The Commodore had the printers create additional learning modules and moved them together with the first to a decommissioned shunting yard. There, under the constant vigilance of armed drones, Rene and two cosmophages were to link with each other’s pods and enter into a joint séance.
“It’s come to my attention that you’re dissatisfied with your new accommodations,” the Commodore’s haughty voice rasped through the sentries, “Given that your stay here will likely be indefinite, I’ll have to do what I can to make things more comfortable for you. Now obviously I can’t just let you have the run of the base, so instead my drones will escort you here and give you six hours of access to engram files every day.”
Zildiz was less than thrilled by all this, and expressed her displeasure by spitting on the floor.
“You’ll need more than that to pry information out of me,” she told him.
“Yes, yes, wild horses and all that,” the Commodore waved her posturing aside with an annoyed shake of the sentry’s guns, “I already have your genetic sequences. My people’s entire existence consisted of taking apart exomorphs to see how they tick. All of your potential helix modifications are stashed in a folder somewhere in the database.”
“Then why—”
“I’m not trying to take anything from you. In fact, I’m trying to give you something.”
“And what’s that?” her eyes narrowed into beady slits.
“The truth,” Rene could hear the mocking smile in the Commodore’s voice, “About the monstrosity that is the Vitalus, the Ceytians that spawned it, and the War of Creation. Everything. The only question is: are you brave enough to see it for yourself?”
“So you’ve put together a collage of lies to show us. How thoughtful of you.”
But it was a challenge the Gallivant couldn’t refuse, and they both knew it. Zildiz stalked over to the module and got in with about as much ill grace as could be expected. Neroth on the other hand showed no reluctance, looking only slightly put off by the clamminess of the tactile gel solution.
So the cosmophages are just as curious about the whole thing as I am, Rene realized. How much do they really know of their own origins, and what has the Vitalus kept from them?
Then a traitorous thought crept in: what will the Commodore change and conceal from me now?
The pairing went smoothly this time, the couplings easing into his nerve endings with well-practiced micromotions. Once more his consciousness swam in the river of light, but this time he felt other presences passing him by like ships in the night, the outlines of their thoughts nebulous and vague.
Rene blinked. He was back in the brightly painted schoolroom. Crammed next to him in the comically small chairs were perfect recreations of Neroth and Zildiz, looking slightly glassy-eyed concussed by the vividness of it all.
The door beside the big plywood desk opened, and in walked an elderly man in the sparse black cassock of a chaplain, the crow’s feet around his almond eyes crinkled by a warm smile of welcome.
“Hello! I’m Father Chito of the Jesuit Order, head of HR and environmental ethics. Welcome to the Syngman system! If you’re seeing this, it’s because you’ve passed selection with flying colors! Congratulations. You are now a part of history, a direct contributor to the most revolutionary rapid terraformation project of the 26th century. Whether you’re an indentured shareholder in Exodus Industries Inc. or a member of an affiliate governing body, this system will be your home for the foreseeable future. So let’s work together and make it a good one!”
Father Chito spread his hands and the classroom faded out, replaced by the inky blackness of space. Fleets of starships flew past them one after another, each flagship each proudly displaying a bright, over-designed banner.
“As you know, this endeavor has brought together aerospace service professionals from a wide array of cultural backgrounds. We believe that diversity to be a source of strength, encouraging creative solutions to everyday problems. Good work thrives in an atmosphere of collaboration and respect. With that in mind, let’s go over some topics best to be avoided.”
The priest’s face took on a sorrowful expression. The classroom took on solid form and the stars disappeared.
“Recently a hurtful and destructive meme pertaining to the Islamic faith has been circulating the interwebs,” Chito shook his head and waved a hand at the blackboard, where an image appeared of a bearded man whose head was bundled up in a white towel. He was kneeling on a circular disc that was rapidly rotating in place, spinning him like a top. Above him appeared the incomprehensible caption: ‘You’re Mecca’n my head spin, habibi.’
“Citizens of the Galactic Caliphate use specialized prayer discs that track the location of the Ka’bah in real time. Please do not imply that these discs are somehow defective, or that they neglect the third plane of motion. As for your colleagues who belong to the Catholic denomination, please refrain from calling them cannibals who devour the body of Christ. Though I assure you,” Chito gave them a cheeky grin, “I myself do not bite.”
For the next half an hour they were treated to a list of offensive slurs, pronouns and memes that were taboo. The Exodians were apparently made up of innumerable competing nation-states with contradicting beliefs, each culture prouder and more sensitive than the last. Privately he thought the priest’s lecture was somewhat counterproductive—after sitting through it, Rene felt certain he could successfully insult any Exodian he came across in the future.
“I’d like to bring up the elephant in the room and talk about our new partners who’ve just bubbled in from uncharted space,” Chito’s voice became noticeably excited, a certain boyishness showing beneath his stiff formality, “After of centuries of silence, we’ve reestablished contact with our brothers and sisters from the ancient seed ships of the last Brahmin migration. The Syngman system itself was one of the worlds targeted by that wave of colonization, though here they were ultimately unsuccessful. Thankfully that wasn’t the case on Ceytia Prime!”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“The Ceytians have generously decided to share their latest gaian techniques of rapid terraformation with us. This is an opportunity like no other, to learn and grow through a mutually beneficial exchange. Their physical appearance may be quite startling at first, but there is no cause for alarm: PACT scientists have confirmed that the Ceytians fall well within the limits of genetic stability as stipulated by the eugenics treaties. And now, allow me to welcome the parriarch of the Muminau pod, here to give you a special greeting.”
And through the open door there floated in a creature more lovely than the day. Rene felt the air leave his lungs in a whoosh as he looked upon her face, as inhumanly perfect as it was beautiful. Her head was heart shaped, with cheeks like fine porcelain and sea-blue irises that filled up the whole of her eyes except for a thin ring of cream white. The Ceytian strode in on powerful legs a full foot longer than they should have been, balancing gracefully on the balls of her webbed toes. Over her shapely mouth and nose a mask full of bubbling green liquid fed by tubes kept her
Zildiz and Neroth got up in unison, faces bright with wonder. Forgetting their hatred for each other, they reached out to touch her, their hands passing clean through the shallow illusion.
“Do you know her?” Rene asked them. Zildiz nodded, still transfixed by the Ceytian woman.
“Hers is the hand that shapes the quiet waters,” Neroth said in reverence, “Master of the Vitalus and the shaper of ways. This is Nasya Banna, mother to all Arachnea.”
#
Zildiz felt something hot stinging the corners of her eyes and pawed at them, fingertips coming away with glistening droplets of moisture. Her tear ducts were leaking and she found it quite distressing. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Seeing Neroth blubbering as he held back tears was quite natural, of course—as beings of inferior design, the Leapers had to cope somehow.
But the Mother of All was standing before her now, and Zildiz could not help it. She was even more beautiful than the myths had described.
Nasya Banna inclined her short but graceful neck in greeting and spoke in a warbling voice:
“In the spirit of peace, we join our pods to yours. May we learn and propagate together as one people. Nasaem, belangga. Without you, we are incomplete.”
The old fool of a Betrayer shuffled forward to speak more of his empty words, but then the engram stuttered, imagery trembling and slipping out of joint as the scene changed.
Chito and Nasya Banna folded out of existence. Together they watched a stocky, brown haired man speaking quickly as he fielded a barrage of questions from a set of unseen people.
“Excuse me. Excuse me!” he shouted into his handheld listening device, his face stiff with rage, “I’d like to reiterate that we still don’t know the cause of the fault slippage that occurred within the asteroid. Our partners in the Soyuz Solutions worker’s commune are laboring round the clock to come up with a rescue plan for the trapped asteroid miners.”
“Foreman Doolan, can we get an estimate of the death toll?”
“We’ve only confirmed twelve casualties so far—their next of kin have already been informed through private channels. But there were at least sixty-one miners doing a pre-cracking inspection before the accident occurred, meaning most of them are still unaccounted for.”
“Is it true that the Ceytians provided the high-tensile strength nets and mooring lines that were used to hold the cracked asteroid in place? And didn’t they claim their nanomaterials were superior to our own?”
“Yes, it is true our Ceytian partners lent some equipment. But now is not the time to assign blame. We must pull together in this difficult crisis and—"
“So can we rule out sabotage, or…” one of the questioners interrupted.
“That’s malicious speculation and I won’t stand for it!” the foreman jerked his fist back to throw a punch, “What’s your name, asshole? And which tabloid foxnews rag do you work for?”
The face of one of the interrogators swam into focus, blocking their view of the man under fire. A woman this time, half her face replaced by garish cybertronics, iridescent left eye rapidly changing hue like a chameleon.
“I’m sorry Mr. Doolan, but we have to interrupt you here. Breaking news! According to the EXOCOM constellation imagery, large fragments of the asteroid are on a direct collision course with space station L4, also known as the Banana Republic. Evacuation efforts have only now begun. Due to the lack of fighter craft and point defence cannons in the area, destroying the fragments will be impossible…oh what’s that?” the woman became excited, “People, we’ve just been told that a second asteroid has undergone fragmentation!”
Doolan and the questioners were crumpled up and tossed away by the whims of the changing dream. Now they saw a long oval table where large men sat frowning, bellies squeezed starched and tightfitting uniforms. Zildiz knew from their body language that each one of them had to be an alpha or higher, perhaps even genitors. But all of them unconsciously cowered before the woman at the head of the table, an ancient matriarch with the dull stare of a born killer.
“One malfunction is understandable. But two at once? The odds are astronomical,” an alpha with a puffy red face said.
“Prepare to escalate,” the old woman said simply.
“Any buildup on our part with trigger the same reaction from their end,” someone objected.
“If and when shit hits the fan, we’re going to need options.”
“Madame Tr?n, we cannot guarantee naval supremacy in the event of a peer conflict. Our supplies from PACT space must pass through a virtual bottleneck—it’d take only one detachment to cut us off entirely. We don’t even know the full extent of their weapon capabilities. The damn pod people haven’t shared anything truly groundbreaking with us since they seeded that gaian consciousness on Syngman Prime.”
“Unless, of course, that consciousness is their weapon,” the woman pointed out. Everyone at the table went deathly quiet at that.
“The exobiologists have assured us—” the puffy man began.
“It has the computational power of half our shipboard E.I.’s combined,” Tr?n said, biting at her own words like a dog straining at the leash, “It can render any terrestrial-type exoplanet habitable within a matter of eight years, tops. Moreover, it considers itself an actual person. If those aren’t the hallmarks of being a cosmophage, then I’ll eat my fucking implants. Now you people may be too young to remember the last war, but I do. Won the goddamned thing, didn’t I? Isn’t that why you thawed me out of cryofugue? To kill for you?”
Zildiz felt a grudging respect for the crone burgeoning in her heart.
“This began as a mission of peace,” one alpha said, sadly shaking his head.
“I’m not saying it can’t stay one,” Tr?n said, though her square face never once softened, “But it pays to be prepared. So long as the Ceytians themselves don’t exhibit eugenic malpractice, we’re all on the same side here.”
The place lost cohesion, became a rolling collage of shapes and sounds. They saw the dome cities on Cloister, shining like air bubbles on pond surface.
Spiderweb cracks appeared on the transparent eggshell, radiating outwards in jagged lines until the whole thing gave way, vomiting the dome’s contents out onto the lunar surface. From the wreck and ruin a lone fugitive fled across the pale sands and dove into a yawning crater, borne aloft on thin jets of propellant.
Zildiz only got a glimpse of the person before they disappeared into the crevasse, but it was enough for her to instantly recognize that this was no human in an EVA suit like Cosmonaut Carl. The configuration of the armour, the seamless movement, the false extra limbs…no, it couldn’t be!
And yet Cataphracts used that exact same propulsion system. The implication was undeniable: the saboteur was wearing an exomorph.
