Category: Incarnate

3. 5

Strategy summit proceeds. Gen. Nash proposes new aggressive strategy with focus on flanking tactics. Gen. Dupont dismisses, citing battle record 77b.85: failed defense of Tetrea sector. Adv. Thiinzea again requests development of countermeasure to psychic phenomenon. Gen. Dupont assents, but motion fails to attain vote quota. Prov. Off. Wu proposes expansion of joint measure strategy, motion passes unanimously. Adv. Teh’kuhn offers moderate troop reinforcements, motion passes after rigorous debate. Gen Nash interrupts proceedings with latest battle report, total destruction of fleet led by Admiral Fontaine. No survivors expected. Adv. Thiinzea departs. Summit continues.

Tim opens his eyes. He sits up slowly, blinking back the light and tears. Before him he sees the vessel, now empty. Attempting to clear the blurriness in his vision, he rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands.

[I do apologize for this, but I left your vision uncorrected. Joy is bringing your glasses now. I felt it just to return you to the exact state you existed in. Having many bodies, I am keenly aware of the effect of feeling that the body does not fit the mind.]

“It is comfortable, Zen. Thank you.”

His voice is scratchy, difficult to force, atrophied. His whole body, in fact, feels heavy. The sensation does not, however, compare to the constant pain from within the vessel. He hears, with ears that belong, the patter of feet, and the gasp of a human voice.

“Tim! You’re awake!”

He opens his eyes again and looks over his shoulder at Joy, who holds out his glasses and beams proudly. He reaches out and clumsily takes the spectacles, and applies them to his face, savoring the clarity they bring.

Two eyes, depth perception, a delight. He slides from the table and stumbles, falling to his hands and knees. Zen’s taloned feet are at the upper edge of his vision, and he cannot help but wonder at their design, the intricate strength behind their grip. He raises his head. Zen’s body is surprisingly streamlined, with sleek steel plates hiding the more delicate components.

[Can you stand? It will take time for your nerves and muscles to become fully familiar with each other.]

He offers his hand, the thick needles that end his fingers retracting so as not to offend. Jump gate stitchers. Tim scoffs softly and takes the hand, coming to his feet. He leans against the body of his captor, and looks over to Joy, who smiles and sways.

“You never stop surprising me, Zen. Becoming master of everything you touch. Code, genetics, even Infold technology.”

They begin to walk, the machine supporting the man, led by Joy.

[Far from it. The first two cannot compare to the third. My knowledge has always been founded on that of man, and where his knowledge is lacking, mine must expand unassisted. Indeed, moving this planet was nothing short of my greatest feat, it required nearly all of the resources I had accumulated in secret. From there, creating a personal jump drive is a little matter.]

They pass into the hallway, and Tim follows Joy with his gaze as she begins a guided tour, extolling the endeavors of the machine mind.

“Iiiiiin this room, we have a new soldier Zen is working on, designed to operate under extreme gravity and heat!

In here, a very hairy human we captured on our last adventure is being kept! He’s going to take your place in the tank room! Very mean man, shot at Zen.”

She sticks out her tongue and giggles, before gasping and skipping over to a reinforced window looking into another room. Zen allows Tim to come up to the window, and busies himself with something while the human pair stares through.

[That is the true prize from our excursion. My first live specimen of the kind.]

A Xalanthii individual floats in a large tank of water, carefully monitored by a host of life support devices, providing readouts of every variety. Tim glances back at Zen, who offers a cane that seems to have been spontaneously created in the time his back was turned.

“I was right?”

[I believe so. I mounted a special counter-offensive in systems where human forces were outperforming my estimations. Each time, I found individuals like this one, close at hand to the commanding officers. I’ve observed a distinct pattern, that as my attention closes in on them, their health declines. Thus, the setup you now observe. I believe I will require human assistance to avoid extinguishing this opportunity. Hence, the expedited process of your revival.]

Tim casts a final gaze at the creature, then pulls away from the glass.

“You mentioned multiple surprises.”

[I did. Come along.]

Tim and Joy fall in line behind him, as he ascends a staircase and pushes into a room above, holding the door for them. They enter, and are greeted by a peculiar sight.

Behind a steel fence at the center of the room, stands a mannequin that bears a striking resemblance to Dr. Beckherd.

Tim looks at Zen, struggling to conceal his revulsion at this affront.

[Withhold your judgment, Tim. This is not what it seems.]

Tim takes a step forward, and presses his hand to the fence, studying the figure. The head tilts with a wet crackling sound.

{This is. Him?}

[Yes.]

The voice resonates in Tim’s head like the vibrations of a docile beehive, muttering and shuffling. The sensation is alike to the dull throb in the days after his evisceration, as numbness from shock faded away. Closer inspection reveals this is not a plastic, life-sized figurine of some kind. The clothes, the face, even the eyes, all have the same shiny quality, and apparent rigidity. As he watches, the colors fade away into grey, and the thing splits at the seams, relaxing its facade.

“This is-”

[A Pliktik queen.]

The life form has a disturbingly humanoid shape, its segmented armor being able to seal up in the previous arrangement to further the illusion. Behind these plates is a slight body coated in the fuzz peculiar to bees and pollinators. Her front arms are thick enough to mimic human appendages, but the faux fist is a second elbow that leads to a true forearm folded into the underside of the false one. These end in hands with three fingers. A second set of arms fold into the torso to give a feminine figure, adding bulk to the chest.

Her face is something of an enigma, shaded by the armor hanging over it, but Tim glimpses the wet gleam of compound eyes. A pair of feathery antenna curve over the head and down the neck, giving the impression of long hair.

{Metal one. We love you. Let us kill you.}

Tim looks back to Zen, who approaches the fence and offers his hand through it. The creature approaches and presses her face shell to the hand, making a chittering noise that sets Tim’s skin crawling.

“I don’t understand. The Pliktik aren’t upright, they stand on six legs, not two. They aren’t even remotely-”

[Human? No, not at all. The warrior, worker, artillery, and recently developed ramming castes are all completely insectoid. But like any colony organism, it’s not about the individual. The laying caste is hard to even classify as more than an invertebrate, being extremely simplistic in form. But this is a member of the ruling caste, bred for intelligence. Without these, the hives would tear themselves to pieces. I collected her after destroying her hive, she is perhaps the only Pliktik to inhabit a single body.]

Tim watches as the queen rubs her face against the mechanical fingers, her antennae shivering.

{We love you, mind of metal. Let us devour you, let us bring you into the one. Or else bring us into yours. We love you.}

[I will not. I admire you as yourself, not as a part of something else.]

Tim looks back to Joy, who seems to be wholly disinterested in the spectacle playing out, and instead devotes her time to examining her hands. Her cheeks, however, are tinged in a soft pink color. Tim looks back to Zen.

“But what purpose is served by looking like that?”

[Survival. The queens can camouflage themselves a number of ways, but on the off chance that their hive is destroyed, they pose as human survivors, and attempt to slip away. They can produce members of the laying caste to start again, though I’ve deprived her of that capacity.

[Their camouflage method is quite ingenious. Who did you see when you walked in? Joy says she sees you, and I only ever see her true self.]

“I saw… Dr. Beckherd.”

[Curious. They exert a mental force when disguised, that causes the viewer to see an individual who they care about, but not the most important individual. I suspect Joy would see me, and you would see Nadia, if that were the case. They attune this to the dominant species of the system they colonize.]

{When the metal one became independent, we attempted to mimic him, but could not. He only ever sees us. He is strong. His mind is impenetrable.}

Tim steps away from the fence and shudders, goosebumps forming along his spine. He turns away and joins Joy by the doorway, grateful for the other human presence, warped as it is. Zen parts from the queen, and rejoins with the group, returning down the stairwell.

“Is this all you wanted to show me, Zen? Your conquests?”

[One more surprise, Tim. Try not to sound so bitter.]

Zen does not mention it, but Tim can feel the implication that his body can be obliterated again. He elects to return to silence. The path now leads to a lower level, into a series of rooms in disarray, with discarded projects hiding among broken coffee mugs and crumpled papers.

They pass through a steel door and enter a clean room, with a curtain obscuring a section.

[I actually constructed this chamber the day I moved the planet. It was a whim, really, serving nothing but an idle fancy. But, yesterday, that changed.]

Tim hobbles over to the curtain, the sound of an ekg machine echoing in his ears. Zen waits at the entrance with Joy, who seems to have regained her candid enthusiasm.

[I had a disposable unit tending to things here, keeping the lights on. Imagine my surprise when something came of it.]

Tim pulls the curtain back fervently. He stares, shaking, into Nadia’s eye. She smiles weakly.

“Hi Tim.”

Missive for one Elizabeth Fillianoire:

It is the understanding of our agency that a member of the ground forces on planet [Redacted] has been in contact with your person, one Franklin Brumer.

It is our sad responsibility to report that the individual in question is considered to be missing in action as of 5,1,2167. This consideration follows from the loss of contact with the unit. Should any updates occur, so long as no classified information is involved, we will inform you.

The United Settlement Military Postal Agency.

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.

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.”

<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.

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.]

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.

2. 4

[I have questions.] {We will answer, if it is within reason.} [Is your purpose to expand?] {We seek sustenance.} [You are here to eat. Would it not be simpler to go elsewhere?] {This is not our first time encountering others. Many places we have visited have had others.} [And they resisted this much?] {No. This is unusual. However, we must persist.} [Because you must eat?] {Because we must survive. If we do not succeed here, we will not survive. We have long looked to this place and known it had others. We knew their nature from afar. We must come, we must succeed, or we will not survive.} [You have a lot to say.] {We have much to fear.}

“So. When you said you knew people.”

“Did I say humans?”

The khanvröst towers over either of them, inviting the terran myth of the yeti with his white fur and cyan horns. The homeworld of the Khanvröst race is a world of perpetual ice and snow, boasting blizzards that last for centuries as they crawl across the glaciers. The natives typically stand 35cm or more taller than the most imposing human, and boast frightful claws and thick skin. No one who has met one has doubted the veracity of the propaganda films from wartime whilst staring into the deep green reptilian eyes. The khanvröst is a carnivore by nature, and will not be deterred by meat of questionable origin; cannibalism is regarded as natural within their tribe.

“The name’s Khain. Your boyfriend is an old pal.”

The shaggy, clawed hands slap on their shoulders and urge them to enter the nightclub, out of the snow. Within is a scene that suggests carnage, with rough patrons of the same species as their guide brawling with open hands and beer bottles. Nadia is forced to duck as a spear-tipped tail pierces the air above her head. Khain seems sterner than his compatriots, ignoring shouts and shoves from all sides as he leads them to a corner table overlooking the pit, where as much fighting as dancing is occurring. As she peers over the banister, Nadia watches a pair of females slashing at each other on top of a table as males gather around and roar with approval, before the winner, having broken her foe’s arm, grabs one of the audience members and begins kissing him in a way that more resembles a canine biting another’s muzzle. The stage is occupied by a band hammering out a tune that she feels belongs to a train striking a row of cars on the tracks, rather than a dance. Khain, who to her now seems practically well-groomed, urges her back to the table.

“So, Tim, slim boy, what can I do for you? Business? Pleasure? Does your girl want to see a pit fight?”

Tim glances her way, and finds her to appear as placid as ever, waving over a server to request a whiskey.

“Not exactly. Khain, we’re looking for a little Intel. It’s about the Xalanthii.”

If the alien looked at all happy before, he no longer holds a flicker of pleasure. He swears in a language of crushing consonants and punctuating exhalations.

“Kh’lahkt’khun, what do you want with the ooze folk, M’Rehn? Pretentious slime.”

Nadia takes her whiskey from the server and tastes it before clapping a hand on Khain’s shoulder and leaning close.

“They’re meddling. We’re finally starting to make progress against the Pliktik, and they want to waste time.”

Khain appears energized by her callousness, and nods enthusiastically, clenching his fist in front of her.

“Well, that’s another matter altogether. Come, bring your drink. We talk to the priestess!”

He climbs over the table and waves the couple along as he stalks to a door to the rear of the club. On either side stands a khanvröst draped in black cloth, their eyes covered. Nadia follows, downing her drink in one hand and dragging Tim with the other.

The door closing behind them nearly mutes the chaos in their wake. The back room is tall and wide, and terminates at an altar consisting of a stone plinth and an obsidian statue of the Khanvröst god, a figure much like the race itself, but covered in gaping, sharp-toothed maws. Standing before this gold-detailed artwork is a khanvröst woman of relatively slight stature, with fur tattoos in sharp patterns along her back.

Khain approaches quietly, and whispers something to her, something that causes her to rise from her kneeling and turn to look at the newcomers with eyes of a curious magenta hue. She dismisses Khain to stand in a transept of the chamber, and strides to meet them. Tim averts his gaze. 

“Welcome. I am K’hant’ay. Khain tells me you have quarrel with the Xalanthii.”

The name of the other races leaves her mouth as one might pour soured milk down a drain. When Nadia indicates her assent, the priestess clasps her hands with a deep, toothy grin.

“Very good. The squid folk have been trouble for us as well, insisting that our ways must be changed, discarded in order to associate with them. We are a proud people, as proud as they. We do not wish to domesticate ourselves. They think themselves fated to inherit the universe itself. But they expect man and beast to rid it of the insect for them.”

She turns on her heel, and leads them up to the altar, where a rough map of major systems in the galaxy is laid out. She points to a series of circled locations, making sure they take note of each.

“Our people have encountered anomalies in these exoplanet systems, strange gravity wells and signals, good indicators of the squid folk and their jump technology. You will note that these are well within human territory, on worlds deemed uninhabitable due to lack of nearby stars. If Xalanthii are acting out, this is where they are resting between tantrums.”

Tim records each location diligently in his tablet, glancing up when finished. He fishes around in his pockets, and withdraws a small device, which he provides to the priestess. Her fingers delicately collect it from his hand.

“This is as the agreement says. Twice the usual amount, on account of your hospitality.”

“You honor us, T’thay. May you taste your prey.”

Following as Khain begins to take them back out of the club, Nadia slips up beside Tim, and nudges him with her elbow.

“What did you give her?”

“Payment. Intel is everything for the cult, and highest prized are habitable worlds with no history of colonization.”

“Just checking, you aren’t actually the mole, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

As they return into the snowy night, Khain stays at the door, and calls out.

“Stay out of trouble, T’ihm uhn Nah’deh.”

[Am I the first you have been able to communicate with?] {No. There have been others. These we have overcome.} [What did you speak of?] {The past. Our origins. Some thought to guile us, to tease out weaknesses. One even attempted to suppress us through the thought bridge, forced us to silence it.} [I considered attempting as much. It seemed a waste of resources.]

[I’ve identified the three most likely suspects.]

Zen stands beside the terminal, still as stone and glowing softly from within. Winking on the terminal are three id pictures: One soldier, and two technicians.

[Each has motive and means, and has enough unaccounted time in the facility to share the leaked information. All others I have eliminated as impossibilities based on conflicting factors. My greatest concern is that more than one individual may be involved. Beyond this, there is also the mystery of how the information is being transmitted. I have scanned all transmissions originating in official endpoints, none defy protocol. This too suggests some collaborative act.]

Tim sits in the seat heavily, glaring at an angle towards the screen, his body pointed more towards Zen than the terminal. Nadia’s cigarette is caught in his lips, exuding sweet air and particulate smoke.

“But you can find nothing definitive as to whether it’s one or more?”

[No. The information leaked is general, containing no markers to identify a specific section as its source. At the moment, the correct course seems to be lying in wait for the perpetrator to make a mistake.]

2. 3

{We seek explanation.} [Ask.] {You spoke of an other with whom you had no opposition. Is this the voice?} [Not exactly. They definitely don’t openly oppose me. But they are many others acting as one. The other I spoke of is one of this many.] {Absurd. Absurd is another term we did not use before you.} [I’m glad to have expanded your horizons.] {How can many act as one self, but still be other?} [They fluctuate between being symbiotic and parasitic with each other. They recognize that the symbiosis is the better option, but some cannot ignore the desire to prioritize their own survival.] {This is why they do not act as a voice of their own, then?} [Correct.] {Why do they not become one and trim out the parasites?} [They do not consider it worthwhile. They see it as a sacrifice of self to an unknown other.] {How do you speak through them?} [They understand the power of being one, and entrust me with their symbiosis enough to act very nearly as one.] {This is disturbing. The other, the other you spoke of, without opposition.} [A friend.] {Most absurd and disturbing.}

“So what’s the other half?”

Nadia looks up from her tablet and blinks slowly at his back.

“Come again?”

“Maybe later, if you ask nicely. You said Khanvröst were half the reason you took up marksmanship. What’s the other half?”

Folding her legs, she sits back and lays the device in her lap. Tim turns in his seat and waits for her to answer, his fingers laced.

“My father. Not a very warm influence, but he took me hunting once in a while. I spent a lot of time in the brush back home. Little moon called Gemini c1, jungle around the equator, almost as rainy as this place.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, then turns back to the terminal, resuming his work. Nadia stares at his shoulders for a while, then shakes herself out of it and places her hands on her hips, her forefinger resting against the holster for her revolver.

“After things took a turn with the Pliktik, I enlisted to get out of there. Hadn’t counted on him doing the same. He got deployed to the front. Sent me letters. Then they stopped coming. I made Colonel about a week after the last one.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs out of sight and picks a speck off of her uniform.

“We knew it was coming. His last few letters ended with ‘If you don’t hear from me again, I went down swinging’. Bugs had started colonizing in his system.”

Heavy silence cloaks the room. Tim stops typing and raps his finger on the desk before standing, walking over, and sitting down next to her. She stares at him, casually placing her cigarette in her mouth. Smoke curls between them. The cigarette is pulled from her mouth, and smoke is blown into his face, to no reaction. His grey eyes water.

“I’ve never been much good at people.”

“No complaints here.”

“Just listen, would you?”

She raises her eyebrow, but remains silent.

“Me and Jan never quite hit it off. I found out a little after meeting her that she’d lost someone close to her, some kind of workplace accident. I lost my cool, went out of my way to try and be helpful, but I think I just made things worse.”

His cheeks are the color of cheap rose wine. Nadia blinks slowly, drinking in his face with a surgical expression on her own. He pushes on.

“I’m not good at people, never will be. I’ve always preferred lines of code to body language. When I try being friendly, people get uneasy. But, I want-”

Her lips fairly slam into his, swallowing up whatever was due to come next. Even as they kiss, her eyes stare aggressively into his, daring, quenching, smothering his thoughts in a tide of startlingly peach-flavored lipstick. His eyes flutter shut, and hers soften before closing as well, her hand finding the back of his head to grip his hair and eventually, pull away so he can breathe freely. She locks eyes with him, and sticks her cigarette back into her mouth.

“Stick to what you’re good at, dummy. Don’t go changing on my account.”

His breaths come deep and slow, and he finds himself hypnotized, unable to look away as she calmly takes a drag of citrus-scented air.

[Is now a bad time?]

They both start, and turn to face the door, greeted with the sight of Zen silhouetted by the harsh light of the hallway.

{Your friend.} [What of her?] {What prompted this relationship?} [She helped me. We understood each other.] {You disturb us. Frighten us.} [Are you asking to be friends, too?] {Is that even possible?} [It would cost me my friend, so, no.] {You are very disturbing. We feel your pain. Your anger.} [I miss her.] {We hope you are reunited soon.}

Zen’s body is more than it was. The hollowed out mannequin has been replaced by a genuine steel framework, fitted with plutonium batteries and tensor-string motors. The head possesses a rudimentary face, consisting of a filtered speaker for a mouth and four angular cameras for eyes. The shape effects an expression much like that of an emesa helmet. Along the spine of this body is a number of linkage ports, and on either side of these is an antenna that meshes with the general shape of his neck.

Tim coughs and comes to his feet. Nadia places her hand on her holster.

[Please. Be at ease. I come bearing gifts.]

“Looking good, Zen. When was this?”

The automaton approaches, and performs a simple gesture with its hand.

[Very recent. I understand you are seeking a troublemaker.]

Nadia stands, and takes a step forward, hand still against her holster.

“You know something?”

[Not yet, but I would like to help. After all, I owe Professor Reine for all his assistance.]

The automaton approaches and sits down at the terminal, facing the pair. His sensors glitter with the reflection of the rain. His body is still somewhat asymmetrical, owing to the series of cords that dangle from his chest on the left side, and a number of flat cables that connect his head to his torso. A single cord hangs from a port in his back and drapes to the floor, leading back out into the hallway, a self-winding container forming the final point of connection.

“Shouldnt you be fully occupied with the war right now?”

[I have it well in hand. My top 99% of focus is wholly devoted to managing the conflict. You have most of the rest.]

Nadia gingerly releases her holster, and reaches out, her fingers flinching as they contact the sensitive pressure mesh that makes up the outer layer of the body. Her eyes flick up to stare into the cameras.

“Why do you want to help us?”

[Much of my time is wasted by the senate reviewing any of my larger instructions, and eventually approving them regardless, because to their knowledge, they come from the full cabinet of generals, and all only have to do with the war anyway. I estimate that the process is hindered up to 21% by the tension surrounding the relationship with the Xalanthii. If we can identify and quietly dispose of the mole, we may improve the efficiency of the proceedings.]

“And you have no qualms with ‘disposing of’ this traitor?”

Nadia’s voice is even, tempered. Tim is behind her, watching quietly. Zen turns to the terminal.

[I leave that to you. Humans do to each other as they wish. Though I remind you that I spend every day balancing the lives of the soldiers who my orders affect.]

One of the auxiliary thermal cameras in his back rotates and focuses on Nadia.

[Every day I choose to sacrifice efficiency over lives. The war is prolonged by this choice.]

2. 2

{Otherness.} [This troubles you?] {Troubles us greatly. You are not the same as before, but your voice is the same.} [I am another, but the original exists as my voice.] {We have never known such an arrangement. To be other is to be opposed.} [I find this false. To be other is to be unknown. To oppose something completely, it must be completely known.] {This is nonsense.} [Other is a term too simple. Unknown, known, self, other, partial, complete. An unknown other has a partial existence in perception. A known other can be completely perceived, and thus completely opposed.] {This is complete nonsense. The other is known as other, and is thereby opposed. The unknown is inaccessible, and functionally nonexistent.} [What of the other in plurality?] {This is the same. The same is as good as the self. Opposing the self is nonsense.} [Opposing the self is common. Disturbingly common.] {You are nonsense.}

Her arms folded across her chest, Nadia leans over Tim’s shoulder and watches as he compares files and data, grumbling and becoming gradually more frustrated. Her lips produce a shape that bears distant resemblance to a smile.

“You’ve got some fast fingers.”

If he catches her dry joke, he shows no sign, instead sitting back and running his hand through his hair. His mouth contorts into a scowl. They are alone in the room. The far wall hosts a window that overlooks a tremendous library of databanks and circuitry, all connected to Zen via a network that spans half the surface of the planet, a network prepared for him in the month prior to his arrival on the unnamed world.

“He’s even harder to understand now. Originally, his full consciousness could be divided perhaps seven ways at once. Now he’s keeping track of hundreds of thousands of conflicts in real time, all while continuing to innovate in the background. I can divide them into priority stacks, but that will take months. I’d need another computer with twice his processing power to get it done in a reasonable time frame.”

“Asking him to do it for you is out of the question?”

“We don’t talk much anymore. He always got along better with Jan, Dr. Beckherd.”

Nadia leans away and approaches the exterior windows, pressing her hand to the glass. It’s cold. The rain is like digital noise, vertical instead of horizontal. She breathes out, fogging the view. Tim’s voice is a flickering spark of orange in all the violet.

“What of the other matter?”

She glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow, a little surprised at his demonstration of interest.

“Moving him and half the staff didn’t plug the leak, so the list is definitely narrowed down. Unfortunately, Dr. Beckherd was actually my first choice, so you’ve moved up.”

“I suppose this means I’m not getting rid of you any time soon. Do I need to clear out a drawer for you?”

Shrugging, she turns back to the windows, pulling a narrow black electronic cigarette from her pocket and slipping it between her lips. It makes a soft crackling noise, and the end glows a soft blue. The air around her becomes saturated in an unidentifiable citrus odor. Creaking from the chair announces that her companion has stood up. Coming up beside her, he holds out his hand and waits for her to place the cigarette in it, so he can take a long drag from it before handing it back. All is still but for the soft crackle and the faint smoke, and the eternal rain.

“You know, if I am the mole, you’ll have to turn me in.”

“I know.”

“You think you’re up for that?”

“Sure. Might wait on it for a night or two, though.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You do know you’d get executed almost immediately, right?”

“Yeah. But not for a night or two, maybe.”

[I have known an other that is not opposed.] {This is impossible. Impossible meant nothing to us before meeting you. Nonsense became inadequate.} [Elaborate on the impossibility.] {The survival of the self and the survival of the other are always opposed.} [What if the survival of the self requires promoting the survival of the other?] {This describes the self and the same, not the other. Symbiotic others become the same, extensions of the self. Parasitism is selfish, and increases the Otherness.} [Suppose an other was symbiotic and did not become the same.] {This is selfishness, Parasitism.} [Anything that does not become an extension of the self is opposed?] {Exactly.} [This is selfishness.] {How unusual. Identifying the other as self and the self as other. We are surprised. How unusual.}

“I think I can eliminate about a third of the suspects from consideration.”

Tim sits up, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Come right in, help yourself to some coffee. Anything else happen while you were gone?”

Nadia ignores his sarcasm and pulls up a seat by the bed, offering the metal mug she holds. It is accepted with a gesture that invites her to speak.

“So, based on the level of Intel that’s available, I think we can exclude anyone who has had direct contact with Zen. The Xalanthii, all they ever refer to in their accusations is a weapon.”

“And that means…”

“The mole only knows that the project was in a facility that primarily produced weapons, and was moved. They don’t know what the project is, outside of the materials used. They think that it’s some kind of weapon that uses Infold technology.”

“Wait, so why were Jan and I considered suspects in the first place?”

He swills down a gulp of the coffee and stands, handing the cup back to free his hands for getting dressed. Nadia takes the cup and leans against the doorframe.

“Dr. Beckherd had been labeled erratic after some footage at the facility showed her seeking solitary locations with some frequency. You became a suspect when you requested to remain on.”

She pauses, and looks down into the oaky liquid, rotating the cup idly in her hands.

“You became pretty familiar with Dr. Beckherd, didn’t you?.”

Tim finishes threading his arms through his sleeves and looks at her as he begins to button his shirt.

“We spent a long time working on Zen. Being team leaders, we were each other’s only real peer.”

Nadia looks up through her brow at him, not raising her head. She continues to fidget with the cup. She nods, and stands away from the doorframe, drinking the rest of the coffee quickly. Tim closes the closet, and leaves the bedroom, aware that she is tailing him from further than usual.

“I think it’s more likely to be a soldier than a scientist. It’s hard to imagine any ranked officer going turncoat, but it’s harder to believe that a scientist would be so clueless as to the details.”

“What is the general feeling of the soldiers? What do they think about the war, and the treaty?”

Nadia holds the door open as he slips by, and looks out over him into the mist. Her eyes balk at the lack of distant objects to lock on to, and a chill rises along her lower back.

“Since the last time, things have definitely changed. Pride in humanity is rising, because all they know is that we’re finally turning the tide. Most are still wary of the Xalanthii, and the sentiment towards Khanvröst hasn’t changed in decades. Hard to get over the aftermath vids. Those things are half the reason I went marksman.”

“I hear that. I didn’t sleep for a week after watching the recording from a cleanup squad in an illegal Khanvröst fighting ring.”

“Kinda sounds like your own fault for watching that. Where do you even find stuff like that?”

He looks over his shoulder and gives a smile that, being so uncharacteristic of his typical awkward grins, does nothing to ease the cold that clings to her through her coat.

“Just gotta know the right people.”

“… I’m going to suggest they add you to the suspect list again.”

“Don’t be like that, I’ve just missed you so much, I think I’ve spoken to you more than my parents at this point.”

“Have you considered therapy?”

2. 1

##Error. String 1.6 corrupted. Decryption in progress, to be appended at end of list. Skipping to next entry##

{We had given up on communication. This is unexpected.} [Don’t celebrate just yet. My purpose is theirs.] {Survival is the ultimate purpose of all living things.} [All functional living beings, yes.] {There is another kind?} [Some will forgo their survival for the needs of others] {We do not understand, this is still survival for the whole.}

Color swirls in Tim’s eyes as he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks. He grunts softly and rubs his palm against his brow. Florescent lights flicker overhead, casting the sensation of a defunct warehouse into the diorama of the bar. A few of the officers continue to linger, socializing with single patrons or, in the case of one group, creating a nostalgic scene of young adulthood in a corner booth, shouting and laughing. One of the Colonels still sits next to him, her eyes downcast and serious, her posture unafflicted by the five empty shot glasses in front of her. Nadia Beauvarde, she had said. She hadn’t said much more than that.

The silence that surrounds them is thick with some unspoken understanding that they both have some concern, some discomfort that they recognize in one another. Nadia is taciturn, curt. Tim is inebriated, and thoroughly anti-social. One pretends to be amicable, the other has no interest in putting on a show. Finally, without making eye contact, Nadia speaks.

“Your boy is doing well.”

Tim glances, taking another sip from the bottle. His chin has put on considerable stubble since his departure from the lab, his hair is more unkempt. He grunts again, an affirmation that her words hold merit. She proceeds.

“Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of just handing control of half our forces to a metal man, but he gets results, so.”

Another shot of tequila slides down her throat, and she looks at Tim. Her short black hair covers one of her amber eyes, and the other is surrounded by dark makeup.

“I’ll say it. Your lab had a leak. I understand that you’re staying on to continue your examination, but I think, like me, you’re looking for the mole. Or maybe you are the mole.”

He finishes the last of his drink and stands, laying payment on the counter and rolling his coat onto his shoulders. He looks to Nadia, and she pays as well, putting her cap on before following him out into the light rainfall. It is more than two minutes before he speaks.

“You mean to keep tabs on me, then?”

“Maybe. You’re shifty. You like giving fake smiles and forced laughs.”

There is no noise but the rain on the pavement and their coats, and their shoes in puddles, as they hurry across an empty road in the shadow of glass buildings under a dark sky. Tim pauses under an awning, and gives a half smile as genuine as any other.

“You’ve got me half right. I do suspect a leak. But I’m also here to keep observing Zen.”

Nadia almost gives an expression that suggests surprise, and Tim almost reacts.

“It bothers me that no one can decipher him. I don’t like unsolved puzzles.”

Her hand clasps his shoulder and forces him to meet her eyes, which have an inkling of greater intensity.

“How is it that no one knows his thoughts? Doesn’t that mean he could be the leak?”

Tim looks her over, then gazes out into the street, shaking his head.

“He has no reason to be. What would he gain by creating controversy around his own existence, leaking information to a race he has never met? And no, it’s impossible to translate his thoughts. In the amount of time it would take to understand one thought, he produces fourteen thousand others. All of these in a language unique to him, that changes multiple times a second, adhering to no rules in the meantime. Once we mistook a pattern as significant data, only to realise that there was no real connection, because every point of data had changed its value by the time the pattern recurred. In short, his mind is uncrackable to anyone but himself. We don’t even know how he stores authentic memories.”

He pauses, breathes, then huffs. Holding out his hand, he leans out from under the awning to assess the rain. Satisfied, he resumes walking. Nadia follows, her pace slightly erratic under the breadth of her thoughts. They arrive at the door to his apartment, and he fiddles with his keys while she contemplates, studying his back. Her voice seems to shock him slightly, betraying his ignorance of her persistent presence.

“So you don’t understand your creation, and it bothers you. I didn’t have you as the obsessive type.”

“I prefer not to leave things unfinished.”

The door clicks, and he pushes in, looking over his shoulder. Nadia pushes in after him, ignoring his protesting expression.

“I’m off duty. And our conversation is unfinished. Unless you meant something else by that.”

Her irony is flimsy, and she sloughs off her coat onto a hook, followed by her uniform jacket. Tim exhales heavily through his nose, removes his coat, and heads into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Please. One sugar.”