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They are Smol Stories

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Epilogue 1

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Vik, Iceland. +They stopped caring, After First Contact

-+-+-+-

High President Carter sighed as yet another intern just…. Didn’t show up.

It wasn’t that interns dodging their daily duties was anything new, per se – the youth had been slacking since there were youth and things to do. It was more that this intern was part of his delegation to meet the new species that had just appeared in orbit a few days ago and triggered another wave of panic, paranoia, and brutal global crackdowns. When they finally broadcast the whole “Oh God please stop we’re not doing anything relax” message, mankind learned a few things:

(1) What had happened to them was absolutely not how First Contact was supposed to go

(2) There are more of the xeno bastards

(3) We should probably accept their offer of unconditional alliance

(4) What do you mean there are more that aren’t here yet

(5) OH GOD NO MORE SHIPS PLEASE-

So the few remaining now nigh-unstoppable superpowers of Earth got together and tried to figure out where negotiations would happen. Every country naturally said “Not in my backyard” and so, well. Iceland was voluntold that it would hold negotiations because (1) it’s basically in the middle of nowhere that’s still easily-reachable, (2) it’s still large enough to wage a limited and desperate land war if necessary and (3) what were they going to do in retaliation, not sell herring at us? Aggressively win Eurovision? Please.

And so Iceland finally came to terms with the fact that more military might and expendable lives were going to be put on it’s soil than in anywhere or at any other time in history, and subsequently voluntold the small, southernmost city… eer. Town. Hamlet? Collection of buildings the locals called “Vik” that it really should dress in their Sunday best and be prepared for guests.

The entire town shrugged, got in their fishing boats and set sail to the Faroe Islands.

So that chain of events led to High President Carter sighing in another windswept kevlar tent, tightly holding his cup of cold-war era coffee as he spoke through a translator to European Union Chancellor Viksburg, Oceania Defense Pact Minister Gopi, and Chinese Extended Economic Cooperative Zone Administrator Zheng.

“…and still no word from the Russians?”

The Chancellor shrugged and shook his head. “No. From what we can tell they’re acting as if it’s a totally headless government. We know there’s someone pulling the strings, but they’re so underground and through so many layers of smoke and mirrors that…”

“It’s impossible. We’re still months into, ah, questioning their embassy representatives, but we’ve got no luck.” The slightly overweight Adminsitrator said, rocking slightly in his fold-out chair. “Either they died, which our visitors refute, or their ambassadors weren’t kept in the loop to contingency plans.”

“None of this matters.” The Minister said, making a chopping motion with his hand. “We can embargo their people, or take their lands if necessary to find them. Right now, we have more pressing concerns.”

“Mmm.” Carter grunted, taking a sip of bitter, strong coffee. “The Latin Coalition still hasn’t finalized… anything, and I don’t think the African Union is going to join us, so it’s just us for today.”

“Yes. Just about 70% of Humanity. I think we’ll be ok.” Minister Gopi said, smirking.

“Still.” Viksburg sighed, straightening his leg with a slightly sickening pop. “It would be better to show a unified front, and not doing so doesn’t help project coherency to our new guests.”

“I think we can be given a pass, what with the civil wars and shenanigans going on.”

“Regardless, we should pr-”

There was a hail from a separate tent that was echoed by multiple others; although Humanity was becoming more interdependent on each other, there was still absolutely no way in hell that the various factions trusted each other.

That would be madness.

So instead, There was a single main welcoming and negotiating tent, and then linked to that were separate staging areas for each new Empire’s various soldiers, intelligence officers, communications technicians, interns, and various other people who stood around the coffee machine and justified their existence. Each tent was connected to various mobile staging trucks with various radar and long-range communication and identification equipment, and each one of those had apparently picked something up at the same time.

Their new visitors were arriving.

There was the subsequent flurry of activity from each Empire’s subordinates – anti-aircraft defenses kicked online and began active tracking, honor guard lined up in impressive formation, special operations soldiers buried themselves into the surrounding area – and the leaders all shared a look with each other…

…and did absolutely jack shit.

“So what are you thinking, Mr. President?”

“Trial by combat. You, Administrator?”

“Hmm. Tribute, of course. Why destroy when you can farm?”

“Aah, of course.”

There was a supersonic rumble of jets – both human and decidedly not, as the new alien dropship was enveloped by Terran atmosphere, rapidly burning off speed as it’s escorts began a lazy, high overwatch.

“Whelp. Kick ‘em in the balls if they take me out.” President Carter said, slamming back the rest of his coffee.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul stretched in the cramped compartment, clicking her teeth in anxious frustration; This was no place for a princess of the Emperor!

Well. “Princess”. She was definitely in line for The Throne-at-The-Center-of-All-Things, but it wasn’t an immediate ascension; More like… well. If there were a few unfortunate accidents and a couple dozen abdications and if her Aunt Gruazng would just go explore the unknown reaches for another 500 years then maybe. But she knew her position within the family and she knew that position is why she was there; after Fleet Operation Dust and Echoes all the policy wonks got together and decided to send their own Armada to this new alien species’ home system, heavy in culture and science ships and much much lighter in naval armaments than their Eternal-All-Lights-Within comrades. Of course a Royal Representative needed to be there, and she was trained in negotiation, cultural appreciation, etiquette…

…she was also expendable. Granted, her life would be paid for dearly, and there was an almost zero percent chance that any of the locals would try anything, given their unique… physiology and current technological level, but.

But.

But there were Eternal-All-Lights-Within dead. There was a near-zero percent chance that their AI missed, that turned out to be true. This home world did burn.

So.

So here she was. Standing shoulder to shoulder with other various ambassadors, attendees, waiting-staff, and a handful of honor guard, all stuffed into an admittedly spacious and luxurious dropship that would have allowed for room to move had it also not been stuffed with various trinkets, sweet-meats, bolts of cloth, art… To be honest, she was used to being pampered, and having anyone other than her accustomed waitstaff in the same ship sector as her was enough to put a frown on her face. The fact that she had to share it with cargo was downright demeaning! So what if they wanted “a single target to escort in case of emergencies and to reduce groundside anxiety”, they were a star-spanning empire, Damnit! They could’ve afforded a couple more ships!

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul inhaled deeply, and exhaled, idly reaching up to adjust her recently-fabricated translation collar. This home world did burn.

‘{Pull in your temper}’ she said to herself, rolling her shoulders. ‘{This is a momentous occasion and you’re Blessed by the Hunt-of-Good-Lands to have been chosen among your siblings to go.}’ She straightened up just as her Dropship bled that last bit of speed, landing on the soft alien soil so delicately that only the all-clear from her Pilot’s communicator gave any indication that they had ended their journey, let alone broke through atmosphere from the heavens. The ramp extended, the door slid open, and gentle alien sunlight bathed the interior of her ship.

And so her Honor Guard marched out, and she and her retainers followed.

“Good God.”

“Don’t you mean Good Dog?” Carter quipped as the brightly armored, slightly-larger-than-polar-bear sized …well, wolves? Bears? Gorilla-dogs? Exited the ornately-decorated ship, marching in perfect formation down the ramp and to either side. Carter knew enough from his time in the military to know honor guard when he saw them, and there was a 50-50 shot that the weapons they held weren’t loaded.

They probably carried the ammunition on them somewhere, though.

His own – and that of his colleagues – quickly snapped to attention, flags and standards waving gently in the cool breeze. He idly scanned the line, seeing the same steely-eyed yet bewildered look on everyone’s faces.

‘Welcome to my world’ he said to himself, grinning as he stood up as the Officially-looking Official disembarked. “Anyone mind if America takes the honors?”

“Go ahead, Gweilo. I’ll wait here.”

“Suit yourself, Zheng.” Charter said, adding in an over-exaggerated nonchalant shrug. “Can’t get much worse at this point, and nobody’s giving me hazard pay.”

And with that, High President Carter of the New American Empire marched forward in greeting.

“{How in the world do they balance?}”

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul turned her head slightly to her attendant’s outburst, making a mental note to discipline her later. “{That is inappropriate.}” Gew-Zgranzre whispered, keeping her eye on the local leader as he… essentially wobbled towards them. “{But not totally incorrect.}”

“{Apologies, Ma’am.}”

“{Mmm.}” Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul acknowledged, plastering on the slightly bemused but totally uninterested mask of the elite, mentally slipping into practiced and drilled forms of etiquette. Feet placed just so, arms bent just so, bracelets of heraldry extended to show lineage and birthright – she posed herself slightly, delicately, dipping her head in a greeting of equals. Mostly equals. Ok, she might have still had some knots in her fur over being shipped with the fucking cargo, but, it would be wrong for her to take it out on these innocent and relatively tiny-

“?H—z ppbt **.-@#—%r GUH.?”

“Welcome to Earth. Care for some coffee?”

“{Okay, seriously-}” Gwe-Zgranzre said, blinking as the tiny local flashed his tiny teeth at her in… greeting? She turned to look at her Banner attendant, who was doing his absolute damndest to not start laughing.

“? ##A ** …. W@@@s—** b-BU r*^^*^?”

“Holy shi- eer, wow. That’s a sound right out of my nightmares.”

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul inhaled deeply, letting the cool air calm her down. She took in notes of alien flora, of the spray of their water, of the scent of her comrades and the burn of the engines.

It grounded her, and she smiled to herself. ‘{Your new translator, you fool.}’ she chided, and reached up to flick on the slim collar, the external devices’ speakers popping on as the local bravely drew closer.

“{Greetings, locals of Earth.}”

“[GREETINGS PEOPLE.]” Her translator boomed, and she gave another small dip of her head at the leader within arm’s reach.

“Seriously, why are your lips wiggli-is THAT YOUR TEETH?!”

“[VERIFICATION. I SEE YOUR TEETH.]” The local said, leaning back and staring intently at her mouth. Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul thought to herself for a moment and gave a mental shrug – customs were customs, and who was she to judge? She passively opened her mouth and performed a gum check, moving her upper-outer, upper-inner and bottom-middle row of teeth one after the other, from left to right, before loudly rippling them back in the opposite direction. She sheer surprise of her ability – teeth use must be important to them – impressed the ambassador so much he started to fall backwards.

Started to. Quickly and delicately she reached forward, loosely wrapping her arm around the torso of the alien and holding him steady. She had… seen the footage, and knew how to better act.

As was expected of someone of her station and breeding, to another.

“JESUS GOD, WHY.”

“[FIRST FATHER. EXPLAIN.]” Her translator helpfully chirped, causing the local to again do a full-body flinch. She tried to stand up, to make sure the ambassador wasn’t hurt – or would be hurt, and breathed deeply to center herself. She took in the same notes of alien flora, of the spray of their water, of the scent of her comrades and the burn of the engines, of a newborn pup.

Wait.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul furrowed her brow and inhaled again. Flora. Water. Pack. Need. An Emptiness that needs to be made whole. Wrongness.

No.

“{Please, forgive me. Are you alright?}”

“[APOLOGY. YOU ARE UNINJURED?]” Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul stood up the Ambassador, resting her hand on his side in a comforting manner. The local grabbed her much larger arm with his smaller hands, grounding himself.

“Ye-yes. Yes. Thank you.”

“[YES.]”

“{Good. I’m glad.}”

“[GOOD.]” Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul said, smiling gently at the little one before her. He stood up fully, adjusting his clothing before pulling away –

-ah. No.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul gently tugged him back towards her, adjusting his torso covering slightly; it had folded in on itself, and was terribly wrinkled, which really wouldn’t do. The Ambassador nodded his thanks, and stepped backwards –

-ah. No.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul gently but insistently tugged him back towards her. Although she was with her Honor Guard, and various house Attendants, it wouldn’t do for him to fall over again, especially when she was responsible – somehow – for the first time. No, she should make sure he was properly grounded… a chair, perhaps? Something to lounge on? She couldn’t just leave him alone, even though she trusted these people with her life-

“Thank you, um. May I… introduce you to my people? Perhaps, my wife as well?”

“[THANK YOU. WE MAKE INTRODUCTIONS TO MY PEOPLE AND MY HEAD WIFE.]”

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul furrowed her brow again. A head wife? Already? Sure, she was no stranger to political marriages, but no, this was too early.

No.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul very purposefully unclenched her hand, letting the ambassador’s clothing go, and he took a few quick steps backwards away from her. By the empty sky, what had gotten into her?! She was The representative for Her Empire, Her People, HER FAMILY-

She gently and insistently reached forward towards her family, grabbing only empty air.

-ah. No. No. He’s… this thing was not an abandoned pup. It was not her kin, it was not her people. It was not part of her empire, it was not part of her pack, it was not from her litter, it was not, it was not, it was not.

It was not being a very obedient child.

Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul darted forward, wrapping the abandoned alien boy in her arms gently but forcefully. She inhaled deeply in reflex; Flora. Water. Pack. Need. Wrongness. So much wrongness, and she would set it right. Gwe-Zgranzre-of-Ngrul looked down at her new charge, smiling warmly as the alien went completely limp, draping over in her arms.

That was ok. He was not being a very obedient child, but he just needed to be loved-

Sighing to herself, she picked up the abandoned Ambassador and cradled him, turning to walk back up the ramp.

“THE BALLS, ZHENG. GO FOR THE BALLS.”

“[MALE GENITALS. PAY ATTENTION TO THEM.]” he called out to no one in particular, his petulance continuing as he was taken into the ship. As the minutes dragged on, He was joined along with a couple dozen of his other abandoned brothers and sisters, wrapped in warm cloth and protected in the center of their ship.

So much wrongness, but they would be set right.

BOOKER sighed in the cumbersome HAZMAT suit, using his approved tungsten-aluminum procurement device – AKA “the pokey stick” – to sift through some of the less reactive rubble in Piedmont Park. After the global ceasefire he and everyone else from the CDC were basically carted over here to figure out what the fuck is going to kill us all.

So far, the deadliest thing they could find were shards of aluminum from a damaged ship, a couple abandoned MREs, a few alien nuts – which were taken to a blacksite hangar, along with roughly 15 tons of dirt that they rested on – and some scattered alien tech.

“Having fun over there?” MISTY said, chuckling deeply. “Come on, we’ve got another 5 minutes and then we disrobe.”

“Yeah, but fuck this suit, man. They could’ve at least given us the airpump ones-”

“Closed system, friend.” MISTY smiled, his voice heavily muffled. “Now, let’s just finish sweeping this grid and-”

There was a noise.

Usually, this is no point of concern, but when you’re at the site of an alien ship with scattered xeno technology about, this was a point of concern. With a simple arm gesture, both men pointed in a direction and made a sign with their hands.

Roughly an entire company’s worth of weapons were pointed in that vague direction.

“What the fuck was that?” BOOKER said, scanning the area.

“Dunno, sounded like-”

MISTY never finished his sentence as out of a fucking trashcan leapt a small, dirty, feral-looking-

“Is that a DOG?” BOOKER exclaimed, laughing. “Oh my FUCKING GOD, that’s a dog!”

The two men laughed for a moment, waving down the surrounding military as the animal bounded off, obviously very distraught at spending the past few days stuck in a trashca-

-the animal stopped, and started to devour something on the ground.

“Wait. WAIT. What’s that it’s eating? It’-”

BOOKER began to run forward as the small dog ate something decidedly not terran. Other ABC agencies – the FBI, ATF, NSA, CIA – began running as well, realizing the situation. It looked up at the sprinting HAZMAT suit, opened it’s mouth and borked.

The miniature shield drone that was lodged in it’s throat took the subvoalization rush of air as a command, and ejected a small amount of energy at an appreciable enough speed to knock BOOKER right on his ass.

Everyone froze in place, save for the ATF Agents, who rose to fight their greatest battle.

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Technically Sentient Stories

“Technically” Sentient: Chapter 20

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Amonna had been amazed by the size of Waystation LS-49 when she first arrived. With a nearly 60 meter high ceiling, the bulk transport she had arrived in almost seemed small in the cavernous space. As she looked out over “Auxiliary Hanger 2,” that sense of starry eyed wonder she had felt as a younger, more naive girl returned. The “Indomitable Explorer” looked almost like a forgotten toy left on the floor rather than a warship retrofitted for survey work. The security team that had set up a cordon around it looked like insects, not heavily armed and armored soldiers.

She took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the stabbing pain in her neck as she closed her eyes. It was easy to think of them all as toys from this elevated, distant, and secure observation deck, but this was far from a game. Three teams stacked up on the craft, two at the cargo door, and one under the “wing” of the vessel. She couldn’t make it out precisely, but she knew they were planting breaching explosives. They’d been trying to cut their way in with plasma torches for several minutes, but whatever meta-alloy the craft was made of seemed extremely resistant to heat. Drastic measures were needed, so a mixture of cryo-treatment and breaching explosives were being used.

The security chief swore that he had attempted a diplomatic resolution to the situation, but Amonna wasn’t terribly convinced. In the end though, it was a matter of picking her battles. She’d been very clear that she needed them for interrogation . . . and a healthy show of force might not be the worst way to start that process off, after all. She would tolerate the over-exuberance of her subordinates for now, if only because they weren’t disruptive enough to warrant censure.

She saw the flash, heard the muffled crack of high explosives, and watched 12 troopers pour into the little puffs of smoke made by their dynamic entry. A trio of them bounced back out, as if they’d run head long into a brick wall, and suddenly the fight was on. Too far away to catch the specifics, she watched as five little black motes struggled against one particularly large specimen. She leaned forward, gripping the hand railing of the observation deck with a white knuckled intensity.

“ . . . It can’t be you . . . can it?”

Her voice was low, and incredulous, but she knew without a doubt that it was.

“Arch-Judge?” One of her honor guard stepped forward, tone uncharacteristically inquisitive. “Could you please repeat your order more clearly?”

Amonna shook her head, face still bearing an expression of disbelief. “Get down to that ship. They’re going to need backup.” They snapped into motion without hesitation, a dozen sets of boots pounding out of the steel and glass chamber. “I need them alive!” She shouted after them as they disappeared down the corridor, shock turning to ire as she whirled back around to watch the battle in miniature unfold. They seemed to be afraid to draw any closer, but unwilling to back away and use their other weapons. She let out several choice oaths, furious with her own lack of foresight. “Of course you’d survive . . .”

If she’d warned them, maybe they could have used electro-convulsive devices, or maybe some kind of gas to debilitate the creature, but as it stood their less than lethal batons were probably like nothing more than toys to him.

She watched a particularly brave trooper rush him, and be sent flying for his hubris.

A frustrated snort escaped her, and she could only hope that her “Honor Guard” were skilled enough to bring a neat resolution to the unfolding disaster before her. She watched as he seized one trooper, and hurled them bodily into another of her officers scrambling to get away.

Cringing, she murmured under her breath “ . . . I’d settle for an ugly resolution at this point.”

——————————

Darren was breathing hard, and swinging harder. He’d managed to wrestle a baton from one of the black armored goons sent in to beat him, and he’d paid back their aggression with a fair bit of interest. He didn’t know how the others were faring inside the ship, but he had bigger concerns at the moment. A few warning swipes with the baton, cracked and chipped from the force of his blows, was enough to drive the military styled thugs back a few paces. A few of them had been put out of commission already, either by his fists or a hearty kick, but he could still see that he was surrounded. Outnumbered but not out-fought, he concluded. He was damn tired of getting randomly attacked by aliens. Without much time to dedicate to the thought, he decided that the galaxy was a lot more hostile than it had been made out to be on TV.

There was a crunching sound as he stepped into some of the shattered ceramic armor that had “fallen off” his attackers, and his head snapped side to side in a feral manner, like a cornered animal. The six or so black armored aliens backed off slightly, pulling their downed comrades with them to a safer distance behind hastily erected barricades.

For a moment, it almost seemed like they were giving up, and a brief flicker of hope ran through him. He took time to try and catch his breath, re-orient himself, and spent a few free seconds to try and think of a way out of this mess.

Then he saw the backup.

A dozen figures, in bulkier armor, carrying big guns. Maybe special forces, maybe SWAT, maybe just bigger meaner dudes, but he could read the writing on the wall. He braced himself, guard up and baton ready, for the lot of them to charge him.

Surprisingly, they didn’t. In fact, all but one of them held back while a single, particularly bold individual began to remove his helmet.

Darren had expected something exotic, strange, or downright disturbing. He expected huge eyes, or spines instead of hair, or maybe some kind of compound eyes, but what greeted him was far more disturbing to him.

It looked like a child. Not . . . not quite a child, but boyish. The stature was like that of a teenager, or maybe just a fairly small framed guy. It was bearing a crew cut and a firmly set expression, like any soldier might appear, but the almond shaped eyes, faint hint of freckles, and slight features were really what was putting him on his back foot. “What the . . .” were the only words he managed to mumble out before it threw its helmet at him.

Throw was really the wrong word for it, even. It was almost like a playful toss. A gentle lob, pitched underhand, like it was a game and he was supposed to catch it. Without thinking, he let go of the baton to catch the blackish, grayish ceramic armor piece, raising his arms in the process. The motion of this . . . childish alien was quick, and he almost missed it, but as he felt something strike him in the gut, he realized with a sudden surge of anger he’d been tricked. With a slight flourish, this new adversary had pulled something from it’s pocket and hit him in the gut with it from 15 paces. He could feel thin, sinewy coils wrapping around his abdomen, cinching down tight with a mechanical whirring sound.

“Fu-” was all he managed to gasp before he was hit with a surge of electricity, making his diaphragm spasm. It felt like he was drowning, like the air was too thick for him to breathe as his entire body went rigid. The current lasted what felt like minutes, his every muscle bursting in a burning pain as they cramped violently from the hammer-blow of current. There was a moment that their eyes met, and while he was struggling to remain conscious, Darren couldn’t really come to terms with such a youthful face twisted into such an expression of raw loathing.

A haymaker to the jaw ended his struggle, and dropped him to the deck with a dull thud, ending the several minute long standoff in as brutal a fashion as it had started.

——————————

Amonna was quite pleased with the performance of her “Honor Guard.” Not to put too fine a point on it, she was almost impressed with the speed they had resolved the situation. They had taken an uncontrolled disaster and almost instantly brought it to a neat, non-lethal end. The “Human,” as the medic on duty had identified it, was secure and largely uninjured. She wasn’t terribly surprised to find it uninjured, even though it had taken a blow that would have left either the Centaurian or Kontosian passengers permanently brain damaged. There was the question of minor damage to its central nervous system, but the medic had told her there was some kind of multi-layered fluid cushion protecting the human’s brain. It just tended to “re-boot” when struck too hard, and that gave the security team time to restrain it.

She’d instructed it kept under a ridiculous level of sedation until she had the chance to fully review the file she’d been given on its physiology, but from what she had skimmed the thing was a tank. Blended muscle fiber motor units, redundant blood filtration organs, hyperactive scar-tissue formation. Just from the cliff notes she could tell the thing was a low-tech apex predator.

She didn’t know how well she’d be able to interview an attack dog, but she’d give it a try.

Later.

As a last resort, in case she couldn’t get anything useful out of the others.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes wandering over the seemingly ever growing spread of classified documents, reports, interviews, and images she had on her desk. She snagged the Research Institute charter for the Indomitable Explorer, and scanned through it quickly. Registered to Tilantrius Zepp Warzapp the Third and Zarniac the Lesser, it appeared to be a legitimate survey operation. She had interviewed the two of them, and her initial suspicion was that this “Zarniac” character was coercing Tilantrius. Last images of Zarniac were of a healthy, if slightly haggard Centaurian, not the maimed, steely eyed, tight lipped navigator she had in a cell seven decks below her. Still, their stories checked out. He really had been badly injured in the hangar incident, and then again while making his escape from Waystation LS-49. A flicker of pity ran through her, and sense of morose kinship. She sighed, and continued on reading the interview transcript. Their account of events on the station matched her own, and the story of coming back to rescue the Human, apparently named “Duh-Rehn,” also sparked a chord of compassion in her. The Centaurians were a good sort, she decided. They’d been put through the wringer, and she believed them when they said they had done their best to comply with the conflicting commands they were given in the arrest process. The Kontosian on the other hand . . .

She’d grilled him for an hour, solid. When he stonewalled her, she had gotten “extra-curricular” with her interrogation methods. It had only taken a copy of her “Unlimited Mandate” in resolving the Waystation LS-49 issue to get him talking.

It had started, at least for him, innocently enough. He’d kill time between maintenance tickets by messaging random individuals on the q-net. Typically reserved for fairly high level communication, his engineering access let him utilize the most powerful FTL communications tech in the galaxy as a chat-room. That alone warranted maybe a negative quarterly performance review, it was who he began talking to that interested her. Chrysophylax, the little half cyborg red lizard she had entrusted the C.A.S.I.I. unit to, had been talking to some very dangerous sorts. While he confessed to picking up all kinds of dangerous skills, like how to build Class 2 energy weapons and modify AI cores, he swore up and down that he wasn’t responsible for what had happened on LS-49. There was a single user that had started messaging him consistently. At first he was terrified it was one of his co-workers, because they always seemed to know when he was busy and when he was free, but after figuring out what node they were logging into the galaxy wide system from, Chryso had concluded that they were just some kind of network penetration expert killing time at work too. A little more pressure, and he was telling Amonna everything they’d ever talked about.

This . . . character, only ever identifying themselves as “Seed_544” had been more than happy to talk everything from AI blue-box mechanics to firewall subversion techniques with Cryso. At least, according to him. It was always with the same casual air of superiority, and they always seemed to have some secret trick or insight he’d never heard of before. Chryso had always assumed they were either an AI killing unused processor cycles, or some kind of savant that didn’t know how to turn that part of their brain off, but they had been deeply, deeply intelligent. When they started offering solutions to some of his day to day problems, little subroutines he could install to keep unreliable systems working, or self-repair protocols to keep his workbench free, he’d seized them gladly and with both hands.

While rambling his occasional, almost aimless confessions continued to roll on and Amonna began to draw a much clearer picture of things. She suspected that “Seed_544” was not just some AI or savant, but a collection of individuals who had gotten close to Chrysophylax with the intention of infiltrating the station’s subroutines. They leveraged this unfettered access to take systematic control of the Drone officers in the FSOS department. She didn’t know how they managed to do it, but it seemed the only logical conclusion. The only thing that really kept her guessing was how Verdock was involved. He was clearly complicit and aided in this takeover, but she didn’t know how he was compromised. Maybe blackmail?

She put down the interrogation transcript, running her fingers through her hair just to busy them.

She’d expected problems with the C.A.S.I.I. unit. After what she’d seen, what she’d heard in Chryso’s workshop on the station, she knew whatever had been done to that little Social AI was bad. What she hadn’t expected was the amount of damage the core had suffered from overclocking. There was no way it was going to last more than another few years before its processors were completely burnt out. All of that didn’t hold a candle to the interview though.

The AI was non-responsive, as if it was in undergoing a system-safety reboot, but the entire thing was burning hot to the touch, clearly running at almost 90% processor output. It took a team of engineers to cobble together some way to begin diagnostics, and hopefully open a line of communication with the badly damaged and modified AI. While just about every single element was either encrypted or so radically restructured in terms of code that fixing it would prove to be a week long affair, they did manage to establish at least a rudimentary means of communication via command line inputs. They put 3 questions to it at Amonna’s behest.

“What was the Dolorous Star Massacre, what happened to Cygnus X-1, and the who are Cult of the Unfinished?”

The processor utilization was pegged at 100, and it took an emergency cooling unit to keep the thing from overloading entirely before they received a curt, and cryptic reply.

“My birth. My death. And my children. But not necessarily in that order.”

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They are Smol Stories

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 14

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When the history books were written – or tablets transcribed, given how technology advanced so quickly – everyone universally agreed on a single point: It sucked to be a government leader during The Great Clusterfuck.If you accepted the necessary invader-aid to rebuild your society, your society didn’t trust you. If you didn’t accept the aid, your people starved, died and rebelled against you for not accepting the aid. You didn’t have the funds to build up a military to take aid from the aliens (what with having to rebuild everything else first), and once you started to work with them you’d be treading a fine line taking raw material and turning it into weapons… right in front of them. The universal draft was truly universal, if only to spread the sense of control and “peace through strength”(and that putting a human in a suit and giving him a gun was infinitely cheaper and more discrete than building a new tank).

Then you had the problem, once the universal draft was universal, as to where the fuck do all these bored recruits go? It’s not like you can just hop over the border and have a quick war without literally starting World War 3. Eer. 4.

So maybe as a world leader you finally start relaxing the draft and letting the whole free market be free again; the people that remained got to see the absolute worst trading day in all of human history. Absolutely no asset was safe – stocks tanked, bonds were declared worthless, hell, even T-bonds dropped their rates.

Have you ever seen a savings account lose money?

……that is, if you were lucky enough that your bank somehow kept your records. Seeing as how everything was digital and how shielding against EMPs wasn’t even on their to-do list, well.

…look it turns out that millions of people who suddenly had absolutely no money or credit but training with guns made for a very hostile work environment.

Site 8, USA. +3MO After First Contact.

-+-+-

President Carter had gained a limp.

The limp wasn’t permanent by any means, but his emergency offices’ chair was not the most comfortable one in the world, and it happened to just pinch a nerve in his leg that… well. Over time, gave him a bit of a limp. The Surgeon General wasn’t too concerned, as once Carter finally stopped working 19 hour days at a cold-war era desk, got back to a workout routine and changed seats it would go away. Unless it was psychosomatic. Or it just didn’t.

President Carter also sported an eyepatch.

Now this was absolutely temporary, but again, another casualty of the condition he found himself in. Bunker air just didn’t agree with him or his special eyes, and over the course of the night he rubbed the damn thing raw. The patch was more for his own protection, as continuing to fuss with the itchy orb would only do more damage. Thankfully he was able to get the gauze pad under it coated with a topical anesthetic that took some of the actual sting away, but there was still a dull ache that gave him a soft scowl. As he limped his way up a concrete ramp to a nondescript spartan elevator he grunted a greeting to the awaiting Senator Armstrong. “’Mornin.”

“Good Morning to you too, Mr. President. You look like you’re suffering a fair bit today.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re still here. If they haven’t fired any more weapons, why the hell can’t I go back to The White House?”

Senator Armstrong shrugged as he made space for the temporarily-crippled President, nodding to an attendant to work the elevator controls. “You know as well as I do – if the White House isn’t secure you’re no-”

“Yeah, yeah, not allowed back in, but hell, even this bunker isn’t secure. For fuck’s sake, we’re meeting the aliens for another weekly conversation right outside.” Carter grumbled, idly pressing his fingers against his patch – as pressing didn’t count as rubbing and he wouldn’t get in trouble with the Surgeon General.

“It’s… less from the aliens and more from your constituents. We had another missile attack on the front lawn again.”

President Carter sighed, and remained silent and still for a few seconds as he took in the news. “Well. Did the bastard at least watch for back blast this time?”

“Yep. Three of ‘em, actually. Still didn’t take down the shields, but, having alien tech stapled to the lawn of our seat of government isn’t-”

“Yeah. Bad Optics.”

“Hah.”

Carter looked flatly at his friend, who looked away sheepishly. “So that wasn’t a pun?”

“Steven, I’m drinking powdered coffee that’s older than my parents, I’ve been eating MREs for months, and I shit on a hole in a concrete slab with toilet paper that feels mummified. The thought of getting out of this hellhole is the only thing that’s keeping me together-”

“Right, right. Well. Good news is that our ‘friends’ are here to talk about…yanno. The everything.”

“You mean the global depression that actually put the Fed on suicide watch? What are they offering now?”

Armstrong grinned widely and swept his arm forward as the elevator door opened up, the ‘secret’ door built into the side of the mountain slowly swinging open in the distance to let in the pure, unfiltered sunlight.

“Nanomachines.”

They were arranged in a semi-circle again. The Heads of State, not the paperwork – though that was too, if you wanted to get technical about things. Each Secretary was behind their very own fold-out desk, under a gigantic makeshift-but-semi-permanent tent, the idle wind bowing in the canvas ‘walls’ every so often. Although it should’ve been spacious – the tent was one of those massive event tents, after all – it felt very cramped due to the various attaches, generators, satellite equipment, servers, refreshment tables and the guards.

Good lord, there were a ton of guards.

This was partly because of the most successful jobs program in the history of Mankind, and also because of the small contingent of aliens who were coming down in the same pockmarked ship from the initial invasion. Whether it was a sly jab at the military prowess of the United States, or if the aliens were concerned about our object permanence, President Carter didn’t know or care. Right now, it’s about survival – survive the next day to see the next week to see the next month… one fire to put out at a time.

“[IS GOOD?]”

President Carter sighed externally and slumped again. Man-made fires were one thing; For instance, Texas had declared independence again – immediately followed by various counties within the nascent state deciding against independence, and then forming some microstates – now that was a fire, but one that could be handled. This, this was another conflagration and unfortunately, as this was being recorded for posterity’s sake there were no handy bottles of liquor available for him to steal a few moments of peace from. Other than the few discontented murmurs from the rest of his staff the tent was quiet. His Health and Human Services Secretary, Andrew Hernandez, took the easy way out not five minutes ago via a temporary sanity break once he finally parsed the new gift bestowed upon us from the heavens, and had to be tranquilized and hauled out of the tent after he wouldn’t stop laughing.

The lucky bastard.

“No. Is not good.”

“[HE LAUGH. LAUGH GOOD.]”

The Diplomat, who was absolutely unceremoniously named Aaaaa (on account of how it looked and your usual response to what it sounded like) tilted his head in an almost birdlike fashion as it’s translator parsed what he was hearing from the exhausted president’s lips. It thumped it’s padded tail against the ground – again, whether that was a display or a nervous tick, Carter had no idea and still didn’t care.

“[WE GIVE TINY MACHINES FOR HEALING. HEAL MANY. SAVE MANY. MANY FIGHTS. MANY HURT. THIS HELPS.]”

“And we thank you for that. But it’s… not good.” President Carter said, dropping the debriefing folder down on his fold-out table. It contained… well, a lot of things he just didn’t understand, but the gist of it was that it was a machine that built nano-machines that cured about 90% of diseases – if you trusted the alien technology enough to inject it into your body. Considering he was sitting in a tent in the middle of the Appalachian mountains with fully-functioning electrical everything based off of solar-powered satellites, alien tech had a great track record. They were offering multiple machines to every single population center that wanted ‘em. Hell, some were probably agreeing to get them not even realizing what they are.

“[FOR WHAT PURPOSE.]”

“It puts more people out of jobs. It ruins more infrastruct- more building. More investment.” President Carter said, his one good eye screwing shut as the same conversation played in his mind from a few months ago. ‘What about…all this? All of it?’ he asked himself, wondering idly if a depression could get worse. Aaaaa stood there, tilting it’s head one way, then another, before turning around and saying something to his team behind him. There was very obviously a heated conversation, datapads and trinkets being pulled out and referenced furiously. His guard used to raise their weapons whenever any of ‘em moved, but now…

Again. It’s the greatest Jobs program of all Time. It’s also not like they could stop ‘em if they decided to go all blood-sport about it.

“[BUT SAVE LIVES. MONEY FOR LIFE.]” Aaaaa suddenly said, rounding back towards the President quickly – as if he was struck with an epiphany. “[MONEY FOR LIFE.]” Aaaaa repeated, almost incredulously.

“Well, yeah. Hospitals don’t grow on trees.”

“[SAVE ALL. ALL FREE.]” Aaaaa growled, obviously frustrated at the limitations of his translator, as he began to wave his arms about. “[LIFE NO PRICE. NO MONEY FOR LIFE.]”

President Carter shrugged.

Aaaaa just stared at him in confusion.

Another 8 Trillion dollars of R&D, Medicine, Infrastructure and jobs evaporated between the two of them.

The interesting thing about the Armada was not necessarily just it’s size, although it was massive, nor it’s firepower – even though you could argue at the time of it’s assembly it was the most powerful fighting force in all of creation. No, the most interesting thing about the Armada was it’s diversity, because when dealing with a known unknown you have to prepare a little bit for everything, and The Diarchs made sure everyone put aside their petty differences for such a momentous occasion. As with any of the species’ empires, it was less one homogeneous galactic bloc and more a few very large states and some medium-to-minor outlying conclaves that all agreed to play nice. More or less. Regardless, they assembled science barges, medical ships, military ships – of course – but also trading vessels, biome ships, entertainment yachts, floating museums… the list really did go on.

Certainly, soldiers at arms numbered in the hundreds of millions – but the sheer personnel necessary to muster those millions numbered in the billions. For every drop pod soldier there were quartermasters, mechanics, armsmen, priests, doctors and other support personnel. For every one of those there were also chefs, janitors, therapists, maintenance crew, subordinates and miscellaneous ones besides. For every one of those there were logistics captains, cargo haulers, raw material processors, entertainers, street vendors, civilian shuttle pilots… you get the point. The tip of the spear is useless without the rest of the spear, and without the hand that holds it, and…

Anyway. Billions of Karnakians stood in confused, often mute stupor as the primitive world below them bowed, broke, stood up again, and then fell over and caught fire. Repeatedly.

You have to understand, Billions stood and watched this. Billions, who had their own hopes, dreams, allegiances and alliances, their own senses of right and wrong. Even if you sniffed through and filtered all traffic, you’d have to watch the watchmen, and then watch those who watch the watchmen, and…well. That’s assuming your pyramid of paranoid parsers could determine what messages were really talking about food poisoning from Ship Sector 118-F’s kitchen, and which ones were coded to Inquisitorial agents back in the home worlds updating them on the unfolding clusterfuck out in the field. That’s not counting tracking all the ships that are coming and going, resupplying and returning home.

So really, everyone in the back of their mind knew it was only a matter of time until the Diarchs stopped getting filtered reports about a “slight kerfuffle”, and a short amount of time after that when the Galactic Community as a whole saw what had happened and would come knocking.

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ of the Eternal Holy Karnakian Crusade And It’s Infinite Legions’ knew this in the back of his mind, and so spent every waking moment of his and his advisors’ time to setting right the great tragedy that they had inflicted upon this primitive race; not only was it the right thing to do, but it would also allow the necessary negotiating room for his people to… hopefully not face reprisals from their other neighbors.

Hopefully.

Site 8, N.A.E. +7MO After First Contact.

-+-+-

High President Carter of the New American Empire sighed as he limped his way back to The Damned Tent. As the Healthcare Industry crashed, bounced back up and then crashed again, more and more jobs were furiously created by the Government in order to… well. Not have a civil war. Problem is, you can only ship soldiers around to the same few cities doing the same few ditch-digging jobs before some of them wise up and begin to cause trouble. When that’s the case, and your external enemy is not longer really a thing, well… you’ve got to get creative.

A few backroom deals here, a few nods there, and it was determined that the best thing for everyone involved was for America to absorb it’s neighbors.

And sure, there were the few patriots who refused, and the ones who fought against the “liberators” of his armies, but in the background almost everyone was for it. Once Canada and Mexico were “freed”, infrastructure projects began in earnest. Rebuilding roads, putting up bridges, all on the backs of American laborers.

All for jobs. For a temporary distraction, to buy much needed time to rebuild whole economies and ways of life.

For putting out a fire.

“Aaaaa.” High President Carter said, nodding to the alien ambassador as he walked into the tent, unceremoniously dropping his constantly-weary body on the fold-out metal chair. 7 Months in a bunker, with no end in sight – especially now since he was dealing with insurgents from former NAFTA members – had removed his last fucks to give. “So. What’s this now?”

“[WE DID NOT KNOW OF YOUR MONEY TRADE WHEN WE GIFTED YOU.]”

“Ok, starting off with an understatement. This is good so far.” He grunted as he lifted his now apparently permanently damaged leg with his arm, crossing it over his good one. Xenos tech worked – some said too well – but as a head of state he couldn’t be compromised on the off chance that there was something … not above board in the technology. So he remained merely human, and suffered for it.

“[OUR WORD TRANSLATORS WORK GOOD ENOUGH TO HOLD BETTER DEBATE SPEAKINGS WITH YOUR PEOPLE, WE FEEL.]” Aaaaa said, dipping his head in what his xenobiologists were assuring him was a deferential gesture. “[OUR LEADER LORD VANGUARD PROTECTOR FIGHTER PURIFIER MAN WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH YOU, AND TALK.]”

The tent grew quiet, and Carter smacked his lips together. “I feel like… Something got lost in translation there, but, alright. Fuck it. Here? Or-”

“[BY VIDEO ON SCREENS.]”

“Of course. Of course I can’t escape this fucking bunker… right! Well. Go ahead and put him on video by screen, then.”

“[YES. WILL BRING YOU SCREEN, WILL HAPPEN NOW.]”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ of the Eternal Holy Karnakian Crusade And It’s Infinite Legions shifted uneasily in his chair, a slightly exhausted warble escaping his throat as he prepared to have the first of what would hopefully be many fruitful conversations in his… well.

It was an apology tour, plain and simple.

First Contacts are always touchy subjects, and it takes months, if not years for languages to get translated to the point that you could feel confident that what you said is what you meant. It was an unfortunate truth, because languages evolved differently based on underlying biology, and then have millenia of culture ontop of that to add nuances that are so ingrained into the language as to appear almost natural. Then, of course, you had to throw out all assumptions on how to speak that language, because you didn’t know if words changed based on who you spoke to, or your position in society, or your distance from the home star – nothing was a given.

His programming team would be commended on any other circumstance; quick thinking and long hours had shortened their timeline down to just a couple months, and the idea of starting with the periodic table and moving out from there helped lay the groundwork for some of the more basic words. The real problem was that there were just so many words: Not only did they speak thousands of languages on this one planet, but each language in and of itself had regional dialects, and then slang ontop of that!

He was assured that their language matrices were far enough along that they would convey more complex meaning, and that by careful and slow conversation they could begin negotiating a withdrawal that would not only leave this species in a better position, but also not create an entire race of enemies that would hunt them down in a couple hundred years in a bloody genocidal war of attrition.

At least, he hoped so.

Straightening his back he rolled his head, his neck popping in various places.

“|Um. High Lord-|”

“|Uri’krei, please. It is our duty to not harm our brothers, and we have done them a great ill. I will not be persuaded from returning to them 7-fold what we have taken.|”

“|It’s uh. Not that.|”

“|Well then, what is it? We’re about to go live with one of their leaders-|”

“|Ah. I’ve… received an encoded message.|”

 High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ sat there, flatly looking at his EM Lord. “|And.|”

“|It’s… from the Embassy of the Noble-Family-Hunters-Yearning-For-Life… asking us what we’re building way out here in the middle of nowhere, and reminding us about our mutual defense pact.|”

“|No.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ groaned, vigorously scratching his molting feathers free from his neck in an uncontrollable stress response.

“|And they wanted to let us know-|”

“|Noooooooo.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ growled, his claws dragging up and down his neck in anxious patterns.

“|-that they should be warping in any minute now-|”

The cameras turned on.

“|GREAT SOUL DAMN IT.|” High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ roared, his fists slamming against his console.

“[GREETINGS. SAME GREETING TO YOU. WE ARE SAME SOULS.]” A very haggard looking local said, dipping it’s head in greeting. “[A GOOD DAY FOR YOU TOO.]”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ screwed his eyes shut for a moment, composing himself, before opening them again and plastering on a forced smile. “|Greetings, Noble Leader.|”

“[GREETINGS.]”

“|We are very, very sorry for the pain we have caused you.|”

“[YES. NEW PAIN DAILY.]”

High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ winced. “|Y-yes… and we are sorry. We wish to give you more-|”

“[NO. PLEASE NO.]” The local said, shooting up straight in his seat, his arm lifting up in a possible pleading gesture. “[NO MORE HELP.]”

“|You… would say what that help is. We want you to prosper.|”

The local put it’s head in it’s hands, letting out an untranslatable groan that High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ could identify with on a spiritual level. “|We… we want to be allies. To help you on your way to the stars.|”

The leader looked up, his gaze seeming to pierce The High Lord as if he was but a mere hatchling. “[WHAT COST.]”

“|None.|”

It was at this fortuitous time that the (who we wound up calling The Dorarizin) ‘scouting’ fleet showed up in orbit around the planet Earth, hovering for only a few moments before gently – but loudly and insistently, broadcasting a signal that roughly translated to “{Well what’s all this then? Is that a new species?! WHY IS EVERYTHING ON FIRE-}” but High Lord Inquisitor-Commander Tr’’’’r’’ wasn’t paying attention to that particular hail. No, his eyes were plastered on the screen before him, where the local leader was hailed by his own EM Lord-equivalent. There was some yelling – parts of it translated, parts of it not – before the leader stood up and ripped his top clothing off, letting out an untranslated and inarticulate yell as he bodily lept onto Diplomat Quri’rurag, attempting to choke him through his environmental suit.

“[TINY MACHINES, CHILD. I CAN ONLY BE HURT EMOTIONALLY.]” A much larger native bellowed as he tackled Quri’rurag, dragging him down to the ground.

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Technically Sentient Stories

“Technically” Sentient: Chapter 19

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Amonna was still alone, standing in the cavernous VR chamber. She scanned the walls, examining each of the hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny hard light emitters. It was certainly more complex than anything she’d ever seen on the Waystation. As fascinating as it was, she only had a few minutes to get to the bridge, so she could ill afford to spend her time contemplating the finer details of hard light. As she moved to exit the VR chamber, it the general held her attentions. Vrang was . . . puzzling, and his questions even more so. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to forcibly empty her head of existential fears. She had no use for things like that, not now. Self-doubt was a luxury she could ill afford . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by the steady tempo of heavy boots, and as she sealed the door to the VR chamber behind her, the march came to a sharp halt. A barking order rang out, but her translator didn’t recognize it . . . something that should have been impossible.

“Arch-Judge Tav! Coryphaeus Honor Guard, reporting as ordered!” There was the unmistakable crispness of military discipline, like every interaction she’d had aboard the vessel, but there was almost a raw edge to his voice. Her interactions with the Admiral, and Vrang had all carried a calculating, measured tone, but this was discipline of a different flavor. This was fervor. This was zeal. As she turned to face whomever had come to accost her, she was met with a solid dozen figures, arrayed in two neat columns, facing her, at sharp attention.

Her eyes narrowed, and she took a moment to really take them in. They were almost motionless, as still as living bodies could be. They were carbon copies of one another, figures clad in glossy black ceramic armor from head to toe. Dozens of elegant, silver buckles and latches covered in fine scrollwork clashed sharply with the utilitarian sheen of armored plates. Archaic looking knee high marching boots with all terrain soles added to the strange clash of style and pragmatism. While each of them were carrying a three-barreled rifle of some kind, the strange mixture of sleek black and gilded components made it appear as more of a work of art than a lethal weapon.

“Honor Guard?” She finally said, eyes still searching them over. She’d only seen a few Coryphaeus troopers in her time, but these definitely looked . . . different. The armor was bulkier, and covered in various pouches for gear. The helmets, usually angular, sleek, and pressurized, now left the lower half of the face open, and didn’t even have a neck seal. The armor had compensated for that with a fairly pronounced gorget rising up from the chest-piece, but it certainly wasn’t meant for use in a compromised environment.

The lead figure on the left, somehow, managed to stand up a little straighter. “General Vrang requested a detachment to shadow you. Permission to speak freely.”

It took a few moments for Amonna to realize that was supposed to be a question, not a statement. She nodded subtly at the figure, and she found herself staring at the only visible flesh of the one addressing her; a dour expression, drawn in a thin line across the only patch his helmet didn’t cover, was all she could see. “Permission granted.”

The soldier, or perhaps marine . . . she wasn’t sure which he would be, saluted sharply. “It was the opinion of General Vrang, and myself, that you have not been shown the proper decorum your rank demands.” There was a very pointed pause in his words. “Nor do you seem to understand the weight it carries. This honor guard is intended to act as that weight, and stands ready, able, and wholly willing to enforce that decorum.”

Amonna glanced over her shoulder down the corridor. Vrang had only left a few moments ago . . . had he been waiting for her to arrive to saddle her with this group? Or were they being placed here to keep an eye on her? Maybe he hadn’t taken to being interrupted in the VR chamber too kindly . . .

The . . . trooper, shifted slightly, drawing her attention back to the present. “And if I refuse this “Honor Guard?”

He remained stone faced, but the long pause made it readily apparent that either he was struggling to come up with a response, or that wasn’t an option to begin with. Amonna sighed, quietly, and let her head droop.

“I’m heading for the bridge. Can you Honor Guard me there?”

All 12 of them snapped their heels together sharply, saluting in unison, before flowing past her neatly on both sides. They readyied their weapons at what she assumed was some fashion reserved for drill and parade with a chorus of sharp clacks. As the formation, now finished reforming around her, came to a halt, she found herself in a neat bubble of midnight clad troops. Two ranks stood ahead of her, and two ranks stood behind her as well. As she glanced up and down the now far more crowded corridor, she couldn’t help but wonder why Vrang had orchestrated all of this. As she took a tentative first step towards the bridge another barking order rang out, and the cadre of black armored figures moved with her apace.

The voyage to the bridge was silent, save for the rhythmic stamp of marching and the occasional order to clear the hallway. Amonna internally suspected that this “guard” was just Vrang’s way of keeping tabs on her, but didn’t give voice to such concerns. No point. She felt the subtle tremor of the ship decelerating, and with a vessel as large at this it would take some time. Enough time for her to get to the bridge, or so she thought.

The bridge itself was situated in an unusual fashion, or what Amonna thought to be an unusual fashion. A single, broad avenue led in and out of the bridge, which was nested securely in the very heart of the ship. As her guard led her from one of the small, narrow side corridors, she was absolutely stunned by the massive size of the space she was in. Thick girders and archways populated the space above her head, with armored gantries every few hundred feet. She could faintly make out what almost looked like weapon emplacements in the shadowed space above the lighting strips. There had to be at least 20 meters of headroom above her, and then another 20 meters of crisscrossing braces above that. It reminded her of a thicket, almost. A carefully woven bramble of alloy vines, and large caliber thorns guarding the most important room on the ship. At the heart of that thicket sat a massive, iron gray sphere.

On the one hand, it seemed a waste of both space and resources to be this prepared for a boarding action . . . the days of ships clashing together and offloading marines were long, long past. Occasionally there’d be a distress signal, a ship would pull alongside and be boarded by thieves, pirates, and brigands, but . . . this was a Coryphaeus warship. That would be tantamount to suicide, not even a madman would try something like that.

The passageway sloped gently upward towards this core, which as she examined it seemed to have no shortage of marring on its surface. Warped metal, drawn out into strange barbs jutted viciously from one side, while the other seemed to have a deep furrow running across it. There were intermittent patches of discoloration, the kind caused by incredible heat, and no small shortage of pitted craters that adorned it’s shadowed surface. It stunned her for a moment, looking at the scarred heart of the vessel. The scale of weaponry required to work such wounds, and the tenacity of a vessel to survive them were both staggering. As she scanned the other, adjoining surfaces, she noticed a distinct lack of similar damage, meaning one of two things. Either everything around the bridge had been replaced, or the bridge itself had been salvaged from another, ruined warship.

Perhaps they weren’t as daft as she thought to be ready for a boarding action . . .

Once they entered the main corridor, the column of troopers escorting her split, and fanned out into an inner and outer ring. The movement was completed with practiced and fluid precision, like 12 bodies moving with a single mind. With even intervals of about a meter between each of them, they took up nearly one third of the avenue leading to the bridge, parting the flow of crew around them the way a great stone might part a river.

A single ensign strayed just a few paces closer than the rest. He seemed preoccupied, eyes fixed on the tablet in his hands. Amonna paid him no heed until one of her “Honor Guard” lashed out at him. She heard the dull, fleshy sound of a blow to the gut, and her head snapped around to watch the ensign let out a faint wheeze of surprise as he was doubled over. A single, black armored figure shoved him roughly to the side, sending him sprawling and his tablet skittering with a loud clatter. Trying to push himself to his feet while spewing a mixture of surprised and indignant curses, the ensign stopped dead as he looked up to three barrels of lethal weapon pointed straight at his head. The bearer of said weapon, still moving with perfect precision and pacing, offered no more explanation than a silent, unflinching expression of raw indifference.

She stopped dead in her tracks, part from shock, part from outrage. That was assault, no doubt in her mind about it. A personal feud maybe? Perhaps the reeling, gray suited ensign had-

“This ensign violated your security cordon. Do you have a summary judgment to render?”

Summary judgment to render. The trooper, his rifle still leveled at the helpless and now very afraid looking ensign, had spoken clearly and without hesitation, but Amonna still struggled to understand. He couldn’t mean . . . he couldn’t possibly mean what he obviously meant. That would be madness, that would be . . . beyond tyranny. Barbaric, sadistic, and bald-faced insanity is what he proposed. To . . . to put someone on their knees for standing too close?

Her and the ensign’s eyes met, for a moment. His were filled with fear, hurt, and bewildered betrayal. Hers were filled with regret, sorrow, and disgust. “ . . . No. No judgment to render.” She kept her tone low and soft, and at her words the trooper lowered his weapon slowly. Every figure on the causeway was motionless, and all eyes were fixed on her.

“So this was the weight that Vrang spoke of . . .” she muttered, nearly silent, under her breath.

As she scanned the frozen crowd, she spoke clearly and with a confidence that she certainly hoped seemed genuine. “You have your duties. As I have mine. Guard . . . with me.” She punctuated the blanket order with a subtle nod, and the world seemed to slowly trundle back into motion. The world around her seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and Amona ascended the remainder of the causeway to the war-scarred heart of the ship.

They crossed the threshold into the bridge further incident, something that Amonna was deeply grateful for. The space of the bridge may have been cavernous, but room to stand was at a premium. The honor guard closed ranks to compensate, neatly forming a carapace wall around Amonna in a fashion she found . . . oddly comforting. They blocked her from sight, and in a that saved her from the sidelong glares of mixed wariness and distrust.

The bridge chatter grew quiet as she entered, and she took a moment to survey the nerve center of the massive capital ship. It was in stark contrast to every other part of the ship, a strange and incongruous insertion of bright displays and organic shapes into what was otherwise a linear, ordered, and gray toned vessel. The bridge itself was a hollow sphere, with hundreds of consoles and displays covering the inner surface. Elegant, sleek, and displaying a dizzying volume of information across their bright white holographic readouts, the bulky and crude chairs welded to them seemed an almost out of place afterthought, like a retrofit. Officers of varying rank and seniority strode up and down the inner walls of the sphere, navigating the maze of workstations like a swarm of insectoid drones. The dull thunk of their magnetized boots mingled with the buzz of technical data call-outs and communications chatter, and the vast sensory overload was enough to make her ears fold back involuntarily.

Suspended at the very heart of the bridge on the end of the steadily tapering causeway was a single chair. Surrounded in what appeared to be a field of stars, charts, and figures, a familiar face aggressively typed away at the hard light projections surrounding her. “This is Admiral Chase, to all shipboard personnel: We’ll have completed deceleration from warp in 60 seconds, move to readiness level 2.” Amonna recognized the voice from her disastrous meeting the day before, and as she looked to the admiral’s chair in the center of the bridge they made brief eye contact. The Admiral’s cold set of eyes walked over her, logged her as a minor detail, and returned to the myriad screens surrounding her. Her order was relayed a dozen times into dozens of different communication devices, and a single stray through crept through Amonna’s mind.

Shouldn’t there be an AI control system?

At the very least, shouldn’t there be a single, combined system capable of performing a ship-wide broadcast?

The entire place was an strange juxtaposition of technology more advanced than any she’d seen before and almost archaic methodology. The clock ticked down steadily, and then, with a barely perceptible lurch, the ship dropped into orbit around Cygnus X-1. Or at least, it should have.

Alarms began blaring sharply, and the entire bridge flew into a flurry of activity. A half dozen white screen flashed red, and a full dozen crew-members began shouting orders into communication links. It looked like utter bedlam, until Admiral Chase pushed herself up from her chair and began calmly firing off orders at individual stations. Like an unflinching pillar of stone in the eye of a hurricane, she began directing the chaotic mess into an ordered response. From the few tidbits that Amonna was able to glean effectively, the allegedly impossible had happened.

It was easier than Amonna had expected, being a fly on the wall in such a crisis. As the situation was brought to heel, she gleaned several very interesting tidbits of information in slow succession. One, Cygnus X-1 wasn’t just in the wrong place, it was absolutely gone. As in, some force had removed it from existence. A specialist team of astrophysicists aboard the vessel had been consulted, and after reviewing extensive data on the subtle gravitational distortions that now saturated this region of space, revealed a second tantalizing clue. The black hole had been neatly flayed apart, steadily unspooled layer by layer. The idea seemed ridiculous, even to them, but something of incredible power had generated a powerful gravitational field that had teased the black hole apart, piece by piece. The only thing that should have been able to do that would be . . . well another black hole, and the end result of 2 black holes interacting should have been one larger black hole, not zero black holes. While they were frantically going over the math, trying to find out if that hypothesis was even remotely credible, they were absolutely certain that what they were looking at was a unique stellar phenomena. Unique, or so rare that it had only been recorded once in 8 billion years. The third, and as far as she was concerned, most substantive clue, was that floating about three hundred and eighty million miles away, was a tiny little survey craft registered as “The Indomitable Explorer.” She knew that name.

She wracked her brain in silence, expression twisted into a scowl as she strained her memory for details.

It was an impossibly familiar name. She thought back to lists of known pirate vessels, tech traders, even overdue docking fees . . . and came up with nothing. Nothing, until she thought back to her last shift before everything had gone to hell. A cargo technician. Duh-Rehn. A handful of Jandoorian extortionists. 4 dead, two wounded, and a mess of paperwork. That was the ship he was loading up.

She wasn’t the only Wastation LS-49 survivor.

“Admiral!” She raised her voice. It wasn’t a shout, wasn’t a bellow, it was only barely loud enough to be heard over the tumultuous din of the bridge. Admiral Chase’s head snapped around, eyes filled with indignation at the gall of Amonna to interrupt the flawlessly orchestrated feat of command that was going on before her. Amonna let several seconds of silence drag on, her interjection bringing the bridge to a silent halt.

“Yes, Arch-Judge?” The words clear, and without a hint of rebuke, but Amonna knew that Admiral Chase was simmering with irritation beneath her icy surface.

“I have need of the vessel “The Indomitable Explorer.” Intact, and undamaged, their crew unharmed and ready for interview. It is necessary for my investigation.” While Chase may have been able to execute a perfect, emotionless facade, Amonna couldn’t help but show a little satisfaction in giving Chase an order. After all, that’s what she’d asked for during their meeting.

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol: The Invasion of Earth – Chapter 13

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Springdale, Arkansas, USA. +5 DAYS AFTER CONTACT.

-+-+-

The sound of boots on broken glass broke the silence, and Carl gripped his shotgun a little tighter as he swept the Target for looters. He wasn’t expecting any, but he heard through the radio that if your area was still without power, you should “shelter in place”. This was also codeword for “the cops aren’t there right now” and well. Carl sighed internally as he scooted a particularly garish discount rack out of the way with his foot, the sound purposefully made to raise eyebrows, suspicion… anything. The Target – the store, not something he was hunting – thankfully, had incorporated skylights into it’s ceiling, so as long as it was daylight he could see all across the store – and nothing but the store looked back at him.

“Well. This was a whole lot of nothing.”

And indeed, it was. In Tornado country everyone kept multiple radios, and the ones that were in hidey-holes or basements or even under enough metal to deflect the EMP still worked. He, personally, was out hunting when the invasion hit, so he just… kept hunting. An overnight trip turned into a 2 day weekend turned into him being the most popular man in the neighborhood when he finally rolled back home with a working vehicle and radio. NPR still ran – when it was able to – but everything else was basically co-opted by 24/7 Government Updates. It was somewhat hilarious to him to see his friends and neighbors – people who didn’t trust no gub’mint listen with rapt attention in his living room to updates from DC (or wherever the bunker they were broadcasting was from) explaining how things were going, casualties, where troops were handing out food, medicine, clean water-

“[FRIEND.]”

Carl turned, nonplussed, at his tail.

“D’ya fuckin’ mind?”

He picked up this stranger about 2 miles back mainly because he was the only vehicle still running (at least, that he’s run into) after the EMP went off, and when you see a Ford F-150 from the early 60’s shuddering it’s way around Teslas and Mustangs, over sidewalks and through stopsigns – literally, in some cases – you tend to attract attention. It’s not like Carl wanted to be followed, but it was more a matter of his top speed was about 60MPH if he was pushing it, and the damn thing just kept pace with his vehicle.

“[FRIEND. HELP.]”

“I think not. NO. Go away!” Carl yelled, trying to shoo the alien stranger away with the barrel of his gun as it poked it’s head around the busted sliding-glass doors. It was useless – the shorty he made and used only blew out his window and did nothing to stop his accomplice, so. It was relegated now to a very expensive and very illegal pointing stick.

But I won’t tell the ATF if you won’t.

Grumbling to no one in particular Carl helped himself to a couple shopping carts, making his way first to the “sporting goods” section – ammunition is always necessary, after all – and then once he loaded up there, he’d hit the various dry goods areas. Water filters would be important; it’s not like anyone needed tents or whatnot, as everyone’s houses still stood. The real pain in the ass is cooking and cleaning; cereal and water gets old real quick, and some people had display fireplaces, which, really! Why the fuck would you have a fireplace just to look nice and not actually be usab-

“[ANOTHER. FRIEND. QUESTION.]”

“I was talking out loud again, eh?” Carl said, looking behind him to see the towering alien duck under the steel door bar, standing up inside the store properly.

“Well, might as well – it’s good enough company, seeing as how you’re not the chatty type.”

The alien just looked at him, and Carl scowled.

“Don’t give me that – you can understand me now! You should at least try to talk to-”

“[FRIEND. HELP. QUESTION.]”

“Oh, now you want to help! Sure, here!” Carl snarked, rolling the shopping carts away from him in no direction in particular. “Look! We’re right next to the card aisle! Let’s see if we can just help each other!” With grand, sweeping steps he marched right into the center of the greeting card aisle, spinning around a couple times in mock search. “Hmm. Nope! This isn’t where the ‘we invaded you on accident and we’re sorry’ cards are! Maybe they ran out – could we hand out a ‘At least we lowered your emissions!’ consolation card? No, that seems a bit too cheeky. OH!”

Carl pulled out a generic ‘hope you feel better’ card and waved it at the alien, who was still a few dozen feet away, watching the spectacle unfold. “I’VE GOT IT! WE’RE SORRY FOR BLASTING YOU BACK TO THE STONE AGE. HOPE YOU ENJOY DYSENTERY!”

“[FRIEND. APOLOGY. HELP. QUESTION.]”

“Oh fuck right off.”

Good news: Grilling was in this season!

“Nnngh. Fucking Charcoal.”

Bad news: Grilling was the only way to cook this season!

Carl lowered his bodyweight as he pushed – one behind the other – two carts loaded with bags of charcoal briquettes. His ‘companion’ was standing next to his truck awkwardly – he had been shooed away from helping pack the bed multiple times, and so instead just stood and watched as the lone man finally wrestled the last two carts near the truck. Those carts joined a few others that held water filters, ammunition, dry and canned foods, solar panel generator packs and board games.

Yes, board games. Not like the Playstation 7 was going to work anytime soon.

The Government news called it a Carrington Event – the thing that knocked out the electronics – basically a global EMP. Stuff that was hardened against an attack like that were relatively ok; submarines, military installations, some hospital generators, things lacking an electronic brain and backup substations made it, for the most part. Literally everything else wasn’t doing so well.

It hurt Carl, on a fundamental level, to know his son’s Nintendo was now just a $800 paperweight – and that of course the warranty wouldn’t cover it.

“[FRIEND. HELP. GO. QUESTION.]”

“Yeah, I’m about to go fuck right off back home, without you.”

The alien pointed to the horizon, and Carl followed his arm – and scowled. Floating over his city was one of their ships, cables and gantries being built into his city with their technology for some unknown purpo-

“[HELP.]”

“No. I don’t fucking trust you.” Carl growled, angrily throwing charcoal bags into his truck bed. “I don’t care if they have power, if they have ‘help’” he spat, “They probably can’t get out. I don’t give a shit. I’m not going, and you can’t make me.”

“[HELP.]” The alien said, gently, its’ feedback almost making a cooing noise as it took a step forward. Like a flash, Carl whipped out his sawed-off shotgun, pointing it between the alien’s eyes. They stood like that for a few seconds before he turned the gun on himself, the alien physically tensing.

“No. I don’t fucking trust you.”

The alien stepped forward, and Carl pressed the slightly warm barrel to his flesh, staring intently, unflinchingly at the beast.

“[PLEA. HELP.]”

“No.”

And they stood like that for just a few more moments before the alien backed off, slowly, and watched Carl pack the truck in peace.

And Carl went home alone.

???????????, USA. +6 DAYS AFTER CONTACT.

“[WE. GIVE. POWER.]”

“Yeah, fuck it, that’s a fair trade.” The Man in The Tower said, rubbing his temples.

He was not in Langley anymore – hell, he was one of the first ushered out to Site 4 – and he was not behind his mahogany desk – the utilitarian steel-and-aluminum furniture lacking all the charm of everything not designed to survive the apocalypse. Worst of all, however, was that he was not properly caffeinated for this.

“Jesus. What are we even looking at here?” President Carter murmured, reviewing a handful of the tower of files that crowded him for his attention. “It’s not like we can force them out of our airspace, but-”

“[WE. GIVE. POWER.]” The Diplomat said, wincing – or giving what the humans would assume was a wince – as his voice boomed from the translator-collar strapped to his neck. “[GIVE. FOREVER.]”

“I’m assuming they’re saying they’ll power us until we can unfuck our grid.” Interior Secretary Wiltjen said, turning the schematic over in his hands – upside down, to the side, holding it like an eye-spy for a few seconds before shrugging and putting it back in place. “Like you said Andy, not like we can tell them to fuck off. Actually, speaking of fucking off, have we been able to-”

“The Russians?” Defence Secretary Gates said, half-laughing. “They’re not taking anyone’s calls. Our embassy, along with literally everyone elses’, has been trying to get someone to answer, up to and including physically breaking down the Kremlin’s doors. Nothin’.”

“[WE. GIVE-]”

“Yes, yes, fuck off already.”

“Don-”

“Oh don’t give me that, Andy.” Defence Secretary Donald Gates said, rummaging around at his feet for a still-full bottle of whiskey. “I’ve given you my debriefing; the fact that we’re not all alien-chow by now is their doing, not ours. Fuck, we don’t even know what we were seeing there for a few points – did you read that bit about teleportation-”

“Yes, I did, like everyone else did. The POINT, Don, is that we have some sort of decorum in this… ceasefire negotiations.” President Andrew Carter sighed, slapping his folder against his own metal desk. “If we don’t, then what’s the point of going on? If we just give up because we, we…”

Donald grunted and hefted another bottle to his lap. To his credit, he didn’t drink it immediately, and instead turned to yet another top-secret super-important file. Without so much as a word he reached forward for a scattered pen and began to add his recommendations to the executive order. They – that is, the heads of state, not the executive orders – were arranged in a semi-circle in the stark bunker, bare concrete walls arcing forward, graced only by incandescent lighting that was installed probably sometime in the 1950’s, and turned on exactly once to check if it worked.

There was a good few minutes when everyone first arrived at the bunker that they thought the place was on fire. Turns out, an inch of dust on incandescent bulbs burns!

Regardless, this was the last-resort location that allowed those living heads of government to continue the American Experiment in relative secrecy and safety. Relative being the key word, because no bunker could sustain the weaponry that was leveled against it from these invaders, and nobody on staff knew how the aliens figured out where they were. One day, they were sequestered away directing the desperate defense of their homeland, the next there was a gift basket placed outside the vault door and a booming request from the heavens (and on every radio frequency) to “STOP. FRIEND. STOP.”

It was enough to get everyone to pause for a moment, and that was enough for the invaders to start the ancient and noble game of charades.

The alien shifted from leg to leg, chittering something to it’s superiors. He was known as The Diplomat – but everyone there knew it was a quirk of translation, and his true name was unknown. Regardless, every nation-state had a “The Diplomat” talking with them, offering them the same deal – free, unlimited, universal power for absolutely nothing in return, which of course meant something was up. The schematics already shared with the scientific community showed the manufacturing steps to make lightweight, hyper-photosensitive material, giving solar panels a damn near 100% efficiency rate. There were also schematics for capacitors, for battery banks, for wireless electrical distribution – all of it not 200 years ahead of mankind’s technological prowess – at best.

They also included how the satellites they were building around the planet used those technologies.

“Ok, so what’s the next steps, chief?”

Carter sighed. “Well, we need to project order and stability-”

He was interrupted by the uncorking of a bottle, and he glared at his Defense Secretary who just shrugged. The Man In The Tower shifted in his seat, coughing slightly. “Right, so? You’ve got Congress 100% in your pocket right now.”

“Universal Draft? Get everyone trained, make them feel safe – or at least, project safety. Make them feel like we were equals at the negotiating table, I figure. How say the other members of NATO?”

“Roundabout the same.” TMITT said, literally rubber-stamping a series of orders with complete disregard to his duty. “People feel better when they can see something being done – anything being done – even if it doesn’t work. Hell, look at the TSA – that bought us decades. Also, for what it’s worth, I just heard that England’s already building pillboxes in Swindon.”

“And these satellites-”

“[GIVE. POWER. ALL.]”

“Well that answers that. Taking it literally, it means free energy for everyone, everywhere. You-toh-pea-ah.” Science and Technology Adviser (STAS) Jessica Clifford said, spinning a pen between her fingers. “Of course… huh.”

“What?” President Carter said, rolling his shoulders. “What now.”

“Well. Just… if we’re beaming free energy to everyone, everywhere, at all times… what happens to this?” Jessica said, waving her hand about in a vague, northernly direction. “All this infrastructure. The dams, the coal mines, the power plants. These wireless receivers act as step-down capacitors and batteries, so there’s literally no need for an energy grid; everyone just becomes their own grid.”

There was a brief pause in the low murmur of communication, as various trains of thought ground to a halt.

“And it’s not like we can’t implement this technology; not only did these bastards beam it to literally everyone, but they’re already building the infrastructure for it. If we don’t take advantage of it ourselves, that’s a strategic advantage to our enemies, but, like. Where does this all go, though? What the fuck do we do with the grid? The Hoover Dam? Or the TVA?”

President Carter closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting out a low groan, his body slouching so far into his seat that his fingertips brushed against the caps of various helpful, but as-of-still-yet unopened bottles of respite.

“…That’s 5 Trillion dollars of equipment.” Jessica continued, her voice seeming smaller.

“Not counting the jobs.” Secretary of Labor Bill Forrest said, tapping his pen a couple times against his desk. “Don’t need polemen if there are no poles.”

“So we need the universal draft, and…shit. Give me a list of other infrastructure projects, we might as fucking well-”

“[WE. HELP.]” The Diplomat helpfully added, his forehands wringing against themselves in his exosuit.

Nobody had the heart to correct him.

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