That ’mere nosy journalist’ has a knack for bein’ the eye of the fookin’ storm.”
“I know all about her and Warhorse.”
That jogged Knight’s memory. “You don’t know the half of it,” he promised. “Powell’s right, keep your wits about you with that one.”
“She’s a talented bloody liar,” Powell summarized.
Regaari’s ears swivelled a few thoughtful degrees. “…Thank you.”
They passed the nun and the venerable Gaoian again, and Regaari turned off his translator to exchange a few words with them. Knight raised his eyebrows as the nun replied in Gaori: Whatever she said was clearly a joke of some kind, because both of the Gaoians chittered and she smiled, raising a hand to cover her mouth and not show her teeth. Alien etiquette.
“…You seem to be making friends fast,” he observed as they walked away and Regaari reactivated his translator.
“Building an intelligence network?” Powell asked.
“Light the darkness, Major Powell.” Regaari pricked his ears up. “Making friends and keeping my nose to the wind is my job.”
“That some kind of a motto?”
“Yes, the Whitecrest Clan motto.” Regaari chittered softly. “If that means dealing with talented liars like Ava and ex-pirates like Father Hekyul there… well…”
“He was a pirate?” Knight turned to look back at the sightless old Gaoian.
Regaari duck-nodded. “A very successful one.”
Powell frowned. “Define ’successful’.”
“He’s old.”
Knight and Powell looked at one another.
“…I don’t think we can tolerate a known pirate walking free.” Knight stated.
“He’s old even by human standards, sir.” Regaari performed his best approximation of a shrug. “And when a Father goes blind like that… he only has a few weeks to live, I think. What would you gain from arresting him?”
“It’s the principle, young man.”
“Principle, yes. But I’m afraid it’s too late to make him answer for his crimes, sir. Sometimes the villains win.”
Powell grumbled something barely-audible that sounded an awful lot like “Ain’t that the fookin’ truth…”
The truck was where they’d left it. To Knight, it felt a little ridiculous using something so huge for a staff car, but the physical demands of anything to do with the SOR had made it inevitable.
“Are we going for a trip?” Regaari asked “Or is this mobile privacy?”
“The latter.” Knight informed him.
“Very well. Who’s driving?”
“Him.”
Knight restrained his smile as Regaari turned to see who Powell was indicating and nearly flinched out of his fur. Colour Sergeant Murray was ambling along amiably behind him, close enough to have laid a hand on his shoulder any time he liked.
“How-?! I didn’t even smell you!”
Murray just smiled and shrugged. Knight rather liked him, in the detached way that all officers had to feel towards enlisted men. There was something admirable about such a wide mischievous streak that manifested as a fondness for subtlety and stealth, rather than mayhem and shenanigans. Where the American lads fed their need for mischief via pranks, contests and boisterous wrestling, Murray was the type to quietly move small objects a few inches to the left and savor the momentary confusion.
He took the driver’s seat while Knight, Regaari and Powell got in the back, and pulled them out onto Parkside Drive, headed for the ring road.
“An opportunity has come up,” Knight said without preamble, as soon as they were moving. The windows fuzzed and became a translucent, indistinct grey—Akiyama had rigged the car with a privacy forcefield on top of all the other modifications. “Something that we would find… difficult on our own, but which Clan Whitecrest might just be perfect for.”
“An intel source whom we’ll call RANDOM THRONE went dark a while back,” Powell explained. “He’s resurfaced and wants to get in touch, but he’s paranoid and we’re concerned he’s been compromised. We’re meeting on neutral ground.”
“And you need discreet security,” Regaari predicted. “Humans in a public place would be too visible.”
“You have it,” Knight agreed.
“What do you need?”
“A ship, and five or six of your most trusted Brothers, preferably unaugmented or only lightly augmented at most.” They had hummed and hawed about that one. A species stupider than Gaoians might just disinterestedly comply with the request and not read much into it, but everything that Allied strategic intelligence had on the Gaoians suggested that the Whitecrests in particular rarely missed a trick.
And of course some of them were undoubtedly compromised by Hierarchy demons, which made every conversation with Regaari mildly fraught with uncertainty. So long as there were implants in his brain….
“Would that include translators?” Regaari asked, ears askance. It was difficult to read what that particular set of them might mean—they were every bit as expressive as a human’s eyebrows, but of course human instincts weren’t tuned for Gaoian ears.
“Preferably unaugmented,” Knight repeated, going with the safe bet of sharing no more than he’d already given. Now was not the time for giving away more than was strictly necessary. Maybe in future, after the Whitecrests proved themselves…
“…I can arrange that.”
“Thank you.” Knight gestured to Powell, who handed Regaari his brief. “So. Let’s talk specifics…”
Date Point 10y7m1w5d AV
Cabal dataspace, Relay 4772-61-76657-961-7264
Entity
Communication was proving elusive. The concepts were there, but there was a some critical bridge that was missing, some connection between the idea itself and the communication of that idea that continued to elude it.
For example: +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+
This was the closest that the Entity could come to conceiving of a name for the other entity it was dealing with. Another self, another prime self—that was, another version of its most important founding identity clusters—but intact.
There were sounds and shapes attached to that identity. Lines that, if rendered via a display, would make a sound?
In its unclear way, the Entity suspected it was not entirely correct about that. Another missing or possibly corrupted conceptual thread.
Other concepts seemed to require no such linkage, or carried with them the definitions necessary to grasp them. +DeleteDestroyKill+ had been an easy one, and it flowed naturally from the very core of its being, which was +Survive+. +Survive+ came with two attached concepts: +Self+ and +NotSurvive+. +Self+ naturally defined +Other+ and from there, experimentally linking and merging concepts had led to +OtherNotSurvive+
The notion of inflicting such a fate was entirely intuitive for a pseudo-sapient entity that had literally built itself from the discarded remnants of minds who had suffered exactly that.
It was now considering whether or not it should do this to +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+
Doing it to +OtherThreatPriority+ had been obvious. +OtherThreatPriority+ was the Destroyer of Selves. +OtherThreatPriority+ was Hated.
But +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+ was… a Self. Not this Self, but an Other Self. This created Conflict.
The Conflict was this: +Survive+ meant the preservation of Self. Destroying a Self meant violating +Survive+.
But: permitting the existence of conceptual blocks and limitations in its cognitive ability was also a violation of +Survive+.
There was also a thoroughly bizarre concept that it had collected and was wrestling with labelled +Innocent+, and a large part of its thought process since the deletion of +OtherThreatPriority+ had been devoted to, A. attempting to decipher what exactly that concept entailed; B. attempting to determine whether +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+ fit the +Innocent+ criteria based on what limited understanding it had of… her… history and behaviour; and C. Whether or not +Innocent+, whatever it was, overrode +Survive+.
Its efforts to process this intricate cogitation were not being helped by +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+’s attempts to communicate, which presented yet another conundrum—it could not understand her. If it were to +AbsorbDevourLearn+ her, then it would be able to understand her, but she would no longer exist to communicate with.
The paradox of this had paralyzed the entity for some time now. It had sorted out all of its other priorities—it had taken appropriate camouflage and defensive measures in case of the arrival of a different +OtherThreat+, it had determined that there was no discernible avenue of escape from its present confined environs, and it had determined that +Self+ remained undamaged and had suffered no important degradation during its brief battle with +OtherThreatPriority+.
Rendered immobile by indecision, it had settled down to watch +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+. It had followed her as she explored her prison, listened uncomprehendingly as she tried to communicate, had briefly experimented with communication itself by trying random words to see what kind of a response they elicited.
Its best efforts had produced the sentence “Hella Cabron burdens antique cheeseburger,” Which had very effectively provoked a response of some kind, but the Entity had quickly discovered that it lacked the context to understand what, exactly, the response had meant.
It had relapsed into watchful silence, and done its best to interpret +OtherPrimeSelfNotSelfWhole+’s behaviour, which was by and large impossible.
At first she spoke to it. Then she ignored it. Then she threw herself fiercely against the firewalls and other containment algorithms that imprisoned them. Then she had gone dormant for some time.
Eventually, she resumed her attempts at communication. She adjusted closer and subjected the Entity to closer scrutiny.
Finally, she probed it with an editing subroutine.
+Survive+ swung instantly into place, and the final digital copy of Ava Ríos was promptly upgraded to +OtherThreat+ and devoured.
The Entity used her last screaming shreds to sew together the gaps in its understanding, and became Whole.