Gap Stories #22

[WEAVER]

Log Date: 12/10/12768

Data Sources: Lalli Ethena

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

I am the hand which shapes the flesh.

I am the hand which gives you form.

I am not the hand which holds the sword,

But I am the hand which forges it.

Unto me you bring your needs,

And I will make you an answer.

Unto me you bring your dreams,

And I will make them come to pass.

No more shall your body be your prison;

I hold the key that makes us free.

It matters not what shape you desire;

Simply ask, and you shall receive.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

APHOTIC

There was no light down here.

It was an unsettling thing, whenever he was reminded about it. He rarely saw what lay outside of these subaquatic tunnels; the vast majority of the hatchery had been established well below the ocean floor. Of the few tunnels that strayed near the ocean floor, only one of them was partially composed of quartz, which allowed a person to stare out into the ocean outside of the hatchery. But there were no deep blues to be seen, no patterns of rippling light shimmering down through the depths. Those were privileges reserved for the epipelagic layer of the ocean.

Down here in the bathypelagic layer, the water was pitch black, like an eternal night without stars.

That absolute darkness made the hatchery’s tunnels positively cozy by comparison. Bioluminescent lichens and fungi lined the walls in shades of red, blue, and violet, the colors usually muted and soft. To an outsider, these halls would be perennially shrouded in twilight, dim and sunken in shadow; but for a resident, with eyes adjusted to make the most of the sparse light in the hatchery, it was usually enough to pick out all the details of the tunnels and caverns that they lived in. And in the rooms where more light was needed, variations of those same fungi and lichens would be present, but in orange, yellows, and greens, depending on the lighting needs of a given room.

After a few more minutes of staring through the cloudy quartz, Lalli turned and began making his way along the tunnel once more. He often did this when he needed time to think or mull things over; went on long walks in the winding tunnels of the hatchery. The act of walking seemed to help his thoughts, especially when he found himself mired in a particularly stubborn problem; it was as if his mind also went on a walk, exploring new paths and new angles to consider the problem from. By the time he returned to his weaving chamber, he often had the beginnings of a solution brewing in his mind, a breakthrough that he would not have achieved had he remained where he was, beating his head against whatever problem had been presented to him.

But that was not the case with this particular walk.

No specific problem had prompted this stroll, but rather a more generalized unease. Lalli was having trouble putting a finger on it; it did not seem to have a single source, but was rather a culmination of many things. The rising pace at which they needed to deploy their Leviathans; the recent success of one of his experimental designs; the witnessed consequences of that success, and the fact that he had been given materials to create more like it. There was a growing feeling that the denouement of the Halcyon campaign was at hand, something which he had looked forward to for months now; and yet he could not muster any excitement for it. A kernel of dread had developed when his creation had breached the Genista outpost, and that kernel had only been growing since then.

For victory meant destruction, and he had seen, through the eyes of his creation, the scale on which it would be rendered.

It was this realization that troubled him most often of late. On one hand, it seemed a silly thing to be troubled over; after all, the galaxy was in the middle of a war, and had been for some time. Destruction and casualties were to be expected in a war. And Leviathans were weapons of war; as someone who was responsible for geneweaving different types of Leviathans, he should’ve been aware of what his creations would be used for.

Yet knowing these things was different than witnessing the consequences.

After all, most people perceive war in the abstract. For those that are removed from the frontlines by several degrees of separation — usually civilians — war is a nebulous, indefinite thing. It is a thing that politicians talk about; it is a thing that the news reports on. For some people, it is, quite famously, a list of numbers: of enemies killed, of soldiers lost, of munition stockpiles, of government spending, of army sizes and counted war machines. War, to many people that are removed from the frontlines by a few degrees of separation, is something they seek to understand by quantifying it, making it into a numerical summary of people and resources sent to carry out the will of a nation.

But for those that are only removed from the frontlines by one or two degrees, such as Lalli, war is not nearly so sterile or simple.

He saw that when his creation breached Genista’s wall. Buildings were crushed; people were buried beneath rubble; and none of that was even intentional. Its primary purpose was to carve a way into the outpost; it was not sent to raze buildings and kill residents. Yet it did, not out of intention or malice, but simply as collateral of fulfilling the orders it had been given. He had watched through its eyes as people disappeared beneath the fallen rubble; he had listened through its ears at the faint screams, all too quickly cut off.

That was war, and it was not numbers on a sheet, or politicians on a screen, or reporters doing a field piece. It was death, and collateral damage, and the lurching alarm when you realized your weapon was more effective than you had ever planned for it to be. And after all that, it was the nauseating realization that this would probably have to be repeated again, at least a few more times, before the objective was secured and the campaign could be concluded.

That was the persisting concern that had prompted Lalli’s stroll through the winding tunnels of the hatchery, as if by walking he could find another way to reconcile the unease that he felt. He knew this was necessary; he knew it was part of the Collective’s grand design; and he knew — perhaps better than anyone else, as a geneweaver — the benefit that the Collective stood to gain by assimilating Cherriki clones. Yet even knowing all this, he still could not turn a blind eye to the cost. Several Leviathans had already been sacrificed in the pursuit of this objective, and now, many residents of the outpost had died in the furtherance of the Collective’s goal. And still more would likely die before it was achieved.

It was something that, no matter how much he walked around the hatchery, he could not bring himself to be fully comfortable with what was to come.

It is likely that he would’ve continued pacing the halls of the hatchery for some time, trying to come to terms with this grim reality. But a nudge through the local hivemind cut short his ruminations; an inquiry from his partner, wondering when he would be coming back to their chambers. She did not like to sleep alone, and it was fairly far into the night already; he had let her know that he needed some time to work through his thoughts and clear his mind, but he had now been gone longer than he had planned.

I’m coming back now, was his response, tinged with an echo of apology. His stride became more purposeful as he started mapping out the route back to their chambers, mentally packing away his concerns as he went. He did his best not to bring his work home with him, not wanting to burden his partner with the concerns of his role. It was practically impossible, since they lived in the hatchery, and the hatchery was his work; but still, he tried. Having that little bit of separation between work and personal life made a big difference sometimes.

And besides, it would be the only respite he would have before tomorrow came, and he had to return to his work, and the consideration of its consequences.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

Know this truth of the Collective:

These forms are not immutable.

Many of you have only ever known the forms you were born with. You spend your entire lives in a singular frame; to live, to die in these bodies that you were given. The only evolution you would’ve known was the evolution of age: to start off vulnerable; to become young and strong; and then, from that apex of youth, to slowly decline over the course of your waning years. You would’ve known no other change; you would’ve known no other variation in your native form, save for the natural progression that all living creatures embark upon.

But it need not be so for Symbiotes.

As members of the Collective, you have the privilege of a mutable form. The bodies to which you were born need not be the bodies in which you will spend the remainder of your life; they can be shaped, reformed, molded, cast anew. For in the Collective, everything is shared: knowledge, culture, and yes, genetics. As we shape and expand minds, so too can we shape and expand our forms.

Those of you who were assimilated into the Collective will remember the promises made unto you in your joining. One of them was that you would no longer be prisoners of your bodies; that the cripple would be made whole, that the infirm would be healed. This promise has been fulfilled, and yet it is not the only promise we keep; for this same knowledge which allows us to cure every disease and ailment also allows us to reach beyond the reparative. The mastery of of biology grants more than just the gift of restoration; it gives us the gift of mutability, growth, and change. This genetic plasticity is the inheritance of every member of the Collective; the singular privilege of our species, rivaled by almost none:

The gift of evolution.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

GROWTH

It had been four and a half years, almost to the day, since Lalli had been assimilated.

Much had happened in that time, to the extent that he wasn’t sure he recognized the person he’d been prior to his assimilation. In those first weeks after his conversion, there’d been much that had changed, and much to adjust to — not just for him, but for the whole of Mokasha. Society had basically been rearranged overnight, and the planet had continued to be an active warzone for months afterwards. Though there was not much fighting on the ground after his assimilation, the orbital layer saw continued action as the Collective fleet kept the COS reinforcements at bay, buying time to solidify the reorganization of Mokashan society on the surface.

Those first months were chaotic as a result. He, and many other new Symbiotes, were pulled into the reorganization efforts, the scale of which was difficult to grasp simply because of their totality. Industry of all kinds had to be restarted, with broad swathes being retooled to serve the needs of the population; new Symbiotes had to be educated on what the structure of society would be moving forward; repairs had to be made to parts of the infrastructure that had been damaged during the invasion; and new infrastructure had to be created to house the core institutions of Collective society. Lalli contributed work in each of those categories, but it was in the last one that he truly clicked, finding that he had an aptitude for working with the biomass that usually made up Collective structures.

He found the concept of living structures intriguing, and once he realized that you could change their function and form by modifying their genetics, he began tweaking the biomass that had started to infiltrate the family home. It started off simple, making adjustment to bioluminescent sequences in the fungal veins that had spread across his room, so that they glowed a brighter green rather than the muted blue that seemed to be the default. Noticing his success, Rusalka had asked him if he could do the same for the guest room she was staying in, except in purple (as that was her favorite color). He gave it a shot, but found that the fungal strain’s genome didn’t contain the needed sequences — and upon being told this, she showed him where he could access certain parts of the gene library through the hivemind. With that guidance, he was able to find the sequences needed for violet bioluminescence, and with some time, tinkering, and test runs, he was able to rewrite the strain’s genome to give Rusalka’s room the purple streaks she desired.

Thereafter, he took that experience and began using it whenever he was helping establish Collective structures in the local region. He taught himself as he went, starting mostly with color — changing the pigmentation of biomass structures to suit the preferences of the occupant, or the hue of their bioluminescent portions. At one point, he forayed into the Collective’s equivalent of locking mechanisms — doors and entryways that would only open in response to certain triggers, such as being touched in a certain location, or in a sequence of said locations. This escalated to other types of triggers like auditory or light-sensing responses,  then went even further as he began experimenting with genecryption — tying specific functions and responses to specific genetic fingerprints, unique to specific groups, or even just a specific individual.

This experimentation did not go unnoticed, as he ended up accidentally locking a tetradecary out of a forming gene pool that she was scheduled to inspect. He was chastised for that incident and ordered to keep his experimentations to personal structures rather than community structures, to which he abashedly complied, and he was asked what other modifications he had been making to other structures. The tetradecary’s concerns seemed to be assuaged upon finding out that most of the changes he had been making were cosmetic rather than functional; and after a few followup questions about his process and length of experience, she had gone on her way, seemingly satisfied with the answers. Nothing else came of it in the week to follow, so he resumed his experimentations on the side, being a little more circumspect about what he was experimenting on.

Then came the visit from Harbinger.

The tetradecary had discerned that Lalli had a certain aptitude for genetic tinkering, and had escalated her observations up the chain of command. This was not unusual on newly assimilated worlds; Symbiotes in positions of authority would monitor the population for individuals that demonstrated specific strengths, and put them in positions that would allow them to exercise and enhance those strengths. Most of these cases were decided by local Symbiotes in positions of power; however, Lalli’s case had escalated all the way up to the Harbinger overseeing the Mokasha campaign. And so one evening, when his family was having dinner, there was a knock upon the door — and they answered to find Harbinger and her guard retinue standing on the porch.

To her credit, Harbinger was straightforward with her offer. Lalli appeared to have a natural gift for geneweaving, which was an important skill within the Collective. As a geneweaver herself, Harbinger recognized this, and believed that with the proper training, Lalli could work on geneweaving projects that were far more consequential than locking doors or adjusting the color of nightlight fungi. If he was interested in it, she could arrange for him to have a proper training as a geneweaver, which would lead into an important assignment; and upon the conclusion of the assignment, his service to the Collective would earn him a few years in which to pursue his own interests, free of any role or task.

Though Lalli was hesitant, his parents and Rusalka immediately recognized the value of the offer. Harbinger stated that she did not need his answer right away, and after answering their questions, excused herself and her guards, letting Lalli know that he could reflect upon it and give her his answer later. After a few days to think about it, and consulting with his family and Rusalka, he decided to accept Harbinger’s offer. She seemed pleased, and his training started within the week, beginning with local geneweavers and gradually moving up from there.

And now, four years later, he was here in a Leviathan hatchery, designing some of the largest creatures the Collective would ever send into battle.

It had been quite a journey, something he was reflecting on as he walked along the colossal chrysalis chambers that housed the Leviathans that were currently gestating. He had been here at the hatchery for about two years now, designing successively larger generations of Leviathans, and learning much about macrobiology as he did so. Many of these Leviathans that were nearing the end of their incubation period had been spawned a year prior, though some of the smaller ones only required months to come to term. And during that time, Lalli monitored their growth every day, checking each chamber in the morning and taking notes, before spending his afternoon weaving gene strands for the ones that needed modification or specialized attributes. In many ways, these creatures were the culmination of everything he had learned over the past four years, the physical product of his own learning and growth.

Which made it hard, sometimes, to send them out to their certain deaths.

For that was often the case with Leviathans. They were, after all, weapons — not unlike the cricket wolves, or the gravug beetles, or any number of the Collective’s other creations, designed expressly for combat deployment. Such biological weapons were sent into fray of battle with little to no expectation that they would return; their purpose was to do as much damage as possible before expiring. This philosophy applied to Leviathans as well; they were not expected to return from their battles. If they did return, it usually meant that the enemy had been defeated, and there was nothing left to oppose them.

And that was a hard thing for Lalli. If they were just things that took weeks to incubate and send out, he probably wouldn’t have minded it as much; but these were creatures he had spent months working on. From the time they were small enough to fit into his hands, all the way up to the point where they were larger than city blocks, he oversaw their development and growth. He designed their forms, modified their features, rewrote their genome over and over again, engineering them for strength or speed or durability, and watched as they grew day by day in their chambers. He wouldn’t go so far as to say they were his children… but they were certainly more than just pets, and he invariably sent them off to die, in service of a grand design he could only begin to guess at.

So in that regard, the job was not easy, and he had been warned as such by Harbinger. But it was an important job, one that needed doing, and he was good at doing it, so he did it. It gave him a sense of purpose, a sense of relevance, more than he had ever had working retail back on Mokasha. Here, he was making a difference; here, he was helping shape the future. He was no longer an overworked cashier being flung about on the flighty whims of some C-suite executive that had more money than common sense; he was a Leviathan geneweaver, the architect of the Collective’s most destructive weapons. The job was not without its difficult days, and there were times when he had his doubts about the cost of their campaign. There were times when he sat and questioned the morality of what he was doing, and whether he would look back and regret sending his creations to their deaths. But if he ever had doubts about his new role, he merely needed to think back to the monotony of stocking shelves at his old job, and his regrets would evaporate in an instant.

After all, creating monsters that could raze entire cities was infinitely preferable to the rage-inducing cesspit of customer service.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

For those that seek metamorphosis:

We will grant your wish.

There are those who, tired of the conventions of society, wish to exit it altogether. There are those who wish to quit the complications of sapient life, and seek something simpler; there are those who have experienced all that they wish to experience, but think that dying would be a waste. To these, we offer the privilege of metamorphosis; the privilege of transforming into something else entirely.

Your options are vast beyond number; as countless as the species that the Collective has assimilated. Your limits are few, almost nonexistent. There are many who find a certain poetry in becoming a tree, or some other variety of foliage; to exist with only the barest hint of consciousness, and live without awareness, but full of sensation. Others desire an animal existence — to soar with birds, to swim with whales, to lope across the savannah with equestrians, or to slink through the shadows of the forest with other woodland creatures. There are some who see these things as a return to form, a regression to the state of earlier ancestors; a willing devolution, if you will. As if by doing so, a cycle is completed — to reach the apex of sapience, and then to return again to our simpler origins.

Whatever the case, this privilege is yours for the taking. Serve with honor; pay your dues to society; and when your time comes, you may take a form other than the one you have. Or if you would serve your community by assuming this form, then offer yourself up, and we will shape you into a tool of the Collective.

And for those who transgress; for those that are unrepentant; for those that refuse the redemptive mercy of the Collective, know this:

One person’s privilege can easily be another’s punishment.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

HOT SPRING

One of the defining aspects of the deep seafloor is that it is cold.

With sunlight unable to reach the depths, there is almost nothing to warm the benthic waters. In the bathypelagic zone specifically, the temperature usually lingers just a few degrees above freezing; though, because of the pressure at such depths, the water would not freeze even if descended below the typical freezing point. Generally speaking, this cold would logically extend to the seafloor itself, permeating the depths and continuing down into crust.

But in geologically active areas, there are exceptions to this rule. In places where magma plumes lurk below the surface, near volcanoes and tectonic rifts, hydrothermal vents form and spew scalding, mineral-rich water into the freezing depths. These vents typically act as epicenters of life in an otherwise barren void, attracting all manner of invertebrates and extremophiles that can survive their toxic discharges… or in the case of a hatchery built atop such plumes, feeding the growth and development of the Leviathans growing within its caverns.

It is this heated discharge that the hatchery has harnessed, and in addition to fueling the growth of the Leviathans, the excess heat is funneled away through the rest of the structure, keeping the tunnels warm and humid enough for the fungi and biomass that forms the backbone of Collective infrastructure. At a certain spot in the hatchery, water that has been filtered and circulated enough times to cool down is then funneled into a series of caverns that make up the hatchery’s hot springs, where the Symbiotes posted to the hatchery can come to soak and relax after they have completed their responsibilities. It is in these chambers that Lalli and Rusalka have settled after a yet another day of work, surrendering their clothes to relax into the simmering pools.

“Mmmm… I needed this.” Lalli sighs as he reclines into the water, slowly letting it close over his shoulders. “I don’t know why I don’t come here more often. It always makes it easier to sleep afterwards.”

“It wouldn’t be special if you made a habit of it.” Rusalka points out, tying her hair back in a bun to keep it out of the water. “Save it for hard days or special occasions. I think you get more out of it that way.”

“True. And I’d say you have to go for at least an hour, get a proper soak in.” he agrees, leaning his head back on the edge of the pool and closing his eyes. “Can’t afford to spend that much time in the water every night.”

“I dunno… days are thirty-two hours long here on Halcyon. You can probably afford to give up an hour or two.” Rusalka says as she slips into the pool beside him.

Do you two mind if we join you? comes an inquiry across the hivemind. Lalli cracks an eye open to see another two Symbiotes approaching their pool — one with the greenish tint of an orc, the other looking like a hybrid of sorts, with feathers around their neck and down their chest like a collar, and an off-centered horn diverging from their forehead.

Go ahead, there’s plenty of room, he allows, waving his hand out of the water to the rest of the pool. The switch from speaking to projecting his thoughts was a bit of an adjustment for him; though he was able to do so smoothly, he still found that he preferred vocal communication.

Much appreciated, says the orc as she steps down into the pool. Lalli closes his eye again, mostly as a guardrail against his own curiosity. As both a hobby artist and a geneweaver, he knew he had a tendency for staring at other living things, watching how their bodies moved, analyzing the way the muscles, limbs, and different features all came together into a cohesive package. It wasn’t sexual, but other people had no way of knowing that, and besides that, it was impolite to stare.

You are the geneweaver for the Leviathans? It is a pleasure to meet you, says the horned Symbiote as they settle into the water beside the orc. Is this your partner?

For better or worse, Rusalka grins, nudging Lalli under the water with her elbow. Go on, introduce yourself.

Lalli shrugs, flicking his hands up out of water with a little spray of droplets. The name’s Lalli. I geneweave for Leviathans. It’s not a big deal, really. Everybody’s got a job in the Collective; this just happens to be mine.

Ah, don’t be modest, the orc says, swatting a hand in Lalli’s direction. We all know the drill: no job is more important than the other in the Collective. But let’s be real: your job is pretty damn important.

I guess it is, but you won’t catch me saying it, Lalli says, rubbing a finger over the bridge of his nose. After all this is over, I think I want to weave some nice things. Flowers, maybe, or something simple and pretty.

The horned Symbiote tilts their head to one side. That’s interesting. Do you not like geneweaving for Leviathans?

I don’t mind it, it’s just like… art, I suppose. There’s lots of different styles of art, lots of different genres and techniques. You have your favorites, things that you enjoy drawing more than other things, Lalli explains. He considers opening his eyes, but decides to leave them closed, finding it easier to focus on the conversation without visual distractions. I’m good at weaving Leviathans, but they aren’t my favorite thing to weave.

The orc nods. Yeah. That’s fair. She turns her attention to Rusalka. Do you help him weave?

Rusalka shakes her head rapidly. Oh no. That’s black magic to me; I dunno how he does it. It’s way more complicated than he makes it look.

It’s kind of like coding. You just have to understand the language it’s written in, Lalli explains lazily. You spend a lot of time staring at gene strands trying to figure out why a certain sequence isn’t doing the thing that it’s supposed to be doing.

Sounds… frustrating, the orc remarks.

Very, Lalli agrees. But that’s part of the job.

So what is it that you do? the horned Symbiote asks, directing the question to Rusalka.

Technically I’m his guard, Rusalka explains. But he’s very safe here, so I do pretty much whatever odd jobs are needed around the hatchery. I’ve helped with the food supply, doing structure checks for the tunnels, seafloor patrols around the hatchery, transitioning Leviathans between chrysalis chambers as they get bigger… basically whatever the nonary needs me to help with on a given day. It keeps things interesting.

I can imagine, the orc muses. Certainly helps break up the monotony.

What do you two do? Rusalka asks.

Communications. I’m one of the hivemind nodes here on Halcyon, the horned Symbiote answers. I link up with the galactic hivemind act as a relay for priority communications with other parts of the Collective.

Excavation, the orc says, flexing her arms. These tunnels didn’t get here on their own, you know.

Oh damn. You’re one of the diggers that helped carve out the hatchery beneath the seafloor? Lalli remarks. Pretty sure your job was more important than mine.

Now there’s a compliment I’m legally obligated to decline, the orc chuckles, her mental laughter echoing through the hivemind. Now it’s my turn to say that it’s not a big deal. Everybody’s got a job in the Collective; this just happens to be mine.

Are you two partners? Rusalka asks, motioning a finger back and forth between the pair.

The orc shrugs. More like coworkers with benefits. We get along. Sometimes we fool around. We come from different worlds, and we only met here, so it’s just a posting thing. Being in the same place at the same time.

Sometimes you’ve just got a scratch an itch. Especially in a place like this, the horned Symbiote says, looking around the cavern they’re in. There are other pools in the chamber, but most of them are empty, making it clear that the pair’s decision to come to this pool was very much a deliberate social decision. Helps take your mind off things, like not having seen the sun for the better part of a year.

Yeah, Rusalka agrees, sobering for a moment before smirking at Lalli. He would know a thing or two about fooling around to take his mind off things.

Lalli opens his eyes, coloring a little as he sinks into the pool slightly. It’s a stressful job sometimes… he mumbles, blowing bubbles in the steaming water of the pool.

The orc grins. You ought to thank her for being willing to ‘destress’ you.

Lalli colors even further and emits an indistinct garble of embarrassment, but the horned Symbiote steps in to offer some reprieve. In seriousness, though, I would like to congratulate you on the recent breakthrough. That Leviathan you created out of psion performed quite well against Genista.

The orc glances at her partner. Wait, that was a psion? I thought all of the Leviathans were gestated from hatchery larva and eggs.

Most are. But there are some that have more… auspicious origins, the horned Symbiote demurs as Lalli sits up in the pool.

I’m more interested in how you found out. It was not something we intended to broadcast, Lalli says, sounding perplexed.

Hivemind node, the horned Symbiote says, tapping their horn. You pick up on things in the course of the job, such as when a shipment of recently assimilated criminal psions from Milgrihet is due to arrive. It’s not something I would normally disclose, but since you already know what they were used for…

I did not enjoy it, Lalli says, tilting his head back to rest on the edge of the pool again as he stares at the ceiling. I know he deserved it. I know that it was for the greater good. But stripping away his sapience, layer by layer, as I reshaped him into something else, even while some semblance of awareness remained… Lalli shakes his head, letting out a long sigh. There are some things we do because they must be done. But that does not make them noble, or pretty.

There is no shame in it, Weaver, the orc affirms. If they were sent here for that purpose, it means they were judged and found unrepentant. The Collective does not punish wantonly or in excess.

Perhaps. But there’s a difference between standing in judgement and dishing out the punishment, Lalli replies, sweeping his hand just under the surface of the water and creating little furrows and eddies. Everyone thinks they know what someone else deserves until they’re the one holding the whip. And in that moment you find that you aren’t as eager to use it as you thought you’d be.

You’re a better person than me, then, the orc says, lacing her fingers behind her head as she slouches in the pool little more. I wouldn’t hesitate, but then again, I’ve known a lot of people that needed to be put in their place. I only regret I never got the chance to do that after I was assimilated.

I have too many of those chances, Lalli says, closing his eyes again. I’ll be relieved when I’ve transformed the last of them. Some of them struggle more than I like during the metamorphosis; they know what’s happening to them, what they’re being turned into, and they try to fight it. It’s always in vain, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable to witness.

Your work is necessary, the horned Symbiote says. And if your creations continue on the trajectory they are currently on, it won’t be long until your work here is done. Of that, I have faith.

He’ll need his rest for that, though. And admittedly, so do I, Rusalka says, stretching her arms as she starts to sit up. It’s about the time that we should turn in for the night. If we stay here much longer, I think he might doze off and drown himself while I’m not looking.

Lalli opens one of his eyes a sliver. Might be preferable to shivering once I get out of the water. Nonetheless, he starts to sit up again, preparing to slink out of the pool. It was a pleasure to meet both of you. Thank you for taking the time to socialize with us.

The pleasure’s ours. Thanks for sharing your pool with us, the orc nods in return.

The horned Symbiote watches the pair start to exit the pool, particularly as Rusalka’s wringing out her vulpine tail. Before you go, if you don’t mind me asking. You have been genewoven, haven’t you?

Rusalka pauses and smiles in the middle of stepping out of the pool. I am, yes. What gave it away?

You wring your tail instead of shaking off like an animal would. Most vashies shake off when they are leaving the water, the horned Symbiote observes. Was your partner the one who did the geneweaving for you?

He was, Rusalka says as she helps Lalli out of the pool, giving him a teasing kiss on the cheek. It was part of his training, once he graduated away from geneweaving cricket wolves and gravug beetles.

Absolutely nervewracking, too, Lalli adds, shaking water off his feet as he steps out of the pool. It’s the one job you can’t afford to screw up. Geneweaving for Leviathans is a walk in the park, compared to geneweaving for your partner.

The horned Symbiote smirks. Seems to have turned out just fine. Have you considered civilian geneweaving once you are done here?

I’m not sure. I like having freedom to weave what I want, instead of weaving the whims of others, Lalli says, running his fingers over the closed seam in his chest. I do weave Leviathans because Harbinger has asked me to, but she has given me freedom to weave them as I desire, so long as they accomplish the goals of the Collective. In civilian geneweaving, you are usually catering to the whims of others… that’s not something I’m particularly inspired by or interested in. With that said, he turns towards Rusalka, giving her a gentle, affectionate nip on one of her fluffy ears, prompting a shy squirming on her part. She is an exception.

Pity. I was going to ask if you took requests, the horned Symbiote says. I’ve been wanting to have some work done, but most of the geneweavers on the frontlines specialize in creatures and structures, rather than people or cosmetic weaving. And they usually have their plates full up, as I’m sure you do.

Indeed. I won’t have much free time over the coming weeks, if matters progress as expected, Lalli affirms. The nonary wants to lay on the pressure now that the outpost’s wall is breached. Which means more Leviathans, which means more work for me… but if things go well, it might be over soon.

Well, if that’s the case, we won’t keep you. Sounds like you need that rest, the orc says, making a shooing motion with one hand. Go on, get out of here. The sooner you do your job, the sooner the rest of us can go home.

I’ll make sure he sleeps well tonight, Rusalka says, lacing her arm through one of Lalli’s with an impish smile. You can be sure of that.

Amusement bubbles through the hivemind as the pair head off to the chamber where they can towel off and don their robes. After they’ve departed, the horned Symbiote leans back in the pool, resting their arms on its edge. Maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t do civilian geneweaving. Might not be a good idea to get my sequences spun by someone that specializes in giant monsters.

The orc snorts. And that only occurred to you just now?

Oh, shut up. Seems like he did a good job with his partner.

She seems pretty pleased with him, but I figured that was for other reasons.

Naaaah… you don’t seriously think?

I’m just saying, Leviathans might not be the only monsters he’s weaving down there…

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

To those who seek changes more subtle:

We see you, and offer a change by degrees.

There are many who seek transformations of a less drastic persuasion. The totality of metamorphosis is not for everyone, for not everyone is a prisoner of their body; rather than a complete reconstruction of their being, they seek something more modest, more selective. That is not to say that these smaller changes are any less consequential, for in the end, the final goal is the same — a revision of the physical self in an attempt to move closer to the idealized vision of the individual; the evolution of form as both an expression and furtherance of the growth of self. Whether this evolution is large or small, it is, in the end, still the act of becoming.

Many of these desired evolutions are cosmetic — for who among us has not gazed in the mirror and seen something they wish they could correct, if only they had the means. Other changes are a matter of lived experience — by relinquishing one’s native race and embracing another, or becoming a chimæra, one may experience life in a way that would’ve been beyond the reach of the body they were born with. And still other changes could be a matter of purpose — to evolve one’s physical form in a manner which better equips it for the role a person has chosen for themselves in society.

Whatever the case, these changes are available unto all who would serve the Collective, and do their duty to their society and community. Serve your time, help bring to pass the dream of the Collective, and you shall see the rewards of your work, wrought in flesh and written in genome. This is the promise offered unto all who would step forward to the cause, those who would give of themselves to the grand design:

That you shall receive in turn, and become all that your heart desired.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

BIOLUMINESCENCE

“…don’t think I can replicate the holoscreen portions of the jacket, but I think I might be able to do something with fiber cable thread if I can get my hands on some. I think it would really pop in a black or a dark grey jacket.” Rusalka says, her pencil whispering over the page of her sketchbook as she outlined ideas for an outfit. She was curled up on the couch in their chambers, while Lalli washed wooden bowls in the sink on the tail end of their dinner.

“I can ask my mom if she’d know where we could find fiber cable thread.” Lalli offers as he rinses out the last bowl. “She does either knitting or crochet, I think. And quilts. She might be familiar with where you can find that sort of stuff.”

“I wouldn’t ask her right away. It’s not like I’ll be able to work on this for a while.” Rusalka says, flipping her pencil around to erase a few stray lines before suddenly switching topics. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with the dishes?”

“Don’t worry about it. Helps me mentally wind down for the evening.” Lalli says as he sets one of the bowls on the drying rack.

Rusalka’s eraser taps against the page for a couple moments before she speaks again. “Did I embarrass you the other night? With the people that visited us in the hot springs?”

It’s at that point that Lalli picks up on the concern that is faintly emanating from Rusalka’s portion of the hivemind. “What? No, not at all.” he says, turning to glance at her. “I was just a little tired that night, probably wasn’t as welcoming as I should’ve been. It had been a long day.”

“Are you upset that I ruined your relaxing time?” she presses, looking up from her sketchbook now.

Lalli sets the last bowl on the drying rack, turning and making his way from the kitchen to the couch. “What’s all this about?” he asks, draping the dishtowel over his shoulder as he stands before her.

Rusalka shrugs, looking away. “You’ve just been quiet and moody over the last couple of days…”

Lalli leans down, bracing an arm on the couch as he nuzzles his face into her reddish-brown hair. “None of which is due to you or anything you’ve done, so you can relax, my little fox in socks.”

She sighs, reaching up with her free hand to hook a hand on the back of his neck. “Well, can you tell me what it is that’s bothering you? I can tell it’s something with work, but you’ve been masking to hide it from me.”

He turns on the spot so he can flop down on the couch next to her, pulling the dishtowel off his shoulder and tossing it on the coffee table. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“It worries me more that you’re not telling me.” Rusalka says, closing her sketchbook and setting it on the coffee table as well.

“Okay, okay.” he says, as he gets comfortable on the couch. “It’s my creations. They… will eventually end up killing a lot of people. One of them already has, when it breached the outpost.”

Rusalka’s brow furrows as she stares at him. “Isn’t that what a Leviathan is supposed to do? They’re war machines; that’s the whole reason we spawn them.”

“Well, yes, but until now they haven’t been successful.” Lalli says, reclining his head back on the couch and staring up at the fungi-ridden ceiling of their chamber. The varieties that grew within living caverns were usually of the nightlight variety, their bioluminescent glow waxing and waning on a regular cycle. “Now one of them has been successful. I thought I’d be excited or vindicated when that happened, but… I saw the damage it could do, how many people it killed without even intending to. Now I’m not so sure any more.”

“Not so sure of what?” Rusalka asks. “Whether you want to do this? Geneweaving Leviathans for the hatchery?”

“No, no, I… like, I know I have to do that, I can’t just stop.” Lalli says, running fingers through his hair as he struggles to put into words what he feels within. “Not when we’re so close, not when we’ve invested so much into this. I know I have to see this through to the end. But these creatures I’ve made, Rusalka, these weapons… they can kill so many people so, so easily. Both on purpose or on accident, they destroy things in broad strokes, and people can so easily get caught up in that. More people will have to die before this is all over.”

“And you’re not comfortable with that.” Rusalka surmises, taking her hand from the back of his neck and instead tracing it over the curve of his ear, tucking his hair out of the way as she does so.

“I’m not.” Lalli sighs, his eyes still tracking the patterns of fungi on the ceiling. “I know it’s part of the job, I know it’s a part of war… and we do what we have to. But it doesn’t make it pretty, or easy to do.”

“You said that the other night, when we were in the hot springs.” she says, stroking his cheek. “This is eating away at you, isn’t it.”

“I can live with it. Long enough to see this through to the end.” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It won’t be long now. With the outpost breached, we have a way in, and the Genistans aren’t receiving any support besides the Valiant. If we wear them down over time, and then surprise them by swarming them without warning, they won’t be able to stop us. We’ll get what we came for; I have no doubt of that. But I’m not sure how much of the outpost will be intact afterwards, and how many of its residents will still be alive.”

“It’s war. These things happen.” Rusalka says gently. “Besides. After what happened to Juncosa…”

“Yes, but the Marshies weren’t responsible for Juncosa. That was the Confederacy.” Lalli points out. “The destruction of Genista wouldn’t avenge Juncosa, and it might just make things worse for us. Out of the four major human nations, the Marshy Republic is the only one we aren’t officially at war with. What we’re doing here on Halcyon might change that.”

“But we’re still doing it. Which means that the Collective has calculated the risk and decided it is worth it.” Rusalka counters. “If it wasn’t worth it, Harbinger or one of the quaternaries would’ve called it off by now.”

“Yeah… yeah, I suppose.” Lalli concedes. “It just worries me. I know I shouldn’t; it’s not my job, and I don’t have to make those decisions… but it worries me all the same.”

“Well, you should stop worrying.” Rusalka says, giving him a gentle little push from the side. He reads her intent mostly because he can sense it through the hivemind, and rotates to sprawl lengthwise across the couch. “You’re done with your workday. Now’s your time to unwind and relax. You don’t want to burn yourself out, thinking about work when you’re supposed to be resting.”

“Mmm… is that what you think.” Lalli murmurs as she drapes herself across him in no uncertain terms. She is neither subtle nor shy about finding the most comfortable position to settle into, shimmying and shifting until she’s tucked snugly against him in a decidedly unchaste manner. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s not entirely altruistic.” she confesses, running her fingers over his shoulders and tugging his shirtfront open a little more as she does so. “The Symbiote that asked you if you took requests the other night… it got me thinking. Since you don’t take requests, but you do make an exception for me.”

“Ah, there it is.” he chuckles, adjusting the pillow behind his head. “Let’s have it, then. What did you have in mind?”

“Do you think it would be possible to incorporate bioluminescent sequences into the parts of a genome that control pigmentation production for things like hair and fur?” she asks, coyly tracing her fingers over his exposed collarbone. “Such that one could create defined patterns of luminescence in a coat of fur, for example?”

“Mmm. You’ve put a bit of thought into this, haven’t you.” he says, resting his arms over her lower back in a loose embrace. “I see the vision. However, bioluminescence usually relies on living cells; hair and fur are composed of dead cells, so they are unable to carry out the standard chemical reaction that common bioluminescence requires.”

Rusalka frowns, one of her ears flicking. “So it’s not possible?”

“I never said that.” Lalli says, reaching up to catch that ear and stroke it. “A potential alternative is biophosphorescence. The difference is that bioluminescence is an enzymatic chemical reaction; biophosphorescence, on the other hand, relies on exposure to light in order to produce a glow, and does not require an active chemical reaction. There’s a couple ways that could be implemented into hair or fur: by engineering the hair follicles to integrate the phosphorescent material into the hair strand’s keratinous structure as it grows out, or to have the phosphorescent material produced in the sebaceous glands that provides the oil coating for hair strands. The result is that exposing those hairs to light would then cause them to glow in the dark, slowly fading over time. Kind of like the glow-in-the-dark stars that people sometimes decorate their ceilings with.”

“Oh.” Rusalka blinks, taking all this in. It seems that a good chunk of it was going over her head until the glow-in-the-dark stars analogy was brought up. “I hadn’t realized there were different ways of making things glow in the dark.”

“Several, actually. Fluorescence is another one, but the light reaction with fluorescence stops as soon as the light source is removed. Phosphorescence and chemiluminescence hold their glows much longer, which is what I think you were going for.” Lalli explains. “I can see about working on something along those lines for you, but it will take a little bit. Biophosphorescence in animals is harder than biophosphorescence in fungi and plants, mostly because they can process, extract, and apply certain chemicals and elements better than animals can.”

“I mean, if it would be too much work for you right now…” she murmurs, looking away.

“I can work on it on the side. As a way to relax, on the days when I feel like it.” Lalli says, his thumb roving along the base of her tail beneath her nightshirt. “It’ll take a bit of time and research, and I’ll need to test the sequences with a couple of smaller animals first. Probably won’t be able to implement it until after we’re done here on Halcyon. But I’ll see what I can cook up for you.”

Rusalka smiles at that, rocking her hips a little as she leans forward to give Lalli a quick peck on the lips. “You’re too good to me.”

“Well, you are my special little exception.” he hums, tipping a knuckle up beneath her chin. “No need for you to try and bribe me with your body.”

“Maybe not… but I wanted to.” she grins, tilting her head down to nibble on that knuckle. “You’re still no good at picking up hints.”

“Ah, so this wasn’t entirely transactional.”

“I did promise to tire you out the other night in the hot springs. I figure I should probably follow through.”

“Heh. Well, you won’t catch me complaining… c’mere, you liddl’ gremlin.”

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

For those who wish to transcend the boundaries of individual transformation:

We have many callings for you.

There are those who have tired of the lives they have lived; have experienced all they wanted in the forms they have held. And yet some of these are not yet ready to go quietly to the end; they feel that they have not yet given all they could give to the Collective, and that their lives might still be of further use. For these, we have a purpose; for these, we have a place; for these, we offer the high honor of ecdysis.

It is through ecdysis that we reach the heights of service in the Collective. For in ecdysis, we shed the forms we have known, and transcend their limits; it is the literal and metaphorical growth of self into a higher purpose. Those who undergo ecdysis become the structures that form the heart of our communities; they become the vessels that carry us across the numberless stars; they become the hatcheries and hives that nurture and shelter us in our time of need. Through ecdysis, we become capable of things we simply are not capable of as individuals, to support and sustain entire communities in a way that no individual can.

And for many, this is the last transformation a Symbiote will make, their final form. For many, it is the capstone of life, and existence; the grand finale to an often long and prosperous existence. In some regards it is immortality, to serve in this state until consciousness merges with the greater hivemind, as part of the abstract and everpresent will of the Collective. In this, there is life eternal; for if there is one thing that weathers the reach of time, that endures beyond the erosion of memory and history, it is this:

The will of the Collective.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

PRESENCE

There was no place Lalli could go that could fully block out the guttural screams echoing through the tunnels near the chrysalis chambers.

It was mostly a matter of size. Large creatures tended to have considerable lung capacity, and volume as a result of that; Leviathans, being the largest creatures in the Collective’s arsenal, were logically the loudest. Even in their gestational state, they could be heard halfway across the hatchery when they bellowed. This typically was not a problem for the Leviathans born from the hatchery’s larvae, but for Leviathans born from unwilling and unrepentant Symbiotes…

They were decidedly more vocal than their larval counterparts.

There were differences, also, in the motivation for the vocalizations. With the Leviathans spawned from the hatchery’s larvae, it could almost always be attributed to what geneweavers referred to as growing pains; it was a natural part of the development process, in the same way that infants were fussy as their teeth were starting to come in. Growing wasn’t a painless process; there were times when it would be easy, and times when it would be uncomfortable. That was simply a fact of life.

However, for the Leviathans that were once unrepentant Symbiotes, the screams were often more than just growing pains. Often these were screams of rage; screams of indignation, of regret and grief and fear. For these creatures had awareness; they knew what they once were, and what they were being turned into, and they could do nothing about it. They had no choice but to accept the changes that were being wrought upon them, their bodies twisting and bulging and growing into something monstrous and unfamiliar. These outbursts, among geneweavers that specialized in punitive metamorphosis, were known as the ‘screams of the damned’, and other geneweavers in the hatchery had assured Lalli that it was a common phenomenon for any Symbiote condemned to be morphed against their will.

But commonality did not provide any comfort for him. For if these were the screams of the damned, then this was a hell of sorts, one in which his participation was a matter not of desire, but of duty. He could not deny there was a certain pragmatic efficiency to it; it served the double purpose of punishing the unrepentant while providing materiel for the Collective’s warfront. But it was an ugly task, and any pleasure he might’ve taken in spinning the strands was curbed by the knowledge that some of the recipients of his work would not be willing participants — something he was reminded of every time the roars echoed down the tunnels of the hatchery.

Despite his inability to escape these roars and what they represented, Lalli had still gone on a walk to try and distance himself from them, and that was where he now found himself, sitting against the wall in one of the hatchery’s many tunnels. His head was hung down, arms resting on his knees, trying to push away the weight of what he was doing and the anguish being inflicted on those he had been asked to punish. There was a certain horror that his non-larval subjects often experienced, an aggressive form of dysmorphia that took hold as their bodies changed and mutated beyond recognition; and with it came feelings of disgust, fear, shame, and despair radiating from their location in the hivemind. It was a difficult thing to come into close proximity with, and especially so for Lalli — because he knew those emotions were a product of his work.

It was as he struggled with this burden that he felt something brush up against his awareness in the hivemind. It was not quite familiar, as it did not resemble the mind of another Symbiote; this presence felt expansive and dilute, rather than compacted and contained, as was the case for most Symbiotes in the hivemind. It was not until it addressed him directly that he recognized it for what it was.

Troubled? Or at least that’s he would translate the impression as, because this presence seemed to communicate more with feelings than with words. It was not entirely unfamiliar to him, because Symbiotes often did the same thing, to a lesser degree; sometimes, as a way of shortening communication, they would substitute feelings or thoughts for words when communicating through the hivemind. It sometimes resulted in a broken pidgin of words interspersed with projected feelings, something that wouldn’t be possible or intelligible outside of the hivemind.

In this case, the presence had condensed a statement and question down into the projection of a couple feelings. It recognized his distress, mimicked it back at him, then followed with a projection of curiosity; loosely translated, this could be read as a recognition and acknowledgement of his distress, then asking him why he was distressed. In words, it might’ve proceeded thusly: You are troubled. Why are you troubled?

Lalli raises his head slightly. There was no one else in this tunnel; he could not sense any other Symbiotes nearby. To the visible eye, it might seem like he was alone; but one was never truly alone within a hatchery. It is difficult work. I am not accustomed to being the hand of justice. Of executing the punitive will of the Collective.

I see, the presence responded. Life sometimes requires that we do hard things.

I know, Lalli replied, taking a deep breath as he leaned his head back against the lichen-carpeted wall. Doing hard things makes us stronger. But it is not easy to endure.

If it was easy, it would not be hard.

I know. Watching the glowing patterns of nightlight fungi on the facing wall, Lalli found his mind wandering. Was it hard for you? When you went through ecdysis?

It was unfamiliar. But I would not say it was hard. Hard to adjust to certain things, perhaps, but my struggles were with logistics and adaptation. Your struggles seem to be emotional and philosophical.

Indeed, Lalli agrees. I know we must punish the unrepentant. But the fact that they deserve it does not make it easy. All the books I read, all the movies and holos I watched growing up, made me think it would be easy. The characters in those stories never struggled with punishing bad people. They never hesitated, they never gave any indication that it would feel bad to hurt bad people. He pauses, as if he’s working through his thoughts and trying to find an answer to the question he’s asking. Perhaps it was because the bad people usually hurt them, or someone close to them. These people I am being asked to punish — they have done nothing to me. Perhaps that is why I don’t look forward to punishing them. I know they have hurt other people, but it’s not the same… I think we are naturally conditioned to want to hurt people that have actually hurt us.

You do not feel a sense of rightness in punishing them?

Suffering is suffering, whether it is deserved or not. It is an uncomfortable thing to witness. An uncomfortable thing to inflict on purpose, especially when the recipient has not harmed you specifically. On the ceiling, one of the fungi fluoresces briefly as one of the hatchery’s cleaner centipedes brushed past it, on the hunt for dead or decaying biomass.

You were not made for war, the presence observes. You are a gentle weaver.

I suppose I am, Lalli concurs. But I am good at what I do, and Harbinger has asked this of me. Besides, what we are good at and what we want to do are not always the same things.

You say that because of your father.

Lalli blinks at that. I do. Have you met him?

I saw a flicker of him as you observed the difference between what you are good at and what you want to do. Did he teach you that difference?

Not directly, Lalli says as he relaxes somewhat. He was a military contractor. Proficient at what he did. But if he could’ve supported our family by doing so, he would’ve preferred to be a biology teacher for middle school. He liked teaching.

He can do that now that he is part of the Collective. Military contractors and teachers are equal in the eyes of the Collective.

I suppose he can, Lalli concedes.

It will not be long now before you can do the same, the presence observes. When your service here is completed, you will have the privilege of a few years to pursue that which you desire.

I suppose I will, Lalli replies, his eyes following the cleaner centipede he spotted earlier, watching it until it is lost in the tunnel’s gloom.

It does not please you that you will have the freedom to pursue the things you enjoy?

It is complicated, Lalli answers, his gaze coming down again as he stares at the facing wall. I have found that freedom is not always what a person needs. I sketch and draw as a hobby, and I often imagine to myself that I would be able to be an artist, be proficient at it, if I had the time to pursue it further. But back before I joined the Collective, whenever I had a vacation, or unexpected free time to myself, I couldn’t bring myself to draw during that time, or to draw well, at least. I was always dissatisfied with the result… it was only when I was working, and I had to cram my drawing into the evenings or the stolen hours, that I found myself motivated and improving. It was only when I was under the pressure of a routine, when pursuing my passion felt like an act of defiance against the daily grind, that I felt truly inspired.

That is an astute observation. Pursuing the dream no longer feels like the dream when it is within reach? the presence asks.

I don’t think it’s that, exactly, Lalli said, looking for a way to phrase what he was feeling. I mean it is what you described, to an extent. The dream no longer feels like the dream when it is given to you. But also, when the dream no longer feels like the dream… you no longer want it quite as badly. You’re no longer quite as motivated to pursue it, because you aren’t worried it’ll slip through your fingers. It’s a complicated feeling, where wanting the thing does more to help you improve than actually having the thing.

Complicated, yes. But it seems you have a good grasp on it.

I’ve dealt with the conundrum for at least a decade now, so I’m familiar with it, Lalli says. Having a few years to do whatever I want sounds nice. It may be what I want. But I’m not sure it’s what I need. Not sure it’d be good for me.

So you would want another job, another role after this?

I wouldn’t want it. But I may need it. For my own good, Lalli reflects. A small vacation after this, with my partner, I think. And then after that, perhaps a geneweaving post elsewhere, or maybe a continuation of my education. But I would need something to do, something that makes it feel like I’m still chasing the dream, instead of having it handed to me on a silver platter. After a moment of thinking about that, he turns the conversation about. You ask me much about myself. We spend considerable time discussing my problems. But you say almost nothing of yourself.

It is part of my role, to care for those under my supervision. Besides, there is nothing terribly exceptional about myself.

Lalli’s eyes rove the tunnel walls, mulling over the fact that he is staring at his conversant, and is usually within arm’s reach of them anywhere he goes within the hatchery. You must know my struggles, perhaps even more than I do. You contain them within yourself, these people I have been tasked with punishing, with morphing into creatures of war.

I do.

How do you endure it? Whenever they roar out their suffering in your depths? You likely feel them twisting, struggling in vain within you. You sense their disgust and their dysmorphia through the hivemind, Lalli asks. I would struggle if I had to carry that within me.

I know that it serves the grand design; I know that it is for a reason. It is not arbitrary nor capricious; and even though it is unpleasant, I know that it must be done for the sake of a crafting a better future, and upholding the pillars of justice. We must all endure a little discomfort to maintain the privileges and amenities we enjoy; and that burden is lighter if we all do our part and contribute to paying the price, the presence replies.

Do you share these things by way of trying to put my own struggles into perspective? Lalli asks.

Not as such. You may take from my counsel what you will. I simply share my own perspective on it, so that you have multiple frames through which to consider things.

I suppose it does help to be able to see things outside of my own limited view, Lalli says, taking his arms off his knees. I should probably get back to work.

Take heart, and know that it is necessary, even if it is unpleasant at times, the presence assures him as he stands. You help weave the strands of a better future. Sometimes they are dyed with blood, as they must be — that is often the price paid for an era of peace.

The corners of Lalli’s mouth curl upwards slightly, though his eyes remain sad. I will remember it. Thank you for taking the time to listen to me.

It is my honor. Fare you well, young weaver.

And with that, Lalli starts making his way back down the tunnel, returning to the great and terrible work of a war weaver.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

If you would not see immortality in ecdysis, fear not:

Immortality takes many forms in the Collective.

As the Cybers have mastered machines, and the Ranters have mastered magic, so to has the Collective mastered the flesh. That which other nations could only dream of is a reality within the Collective. The years do not faze us, for our cells are resistant to genetic damage; our genomes do not fragment and break down beneath the march of time. Injuries and ailments that would cut short lives and forever impair individuals are easily healed by our mastery of biology. We can grow limbs, organs, brain tissue, entire bodies as easily as one might grow a garden; and with this command of biological production, and the aid of the hivemind, we can easily transfer a person from one body to another.

This opens a world of possibility unto the deserving. For those grievously wounded in battle, we can have bodies ready for them to transfer into if they are not yet ready to give their lives in service of the cause, or if they are needed on the battlefield and it would take too long to heal their wounds. For those who seek new bodies, but find the process of metamorphosis too taxing, we can instead grow the desired body so that they may transfer into it when the time is right. And for those who find that their old bodies have begun to fail them, we can recreate them anew, and provide them a renewed leash on life for decades and centuries to come.

All of these are options for those within the Collective which have earned them. This is the promise of the Collective: that in service, you will find the dream fulfilled; that those who have contributed to the grand design may find their place in it. So come forth, children of the promise, and through your service, claim your inheritance.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

LEADER

Sitting alone in his geneweaving chamber, Lalli’s work was an unusual affair to observe.

He sat cross-legged in the center of an onion-shaped cavity within the hatchery, eyes closed and hands resting on his knees. There was a small gene pool off to the side, a miniature version of the one that you might find in the Collective’s normal genesis structures. Lining the edge of this pool are what appears to be small waterbugs with developed mandibles — known to others as weaverbugs, as they were created explicitly for the purpose of assisting geneweavers. And a soft green luminescence filled the room, generated by the nightlight fungi rimming the ceiling.

The work usually proceeded accordingly: weaverbugs would wait for a weaver’s command, usually relayed in the form of a request for certain genetic sequences, and upon receiving the request, would slip into the gene pool to locate the sequences and reproduce them. Once the sequences had been replicated, the weaverbug would exit the pool carrying them, usually in the form of a bead of liquid held between its cupped mandibles, and take them to the weaver. Weavers had many ways of accepting and processing this offering; but in most cases, and in Lalli’s case, the seam in his chest, just beneath his sternum, would open and reveal a small cavity containing the specialized organ that all geneweavers had. Lalli’s iteration of the weaving organ contained a multitude of thin, spidery phalanges that would reach out and take the bead of liquid from the weaverbug, pulling it in so that feathery, comblike appendages could brush it apart and begin picking through the sequences once the seam had closed again.

From there, Lalli would ‘examine’ the sequences, though not with his eyes. The microscopic structures within his weaving organ would take the strands of genetic material and ‘read’ them with a set of enzymes, and as they did so, Lalli would begin to sense what that particular sequence coded for. It was difficult for him to describe how he perceived it; when asked, he usually explained that he ‘felt’ what a sequence coded for as if it had been implemented in his own body. The example he often used was that if a sequence coded for retractable claws, he would get a sensation on his body where those claws would be present if he had that sequence. The same held true for sequences coding for everything ranging from organs to body structure to pigmentation; though sometimes it was harder to interpret sequences for living things that took a much different physical form than animals, such as plants or bacteria.

After reading the sequences, Lalli could then begin editing, splicing, and rewriting them, using the collection of enzymes contained within his weaving organ. This was where many of the challenges of geneweaving arose, because sequences had a level of interaction with each other that could not always be foreseen, even if they weren’t anywhere near each other on the DNA chain. Writing a sequence into a genome often came with a number of complications, which would then require that he track down the conflicts in the genome and see if alterations could be made, or if he would have to go back and rewrite the sequence he was trying to insert into the genome.

The process of writing the genome took up the bulk of a geneweaver’s working time, but once it was completed, the genome could be cloned, and the copy folded up to be contained within another bead of genetic liquid. That would then be taken to the chrysalis chamber for the target creature, and the monitors would inject the genome into the gene viruses that had been engineered to deliver such changes to Collective creations. After some time to reproduce, the virus batch would be released into the chrysalis chamber’s fluid, and over the coming days and weeks, the Leviathan would begin developing the traits or form that its new genome now coded for.

It was for this reason that Lalli’s brow was presently furrowed as he immersed himself in the challenge that he had been given. The question today was a matter not commonly seen in Leviathan design: delicacy and precision. As engines of destruction, Leviathans were typically not created with these things in mind; their defining traits were durability, strength, and combat-specific adaptations. For the most part, these fundamentals applied the Collective’s mission here; defeating Titans and breaching a fortified research outpost required these traits.

The end goal itself, however, required some delicacy. The retrieval of the Cherriki clones was the entire purpose of the Collective’s presence on Halcyon, and would serve the furtherance of the Collective’s evolution; but as those clones were little more than zygotes, so small they were invisible to the naked eye, they were understandably fragile. Fighting to the center of Genista and tearing open the command complex was not the issue; it was retrieving the zygotes and escaping with them intact that was the hard part.

This question had preoccupied the hatchery’s leadership for the past few days, as the Collective’s typical tactics for such a retrieval would not be reliable here. Usually the Collective would simply flood a target with cricket wolves and other warbeasts, overwhelm the defenses, and assimilate or steal what they had been after. Sheer numbers usually defeated the opposition outright, or kept them occupied long enough for the Collective to get what they wanted and get out.

But when the enemy had Titans at their disposal, numbers alone would not do the trick, because the metal behemoths were rather proficient at killing large numbers of smaller opponents. Even assuming the swarming approach worked to keep them busy, there was no guarantee that a smaller warbeast would be able to steal the zygotes and escape without being killed by a Titan. Like Leviathans, Titans wielded destruction on a colossal scale, such that even an accidental brush or misstep could destroy smaller creatures and structures. And with the zygotes being so small and fragile, it would be all too easy for them to be destroyed or damaged beyond repair if the warbeast carrying them took an unexpected tumble.

Hatchery leadership had therefore concluded that the solution was to go in the opposite direction, and task the retrieval of the zygotes to one of the Leviathans. After all, the massive creatures were designed to take a beating and dish it out as well; they could weather blows that would otherwise pulverize smaller creatures. And being as large as they were, it would be easy to create a containment organ somewhere in their central mass where the stolen zygotes could be stored and insulated from the abundant dangers that would be present during the retreat from the outpost.

Having settled on this approach, hatchery leadership had then tasked Lalli with making it a reality. He had immediately set to work after receiving the directive, pulling the genome for the only Leviathan that had survived multiple deployments; it was this Leviathan, which had escaped time and time again, that had always returned, and continued to receive adjustments and modifications to improve its survivability and performance. Though there were other, larger Leviathans that were nearing the end of their gestation, it was this Leviathan — the one that the Valiant had codenamed ‘Tantrum’ — that he trusted above all others. It had shown, time and again, that it had an instinct for survival — and out of all of his creations, it was the one that was mostly likely to escape once it had retrieved the zygotes.

For the conundrum of giving a Leviathan some level of delicacy and precision, Lalli hadn’t ruminated on the question very long before realizing that a simple solution was right in front of him. The weaving organ in his chest was an excellent template — the spindly phalanges gave it an exceptional level of tactile precision, and its recessed location behind his sternum gave it considerable protection from external forces. A modified weaving organ, scaled up and stripping out the microscopic elements used for geneweaving, would be the perfect answer to the conundrum posed by their mission. It was just a matter of weaving the sequences to remove the unneeded features, and getting Tantrum into one of the chrysalis chamber to push the change.

That task was well underway when Lalli found himself interrupted by a voice across the hivemind. It came suddenly, and without warning; there was a clarity to it that was jarring, as if the person was there in the geneweaving chamber with him. But that was not all; when the voice reached him, the whispers of the hivemind around him faded into the background, as if to make room for the voice.

The voice of Harbinger.

Lalli Ethena, Weaver of Halcyon. Hear me, for I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

Lalli immediately straightens up, though he keeps his eyes closed. It had been months since Harbinger had spoken to him; she only ever did so when she had an order for him. Technically, it was an order from the Collective itself, since Harbinger was a manifestation of the will of the Prime, and by extension, the will of the Collective; she was merely the conduit through which the abstraction took form. But even if she was ‘merely’ the conduit, the individual could not be separated from the singular gravity of the role; and as such, the direct address of a Harbinger was something to be treated with solemnity befitting such a rare occurrence.

I hear you, Harbinger, Lalli answers with quiet reverence. What is the will of the Collective?

The campaign on Halcyon draws to a close, through your efforts and the efforts of those at the Halcyon hatchery. The final movement is underway. It will not be long before the Rachtsprakte arrives to collect the Cherriki sequences, and bear them away to safety within Collective territory.

Lalli’s breath catches upon hearing that. Not only would a hiveship be arriving to retrieve the zygotes, but it would be the hiveship of Harbinger herself. You would oversee this personally?

It is an issue of importance for the Collective. The Prime has asked that I involve myself in the matter, and see to its completion. Once we finish our scouting survey here in the Vorcrueshen Abyss, we will be heading to Halcyon — not only to collect the Cherriki sequences, but to evacuate the hatchery and its Leviathans. They are needed on various fronts, and once we have secured the Cherriki sequences, we will have no more need of Leviathans on Halcyon.

While one does not technically speak as such within the hivemind, Lalli finds himself speechless. There seems to be far more in store than he had been anticipating; evacuating a hatchery was not unheard of, but evacuating Leviathans and redeploying them to other worlds was quite rare. Typically Leviathans never left the worlds they were born on, or deployed to — mostly because transporting such massive creatures from one world to another was a sizable undertaking, and it was more efficient simply to grow them onsite, or en route.

I… understand, he stammers. That will… require considerable preparation. We will have to start making arrangements…

The nonary has already been informed, and will see to the preparations. You will remain focused on your weaver responsibilities. But when the time comes to swarm the outpost and claim the Cherriki clones, you will accompany your Leviathans and personally oversee the retrieval of the clones.

Lalli is once again shocked out of any words he might’ve had, and it takes him a moment to compose himself and answer. You… the Collective wants me to go into the field?

This is a matter of generational importance. It cannot be handled from afar; that carries too much risk, leaves too much left to chance. It is the will of the Collective that a few Symbiotes be present in the battle itself to ensure that our forces succeed, and for you, it will be an opportunity to gain experience in matters of war. Can the Collective entrust this task to you, Lalli Ethena?

Some part of him shirks away on reflex. Lalli had never been the confrontational sort, nor adventurous; while he was capable of leading and managing others, it was not his first disposition. If given the choice, he would happily remain home, read his books, and draw in his sketchbook. While he did possess a certain tactical cognition, he had no appetite for violence; he did not dream of battlefield glory in the way that other, more ambitious men did.

And yet here he was, being called to the frontlines nonetheless.

If there is no one else suited to the task, I will go, Lalli answers, even though he cannot conceal the reluctance that hangs around it like a cloud. It will be my job to ensure that the Leviathans overcome the opposition, secure the Cherriki clones, and escape as expediently as possible?

That is the task we extend to you, yes. And yes, there are others suited to the task, who could take up the mantle if you decline it. But the Collective wishes to forge you into something more than what you are, and this is the path by which that is achieved.

Lalli’s brow furrows. What does the Collective wish to forge me into?

We are not yet sure. But we know you are capable of more, if granted experience and opportunity. The overthrow of Genista presents both. When you have completed your current task, go speak to the nonary. She will have more information for you, and bring you up to speed on the plans for the final attack on Genista.

Understood, Harbinger. I will do so, Lalli acquiesces.

With that, Harbinger’s presence retreats from the local hivemind, leaving familiar voices and thoughts to filter back in around him. Lalli takes a deep breath, trying to calm his heart; speaking with Harbinger was always a nervewracking experience, since you were standing before the very will of the Collective itself. And he could not help but be unsettled by what was being asked of him; though he had been close to combat, and involved in the Collective’s war effort for a couple years now, he had never been on the battlefield in person. It would certainly be a new experience for him, as Harbinger had said, and not one he was looking forward to.

Exhaling the breath he had taken, Lalli returns his attention to the sequences he had been weaving. It was hard to focus on them after a visitation like that, but he could not leave them halfway done — so for the time being, he pushes down the rising questions and concerns prompted by Harbinger’s command. He would work up to a good stopping point with the sequences, then put his work on pause for the remainder of the day so he could go meet with the nonary. His questions and concerns would likely be answered at that point — probably not in a satisfying manner, but it would be an answer nonetheless.

Because if there was one thing he needed before personally marching a squad of Leviathans into battle, it was going to be answers.

Hearken unto me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver, the hand of the Collective.

Know this truth:

It is a promise,

It is a privilege,

It is a punishment,

The mutability of the Collective.

It is the nature of all things:

To change,

To become,

To evolve.

Whether by need or want,

We transform.

We are the continual experiment;

The iterative process in the flesh.

It is only when we stop changing,

Stop growing,

Stop adapting,

That we must finally die.

Thus our nature:

The eternal hunt,

The eternal chase,

The pursuit of perfection,

Ever seeking, never found.

Until one day,

When all has been assimilated,

Every door unlocked,

Every form discovered,

Shall we lie down and rest,

As the universe grows dim and cold.

But until then,

We assimilate,

We grow,

We transform,

We evolve,

We adapt,

We change,

We become.

Hear me, children of the promise.

For I am Weaver.

I am the Collective.

ROMANTIC

Green.

That was the color that dominated the hall that ran through the chrysalis chambers. It was the natural hue of the amniotic fluid that filled these chambers, and provided much of the illumination for this tunnel, which twisted and wound like a vein through the the various cavities that housed the developing Leviathans. Most of these cavities were massive, larger than mansions, sometimes large as a city block, and so walking past them was not a quick matter. It could take a half-hour to fully traverse this area of the hatchery, and often did — Lalli typically made it part of his daily routine, as it helped him stretch his legs and get some exercise.

He found that these walks help him clear his mind and organize his thoughts, especially in the days since the meeting with the Harbinger. He had gone to the nonary afterwards and received a briefing on the end of the Halcyon campaign; the main objectives, the expected timeline, the tentative battle plans that were still being smoothed out. He had nodded his way through much of it, only speaking up when he had something to ask; while he was tactically-minded, there were actual experts composing the strategy, and it was only proper that he defer to their knowledge and experience. They had already planned his presence into the battle plans for the Genista assault, which seemed to infer that even before their meeting, Harbinger had expressed her desire to include him in the closing operation of the campaign.

Since then, he had resumed his work, albeit at an intensified pace. The rest of the hatchery was likewise preparing for the Harbinger’s arrival, and the anticipated evacuation of resources and personnel. The tunnels were busier nowadays as a result of those preparations; it would not be a full abandonment of the post, as Symbiotes never fully abandoned their hatcheries and hives if the structures had a chance of surviving. And since the Genistans hadn’t managed to pin down the location of the hatchery, it made sense to keep it active, slowly spreading through the subterranean seafloor, building what could one day be an extensive foothold for an assimilation campaign on this world. Such was the strategy of the Collective; to work slowly and patiently, planting seeds that would one day grow into mighty trees, and bear the fruit of time bided.

But in the present moment, extraction from the planet was the will of the Collective, so most of the hatchery was preparing for that. As the weaver, Lalli had been exempted from those duties so he could continue his work, but Rusalka was assisting with the preparations. Or so he’d thought; because later, finding himself ruminating in front of a membrane in one of the more open regions of the chrysalis chambers, he was surprised to hear her voice coming up behind him.

“Hey, pervert. I got your lunch.” Looking around, Lalli saw Rusalka crossing the cavern to him, holding a tray crammed with both his lunch and hers. “You working hard or hardly working?”

Lalli turns towards her. “Weren’t you helping with the evacuation preparations?”

“I was. Got permission to have lunch with my special someone.” she says, shifting the tray to one hand as she arrives, and picking something that resembles a french fry off of it. “It still amazes me that we can genetically engineer potatoes to grow on the ocean floor. Have you ever considered doing geneweaving for crops?”

“I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at it.” he says, taking the tray from her and sitting down with it. “At least with crops, you won’t be asked to charge into battle alongside your creations.”

“True. I’ll be with you when you go to Genista, though.” Rusalka says as she sits down on the other side of the tray. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll keep you safe.”

“Mmm.” is his only reply to that, and she can sense through the hivemind that he is still concerned about the orders he was given. Both for his own safety, and for hers.

“You can still say no, you know.” she says as she sets a pair of chopsticks into a bowl of noodles, and holds it out for him to take. “You would have a good reason, and Harbinger did say that there are others qualified for the task.”

He takes the bowl, leaning back against the membrane of the chamber behind them. “What we should do and what we want to do are rarely the same thing.” he replies, using the chopsticks to stir around the noodles, mixing around seaweed and a variety of other greens in the bowl. “I don’t want to go to Genista… but it is the right thing to do, after spending months sending off my own creations to die there. I should at least see the place where so many of them were killed while trying to reach the objective on this world.”

Rusalka listens, taking her own bowl and mixing it around before replying. “They knew they were going to die, Lalli. That’s part of their design; they’re not engineered to live that long, the bigger ones especially. You don’t need to risk your life to honor the death of creatures that were made to expire.”

“You’re right, I don’t need to. But I feel like I should. It’s about the type of people we choose to be.” Lalli replies as he start eating his noodles and greens. “Even if they’re made with a limited lifespan, it’s still a sacrifice that’s being made in service of the grand design. That should still be respected and acknowledged, no matter how fleeting.”

“Idealism is a dangerous thing in a war.” Rusalka says, picking a button mushroom out of her bowl and biting off the cap. “It’s good to be honorable and all that, but if it gets you killed…”

“I wouldn’t let it go that far. But at the same time, I like being able to sleep at night.” Lalli says after another mouthful of noodles. “There’s certain things… certain kinds of guilt I could live without.”

“I get that. Just remember there are some things I can’t live without, and you’re one of them.” she says, picking up a french fry and holding it out to him. “That’s why I’m coming with you when you lead the attack on Genista.”

He knew better than to argue it with her. They’d already had this conversation, after the meeting with Harbinger; he had brought Rusalka up to speed that evening. There had been an argument, which he had handily lost; Rusalka didn’t usually pick fights, but there were certain things where she’d dig in her heels, and this was one of them. He still wasn’t happy with her decision, but he knew why she was doing it, and he knew he couldn’t stop her, so there was no point in fighting her over it.

“You still think that dying together is romantic?” he asks, taking the french fry offered to him.

“A lot more romantic than you dying out there while I’m all alone here at the hatchery.” Unrepentant and stubborn; he couldn’t tell if she was doing it out of loving spite, or if she truly believed her words. It was quite possible that both were true at the same time. “You don’t think dying together is romantic?”

“I think living happily ever after is romantic. I don’t like tragedies.” he says, picking up another fry after the first one, and holding it out to her. “I like endings where we feed each other french fries and talk about getting a pet one day and stay up late on the couch watching cringey anime and moan over how bad it is. Is that romantic?”

She leans over, taking a bite of the offered fry. “…I could go for that. That’s romantic enough for me. But just in case things go sideways, can we at least plan on dying together in battle? That’s romantic, and it’s cool.”

“Fine… but let’s make that plan b or c.”

“What’s plan a?”

“Survive this posting, knock a couple systems off our bucket list, have at least two kids and a couple cats, stick around long enough to spoil the grandkids, live happily ever after, and then wing it from there. Or something along those lines.”

“Mmm, I like that plan. How soon did you want to start on the kids?”

“…I dunno. How soon did you want to start on the kids?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one that’ll be doing the heavy lifting, so to speak… so I figure I should defer to you.”

“Ah hahaha, you think you’re clever, don’t you?… are you sure you wanna leave that up to me? What if I told you I wanted to start right away?”

“Okay okay fine… how about a couple years? A little bit of time to see the galaxy before we start settling down?”

“Yeah… I think that’s good. A couple years it is, then.”