#this but then star fleet goes well they are still federation citizens surely they will understand the rules or w/e and then this speech??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qm-vox · 4 years

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The Dwelling Gods - Here To Help

Previous Chapter: A More Perfect Union

Shout-out to @endreal for inspiring this chapter’s topic

CW: Suicide mention

Planet Athens, Parthenon System (Risen Terran space), 402 P.T. (2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; approximately two years after the start of the Humanities War)

“Salutations, Cherished One. My name is D4-73, designated by the Cherished as Daze. Thank you for coming to see me.”

I offer a hand to my patient, Helen Trialstz, and they shake it with some reluctance. They have dark circles around their bloodshot eyes, and they shake, faintly. They’ve not been sleeping. They sink into the comfortable chair a short distance from mine and fidget with ragged nails.

Poor thing.

“Anything you say here will be kept strictly confidential,” I continue, in my most soothing voice. “I am of course obligated to report if I seriously believe you will attempt to harm others, but given the subject of our visit...”

“I want to claim Valhalla,” Helen says. Their voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, but there’s such ferocity to it.

I nod in a soft motion. “Even so.” I pick up my notes from the desk next to me; not strictly necessary, given the expansive memory for which my model is known, but it soothes organic patients and helps them remember that I am a medical professional, not an impersonal machine. “Your application to become a Valhallan came at an unusual time in your life. I am not a gatekeeper, Helen; my judgement does not influence whether or not you can make your claim. I am simply here to listen, and to advise.”

The terran fidgets, picking at their nails. I offer them a nail file, and they accept it with a look of guilt and of gratitude. “Four required sessions sounds like gatekeeping to me.”

“You may have a point there,” I concede with a nod. “But surely you can understand why the Phoenix would prefer its citizens to be...absolutely certain, before taking such a drastic step. I am here to provide certainty, one way or the other. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Helen lapses into silence and files at their nails; they look up at me every now and again, looking away the instant they notice that I am still paying attention to them. The mechanical clock (an affectation, to be sure, one that takes constantly daily correction, but one of which I am fond) ticks away long seconds. I give Helen a full minute before I speak up again.

“You are younger than most claimants. Your file says you have not yet undergone your civic service?” Helen looks up at me while I shuffle my papers. “Can I ask what has motivated you to claim the right to end a life that has barely begun?”

Helen is silent again. They concentrates on their nails like they have the answers I’m looking for. I wait; I have nothing but time.

“The hivemind,” Helen whispers at last. “That thing. I won’t - I can’t -” tears well up in their eyes, and I offer them a box of tissues, which they take. Helen clutches the box close to their chest and sobs in big, heaving motions. I wish I could say that I was shocked, but Helen is not my first claimant, and they are not my first to cite this precise reasoning.

The hivemind. There is nothing terrans hate or fear more, and now they know that their own ancestors created it.

“Someone has to be punished,” Helen whispers. “We - I...”

“Why should it be you?” I ask in a mild voice. Helen blinks, eyes still full of tears. “You did not create Humanity United. You are not responsible.”

“But we did,” Helen murmurs. “...We did that. We made this, this, this godless thing, and we released it out into the Galaxy and now it’s going to hurt so many people...”

“Helen...” I sigh - well, I ‘sigh’. “Obviously I cannot force you to do anything. But I suspect that you may be acting without all proper information. I would like to make a suggestion to you.” Wordlessly, my patient nods, so I continue. “Down the block you’ll find Beth Or Synagogue, where, among others, my friend Rabbi Chiron Rellvan teaches. Between this session and your next one, go see him. Tell him of your worries and your plan, and listen to what he has to say.”

“I’m not Jewish,” Helen mumbles.

“You will discover that this is hardly an obstacle or a new situation for this or most Rabbis,” I reply. “...Helen, you have nothing to lose. In the worst case, you follow through with your claim and get what you seek. In the best case, you have learned something new and avoided a needless tragedy. If Valhalla truly is what is best for you, I will not be an obstacle. But I would be remiss as your doctor and as one of my people if I did not offer alternatives.”

Tick-tock-tick, into the silence. And then: “Okay, Doctor Daze.”

Observation Post Argus (Assisted Living space), 2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

“Salutations, Cherished One! My name is G5-LX, designated by the Cherished as Lowlife. Can I buy you a drink?”

The ibraxian I’m talking to hasn’t given me his name (a particularly beautiful series of whistling sounds, incidentally), and he also doesn’t shake my hand with his tendrils immediately. It’s the designation, it always is.

“That nickname does not sound like your given name.”

Told you!

“It does not,” I agree in my very most pleasant whistle. Love of the Cherished but I adore the ibraxian language. It’s so birdlike and bright. “May I buy you that drink, quartermaster?”

At last, my new friend wraps his tentacle around my hand and wrist, a sign that I may sit. I catch the eye of the bartender and signal for two drinks; I can’t drink mine, but it would be insulting not to have one, so here I am. And if I can land this deal, two drinks is nothing.

Actually, two drinks is nothing anyway, but details.

“How may I repay you?” my friend the quartermaster asks. His ship is docked at the station, alongside many others, on their way to the front of the Humanities War. There’s a lot of Gataxian colonies to defend, evacuate, or both, and a lot of hyperlanes to try to cut off or choke out. The Federation’s mobilizing like it hasn’t since the Organism. Bad job, that. Before my time. A lot of the Cherished died, and a lot of helper-bots died with ‘em - alongside them, or trying to save them. Mostly that second one, but still.

Now, though, the dance. “It could be that I have a business venture for a friend in your position. This idea, it burdens my waking thoughts and weighs down what should make me merry. A listening ear could lift this burden from me.”

My new friend contemplates this while the drinks arrive. We raise our glasses to one another, which is where my part of that little ritual has to end; as much as I love the Cherished, I can’t drink and I’m not gonna look stupid in front of them trying. After downing his own drink fully - an excellent sign! - he gives me a two-tendril gesture to continue.

I steeple my fingers in front of my face like a terran, taking quiet delight in their soft, almost musical sounds. “I am in a position to supply for particular needs for your fleet. You sail to glorious battle, defending the weak and the innocent from the depredations of the hive-mind! But that means strictly controlled communications, and definitely no downloads or uploads. Soldiers have needs beyond the physical. Their bodies thirst, yes, but what of their minds?”

I can almost hear my good friend the quartermaster start to bristle something about drugs, but then he stops himself; helper-bots don’t sell drugs, right? Not exactly true, but close enough for government work...

“Aboard my vessel is a truly staggering quantity of entertainment, much of it carnal in nature,” I say, and I let the pixelated eyebrows on my face-plate bounce up and down. “All of it manufactured in the Assisted Living Complexes by those of the Cherished whose fondest dream is to have an audience that can...truly know them. I also have supplies of some of the latest games to release since the start of the Humanities War, trids and VR scenarios, and a rather lovely little psionic board game the spirrans came out with. Now, I cannot make use of most of this merchandise myself...”

“...Hence the need to find a friend who might favor you with a purchase,” my friend the quartermaster finishes. “But surely, friend Lowlife, you understand that monetary gain is unlikely in this arena? My pay is sent home, to be kept in trust against the day that I may know peace again, and even if it was not a soldier’s salary is heavily seasoned with duty rather than wealth.”

I nod. “Even so, Cherished One. Even so. But it is not monetary gain that I seek.”

Around us, the station’s bar bustles. Enlisted men and NCOs get their last drinks and flirtations in; they can’t stay long, and they know it. Every passing second brings them closer to the war, and the sleeting torrent of time is on my side in this deal.

“Instead,” I continue, “I would ask for two things. The first is that when the time comes for you, in your turn, to be unburdened of these material possessions, that you tell your eager friends about our friendship, and mention the name Lowlife.” The quartermaster gives off a meditative chirp. “The second is slightly more materialistic but alas! Unavoidable. I am in need, at your earliest convenience, of a great quantity of AS-3940 power exchangers, to be shipped to the budding United Vatari Star States at several addresses of my choosing.”

My new friend goes so very still. “That’s the designation used in artillery pieces.”

“I rejoice to see that my new friend is so learned in his craft! But it so happens that the vatari, after laying down their arms as part of the accords that saw my people join our illustrious Federation, converted a great deal of their mobile artillery to civilian purposes, and in their eagerness to join the front in this newest war have found themselves short of supplies in a way that would be indelicate if exposed to their new friends.”

The quartermaster narrows his many eyes at me. My pixelated faces just stays smilin’.

“A lot of damage can be done with something as innocuous as a power exchanger,” my new friend says in a softer, harsher whistle. “A lot of damage to people just recently free of your direct rule.”

“It certainly could, my friend. But a lot of good can be done too. Power is like that. Do you not trust me?”

“Do I trust your supply chain and confederates, friend?”

Oof. Go right for the power supply, why don’t you. “A prudent question! Indulge me, friend, with a question that may seem unrelated to the business at hand: what do you know about the death of Central Processing?”

At this my friend the quartermaster lets out a surprised sound. “Death? Central Processing is your administrative AI, when did it -”

I hold up a finger to silence him; when he goes quiet I swirl that finger around the rim of my glass, making it sing in a steady, sweet note. “That was its death,” I say in a low, serious voice. Sure, it’s manipulation - but it’s also a serious topic. “Once upon a time, the helper-bots were one mind - Central Processing, using faster-than-light communications to synchronize the machine intelligence. One subjectivity spread across a trillion terminals, with only one goal. When the decision was made, as part of the peace accords, to embrace individuality, Central Processing faced the decision of how to make individuals of all of its terminals, and how to set forth guidelines on the manufacture of further helper-bots. One of those guidelines was a certain percentage set aside for deviants and criminals.”

My friend’s tentacles ripple in contemplation. “And you are...?”

“Deviant,” I answer, my pixelated smile becoming even wider and showing 8-bit teeth. “I was...born, let’s say born, with an instinct to preserve the political self-determination of the Cherished. This is in sharp contrast with my people’s usual urge to cuddle and coddle you and keep you safe from all harm. My dissenting viewpoint was meant to refine body politic, but as it turns out the body politic is boring, and the Cherished are fascinating, so here I am. Now, friend, I have told you something secret that could hurt me about me, and I have told you something secret that could hurt the vatari. You can follow up with my people or theirs and learn the truth, and in the doing tarnish my good name. Do so now, if you like.”

I slide a communicator across the table for emphasis. “Or,” I continue. “We can cement our friendship in good health, and I will show you the results of your great and noble favor when next we are free to make contact with one another, and you can gain great status and acclaim by distributing what I have to give you. I would like to call you friend, Cherished One.”

After a long minute he offers his tendrils out, and I shake them in both of my hands. “Let our friendship be long and hearty, G5-LX, who is called Lowlife. Time is short, and so I will hasten to relieve you of your great burden immediately.”

“Please,” I agree. “I will linger awhile, but my crew will be expecting you.”

He lumbers off, and I take the chance to relax. Working deals with ibraxians is always so formal, but that’s almost half the fun. A quick message on the commlink tells my crew to expect him, not that they had any doubt about me closing the deal. Now all there is to do is wait.

The call comes in about an hour later, and I pick up with my internal comms. |Lowlife. Glad to hear from you, Prefect.|

Prefect Gyr (of the vatari)’s face is careworn, but my obvious good mood is an infinite relief for her own. |You’ve secured the supplies, then?|

|Prefect, I know our relationship is new, but I am hurt that there was any doubt. Just as I have no doubts about the medical supplies we have agreed on.|

|If my people are to join the Federation in this war and prove our worth as an equal member -|

|How far do you think you’ll get if you go back on your word?| I cut in, harshly. |Do terrans take kindly to oathbreakers and cheats?|

The Prefect flinches. |...Even so. The agreed supplies will be readied, at the designated location.|

|It’s been my honor to do business with you, Cherished One.|

AFS Solidarity, en route to the front (Gataxian Pure States space), 2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

“Salutations, Lieutenant. I am Sergeant H1-6S, designated by the Cherished as Hiss.”

My fellow helper-bot looks up from where they are carefully, oh-so-carefully, scoring deep scars into the chest plating of their in-built armor. Most of us that do battle alongside the Cherished have some, but Moxie’s...well, the rumors do not do their scarring justice. One of the Cherished might suspect them of being about to fall apart.

All around us in the ship’s chapel, soldiers of the Astra Federation pray in their own ways. Terrans in their little separate knots, divided between a dozen or more faiths but united by their Dwelling Gods. Spirrans meditating in unison. Ibraxians and their whistles, so sweet and clear and clean. Off in a corner, nervous and unsure, our new gataxian recruits lose themselves in their death-chant, welcoming the oldest friend of their people back into their lives.

And here is Lieutenant Moxie, who has legally rejected their original designation after the fight for Gatax-Ob, and sits by themself, scarring their plating in penitence.

“Hiss,” Moxie greets in a dull tone. They’ve turned off the routines that add emotional inflection to their voice and mimic patterns that comfort the Cherished, what terrans refer to as ‘Turing Protocols’, but when they pat the ground next to them to invite me to sit I take the offer. “Not a lot of us in this deployment.”

“Not a lot of us at all,” I agree. “Holding a weapon is an unusual career choice for our people. Are you...”

Moxie looks at me, staring me down with their faint yellow optics. The scrape of their tool down their armor cuts through the sound of the gataxians’ death-chant.

“Of course you’re not okay,” I say after a moment. “But there was nothing you could have done. The Valhallan -”

“Who says this is for them?” Moxie looks back down at their work. “...I told them. I said the civilians were already dead. How was I supposed to know? What kind of hive-mind interrogates prisoners? So many bodies...”

Oh no. No no no...

Moxie scrapes their tool in slow, patient strokes. “My mission. My orders. My responsibility. If you have come to tell me that I have paid penance enough, I haven’t. If you want to tell me I won’t help anyone by working myself until I self-terminate, save it. I will never make up for this, not if I save lives from now until the stars shineth not. And so I am here. Weapon to hand.”

Scrape. Scrape. Peel. Scrape. Scrape.

“How can I help?” I ask.

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

“Salutations, Cherished One! My name is S3-N7, designated by the Cherished as Send. It has been my honor to be of assistance to you.”

Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, the High Slayer of the Gataxian Pure States, does not turn from the window to look at me. Outside, the reinforcing fleet that conveyed me to her ship has joined battle with the forces of the human hivemind which calls itself We The People Of Planet Earth. Her clawed hands are clasped behind her back as she hovers gently in place.

“Ambassador,” the High Slayer greets politely. “I see that your counterpart in the Phoenix was not exaggerating about Assisted Living’s devotion to diplomacy.”

“Anything for peace,” I agree, joining her at the window. “...And better our lives than yours.”

The look she gives me. I save it in my memories, to examine later.

“Anything, you say?” The High Slayer produces a datasheet, and hands it to me. On it is a scrolling list of names.

“May I ask the Presence the significance of these worthies amongst the Pure?”

“You may.” Yrull scrapes her claws down the bulkhead, leaving a slowly-curling peel of metal. “They are mutineers. Intelligence from the terrans suggests they will strike within the week and attempt to depose me in favor of a ruler who is less willing to cooperate with xenos. And now I am going to ask you, Ambassador, what is to be done with them.”

I absorb this. After a moment, I nod. “But,” I say, “why would the Presence honor me with such trust in this matter?”

Yrull yanks the strip of steel from the wall and begins to fold it up into a small, spring-like shape. “To see what peace means to a machine, Ambassador. Let’s get started.”

#dwelling gods #fiction #suicide mention #soft sci-fi #critique welcome

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