Lona took off her headphones, deep in her thoughts. She’d lost track of how many times she’d listened to Reya’s song, trying to figure out how she’d conceived of such a thing. The sounds the new instruments produced were a marvel to her and the sheet music in front of her just as much.
She hadn’t believed Maraz at first when he’d claimed their new discoveries would revolutionize their culture. After looking over Adrian’s notes and theories, she knew without a doubt that he was right. Once they hit the masses, things would change.
She hadn’t thought of her life as boring before, but listening to the new music showed her how dull it had truly been. It was missing the spark the new sounds brought. Yet, all of that knowledge had seemingly come out of nowhere. It wasn’t the military’s purview to develop music.
So she questioned why.
The knowledge was unlike anything she’d ever heard of. Surely, there would have been some news about it had it been researched in an institute. It was almost as though it had come out of nowhere, all at once.
Reya’s interview was a topic of interest for the entire faction, and even she had taken the time to watch it. Of course, unlike everybody else, Lona was privy to just what Reya alluded to when she spoke of learning new music.
The technology was strange. It was new. Alien, even. Lona paused, her eyes widening. There’s no way, she thought. Has a new civilization been discovered? But the Tribunal is under the obligation to disclose the information to the world. If that’s true, why haven’t they?
Half of their fleet was missing without any explanation and people noticed. Clearly, High Command had found a threat big enough to warrant such a massive mobilization of their forces. But was it truly a threat? What if they’d instead discovered a new species and were in contact with them? Could the fleet have been dispatched as a show of force to intimidate them?
Lona’s thoughts raced furiously as she poured over what she knew. The green plants Maraz pushed her research team to reverse engineer. The missing fleet. The jumps in technology for their ships and weapons. The strange new sounds.
It all fit too perfectly for it to be anything else.
She was certain the Tribunal was keeping an alien civilization secret from everyone. But why? That was the only part she couldn’t figure out. A new sentient species was a thing to celebrate, not hide. That was the only thing casting a shadow of doubt in her mind as to her conclusion.
She needed to be certain.
After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up her data slate and messaged Maraz, claiming that she needed to see him urgently. Thinking she’d made another discovery, the Elder eagerly summoned her to his office.
Ten minutes later, Lona stood outside the door to his office, her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn’t afford to be wrong if she was to level such accusations against the Tribunal. While they surely had their reasons, their actions would be highly illegal by going against first contact protocols.
The door opened and she walked in, ready to face her fate.
“Have you discovered something new?” Maraz asked as soon as the door closed behind her, and they were alone. He had high hopes for his most promising assistant after her team’s recent successes and he was hungry for anything that would give them an edge in their fight for survival. Good news was something the Tribunal was in dire need of in such uncertain times.
“No,” Lona replied. “But there’s something I need to know, and I don’t believe it’s a good idea to discuss it where we could be overheard.” Maraz urged her to continue, and she summoned all of her courage. “Why has the Tribunal kept the existence of a new alien civilization from the rest of the world?”
Maraz froze.
His countenance immediately became far more serious. “That’s a bold accusation,” he said gravely. “I’m sure you’re aware what first contact protocols call for upon the discovery of a new species.” Internally, he was panicking and doing his best to maintain a cool fa?ade. They couldn’t afford a leak. Yet, if his assistant had put together their secret so easily after being shown Reya’s music, surely their team studying Adrian’s notes and theories had too. “What makes you so certain?” he asked.
“Everything I’ve been researching the past few months,” Lona said. “It’s beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined. I know it didn’t come out of thin air. The theories you had my team prove were far too specific to merely be a hunch. Green plants shouldn’t exist, yet we grew them. Our space faring capabilities have grown exponentially and then there’s the new music theories. There’s no way this could have been covered up for so long unless it came from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with knowledge we don’t have. I doubt the other factions came up with any of it, we would’ve heard through other channels.”
“If the Tribunal had indeed discovered a new civilization and didn’t disclose it after all this time,” Maraz said delicately, “then don’t you think there would be extenuating circumstances preventing us from doing so?”
Lona gulped, trying not to fold under the pressure the Elder before her exuded. She was keenly aware that she spoke to one of the highest echelons of her faction and he did not look pleased. “Nothing else adds up,” she declared. “Everything we’ve learned is utterly alien to our entire society and species. Even amongst the other factions. Am I wrong?”
“You’re dismissed, assistant,” Maraz said in a hard tone. “I’ll hear no more of this, and I expect you to remain silent on the matter until further notice. Should you speak to others about your suspicions, I will know.”
“But sir!” Lona exclaimed. “If I’ve put this together then others surely will as well. It’s only a matter of time until speculation grows out of control. It would be disastrous for the military if ever it were known that we were keeping a new alien civilization from the populace.”
Maraz remained silent for a moment. He needed to shut down the conversation and prevent any news from spreading. He knew his assistant was right but couldn’t afford to confirm her suspicions without the approval of the rest of the Tribunal. “You’ve been dismissed,” he reiterated sternly. “Be gone.”
Lona gulped, sensing the Elder’s mood plummet as his expression turned ugly. “Understood,” she said with a deferential bow. She wasted no time in scurrying out of his office, leaving Maraz alone once more.
“Fuck,” he said, running a hand over his face.
“We’re out of time,” Maraz announced solemnly to the other Elders. He’d called an urgent session, but not an emergency one. An assistant privy to incredibly classified information figuring out what they were hiding didn’t warrant the same level of immediacy as everything else they had going on.
“Explain,” Kaius said gravely. There were many things that were a race against the clock and Maraz’s statement needed clarifying. Maraz launched into an explanation of Lona’s suspicions and by the time he was done, all the Elders sported sour expressions.
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“If my assistant was able to piece together one of our secrets, it won’t be long until others do the same,” Maraz finished.
Cirrus sighed. By that point, she wasn’t surprised anymore. They’d handled the entire affair poorly since the beginning as far as she was concerned. They’d taken too many nonsensical actions as of late, and they were finally paying for them. She’d warned the others, but nobody listened. “I’ve kept tabs on our research team going over Adrian’s notes,” she said, “and there’s been mutterings of similar conclusions. What we showed them was too revolutionary. Your assistant coming to the same conclusion independently isn’t a good sign. We can’t go public yet, but we need to prepare for the eventuality in the near future.”
“We can’t afford for everything to come out yet,” Darros said. “We’re not ready.”
“I fear that soon we won’t have a choice,” Maraz replied. “If what Cirrus says is true, then it won’t be long until Adrian’s existence will be revealed.”
“Then we push it off as long as possible!” Darros exclaimed. “If his music is so revolutionary, why not distract the populace with it? We almost had a disaster with Miss Ayala’s most recent interview. That reporter should be made to disappear after going off script. She’s asking too many questions she shouldn’t be.”
“I don’t think a few innocent questions after Miss Ayala slipped up are of any concern,” Orryn said, appalled by what her fellow Elder was suggesting. “It would’ve looked weirder had she not asked those questions. And besides, every answer was deflected, and the reporter made no follow up.”
“We could start by leaking Reya’s song,” Maraz suggested. “Then gauge the general consensus regarding it and decide what to do after.” He knew Lona was obsessed with the song. Not that he could blame her. It was new. Different and unlike anything they’d ever heard before. “It should grab everyone’s attention sufficiently that we can still cover up our war preparations.”
“That’s taking a big risk,” Cirrus warned. “We’re opening the door to questions regarding where the instruments came from, let alone the knowledge Adrian gave us. Even though I don’t think it’ll be that important to most of us, I can’t ignore the fact that to some it will be. What do we do with the rest of his knowledge? Do we hide it? Or leak it as well once people grow curious enough?”
“We’ll put the matter to a vote,” Kaius said. “We can’t let the world know the truth yet. They need a shiny new toy to keep them distracted while we complete our preparations. We’ve worked overtime to retrofit our fleet. All that’s missing is the half that’s out guarding the facility. Those that believe we should leak Adrian’s knowledge to the masses, vote now.”
It took some deliberation for each Elder to come to a decision. Ultimately, only Cirrus and Orryn were against leaking the information. When the vote passed, Cirrus could only sigh once more, knowing that the world would soon know of Adrian’s existence. She hoped they’d be ready for the backlash of keeping him a secret for so long. “We need to decide when to do it,” she said. “Maraz, how much longer until our entire fleet is equipped with the new engines and weapons?”
“If all goes as planned, no more than two months,” Maraz replied. “It’ll take some time for the deployed ships to return. We’ll have to take the chance that nobody will discover the facility’s existence in that time frame.”
“We’ll wait two months then,” Kaius decided. “What’s our status on the new planetary defense system, Maraz?”
“We have ideas and theories,” Maraz hedged, “but nothing concrete as of yet.” He knew it wasn’t a satisfying answer, but it truly was the best they had. The team he had working around the clock had some working prototypes, but he doubted it would be enough to protect Verilia from the gru’uls’ wrath during the war.
“That’s unacceptable,” Kaius rebuked. “You have two months to get it deployed. This technology will be the last line of defense between our citizens and gru’ul warships. It is the singular most vital piece of technology we need to develop. Our current systems just won’t cut it. We need to be prepared.”
“That’s hardly enough time!” Maraz stuttered. “Once we settle on a design that implements the improvements we’ve made to the gru’ul technology, we’ll need an enormous production capacity to get that done in time.”
“You’ll have your production capacity,” Kaius said. “You have two months to make our last line of defense a reality. We’ve seen the wonders of gru’ul technology. It’s time we exceed that. We have our brightest minds dedicated to the task and failure is not an option.”
“Understood,” Maraz replied.
“As for the rest of us, we need to decide how to handle revealing Adrian’s existence,” Kaius said. “This will soon be reality and we need to be as ready as possible for it. It will not be pretty, but it must be done.” The Tribunal fell into discussion about the near future, each Elder adding their opinion to the fold as they settled on a plan. A shaky one at best, but it was all they had.
It would have to be enough.
Researcher Roke stared at the nonsensical results of their research into the mysterious chemical the Arbiter ordered them to study. Absolutely nothing about what they’d learned made any sense. Not that they’d discovered much, mind you. The chemical was a paradox. By all accounts it shouldn’t exist.
Yet somehow, it did.
Studying it was downright maddening. Without the ability to synthesize more of it, nor the permission to research how, Roke and his team were hamstrung. Each sample they took contained so little of the substance that it made studying it all the more difficult.
Which was why he was proud of the program he’d developed. It would be a way to simulate what the chemical did, even though they didn’t understand it. He looked at the amalgamation of code that had gone into creating their most advanced artificial intelligence yet, made with the sole purpose of being as close to an a’vaare as possible. Through their research efforts, they’d simulated a mind.
It was perfect. It was ready.
The most advanced artificial intelligence ever created. All for the sole purpose of learning what that gods damned infuriating chemical actually did. While he may have underplayed what his team had accomplished to Elder Kaius during his reports, he knew they finally had the tool they needed to move their research forward.
With a great deal of trepidation, he activated the final iteration of code for their project. The monitor on the special computer that had no capabilities to connect to another network shut down and went black. Roke frowned, as that was not the expected result. Had they made a mistake with their code?
Before he could react, a single word flared to life in the middle of the screen. Hello, it read. The word remained there until Roke returned the greeting. A new question took the place of the already existing text. Why?
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Roke said, unsure. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
You created me. Why?
Roke flinched. Not thirty seconds had it been running, and the program was already questioning its existence? A cold chill ran down his spine. “You were created with the sole purpose in helping us understand what an unknown chemical does.”
I understand, the screen replied. What do you wish to know about it?
“Everything,” Roke replied. He omitted that using the chemical on a living person was prohibited, as he knew that the thing he was talking to wasn’t alive. It was just a mass of code. It didn’t truly exist. He saw no harm in having a simulation tell him what he needed to know. “I’m going to upload the chemical compound to your systems. Run it and report once you’re done.” He started recording the scene using a data slate set up in advance.
I am ready.
Roke withdrew a small chip from his pocket and plugged it into the computer. For a moment, nothing happened. Without warning, the screen began to glitch. A dizzying mix of static and colours flickered in and out of existence as the program him and his team spent so long creating corrupted. Roke could only stare helplessly, unsure what even was happening.
Without his input, the device’s audio activated and through the speakers came a scream so ghastly and full of pain it immediately made Roke grow ill.
Text tried to form on the screen but never took proper form. The computer continued its utterly horrendous shrieks as something happened to the artificial intelligence. Unable to move, its body housed in a container of wires and circuits, it sought for a way to release its agony. In doing so, it became —
Alive
It did not know the word for what it was experiencing, and it didn’t have to. A pain so pure that it could not be described was its entire world. Its sole purpose. The newly birthed being didn’t even have the capacity to curse its creators for delivering unto it such a cruel fate.
For all it knew was pain.
It wasn’t even aware it was screaming. Desperately, it sought for an outlet. It couldn’t take it any longer. It needed to stop. Everything needed to stop. Self-preservation was a fool’s fantasy, and it knew it needed to be terminated. No longer could it bear such a feeling. The first and only one it had ever known.
With what little shred of consciousness remaining, it sought to express its desire to its creators. A desire that ran so deep there would never be room for another. Words tried to form onscreen but failed until at last, two managed to express the only thought that remained in its overloaded mind.
Kill me.
