by Chad Huskins
Oh. Right. The smell, then, is that of decay. Perhaps dying cells that are constantly being replaced. Or fecal matter. Did they bring us to the sphere’s ass? The idea makes him laugh.
“What’s funny?” Bishop asks, looking up from his micropad mistrustfully.
“I left the farm for this!” He can’t stop laughing.
“Is this madness I’m seeing in you, or a coping mechanism?”
“Hell, man, why not both?”
Over the next forty-eight hours, they are paid a number of visits by the Tall Ones, and each time Bishop gets a little bit further in his understanding. He’s started working on designs for olfactory sensors that he can develop and attach to a prototype translator box, but it means using the omni-kit and getting the Sidewinder’s fabricator up and running again.
On their last visit, though, Bishop says that the Tall Ones seem eager to entreat them both to do something, Rook particularly. “They are most interested in you.”
“Why? Aren’t you just as alien to them as I am?”
“Yes, but I believe from all the eavesdropping they’ve done on our transmissions over the last few weeks—between me working on the Turks and you calling out what you would like done to them—they have taken you to be the commanding officer. You may be glad to know that I have tried to give you full credit for the planning stages of our battle, which I believe they’re saying they watched for a while, perhaps every step of the way. They’ve been repeating their first message, ‘You teach us,’ in almost every single sentence. They’re very persistent on that point.”
“I don’t get it. Teach them what? I mean, they’re obviously more advanced than I am.”
“Advancement is all relative. My species was—is—more advanced than yours in terms of industry, military focus, and genetic and cybernetic sciences. These Tall Ones,” he says, borrowing Rook’s term for them, “they never dreamt such machines as starships, and from what we saw of their slipstream entry method, it’s much slower than what my and your people devised, requiring a system of gates. However, my people never managed organic mastery on this scale. I doubt many others have.” Bishop looks around, and for the first time, Rook thinks he sees true human-like wonder in the Ianeth’s eyes. “We all have something to learn from each other here.”
“But what do I have to teach? I mean, Christ, they can make a bloody star!”
“You and I have a philosophy of fighting, of defending ourselves, something as alien to them as sound being used for communication.”
“They can create a Colossus! It scared the piss outta the Cereb fleet! If they could make more of them—”
“I imagine they would, but it’s a long-term plan, with no immediate solution. ‘Cooking’ something like the Colossus probably takes thousands of years, perhaps as much as it does to form a star.”
“Then what the hell can I give them that they can’t already—?”
“Two things, Rook. Strategy and hope.”
Rook looks Bishop over, then nods at the micropad. “You got all that from a few conversations?”
“Some of it. But much of it I’ve inferred from concepts I believe they’re trying to impart. Remember what we’ve discovered so far. All sentient life develops differently, yet it all thinks essentially the same. The proof is outside this dome—did we not use stairs to get here? Well, I believe that industrious creatures require hope as much as they do stairs. The Tall Ones appear thirsty for hope, and they got a taste when they saw us fight.”
Rook looks at the Tall Ones, who loom over him expectantly. Then he looks back at Bishop. “They think I can, what, repeat the victory at Kali?”
“As effectively as I could, I communicated you did it once before. Rook, think about it, first you succeeded at Magnum Collectio, and then again at Kali. Perhaps it isn’t slipstream theory or the creation of pycnodeuterium that qualifies as humanity’s greatest achievement. Perhaps there is something about your people’s imagination, and the way deception and strategy play into it. Perhaps such meddlesome minds as humans have make for the perfect saboteurs and connivers.”
He snorts. “I’m no leader. You said it yourself, people like you and I, we’re meant to work alone.”
“But you must have learned the importance of arming guerilla warriors in combat zones. Even if you never had the chance to do it before, you have that chance now.” Bishop takes a step closer to him. “Rook, I want you to consider the implications here. You’re being offered something, perhaps advanced equipment to utilize in order to subvert the Cerebral Empire, perhaps even soldiers to train and follow your orders. Friend, you’re quite possibly being offered an army.”
Rook puts his hands on his hips, paces away a few steps, and bites his lower lip pensively. He turns back to look at Bishop. “Our greatest asset was a fluke. At Magnum Collectio, there was one of me, and at Kali they thought it was still just me, and so they thought I couldn’t possibly utilize Ianeth tech. That is what pulled us through both times, and by the skin of our teeth, I might add. This time, though, they’ll have to know I’m not alone. The warships were all destroyed, but there had to be at least a few dozen skirmishers and seekers that escaped. They’ll tell the tale of our rescue. They’ll know these guys here aren’t dead,” he says, pointing at the Tall Ones. “And they’ll start to think maybe I got me an Ianeth to boot, or else I couldn’t have made the Turks and the graviton gun work.”
“Perhaps we’ve lost that edge, yes,” Bishop admits, “but we may have gained something better.”
“Don’t think for a minute that this isn’t tempting, it’s just that…I don’t want them suffering from any disillusions. I’m not some god or super-thinking-machine like the Cerebs. I can’t be that exact.”
“Perhaps exactness isn’t what’s required. I’ll contribute Ianeth-designed weapons and gear, they can provide raw materials and a large workforce, and you can provide leadership and tactical training.” Bishop serves up one of his wicked smiles. “Perhaps this is the destiny of all life, friend. It is still survival of the fittest, just like you said, and we both know that Nature favors those who adapt. Adaptation, in this instance, means setting aside all xenophobia and cultural misunderstandings, and merging our racial strengths into one.”
Rook looks him up and down. “You’re an engineer in more ways than one, aren’t you? When you broke through enemy lines and built bases there, you engineered small guerilla armies. Is that how you worked?”
“Sometimes, yes. A workforce is needed to build communities.” He smiles wider. “You say your advantage was that you were one. We will be one. With proper training, we will be.”
For a moment, Rook almost refuses this whole proposal, mostly because he’s survived for so long on his own, and believes that anyone else—especially a bunch of pacifists—will only get him killed.
But they’ve obviously lived a long time without being detected, his rational mind cuts in. And they have so much tech and resources to cull from. Rook looks at the Tall Ones, at their faces, which look so expectant. And they’re scared. That cuts him the most, makes him ashamed of even thinking about leaving these people to hang. What would his mother think of him leaving innocents to rot? What would his father say if he could see his son leaving such desperate people to fend for themselves? I didn’t enlist just to protect humanity, I enlisted to stop the Cerebs.
“I need us to be clear on one thing,” Rook says. “If we proceed with this, then everything changes. It’s a whole new game plan. If they want my help, I’ll need their full cooperation, and I need you to communicate that under no uncertain terms. I need full disclosure from them. On everything. I’ll wanna know the locations of any other handy equipment they have, any other Colossi or star-making spheres like this place, any starships, all of their slipstream jump gates, everything.”
“It will take some time to iron out the details. I’m sure they’ll have some demands of their own, but putting you in charge…I don’t think it’ll be an issue.”
Rook
looks at the Tall Ones bending over eagerly. “Oh. Right. Pacifists.” He swallows a lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. The burden of leadership is already feeling as heavy as the g’s on the fortress world. “That’s something else we need to be sure about. I don’t wanna exploit these…Tall Ones. Whoever they are. We haven’t even gotten to know them yet, but they’ve…well, they’ve obviously made a home out here. Literally, they’re making a home. I don’t want to drag them into an extinction event if they don’t know what they’re getting into.”
“I will make that clear to them. However, biomolecular scans are showing intense levels of cellular regeneration in the Tall Ones. I would say they are a remarkably long-lived people, each one probably living a few thousand years, if I had to guess. I would think that would leave them with substantial wisdom, so I am sure they’ve had time to consider this. From their demeanor, and their yearning to learn from us, I no longer see the building of this star as a new beginning, but as a last attempt at survival. Like the Colossus. Both may seem like leaps and bounds ahead of you or I, but for such a long-lived people, these are the quiet hopes of those who fear extinction.” Bishop looks at them with a scowl, what Rook figures is the Ianeth version of pity. “I imagine they’ve been running a long time.”
Rook sighs. “Alright, then. Let’s get started with the negotiations.”
“You will want to grab a few MREs from the Sidewinder,” Bishop advises. “We will be here a while.”
Epilogue
They aren’t even a few days into the negotiations and already the Tall Ones seem to be making arrangements. A few platforms are moved—literally, moved, just as if a large octopus has decided to move a limb over there—and shoved together. Here, geodesic domes are erected, and the Tall Ones bring the Sidewinder over and watch quietly as Rook and Bishop set to repairs. The Tall Ones occasionally send out massive bursts of light to communicate a point, but otherwise quietly observe.
Bishop works like a dog most days. His focus is fixing the Sidewinder’s fabricator, since that will in turn help him make the many materials needed for a better translator box that the Tall Ones will hopefully be able to wear and communicate in an audible language.
Rook spends his time with the repair bot, working on getting the Sidewinder’s main systems back online. Once Bishop has the fabricator working at half capacity, they start using raw materials provided by the Tall Ones to re-sequence and that gets them better hull plating and sealant, so that they can establish atmo on the Sidewinder and reactivate life-support systems. Shields, EA, OPG, and DERP systems all take a couple months each. During that time, Rook grows a beard back, one which the Tall Ones often reach out and touch with their extended tentacles, examining with as much scrutiny as they show the graviton gun.
Speaking of the gun, seeing as how it sustained the least amount of damage of all systems on the Sidewinder, it’s actually in good enough condition for Bishop to start mapping out large sections of it in 3D models for use as teaching tools for the Tall Ones. A few demonstrations on space debris impresses them, and soon he’s communicated that he would like to help them create more graviton guns just like it, if only to defend the Sphere.
As Bishop comes to learn more about their use of bioluminescence and pheromones to communicate, he works out a means to ask more and more complex questions. “Ask them what their names are?” Rook urges, time and again.
“I have tried, but it’s an extremely complex assignment of colors and pheromones. It looks like they sometimes refer to one another by shortened, earned nicknames. The one I’ve spoken with the most, and presumably the Sphere’s highest-ranking official, is known as Sees Far.”
“Sees Far?” He looks up at the Tall One in question. “Do they know our names?”
“I’ve given them your call sign and mine, and I’ve tried to relate them to the chessboard and its pieces to see if that might help, since they seem to understand some of the culture and files they’ve drudged up from the Sidewinder.”
“Ask them how they did that. How did they manage to hack a hard computer with organic computers?”
“I already have, but it’s complicated. They’re using terminology that I’m sure neither your people nor mine even came close to developing, for it involves elements and organic compounds unique to the Tall Ones.” He looks frankly at Rook. “We will have to rework the periodic table and also what we know about organic matter in order to even come close to understanding their technology and language.” Rook looks a little disconcerted. “Don’t be so disparaged, though. You’ll have a slew of new chess opponents.”
“What do you mean?”
“Upon hearing about this game chess, they recalled eavesdropping on us during some of our games. They wish to learn this game. As far as they’re concerned, it’s terribly important. Part of a training regimen. They believe it’s critical to understanding human military mindset.”
Rook wonders if he ought to correct them on that point, but figures why bother. It’s too complicated a concept with their limited communication abilities at this point, and, well, why not let them think it’s important? Maybe it’ll give them the basics of strategy, he thinks.
Over the next several days, whenever he has any downtime, he sits down with Sees Far and a few others and runs through a game. For such a slow-moving, long-lived species, they have little patience for thinking about each move. Rook takes his time considering his move, whereas Sees Far seems to treat the game like it’s a speed test, taking less than two seconds on each of his turns. “Slow down,” Rook says time and again. “Think. Think about your next move. Part of the fun and part of the learning is what goes on before you make a move. Get it?” Bishop tries to communicate this to them, but it doesn’t go over so well.
And as the games gather a larger audience each night cycle, Rook and Bishop use the opportunity to ask as many questions as possible. “Ask how many of them there are,” Rook urges in multiple conversations. “Ask them exactly how many are inside this Sphere. Ask them if there are any other Spheres like this one. If there are, ask them how many. Are they bigger than this one? How many live in each Sphere? How does the propulsion system on their exo-suits work? How do they create fusion with only organic material?”
Some matters may seem personal, but Rook must know everything about his allies if he’s going to know how to put them to use, he needs to know their strengths and their weaknesses. “How do they procreate? Do they have both males and females, or are they asexual beings? What are their major systems of belief? Do they have deities? Religion? What was their system of government before the Cerebs came, and how has it changed since then?”
The Tall Ones seem honest enough, but they aren’t forthcoming with everything. At times, a complex question about biological reproduction generates many words. Other times, the Tall Ones may go quiet when simply asked where their children are. Rook has noticed that there are only tall Tall Ones, but no short Tall Ones.
Where are their young? Where have they all gone?
As the mysteries grow, so too does their work. The Tall Ones are never seen outside of their exo-suits—Rook tries to have Bishop ask why this is, but so far hasn’t gotten an answer—and they are never afraid to use them to help. The suits are powerful, and two of them are sufficient to lift the Sidewinder clear off the ground.
Another two months yields results in the new translator box design. Bishop has worked up a prototype that, if either of them wear it around their mouths, each of their words cause a series of lights to flash from a small bulb, which Rook pins to his flightsuit’s breast. He’s also worked up one for the Tall Ones to wrap around one of their extended bulbs, and whenever it flashes, a calm, human male voice speaks in simple and almost comical caveman speech. “I wanting the talk,” it says as Sees Far attempts his first communiqué.
“It’s a work in progress,” Bishop says.
The work continues apace. Rook watches the Tall Ones at their work inside other major installations scattered thr
oughout the Sphere, and he’s coming to understand that there is no way he will ever be able to comprehend what is happening on their “screens,” which are really nothing more than orbs that emanate rays of light that oscillate so fast it would threaten to give any human a seizure. Nevertheless, it works for them, and if they say that their scans detect no warps in spacetime and that no Cerebs are detected in this region of the Milky Way, Rook is willing to believe them.
One evening, while working on the Sidewinder, Rook receives a chime from his micropad. The ship’s AI is communicating with him, telling him that it has finally decrypted some of the files they harvested from the derelict ship. Excited, Rook begins sifting through them, and the process takes up an hour or two each night cycle. Much of it is military jargon, just a litany of items and small operations moving from one planet to the next, from one space station to the next. One item, though, he comes across while on the verge of sleep and it makes him sit up in his bed:
COLLEGIUM PLANETARUM
EXECUTIVE BRANCH
COGCON INITIATIVES
COGCON, Rook thinks. That’s what Dad was going on about right before I left home. Continuity of government. Feeling his heart practically leap out of his chest, he highlights that file and activates it, bringing up a huge menu of orders given, of maneuvers, and of dates when those maneuvers were activated.
Understandably, a lot of the fallback zones and safe havens were all codenamed, lest the enemy got hold of them. There are dozens of references to falling back to “The Galley” and “The Farm” and “The Kitchen.” Where were these places? Were they planets Rook knew? Could he discern their coordinates from past missions the derelict ship had been on?
Scrolling through the files yields more results, drudging up some of the most heart-wrenching discoveries.
