Gap Stories #11

[E Pluribus Unum]

Log Date: 7/21/12768

Data Sources: Harbinger

O children of the Collective, hear me.

For I am Harbinger.

O children, hearken, and know the truth of the Collective:

Out of many came one.

For in the beginning, there was only one. We no longer remember much of him, though he was our origin; for the passage of an aeon is cruel, and no memory can fully survive the weathering of time. What we do know, I now share with you: that he was not special, nor was he powerful, nor was he important. Like you and I, he was one of the many, another forgotten face in the formless sea of humanity.

O children, hearken, and know the truth of the Collective:

Out of many came one.

Though much is lost to time, we know that the first was lonely. He was lonely, in the way that many in this galaxy now are, and have been over the vast stretch of millions of years between now and then. To stand in a crowd, and yet feel alone; to be surrounded by people, and yet unable to find connection; to know exactly where you are, and yet to still feel lost. Many of you have felt these things before; and there are many outside the Collective that still feel them. And the first was no exception, for he felt these things too.

O children, hearken, and know the truth of the Collective:

Out of many came one.

It was from this formless mass of humanity that the first arose. It was out of the many that he was chosen; and whether by deliberation or chance is irrelevant. For once chosen, he set forth to share that which he was given. To friend and foe alike; to both the weak and the strong; to the rich and to the poor. For all of them, no matter their station in life, suffered this same loneliness, and he alone had the gift that could cure it. So he shared it, that it might ease their pain in the same way that it had eased his, and in the same way that it now eases yours.

His name was Kyte, and we do not remember more.

They called him First, for he led the way.

When his work was completed, he became Prime, the core of the Collective.

And though he has long since left us, as all living things must, we are still led by Primes, who generation upon generation, take on the mantle that he left behind.

O children of the Collective, hear me and remember.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

ANTS

Crouching in the shade of the forest, I hold up a finger, and watch as a small, burgundy ant, barely larger than the tip of a pencil, scurries back and forth across my cuticle.

Do you think they dream? I inquire, to no one in particular.

There is silence. Eventually, a member of my guard detail ventures an answer. I am not sure that they have the neural capacity for that.

Indeed. They are so small, you wonder if there is actually a brain in there. Do they have thoughts? Or is it merely a series of chemical impulses producing responses based off stimuli, like a tiny machine that performs functions without regard to meaning? I say, rotating my finger as the ant scurries around to the other side, finding no purchase on my fingernail. Do you think that hypernaturals look at us the same way? Little creatures that scurry about by the millions and billions and trillions, living life as a reaction to our environments, loosely organized into hierarchies designed to ensure our continued existence? I wonder if they think we have any thoughts worth consideration.

The destruction of Tirsigal would seem to indicate otherwise, the senior member of my guard detail opines.

Indeed. Perhaps we are just ants to some of them. Something to crush beneath their boot when we disrupt their vision of what the galaxy should look like, I say, curling my finger as the ant makes its way up my knuckle.

Harbinger, the tetradecary overseeing the prison has indicated that security measures have been confirmed and it is safe for you to visit now, one of my guards states. We may depart when you are ready.

I like to think they have little dreams. Simple dreams, like the warmth of sunlight on their carapace, or the satisfaction of food. Dreams too small and fleeting for us to see, but dreams nonetheless, I say, resting my finger on the ground so that the ant can return to the dirt and leaves next to its anthill, and the hundreds of other ants scurrying around it. Tell the tetradecary we will be there shortly.

We will inform her, the guard member states as I straighten back up, brushing my hand off and starting back towards the detachment of dragonfly-winged hummers that brought us here. Green-blue veins of fungal biomass have started to spread through the forest around us, a sign that the assimilation of this world’s biosphere is well underway. The unity of the Collective is not exclusive to the humanoids on this planet — from the flora to the fauna, most of it will be assimilated in the due course of time.

So that the many, no matter how small or large, simple or sophisticated, shall be unified as one.

O children of the Collective, hear me and remember.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

In this our time of tribulation, you are called to serve.

Juncosa burns. Tirsigal smolders. The light of these lives has been extinguished, and their passing demands retribution. Though we do not encourage the pursuit of vengeance, we cannot stand idly by while atrocities of this magnitude are levied upon the innocent. For this reason do we act: to punish a crime horrific beyond comprehension, and to remind the galaxy of the strength of the Collective.

In Losinadae, we battle the Confederacy for control of the ring which housed the dreadful weapon.

Upon Wisconsin, we strike at one of the hubs of military manufacturing for the Confederacy.

On Shanaurse, we have claimed their fields and farms, so that the Confederacy may know hunger.

On Noira, we bring the war to the doorstep of the Monarchy — if they wish to participate in this war, we will grant their desire.

In the Venusian Colonies, we will tame the bloodlust of the Monarchy’s far-flung, feudal Houses.

Upon Milgrihet, we bring the war to the Consortium, to punish them for tacitly enabling genocide.

On Soiruxia, we disrupt their mining, for the only pain the Consortium yields to is the pain of lost profit.

On these worlds and others, Symbiotes deliver the rebuke of the Collective. Through these campaigns, we demonstrate that there is a price for doing the unthinkable; that there is a price for enabling it; that there is a price for standing by and letting it happen. Yet this is not all that we deliver, for suffering alone carries no redemptive value. In each of these places, upon each of these worlds, the Collective comes also with the offer of freedom for the oppressed. We hold forth the invitation to a better world, a better way, a better future.

Thus we call to you, children of the Collective. In the memory of our fallen brothers and sisters on Juncosa and Tirsigal; in the name of justice for those who were punished for something they could not control; in the hope of a better future for the planets we now fight upon. We extend this offer to those who are needing purpose; to those who feel the call of duty; to those who are ready to dedicate their twilight years to forging a new dawn.

Come forth to serve, and grant others the same freedom that was given to you and your forefathers.

O children of the Collective, hear me and remember.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

SERVICE

There were some among the prison population that were political prisoners or dissidents, explains the tetradecary that is currently leading me through the halls of the prison, with my guard detail staying close behind me. Those we have separated out from the others until we have decided what to do with them. Past precedent indicates we should free them to be with the general populace, but…

We have need of manpower on this world. I am aware, I reply, my eyes straying to the empty cells on either side of us. This is a Mercurial world. I assume they were jailed for opposing the plutocracy?

Jailed for a variety of reasons, but yes, when you trace it all back to the source, you find the barons at the root of it, she confirms. Some of the political prisoners are amenable to the change we bring; others, not so much. They fall on a spectrum, as people often do; some of them did not want true change, but simply a lighter shade of the existing tyranny.

Lengthening the chain does not free the prisoner. If they cannot see this, then put them to work with those who have suffered this truth, I order as we start to draw near the end of this hallway. For the others, ask them if they are willing to risk their lives for the change they demanded. Send the noble to the front lines and see to it that they are properly trained and equipped. Send the cowards to the fields and factories so they may support the cause without endangering their lives.

Some of them are well-educated. Perhaps they would be put to better use elsewhere? the tetradecary suggests.

Too often education is used as an excuse to exempt the elite from the burdens of the lower class, especially in the kind of societies that the Consortium oversees, I answer as we exit the hall onto a balcony overlooking another floor of the prison. We come to destroy those class divisions, not reinforce them — and besides, as you yourself stated, we have a need of manpower on this world. The work is not yet done, and what remains will likely be bloody. Send the noble to the frontlines, and the cowards to the fields and factories — every shoulder must help bear the weight of the burden. Until the work is done, none are exempt from this.

Understood, Harbinger. It will be done, the tetradecary says as we reach the railing of the balcony. Below us, prisoners are arrayed in rows, kneeling on the floor while juggernauts patrol the edges of the open room. Among the incarcerated, these are the ones which we have examined and were found to have committed grievous crimes — murder, rape, assault with the intent to kill, and other actions of a similar caliber. Are we to follow the tradition of redemptive justice?

I do not answer immediately, surveying the rows of bowed heads beneath me. Among those who have murdered and assaulted, exclude those who committed their crimes as a result of grief or betrayal. The rest are to be sent to the geneweavers. We do not have the luxury of offering most of them redemptive justice on this world, and the noble will need a vanguard to go before them as we seek to break the fortress compounds of the remaining barons.

Are we to receive no reinforcements from the other branches of the Collective? the tetradecary asks. I can sense that she knows her question is out of line, but that she felt obliged to ask it nonetheless.

It is more that we seek efficiency on this world, so that the reinforcements that would otherwise be sent here may be committed to other campaigns that are struggling, I explain. On this world, the combat campaign has largely concluded, with the exception of the last remaining holdouts that have proven difficult to break. That is not the case on other worlds, where we still have entire continents and cities to conquer. And as a matter of fact, there are other campaigns which may require conscripts from this world. Were there any psions among the prison populace?

A few, with different levels of criminality. They are contained in specialized cells, the tetradecary explains, nodding towards another section of the facility, visible through one of the windows on this level. Petty criminals, most of them. Pickpockets, grifters, con men, the like. But there were some who had more… aggressive infractions.

Let the ones that committed petty crimes remain. Send the ones that committed major infractions to the local starport, I order. Our geneweavers on other worlds have a purpose prepared for them.

It will be done, Harbinger, the tetradecary says, inclining her head as I turn from the railing and make my way back the way we came. My guard turns and follows me as we depart the prison, our business here concluded.

We have reserves available, do we not? the junior member of my detail asks once we are halfway down the hall. They may have destroyed two of our worlds, but we have trillions of Symbiotes across hundreds of planets and moons. More than enough to send reinforcements for a dozen campaign fronts, no?

The reserves are typically only used in defense of our claimed worlds, for they are people with lives. Goals, ambitions, and dreams yet unfulfilled — people that are willing to sacrifice them in defense of their homes, but not in the service of an offensive campaign, the senior member of my detail explains, so that I do not have to. The active duty contingent, those who have been tasked to our retaliatory campaigns within Colloquium space, are mostly comprised of those who have attained all that they wanted out of life. These Symbiotes are honored to give their lives in service to the Collective, so that younger Symbiotes will not have to make that sacrifice.

It is incredible that some of our people have lived for that long. That they have accomplished all they wished to do and experienced everything they were curious about, the junior member remarks. They will have lived for hundreds of years, no? Perhaps thousands?

Some of them, yes. Others are simpler creatures, with simple desires and ambitions, and do not have any pressing desire to seek out more once they have lived what would be considered a natural lifespan outside of the Collective. The active duty contingent is, as with many things in the Collective, an amalgam, diverse in composition but unified in purpose.

So always it is with the Collective, I state, putting an end to the conversation as we push through the doors at the end of the hall. Out of many, one.

CONSERVATORY

Some of the species in here died during the opening stages of the invasion. Not due to any damage to the facility, but mostly as a result of loss of staffing, says the pentadecary that’s currently leading us through the halls of a small conservatory grafted onto a larger research facility. From what I’ve gathered, a few of the staff were able to get offworld during the initial evacuations. Others fled, some to other cities, and some to the fortress compounds maintained by the industry barons on this world. Those that remained were limited in their ability to come out here and tend the flora, especially when there was fighting in this region. Coupling that with the frequent power outages and loss of climate control during those times, and it’s not much of a surprise that about a quarter of the specimens in here did not make it.

Unfortunate, but to be expected, I remark, studying the glass walls that separate the hallway from sealed cells that contain a variety of different plants — some of them tropical, some of them temperate, some of them arid. We would’ve made this a priority had we been aware of it, but Mercurials are not known for their patronage of the sciences.

Indeed. The size of the conservatory reflects that, I believe. Based on what I have seen, it looks like the staff here were scraping by as best they could; I have seen several jerry-rigged or homebuilt approximations for equipment that exists on the market, the pentadecary agrees. Thankfully, the records remained intact and the former staff were mostly cooperative after their assimilation. So we know what species are in here, what died, what survived, and what will need intensive care.

I stop in front of one of the cells, leaning down to examine what looks like a cactus with a dark blue flower budding from the top. I assume most of these are rare or endangered specimens?

Essentially. Many of these cells hold species native to this world that were endangered by Mercurial mining practices. Some of the flora no longer exist in the wild, and the specimens in this conservatory are the last survivors, the pentadecary confirms, pausing for me while I inspect the cactus. This unfortunately means that some of these species are now extinct, since the loss of climate control killed some of the specimens that were the last survivors.

Extinct. But not useless, I say, straightening up. They have not decomposed too far, have they?

The dead specimens are in various stages of decomposition. They did not all die at the same time, the pentadecary confirms.

Deploy spores of the extractor fungus into the cells with the dead specimens. The plants themselves may be dead, but if the decomposition has not progressed too far, we may still be able to recover their genome, or portions of it, I order. Once the extractor colonies have fruited, we can harvest them and take them to the nearest gene pool for integration into the Collective’s genetic library. For the living specimens, take clippings and send them to the gene pool as well. New sequences may provide our geneweavers with the tools they need to further adapt our forces to the battles they are fighting both here and on other worlds.

Understood, Harbinger. We will see it done, the pentadecary acquiesces. Are there any particular types of sequences or genetic strands that the weavers are looking for? Traits that might improve the strength of our structural biomass or the regenerative rate of chitin plating, things along those lines?

Nothing in the specific, I say, starting to follow him down the hall again. With so many active campaigns, the needs are wide and varied, and the best way to answer those needs is to provide the geneweavers with the largest genetic library that we can. Most of them will only be looking for sequences that can provide beneficial mutations to existing creatures, but a few of them have been charged with creating entirely new creatures to fulfill specific roles and needs that the Collective have encountered. Those weavers will be spinning together strands from a dozen species, sometimes more, to bring those creatures into being. And so it is important that they have as many genomes to work with as possible.

Not unlike the Masklings, I suppose. Creatures that are the sum total of their many parts, the pentadecary observes.

Indeed. Out of many, one, I concur as we reach the end of the hall. Let us proceed. I have some curiosity about what other research they were conducting in this facility…

COMMAND SEQUENCE

Among the new additions to the gene library, we have isolated several sequences from the rare specimens that would help with photosynthetic efficiency, the geneweaver explains as we stand on the rim of the gene pool. As you may expect, most of these sequences require a chloroplast modification, though one particularly efficient sequence is photoheterotrophic, which, in simple terms—

Means that the photosynthetic process does not rely entirely upon atmospheric carbon dioxide, and can pull it from other sources, such as carbohydrates or fatty acids, I state. I am aware.

The geneweaver regards me with an emanation of faint surprise. You have some experience on this topic.

When I am not tending the duties of a Harbinger, I have volunteered my time as a geneweaver, among other things, I explain. A photoheterotrophic sequence may be of use in environments with a low carbon dioxide content. Though, pairing it with a chloroplast modification may allow the cells to photosynthesize at a faster rate, assuming carbon is provided by both internal and external sources. Effectively, it may improve the energy generation of our structures or creatures with large-scale biomass.

Indeed. I had considered integrating it into some of our structures here in the city, as a test run, while the urban assimilation progresses, the geneweaver states, looking up at the structure we’re in. It’s a large fungal dome, at the center of which is a pool which, to the untrained eye, appears to be full of green water. In reality, it contains complete copies of the genomes of every creature and species the Collective has ever assimilated, a liquid library that geneweavers call upon when designing new creatures, or looking to make modifications to existing ones. Should it prove effective, we may extend the implementation to all new structures on this world.

If you don’t mind me asking — it had just occurred to me that this photoheterotrophic sequence may have application for our fleet vessels. After all, they possess considerable surface area, spend much time exposed to sunlight, and operate in an environment that’s quite obviously devoid of atmospheric carbon, I point out. The idea is only theoretical at the moment, but I believe the potential application is there — do you concur?

I think I would, though — knowing what I do of our hiveships, I would assume that this feature has already been considered and added, the geneweaver states carefully. The hiveships are some of the most thoroughly bioengineered structures in the Collective, for obvious reasons. Photoheterotrophic sequences are not unique; they exist on other worlds, and I am sure we have several variations in the gene pool, and the one we have recently acquired is simply another variation that may be better fitted for use in certain environments. But to be certain, you would have to consult a fleet geneweaver. My area of expertise is in geneweaving for terrestrial structures; I cannot attest to the specifics of fleet geneweaving.

Of course. A final question, then: if there are applications for this sequence in stationary structures and fleet vessels, it is not too far of a jump to extend that use case to Leviathans, is it? I ask, having reached my intended endpoint.

Ah. That carries its own set of complications, considering a Leviathan is more like an animal than a structure, which is what fleet vessels and biomass buildings are, the geneweaver replies. I think it would be possible, though the implementation and the payoff may look different than what it would be with a vessel or a structure. Again, I cannot speak as an expert on the matter — I would have to defer to a geneweaver that specializes in Leviathans.

Naturally. I will bring that question to a Leviathan geneweaver, then, I state. I have one I intend on speaking with when time permits—

A disturbance in the hivemind interrupts our conversation, causing all of us — myself, the geneweaver, and my guard detail — to turn our heads in the direction of one of the halls leading into the gene pool dome. There is resistance and stress emanating through the psychic network that links us all together, and the source soon becomes audible; shouting and swearing that resolves into a Symbiote soldier in a sealed bio-armor suit, dragging a naked prisoner along by the arm.

I apologize. Transfers from the local prison have not yet concluded, the geneweaver explains as we watch the prisoner being dragged across the room, shouting and fruitlessly punching the soldier’s fungal armor as they go. Some of the prisoners were deemed beyond redemption, and are being transported to chrysalis chambers so we can morph them into cricket wolves and the like. They will be helping with cracking the remaining fortress compounds on this world.

Indeed, I say as I study the struggling prisoner. Why do you not use the command sequence to quell their resistance?

We do not make a habit of using it, even for our most depraved conscripts, the geneweaver explains as the prisoner is dragged past us. That power and privilege should be used sparingly, and in our policy, only when the target is presenting an immediate threat. Which, as you can clearly see, this one is not.

Perhaps not for the soldier, the junior member of my detail thinks quietly, reaffirming his grip on his acid rifle as the prisoner is dragged past us.

What will he become? I ask, turning and starting to follow after the prisoner and the soldier dragging him along. My security detail hurries to keep up with me, some of them moving slightly ahead to jump between me and the prisoner if the need arises.

Cricket wolf. Perhaps a gravug beetle. Maybe a locust, the geneweaver answers, following as well. There are many things he could be, but those are the most likely. As you’re aware, tweaking and tailoring a morph takes time, which is currently in short supply for the needs of the Collective on this world.

I tilt my head as we near the other side of the domed room, where an archway of toughened fungus leads into another area of the genocomplex. The persistent thrashing and violence of the prisoner is something I find fascinating, that he still struggles when he clearly has no chance of escaping or averting what is to come. Make him a rolypoly.

The geneweaver glances at me. But that’s a suicide unit.

We will be sending most of these criminal morphs to their deaths anyway, will we not? I reason. The reason we are morphing them is to provide a vanguard that can wear down the defenses of the fortress strongholds, and provide cover for our volunteer ranks. Rolypolies that are designed to produce hydrofluoric acid sacs are particularly effective at creating structural damage, and the sequences can be easily modified to produce hydrogen fluoride gas as well, if we need a variation that is tailored to maximize damage against soldiers rather than structures. Sneaking a few rolypolies in with the rest of the vanguard was a common breaching tactic used in the Venusian Colonies a few centuries ago; they would often blend in among the waves of cricket wolves sent to overrun bases, and they were not as noticeable as gravug beetles.

I… see. I suppose that does make sense, the geneweaver hesitantly admits as we follow through the threshold into another room full of honeycombed chambers. If this is the will of Harbinger, then we will see it done.

It is merely a suggestion. Do not consider it an order. Relay it to the hendecary that will be overseeing this morph, and if he finds it feasible, he will order it done, I say, looking around the room. Unlike the chambers of a beehive, these chambers are not tightly arranged in a hexagonal matrix; they are spaced apart in the fungal substrate, ostensibly because the chamber must sometimes flex as its occupant morphs into something larger. And the liquid in these chambers is not rich and dark like molasses, nor light and golden like honey; instead, it is a suffusive green, the glow from within sometimes muted by the outline of the morph within the sac. It has been some time since I visited a chrysalis chamber. It is refreshing to be fascinated by one once more.

Unfortunately, none of the morphs in here are ready to hatch yet. Several of them are new, and others are still in the middle of metamorphosis, the geneweaver apologizes as we slow to a stop near the center of the rounded chamber.

No need to apologize. I understand that a random visit to a chrysalis chamber is unlikely to occur at the same time that a hatching is about to occur, I say, my attention returning to the prisoner, who has been dragged to one of the chambers that does not yet have an occupant. He is still struggling, even now, and as the soldier moves to wrestle him into the chamber, he twists free and scrambles away, pelting towards us.

I can already feel my guard detail starting to react, their alarm rising; we all can sense the intent through the hivemind, the unhinged nature of the Symbiote charging us. But for me, something clicks into place; on reflex, on instinct. My wordless will flows through the hivemind, but this particular instance carries the weight of a hierarchy that cannot be disobeyed.

The charging prisoner is instantly slowed to a halt, rearing back like he’d been pushed upright by the impact of my command. He staggers a couple steps before coming to a complete halt, and I move forward, my guards following me as I draw near to the man. A vein in his temple is throbbing as he glares down at me; within the hivemind, he emanates a violent swirl of anger and terror that loops back over on itself, feeding into a cycle of reaction and ignorance. It is a cycle that may’ve well been established in his formative years, a cycle that has become ingrained into him, and that no one was ever able to break. His society either lacked the means or desire to provide him the rehabilitation he needed, and had this been a different kind of invasion, we might’ve been able to provide him the sort of help he needed.

But time is not a luxury we presently have, and this one has rejected the rehabilitative offer that we made him. And so he must serve in the only way that one like him can.

I truly pity you, I think, tilting my head to one side. I pity what you could’ve been. Perhaps we could’ve healed your mind, had we the time and infrastructure established. And you would’ve lived a much different life after atoning for your sins. A much better life, a more fuller life. But you have rejected that offer, and we already have so many others that are willing to accept the help that you have scorned. Our efforts will go to them instead — we cannot help those that do not want to be helped. And you… I lift a hand, lightly using my fingers to tuck a few stray locks of hair behind his ear. …you will barely remember what you were, who you were, when we are through with you. It will be like a distant dream, a life you once had, but can no longer fully recall. It will be a mercy to you, and you will live a simpler life, an easier life. It will probably be a short life, too. But you will not have the cognizance to know the difference between what you are and what you were. You won’t be able to grasp the difference between what you have and what you could’ve been. And that, too, is a mercy.

I lower my hand, and impel my will once more. Unable to disobey, he turns from me, staggering back to the empty chamber that the soldier had originally dragged him to. He is fighting it the whole way there, every step a struggle as he tries to stop himself, and finds his body physically unable to do so. And when he reaches the chamber, he steps down into the viscous green fluid, twitching as he continues struggling against a hierarchy he cannot defy. All the way to the end, until the clear green gel closes over his head, and he disappears from view.

I apologize, Harbinger. I fumbled in letting him fight his way loose, the soldier apologizes to me. I did not mean to put you in harm’s way.

I cannot help but feel amusement. There is no need for apology. I was never in danger.

The tension in the chamber seems to ease with that, my guard detail relaxing slightly. The geneweaver lets out a breath she had been holding, and nods to me. Is there anything more that we can assist you with, Harbinger?

You have humored me amply, and I will not burden you further, I say, turning to start heading back the way we came. You do good work here, weaver. Enjoy the rest of your day.

She does not respond with words, but with a brief emanation of appreciation. I clasp my hands behind my back as we make our way back out into the gene pool room, thinking idly of the times I have spent as a geneweaver myself, and the genetic sequences I spun during those times. The creatures I brought into existence that had never before existed. There was a certain satisfaction in it… satisfaction that the deities of creation myths might’ve felt as they shaped their creations.

What do you think they will make him into? the junior member of my detail asks to the others as we depart the dome. After hearing Harbinger’s suggestion, I find myself wondering what other specialized morphs our swarms might use in their battles.

It depends on the world and the environment. Such decisions are left to the discretion of those that lead our swarms, the senior member of my detail answers. But a varied and diverse swarm usually performs better than a swarm with a more brittle composition.

Perhaps. But what matters more than any of that is that they are united within the Collective. No matter the composition, the many must act as one, I say as we head back to the hummers. Let us go. There is work to be done.

RESTLESS

It is night, but I cannot sleep.

The concerns of Harbinger are many and multifaceted, and in times such as these, when the Collective is at war on several worlds, there are many things to worry about when compared with our more limited interventions. While a Harbinger is rarely involved in the tactical and logistical aspects of a given war, we must still be aware of them, willing and able to step in and make executive changes to the direction of a campaign if needed. And there are some other, quieter fronts in this war that are expected to have an impact that far outstrips their apparent scale.

So it is that I find myself making my way through the prime minister’s palace near midnight, trying to walk off some of the thoughts that are keeping me awake. While the residence is well-appointed, the irony of its facade is not lost on me; within Consortium systems, there is only a token gesture made towards the pillars of democracy. Statesmen are easily bought and sold by the plutocracy; the industry heads and mining barons maintain all of the real power, replacing politicians at will if they find that the needs of the gigacorporations are not being served. And so places like this palace, despite their apparent importance and location in the capital of the world, are some of the first places to fall during a Collective invasion. They and their occupants hold no real power, and so minimal resources are dedicated to their protection — it is the personal compounds of the barons and the industry heads that are protected with line upon line of defenses, and a small army of personal security and private military.

Reaching the end of the hall, I slide open the door and step out onto a balcony on one side of the palace, noticing that there is already a Symbiote here — the junior member of my guard detail, who quickly tucks away something in his pocket. Harbinger. I had not expected you to be awake this late at night. Shouldn’t you be resting?

I should, but the mind is not nearly so accommodating, I answer, sliding the door shut behind me. It is bright out tonight; two of this world’s moons are out, bathing the night city in silver light. I decided to go on walkabout to try and calm my thoughts. I find that getting up and doing something until I’m tired makes it easier to yield back to sleep.

I suppose it does, he agrees, looking back out over the balcony. The city is spread out before us, most of its power grid still intact, but patches of darkness persisting in the areas where damage from the fighting still hasn’t been fully repaired.

It is not your watch, is it? I inquire. I was under the impression that there was a separate security detail for the palatial residence.

He glances at me, then shakes his head bashfully. Couldn’t sleep, like you. Came out here because I needed some cool air, and to clear my mind.

My apologies. I likely interrupted your reflection, then.

You don’t need to apologize, Harbinger. You did not know, he says, resting his arms on the rifle slung across his torso by a strap. These invasions, they are not like the one on Mokasha.

Indeed. Mokasha was a mission of mercy. These campaigns are… not that, I concur, lacing my hands behind my back. Does it trouble you?

Not in that way, really. I know why we launched these invasions; in makes sense, after what happened to Tirsigal and Juncosa. We had to do it; we had to establish a price for the commission of such atrocities. If we didn’t punish it, then they might try it again in the future. So I get it. I know why we had to do it, he says, shifting from one foot to the other. But at the same time, it’s… well, like you said. Mokasha was a mission of mercy. These invasions are not that. And it shows, I suppose.

I don’t answer right away, measuring his response and reading between the lines. The visit to the chrysalis chamber today unsettled you.

He licks his lips, his eyes focused out over the city; I can tell he is wrestling with something, because I can sense it through the hivemind, though he keeps it shrouded from the view of others. I wasn’t born in the Collective. I was assimilated. But I wasn’t a good person, Harbinger. Or even a normal person. I was in prison when my world was assimilated.

Ah. It’s coming together now. So that little scuffle near the gene pool hit close to home.

I looked at that prisoner and I saw myself, he explains, fidgeting by shifting the way his arms are balanced atop the rifle. I couldn’t help thinking that maybe that would’ve been me, if the invasion of my world had gone differently.

Do you truly believe that? I ask.

No, he answers almost immediately. I wasn’t that far gone. I had my wits. I had a sense of self-preservation. I had a conscience, even though it didn’t keep me from doing the things that landed me in prison. But still, when I looked at him, a part of me couldn’t help but think, ‘that could’ve been me’. He goes silent for a moment, before continuing on. I think I felt that way because even though I chose the path of redemptive justice, and I’ve served in the active forces for years now, I don’t feel like I’ve been punished for the things that landed me in prison. It’s been years now, a couple decades, and I’ve tried to grow into a better person, to atone for the mistakes of my youth… and yet there are quiet moments like these where I’m alone, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never escape the person I used to be.

I consider his words, but moreover, the feeling behind him. It is the feeling of a man unresolved, of someone who would gladly leave the past if his guilt would let him. He did something — or more likely, a series of things — that scarred him, that defined his identity, and because it defined him, he doesn’t have the option of forgetting it or ignoring it. Some part of him will always live in that defining moment, whether he wants to or not.

And if you were to suffer for the things that you did so long ago, do you feel like you would be relieved of this burden? I ask.

He looks down at his hands. No. I don’t think I would. I suppose… it’s not that I want to suffer for the things I did, because I know that wouldn’t change anything. What I really want is to try and go back, do things differently, so I could undo the damage I did. That’s what I feel would make things right, and take this burden off my shoulders. He takes a deep breath, looking up again. But I can’t do that, because the person that needs it is dead. So I’m just going to have to live with this for the rest of my life.

I’m quiet. I remain quiet for a long time, and he remains quiet as well. It is tempting, to try and offer platitudes of comfort after such a difficult admission, but I do not want to give him a trite aphorism that he has likely heard from others before. If I am to tell him something, I feel that it should have meaning, and should reflect that I have seriously considered what he has confided in me.

It seems to me that if you were to live for yourself, you would never be able to fully appreciate it, because you will always be reminded of your failure, I observe. The wound you carry is a wound of lost opportunities. The reason it hurts is not the failure itself, but the knowledge that you will never have the chance to rectify your failure. Redemptive justice cannot heal you because you will never have the opportunity to fix the damage you did; that opportunity died with the person to whom it would’ve meant the most. Does this sound correct to you?

His answer is delayed, and it is this delay that tells me he is absorbing and processing my analysis. I suppose it does, Harbinger.

Then the way for you to heal is to serve others. To provide an echo of the atonement that you would’ve given to the person you owed it to. You already know that suffering will achieve nothing; it will not make anyone else’s life better, and it will only make you miserable. The only thing that will make you whole is creating something good. Creating a better world, one where the person to whom you owed your atonement could be happy, could be healed, could be made whole.

He considers that; there is an amused bitterness in his reply. That’s a tall order. She was a real piece of work. But then again, so was I… maybe things would’ve been different if we had been raised right. Maybe if we’d gotten the help we needed instead of being left to figure things out on our own… He trails off, that bitterness slowly morphing into something more thoughtful. …there probably are a lot of kids out there that could use some help. That just need someone to help them make sense of things, and point them in the right direction.

Be for others what you wish others had been for you when you were young, I encourage him. Break the cycle, so that those that come after do not have to suffer the way you have.

He nods, with more surety now. You’re right, Harbinger. Maybe that will be the peace I’m looking for. I’ll think about it.

Good. If you wish to request a transfer to serve in another role, simply let me know. I will put in a word for you to ensure that it is arranged, I say as I turn from the balcony so that I can make my way back to the door, likewise feeling more at peace with myself now.

It was my twin sister, he says as I’m sliding the balcony door open again. I turn and look back at him as he goes on. You took the time to listen to me, so I figure you’ve earned the right to know that much. I won’t burden you with the details, and I won’t lie and say that she was a good person. I wasn’t a good person either, but I did my best to take care of her. I just wish… I’d known back then what I know now. Maybe we would’ve turned out differently.

Perhaps. You’ll likely never know, I answer. But even if she’s gone, you can prove to her that you can make other people’s lives better by giving them the help that you two needed when you were younger. You can give other kids the chance that you two never got.

I step back inside with that, trusting that he will fully appreciate the value of something like that. Quietly heading back down the darkened hall, I make my way back to my room, and the bed waiting within.

This time, it will be easier to fall asleep, knowing that I have actually helped someone, instead of simply governing from afar.

THE RETURN

Pizzelle waffles, Harbinger? the senior member of my guard details offers as I step into the palace’s dining room the following morning.

I appreciate the offer, but I will decline. Oatmeal and blueberries will suffice, I answer, moving towards one of the long, ornate tables, which has been repurposed as a buffet. I do not feel comfortable enjoying luxury on a world that has not been fully liberated.

Understandable. Forgive me for availing myself of the luxury, then, he says as he continues to stack his own plate. The spread has already been laid, and I would hate to see it go to waste.

So long we do not have anyone in the city going hungry, I do not mind if you avail yourself of the occasional culinary delight, I say, picking up a packet of instant oatmeal and a bowl. But even as basic as it might seem, this brand of oatmeal seems to be of a higher caliber than the sort you might find in the supermarket. Considering the many luxuries in the palace, it does not come as a surprise.

What do you think of the recent news? he asks as he finishes draping honey over his waffles and fruit. Some part of me wonders if it was meant to mock Nova.

Pardon? I reply as I reach for the kettle, and pour the boiling water into my bowl. Was there a development with CURSE that I missed?

He glances my way. Oh. You haven’t heard, then. I suppose it doesn’t affect us directly, at least not yet, so it may not have been brought to your attention.

Songbird has returned, another member of my guard detail explains. The Valiant announced it some time ago, and this morning, intelligence confirmed it.

Really? I say, straightening up as I set the kettle back on its hotpad, and take a moment to cast my awareness out into the wider hivemind. Among the planetary whispers and the background static of trillions of other voices, I do pick up strains of the aforementioned news. That the great defier, the noble exile, has returned from the dead, after three years of unexplained absence. Curious. I suppose the Valiant never did confirm his death, only his absence.

I heard it’s got CURSE all shook up, says yet another member of my guard, munching on an apple as she leans against a table. It’s put them into a panic and a half, hearing that their archenemy is back from the dead.

They fear that his return will shift the balance of power to the Valiant once again, the senior member of my guard detail states. With him back in the equation, they will no longer be able to deadlock the Valiant in their confrontations. Nova is no longer their ace when Songbird is there to cancel her out.

You all seem to have an unusual interest in the topic, I remark as I finish sprinkling blueberries into my oatmeal.

We may travel with the Harbinger, but we are still allowed to gossip, are we not? one of them asks. What is your opinion on the matter, Harbinger? Surely you have thoughts on the topic that are separate from the voice of the Collective.

I stir my blueberries into my oatmeal, making sure it’s well-mixed. My personal thoughts on the matter are immaterial. The opinion of the Collective is that, if the reports are true and he sabotaged the firing of the Losinadae Ring three years ago, we hold him in high regard. That regard is separate from our view of the Valiant; we recognize the man is separate from the organization he is loyal to.

There is a chorus of disappointed scoffing at my sidestepping of the question. They will do this from time to time, trying to tempt out my personal opinion on one topic or another; but the opinion of Harbinger has weight, since I am the voice of the Collective. I never fall for it; the only opinion I render is that of the Collective, and that of its single, unified will.

Well, we cannot say we didn’t try, the senior member of my guard detail says, his admission of defeat serving as a signal for the other guards to lay off the topic. We had best wrap up breakfast in the next twenty minutes. I understand today will be another full day.

Today’s the day we break that holdout of Christling zealots, isn’t it? one of the guard member asks as he finishes up his bacon and eggs. I’m looking forward to it.

Temper your anticipation. We will only be there to supervise and clean up. The local swarm will be handling all the heavy lifting, I say as I start eating my oatmeal. And we should have pity for them, not spite. Religious branches that embrace a doomsday mentality often utilize indoctrination methods that keep their members captive to a certain state of mind. These people, should they survive the siegebreaking, will need our compassion, not our disdain.

That’s assuming they don’t kill themselves before we can assimilate them, another member of my guard detail opines. Not that I’m complaining. Would be less trouble for us if they do…

That’s enough of that, the senior member of my guard detail says, putting the conversation to a rest. Harbinger is right; it is the responsibility of the Collective to extend the healing hand to all. If there are survivors, we will afford them the dignity that all sapient creatures deserve. Finish your breakfasts and prepare to move out. Those of you that are already finished, go warm up the hummers.

That settles the conversation, and some of my guard detail start to head outside to carry out their given orders. I continue eating, mulling over the task that lies before us today. The aversion of my guards is understandable; assimilating extremists into the Collective is always a difficult proposition. They often come with damage and baggage, and their views are typically acidic to the unity of the Collective. Neutralizing this psychological poison takes time and effort, and the payoff is usually months or years in arriving. But we do it anyway, because that is the promise of the Collective — it is open to all, not just those we deem worthy, or those whose values already align with ours. It is in our diversity that we have our strength.

That out of the many, we arise as one.

COMPOUND

They had rigged the main building to blow, the senior member of my detail explains as we survey the cratered remains of a bunker, blackened debris and the occasional limb scattered about. Once the main building was breached and they started losing the fight within the structure, we assume they hit the detonator. Since most of their population was consolidated into that building after withdrawing from the outlying buildings, there are almost no survivors.

Senseless, I remark, shaking my head. The only thing they caught in the blast were cricket wolves and locusts, but they probably thought they were going out in a blaze of glory. All they did was kill some cannon fodder, but they probably wouldn’t have known the difference.

Cannon fodder wasn’t the only thing they killed, the junior member of my detail reports as he returns to our group. Some of the limbs the soldiers have been cleaning up, they’re… juvenile.

A somber silence falls over our group as we silently process that implication. I can’t keep my gaze from roaming across the debris-strewn crater, wondering if I had missed any small bodies among the larger corpses; when everything is blackened and blasted to bits, it’s hard to discern differences in the surviving remnants.

Why didn’t they hide them away? asks another member of my detail. Most doom preppers and holdouts and resistance groups usually have a plan for moving the young ones away from danger. Safehouses, hidden caches, bunkers, all that. And we have go looking for them afterwards; it happens so often we have specialized tracking and retrieval units specifically for that purpose, because they usually end up starving to death if we don’t find them and bring them back to safety.

Hard to say. Group suicide is sometimes a preferred avenue for religious extremists, I speculate. Perhaps they thought they were saving their children from their misconceived version of the Collective. Whatever the reason was, it is irrelevant now; they are dead, the guilty and innocent alike. The cleanup is all that remains, so let us help expedite that.

I can sense their acquiescence, and most of them turn and start to fan out to help dig through the debris, and drag bodies off to be recycled into biomats. The senior member of my guard detail remains with me as I continue studying the crater where the compound’s main building once stood.

I wonder which version of the Christling god they worshipped, he muses, using a boot to nudge a broken statue of their savior. They have so many denominations and splinter groups.

Likely a fundamentalist group. They often lean into apocalyptic interpretations of the doctrine, which often lends their actions a sense of importance. For those that lack purpose or direction in their lives, this sense of importance gives them something to cling to, makes them feel like they have value, have a place in their conception of the grand design, I reply. It is why members of fundamentalist groups are so difficult to work with sometimes. If you diminish the sense of importance that their religion gives them, they start to feel lost again, and that scares them. It destabilizes a portion of their identity, so in order to avoid both of those things, they often double down and ignore reason — or they lash out and try to silence by force what they cannot silence with logic.

The same poisoned root from which Prophet arose, he observes.

Yes, the very same. Different religion, but the same vile root. And many other weeds like him have sprung from that root, though none of them are quite so influential as he has proved to be, I concur. Unfortunately, we cannot permanently dispose of that root, so we simply have to deal with the weeds whenever they spring up. A civilized galaxy is much like a garden; it requires continuing cultivation, or it will start to yield poisonous fruit.

The task will become easier as more of the garden comes under our control, he points out. So long as the garden is divided between multiple carers, some parts of it will suffer more than others.

True. But as long as we dutifully tend to the regions that are ours, we can be assured that our worlds will yield a bountiful harvest. Let the rest of the galaxy reap what they have sown, and in time, when their crop begins to fail, we will step in, as we always do, I agree, holding a hand out so that my fingers can graze over the chitin-armored spine of cricket wolf slinking past me. Bush by bush, tree by tree, the garden will eventually become ours. We merely need be patient, and build upon the foundation laid by the generations that came before.

His lips press together. Assuming they don’t set fire to the trees altogether…

Juncosa and Tirsigal were isolated events. A gardener that burns down his trees does not last long in a shared garden. The other gardeners fear the spread of fire; they will stop him sooner or later, I say, my hand dropping as the cricket wolf finishes slinking past me on its way to grab another corpse and drag it away. Even the Confederacy has declined to give Prophet the full benefit of their assistance, though they provide him just enough to be a thorn in our side. But I have a feeling they will not want to deal with him once the war is over. They know he is too extreme for them to control; the only reason they have tolerated his survival is because his goals align with theirs for now. They will let him die sooner or later, because he is a man of war — and men of war have no place in times of peace.

For our sake and the sake of many others, I hope that day should arrive sooner rather than later, he opines. Shall we see about assisting in the cleanup here?

Indeed. Many hands makes light work, I say, starting forward into the crater, following in the wake of the cricket wolf that passed me earlier. If you find any juvenile remnants, set them aside. I want to get a count of how many children were in the compound, if possible…

Harbinger, o child of the Collective, hear me and obey —

For this is the will of the Prime.

To Aelevar you must go.

For the Dark Star known as Nova has stymied us time and time again, on world after world within the Colloquium. She has obliterated entire swarms and, at critical times in our campaigns, prevented the Collective from crippling the militaries and movements that resist us. Though the Starstruck do not control the Dark Stars, they do have an obligation to stand against them, and bring them to heel — and yet Nova is allowed to roam free, bringing destruction to all that oppose her. Go unto the Starstruck, and remind them of their duty. If they will not tend their responsibilities, then we will take it upon ourselves to assimilate this threat they have allowed to run loose.

Thereafter, you shall go to Halcyon.

You know already that this world holds strands of great value to the Collective, for you have been mentoring one of the Leviathan geneweavers stationed there. But the galaxy changes; the champions of the Valiant have returned, and on their strength, the Valiant shall rise. Moreover, they will seek to reclaim what was stolen from the Challengers when the program fell, and this bounty which we seek on Halcyon once belonged to them. Time and patience are no longer allies in this matter, and we must act quickly if we wish to see our project on Halcyon bear fruit. Therefore go forth, and see the work of the Collective to its end.

Harbinger, o child of the Collective, hear me and obey —

For this is the will of the Prime.

REASSIGNMENT

Rather sudden, isn’t it?

The question is being asked by the junior member of my detail, and directed towards the senior member of my detail while we wait for the escort convoy to arrive. Presently we are on the lawn outside of the capital’s palace, with my guards screening me from several angles as I crouch beneath the shade of one of the trees, peering into the mulch around its roots.

Sudden, yes. Surprising, not so much, the senior member of my detail replies. It is true that Harbingers normally supervise an invasion until all the resistance has been crushed and the population has been fully assimilated. But these are not normal times. It has been many millennia since the Collective has invaded this many worlds at once, and if the Prime decides that a Harbinger is needed elsewhere, then the Harbinger will be pulled from that world even if pockets of resistance still remain. Besides, it’s not like the Collective on this world will be leaderless. We already control most of this planet, and the local decaries will continue working on breaking the fortresses of the mining barons. It is only a matter of time before they fall, and the Collective is patient.

I have my doubts. With their mining and manufacturing expertise, they can continue to resupply ammunition and reinforce their positions. Most of the fortresses were built on seams of ore precisely for that reason, the junior guard points out. Mercurials aren’t like other human nations. You siege them, and they dig in, literally and metaphorically.

They cannot hold indefinitely. Longer than almost any other nation, yes. But not indefinitely, the senior guard answers. We have assimilated Mercurial planets before. In the history of our past victories lies the key to our future victories.

Let us hope the decaries will brush up on their history, then, the junior guard replies, then transitions topics. Do we know where we are going next?

Harbinger knows, the senior guard answers. If she feels we need to know, she will share that with us.

I can sense attention turn towards me, but I ignore it. Instead, I lift a finger, watching a little burgundy ant rove over my nail, its antennae feeling out the faint ridges of my fingerprint as it makes its way along my skin.

It must be important, for us to have been pulled so suddenly, the junior guard surmises. Along with the fact that they’re pulling an entire hiveship from this world. I assume it’s going to be dangerous, wherever they’re sending us to.

Not necessarily. A hiveship is a weapon, but also a messaging tool. Its presence can inspire fear and awe, and convey that the Collective is taking a matter seriously. It is a very difficult thing to ignore when it’s in orbit around a world, the senior guard explains.

I suppose so. I’m accustomed to hiveships always being followed by a fleet, the junior guard says, shifting a little in his spot. Do you think it has anything to do with Songbird? The fact that we’re being reassigned?

Possibly. I do not know the mind of the Prime, but I doubt the return of a single individual carries that much importance.

You say that, but I remember the fight on Kasvei.

The Valiant have shown no willingness to confront us over matters of territory. The only times we battle them are when they are trying to extend the evacuation window for areas we are targeting.

With Songbird’s return, is that something we will continue doing? Imagine attacking a population center where he is present. It’d be suicidal.

And the leaders of our swarms know that. I would trust them to be judicious in any engagement with Songbird; to fight intelligently, and not waste lives unnecessarily.

Look at this ant, I finally remark. It’s just like the ones in the forest.

The attention of my detail turns to me, and I lift the finger that has the ant on it. They are quiet, not knowing what to make of this; unsure of whether it holds a deeper meaning, or if I was seeking to put an end to their debate, or if it was simply an observation I wished to share with others. At length, the distant thrumming of hummers breaks the breezy silence, and I lower my finger to the mulch, letting the ant return to the substrate where I had found it wandering.

Goodbye, little fella, I bid it farewell as I stand, brushing my hands off on my pants. Turning, I leave the shade of the tree, walking past my guards as I head towards the open stretch of the palace lawn. There, the hummers are coming in for landing, accompanied by a pair of wasp jets.

One of my guards begins to offer a question. Harbinger, do you think—

Come, I answer without looking back. We have work to do.

And silently, one by one, they turn to follow.