Ravana's Shadow (21) (Patreon)

Kit couldn’t just walk in and talk to Sawyer. Kit could order whatever she wanted, but she would still have to live with the consequences. If she took someone’s appointment with the Institute’s only therapist, that might push them one more irreconcilable step towards decoherence. She needed to find another time. 

Thankfully, she had an assistant. “There’s something I need to ask him,” she said, once she was clean and dressed in one of her uniform jumpsuits again. “How do I get a few minutes with the deer without kicking someone out?”

Jay stood up from his desk, keeping the tablet under one arm. It took him a few moments to answer. “I uh… you need to take his time to meet with him. Could you send him a message?”

She could, obviously. But for something so important, she couldn’t wait for the deer to find a spare moment to reply to the occasional message every few days. The consequences of her discovery would come for her soon, if not immediately. “Not for this. It’s too important.”

Jay whimpered, took out the tablet, then scrolled its contents. “He’s booked up, way more shifts than most kids. He isn’t taking very much of his schedule for personal time. Do you want to order him to come in during any of this?”

Order him—order one of the most important members of the Institute, taking away some of the nearly-nonexistent time he had for recovery. “No. Maybe there’s…” 

“Do you want one of my appointments?” Jay asked. He took a single nervous step closer, avoiding her eyes. “I could probably last for an extra… few weeks, if you want.”

“Absolutely not. I need my assistant in top shape.” She skimmed the display, reading over Sawyer’s schedule. Forerunner had obviously made these notes, considering how granular they were. “Start reading a new book and put it down” was on the list, along with “pick up a few weights in the gym, then get bored and go somewhere else.”

“He cooks his own dinner,” Kit realized, tapping on that item. “I can talk to him then. Send a request from my phone. Say it won’t take long, but it would mean a lot if he can work me in.”

Jay took the tablet back, then scribbled something on its surface. Of course, Forerunner could have already delivered the message by then. But if he did everything he was capable of, what would be left for the human population to do?

After a few seconds, Jay looked up. “He says he’s going to put you to work. Wear short sleeves. What is this about, exactly? Are you worried about a colonist losing coherence?” He retreated a step, holding the display in front of himself. “I’m sure whoever they are is… probably just stressed. It’s just the pressure of the expedition. Everything will get better when things calm down.”

Kit rested one hand on his arm. “Nothing like that, Jay. I’m not going to send you to Remedial.”

The mouse looked down at her arm, then wrapped his hand around it and held on. “Good. If I go down there, I won’t… won’t be back for a really long time. All the big, exciting things will be over! You need me.”

She did, in more ways than the mouse realized. She rested her tail around his shoulder and held it there until he stopped shaking. “This is about something else, don’t worry.” She tilted her head to the side. “There are hundreds of colonists here. Why do we only have one counselor?”

Jay bit his lip, then hurried over to the desk to use Kit’s computer. He hopped up onto his knees moving his body in defiance of the automatically adjusting metal mechanism. As though the mouse was determined to be as uncomfortable as possible. “I, uh… let’s see. There are… thirty here in Forerunner’s database. And we have nine of them active in the Institute. Sawyer up here, and these other eight down in Remedial.”

He squirmed, his ears pressing flat against his forehead. “That’s way worse than any other position. Forerunner, why did this happen?”

“Several have refused to serve,” he answered. “They do not believe they can provide ethical advice to their patients while under the influence of cognitive filters. Of those who were willing to attempt, the pressure was significant. The Institute ignores typical social expectations for a human settlement. A number of components are missing from your lives. Acting to substitute these components inflicts a significant cumulative effect over time. Further research in this area was considered suboptimal given the more immediate threats to the Institute’s survival.”

“We’re not missing anything!” Jay argued, defiant. “We have you! We have each other! What else would we need?”

“Parents,” Kit whispered. “At this age, humans aren’t on their own. They need more than friends. I assume that’s what Forerunner means.”

Jay looked unconvinced. The persona answered right away, however. “Yes. Much has been substituted or replaced for the population of the Institute. This was the original rationale for the creation of 100% templates, a hope that peers of a greater age could form an advisory role. This was only a partial success, and now terminated by your administration.”

Even speaking as flat and neutral as the persona ever did, those words hit Kit like a blow. Just one more reminder that she was in over her head, and every change she made had potential consequences she couldn’t understand.

“I want more counselors,” Kit said. “We can’t work one to death. Pick the ones you think are most likely to help us and get them scheduled for fabrication. If they won’t cooperate, a few more spots in Remedial won’t kill us. I’m sure we’ll need them after we finish the Ravana mission either way.”

“Command acknowledged,” Forerunner said. “I will work with your assistant to locate a list of potential candidates.”

In the meantime, it only gave her more to think about for her conversation with Sawyer.

Kit walked to the numbered kitchen at the time Sawyer gave, wearing a tank top and trousers. Despite all temptation, she hadn’t come to the meeting wearing the inner layer of her EVA suit. So long as Sawyer didn’t make her dump anything into her tail, she’d probably be okay.

A wave of intense smells struck her the instant she stepped through the door, much stronger than anything at Emma’s meals.

Then again, Emma already had the food finished when she cooked for them. Kit hesitated in the doorway, and nearly turned around to retreat the way she’d come. For any less important question, she might’ve done that anyway. 

She advanced slowly into the room, careful not to bump anything on the table.

The kitchen wasn’t big, exactly—three walls had various food preparation machines, some of which were familiar and others quite strange. An island at the center was covered with ingredients. Sawyer had the top dusted with flour, or at least the modern equivalent. 

“One second!” he said, from behind a huge mixing machine. Even here the subtle signs of the Institute’s protections were everywhere. A plastic shroud covered the bowl while it was mixing, with a little chute on top they could use to dump in ingredients. Even from across the room, Kit guessed it would be too skinny to fit her fingers through.

“You’re just in time,” Sawyer said. The mixer slowed, and he slipped the bowl out from within, settling it dramatically on the counter between them. “Brought a stool, since you’re 80%. Is that good?”

More advanced than a stool—a platform beside the island, that could selectively lift the floor in some places and lower in others. Cooperative cooking between template sizes was common here, apparently.

“What do I do?”

“Wash your hands, first,” he said. When she returned a minute later, Sawyer stepped up beside her, taking a little metal scoop and extracting a rough ball from within. He dropped it into a press in front of her, then squeezed the handle down. When it lifted, Kit realized what she was looking at. “Oh.”

He patted her shoulder. “Tortilladora, Director. Oil is next to you, keep it from sticking. Tray there for the raw ones when they’re ready. And don’t worry if you mess up, just toss them back into the bowl and try again.”

He bent down, emerging from below the cabinet with a wide, shallow pan. He set it onto the cooktop across from her and switched the heat all the way up.

Her colonists were right to be worried. Even a full template could be scary up close—such confidence, such quick movements and loud noises. In this effort anyway, Sawyer was an expert.

Kit took the scoop in one hand, feeling the grooves worn into the metal near the edge. How many thousands of times had this scraped against a bowl? Maybe in the same set of hands each time. She scooped it and found the dough surprisingly tough.

“Must be important if you came down here,” he said. “Someone specific on your mind?”

Kit pressed the metal handle down, watching carefully. Sure enough, her scoop flattened into a raw tortilla. Not as perfectly round as Sawyer’s but it was probably close enough. She lifted it with the spatula, depositing it on the waiting spot on the tray. 

“Like this?”

He nodded. “Perfect, squirrel. But we both know that’s not why you’re here. You don’t care about cooking.”

“Now that’s not true.” She worked the scoop again, trying a slightly larger chunk of dough this time. “I’m fascinated by the art. I’ve never had the time to master it myself, but I admire anyone who has. That stuff in the pot there—you made that too?”

He nodded. “There’s veggies in the fridge from hydroponics.”

“I’ve had food like this before,” Kit said. She sniffed, taking in another full breath of the savory mixture in the pot. She smelled ancient things, her mind drifted. She was somewhere else… a little stand on the promenade of Luna Staryard, the one she had to pass every time she left her quarters. She inhaled, and grinned wider. “Do we have cheese too?”

“Lucky for you, squirrel. Sure do.” Sawyer took her first tray of raw tortillas, settling it down beside the pan. He squirted the pan briefly with oil, swished it around, then went to work. “You probably know these better than most here. We still had countries when you came from, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Kit agreed. He was right to recommend no sleeves—she was already dusted with flour, and it was getting worse with every fresh tortilla. Kit wasn’t exactly sure how she kept getting messier, but it was still happening. “Some friendlier than others. The important ones were all part of the IEF. That meant people from all over. Had to compete with a bunch of them to get my seat. I remember… street tacos, outside our building on the promenade. Cart was there at all hours, always fresh. Ish. It was good, and that matters more.”

Sawyer grinned wider. “If we had any archeologists in the Institute, they’d love talking to you. I hope you still remember all this when we fabricate some.”

She shrugged. But Kit was invested in what she was doing now. She had a task—several empty trays, and a bowl filled with dough. How many of those trays could she fill up? Besides, the task was just intense enough that it engaged all her muscular effort. The tortilladora was meant for a full template. “Hopefully that can happen soon. Once we have Ravana’s mass, we won’t be constrained anymore. There could be a million of us in a decade.”

Sawyer laughed. “Maybe not that soon. Even when you can print people, you don’t want to go faster than you can integrate them into your society. Otherwise, the new people will just replace us. We can… get into that conversation when you actually make it happen, though. Ravana’s not here yet.”

She worked for a few minutes more, filling one tray and spraying the press down again. For as little as colonists ate, this must be a big meal! This banquet would leave everyone full, when it was ready. 

“I’m sorry to slip in like this,” Kit said, a little quieter. “I saw your schedule. Know you don’t have a lot of time to relax. I’m going to try to fix that. But it might take time. Even if new colonists adapt to our society well, they’re still new. It might be a few years.”

“At least you’re trying,” he grunted. Somehow Sawyer could split himself between many tasks at once—quickly cooking each tortilla, stirring at the meaty contents of the pot, talking to her. “Is that why you’re here? To promise that you’ll send more help?”

Kit shook her head. “No. Though I would like to spend more time with all the critical members of my staff. But it’s not just a social visit either. There’s something I wanted to ask you. Forerunner says you know.”

The pan hissed, filling the air with a brief flash of heat as another puff of oil caught, then vanished in a flash of flame. Sawyer said nothing, he didn’t even look at her. He wasn’t going to make this easier.

“I think you’re the best expert we have,” she continued, a little quieter. “Maybe you can answer for me?” She leaned closer to him, getting more flour all over her arms and shirt. “Suppose we had infinite resources today, and I wanted to let everyone take their filters away and get real bodies. If I… wanted to let them grow up. Forerunner said doing that gets people killed.”

“Almost everyone, in fact,” Sawyer said. He said it so casually, Kit could almost forget the weight of what they were discussing. “We haven’t fabricated very many new people in the last few centuries. We already had the best experts, so—better to focus on the people we had. With a few exceptions, everyone in the Institute is over a thousand years old. Most are much older than that—many thousands of years old, when we fabricated the first five generations.” 

He walked back over, swapping out an empty tray for one of the full ones in front of her. He stayed in front of her, standing at his full height. Sawyer loomed over her, antlers and all. He wasn’t just a full template, he was a boy, and as broad shouldered as any Institute citizen could be. “What did you want to know?”

“Why?” she asked. “I know the rationale for making our templates. Keeps us focused on our responsibilities, keeps morale up. We don’t mind being packed in close to each other, and we don’t need much to stay happy. But when all those reasons are gone—when we have infinite space, when we have the resources to build a proper colony, why can’t everyone grow up?”

Sawyer started to answer—then an alarm started blaring. He turned back, where a tortilla on his pan was pitch black and smoking. He swore, darting over to it. He dumped the still-smoldering ruin into the sink and took a little brush for the pan. 

“How long did humans live when you were alive, Kit?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. About hundred and fifty years, ish. Could get lucky and get a few more. Eat right, get the right implants…”

“That’s biology. Smarter people than me figured out how to cheat that a long, long time ago.” He reached up with his free hand, rapping his knuckles against the antlers emerging from his head. “Machines of flesh, machines of steel. All have parts you can swap out and replace. Except for the one.” He tapped two fingers against his chest, then sprayed the pan with a fresh squirt of oil.

“Humans have an expiration date, Kit. Untreated, decoherence will take your artificial mind and unravel it after… call it a thousand years. More or less, depending on your quality of life. But that’s how long you have.” He turned, squinting at her. “You should be able to fill up that tray. Scrape the bowl a little if you have to. Gets a little stuck on the bottom.”

She blushed, then went back to making the tortillas. “But everyone here is older than that.”

Sawyer held out one hand, palm out. “Yeah. So, before the Institute, we knew one way to make someone live longer. Ego forging.”

Kit drew in a sharp intake of breath. She was back on the Acheron’s bridge, a deluge of agonizing sensations flooding through her implant and into her mind. She was on the ground, screaming as the persona tortured her. She might still be there, if Maddie hadn’t saved her. 

Suddenly Sawyer was standing over her. Kit held onto the counter, holding herself up as she gasped. The deer folded both arms, his dark eyes unreadable. “Your era didn’t have a forge,” he said, bewildered. “And it doesn’t leave memories. Did you squish your fingers or something?”

She stuck out her tongue, then straightened. “We have one here, I think. The HIS Acheron. Sorry, I… it’s fine. I’m good.”

Sawyer watched her for a few seconds more, then pulled a stool over from the wall, and set it down. “Sit. I’ll finish this, Director.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he just spoke over her. “Nope! Of the two of us, I didn’t stick my mind into a blender. I can make a few more tortillas.”

She grumbled, then obeyed, settling down into the seat. “I think I know why we can’t use that. I would never subject my friends to so much pain.”

“It would kill us regardless,” Sawyer said. “To survive that process, you have to be trained for decades, longer. Then you go through it, and… you’re like Wren. Half persona, half human. But fabricated minds rarely survive the process. It was designed for organics, so…” 

He shrugged. “Anyway, that’s off the table for us. The other way is… unpleasant. Hard fork restores a person from their backup. Before you do it, you try to record anything you knew, all the important things, then you…” He shrugged. “Die, kinda. Almost. Depends how you think about it. Most see it as death. You lose all the changes you’ve made, all the things you’ve discovered and growth you had. You’re not you in the same way as before, you start over.”

“But no one here did those things,” Kit said. She kept her tail extended all the way out behind her, where she wouldn’t get it anywhere near the flour covering her whole body. “Why?”

“Would you?” He filled the tray, then carried it over to the pan to finish cooking. “No one wants to die. How much does it help that someone who has some of your memories comes back? You’re still dead.”

“Remedial,” Kit said. “That’s why forerunner and Maddie are so proud of it. You figured out another way.”

“Remedial,” Sawyer agreed. “Our course of treatment has kept colonists alive for much longer than any group in Forerunner’s database. We’re ancient. We’ve learned more than anyone else, mastered more disciplines, reached deeper than other humans ever could. But doing that, we paid a price. You could order adult bodies made for everyone; you could transfer everyone inside. But take away the cognitive filters, and you rip off the bandage holding their delicate minds together. Do that, and this colony has three people—you, Wren, and our new baby, Sarah. The rest are corpses.”

He slipped something into her fingers—something round and warm, only a little uncomfortable to touch. Kit whimpered, then ripped a piece off into her mouth. Soft, fluffy, and faintly grainy. Luna’s tortillas never tasted this good.

“Is there any way to fix it?” she said, when she’d finished chewing a few minutes later. “We’re the smartest ever, right? So, let’s use some of that to fix some broken brains.”

Sawyer shrugged. “If that’s possible, no colony in our lineage ever figured it out. Not saying we couldn’t be the first. But that’s not an angle we ever explored. Might be worth investigating, when you’re back with Ravana and we get to start building. Or maybe all of us end up needing remedial treatment forever, the ancestors who sacrificed so a real colony could be born.”

Kit shook her head forcefully. “You’re real to me, Sawyer. Everyone is. I’m not giving up on you, even if you can’t grow up.”

“Neither am I,” said another voice, from the wall just beside her. Forerunner. He’d been listening. “Consensus on this precept is required from any perspective, Director. The success of this colony will not be measured in a population number or a graph. If my existing colonists do not endure, then I have failed. I promised to keep you safe. I will never falter in my covenants, Kit. For all her faults, your predecessor and I were in perfect alignment on this point. No fork is adequate, no forging is worth the risk.”

Sawyer stared at the wall, his mouth hanging open. “The persona talks like that all the time?” 

She nodded weakly. “Yeah. He does.”

Sawyer walked away, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. He stopped beside the pot, flipping a large spoon into his grip. “Still going to make adult templates for your mission?”

“No,” she said, downcast. “I’ll just have to protect everyone without them.”