“Oh, but I think I am,” the Crafter chided, leaning back in the chair and resuming a masculine appearance. “For reasons which may remain your own, you wish to assist the inhabitants of this region of space in their fight against the Empire. You probably see their cause as just, and their plight as actionable due to the unnecessary suffering some of them have experienced. If you feel this way then we are of a like mind on the matter.”
Middleton’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t see how you and I could agree on humanitarian issues. You ran a blood sport arena—an arena which you filled with your ‘children’ before setting them against each other in order to turn a profit.” Middleton jabbed his finger down on the desk, “I shut that operation down, in large part because it offends every sensibility that I think humanity ought to defend.”
The Crafter’s lips twisted in a smirk, “What an interesting choice of words, Captain…can I take them to mean that you do not necessarily share those sensibilities?”
Middleton snorted, “If I shared those sensibilities I probably wouldn’t be capable of defending them.”
“Just so,” the Crafter nodded agreeably. “It is true that I am an aberration, Captain Middleton, in more ways than might seem obvious. But I, like you, think that the inhabitants of these ‘Gorgon Sectors’ deserve a chance at sovereignty and independence—even if they choose to use that sovereignty to destroy themselves. It is for that reason that I placed the message in my holo-vids: I seek to lend my assistance to this cause, but I would rather die than surrender my knowledge to those who would actively work against my goals.”
Middleton had long since decided that, if the conversation ended up going in this direction, he would grudgingly work with the Crafter. After conversing with Kongming on the subject for several days, they had come to agreement—or what the Prichtac might call ‘consensus’—on the matter of the Crafter.
“What are these ‘assurances’ you seek?” Middleton finally relented, just as he had known he would before the meeting even took place.
“First,” the Crafter leaned back, fingers drumming rhythmically on the desk, “that whatever discoveries might be made during the expedition to find these Locusts, I must be among the survey teams. I did not go to all of this trouble to have my work subverted by another—no matter how much I might share in common with him, or how handsomely he wears an external fixation plate to his jaw.”
“Flattery won’t go far with me,” Middleton said wearily.
The Crafter shrugged, “Perhaps not. Secondly, you must agree in principle to the goal of safeguarding the inhabitants of these ‘Gorgon Sectors’ from any and all aggressors, be they Imperial, Locust, or any other known faction. From the looks of things in your cargo bay,” the Crafter cast a pointed look toward the door through which they had come, “you have already befriended some of the more prominent members of the Gorgon Sectors’ population.”
“I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety out here,” Middleton said pointedly.
“Of course not,” the Crafter waved a hand dismissively, “but you can agree, in principle, to work toward that end—as I suspect you have already done.” The Crafter looked down at the new insignia emblazoned on Middleton’s collar: the Supreme Commander’s insignia.
Middleton had fought the Prichtac’s insistence that he don the rank insignia at all. He had no desire for glory or for such a lofty-sounding title, but the Prichtac—and Kongming, to be honest—had convinced him that accepting it was necessary in order to ensure the stability of the fragile ‘Alliance Gorgonus.’
“What else?” Middleton asked.
“Thirdly, I require that you not restrict my interaction with my children in any way,” the Crafter said flatly. “If they choose not to interact with me, I will respect that. But I am…curious about them.”
“Curious?” Middleton repeated.
“Yes,” the Crafter sighed, “I took no pleasure in watching them destroy each other, but as a scientist I took it upon myself to make modifications to each successive generation of each primary line so that I might improve their psychological stability. The process was…more difficult than I had anticipated.”
“You thought that cultivating a new form of life would be easy?” Middleton scoffed, surprised at how dispassionate he was while discussing the Crafter’s barbaric practices.
“Why would it not be?” the Crafter asked with what seemed like genuine surprise before sighing again. “If you can agree to my terms, I will share with you everything I know about the Locusts—which includes where to find the wreckage of one of their ships.”
“Is that where you were first exposed to their technology?”
The Crafter smiled mischievously, “Indeed it is.”
Deep down, Middleton wanted to despise the Crafter—and, to a certain extent, he did.
But Middleton was also a pragmatist. He had a job to do—and that job included saving an entire species, along with possibly millions of lives in the process—and he could not afford to let sentiment stand in his way.
“I can agree to those stipulations—with a few of my own,” Middleton added emphatically.
“Of course, of course,” the Crafter waved a hand airily. “You may restrict my movements aboard, and access to, your ship as you see fit. I am well used to solitary confinement, but if any of my children are to travel aboard your vessel then I would ask for however much access to them they wish to provide.”
“You’re very presumptuous,” Middleton said, finding himself reminded of Mr. Fei before the young man’s life-changing ordeal on the Alpha Site. ‘Presumptuous’ could never do the young man justice. And yet Middleton knew that he would have failed—and died—several times over without Mr. Fei’s help.
“Do I remind you of someone?” the Crafter asked with what seemed like genuine interest.
Middleton shook his head wryly, unwilling to get into mind games with this slippery character, “You will be restricted in your movements aboard this ship; you will agree to answer, without delay or dissembly, my questions as they are asked; and, if your ‘children’ demand satisfaction for the treatment they suffered at your hand, I think it only fair to inform you that as of this moment I would be inclined to indulge them—even if such indulgence ultimately resulted in your death.”
“Naturally,” the Crafter agreed.
“Good,” Middleton grunted, leaning forward and passing a data slate to the newest passenger aboard the good ship Prejudice. “Now tell me everything you know about these ‘Locusts’—including where to find the ship you mentioned.”
Chapter II: A Glimpse of the Eye
Kongming sat alone in his quarters, his mind nearly empty of thoughts—a rare condition for the young man. His meditations had brought him little comfort in recent weeks, but he remained committed to finding his new center.
It had been five weeks since Captain Middleton had defeated Commodore Paganini’s forces, and in that time the ‘fleet’ comprised of Stalwart, Void Hunter and Prichtac warships had experienced surprisingly little in the way of turmoil.
The captured warships were fully under the control of their new crews, the felines and apes had established an uneasy truce, and to top it all off they had successfully apprehended the so-called ‘Crafter’—the same individual who had sent up a cleverly-concealed call across the local sectors in an effort to lend his, her, or its aid to whoever might try to make contact with the mysterious ‘Locusts.’
Even the Prejudice’s systems were better understood now than they had been mere weeks earlier. If Chief Garibaldi was correct, they would soon have a complete understanding of the little warship’s myriad systems—except, of course, the inner workings of the Ancient tech control systems.
But none of that comforted Kongming in the slightest, for he had been unable to re-acquire any kind of ‘contact’ with the entity who had previously revealed itself. That entity was, in Kongming’s estimation, a Seer like the one who he had met on the carbonaceous planet known as the Alpha Site. T
he fact that it had appeared to be the same entity was not enough to convince the young man that it was, in fact, the same being.
The Seer had spoken of a mysterious ‘Eye’ which Kongming was somehow meant to interact with, and which the equally mysterious ‘Dark’ apparently intended to destroy. It did not take a genius of Kongming’s caliber to understand that this ‘Eye’ was almost certainly involved in the ‘Sight’ which had permitted Kongming to comprehend—and seemingly choose from—the myriad possible futures back on Cagnzyz.
And so he had spent several hours each day in silent contemplation, attempting to re-acquire contact with the enigmatic Seer. Thus far, however, those efforts had been fruitless.
He sighed, standing from his cross-legged position on the floor of his quarters. He was hungry and decided to pay the Prichtac a visit before taking a meal.
Kongming made his way out of his quarters and quickly came to the shuttle bay, where the badly-damaged Deathbacker rested. Chief Garibaldi had declared that, while the shuttle was space-worthy, it would never again be combat-worthy.
The Prichtac’s acidic bath chamber was set up at the far end of the shuttle bay, and Kongming was glad to see the slug-looking creature had already emerged from its routine regeneration cycle within the box-shaped device.
“Kongming,” the Prichtac greeted, wielding the wand-like Locust-tech translator in the lone pseudopod which presently extended from ‘her’ body, “We are most pleased with the timing of this meeting.”
“Prichtac,” Kongming acknowledged, clasping his hands and bowing fractionally before the alien creature. “Your vocabulary seems to be improving with each passing day.”
“Your modifications to the translator have been most beneficial,” Prichtac agreed, giving the slender device a comical twirl. “We wished to discuss a…curious matter with you.”
“Of course,” Kongming agreed. “How can I help?”
“You are likely unaware, but We have recently begun the process of division,” Prichtac explained seriously. “This process will require significant effort on Our part, but We have encountered something unexpected in Our re-examination of the Host’s memory.”
“Division?” Kongming repeated. “Do you mean…you’re going to procreate?”
“Affirmative,” Prichtac said with her equivalent of a nod. “As you are aware, We are not a sexually dimorphic species and therefore do not require the contribution of externally-sourced genetic material in order to spawn. However, ‘procreate’ is an inaccurate term to employ when describing Our spawning process; We engage in something more similar to what you call meiosis than what you call mitosis. Genetic variability is maintained by the random activation of certain genes and the deactivation of others; We naturally engage in this process every fourteen years, on average, but due to recent events We believe it is prudent to expedite the process as much as possible.”
“I can understand your reasoning,” Kongming nodded, remembering in vivid detail the soul-crushing image of the Prichtac home world literally burning from the inside out after its occupants self-immolated in an unthinkable—but also ingenious—attempt to preserve not only their species, but their very way of life. The lone survivor of that suicidal holocaust was the very Prichtac with whom Kongming now conversed.
“A key step in this process,” Prichtac continued, “is to re-examine Our genetic memory in order to ensure that only perfect copies are passed on to the next generation of the Host. This is where We have encountered an unexpected…error,” she finished, deliberating on the last word for several seconds before sheepishly speaking it through the translator.
“An error?” Kongming repeated, his attention now fully focused on the situation at hand. “How is that possible?”
“We cannot say with any degree of certainty,” Prichtac said anxiously. “Transcription errors are not uncommon, which is why each new member of the Host is imbued with precisely forty two copies of what you call the ‘memory nucleus’ which occupies the majority of the sensitive cells in Our bodies. Any errors found on an individual nucleus are compared to the other forty one nuclei, and if there is consensus found during this re-examination—one might call it an ‘audit’—then the erroneous nucleus is replaced with one which conforms to the consensus of the remaining nuclei.”
“This audit functions much as the Host’s larger ‘communion’ process, yes?” Kongming mused.
“The process is functionally identical,” Prichtac nodded, “though there are obviously necessary differences in how these two processes are carried out.”
“Of course,” Kongming allowed. “So I take it you found a corrupted nuclei?”
“No…not as such,” Prichtac said hesitantly. “We are not any more consciously aware of individual microbiological functions within Our bodies than you are, but We are aware when we cannot achieve nucleic consensus because Our bodies hesitate to commence the spawning process. It becomes…painful, when it should be a joyous occasion. We currently feel no joy, Kongming, and We are nearly finished with the physical act of spawning. We are understandably alarmed and were hoping you might assist Us in determining the source of the error.”
“Are you in pain?” Kongming asked.
“No, which only serves to add to the confusion,” Prichtac replied. “If this member experienced this condition while within a fully-formed Host, We would simply submit to external examination by Our fellow Host members.”
“I probably don’t want to know what that would entail,” Kongming shuddered. A species that would willingly burn its entire home world—and all but one of its entire community along with it—in order to slightly increase its chance to pass its culture along to the next generation was likely to consider ‘examination’ of a potentially errant member to include summary dissection.
“We concur,” Prichtac replied serenely, “however, We presently have no viable alternative but to request your assistance in determining the cause of this anomaly. Will you help Us?”
“Of course,” Kongming nodded. “But I’m really not sure where to start…”
“We have anticipated your unfamiliarity with Our genetic memory, and are willing to share Our external memory audit technology with you in the hopes that you might recreate and use it to examine Our possibly erroneous memory nuclei. We cannot pass on faulty memories to Our offspring; to do so would be to destroy—or worse, subvert—Our entire species’ collective intentions and accumulated knowledge. We cannot be party to such a crime against the Host.”
“I understand,” Kongming nodded heavily, knowing just how much was riding on this particular issue. “Where are the schematics for this memory examination device?”
“We have stored them in a nearby data pad,” Prichtac gestured to a pad on the floor beside her acid bath chamber. “Expediency in this matter is less important than accuracy; We would prefer to delay Our division for several of your years, if necessary, rather than risk passing on inaccurate memories.”
Kongming took up the pad and opened its contents, finding the detailed schematics for what looked like a piece of medical scanning equipment contained therein. “I will keep an eye out for these components, Prichtac, and when we’ve located them I will do my best to recreate this machine.”
“We could not ask for more,” Prichtac said with her equivalent of a bow, flexing her three meter long, slime-covered body at the mid-point and lowering her ‘head’ nearly to the deck before resuming her half-flat, half-upright posture which brought her eyestalks to the level of Kongming’s eyes.
Hephaestion’s voice came over the intercom, “Point transferring in twenty seconds; all hands, prepare for point transfer.”
“We would also inquire after your particular well-being,” Prichtac said after waiting for Hephaestion’s message to end. “Our passive examinations suggest your biorhythms have returned to human norms, and your metabolic functions are indicative of a lower level of psychological stress. Are Our observations with merit?”
“They are,” Kong
ming said gratefully. “I appreciate all of your help along the way, Prichtac. I can’t ever fully repay you for saving my life at the expense of your own.”
“We are happy to be of service,” Prichtac said dismissively, and the ship shuddered slightly as it point transferred to the next star system on the itinerary.
Before Kongming could reply to Prichtac, the overhead comm. chimed and Hephaestion’s voice called, “Battle stations; set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill. Repeat: battle stations…”
“I need to go,” Kongming said as crew raced to their battle stations. Prichtac serenely nodded before the young man set off toward the Prejudice’s bridge.
He arrived there after a short jog to see Captain Middleton standing roughly in the center of the various stations which comprised the oddly-designed bridge. “Take over at Comm.,” Middleton instructed, and Kongming did so.
Chapter III: Bugs…Out Here?!
“Confirm that, Sensors,” Middleton said tautly after instructing Kongming to take his station at Comm.
“Confirmed, Captain,” Hephaestion replied, “the majority of the ship’s hull is consistent with that of a large Bug Harvester, but I am unable to confirm its specific class due to the extensive damage.”
“On screen,” Middleton ordered, and a moment later the ovular portal front and center on the bridge shimmered and presented the image of a truly bizarre-looking ship—if it could even be called a ‘ship.’
Middleton had seen plenty of Bug ships on file, but this particular example, while clearly of Bug technology, was nothing like the other examples he had seen.
It appeared that the stern section of the Harvester—which appeared to be of the larger variety of Harvester on record, placing it roughly equivalent with a Medium Cruiser in terms of tonnage and throw weight at short ranges—had been torn completely off the vessel. The ship’s bow looked better off, but still bore massive gashes and craters in its organically-generated hull.
The Middle Road (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 7) Page 4
