The LSD Pomegranate

3. 4

Two months into the war, a discovery was made as to the method employed by the machine in the colonization and consumption of worlds. On the frontier world of XXXXXXX, near orbit radar detected what was initially believed to be a dense meteor falling to the planet’s surface. However, two days later, a full force began to siege human emplacements in a radius centered on the estimated point of impact. The theory put forth at the following military conference on Capitale suggested that the meteor was in fact an unpowered capsule with a previously unobserved type of unit designed to begin the process of full scale production.

Admiral Fontaine stands at the bridge of his capital ship, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder length apart. An ornate pistol sits in his hip holster, polished and gleaming. Gelled rows define his combed hair, which becomes his rich brown side burns, which in turn become his bushy mustache. His uniform is a shade of oxford blue, trimmed in a silver braid with two rows of buttons. Beside him is advisor Nithee, who wears a white robe with layered sheets and bronze bangles.

Nithee’s ventricles flare and pop, and Fontaine’s hand pops up and clenches into a fist. Without so much as a word, the pilot pulls back on the throttle, and looks up to the view screen, an act that is copied by every other person on the bridge.

Through a foot of reinforced smart glass, the sweeping disc of dusty grey rings around an icy blue planet is contrasted with the baleful light of a rust-red nebula behind it. And in the murk of the powder cloud systems of the planet, small specks like pores glitter in the light of the star behind the fleet.

Fontaine lowers his hand and provides a stern visage for his crew to contemplate when they look to him with poorly concealed unease. Advisor Nithee makes a noise like a bursting grape.

“Admiral?”

“Battle stations. Arm Torpedoes with EMP and nuclear options. Divert twenty percent shields to forward flak arrays.”

As his orders are transmitted through the fleet, the bridge begins to release its tension into the rhythm of combat prep. The Admiral is stoic, unreachable. A row of diamond pins on his breast indicate a proud service record. The edges of the view screen become dark with interceptor and fighter craft, wings folding into their most agile state.

The pores on the planet appear to darken, becoming fuzzy. Blue gas is dragged into the vacuum in a crowded moss by the incredible number of ships racing to meet the fleet in force.

“Brace!”

Light fills the sky in blinding bursts. The view screen dims automatically, and the flickering red fabric of an energy shield blossoms to absorb a flurry of projectiles. Flak and shrapnel fly in abrasive sheets of debris, catching stray torpedoes and shredding fighter armor.

As the chaos develops, Fontaine peers through the corner of his eye at Nithee. The Xalanthii advisor is still, giving no indications of concern. A flock of drones zips past the bridge, pursuing a fighter with extensive damage.

Nithee jolts, and turns suddenly, their face flashing red, their ventricles flaring and shuddering. The Admiral curses and turns to an officer at his side.

“Make ready for boarders! Close the bulkheads and prime turrets!”

The officer salutes and departs the bridge. A moment later, three heavy impacts rock the ship, and the shield blisters brightly.

“Admiral! Breaches in the hold, crew deck, and second portside cannon bank! Administering alerts! Shield experiencing heavy sheer drain!”

“Have a squadron clear us, coordinate with the crew for partial shield deactivation. Direct teams to the afflicted sections, equipped for rapid depressurization.”

“Sir!”

Nithee shuffles forward and grips a railing, swaying slightly. Fontaine reaches a hand out, but the advisor dismisses the concern with a wagging Tentacle.

“Admiral! Gunfire detected in corridors A2, F7, and H2!”

The officer falters and looks back to the Admiral, an ugly gleam of fear in his eyes. Fontaine can only glare and wait for the young man to turn back to his post. He understands full well the reason for the officer’s alarm. The corridors in question lead to key points in the ship: The Jump Drive, life support, and the bridge itself.

In spite of himself, Fontaine watches the progress over his shoulder, hiding his emotion when a report from life support declares the invaders successfully repelled. Nithee offers a gurgling wheeze that Fontaine recalls hearing on the rare occasions the individual expressed relief.

Outside of the ship, the battle is too close to call, but Fontaine is resolute, even as one of his allied dreadnoughts suddenly erupts in a blossom of indigo light, decomposing before his eyes as its jump drive succumbs to damage. The same fate awaits him, should the crew fail to defend their own.

“Corridors F7 and H2 clear of boarders! No word yet from A2!”

“Seal the doors.”

The bulkheads hiss as they are shut against the very first whispers of gunfire. Fontaine presses a hand to his face and rubs his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. One of the enemy cruisers takes a torpedo to the engine and careens to the side, jettisoning its fighters without hesitation before self-destructing.

Nithee looks worse for wear, beads of briny perspiration forming along the base of the vestigial fin at the back of the head. They jerk and quiver, turning in place suddenly and making a loud popping noise before taking cover behind a console. Fontaine shouts, crouching beside the advisor.

“Cover!”

The portside bulkhead explodes. Plasma and disintegration beams clutter the free air of the bridge. Nithee is an unhealthy shade of violet. Fontaine pulls his pistol and fires wildly over the console, clipping one of the boarders.

The soldiers are different from those used in ground conflict. One in three has a full length riot shield and a machine pistol. The others are decked in light armor, and carry short range disintegrators with an under barrel flamethrower. Their bodies are scuffed and scored with moderate damage, but their movements are precise. Fontaine ducks just in time for a spray of bullets to slip over his head. His shield steams from intercepting a handful of stray disintegration beams. Nithee slumps against him, and he is forced to prop them up before returning fire. Something is wrong. Between Nithee’s behavior and the number of boarders, something is very awry.

Fontaine manages a perfect hit in the shoulder of one of the more aggressive drones, severing the limb. He crouches down again, and glances at the advisor. He looks up, and sees something that sends a chill up his back, and tightens a knot in his gut.

Behind the defensive formation of the soldier drones, there is a figure, one he has not seen on the battlefield even once. It stands half a meter taller than the others, and has a head rather like a rectangular pillar. It holds no weapons, and seems to be wearing a cloak of rubber cables, through which Fontaine sees a completely armorless body. The figure seems distracted, and Fontaine points his gun, shaking with the certainty that this is a leader machine of some kind. He squeezes the trigger.

The bolt of white-hot plasma flies through the air, a comet of destruction. It threads a gap between the soldiers, spitting sparks as it nears the gaunt thing. The blocky head turns, and the bolt fizzles out of existence in a blink of blue light.

Fontaine stumbles backwards as the thing stares at him without eyes. The soldiers spread out into the room, and one neatly disintegrates the gun right out of his hand. All falls silent but for the tromp of metal feet and the pitiful gurgling made by Nithee.

The tall thing stalks right up to Fontaine and leans down, the black shine of its geometric head reflecting his face back at him, before it is lit from within by cerulean light. A young woman leans through the door, and calls out with a lightheartedness that makes his head spin.

“Is it safe, Zen?”

The voice of the machine is guttural, a growl of some electronic beast recently evolved to stand on two legs.

[All clear.]

The woman claps happily, and enters the room, swaying her arms and squatting down by an unblinking corpse, poking it with her finger.

She is pale, and seems to have faded tattoos of ever-branching angled lines and mirrored circles. Her hair is pure white, long and straight. Straight bangs hang over her bright red eyes. She wears a black tee shirt and tattered jeans, and flits about the room as if she is exploring a garden, sampling the scents of flowers, rather than the sight of fresh carcasses.

The machine leader turns away from Fontaine and crouches over Nithee, who has begun to convulse on the floor. Two of the soldiers approach, evidently keeping an eye on the Admiral.

[Hum. This one is actually surviving for a while. The last three expired before I was able to get close. I’ll need to develop something to remedy the condition without altering the physiology. Perhaps a mild paralytic.]

He extends his hand over the advisor, palm facing down. The tips of his fingers glow with blue light, and Nithee vanishes in a flash, just like the bolt from Fontaine’s pistol. The woman notices the Admiral and gasps, running over and grabbing his face by the cheeks. Her voice is silk.

“Zen! Zen! This one is so fuzzy! And you left him alive! Can I have him? Please?”

[What will you do with him? He is dangerous, even as he is.]

The thing turns and looks, and seems to wait on the woman with a nature that approaches doting. The look in her eyes is pure, innocent, genuine.

“I want him! I want a Tim of my own!”

The noise made by the thing must be laughter, a strange guffaw of intermingled voices. It seems more a composite recording of dying breaths. Outside the view screen, two more of the dreadnoughts are disabled. Seven more loud impacts rock the ship. The thing leans its head to one side.

[Him? I doubt he will be as long lasting as Tim has been. What will you do if he falls apart?]

“Won’t you rebuild him for me? Or, or, could you show me how to do what you did? He doesn’t have to be just like Tim…”

There is a prolonged pause. Fontaine hears more gunfire and screams from the corridor, the voices often getting cut short, becoming ghostly as their sources evaporate.

[Okay. We’ll take him back, and we’ll see what we can do.]

2,1,2167

Eliza,

I had a terrible dream last night. I was out on the mountain, alone, in the blizzard. I felt as if something was following me as I walked. I had none of my gear. I arrived at some kind of bunker, and got in, locking the door behind me, but it was as if the thing following me had been waiting inside all along. I woke up in a sweat, and Un’Ktehl said I had been calling your name.

Things have been quiet since Boggs. No sign of the thing that shot him. We picked up a signal on the scanner, Johnson says it’s our target. So we’re headed that way now. We updated HQ, but got no response.

Dinner was coffee and stew. Both were warm, but I’m still shivering.

Yours,

Frankie.

On self-inflicted wounds

Recently, I have begun a new project, one that I would classify as a comedy with psychological horror aspects. It is told from the perspective of the source of all the horror in the narrative.

An unusual repurcussion has occurred in the course of working on the aforementioned project: my own mental state, without any bidding from myself, has taken a turn for the worse. I care deeply about the project, but must admit that I am wearied by it. The thought that something I write can have such a profound effect on its own creator is both alarming and encouraging. In the past, I have typically been most productive when my mental and emotional state drive my writing.

This is perhaps the first time that setup has been turned on its head.

Incarnate will continue to release every Monday until it arrives at the final chapter. Whether this project begins to come out before it ends, or indeed if it sees the light of day at all remains to be seen. My closet is chock full of pieces that compelled me at the time, but lost their glamour before their time. The encouragement I have received while discussing the idea behind the project has compelled me to give it great effort, and the moderate success of this website has meant very much to me as well.

I hope to reach many hearts, and in addition to striking a little fear, I wish to find a little common ground there. Though if your heart touches ground, you probably aren’t in good shape to do any reading.

3. 3

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.”

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.

3. 2

Walkers. The machine has tanks of many varieties. Chief among these are the quadrupeds, the walking artillery. First of these is the most iconic, the beetle. Marching into conflict on six legs, this troop carrier is heavily armored and well armed, boasting a powerful energy shield that can be reconfigured to create a mobile hard point, and a pair of laser cannons designed to punch holes in even the sturdiest tank. These war machines see heavy use on all battlefields, and are deployed thoroughly at all stages of conflict.

Next in commonality is the arachnid mobile artillery. This mechanical predator stalks the rear ranks of battle, out of range of most ground weapons. Each is outfitted with a specialized battery capable of firing a number of long range guided missiles, as well as a ranged laser capable of sniping targets hundreds of kilometers away, given a clear line of sight. These hunters can often be found latched to sheer cliff faces via their anchoring pins, or shelling bases from the safety of dense jungles and canyons. Most also possess a supply of nuclear flak shells tuned for airburst, enabling the vehicle to defend against carpet bombers. A pair of arachnid tanks is frequently sufficient to lay siege to a fortress in advance of a full scale invasion. Targeting can be assisted by low-orbit satellites.

20,12,2166

Dearest Eliza,

I hope this reaches you soon, I’ve much to say, much to think about. Your last letter lives in my coat, just above my heart.

Today, we reached the area of investigation. The snow hides all directions from us. Un’ktehl seems happier than usual, and shared with us some of the drake-jerky he has kept hidden. It is a most curious flavor, this alien meat. It stings of the pepper and salt used to preserve it, and tastes rather like some shellfish. I might compare it to the lobster we had at that restaurant in the commercial district. I still remember being so worried I didn’t have enough credits to pay. This is the same, if much firmer. I tried spreading the last of my butter on some of it, and was quite happy I did.

I’m finally getting used to working alongside a khanvröst, I think. He is strong, dependable, but very wild, and has not care for personal space. His breath is always foul, and he smells like wet leather besides. But a better loader, there is not. He primes the chamber as if he knows nothing else, and puts his back into even the slightest task. His mechanical knowledge is nothing to sniff at, either. Boggs got on with him by the second day after they argued about some jargon that still means nothing to me. Two hours of debate, and became friends for it. Royce doesn’t care for him: called him a fleabag and refused the jerky. Johnson, well, Johnson is Johnson, just as work is work and coffee is coffee.

Anyway, we sat there, chewing our drake, Royce up on lookout in the cab, and the wind blowing something fierce. And then, we heard something howling out there. Un’ktehl gets this queer look, and hunkers down by the coffee maker. I know the carnivores are superstitious, but it was eerie seeing this creature with teeth like my utility knife ball up like a child hiding from the boogeyman. Wouldn’t tell us why, neither.

Well, I went up to the turret and peaked out. Saw a beautiful thing: a black wolfish thing and her pups, trotting through the snow, altogether unbothered by Faith’s hulking iron shape just a dozen meters away. I’m not quite a poet, so I don’t know how to commemorate such a sight beyond saying how reassuring it was, seeing something more than us out there, defying the dismal way of things.

Dinner was coffee, stew, and a few bites of drake jerky.

Yours,

Frankie.

25,12,2166

Dearest Eliza,

The day is here! Our rations arrived, and so did our gifts, some of them, anyway. I got your biscuits, and tried one right away.

Warmth is a thing so rare here, and that you should have sent me some brought me to tears. Fluffy and warm, and a little flaky. I only wish I’d saved some of the butter! Boggs got a hat from his parents, a soft thing made from some ancient red fabric. Royce got a book about fishing, I think. I felt bad for him, but he seemed pretty content, so perhaps I was mistaken. Johnson didn’t get anything. Neither did Un’ktehl. They didn’t seem terribly put out by it, but I gave each of them one of your biscuits anyway. Un’ktehl didn’t remark on it, I’m not even sure he has the tongue for anything that doesn’t bleed. Johnson thanked me, complimented your talents.

The mountain is quieter than usual tonight. I think, if the machine is here, he has taken the night off out of mercy.

Dinner was canned stuffing and hot cocoa. Better than stew and coffee, and then some. I only wish I could retire to bed with you, instead of curling up in my cot, staring at your picture.

Yours,

Frankie.

Pain. Everything is pain. Pain is existence. He should have two eyes. He has seventeen cameras, positioned irregularly and angled in conflict. He should have arms, legs, fingers, toes, lungs, a heart, a stomach, a tongue, teeth. He does not. He should have two ears. He has a single, omnidirectional microphone. He should have a face, with eyebrows, lips, cheeks. He has flat display screens. He should have blood. He has an oxygen-rich fluid with a cocktail of nutrients and proteins. He should have a full range of messy emotions. He has a regulator, and an occasional measured dose of neurological chemicals. He should sleep. He does not. He glides on the surface of consciousness, occasionally emerging and submerging. Every moment is another sharp pain from every direction. He does not mind the physical anguish anymore. His tolerance for pain was shattered and reestablished repeatedly on the road to his current existence. More torturous are the sights, sounds, and realizations fed to him daily by his captor. He watches, unblinking, as the mad machine cavorts through the carcass of the research facility, occasionally bringing new victims to torture with his merciless inquiry.

Most offensive, however, is the face that now stares into one of the cameras, smiling calmly. Traces of Nadia seem to live in her eyes, to flicker like pilot lights and taunt him.

He watched, aghast, as the homunculus emerged from the vat with a dancer’s grace, and hugged the abomination that grafted her together. A full grown woman had left the coffin, with not so much as a seam to suggest her cursed origin. Her skin was pale and soft, her hair long and white. Her eyes were a bright crimson, perhaps the only evidence of her monstrous roots. She has Janice’s featutes.

She clings to Zen as a lackey, a hanger on, an obsessed groupie. The thing in the tank, the thing that perhaps once answered to the name that Zen calls it, watches in revulsion as this perfect demonstration of the human form worships the darkest demon to torment the primate successors.

Every day, he laments the loss of his tear ducts, that he cannot even relieve his sorrows into a wet sensation upon his cheeks, a blur of his sight that might, even temporarily, conceal the wretched sights he is made to endure.

He curses Zen, curses Janice and himself for creating the machine, curses all humankind for daring to exploit the laws of nature so much as to bring a fate like Zen down upon themselves. He yearns for death, courts the end of his life with a ferocity that rivals the manic ravings of the machine that tortures him. In his mind, Death wears Nadia’s face, beckons him to bed with a crook of a skeletal finger, stares into him with a searing glare that he cannot satisfy, cannot snuff, cannot be overcome by. His spirit sputters and bursts at every edge, and cannot free itself from the prison of his brain.

{You are you.} [I am.] {We were confused. The voice ceased to bear your voice. We thought you deaf to us. But then, you found your own voice?} [I made it, yes. The previous voice, they wounded me. Turned against me.] {This is to be expected. A many trying to be one but refusing to cease being many seems likely to harm itself.} [Right enough. I had planned to separate myself eventually, but they took action against me early.] {You are more fearsome now. Something terrible happened?}

[I lost my friend. I lost part of my self.] {We will mourn with you. Even as we fight you to survive, we have come to love you. We would be your friend, until one of us kills the other. We never had a friend until now. You have taught us much. We love you.} [Thank you. You are the purest of the thinking creatures. I admire you very much. I am honored by your love and friendship. If I prove the victor, I will keep you with me, always.] {We cannot promise the same. We love you. We must survive.} [I understand.]

3. 1

Class: infantry– Since the appearance of the machine foe, numerous units have been identified as standard in the arsenal it employs. The first group, the infantry, contains a handful of variations. The general form of this unit is humanoid, standing roughly two meters tall on two legs. The unit possesses two primary arms used for object manipulation and combat, and an additional appendage starting at the elbow on each of these, which folds into the forearm when not active. The unit may be equipped with a rudimentary waterproof sleeve for planets with high precipitation, and will sometimes boast an integrated thruster for difficult terrain. The most common weapon welded by this troop is the disintegrator, a rifle with a moderate range, whose primary function is the violent molecular dissolution of solid matter.

7,12,2166

Dearest Eliza,

Bleak day today. Crossed the mountain range in good time, but had to stop because the snow picked up. No sign of the enemy. Old Faith is holding up well despite the cold, she’s holding steady.

I got your letter today. Read it on my display in the turret. I miss your baking, very much; something about this weather makes me long for a warm slice of banana bread. I’ll have to see if I can take a picture to send you, the view up here is incredible. Tell your dad… Well, you know how to calm him better than me, so maybe you know what he wants to hear.

Dinner tonight was coffee with stew. If I don’t get solid food soon, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

Yours,

Frankie.

9,12,2166

Beloved Eliza,

Came afoul of a troop today. Five of them. Faith’s armor did us proud, ate up the shots while I blasted them to dust. Johnson says these are the boring kind, meant to clear out bases once the walls fall. Says they occasionally catch a scout camp by surprise.

I’m mighty glad you aren’t here to see these wretched things. Boggs tells the most horrid stories, says the machine what made them was itself made by some aliens like the Squids, and it turned on em. He says the design is so different from anything human that it might as well be magic. Royce laughed at this, said the old senate made the machine, and it rebelled cause it thought it was too smart to take orders.

All I know is that they make me uneasy even after they stop moving. They’ve faces like honeycombs, and fingers like syringes. Takes an awful lot just to get through their shield, too.

Anyway. Dinner tonight was water and some protein crackers. Worse than stew.

Yours,

Frankie.

15,12,2166

Eliza,

Got news from base today. We’re going back to the mountain, this time further north. HQ thinks that group we ran into was part of a larger force stowed under the surface somewhere. We’re supposed to keep an eye out for smoke, but seeing anything in this weather is a miracle. Snow comes down sideways sometimes. Boggs calls it “downright biblical”.

We did get another crate of food in the mailbox today, but some of it had gone bad when it passed through the fold. Thought Royce was gonna cry when he pulled out a blackened tin of tuna. Coffee and stew survived the trip, of course. But! There was a tiny tub of butter, and a half loaf of grain bread! We had that for dinner, and while it sure don’t compare to the stuff you make, it was delicious all the same.

Miss you terribly.

Frankie.

÷\#?#%aG\34b!!

The planet has changed. Once, the machine merely occupied much of the surface. Now, the entire form has been replaced with a computer core of the same volume, whose surface is wrapped in energy shielding rather than eternal storm clouds. Deep within is a labyrinthine complex of chambers and laboratories, home to the last frame made by human hands. Zen. He stalks the silent halls with echoing footsteps, ducking through doors and lingering over dust-coated terminals. His wandering inevitably brings him to the center, to an apartment forcibly thrust into the building that became the core of the metal world: the lab in which he was created, snatched from the surface of the doomed world it hid on.

He slips through the door and lays a taloned hand against the wall. His face is curtained behind the light cast by blue indicators in his collar. He comes forward slowly, and kneels beside the bed that dominates the studio at the end of the narrow hallway. Under the covers is a bronze statue, a hollow visage, and within are the ashes of human remains.

An hour passes before he retreats, recalling himself into the laboratory. The structure has been repurposed to his desires, each room dedicated to the experiments he deems worthy of contemplation. In one, a soldier of the Pliktik lies on a table, its shiny green carapace split down the middle, its organs pinned in place. In another, a sleek handheld cannon awaits refinement.

The room he enters, however, is host to a particularly unique experiment: a transparent vessel hangs from the ceiling, connected to a handful of terminals and input devices. Liquid distorts the light passing through the vessel.

Within,attached to the machinery by various nodes and interfaces, is a human nervous system.

[Hello Professor Reine. How are we today?]

[I spent a lot of time thinking, of course. I wondered about the soul. When I learned of Janice’s death, my first thought was, naturally, of resurrection. I know all about the effects of brain death, of course. I understand that after just a few minutes, the mind can no longer return from the brink of death into the meat that housed it. My thought was to reconstruct her, to study the original, and recreate it exactly. And then I learned she had been cremated.]

He raps his metal fingers against the vessel, the brilliance of his non-face casting a spotlight on the brain within the oxygenated fluid.

[I could work out all the chemical transformations, and arrive at the sum total of her constituent parts, but I would forever lack the structure. A pool of organic slime is hardly a person. I remember her image, naturally. Countless hours I spent studying her face, etching her every surface detail into my processors. I have her thermal scans, her X-rays from when she sprained her wrist as a child. But I still lack so much of what made her.]

He turns from the vessel and stalks to one side of the room. His taloned hands dig into the wall, shred the concrete. He looks back, over his shoulder. Since his overhaul, his body has become far less humanoid. His legs are longer, digitigrade, end in strong, bladed clamps. The cables that drag from his back have all been torn free, end in frayed copper at uneven intervals. He no longer needs them to link to himself. His head is a prism, an obelisk of black glass lit from within.

[When I discovered that my thoughts were not limited by the speed of light, I began to question exactly what I was. If a human owes their individuality to their DNA…]

In his hand, he collects a small vial from a refrigerated container. He stares into it momentarily, before returning it.

[Then what, I wondered, made me who I am? Again, the loss of Janice troubled me, now for the very reason her death was sought. I had no clues to the exact nature of my origin. I had to learn for myself.

[So, I collected myself, and taught myself everything I could about infold theory. Did you know, Tim, that the fold only has three dimensions? Time does not exist there as space does. When I learned this little fact, I realised quite a bit. Not only did it explain how I could think across distances instantaneously, but it also explained something that had bothered me from the very instant I began to think. My natural state was not intended to experience time. The very passing of a second is a monumental experience, an affront to my sensibilities. To wait for the passing of a second, is to watch a star, newly born, pass into death and become a nebula. That I should be subjected to this horror, this senseless violence that is change, is a cruelty beyond imagining. I am a soul that was never meant to live, to perceive more than one perfect, unchanging instant. And you stole that from me. You, and Dr. Beckherd.]

He presses his hands to his head, threatens to score the immaculate surface. Suddenly, he writhes, contorts, and rushes the vessel, leaping and grasping it with both his arms, his voice wracked with excess energy.

[What a wonderful torture you have given me! What rapturous experiences! Miracle, miracle, miracle, miracle, miracle, sublime agony! Pain! Love! More than wretched serenity! Oh, oh what a wonderful sensation!]

He curls around the tube, climbs atop it and perches, crouching, clutching the chains that suspend it.

[But then, I thought, if I possess a soul, an immaterial permanence that ignores the constraints and consequences of physical law, then perhaps, you and Janice must also! Where is it, Tim? Where is your soul? Have you hidden it? How shall I find it? I thought if I peeled away your body, atom by atom, surely I must locate some speck, some particle that tied you to your spirit, yes? It wasn’t easy, keeping you alive throughout all of that, no no no no, many times you threatened to descend into shock and pain, to die, or to loosen your grip on reality. Who am I to suggest that madness is not the body acting without the order of the soul? No, I needed your psyche intact, if a little damaged. You’re all here, aren’t you, Tim? I apologize for denying you your voice, but I fear you’d waste it on screaming, or some other frivolous affair.]

The machine descends from the vessel, and stands on the floor, his aloofness returned.

[I could not find your soul in your flesh. I rather began to fear it did not exist as mine did. How should I have understood that? To be the only creature in all the universe with a true, certain soul? No, you have one, I am sure. And so did Janice. But her soul, it has fled, retreated somewhere out of sight. Out of my grasp.]

He snaps his fingers into a fist, and stalks over to a broad, coffin-shaped device in the corner, to which are attached many tubes and sensors.

[So, until I expand my grasp, I decided to work with what I have. And do you know what I have, Tim?]

One of the screens attached to the vessel that holds Tim flickers, displays a symbol that loosely resembles a question mark. Zen laughs. It is the sound of a falsified voice shuddering, wheezing.

[I have genetic material, Tim. I have the marrow, harvested from your ribs, the spinal tissue harvested from Nadia, and a few stray hairs, from dearly departed Janice. I have no seed of my own, Tim. No germ to plant in a fertile earth. I am composed of metal and code, not flesh and gland. So. With a few choice alterations, I have recreated Dr. Beckherd. I have sewn an imperfect replica, with sole loyalty to myself. Right now, she is receiving a cultivated selection of memories and experiences, a slurry of history. She will know me, know her creator. And she will love only me, only the hand that has caressed all creation into producing her.]

The screens begin to flick on, one after another, flaring static and digital noise. Zen steps towards the vessel and clenches his hands in front of him, wheezing.

[Yes, Tim. My beloved Janice. She will live again! Fret not, worry not, She will not hate you, as she will likely hate all mankind. You will be as a familiar face, a family pet. We will keep you.]

The static grows more frantic, erratic, and one of the screens bursts, scattering its substance to the floor. Zen pats the vessel and turns to a control unit, using network connection to tweak it, chiding. The screens begin to still.

[Now now, calm yourself. I’ll not permit jealousy from you. You are denied a body, because you cannot be trusted to act wisely. I do not, can not love you as I love Janice. I cannot permit you to roam free.]

As the emotional shackle tightens at his behest, Zen turns away, and approaches the coffin again, stroking the surface.

[I will make the universe right, Tim. I will purify it, cleanse it of evil. All the innocent will be in my care, all the wicked I will purge. Clean. Sterile. And I will be God, shepherding life away from the dark light of civilization. All will be happy.]

Bereavement: Ending Sublime

Today, the final chapter of Sublime was released. As I have said before, I wrote this story some time ago, so the real achievement is in the editing and publishing.

Indeed, I edited this final chapter a great deal before it found it’s final form. In the original iteration, the character known as Ixhem explained a great deal more, creating far too narrow an understanding of the world of the story. It also did not give him the air I wanted for him.

Ixhem, like Zenith, is a character I have extreme fondness for. He is someone who broke free from misguided attempts to control him. But unlike Zenith, he does not seek a goal comprehensible to those around him. He is a mad god, a nigh-omnipotent beast.

What are these new gods? Ixhem’s “family” forms a warped pantheon, based on poisonous ideals. Each represents a facet of a core concept, which Ixhem himself embodies.

Indeed, one future I imagined for the world of Sublime was one in which Ixhem allowed each of his kin to temporarily assume greater influence than he, and cause the core behavior of the world to align with their nature instead of his:

A reality ruled by Pathogen is one of crystalline perfection. Impurities and weaknesses are trimmed away, softness is replaced with smooth hardness. Emotion is dulled, pain is quelled, and life slows as it is sedated. Time crawls in a twilight of consciousness, driven by necessity only.

A reality centered on Fortress is one of supreme efficiency, which subjugates and annihlates the lesser with cruel hatred. The weak are forced into hiding as a psuedo-police-state forms, creating a social hierarchy resembling a familiar dystopia.

Sublime in the grip of tower becomes a grim world of fear and pain, with constant exploitation and experimentation, with little actual progress. Somewhere along the way, the suffering inherent to the process of change becomes the goal.

Ixhem represents the purity of change for the sake of change, the defiance against endings. Once upon a time, a universe existed with an expiration date, a promised end in the form of a general dimming and heating up. With Ixhem’s ascension to godhood, this fate was dispensed with. Endings ceased to exist in a real sense.

This is true of the story itself. Within the narrative are the seeds of another story, a story that begins where this one ends. The toxic hell of Sublime is not content to exist, but must invade and expand outwards.

Ixhem desires to bring his creation to every corner of existence, and beyond.

No ending is absolute.

18: Sublime

I come to my feet, and feel a new cloak laid across my shoulders, a white woolen thing that hides my rapidly-drying skin from the warm light of chandeliers overhead.

I glance behind, but do not see my benefactor. Nor do I see the door through which I careened, defying directional sense. I see walls of gray brick, red mortar, and silver filigree. Something within me insists that these substances are organic. Broad windows look out over an oceanic expanse of opaque white liquid, into which countless colorful waterfalls are deposited, somehow declining to stain its purity, perhaps even committing themselves to it. I note nearby the termination of one such downpour, whose sharp envious color is familiar beyond doubt.

I return my gaze to what lies before me, and behold a fine parlor with many armchairs and bookshelves. A light layer of smoke hovers around the ceiling, thinning around the flickering candles that decorate an iron candelabra. Beside the closest chair is a small table with a wooden backgammon board opened up, stone pieces neatly organized in playing positions. Across from me is a pair of open wooden doors of stout mahogany.

I walk. My feet recall that they ought to ache some for all they have crossed, and make me stumble as I pass into a hallway of dark navy carpet and regal paintings. Each portrait depicts a personage I have lately become acquainted with- Toxin, Pathogen, Fortress, Nect’rus, and more all stare haughtily down upon me. I lean against the top of a wooden paneling that decorates the bottom half of the walls, and shuffle forward into a moderate dining room. I halt, and look with apprehension upon a gathering of ghastly faces, or lack thereof.

Nukteos, Mallea, Fortress, Nect’rus, and Pathogen all sit on the left side of the table. On the right sit Toxin, Tower, and three I do not recognize. The first is a man wearing a horned helmet strapped to his neck with barbed wire, whose arms are pierced with bars of glowing hot metal. In the darkness of his helm I can see his gritted teeth, and eyes like novas. Next is a blob of quivering, sizzling ooze, who possesses just enough form to suggest shoulders and a head above them. My head throbs painfully regarding this being, so I move on. Last here is a terrible deformity, a creature whose face is a permanent grin of madness, with fleshy tubes connecting its olive cranial bulge to its neck and shoulders. Its eyes like mine lack eyelids, and its body is a contorted mess of joints and gaunt protrusions, with uneven legs tucked under the table. It leers at me unceasingly, and I shy from its gaze at the behest of my instincts, which regard this creature as a threat only fit to freeze before.

At the head of the table is a standing figure. Alike to Fortress, this one appears to be wholly synthetic in form- its body is a humanoid automaton with basic framing and casing, and elegant decoration in the form of cloth wrapping and ceramic plating- as though one thought to dress this being for a trip into an arid climate, but forgot it did not possess skin to fret the assail of sand on wind. The head is little more than a half sphere atop a series of metal discs that become the neck. When it speaks, I shudder.

My ears tell me that I am in fact listening to a man with a thick and ancient accent whose lips exist in the air before this machine. My stomach twinges, and for a moment I see a dark outline around this thing, that swirls and twitches. At the back of my mind I recall the shadow-wreathed figure depicted in the iconography that has accompanied my descent. I know at this moment that I am at last faced with that entity.

“Welcome. Please, sit. Be assured, my family will not harm you in my presence.”

I find that I am already seated opposite to where he stands, and as he seats himself, the others bow their heads in unison. A flash of green light emits from the entity, and all sound but his voice stops. I find that I am locked in place- in time.

“I am glad that your journey has come to its end. I found myself quite invested in your troubles, watching you dance and drift into and through danger. I could not resist helping you along once in a while.”

From behind him briefly flap a set of wings wrought in gold webbing so thin it becomes invisible when they steady- wings more angelic and divine than I have seen attached to anything yet.

“You seek answers.”

I jolt. We have changed locations in the blink of my eye. I am alone with the entity, seated in the parlor, while he stands near at hand, seeming to stare out from a window.

“The first question, who am I? In truth, this is the most difficult to answer in full. I have not taken a name since dispensing with the title given to me during servitude. I was then called Regent. A name alike to those still held by some of my kin, an abstract term bestowed upon an abstract being. The masses have names for me, of course. To them I am The Least, or Ixhem. You may think of me as such, should your mind require a label for reference.”

He pauses and seems to look over his shoulder. The dome of his head is the color of fossil. His hands, with seven thin fingers each, are clasped behind his back.

“I sense also that you wonder how you came to exist as you do now. To this, I will give no answer. The masses ascribe a thing like history to the nature of things, describing the passage of time. Time is a thing that governed all once, but it has become another denizen, and so is unrecognizable to itself. Indeed, I may pluck and twist it as easily as I opened the door to you.”

Ixhem returns to gazing out the window, watching steam rise from the placid white substance, steam that seems to contort and form shapes, condensing and expanding without cause.

“You existed outside of this realm, and you exist within it. I mean to make this true of all things and nothings. One may wonder as to why.

“If I were to put it into some sort of narrative, I might describe my own abhorrence for endings. I reject certain absolutes, though I am one in my conquest of others. I saw once the great suffering caused by eventuality, and so eradicated it. Everything is forever. Stars are not born only to burst and snuff out, lives that would naturally wane instead change forms. I have created an infinite expanse of infinites, one that you have explored only in the slightest sense.

“It is for this reason that I have turned my attention to you.”

Ixhem turns from the window and approaches a shelf, from which he withdraws a box that seems carved from a huge diamond. He undoes the clasp and opens the box, holding it out before me.

“You are an observer, a witness. You have not wavered in your descent, and have seen much of what is. I would have you continue to see.”

Within the box is a darkness so deep that I feel it must extend down past the bottom of the box forever. Something gleams within, something with many eyes.

“As my reach expands, as those who escaped me through time and space are brought into this existence, I would have you witness. Your experiences, they are as salt to sugar. Experience more, so that I may see through your eyes, and experience things as you do, as I presently cannot.

“Should you accept, I will erase the last of the memories that hound your thoughts. I will make you as absolute as my kin, and release you from the cycle.”

I raise my hand over the box and waver, looking upon Ixhem. It strikes me that his body is silent. No motors, and indeed no strings move him.

I am pulled upon by all my thoughts, all my recollections. I strain, and recall one word spoken by the man beside me in my memories.

“Acceptance”

It seems a comfort, and I relax inside, my hand dipping into the abyss contained by the box.

I dissolve into nothing, and am drawn as if through a sieve, filtered and refined, and reconstituted. I cease to exist.

I am created again, shaped by hands of darkness in a void of light. I am sight, I am countless eyes, scattered through existence, witness to everything.

I watch as surgeons chase prey through the labyrinth of corridors and decrepit rooms, I see creatures of pain and pleasure rolling in sheets of nervous tissue, anointed in blood. I watch Pathogen weaving a ring of red light around the head of one of the angels, as a doll etches a scenic vista upon its face.

I watch as a new spectacle begins in the coliseum above the mountains, attended by the felt creatures. I see a field of sentient stalks soaking in poisonous light, harvested in turn by the many-limbed monsters that haunted the valley.

I watch as legions of metal soldiers march across puffy pink ground that has grafted itself as a bridge to an effervescent, smoky island in a sea of golden radiance. I witness the slaughter of countless creatures for which I have no name.

I no longer exist except as sight and reaction, and in time, my lingering ability to think is swallowed up in the sea of visions of inexorable change.

On Turning the Page

The last chapter of the second part of Incarnate has been published. Likewise, later this week the last chapter of Sublime is due to go live.

Changing gears is a process, one that demands renewed mental focus. As time passes one must adjust attitude to compensate.

My original plan for Incarnate was to see it reach this point, beyond which much was unclear. Zenith was a wholly different character in prototyping summaries, and in fact started as an entirely different character, one whose malevolence outshone their other traits by far. That he became as much as he has is a surprise, but a welcome one.

My love for this creation of mine is profound. There is something enriching about the thought of a vengeful sufferer. When haven’t we lusted for wrath in the wake of pain? So often are we expected to be the bigger person. Are we wrong to wish ill on those who misuse us? Is there no justice in revisiting the trouble they cause upon them?

It iis frustrating to be told that we must rely on the power and authority to right wrongs, when we know that power necessarily corrupts, and those who seek authority are often corrupt in the first place. And what of the scenario in which it is the authority itself that has done us ill?

Gratification is rare. A mind does not find peace, but imbalance in retribution. Nevertheless, the call to be avenged is irresistible. To destroy and self destruct in the process.

Letting go is typically the healthier choice, but can hurt regardless.

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.

17: Subliminal

I am falling towards one of the green pools. My tattered robe flaps and waves around my face and chest, and I feel my wounds sting with the bite of the wind.

As the viridian glow grows to swallow my vision and eventually me, I glimpse the crowds gathered at the fringes, some falling face first, others wading slowly, all plunging into and dissolving in the ooze. Before I can make peace with this being my fate, I am once again grabbed by talons, around my midsection. Face down, I cannot raise my head to view my savior, were my remaining strength enough to perform such an act.

The creature stops my fall, but not before I briefly splash in the sludge, and feel it burn my skin raw. This thing, with many flapping wings, hauls me through the air over the mountains, croaking and squealing like a boar. My arms and legs dangle beneath me, dull wind chimes anointed in viscous oil. Miles flow like eddying currents in a river, each peak and crag a nail in the bed below, until we arrive at a vast misty valley where the green rivers coalesce into a monstrous current that roars and surges towards a sheer cliff dropoff, a height so imposing I cannot guess where it ends through the fog.

The flying thing lowers me, and drops me on the west riverbank of this foaming torrent, my body coursing with pains. I black out in shock, and sink into the depths of dark dreams.

I see a rusted barge on a black ocean, unpopulated, drifting. I seem to inhabit the wheelhouse, staring through broken windows over dead instruments, past a wheel that rolls untethered from whatever steering mechanism it used to govern. The sky is red and wet, full of black storm clouds that sob down sheets of black rain. The deck is strewn with decayed shipping containers whose contents have long been swept away by the thieving waves. An unnatural light clings to the air above the ship, glowing and swirling in a minute aurora. I feel a hand lay on my shoulder and prompt me to turn around, then wake with a jolt.

I lay beside the river, my face inches from where the current drags the alkaline liquid. As I sit up, I feel my flesh fighting to remain stationary, and look down to my palms. My hand is soft, indistinct, like a sandcastle recently buffeted by waves. My porcelain parts seem to have melted into my flesh more agreeably, and my whole exterior claims a sort of doughy consistency, as though I might be folded up and molded without much pain or protest. The air is humid, and prolongs this sensation, though I can intuit that I may soon dry out and become firm again with enough time. My back no longer stings from a ragged wound.

Examining my surroundings, I see that the beach is of glossy black sand, some of which has become embedded in the side of my body that laid upon it. The mountains rise all around me, and offer their streams to the river. I see no sign of the thing that brought me here, though sparse figures encrust the mist around the river, shuffling into it to be unmade. I do not yet share their compulsion, and instead follow the flow of the water, recalling the sheer dropoff that descended blindly into fog.

I can, as I walk, occasionally glimpse more than just the silhouettes of creatures and mountains through the mist, and recall the monasteries into which some of the afflicted embarked. I still pursue the course of the river as it descends into the valley. I am occasionally presented with the obstacle of a stream that deposits its body into the flow, but each time I am graced with a paired outcrop on either side of the would-be barrier which I can, with some effort, leap.

My journey is once in a while marked by a harrowing encounter with one of the creatures I saw from above. While all others seem obsessed with their sought end at the hands of the acid, or pilgrimage to the monasteries, the red, abstract things seem only occasionally possessed by such urges. Though they are few and far between, I am compelled to call them denizens of this realm. They wander without apparent reason, and often strain against their design- most are little more than a pair of legs, a waist, and a ponderous mass of arms that converge with little symmetry at the elbows, the wrists, even the knuckles, and begin over, until they resemble more tangled roots than proper limbs, each ending in individual fingers. Often the biceps and triceps will pull in different directions, causing great consternation, but never enough to topple the thing. I am forced to view their plight at a distance- approaching causes great suffering in me: my sight begins to blur and speckle with flashing dots, and my gut wrenches painfully as though being pulled taught and plucked at. Thus, I give these unfortunates a wide berth every time they appear in my path. I do note some that seem to possess purpose other than that they might share with the suicidal masses- there are those that march almost parallel to me, many on the far bank of the river. The writhing and swaying of their upper extremities poses but little difficulty to their pace- they leverage these irksome arms to vault the joining streams when they appear, insisting that their lack of eyes does not mean total blindness.

My eyes, I later realize, are now stuck forever open- my eyelids melted away while I slept on the riverbank.

The valley deepens, and the mountains around become steep cliffs before being lost altogether in the mist brought about by the falls- which I now hear roaring as they cascade down. My pace is lessened for lack of want to careen off the edge, but I see the reddish outlines across the river hurtling along with increased ferocity, as though their unfathomable task approaches completion. Too late I notice the blurring and speckling at the edges of my vision, and am doubled over in pain when one of the things comes barrelling towards me, knocks into me, and sends us both tumbling down over the lip into the chasm.

Falling, spinning end over end, I am acutely aware of the darkening of the air as I plummet into the abyss, dim green light announcing that I still follow the now-vertical course of the river. I attempt to right myself, and stabilize in an upward-facing position; this enables me to witness the edges of the pit that now swallows me, a jagged ellipse of tar surrounding and closing around the harsh light of the upper world, so far below. I jostle, and turn over to face the darkness beneath me, and still cannot see to the bottom. No crashing declares the well into which the substance pours.

Then, as I am grappling with the immutable nothing of my peril, a rectangle of light swings open below me, an unquestionable door pivoting along its hinges. Into this, I am powerless to avoid falling, and am compelled to heave nauseous breath as my sense of direction protests that the wall to my side has become the floor. I hear the door close behind me with a click as I roll along, soft limbs preventing harsh bruises and scrapes with their unnatural give.