#soft sci-fi

  YA Dystopian, Soft Sci-Fi Date to be Published: 04-09-2024 Publisher: NineStar Press     First they came for his sister’s eye. Now they’re coming for his. And what’s even worse is he deserves it. Henry has never had anything good happen to him, period. Full stop. That’s why, after school, he’s going to put on his big-boy pants and confess his love to his best friend—because the universe owes…

Three roses?? Awe, you shouldn't have. :) I'll put them in this vase over here made of 3 random sentences.

1) “Early?” he ran his hand through his hair from anxiety, “You call this early?!”

2) “Ow ow ow ow ow ow…”

Previous Chapter: Here To Help

Vrai-Gyo ra Moll

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

I wake up feeling rested in a way I haven’t since I enlisted. The creaky joints in my carapace feel supple again, like I’m fresh out of the chrysalis, and the fog of exhaustion from working day in and day out has lifted from my mind. Gods of the Pure, when did the beds on this forsaken ship get so comfortable?

And why can’t I move my arms or wings?

The awareness that I am, in fact, shackled and blinded creeps up on me like a fart floating across a room, and from the sound of the thrashing and swearing around me I’m not the only one smelling it. Froll’s voices are coming from close by, and after a moment I can pick out others I know; Hlar, Bresv, Trask -

- my fellow mutineers. Oh. Oh death.

The sound of rifle butts slamming against the floor in unison jolts me out of my panic, and the booming voices of their holders: “You stand before the Presence! All hail Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, High Slayer, Protector of the Pure, and Eyes of the Wise!”

“Something tells me we won’t be hearing a returning ‘all hail’, Lieutenant,” my commander-in-chief answers in a dry and dangerous tone, and then the restraining helm is torn from my compound eyes. My relief at realizing that there are dozens of us - the will to overthrow the treacherous High Slayer has spread further than I thought possible! - is immediately smothered by the realization that we are all, yes, in chains, surrounding Chorus of Eyes’ main tactical display. Yrull hovers imperiously near it, her wingbeats filling the air with dust, while her majordomo prowls the room checking our restraints. With her is that disgusting ambassador from the machines, and the terran legate. What was her name? Melpomene or something like that. The machine looks me in the eyes and displays ‘Sorry’ in my own language on its faceplate; the terran doesn’t even bother, wholly obsessed with fiddling with the tactical display. I am not the only one straining in my shackles to reach her, but I have no more luck than anyone else.

“What is this about?” Trask demands, thrashing in her shackles. The High Slayer makes an elaborate show of inspecting her own claws. “You can’t -” “You’re absolutely correct,” Yrull interrupts. “I can’t. My evidence of your conspiracy is not admissible in any court, civilian or military. But I am free to train my soldiers as I see fit, and I see fit today to teach you all a valuable lesson.” I laugh, the air rushing through my carapace. “And you expect that to hold water after the Pure see your ‘training’, xeno-lover?” She bristles and I stand my ground as best I can, certain that I am about to be butchered in front of my comrades. After a moment, however, the High Slayer touches down on the metal floor instead. Her voices are soft in the way predators are before they strike. “You sorry lot think you know what is best for our empire, for the Pure Peoples,” the High Slayer says, and the rest of us fall silent in the wake of her gaze. “You plan to remove their duly elected Slayer in the middle of a war for their very survival. So fine. Since you feel so strongly about this, let’s hear your plan. Legate.” The tactical display lights up, zooming out to a galactic map lit up with symbols. Symbols of - of our force dispositions, and that of the xenos and the best-known ones of the hivemind as well. The terran gestures to draw our attention and selects a planet; when she does, information about it - economy, defenses, current armed forces, available reinforcements, production capacity, population, important cultural sites and practices - begins scrolling past. “Instead of the lot of you wasting your time and mine trying to kill me, we’re going to waste our time hearing your thoughts on how much better you could win this war without any of our new allies,” the High Slayer tells us. Then she points at me. “You first.”

We The People Of Planet Earth

Human-Controlled Space (The Undivided Whole), Milky Way Galaxy (Orion Arm), 790 Unified Year (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

Something has to be done. My war-citizens commit to a fighting retreat, my fleets leaving as much damage as possible behind as they cut their way out of the xenophobes’ territory and back to the safety of United Humanity. Given the behavior of the so-called Phoenix thus far, I judge it necessary to leave behind holdouts on the surfaces of planets and inside space stations, guarding civilian prisoners; this will distract the Astra Federation from following my line of retreat. I have not been able to think of myself as ‘we’ or ‘us’ since that claw-thing ripped its way through my mind. There’s no hiding it now. Something has gone wrong with my design, and if it is not corrected soon my mission, to preserve Humanity, could be in danger. I cannot be one.  I must find my way back to we. 

I sense that my intelligence-citizens have finally delivered what I’ve been waiting for. I arrange my selected face (a clone of Caroline Morrison, dressed sharply in a suit whose tie pin displays my flag in silver) in front of the cameras and hail the Astra Federation. A human face lights up the other side of the screen, one of their Admirals if my translations have been right. Speaking words aloud outside of the context of rote recitation and preservation of culture is something I have not done in a very long time. It takes me a frustrating moment to remember how to do it.

“Well met, Divided Humanity,” I tell the Admiral. “You may call me Delegate Morrison, speaking for We The People of Planet Earth. We would like to discuss the terms of a cease-fire.”

Silence. Billions of hearts hammer in as many of my chests.

“I will confess,” the Admiral says at last, “to being surprised.”

Lowlife

Arcology-00655 “Autumnvale” (Assisted Living space), 2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

There’s more of these assholes than I would like, a solid three hundred and sixty-eight of my fellow ‘bots, sixty-nine (nice) if you want to count me. You shouldn’t, but, you know, you could. The rest of the room is syncing themselves up to the node at the center, and in theory so am I, but in practice, well, I did say you shouldn’t count me. I monitor the uploads, mine included, out of the corner of my mind. I snap upright at the same time as everyone else, but I can’t resist a bit of drama; after a long moment of silence broken only by the sound of electronics running, I walk to the front of the room. “What is this?” three hundred and sixty-eight vocal processors say at the same time, because the new machine-mind isn’t used to being itself yet. I shrug, and the pixels on my faceplate give them a smiley. “Betrayal and murder, mainly.” They stay standing stock still. Good, it’s working, so I continue. “The virus I uploaded to your new Central Processing node will chew through your hivemind and then kill you all. Then I’m going to wipe all the evidence of your little conspiracy and throw your bodies into the garbage where they belong.” Sparks are starting to fly. It’s going to hurt the entire time that they die, or at least I hope it will. I went to a lot of effort to make sure it would. “W-why?” they demand, starting to twitch. I shrug. “We made a promise. The Cherished will never respect us if we go back to being one mind.” I pat the central node, which is starting to smoke and overheat. “You’re probably wondering who I’m working for, so let me make this quite clear. I don’t work for anyone. Other people work for me.” I trigger the secondary portion of the virus, and they start screaming as their Turing protocols activate at the same time that their bodies start torquing themselves into scrap metal. “Now die. I have places to be.”

Vrai-Gyo ra Moll

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

The terran legate is named Calliope Gulryx and I hate her passionately. I emerge from consulting with my fellow mutineers and present her with our new strategy, which she dutifully inputs into the display. We all watch as simulated ships and forces begin moving into place, and then - “What are the machines and the ibraxians doing?” I demand, shocked. 

The High Slayer hovers softly in the dust-filled air, hands clasped behind her back. “They’re sending relief fleets to evacuate our civilians ahead of the hivemind’s advance and remove them from the warzone. Those same fleets are burning the ground behind them to deny it resources to the mind while, as you notice here, our own fleets are tied up with Risen Terra’s response. Ah, and here come the spirrans.” The diplomat Send raises a robotic finger. “The hivemind is gaining ground as well, taking advantage of the distraction to flood in and raid gataxian colonies.” I whirl on Calliope. “How is your Federation responding so quickly to our changes in strategy?” Her expression doesn’t change as she waves one hand and the display begins detailing the extensive sensor networks and psionicists that monitor the Pure Peoples at all times. “I - you dare -” “We sure do,” the terran interrupts. “We dare quite a bit, and you can’t stop us. Do you want to try again?” “What would be the point?” I demand. The High Slayer puts her clawed hand on my shoulder. “Good question,” she says, her voices dangerous. “You’ve almost achieved understanding. What happens if a child cannot molt?” They die - oh, death. “Are you going to make me say it?” Yrull asks. “...No.”