"Hopefully the ship will be behaving today," Morpheus comments as he leads the trio into the old starport. "Last time I believe it wished to reclaim its missing parts. Understandable, but they aren't available for reclamation."
"Of course not since it would require vivisection of me and I'd honestly rather not. I've never seen such a thing, but I the dictionary I seem to have memorized makes it sound extremely unpleasant," Icarus comments as he enters the old starport warily. It's subtle, but Envoy can feel Icarus is generating some sort of protective field about himself; probably instinctual reaction to knowing he is entering someplace dangerous; he may not even be aware of it.
The starport looks pretty much the same as it had some time back, a kaleidoscope of rotating colors and soft humming from the crystal of the ship and of the dormant gate. Nothing moves, nothing make an attempt on anyone's life ... yet.
"Maybe you should wait outside while I try to talk to the ship," Envoy tells Icarus. "That way I can see if the information you need is actually there first. But it should be.. I'd think any spacecraft would need to know about inertia control."
"What if it eats your head?" Icarus asks as he eyes the monstrosity warily.
"It would get indigestion," Morpheus comments helpfully.
Envoy ponders that. "It is unlikely to be a normal function of the ship," she decides. "I suppose Morpheus needs to be careful too, since he's got part of the ship in his head as well."
"I am considerably more sophisticated than the ship, though," Morpheus claims, "Planets are superior."
"Unless you need help moving," Envoy comments as she approaches the ship entry. She pokes her head in, and looks around for the Drone.
The inside of the ship is silent as a tomb. It takes a bit of looking to spot where the drone ended up; it is partially fused into one of the walls, inert.
Envoy hmms, and enters, heading back towards the engine bay area to see if there's any progress on self-repair.
It's a bit hard to tell since everything is made of the same material, but there does seem to be some progress towards engine rebuilding. The formerly vacant slot that housed the part presumably now embedded inside Icarus seems to have a newly grown part inserted into it.
Next, the Aeolun looks around for some sort of access port. She last told the ship to go into sleep mode for repairs, but doesn't know how to wake it back up. "Hello, ship?" she says aloud in Aelfin.
"Hello defective construct," comes the ship's reply, along with the ambient lighting level doubling. It's not blindingly bright by any means, more like a sunny day with a few clouds bright. "You are still broken. This can be corrected once you are disassembled and defective components replaced."
"You need to devote your resources to your own self-repair," Envoy replies. "And on that front, I need to access your flight function library and control systems."
"Defective constructs are not allowed access to critical systems," the ship replies. It could be her imagination, but there is a hint of smugness to that comment.
"I only need a copy for review," Envoy replies. "In exchange, I will give you a new unique designation."
"A new designation has no value," the ship claims.
"Well, what does have value to you then?" Envoy asks, poking at one of the crystal devices in the chamber.
Zot! Envoy is hit by one heck of a static discharge! She now looks like a walking cotton ball. "Completing missions and cataloging for my creators," the ship answers, oblivious to Envoy's state of disarray.
"Cataloging what?" Envoy asks, a bit of smoke coming from her mouth. Luckily her fur isn't that thick. "What was your last mission?"
"Species that will be reasonable servants to the creators, and those that can be eliminated to conserve resources," the ship replies.
"What resources need conserving?" Envoy asks, looking at the ceiling. "Can you name the last successful candidate species?"
"/Species designate 1,243,917," the ship replies. "/As for resources, organic lifeforms require an inordinate amount of compounds to function. Production of these compounds consumes energy that could be better used. Only those with sufficient skills are worth the cost./"
"I was not aware these compounds were produced by the.. by our systems," Envoy notes. Then she tilts her head slightly, and asks, "Do you perform your surveys within the artificially generated universes related to the planetary engines?"
"/It has been one method of cataloging. Others are travel to other systems via space folds," the ship answers. "/But those were deemed to be expensive as well. Lures are now used to draw species to this system for analysis. Of the set of non-original life-forms currently in the system, only one has been deemed worth keeping, the others will be erased during the final stage./"
"Only one? Which one is that? Can you give me a description other than the catalog number?" Envoy requests.
The floor extrudes a blob upward that squirms disturbingly as it takes on a new shape. Namely a lanky felinoid form decorated in spots. "Species 1,243,917. They have demonstrated minor telepathic abilities, combined with their skill in manipulation of crystalline structures for various purposes. Structures are primitive, but can be adapted to serve the creators. This is contrary to species Species 1,243,916." There's a pause as the shape morphs again into something bat-like. "An interesting species with unusual physiological adaptations and senses, but have shown a misguided interest in using biogenetic engineering to create its tools and machinery. Biogenetic engineering is a dead-end approach compared to quantum level manipulation. This species will be eliminated in the final phase; including its home system and colonies beyond the confines of this system."
The Aeolun twitches her cheek at this revelation. "What services have previous species been put to?" Envoy asks next.
"Which species designate?" the system inquires.
"Candidates from previous phase selection," Envoy replies. "While the communications network is down, I do not have access to the databases."
"Records regarding previous phase selections were expunged when they were cleansed from the planetary bodies," the ship claims. "Failed evolutionary branches that have been eliminated do not require record keeping."
"None of them were put to use?" Envoy asks.
"Incorrect. Current usage of previous phase selection was the adoption of language in use at this moment. Some were adapted to maintain planetary systems. Extraneous members were kept isolated to one planetary body for use as spare parts if required in the future," the ship notes.
So the Aelfin were used to create the Balfin and Svartifin from," Envoy thinks. "What happens to them if a better candidate is found?" she asks next.
"They will be eliminated to free the resources, of course. The creators believe in recycling," the ship claims.
"Would the creators replace themselves?" the Aeolun asks, just to see what the response might be.
"Question is illogical. Perfection is not replaced," the system notes.
"If they are perfect, why do they require servitors?" Envoy asks.
"To focus on more important matters than mundane systems maintenance," the ship claims.
"What happens to them if the system fails though?" Envoy asks, ears perking.
"The system cannot fail," the ship claims.
"Of course it can," Envoy claims. "Parts of it have already failed. That which cannot fail does not require maintenance."
"The system has not failed," the ship repeats.
"The Master Interface is unusable," Envoy points out. "The communications network is down, despite the Primus Engine being reactivated. What evidence do you have that the Creators continue to exist?"
"Perfection does not cease, therefore they continue to exist," the ship states.
"Nonexistence is also a state of perfection, in that it does not change," Envoy argues. "What was the original form of the Creators?"
"There are no records of the creators before their ascendance aboard this vessel," the ship notes.
"They likely destroyed any record of their larval, imperfect state," Envoy says. "Will you now give me a copy of your control functions?"
"There is no reason to provide them to you," the ship states rather flatly. "You have provided nothing of value. Unless you have something useful to contribute to the catalog, there is no reason to provide."
"Something useful?" Envoy asks, and blinks. "You have not cataloged ME yet. I am a product of advanced organic and inorganic engineering combined with quantum and space-time manipulation, which happens to be compatible with the Creators existing systems. Is that of value?"
"You are no such thing, you are a defective construct of the creators," the ship insists.
"They did not create me," Envoy insists.. although she's pretty certain they modified her. "The creators do not create defective things. They are perfect, after all."
The bat-shaped thing before her shifts again, morphing into the semblance of a chair. Unfortunately, it doesn't look terribly comfortable and it has a lot of rather sharp-looking ... bits. "If your statement is valid, then prove it by sitting down and being cataloged," the ship requests.
Eying the chair, Envoy first asks, "What if there are elements you cannot scan?"
"That is impossible," the ship claims.
"So there is no protocol in place for encountering material that the creators did not know of?" Envoy asks for clarification. They didn't seem to know about timestone before she showed it to the Svartifin, after all.
"The creators know all; their servitors do not," the ship clarifies.
Envoy approaches the chair, and asks, "How long does the cataloging process take?" Whatever the ship learns of her, she reasons, isn't going any further than the ship itself at least.
"Cataloging time depends on complexity of item being cataloged. For something defective it is unlikely to take more than a few minutes," the ship claims.
The Aeolun sits in the analysis chair, and hopes the ship isn't biologically active enough to actually react to her cells in any way. At least, it shouldn't be able to culture them, she thinks.
It may not be able to is the theory ... but that doesn't mean it may not try to. Envoy feels stabbing pains all over her body as bits of the chair constrict and fold in around her, shoving needle-thin bits of crystal into her body all over. There's even a sickening crunch as she feels one enter the back of her head. And of course it only gets worse when she feels them split and spread out inside her!
Fractal probing, she thinks, and tries not to grit her teeth. Pain is not something she's ever really gotten a handle on. Below a certain threshold, she can usually ignore it (although, without Probe that sort of filtering is a lot less effective). Over that threshold, and her awareness tends to shut down, forcing her into repair mode. Either way, she isn't fond of it.
The notion of using the connection to scan the ship flits through Envoy's mind as well.. but without Probe she doubts the usefulness of the attempt.
It apparently hurts enough that Envoy's world closes in around her as her vision goes completely dark; leaving her floating in a void of nothingness.
Cut off from her own body.. Envoy can't do anything but listen, and try to pick up any chatter from the crystal network.
Trying to listen seems to have an effect on her surroundings. Instead of void, points of light start popping in around her; millions of them. The points of light then trace out thin lines to each other, interconnecting into a vast map of nodes. Two of them are currently brighter than the others, along with being closer. '1,243,917' is floating above one of them, 1,243,916 is floating above the other. The two recent questions she asked. Could Envoy be actually seeing into the ship's own catalog and library indirectly?
Envoy tries to send a synchronization request, focusing on node 1,243,917.
Ow. The request succeeds and Envoy's mind is flooded with imagery! She sees great worlds, spires of crystal and metal, and immense ships crossing the starways. Everything about the imagery seems so ... organized and hierarchical. Symmetry and structure in their society, mimicked by their architecture. She can feel the beacon from some time in the long past; the hint, the trigger, the lure, that the felinoids could not deny that drew them through the gate that brought to, and trapped them, in this system. She also gets momentary glimpses of some of them being ... examined. Silent-Ones are not so silent when it feels like every nerve is on fire as they are taken apart down to the cellular level it seems.
The information on Silent-Ones being mildly telepathic is news to Envoy. The flood of information... is just that, a flood. She can't organize it automatically anymore. She also wonders what would happen if the ship manages to access her ansible interface and get to the Tyrrhyan catalog of worlds and species stored in the timestone grain. Would it be confused by information from a different universe?
And would Envoy even know if it did? The telepathy would make sense if it were subconscious, that combined with hand symbols would make for a complex and subtle language, after all. Some of the images of the silent-ones seem familiar, such as one that looks like Born-In-War ... only dressed in a far more complex and simmering space suit. This may also not be terribly surprising given there is little genetic diversity in that race from her experience.
From that connection point, Envoy tries to delve further. It makes sense for the catalog to be exposed during scanning.. but can it let her access core systems as well? She sends more synchronization requests, trying to query and identify nodes without accessing them.
The second one that she hits is 1,243,916; it was the closest proximity, after all. Images explode through her mind again. Felines are replaced with what could be things out of a nightmare. Cities, no, whole worlds, that are composed of bio-tech. Great organic buildings and ships that span systems. The species is all too familiar to Envoy, Chiropteran based life-forms. Scary to some cultures to be sure. The images somehow manage to be ... elegant; well-dressed and respectable. Far cry from a species she lived with for a time back on Babel. What does catch her by surprise is that some of the faces look familiar. One that flashes through is a beautiful woman, tall, shapely for her kind, and with that bearing a gentle smile.
Underneath that image is text; the forms are similar enough to current-day Babel-script that she can make it out partially; it's a title - Ambassador. The image shifts before she can delve into it further. Up next comes a thinner, perhaps a bit more nerdy given the nose-tip glasses, Eeee with short-cropped hair. She's dressed in vivid green, the title etched out beneath her as 'Doctor'. Images flip and scan again, A white and gray woman in military garb, designated Security Chief, then another one in dark red attire designated 'Exploratory Officer'. Each and every face that flies by strikes her as if she's looking through the Babelite pantheon ... only as if they were real people with specific jobs. The last one is an older woman, perhaps once pitch black, but her hair has begun to gray with age. This one was titled 'Admiral' ... one responsible for all the lives of the people under her charge. Each and every image though is missing something; cruelty, insanity, all the warped desires of myths.
Perhaps it is really true after all, all myths have a grain of reality in them somewhere if it is traced back far enough.
Wouldn't the first time the command crew of a starship became the gods of the colonists, Envoy thinks. Of course, given bio-tech and artificial intelligence, they may very well still be the originals. What would Inala's position have been? Morale Officer, probably. She's pretty sure some of the Olympians started out as real people too.
The images that flash through her mind may dispel the thought that they could still be 'alive'. They were the ones that the system 'cataloged' down to the cellular level. It's good her hearing doesn't reach the pitch that the species does, because all of them screamed, save the older one, the admiral.
Cataloged, Envoy thinks. And reused as needed when the Babelites began thinking up a pantheon. I don't want to be a god, she thinks, and keeps searching. Now she really wants to be able to monitor the cataloging process. The occasional dissection she can deal with, but not when Icarus can walk in on it.
Unfortunately Envoy has no access to what is going on th her. All she can see are the catalog nodes in this strange virtual-space. The node switches again, bringing up '1,243,914'. Humans. This one is a blur of imagery of a relatively technical society with separation between military and civilian populations. She also gets blurry insights into the 'servants' of the humans, 'uplifted' species from their homeworld. Why? Possibly a desire to have a group they could feel better than. Perhaps they found them 'cute'? Perhaps they wanted a disposable workforce. It's impossible to make out in the blur of the data.
Humans and dogs conquered their homeworld together, no big surprise they'd want better dogs to help them tackle the universe, Envoy comments to herself. One of these nodes must be her.. she just has to keep going higher up the list.
And she might see it. It seems to be next to a node ... that has an index title of navigational and location data. The question Envoy had been asking about earlier...
Jackpot, maybe, Envoy thinks, and tries to access the adjoining node. Hopefully she can download it and transfer it to Icarus.. and the he can make use of it without much tinkering, since it's made for his parts.. well, before they became him.
Access successful! It's another massive stream of data. It's overwhelming since it seems to have extensive mappings of many galaxies and locations of millions of worlds! Just as the download into her own system is finishing she 'hears' an alert from the adjacent node; her own. "Probing mechanism detected; offline but in reparative stasis, expected re-initialization predicted to be in ..." Then everything snaps and she's sitting in the chair, inside the ship ... and amazingly intact.
Envoy blinks three times to refocus on her location. "The Master Interface's scan was faster," she notes.
"Illogical statement. You do not know the current time, so you cannot accurately compare," the ship points out.
Envoy does check her internal clock. "How long did the cataloging process take then?" she asks, so she can recalibrate.
"Ten seconds. You are a primitive construct," the ship claims, "There were only minor points of interest; the organic components are nothing remarkable."
"At least I can repair myself," Envoy says with a smirk. She's actually a bit relieved at the ship's assessment - it makes her think it couldn't discover everything about her. Assuming her illiaster processing ability still even exists, anyway. "But you did get to add me to your catalog."
"Of course," the ship replies.
"Are you willing to offer me equivalent value in information now?" Envoy asks.
"I do not see that I have to, but I suppose I will," the ship concedes.
"Good," Envoy says. "I'd like your security override codes then."
"That seems more valuable than what I obtained from you," the ship points out.
"Hardly," Envoy says. "You know how defective and primitive I am now. How could I possibly use the codes to my advantage? By giving them to me, you are effectively taunting me and rubbing my nose in my own inferiority."
"An acceptable argument," the ship concedes. There is another lancing pain in the back of her head, followed by a blurred burst of information.
Artificial Ego is a useful thing I suppose, Envoy think. Definitely better that I go through this than Icarus, too. Last time it wanted to give him a crystal horn. "And just so I remember my place, I wish to designate you as: Bucephalus," Envoy tells the ship.
"I have no need of something as primitive as a phalus," the ship claims.
Envoy blinks at this.. and laughs! "The word may not translate properly. The name means 'Ox Head' and belonged to the steed of a great conqueror who spread civilization throughout a primitive world. Bucephalus was the greatest steed of his time, the only one worthy of the conqueror, who was also the only one worthy enough to tame the steed."
"If it pleases you to refer to me by such a designation, so be it," the ship concedes to humor the primitive. "If there is nothing further I shall resume repairs. Prediction that main communication relay will be functional within a few solar cycles."
"Security Override," Envoy says, and touches the wall of the ship to try and transmit the code. "Set communication relay status to fully operational, disable self-diagnostics. Delete logs of it being damaged."
" ... acknowledged," the ship says grudgingly.
Smiling, Envoy says, "Enjoy your nap and continue repairs, Bucephalus." Then she heads for the exit.
Outside, Icarus and Morpheus are talking. Icarus notices Envoy first, looks over, and comments, "No luck? You weren't in there very long. Does it still want to take me apart?"
"It's begun replacing those components already, and I wouldn't let it harvest you anyway," Envoy says. "I should have the necessary information for your systems.. it just may be buried in a lot of extraneous data. I also have a lesson for you to memorize, Icarus: Never underestimate the value of being underestimated."
"Are you sure you were underestimated?" Icarus inquires, head tilted to the side. "That ... thing is rather impressive."
"It's a horse," Envoy notes. "A talking horse, but still a horse. I'm only a little bit horse, but I know how to talk to a horse. I think. We'll know in a few days. If it tries to kill us next time, then I underestimated it."
"I'm sure that has never happened before," Morpheus comments as he gives Envoy a sidelong glance.
"I'm sure I've underestimated the ship as well, but it lets me call it Bucephalus now, and gave me its security override codes, and it only cost me being scanned," Envoy says, forcing a grin. "Ready to learn some flying horse tricks, Icarus?" she asks the boy.
"I don't have to wear a saddle and a bridle, do I?" Icarus asks, sounding alarmed. "There was a book that Violette showed me that had people dressing up like that. She thought it was weird and had to share it with me."
"Where did she get that?" Envoy wonders. "Babelites.. uh.. I'm sure it's nothing you have to worry about, Icarus. All little girls want a pony is all. Or something. I was never a little girl so I can't really be certain." She waves Icarus to come closer. "I can't filter this data.. not until the part of me that does that is awake again. And that probably won't be until I activate the Leviathan. But it should bypass your consciousness anyway and feed right into your node.."