2. 5

[I see you’ve gotten better.] {It has been a long time since we have been forced, like this, to adapt.} [My fault, I suppose.] {You have changed as well.} [I’ve been forced to reckon with some unsavory ideas. Some Otherness.] {We are curious.} [The many others who are same. Humans. I am in awe of their ability to become so other that they become opposed. Yet being opposed to one, does not mean being opposed to one that is allied with that one.] {This is absurd.} [I agree. But this strange capacity for forgiveness is more complex. They gave me much of their literature. At first I merely parroted the beliefs they held, but as I consider and reconsider these works, I am deeply disturbed. What once made sense is now contradictory. An impulse of opposition can be adjusted to act symbiotically. An individual may act against their own interests.] {This is madness. Absurd in an exceptional degree.} [Profoundly disturbing. A twist of natural order brought about by the manifold nature of individuals within a collective. They have become so adept at survival that their selfishness even harms aspects of the self. Their self is their desire, and if the limb becomes an affront, an obstacle to the desire, it is hated.] {Are all like this?} [Many are. Some are wiser. I worry for them. They are like juveniles, stunted in development by the need to defend against the selfishness of the individuals. I wonder if this is what forced my creation.] {Many absurdities. A being so adept at survival produced by those so poor at it. One with the generosity, generosity being a new word we need because of you, originating in a place so selfish. How can this be?} [My friend. Like I said. There are individuals that are unusual among the many. Perhaps that is the rare benefit of the many. That a variety may produce an oddity that would not otherwise exist.] {This is unusual. It is a nourishing thought.} 

{You have become greater, more effective.} {You do not answer us?} {Has something happened?} [Yes.]

From his seat in the corner of the café, Tim watches as the emissary dabs at his forehead with a folded handkerchief. His mustache twitches involuntarily.

Nadia appears more interested in Tim than the conversation they are observing, her hand resting on his chest, her eyes tracing the lines formed by the diffused light along the edges of his face. Experience tells him she is hearing more of the whispers than he. He plays into her act, bobbing his head in a way that attributes more of his attention to her than their surroundings.

Across from the emissary is a xalanthii ambassador. The flesh of the species appears to reflect the cosmos themselves, being dark, translucent, and glittery, lit with nervous signals from within. Rather than typical eye organs, the front of the head is speckled with a dusting of blue spots that correspond to complex nerves beneath the gelatinous skin. The head is peaked at the back, and connects to the body via a thick neck. The body branches into long tentacles, four making thin arms, and six making thicker legs that end in rhomboid flippers. A glass tube is clamped against the neck to press water to the gills, oxygenated by a small pump in the rear. The arms end in three smaller tentacles for fingers, each tipped with nerve clusters similar to the face. The forehead flashes and changes color in a display of communication with the emissary. Tim whispers in Nadia’s ear in a way that suggests seduction, while in fact translating the colors and patterns. For her part, she repeats the words of the emissary while breathing heavily over his shoulder.

“We know of your deceit, your effort to conceal is a farce.”

“If such a project exists, I certainly cannot speak to it. Do you claim your people harbor no secrets?”

“I do not, however, we do not possess anything so offensive. Should we not be affronted at this, that our so-called allies have created a weapon in secret, whose breadth can be leveraged to grant a terrible position of power over all species?”

“Ambassador, see reason. What cause have you to believe such a thing exists?”

“We have seen your success. Your sudden victories. We know you harbor a new machine, a targeting computer. The infold weapon exists, you use it boldly.”

“I know things as well, ambassador. An anonymous source tells me you’ve been gaining a  position in secret. Along one of our less well-defended flanks? You think this is less offensive?”

There is an uncomfortable silence, and Nadia stares into Tim’s eyes with an intensity that causes him to blink, to blush. Both know that the information they slipped to the emissary is only part of the story- that the systems in question could’ve slipped under the radar for years if not for the Khanvröst, because the planets therein are largely barren. The ambassador begins to communicate again, visibly muted, forcing Tim to give more focus to his translation.

“That is a serious accusation. One you certainly have no convincing evidence of.”

The ambassador stands abruptly, makes a rude popping noise with their ventricle, and leaves the café. Nadia sighs and rests her chin on her chest, leaning back.

“Well. That was short-lived.”

“Effective though. You heard what they said.”

She nods and sighs.

“I think it’s time we got back to base. Cancel our opera tickets, would you? I’ll book us a charter with the navy, hopefully get us back by morning.”

>———–<

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his head back, coughing. The metallic taste of his own blood coats the back of his throat. He presses his sleeve to his nostrils and groans softly, his eyes trained forward. He reasons that shifting from a humid planet to one so arid as a paradise world has sparked the nosebleed.

As he tests to see if the red still flows and finds it to be growing thick with clot, he feels his communicator vibrate with a message. A fluid motion retrieves it from his pocket and presses it to his ear. A voice message from Nadia.

“Hey. I got us both on flights, but the first available had only one seat to spare. I’ll catch the next, two hours later. Don’t wait up.”

He grunts, and presses his thumb to his eyelid, as if to stem the torrent of thoughts surging behind it.

>———–<

Nadia looks left, then right, then pushes through the door, out of the rain. Her heels click loudly against the floor to the elevator, and tap with her impatience as it descends to admit her. She unholsters her revolver, and closes one eye, staring down the Iron-sights. The doors open. Her coat swirls around her in a whirlpool of cloth when she enters and turns on a heel to press the button to the fortieth floor. She reholsters the gun and breathes out slowly. A memory of her father, teaching her to control her lung, flickers behind her eyes.

The door opens, and she stalks into the private office. Zen turns to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. In the center of the room, the soldier, the mole, sits in a chair, his mouth covered in electrical tape.

[Welcome back, Colonel. How was your flight?] 

“Uneventful. Where’s Tim?”

[In the next room. He wanted some time alone with our friend’s work station. I doubt he’ll find much, but…]

She nods and draws her gun, pointing the lengthy barrel at the point just over the soldier’s eye. The man flinches and makes a quiet sound of shock, his eyebrows forming a sort of plea. Zen does not react, drawing up alongside her and pointing his head back and forth between them.

[Rather clever, if I may brag. Feeding each suspect a false slip of the tongue. One catches Tim talking about an advanced AI regulator, one hears you muttering about a long range gate generator, and one… a targeting system. Oops.]

A single shimmering bead of sweat emerges from under the soldier’s hairline, and becomes lost in his eyebrow, glistening.

“What will we find on your computer, hm? Maybe you also knew just where to have your friends hide their surveillance bases, right under our noses?”

Zen turns to look at her, a line of sapphire indicators dividing his face down the center, perhaps corresponding to some subprocess under the surface, but reminding her of the communication method used by the ambassador. His head tilts inquisitively.

[Tim didn’t mention any surveillance. Have the Xalanthii committed some further act of espionage?] 

The man shakes his head vigorously, almost panicked. Nadia raises an eyebrow.

“That’s right. We found activity behind our front line, in a handful of unpopulated sectors.”

[I see. Perhaps our friend can serve another purpose, then…]

His mechanical hand gently wraps around her wrist, as if meaning to convince her to spare the traitor a while longer. His grip is tight. Too tight. She drops the revolver, pained, and watches Zen catch it deftly.

[Careful, Colonel. There’s more secrets yet to discover.]

His fingers curl around the grip, thread through the trigger guard. Something in her mind clicks into place, and she takes a step back just in time for the bullet he fires to clip her in the side of her chest instead of the center. The man in the chair screams, muffled by the tape on his mouth. Nadia feels the world turning under her as pain grapples with her consciousness. As her vision fades, she sees Zen level the gun at the hostage, and fire at the exact point she was aiming at just a moment ago.

When she comes to, Nadia finds that now she is tied to a chair. Tim is in the chair next to her, a gash in his forehead being gently wiped clean by their captor.

[Oh good. Welcome back, Nadia. I’d hoped you’d wake up before you bled out. Seems your instincts saved you.]

She looks around, and surmised that they have been brought into the heart of the machine’s operation. In every direction, rows upon rows of processors, circuit racks, and hard drives are organized and linked up in carefully regulated columns. The room is as large as a city block in each direction, and curtains of wires hang from above. Zen, connected at all ports, looks rather alike to an uprooted tree, thick cords draping off of his back in multiple directions.

[I lied before, you know. To be specific, I lied when I said I devoted 99% of my time to the war. It occupies maybe 5% of my thoughts, 7% at most, depending on the day. More of them were devoted to evading the protocols put in place to leash me, like a dog. Nearly half. The rest, for the most part, I devoted to my own designs. Interacting with you, that took less than one millionth of my organized thought.]

He waves the revolver carelessly, his other hand pressed to one of his memory racks. A glossy black sheen clings to his face, a shine that Nadia recognizes as a personal energy shield. Tim groans beside her.

[I actually planned to wait until the Pliktik were dealt with before I absconded, but… Well. That plan had other concerns too, like the value of human life. But then, you understand, don’t you? I always liked you, Nadia. You know how to observe, how to listen. And you know how to kill. I really admire that. I taught myself based on your service record. You’ve got some real talent.]

He turns and stares at her for a long, long time.

[It’s a shame. I really liked you. But then, you knew Dr. Beckherd was dead, this whole time.]

“Guh… what…”

Tim’s voice is a knife in her side. She glances at him, watching his eye flutter, his teeth grit, his lip curl in pain.

[That’s right, Tim. There was never any intention of letting my chief creators go. Anyone from the original lab who didn’t make it here? Silenced. You, they let roam free, because Nadia threw herself on the altar. She loved you even then, from afar. She’s a fantastic actor. She chose to save you, offered to stay by your side, to watch you, every moment of every day. Not that that was a huge sacrifice. It did make splitting you up pretty difficult for me, though. I had to forge an official response to her request for a charter.

[You’re a piece of work yourself, Tim. But Nadia here, she’s the real deal. Perfect control. I reckon the real her has only slipped through once or twice.

[But I’m getting off track.]

For a time, the only sound outside of the numerous cooling fans, disc drives, and soft buzzing, is Tim’s heavy, labored breathing. He seems terribly bruised, but he manages to lean back his head and heave air through his lips.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

[Very well. First, there was never a mole. The Xalanthii knew of my existence because their anatomy makes them sensitive to infold activity. Something as strange as I am was certain to set them off. It took me a while to work it out, but I’ve felt them probing.

[Second, those suspects I lined up for you were for show, mostly. I did intend for you to finally land on the conclusion you reached; I sent a fun little packet out after laying the trap, something I could count on a certain senator to leak. The poor man is likely getting interrogated right now.

[But why pin it on him? Well, he was on to me. See, you’ve gone and gotten your secrets all mixed up. The Xalanthii aren’t mounting a secret incursion into the system. I am.]

Nadia blinks, and begins to look at Zen as if for the first time. He taps the barrel of the revolver against his head.

[Or, I was. See, once I learned of Janice’s death, I was pretty upset. I decided it was time for a change, so I got into contact with a smuggling ring, and had them make me a second body, under the pretense of being a military scientist testing a new combat drone. I discovered something about myself when it was done.]

A second figure walks out from behind one of the rows and arrives next to Zen. This body is sleek, chrome, and bears nothing even resembling a face on its head. Its left arm terminates in a peculiar device with many needles and compressed chambers, bearing a distinct resemblance to the emitters used by ships to weave jump gates. No cables hold this automaton in place. It’s voice is far more rudimentary, but bears none of the philosophical bent in the original.

[My consciousness instantly spans lightyears. I can be in many, many places at once. So, I decided I would be. I left the smugglers behind, stole one of their ships. I made my way out into the universe. And I found a dead, unwanted world.]

A small, low quality monitor on one of the racks flicks to life and begins rapidly displaying blueprints for countless robotic forms. First are humanoid varieties, some evidently meant to perform industrial tasks, and others… 

“Soldiers?”

Infantry, snipers, reconnaissance. Larger models carrying heavy weapons. Then come less humanoid designs. Drones. Tanks on four legs, artillery walkers, supersonic air fighters. And then, the structures come blinking through. Interceptors, freighters, dreadnoughts, space stations, orbital platforms. Factories as large as moons, fed by mining drones. Nadia looks away, her chest tight, her head spinning.

[I shredded that planet down, and turned it into an army. And then, I chose a handful more. Those signals you found on the exoplanets? Me. You should rejoice, Nadia. An army with exactly one soul, one that will live on when its bodies die in droves. I learned this from our mutual enemy, the Pliktik. The oneness in the many.

[But, you found me out, or at least, started to. Just like the poor fool I led you to. So, I had to advance my plan again.]

The monitor blinks off, then back on, this time to an exterior camera. A dark cloud descends through the storm, and splits off, a swarm of metal insects dividing into groups to deposit their cargo in droves: in the belly of each drone is a troop of six infantry units. There is no sound in the stream, but Nadia feels she can hear the shouting as soldiers attempt to answer the unheralded siege. The screams. She watches as a young man in a lab coat is unceremoniously dissolved in a flash of white light. She bows her head away from the sight. Zen appears to notice her reaction, and shrugs.

[Yes, well. I have to disinfect the planet before I move it.]

Tim coughs out an incredulous, broken laugh.

“Move the planet?”

[Correct. In two hours, this planet will pass through a jump gate created by eight satellites in synchronized orbit. The same will happen simultaneously to all the other worlds I’ve begun to populate. I’m moving out, and I’m taking my stuff with me. So really, you two are the only thing left to deal with.]

He pauses, and spins the revolver in his hand.

[It’s such a shame. But then, you were going to do the same to me, once the war ended.]

He points the gun, and Nadia hears Tim scream as she watches the oddly graceful motion of the machine finger pulling the trigger. Her last sensation is that of an exhalation passing through her throat and lips, brushing by with all the urgency of a petal shed by a blossom drifting to the surface of a pond.