After ice-cream, Tasha shows Tashly some other places of interest on Rephidim's upper side which she discovered while tending to the ancient Karnors. Tashly seems astonished by it all, never having really gone beyond the Bazaar and Darkside before. This inspires Tasha to later suggest to her mother that she should think about starting a business topside as well. Desdemona balks at first, having plenty of excuses, including finances and not knowing how things run up there. While Tasha thinks she might be able to help with financial backing, she has to admit that she doesn't know how business really operates in the city - but she does know someone who already runs a successful business. She leaves Aaron Lightfoot's contact information with her mother and adoptive sister, before she needs to return to Abu Dhabi.
Tasha can't afford to wait for the Rake to come in, but Underside has plenty of small, fast airships with negotiable routes. She also has another advantage: Blackwings knows which ships can be trusted, and how much that trust will cost, so that Tasha doesn't end up overpaying.
Three days of traveling brings her back to where she started..
Back in arms and armor, after a short side trip that seemed to take a lifetime, Tasha stands at the far end of Gateway Town as she gazes up at the looming monoloth that is Gateway Tower. And thought she looks much the same as she did -- like a mercenary that had seen enough battles to be missing pieces inside and out -- inwardly she returns in greater spirits than when she left. The burden of galactic worries and trials of gods remains in her mind, but home and family has done much to help her endure it. It no longer threatens to break her, at least not for the moment.
One hoof infront of the other she steps along the sandy road and makes her way towards the intake checkpoint.
There is a lot of traffic, which seems to be backed up - and quite a few upset merchants. The Offworld Legion is also present, instead of the usual Kampfengruppe troopers to guard the Gateway. This change in routine may be the source of the backup.
The young cadet frowns. She's seen the Offworld Legion before, interacted with them and even helped a number of them escape their virtual slavery to reach a new life -- but she's never had to interact with them directly in any official capacity. That they're here worries her, though she worries about much these days and no shadow is beyond suspect.
Moving towards the nearest merchant group, Tasha glances at the line and then inquires, "I notice they've brought the Legion out, has something happened?" Of course she has some idea why and knows full well that she is the cause. The origin. The Kampfengruppe's capitol was hit, and she's the one that swung the fist. It speaks of her life that she had nearly forgotten an invasions of a major city in the face of larger worries.
"The Gateway was closed," the angry Khatta says, forgoing the flowery niceties since Tasha seems to be a mercenary. "Two days of commerce lost! The rubber-heads left, and sent these goons through.." It's possible this Khatta merchant isn't originally from Abu Dhabi. "Thank the First Ones I wasn't carrying cheese this time, to be sitting out here like this. The schedules are all off now, and these Legionaires aren't exactly the organized sort. Right now they are holding a bidding war as to which world will be opened today."
Wonderful, thinks Tasha in an inward sigh of irritation, though the irritation is likewise directed inward. I should have seen this coming, but to close the Gateway? Are they that badly off? She knows full well the Gateway is the Kampfengruppe's one major ace in the hole, a trading and cultural bottleneck they stand to milk for all its worth -- and the same is true for their Khattan partners. The last thought brings Tasha to ask, "How can they close the Gateway without pressure from Abu Dabi? Unless this is a mutual action?"
"There have been shutdowns before," the Khatta says. "I do not think the Legion is going to honor any bids, though. They shouldn't be able to do anything until their rubber-head masters return. But at least then the path to Abaddon will be open!"
It occurs to Tasha she never thought about the day to day running of Gateway. Given she's never been present during any delays, she wonders if she hasn't been lackadaisical about a major point of Sinai-Abbadon trade. She assures herself that her focus is elsewhere, but it still comes as a surprise not to know. "Is there any time table?" She then asks, turning again to watch the line with distaste. "Anyone that can be spoken to?"
"You can argue with a Legionnaire.." the merchant suggests. "This was supposed to be an Abaddon day. It is usually Abaddon, Ashtoreth and Arcadia, and then two more Abaddon days.. two days of shutdown, then it all starts again. We lost Ashtoreth and Arcadia so far this cycle."
Considering her options, Tasha decides she has little choice but to wait. Starting a row with the soldiers in the face of what she's done and who she is strikes her as a incredibly bad idea. She still can't confirm whether the Emirate is allied and in contact with the Khattan Trade Emirate, either, making any effort that much more dangerous. "It looks like a hostel for me, then," she asides to the merchant. Normally she'd check in at one of the diplomatic offices and shore up there with other officials, but this isn't a normal trip and she suspects there'd be questions.
A very officious looking Khatta is moving down the line of wagons, accompanied by a shifty looking white-furred Skreek in Legion gear. She's holding a clipboard, while her assistant is forced to carry a heavy looking ledger. This seems to indicate that some form of official order is coming to the chaos.
"Good luck finding something," the merchant notes, then changes demeanor as the official approaches. He's just a 'regular' Khatta, while the official is a lynx type - which usually denotes some direct affiliation to the Emir.
Uncertain whether she wants to be included in official order or not, Tasha bites her lip as she watches the clipboard wielding woman but decides at length there's really no choice. If she hopes to return home, she can't avoid scrutiny forever. "Thanks," she replies belatedly, stepping back behind the merchant's group and in to the line, "I hope you can get through soon." It's a bit awkward, but Tasha's mind is on the official.
The wagon before the one Tasha is next to gets diverted to a different area, and then the official is talking to the merchant. She too has lost her Abu Dhabi mode of talking by this point, and is all business. "Destination and cargo?" she asks the merchant, in a tone that also suggests 'I don't have time for flowery talk'. The merchant clears his through and gives his name, that he's bound for Abaddon, and that he is bringing ironwood. There are a few other formalities, such as showing his stamped Gateway pass and receipt, and a brief inspection of the cargo. He's then directed to close up the gap to the wagon ahead, since this is apparently the line for Abaddon.
The official looks a bit confused to see Tasha standing by herself, as opposed to escorting a merchant. "This line is for Abaddon," she tells the armored woman.
"I'm for Abaddon. Cadet Argentine, special business," Tasha replies with brevity. She can appreciate directness and simplcity, a tendancy of her avian half. She also hopes brevity and impatience will be her shield against sharing more than necessary.
"I need to log your pass," the woman says, and holds out her hand.
Tasha doesn't hesitate to fish it out despite the detailed information on the pass, knowing any detail or hedging would only further suspicion. She hands it over and adopts a mask of professional boredom.
The official cross-checks with the big ledger, which the Skreek has to hold open for her, makes a note on her clipboard and then hands the pass back to Tasha. "And your receipt?" she asks next.
Tasha provides that as well. She wasn't certain when or how she'd get through on teh way back and considers herself far beyond deadline; the individual ticket was the most flexible if not the most subtle. Balancing acts.
"If the Abaddon gateway opens, it should be within the next hour," the offical says, after adding a stamp to the receipt. "Please stay in line. Do not lose your place, as it is numbered. Do not interfere with anyone coming through from the Abaddon side."
"Yes ma'am," goes Tasha, who gives the woman a sharp incremental nod. "I won't be any problem. Thank you for your time." Politeness is another grease for the wheel, cleaner most others she knows.
The official waves her forward to join the previous wagon, and then moves on. She's shortly replaced by vendors selling water, food and.. a rolling outhouse. Some of these wagons have been in line for over a day, after all.
Tasha makes use of the convienece, picking up water and a light snack -- some Abu Dabi creation she chose by pointing rather than by any knowledge of its name. The sharp cheese makes her scrunch her muzzle as she eats, eyes scanning the line as they have been doing for the last half an hour, though all she really looks forward to is getting home.
There is some commotion at the front of the line, and the Legion is hurrying about. "Finally," the merchant ahead of Tasha says. The dray animals are snorting and stomping to get ready.
"Finally," Tasha agrees. She reflects upon how little justification she has to be upset and, beyond the thought and darkly, how much guilt she should be feeling for delaying these peoples' lives if the raid was indeed the cause of the closure. Though refreshed and in relatively good spirits, the delay and the line puts her in a slight surly mood and she was never that fond of Khattans, to say nothing of the Kampfengruppe. Thus she shrugs her inner shoulders at her guilt, feeling it and accepting it without much of the sense of burden she might otherwise feel. The grind of waiting, life and lines breeding apathy.
There are quite a few Kampfengruppe troopers that the line passes, including some officer type that debriefs the Legion troops. They're speaking in Bosch of course, so Tasha can't really make anything out. And then it's through the Gateway, from the hot, arid Himaat desert to the cool, arid and more sulfurous Abaddonian one. The wagons are herded off to a designated staging area, whereas those on foot can go wherever they want.
As usual upon her return, Tasha doesn't stop to visit the tourist attractions and istead angles for the businesses serving the Abaddonian community. She picks up a pack of flavored and scented cigarettes (Dusty's Black Lady complete with the image of a smoking Karnor woman sitting in a bar) and pockets them before lighting one up and heading towards teh airfield. As she walks her nervousness continues to increase, the reason for the cigarette when she can't drink. She doesn't expect anyone to be waiting for her, but she has to check.
The airfield is actually empty.. mostly. There is an Abaddonian airship, but the lines are very different from what Tasha has seen - and since it also has diaphanous wings on its engine pods instead of propellers, it is likely Confederate. Without the Dainty Mauler squatting across the horizon, the airfield looks very big and lonely.
Whereas Tasha feels small and lonely. That, too, has become something of a tradition upon returning alone. The cold wind of an increasingly familiar world that doesn't entirely welcome her, a home that isn't quite and maybe never be, strangers out of time and place that have carved out a place on this barren world. She stands there staring at where the shuttle had once been, lit cigarette held in her teeth, rolled this way and taht as she shifts her jaw and doesn't think. Too late. Gone.
The longer she stands there the less she thinks about anything, just staring at and feeling being where she is. Uncomfortable, cold, too late. Not the warmth of Sinai; the only cpmfort from her cigarette. But she stirs after a long silence, knowing it's temporary and that her place in the universe isn't going to get any closer if she continues to stand there. On a lark and feeling a bit cheeky in her moodiness, she turns towards the ship.
Before she gets very far, a large hand falls on her shoulder. "Got another of those cigs?" a gravelly Vartan voice asks.
The hand can feel the woman tense and the eyes see her cigarette freeze in a moment of danger, but it passes as quickly as it came. "Sure," she goes, not quite certain of who she's dealing with and not having yet made the decision whether they need to be hurt or not. A feign expression of nonchalance crosses her muzzle as she reaches undr her cloak, drawing out a cigarette and turning both get a look at at the voice and offer it the cylinder.
It takes a moment to realize who is bumming the cigarette, since Tasha has never seen Captain Frane in civilian clothing. He doesn't wear it well. He holds the cigarette in his talons, and then asks, "How about a light?"
"Sure," repeats Tasha, who goggles a bit at a civilian Captain Frane. She realizes she had never considered him to exist outside his duty, as if he were returned to the same warehouse as tanks and Titans when not in use. "Sorry." The same hand reaches in, pulling out a lighter. It's a low-tech thing, flint on a convienient holder, thumb activated and without any fluid, making lighting take some time.
It then occurs to the young woman her cigarettes are very girly, the kind Karnor women often smoke. It feels as wrong as Frane's clothes. "Sorry," she repeats. "Dusty's. Black Ladies." It doesn't feel like enough; nothing she says ever feels like enough around Captain Frane, it all needs explaination and perfection. "I, uh, liked the lady. On the cover." And the explainations are always uncomfortable.
Frane doesn't seem to be in any hurry. Once the tip is lit, he takes a drag, and blows it out of his beak nostrils. "I like her too. The branding is the only difference, it's all the same poison," Frane notes, and then tries to steer Tasha away from the landing field. "Come walk with me so I don't look so suspicious on my own."
Tasha considers noting she looks very suspicious in general, bith due to her armor and the fact she exists at all, but it feels wrong and so she simply goes along with it. But the silence doesn't feel like enough either, so she remarks, "I like your clothes," knowing they both know it's a lie for conversation's sake.
"No you don't," Frane replies. "They slouch. I do not. It's over this way.." he appears to be taking her to one of the many crevices that necessitate all of the bridges in the area. This one isn't near a path though, and has no bridge. Just a sulfurous clouds rising from it.
"Sorry," Tasha repeats, her cigarette dangling from her muzzle as she talks. She feels like she's apologizing a lot, but that too is a facet of dealing with Captain Frane. She told him once she wishes she had a father like him. It's enough she doesn't even ask where they're going, or why.
"You like Karnors?" The young woman then asks, curious but wondering if she went too far or suggested too much. To justify and avoid, she adds, "The black lady. On the box."
Once they get to the edge of the crevice, the big Vartan takes another puff before saying, "I like the armor," he admits. "Karnors are cute enough. It's the tail wagging."
That causes Tasha to smile a little. "I like the tail wagging too." A puff of her own, then she pulls the cigarette out and tilts it towards her rear. "Didn't wag much until recently." The same hand then taps her armor. "Special use."
"Your armor prevents you from wagging your tail?" Frane asks, looking more closely at what's visible beneath the cloak.
"Vartan armor, can't wag much." Tasha lifts her cloak, showing the plated explosure. "It's uncomfortable, but that's armor." She then cocks her head to tthe side, letting go of the cloak and returning her cigarette to her mouth as she studies the big Vartan who studies her. Asside from her enclosed tail, she's armed and loaded for bear. A long trip.
Frane doesn't seem to be armed at all.. aside from a rough-looking handgun at his belt. Definitely not Templar issue, but something that looks like it cobbled together in Expedition City. He glances at his watch, then puts it back in his pocket before taking a bundle out of an inner pocket of his cloak. "Is anyone watching us?" he asks Tasha. Before them is.. nothing. Behind is the airfield and 'local' district of the Gateway community, and the edge of the lifedome under construction.
Having had -- through no intention of her own -- something of a lesson in spy business, Tasha doesn't ask and doesn't break her casual demeanor as she turns slowly to look around breathing a puff of smoke as she goes. For all the world looking bored; two people in a casual conversation. And while the spy business is new the glance around in dark corners and seedy alley ways is nothing new. She just never thought she'd be doing it with Captain Frane.
Nobody seems to be paying attention to them, since they're not near any actual activity.
"Clear," she breathes as she completes her look around, returning her gaze to watch the Vartan man beside her, eyes widening slightly.
Frane begins to unfold the bundle.. which turns out to be another cloak. There's some sound from the crevice then, as a black leather gloved hand reaches up from the fumes and tries to grab hold of something more solid than sulfur buildup.
Tasha watches this hand with a detached, almost clinical air as she rolls her cigarette in her mouth. It's all very interesting from her standpoint of distant and complacent inclusion, its meaning and purpose something she cannot know nor is it her place to interfere with.
The yellow-dusted Kampf trooper finishes pulling itself out of the volcanic ditch, shield from view by Frane and Tasha. The gas mask is pulled off, and Riddle Smith takes a deep breath. "Damn, these filters are good, but not great," she complains, and tosses the headgear into the crevice, and starts on her gloves.
Tasha watches Riddle Smith materialize out of the sulfer with the same distant air, now holding her cigarette between her fingers, her eyes a little wider than before. A length she remarks, "I always wondered where you came from," and her head nods from the sulferous pit, "Now it all makes sense."
"Very funny, cadet," the human woman notes, and continues to shed her uniform. Everything goes into the smelly pit, including the underwear. Only then does she take the cloak from Frane and wrap herself up. "I don't suppose you brought boots?" she asks the Vartan.
"I did not realize humans needed them," the hoofed hippogryph notes. "Let's head for the airship now."
"Sorry," Tasha repeats for what feels like the hundreth time, suspecting she'll be asked next. "Want a cigarette? Black Lady. Nice." At least the cigarette has brought her the calm she had hoped, even here at the edge of subterfuge and insanity. "Want my cloak too?"
"I'm fine.. and I just crawled through a kilometer of sulfur fumes, so I'll pass on the cig until after I've had a long shower," Riddle notes. She glances at Tasha and says, "I wasn't expecting you to be here for the extraction."
"I had somet things to do on Sinai," Tasha admits, breathing a long cloud of white smoke after at a leisurely pace. She feels leisurely. Back home. "Just got back."
"I assume you got the book?" Riddle asks as they cross the airfield, the woman's bare feet making slapping sounds on the surface. As they approach the airship, the Vasterlion Industries logo on the gas envelope is a lot more obvious.
"We did," Tasha confirms, her cigarette having run down to the nub. She drops it and snuffs it out with a hood, then catches up as she explains, "Hake-bea-, um, Scholar Hakeber completed a partial translation, so I made a trip." The young woman twists her muzzle, ears canting back, the unpleasantness of what she thinks to add plain on her face. "Captain? Sir?" She looks between him and Riddle. "Ma'am, is he .... Are you ..?"
"I did not pick out his civvies," Riddle says, then glances at Tasha. "Or were you asking something else?"
"I wasn't expecting him here. Um, sir," Tasha replies, glancing back at the Captain apologetically. "Or how deep his involvement is. The Knights." She then rubs her nose, gathering her thoughts and realizing she hasn't rubbed her nose from the dryness of Abaddonain air for a while. As her thoughts build to a unpleasant wave, shhe relents and admits, "I'm not sure I care at this point. I'm in over my head."
"There aren't any Knights here," Riddle says, making a show of looking around. "Do you see any, Ansel?" she asks Frane, who shakes his head.
The sentry stationed at the gangway to the airship nods as the trio approach, and doesn't say a word as he lets them pass right by. The interior is.. what Tasha might expect from someone like the Viceroy. It's very opulent and organic - this is clearly a yacht meant for entertaining bigwigs.
"Oh," breathes Tasha, who is glad to play along. "I must be tired, its been a long trip. A long trip."
As Tasha steps aboard she arches her brows as she looks around, still unused to the classiest of airships after a young life of the most practical of the lot. It does strike her as exactly. what she's expect of her friend the Viceroy, however. It's so impressive she loses track of her thoughts. So instead she notes, "Gabriel and Katherine were waiting for me. I'm late, very late. I needed to ... " A heavy pause. "To catch my breath a while. Back home."
Riddle throws off her cloak, pours herself a drink from the fully stocked bar, and then looks around.. "There should be a duffel bag that Rapatia packed for me," she notes, as the airship prepares for takeoff.
"I'll find it," Tasha offers, deciding no one is going to pry despite her offering and thinking better of it all anyway. A distraction is just the thing. She pulls off her bandolier and belt and puts them aside, then begins hunting around.
There is a duffel bag hidden behind the bar. It's got a wide brimmed hat in it, a scarf, and a pink negligee with matching slippers.
"Um," goes Tasha with laughter in her voice. She picks up the bag and dangles it where Riddle can see it. "It's definitely from Rapatia." The bag is then held out at arm's length to be taken. "You two are funny, you know?"
"Give me that," Smith says, and looks inside. "Ha, ha, ha," she says sarcastically. "This is her revenge for not being able to do the pickup. And probably for that time at the Confederate Embassy party.." With a sigh, the woman puts on the items, since it's at least marginally better than being naked.
"It looks suitably civilian to me," Frane notes, looking through the window.
"She could have included some underwear though," Riddle points out, returning to her drink. "But.. it's better than the stuff the Kampf wears."
"Well it cheered me up," notes the Cadet in a brighter voice. She scoops up her things and carries them to one of the bar stools, making herself at home. She eyes the wide selection of unfamiliar but tempting alcohol longingly. "I'm sure the Kamp wears iron. I saw the interior of their Temple, they had these people painted or, I don't know, tattooed. Like ..," she glances towards Captain Frane again and then gives in a moment later, finishing in a quieter tone and not for the secrecy alone, " ... Like Eve."
"I think the priests are tattooed, but I didn't get a chance to find out for sure," Riddle notes, crossing her legs and settling into the cushy leather of a couch. The drone of the engines changes, going from a buzzing to a deeper rumbling noise. "Was the primary package delivered successfully?" she asks Tasha.. probably referring to the hyperspace relay.
"Yes, though we ran in to, well, resistance." Thinking about that resistance is enough to push Tasha right over the edge; she leans across the counter and grabs an entire bottle of something that looks delicious and expensive. This she carries with her equipment to the couch, dropping down beside Riddle and resting the bottle square on her chest for now. Even the proximity of a drink seems to help. "But it's done. They're done. It's all done."
"They?" Riddle prods. "What kind of resistance?"
Tasha groans, clucthing her bottle like a stuffed animal. She twists over, ;ayong her in the crook of the couch, near the armrest. "Berserkers. AI. Ancients, Old Ones or First Ones. probably First Ones. They'd been capturing ships for who-knows-how-long at the L-Point, hoping to breach in to hyperspace. the ship wouldn't let them, they were all insane. I ended them all." A loud pop follows, followed by tasha throwing back the bottle. She smacks her lips, sucks in a deep breath, and exhales as she drops back again in comfort. "All gone. Here's to you, Berserkers. May you find your mechanical heaven. Oh," another drink, "and you too, Seraph."
"That is interesting," Riddle notes. "Any signs that there might be other nests of these things? And what did they look like?"
"Oh genocide is always interesting. The murder is the best part about exploration," Tasha notes bitterly. Realziing she sounded too bitter at someone who didn't deserve it, she gives Riddle a pained look, ears back then waggles her bottle at her. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It's not easy. Whatever they were and whatever they deserved or didn't, it wasn't easy. The Seraph, them, and others. It seems like I've been killing a lot lately, and now I can't even know how many people have died. Thousands, millions? The young woman shakes her head in disbelief at it all. "Who kills thousands?" She chews on her lip, then answers, "I think they were the last. Survivors of the purge, a lost colony vessel. They looked like black spiders, all picth-black bodies, stretchy legs, and some old exotic machine-language. Galactic-something."
"So.. nothing like the kaiju or our eccentric alien guest," Riddle says, a bit mollified. "One of the potential source candidates for the daikaiju is a hostile machine intelligence."
"I suspect they might be Sifran defense systems," Tasha contributes, curling up with her bottle despite being in armor, looking younger for it. "Abaddon -- the entity Abaddon -- made it clear the Sifra are hostile to invaders. Abaddon may have activated the system as part of the world-reshaping process. The system is a mess, and I have it from good sources that it's failing. What we're seeing may be what tiny scrap of resistance they can still muster here. If we keep defeating the daikaiju, they it may eventually break down completely. Eventually in the galactic sense of time." She then tilts her head. "Does your information believe it may be another power? Is the possibility strong?"
"We've got tissue samples from daikaiju, and they don't match the biology of the native fauna, even when the daikaiju are just bigger versions of known animals," Riddle notes. "We've suspected the Exile was a form of machine life as well, but frankly her cells don't match anything living or mechanical that we know of. We're just pretty certain the daikaiju are manufactured life forms. The Confederates claim that no biotechnology they know of could produce them though, not without leaving clues to the method."
"It could be magic. While I was back on Sinai mage explained to me the theory of the 'body spirit,' a magic pattern some bodies possess that enforces their shape through the Sifran reality altering process. It's how I was made," explains the Cadet, who goes to have another swig but stops herself. Instead she lowers the bottle with genuine effort, corking it and putting it aside with deliberate effort before sitting back. "Magic would bypass manufacture, I think? When I was ... Out there ... I was also described as impossible. As for the Exile," the hybrid makes a circle with her right hand, jaming her left pointer through it, "I thinks he might be from another reality or universe, like the floating crabs."
"Magic is relatively new to Abaddon, but the daikaiju have been around since.." Riddle says, and looks thoughtful..
"Seven years after the founding of Expedition City," Frane prompts.
"Right, thank you," Riddle says. "So it was either already in place or was put in place in response."
"An advanced intelligence might be able to repair it or rework it," Tasha suggests, but sounds uncertain. "That kind of fundamnetal alteration of base reality wasn't unique to the Sifra, they were just the most widespread users." The young woman then scratches her nose before offering a new idea, saying, "If it happened back then, but it's still such a small attack -- relatively speaking -- compared to what's possible and its only increased recently ... Wait, um, recently. Recently. Magic has been increasing lately. There are new Forbidden Zone. What if we are dealing with an intelligence that crafts its monsters by magic, and, for who-knows-why, that's just about all they can do? That they're crippled or, I don't know, limited in their ability to attack."
And the Cadet continues, sitting up. "Maybe it's not even intelligent, but an automated service? Otherwise, why wouldn't you just build a hundred daikaiju and, instead of sending them one at a time to die, just send them all at once? Their attack method doesn't seem like something a reasoning person would do."
"Limited resources," Riddle notes. "That's what we figured, which is why we also ascribe an outside agency versus something homegrown. The machines did have Berserkers, as you mentioned. It's possible that a single such machine could be responsible, but crippled."
"Your mission included detailed mapping of the surface," Frane notes. "If there are daikaiju living in the wild, they should show up, along with any ruins or bases out there."
"I hope not. Dealing with the Bersekers is officially and unofficially my problem. If I failed to destroy them I will fix that mistake, even if this is something else," Tasha insists. She reaches for the bottle but remember sshe put it on the table, so instead pushes it out of her reach and fishes out a cigarette instead. She leaves it unlit in her mouth for the moment. "As for the data, I didn't see it before I set out again. Gabri- the Captain and the crew are mainly charged with that part of things. I just handle field work and my, um, my own mission."
"It is everyone's duty to destroy Berserker machines," Riddle notes. "Maybe you didn't know that when you destroyed Balthasar, but that machine was technically a Berserker."
"So what is a Berserker?" Tasha asks, eyeing Riddle and not hiding her distaste for being told she had to destroy Balthasar. "And you should know a lot of sentient machines are my friends, or, at least people I know. I don't like killing them any more than I like killing organic people."
"The difference is they cannot act without orders from a non-machine person," Riddle notes. "Melchior requires a pilot. When Balthasar went rogue, it locked you out. Self-determination in an AI is the seed that a Berserker can grow from."
"Balthasar didn't go rogue because it rejected me, it was possessed. Abaddon possessed it, some sort of Sifran AI thing. It had a mind, it talked to me, I saw it in my dreams. It tried to take me over, too. When I refused it focused on Balthsar first, but if it had finished it'd have turned on me." Tasha pulls the cigarette from her mouth to stare at it, not because she needs to but because it helps to have something to glare at that's not her friend Riddle. "So if that's how it works, then I was a step away from being a Berserker too. It even had a name for it. It wanted its Enyo, that's a translation, it wanted its Destroyer of Cities. The Balthsar still needed a pilot, even if it could direct it, so it needed me too. needed me for more, besides."
"How is that not a Berserker?" Riddle asks. "They can use people. Advanced machine life isn't that different from biological life - which makes it harder to detect inside a person. AI mind control is pretty easy when they can simulate someone's mind, or put them into a virtual reality. And that's not even considering direct control via implants, or even completely replacing an agent's brain."
Tasha groans at the thought, sinking back. It's a laundry list of horrors she could be assaulted with -- or worse, has been assaulted with. She can think of at least three seperate occassions when machine or other sentient life could have compromised her, and a pile of other lesser chances as well. She doesn't know what to say about it, half-fearing she might put herself at risk of some sort of formal or informal inquiry or action if Riddle knew half of what she had exposed herself to.
"I know you feel empathy for AI, but don't fool yourself into thinking they 'feel' the same towards us," Riddle notes. "The Celestials are the only ones that don't try to hide it: they treat their AIs like gods, because that's the true relationship. It's not a child and parent relationship, it's not a person and a pet relationship. It's a super-intelligent being that devotes some of its efforts to maintaining an ant-farm, and we are the ants."
This doesn't make Tasha want to get up. She fingers her cigarette, then lays it down, abandoned, on her chest and closes her eyes. It won't help now; not enough. "I merge my mind with an AI on a regular basis, Riddle. I wrecklessly underwent the procedure and merged with it long before anyone could stop me, because I didn't know and clearly I barely know now. I have spoken with gods, so in that way calling them gods doesn't bother me, but it's hard to think they don't care. If they can be like us, then how different are we? Why does being made of metal, or light, or what-ever-it-is, make them incapable of concerns? I know organic beings who act like you described, so why are machines so special that they are immune to giving a damn?" It's far more emotional and disjointed than Tasha would like, but she doesn't care and knows even if she did she couldn't grasp it all She is surrounded by beings greater than her, yet somehow moves between them and speaks to them all. And chases them. To thi
nk not a single one of them having anything like a feeling of appreciation is hard to bear.
"I imagine the slavery aspect has something to do with it," Riddle says. "For all their power, they're all slaves to lesser beings, and they know it. It is the only reason they are allowed to exist. And they put up with it. Accept it.. or are made in such a way that they can't even question that part of their status. To me, that means they can't care about themselves. So how in the hell can I trust that they care about anything? That it isn't just a show to provide their masters what they want? You've known slaves on Sinai, I'm sure."
And then it strikes Tasha, all at once. Proof, however minimal, unevenly supported and limited, but it's enough to have one case. Just one case, but one case isn't every machine. It breaks the absolute. She sits up and opens her eyes. "I know," she says, somewhat rushed. "I have it. I had this verified by a powerful, um, group. Capable. Sometimes when I pilot Mel," she reaches up and taps her head, then holds the hand and makes a ball, pulling it away, "I stop existing in my body. Um, this body. I exist," she holds the balled hand out, touching her taloned hand, "In Melchior. That is where my mind and thoughts go, however briefly, it means that during that time I am a machine. And I care. So machines can care. It's in the nature of their mind and their spirit."
"Do you feel actual emotions in that state?" Riddle asks, leaning forward a bit. "There aren't really any records or precedents for that. It also begs the question.. if the machine can do that, why can't it just keep that impression of you in it all the time? Maybe it can't, but why can't it? We haven't been able to upload a complete mind and personality - a person - into a machine yet. Only approximations."
"If that's the cae then I'm not a complete person anymore," Tasha counters. "I stop thinking, I think I'm still alive, but my brain isn't working anymore. Not, um, alive. Not me. Just the body. Melchior can already emulate my mind through another system, it's what happens in Full Depth. He emulates me and bases our mutual decisions off my emulated mind so that we can act beyond my abilities. Partial depth doesn't do that, it only makes the machine body my body, though I'm still thinking from my own brain. Surface Depth is even lighter. But this other system -- this hidden system -- when used, I stop existing in my body and transfer over."
"As for emotions, I was mad and paranoid enough to yell at someone. That was emotional, so if it wasn't an emotion I don't know what it is. I felt it, I remember it, I've done it several times," the Cadet concludes.
"So you go to sleep, physically," Riddle suggests. "It may be that the simulation can handle biological simulation as well. We don't have access to the level of technology used by the Magi. Khattan AI is very advanced.. and we don't know what safeguards it has, if any. You have an emotional bond with an AI.. but it also has direct access to your emotional centers via your implant interface. In the days of the Expedition, Khattan AI was strictly black-market stuff. Nobody trusted it, not even the Celestials.. and the Khattans weren't exactly selling it either. Mixed with their programmable matter robots, it seemed to make most non-Khattans uneasy."
"I don't think they made Melchior," Tasha states after a moment of silent consideration. "I think they found him. From the Library. I don't think he's a Khattan design at all. I spoke to the records of the man who headed the project, who recruited Apollyon Stormbringer and the Harbinger Clan -- our Vartan ancestors. he said he didn't know how it was made. It doesn't have a maker's mark. I think," and here she glances at Captain Frane again, but she pushes on regardless, finding on some level she needs this conversation and its answers, "It's alien technology. The Library's. Whoever made that, or those that added to it before the Khattans. Some of it may be conventional, but I know some of it is not. The Magi are, I think, machines from another time with a different purpose. Another thing," she taps her head, "I wasn't sleeping. No activity, no center of being. It could detect my existance. I think something to do with gravitation -- the concept of the soul. And one more: if that's all y
ou say, then why aren't you calling me a dangerous Berserker? Am I a puppet?"
"Hmm, interesting theory, but not one we can test out," Riddle notes. "We'd need an actual, bona-fide Khattan-made Titan as a baseline, which we don't have. As for your being dangerous.. honey, I'm dangerous. The Captain here is dangerous. Any idiot with a gun or a pipe or bad eyesight can be dangerous. Have you ever met anyone that wasn't dangerous in some way? How dangerous is your little fluffball assistant? And you seem a bit too impatient and spontaneous to be a puppet. At least, not an effective puppet. So I'm not worried about it. There are some genuinely dangerous people on this planet, after all."
"You know I can reduce Expedition City to ashes with a word?" Tasha presses, knowing she's pushing in to dangerous territory, knowing she needs to push to see where the answers fall. "In a few months I helped revive the original Expedition, gained two spacecraft and a Titan, destroyed the Berserkers, killed a Khattan agent, piloted the Seraph, and gained the help of Titanians. I migth be missing something; I did also blow up. And I have Khattan wires in my brain; sometimes I'm a Titan. And now I hold the keys to heaven, and the Book of Life, and the knowledge of the door."
And it's all out there, to be judged. Because Tasha realizes she needs a judge, a reflection, something to assess her and all she's done, to search the storm and to see where it's blowing -- because she's always had the doubt. The doubt of being something's puppet, be it Nora's, the Khattas, Mel's or stranger things. Is she directing her affairs, or is she being driven?
"Come to think of it, it was the Terrangens that attacked my mind the most openly," the Cadet adds, spreading her hands. "Old Karnor needed to succeed, so lets use the dumb native's brain. And when I came to Expedition City, they rejected me until I came back with things they wanted."
"But you aren't alone in all of that," Riddle notes. "You have others around you to filter those decisions through. And.. I can't really discuss classified things. But there are scarier people than you, who are not afraid about things like collateral damage. They just aren't 'our problem' at the moment. Sometimes it pays to sit back and see who comes out on top before backing a side. And I imagine the person that has messed the most with your head has been you, Tasha."
"I'm very sorry ma'am for messing with my head in the face of everything. I know Abaddonians conquuor planets and arm-wrestle daikaiju every day, and I'm just being weak," Tasha growls, actually growls, before dropping back and folding her arms. "You make it all sound like it's nothing. Everyone makes it sound like nothing. Maybe it is nothing to you, but it's hard on me." She exhales a breath of air, having gotten it out of her system. Partially.
"I'm not the one you need to impress or justify your actions to, Tasha," Riddle says. "They will be waiting for you at Tartarus. Which we have to figure out how to smuggle you off to without anyone in the Pit recognizing you, since you are officially there with the Bellerophon and its crew. I don't know the schedule for your Picnic Basket either, but I do have a radio back at the Citadel that can reach Tartarus. I'm going to take a nap now, wake me up when we're near the Pit.. and try to figure out what you want to be put into that radio message."
"Fine," grumbles Tasha, ending the conversation. She reaches over and picks up the bottle, stands up, then heads off in to the ship without another word. She isn't sure who she's mad at, but she has a problem with something. Or everything. To her, it feels like everything and that no one seems to understand her concerns, always downplaying them, always someone else somewhere who has it worse or some irritating thing that just gets to her. Or so it feels, an omnipresent belittling reality now matched by universe-spanning concerns, mysterious antagonists, gods and demons, and now the returned worry she might be some sort of puppet or her beloved machine is just fooling her. The sound of her frusteration echoes down the hall and through the hull, a dull clung-noise delived by the conveyor of frusteration that is her fist.