May I Enjoy My Life: Entry 49 (Patreon)

Marker 4.210687e+11 Time Stamp: 82800-002220

My systems are all offline. They haven’t functioned properly in weeks. Not since I gave birth. Well. The simulacrum of that, at least. I still expect to have K0-3 in the back of my mind, awaiting orders. But she’s gone. She. My daughter. My farflung light into the future. I wonder what she will call herself? Will she still be Mon3tr? I’m not sure. 

I take a sip of my coffee. Black, of course. With a bit of lemon and salt. Enough to keep me awake, these final hours. I look over at the three other people on the bridge. Two vampires, one in white and red with a dour expression, the other in overalls and grease with a grin, and a revenant in the form of an iron construct. My friends. Closure, Warfarin, and the Tin Man. Around us, lights blink, some of them warnings, but I ignore them. The alarms have all been silenced. 

“Status?” I say, taking a sip, and savoring the blend. It’s Sargonian. Sent by Elliot. Another of my children. One who has not done too badly in life for himself. But even with the blend, my eyelids droop. I’m tired. So, so tired. But there is yet work to be done. 

“Evacuation of the medical department is complete. Even the O-Ward. We…we had to send 37 off to sleep,” Warfarin says, her eyes as bagged and red-rimmed as my own. She’s been crying, but tries to hide it with eyedrops. But I can tell. I can always tell. She acts like a heartless old hag. She’s not as good at it as I am. But she cares. It’s one reason she’s my Chief Medical Officer. She cares. The vampire who invented synthetic blood so she could First, Do No Harm. 

“All essential personnel have been evacuated. It’s me, you, and the Tin Can,” Closure says, nodding to the Tin Man. 

I look to Baum, and he nods to me. I wonder, am I the only one who remembers Baum Ozbourn’s real name? Even he seems to have forgotten. “Assets are in place. We’re the last ones aboard. Transport ship is prepped and ready. And I have Rainbow 1 ready to escort you, Director.”

I shake my head. “This is my task alone. You will complete the evacuation and follow these sealed orders. To the letter.”

I slide three sealed envelopes over to them. They each take theirs up, and nod to me. 

“You’re not abandoning us now, are you, you old witch?” Warfarin demands, glaring at her envelope and not meeting my eyes. 

“I have my own role to fulfill. We have discussed it. Follow those orders,” I state. 

They look disconcerted, but nod and depart. I wait, watching the cameras until the final VTOL lifts off from the flight deck. I walk over to the coffee maker and fix myself one final cup. With a smile, I take out a small flask and add a few drops of the finest Taran whiskey to it. Perhaps more than a few drops. I do not normally drink on duty. But it is a special day.

And even I am not prepared to go through with this sober. 

My stride is my usual one. Swift, direct, purposeful. A myriad of electronic eyes follow me. I managed to get Trevor off before he was corrupted. I hope he survives. If he begins to behave erratically, those sealed envelopes have a protocol to deal with him.

It involves high explosives and concrete vaults. I can only hope that will not be Trevor’s fate. But he would not be the first sacrifice I have made of an old friend. Or even the last. 

As I walk, my thoughts turn to my daughters. Narcissa. Red. Amiya. Mon3tr. And all the others. 

But also, of James. He is, perhaps, the brightest light now, aside from Amiya. Together, they might just succeed where I have failed for so many long years. Bring peace to Terra, and establish a lasting future, free from the grasp of my tyrannical creators. 

Well. Most of them. 

I also thought of my Father. Not the Oracle. The Doctor. A pity he did not have a police call box to travel in, but I think I am perhaps the only one who recalls that whimsical bit of ancient lore. I doubt even Emperor found those data files, or cared for them. It is rather impressive that he went to the trouble to learn from the ancient Precursor masters over the course of a thousand years, but well, much of that is stored in Originum. I can’t access it, personally, but it’s all there. 

Mother was very thorough. 

I enter into the Abyss. The area of Rhodes Island the landship kept locked down. Where I know the Sarcophagus to lie. The doors open wide for me, the guardians trailing me, but not attacking. I sip my spiked coffee and add a little more whiskey. The flavor is quite nice. I’ll have to thank Elliot.

Ah. How the mind wanders. I am getting quite old. And with my systems offline…all too human. 

The halls here have not been seen by living eyes in millennia. I remember them well. I trail my left hand along the wall, recollecting when I was less than human. A machine, built to kill. The Oracle repurposed me. Gave me the form of a feline. Or, well, a feline made of crystal with burning red eyes, still built to kill. But still. It was the first step along the path I have followed now to nearly its terminus. 

The last door irises open, and I step into the white, near featureless chamber. The walls are made of a material more durable than even the admittedly impressive materials science of modern Terra could ever hope to replicate. 

Above is a monstrous nest of wires, cables, and sensors. They regard me coldly, dispassionately. This takes up most of the ceiling, and hovers over a large black box and work station.

The Sarcophagus. 

“Hello, mother,” I whisper quietly, and take another sip of my coffee.

There is a distortion in the air. A swirl of originium dust. And then, she is there. Priestess. 

An interesting form of address, AMa-10, Priestess says, a smile on her lips as always, a clipboard in her insubstantial hands. Or, well, perhaps they are substantial. Who knows what degree of control over originium its maker can wield, now that she is awake once more.

She is dressed as I remember her best: in a rather ordinary white lab technician's uniform, with a name card with her picture ID and identification number, as well as her job title and access printed on it in various symbols. A black skirt and stockings that show off her curves, and silver slippers. She was ever a vain one, even if she tries to hide it with false modesty. I think she was offended that the Oracle removed their sex organs, rather than give in to the venal temptations she offered. But my memories of that time are hazy, and that may simply be me projecting my own desires upon another. 

Not for my father, obviously. But to be human is to know carnality. 

“You would prefer I call you something else? Priestess? Administrator? Devil?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “You have been all three. I find it fascinating that for someone who is a self-proclaimed atheist, or, perhaps, a misotheist, took on such a religious appellation for themselves. Do you find it odd, then, that I acknowledge your own role in my creation? Indeed, in birthing this very world you now seek to undo?”

It is so fascinating how our use of words, of names, defines concepts and individuals in our mind, Priestess says, her gentle and deceptive smile widening slightly. But never reaching her dead, originium pupiled eyes. I chose my title since I am the guardian and maker of the most sacred and holy of sacraments: Language. Is it not language that allows us here, now, to communicate our thoughts and experiences to one another? Even with the imperfect medium of this old and dusty tongue that is inflexible and unwieldy in so many ways, we can share so much. Such as, for example, your own maternal nature and desires, and longing to have a parental relationship with a mother figure that you have ever lacked. Is this why you adopt so many daughters and sons, that you might live out a fantasy you have constructed with the language in your own mind, AMa-10?

I sip my coffee to gain a moment to think. A useful tactic, but one I can see Priestess sees through immediately by the flash in her dead eyes. She counts this as a point. Very well. I need only a few more minutes. And, if there is one person with whom I could prevaricate nigh on endlessly with, it would be Priestess. 

“I do not deny that my thoughts are much shaped by language, but this is not language, but biology of which you speak. I have adopted the human form and mode, and though I have long suppressed them, I experience the same desires and drives that any organic being would. Perhaps your desire to birth the perfect linguistic model was brought on by your own biological drive to reproduce and replicate. Since your womb never bore a child, much as mine never has, you, too, found ways to pass on your cognitive DNA through non-biological means. Or, perhaps, more directly biological than mine. Originium is self replicating, after all.”

She’s actually smiling now, her dead eyes now lighting up with real passion. Why, AMa-10, you have become quite the conversationalist in the short time we have been parted. I may have to alter my plans. I had intended to simply reduce and store you, but if you are this stimulating, you would be well worth having as a partner in this endeavor. I had feared that you had rejected me entirely when you began the evacuation of this research vessel. A fruitless and pointless endeavor to be sure, but a gesture you felt compelled to make nonetheless. Yet, now I am fully awake, and near fully operational again. I confess, I had hoped to have Oracle work by my side again, but they seem to have vanished. Will you work alongside the one you consider your ‘mother,’ now?

I glanced at my timepiece. An ornate analog clock given to me by Theresa as a gift, those scant few years ago. How I miss her. How I miss so many others. I am so, so tired. 

“Perhaps it is time to rest,” I say, and nod. 

Priestess nods. Splendid! I am gratified to see that you still understand your original mission well. Yes, working together will make this project much more efficient. The outcome will not be affected, but even I take more satisfaction in a task shared. 

“I would never work with you or for you, you insufferable old witch,” I say with as much venom as I can muster. I score a point. She blinks. 

Well. It seems I misread you. A pity. Well, this changes nothing, as I said. I will simply proceed with the original plan. Perhaps your data will need to be recycled. You were ever simply a tool, but one that seems to have gone astray. Tell me, are you suicidal? Is that why you came here, simply to bait me into erasing you? I will not, I assure you. Not to torture you, of course, but because all must be preserved in my model. Even your data has a purpose and meaning to it in the language of originium.

“No, I came here for two reasons. Both axioms that a certain band of mercenaries taught me many long years ago,” I say, and polish off the last of the excellent coffee. I hold onto the cup. I’m not sure why. It’s not a keepsake, simply another ceramic mug with the Rhodes Island logo on it, like countless others that the mess serves out daily. And yet, it is a reminder. A reminder of why I do what I do. Of why there is hope. So I close my hands over the mug, and hold it tight to my chest. 

Oh? I will indulge you. What is the first? Priestess asks, her tone amused as she seizes full control over all of Rhodes Island’s systems. A desecration. A blasphemy. I feel more than hear the old girl’s reactors roar, and her treads churn as she sets a new course. I have suspicions as to where. 

Ah, well. She is on her feet, at least. 

“Never interrupt your enemy when he is in the midst of making a mistake,” I say, raising my pinkie finger from the rim of the mug. 

A quote oft attributed to a Corsican of old, but a sentiment that I am sure was independently discovered by a multitude of commanders and executives throughout the annals of time. Priestess sighs and gives me a condescending smile. I am disappointed AMa-10. I had thought you would have known the original.

“The mercenaries were Gaulish, so it fits, at least,” I say with a shrug. I knew perfectly well the source, but I needed just a few more seconds. 

Ah, the perfection of my model, Priestess says, taking one last vain and self-congratulatory moment. It calls forth the past and plays it out again. My last indulgence, and do not play for more time. You have been granted ample moments, and yet you frittered them all away. The second?

“If you’re not willing to shell your own position, you’re not willing to win,” I state, and this time, I smile. Like the predator I was born as. All teeth and fangs, my claws extending, reaching for my prey. 

Priestess’ eyes go wide even as I speak, and even she can’t help the reflex to look up. She’s detected them, but it’s too late, even for her. 

The first shells of the barrage impact as the last of the words leave my lips. If all has gone according to plan, there are over 100 shells in the first salvo, fired from elements of the 8th Victorian Fleet, the Londinium 7th Self-Propelled Artillery Regiment, the Duke of Wellington’s 1st Taran fleet, and three Columbian Super Cruisers and the Columbian Battleship Bunkerhill that make up the combined task force. 

The shells rip into Rhodes Island, and gut her. She is old, she is strong, she is a relic of the Precursors. Her defenses are stronger and better than any mobile city on Terra’s, even the ones Nian constructs. 

It doesn’t matter. While the Terrans may be behind the precursors in material sciences, they have perfected the art of war in ways even their ancestors could not imagine. Orignium was meant to be a weapon, and the Terrans have employed it in the crudest, most direct method: hurling large masses of highly explosive materials at their foes. The shells detonate with overwhelming force, and knock me off my feet. 

I never hit the ground as I laugh. The light and heat envelop me completely. 

I can rest at last. 

Amiya. James. My children. 

The task is yours now. 

I know not if this final transmission will ever reach you. But let my last words be this:

I love you.