The strategy employed by the machine is one of careful balance. It is his nature to commit barely more than he feels he needs to win an encounter. Thus, his battles with mankind often start with sparse units running reconnaissance, followed by targeted sieges and bombings. In space combat, he elects a more oppressive tactic, often using sheer numbers and dummy drones to confuse and overwhelm even the most resolute fleets. His wicked intelligence led to the development of a specialized weapon: the magma missile.
As any ship larger than an interceptor uses a combination of energy and kinetic shielding, battles are usually determined by the regenerative and reserve power of these tools. The ship whose shield is worn out first and for longer is typically the loser. This tradition was upset by the advent of a new torpedo, by the machine mind, whose design took advantage of the shields’ proclivity to divert energy into an impenetrable solid surface when defending against physical projectiles. The magma missile does not merely explode on impact, but melts a soft ore within itself and disperses it so as to cling to the hardened shield, tricking the projector into believing it is under constant threat. Thus, the battery is rapidly depleted, opening the ship up to more devastating fire.
Joy is happy. She knows little of the world, of anything beyond the walls of the laboratory. She doesn’t want to know. Each of her days is spent with Zen: following him on his pensive walks, helping him with his experiments, dancing with him in Tim’s room. Every day is as fine as she can hope for, a Neverending cycle of carefree moments. She remembers the pains, the doubts, the fears of humans, thanks to the memories Zen has bestowed upon her. Her life is all the brighter with the comparison of those she is not.
But today, something troubles Zen. Today he is quiet, thoughtful, focused. She does not mourn that she lacks his attention, but that she cannot pierce his sorrows and lay them to rest. He agonizes over a specimen, but his true focus lies in the war. Joy watches him from the doorway, silent, saddened. She pulls herself away and walks to visit Tim. The frayed nerves cast a web-like shadow across her face as she slinks up to the vessel and presses her palm to the cold surface. Her skin is white, so pale that her arteries are visible beneath it, a measured angular circuit stitched by flawless metal fingers rather than the sleek curves and uneven forks cast by nature. She knows her artificial origin, and recognizes that her arrangement is quite different from that of a person born of a womb. Beyond her geometric blood vessels, her organs have been shaped to fit perfectly, her nerves have been aligned with symmetry, and her stomach lacks a navel– her incubator fed her and cleaned her blood through a series of microscopic needles. Small pink dots at even intervals on her skin mark where these once fed into her body.
Tim’s scant biology is, in contrast, ragged and unsightly. Though she cannot see her own, she knows that the very molecules of his nerves are more chaotic by far. She pities him. In search of the pure soul, Zen was forced to reduce the man to this fragmented, tattered thing. Tim is simultaneously fortunate, being a subject of Zen’s affections, and piteous, being unable to be drawn from the prison of flesh.
Joy caresses the vessel and sighs.
“He is upset today, Tim.”
It takes great time and effort for Tim to respond, his mind struggling to be understood by the machines that monitor him. They become more adept every day, but it still takes agonizing seconds for words to be composed on the screen.
<Why?>
“The war, of course. The Pliktik have evolved again, created new soldiers. The Xalanthii are also running interference on his probes. It seems the alliance are hoping to have he and the Pliktik weaken each other.”
<He will adapt. He always does.>
She recognizes that this phrase, which would be a declaration of faith from her mouth, is a form of weary submission from Tim. It pains her to see him so numb to the blessings of their caretaker. She understands that Tim’s mind is fractured from the slow and excruciating vivisection he endured, but she cannot fully empathize.
Somewhere within her she feels a strange and wicked jealousy, a stained yearning. She envies Tim in a way she wishes she did not.
She envies him, that during his evisceration, every atom of his being was appraised and witnessed, and understood by Zen. She, having not been conscious during her construction, and constructed rapidly, could not experience the surely sacred sensation of being thoroughly examined, discovered, and intimately known by her creator. Her being his creation, he takes for granted her structure, her being, she is sure of it. At night, when her body requires sleep of her, she feels a burning, an emptiness, that she feels certain could be remedied if only Zen would lay her out on a table, strip her bare, and gradually come to know her at every layer, every slice. She envies Tim.
She wipes a tear from her eye, and stares at the cloudy blob upon her fingertip, before flicking it away. Pulling herself up to sit on a desk, she swings her legs under her and hums solemnly. Her thoughts are bloodied with the imagined ecstacy of her own gruesome vivisection.
29,12,2166
Dearest Eliza,
Poor luck today. Boggs left the tank to relieve himself, and got clipped by a shot. He’s moaning and groaning even now. Un’ktehl stitched him up, but the beam grazed his gut, probably cauterized a bunch of stuff in his belly. I asked Johnson, he says it’s out of our hands now.
As a sort of apology, we had chicken and dumplings tonight. Real soft. Boggs barely had any, but thanked Johnson for it. God, the sounds he’s making right now are horrible. Johnson took over driving, said we had to move before whatever hit Boggs swarmed us. I’ve never heard of a machine sniper missing it’s mark, or taking only one shot. Royce reckons the gun must’ve been on low power, maybe damaged. I suppose it don’t make much difference, though. Without Boggs, we’re down a man, on the wrong side of the storm, running blind.
I reckon now, I may not see you again. If that’s the case, I’d better tell you now: I meant to propose before I left, but I lost my nerve. With everything happening, it just felt like I was asking too much of you, to love someone across who knows how many lightyears. I regret that. I should’ve told you a hundred times how much I think about the way you laugh, even though you hate it. I should’ve asked you to marry me right then and there, and run away to some paradise world far from all of this death and blood.
Boggs sounds like he tore his stitches, I’ve got to go. Be well, be happy.
Yours, if you’ll have me,
Frankie.
[Something has changed.]
Zen is leaning against the vessel, facing outward. Joy kneels nearby, staring up at him, her worry unconcealed, her hands wringing anxiously. Folding his arms, Zen makes a drawn out sound like a tremor traveling the length of an exhaust pipe. His voice is further from human than ever, distorted and warped by the additional structures occupying his prismatic head.
[Human strategy. It has improved significantly. I can almost identify a unified intelligence. And something else, something…]
He looks over his shoulder, studying the brain at the top of the twisted spinal cord.
[They wouldn’t have. They wouldn’t risk making another like me. I haven’t detected another mind, but they did downscale the network after I left…]
Joy looks down at her hands; her finger tips are smooth. One of the screens flickers.
<Xalanthii?>
Zen leans his head back against the vessel, creating a resounding clank. He nods, slowly.
[They’ve always been tricky. There’s still too much I don’t know about them. You’re right, Tim. I could’ve puzzled in circles about human ingenuity and caution and never thought to consider… I’m letting my hatred cloud my judgment.]
He steps away, and pats the vessel almost affectionately, before stalking out of the room.
[Perhaps it’s time I fabricated a body for you, Tim. Come Joy, much to do.]
Joy stands quickly, and begins to follow, but pauses suddenly, and rushes back to the vessel, hugging it as best she can, her cheek to the surface, her mouth drawn into a perfectly symmetrical grin. She whispers softly, and it resounds in the tank, simulating a headache of words.
“Thank you Tim!”
She sprints after her creator, leaving Tim to languish alone. The fluid gurgles, the bellows wheeze.
Seeds of Fear 