Arther Lero

  The song of the universe was a marvelous, cruel thing.

  It carried on regardless of who listened, regardless of who suffered.

  Stars burned, systems formed, life clawed itself into awareness, and just as easily was unmade. Sentience was only one harmony among many.

  A rare, quiet tune endlessly consumed by the greater noise.

  That fragility was proof of intent.

  It could not be a coincidence that awareness emerged only where danger was most abundant.

  A thing so delicate would not survive without purpose.

  Nay.

  Sentience existed because the universe demanded it struggle. Pressure was applied where pressure was due.

  Arther Lero watched, listened, and found comfort in that truth.

  From his vantage point, the city unfolded in layers of light and shadow.

  City 29 did not sleep; it only dimmed, activity redistributing through its arteries like blood through a wounded organ.

  He observed by plugging his suit into systems not his own, and watching feeds that were stolen.

  It did not matter. Using the enemy’s eye was the first rule of human warfare.

  Below him, a heretic's handywork: a slaver’s shop.

  Thermal bleed told the story that was unfolding inside.

  Bodies clustered near reinforced doors. Creatures pushing from outside. Panic was registered as erratic motion until motion was only observed during feeding.

  A hungry maw did not discriminate between sinner and victim.

  Why should it?

  Arther folded his tentacles within the suit; the suit's posture was immaculate, a perfect show on a building’s edge, like in the pictures of an ancient human hero.

  The man of bats, if he recalled correctly.

  He was shown to care for sinners at times, saving criminals, but why should he risk his purity in saving a slaver?

  Nay!

  He would watch. By watching, he would judge.

  The predators beneath the city had grown bolder in recent days. That much was undeniable.

  They no longer lingered exclusively in forgotten levels.

  They rose now, drawn upward by the universe’s judgment that was falling upon Claye’s and Ethan’s foolish restraint.

  Pressure, again.

  Arther adjusted the feed, reviewing casualty curves. The city absorbed the losses with disturbing efficiency. Slaves and pirates were redistributed.

  The crooked system endured the universe’s judgment frustratingly well.

  That endurance was proof enough that sentience was a hard song to extinguish, even if it had been perversed to enslave other sentience.

  He thought, briefly, of Claye.

  Once, that name had meant something else. A human general. A creature born of a species that believed action itself was proof of virtue.

  Humans did not wait for the universe to judge. They imposed judgment. They bled for it.

  So, when had Claye been corrupted by sloth? When had he decided that seeing was enough?

  Arther did not struggle to understand rage. He did not struggle to understand conviction.

  But to be a bullet, and choose to remain still?

  That was heresy.

  To watch freedom dismantled piece by piece and name it wisdom was not restraint. It was betrayal.

  The universe was pushing now toward the humans.

  He would see the answer soon enough.

  Another alert chimed softly; another death, this one quieter.

  A child, this time, was crushed during a panic escape triggered by something unseen. The body lay unnoticed for twelve minutes before the beast came to consume it.

  Arther recorded the data and dismissed the feed.

  The universe did not require him to act.

  He could save them, yes. Would he?

  NAY.

  Ethan

  I remember it because nothing happened. That was usually how it went.

  We were stacked in the belly of the aircraft, red light washing everything flat and unreal, engines screaming loud enough to drown thought if you let them. I was a second class then—Petty Officer—close enough to leadership that mistakes stuck, far enough down that I didn’t get to fix them.

  I remember noticing he had no weapon.

  I leaned close, raised my voice just enough to cut through the noise.

  -You’re going in without a piece?-

  The asset didn’t look back. Didn’t answer right away.

  -Yes.-

  Simple. Final.

  -That’s not optional.-

  He turned then. Older than the file photo. Beard heavier. Eyes calm in a way that didn’t belong on an insertion bird. His smirk as he answered was unsettling.

  -If I start shooting, it won’t end where you want it to end.-

  A measured pause.

  -I am removing the temptation.-

  I almost laughed. Almost.

  The asset shook his head, as he’d caught it.

  -You’re young, Petty Officer. Perhaps you’re not aware of this yet. Once something starts moving, it doesn’t stop because you order it to.-

  He was obnoxious. Most assets were.

  What made him worse was that he was right.

  Even now.

  “Tessa wishes to speak with you, Ethan.” Virgil chimes.

  I sigh.

  I enter my body, and it feels… smaller. Constrained. Like stepping back into defense gear after learning how to breathe without it.

  This virtual simulation thing starts to feel dangerously addictive.

  I exit the charging pod. One look at her face tells me enough.

  -How bad is it?-

  She looks down.

  -Tell your father we can manage more refugees down here.-

  -You say ‘refugees,’ but you plan like you expect them to turn on you.-

  -Not on me. On each other. Limited space, limited information, limited resources. And there are pirates in their midst. Still need to save them if they behave.-

  I nod automatically, already running the math, wondering where the fuck I’m supposed to settle them.

  Charging stations are a non-negotiable asset.

  Cell block stays operational—losing imprisonment turns every problem solution into forced murder.

  Climate control is too central. One breach, everyone dies.

  Aboveground flight has been consistent for three days now.

  They aren’t in a hurry to die, which helps, but it doesn’t make them safe.

  -Come on, Tessa. Walk with me.-

  We move toward the place drones tell me Zek’lor is already working. I adjust my pace to hers without thinking.

  -So… um… how are you?- she asks, trying small talk.

  I’d raise an eyebrow if this chassis allowed it.

  -Aside from the SNAFU?- A breath. -I’m fine.-

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  That’s close enough to true.

  - I mean, this situation… You were a specialist, a Navy SEAL-

  I laugh a bit - You think all I’m good at is killing?- I don’t need to look at her to know I’ve hit my mark.

  - I mean, yeah, all special forces get a rep for their body count, I get it. Graves are countable; saved lives are estimates. DEVGRU, remember? It wasn’t an alias for the mythical SEAL Team 6; it was a cradle for international work, which meant studying various scenarios with special forces from all around the globe. It meant training to rescue, reorganize, and rebuild. What to do after a fall.-

  Tessa is quiet for a few steps after that. Long enough that I think I’ve said too much.

  Then she exhales.

  -You talk about it like it’s a systems problem - she says carefully. -People aren’t systems.-

  -They are, when you pack them tight enough. - I answer. - They are when you starve them. Or scare them. Doesn’t make them less… well, people. Just makes the outcomes easier to predict.-

  She looks at me sideways.

  -That’s… bleak.-

  -Then tell me: how would you call pretending panic won’t happen? How would you call hoping anger won’t flare when the former oppressor is begging for food next to the one he ruled over till yesterday? If they won’t downright try to steal their food from them, to keep a shred of misbegotten pride.-

  She doesn’t argue that. Instead, she frowns at the corridor ahead, where the lights dim and brighten in a slow, breathing rhythm.

  -You’re still letting them come- she says. Not a question.

  -Always.- I reply

  -Even knowing some of them are slavers and pirates.-

  -Especially knowing that- I reply. -Closed doors turn desperation inward. Some people would rather destroy it all than see somebody else get saved. Open ones give hope-

  That earns me a look. Not disapproval. Worry.

  -And if they come back with friends?-

  -I’ll deal with it then. I can restrain them quite easily with my drones- I say, gesturing two drones that create a net of blazing, solid light. -Better that than stacking bodies against a sealed bulkhead and calling it order, don’t you think?-

  She nods once. Acceptance, maybe. But the drones are proof enough that I can make people behave in other ways.

  We reach the junction where the drones are clustered, metallic limbs unfolding and refolding like patient insects around a much larger silhouette.

  Zek’lor looms over the schematic projection, chitinous carapace catching the light in dull bronze and obsidian hues.

  His mandibles click softly as he reads data slates with his compound eyes. To human standards, back then, he'd look like a nightmare given mass and intent. To me, now, he looks focused.

  - Ethan-of-old - Zek’lor intones, voice resonant, layered. -You arrive at an hour heavy with consequence.-

  -That’s like every hour lately.- I say. -Talk to me, how are we progressing?-

  He gestures with one thick forelimb, the projection shifting.

  -You request expansion. Living space. Quickly.-

  -Refugee influx isn’t slowing.- I confirm. -I need options.-

  Two sections are highlighted in amber on the data slab by a swipe of one of his claws.

  -This one was once storage- Zek’lor says. -Dry. Reinforced. Low contamination. Suitable for rapid habitation, but…- a pause, mandibles flexing -…cluttered. Old cargo.-

  The projection shifts.

  -This one was processing bodies into nutrient paste.- he continues. -Where your group caught Vexx and me. You destroyed the machinery. It can be removed. The room sanitized, reshaped. It will take longer. -

  I don’t miss the way Tessa stiffens at the notion of bodies turned into nutrient paste.

  -Define longer- I say.

  -If rushed? Three cycles.- Zek’lor answers. -If done properly? Five. Perhaps six with comfort.-

  -And storage?-

  -One cycle. Two, if comfort is desired.-

  I rub at the bridge of my nose.

  -Capacity difference?-

  -Processing would hold more- Zek’lor says. -It was built with storage in mind. That also accounts for the additional time I ask.-

  I’d love to ask the owners of this planet why the heck they planned to convert such a massive amount of people into food. I’d live better without knowing.

  “Ethan is making a mistake in assumption. All the machine was doing was converting biological matter into nutrients. Biological matter doesn’t need to be sentient to offer nutriment.”

  Well, for once, thanks, Virgil. Half less nightmares.

  -Zek’lor- I say, meeting his gaze. -I need people alive first. Comfort can come later.-

  His carapace plates shift, a gesture I’ve learned means contemplation.

  -Among my kind,- he says slowly -we build for the dead so the living may endure their absence.-

  -I get that.- I reply. -Right now, I need the living to endure each other.-

  Silence stretches.

  Then Zek’lor inclines his massive head.

  -Then storage it is.- he says. -We will make it… sufficient. For now.-

  -How fast can you start?-

  -Already have- he answers, and one of the drones chirrs confirmation. Virgil greenlighted it as well.

  Tessa lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

  As we turn away, I catch Zek’lor watching the projection again, mandibles still.

  -Ethan-of-now- he adds. -You build places for those who may not deserve them.-

  I don’t stop walking.

  -Yeah.- I say. -They still need somewhere to hope for a life. Let’s pray they wish for a better one than they’ve got as pirates and criminals.-

  The only silver lining I see is that there is more activity above, more coming and going with flying things I hope can be spaceworthy.

  I will seize them, and once I have enough, go knocking on Dexton’s door.

  After they see the leader toppled, I hope to get at least half to stop being dicks to each other.

  For the others? I will use the weapon I’m given. I will need drones, a lot of them, to sacrifice.