Do'ormo'ot moved into the library, his robe rustling around his legs, his hands, clad in gloves, stuck inside the sleeves of the opposite arm, grasping his forearms. He kept his back straight, his mask comfortably fitted to his face.
"Prisoner 4582143, you are allocated one recreation and relaxation period at this time. Please signal when you are finished with your recreation and relaxation time," the robed figure escorting him said, the statement made up of many different voices saying the words or part of the words and then strung together. "You have sufficient privileges to access fiction, historic documents, and other Tier Two literature. You have sufficient privileges for refreshment should you wish it. End of Line."
"Thank you," Do'ormo'ot said quietly. "End of Line."
The jailer vanished in a puff of black smoke that whisped away.
Do'ormo'ot trotted back to the dimly lit section of the vast library, his hooves making a dull thumping on the stone. He was fine with it not clattering, the soft sound felt to Do'ormo'ot more like the proper volume of sound rather than the loud clatter he had once enjoyed.
He had no idea how long he had been in this place any longer, had given up attempting to understand. While in the exercise yard he sat quietly by himself, mulling over the things he had read, engaging in conversation with his fellow prisoners only when spoken to.
His neutral statements had led to the other prisoners returning to their dominance games with one another.
He had little interest in who they were, their plans, or their deeds. They, like him, were prisoners in this bleak place. Nothing more, nothing less.
Just prisoners.
Looking at the titles he kept moving. The Terrans seemed to have some kind of cultural and social drive to create literary works. Everything from fictional works to contrasting political views to military theories to ethical and moral systems.
He had read many such books, considered them in his cell as he taught himself to stare deep into the purple light of the sky.
There were secrets in the purple sky, he just knew it.
It was staring at the purple light as it had dimmed to deep dark colors that he had his epiphany.
The Lanaktallan people had lost the Precursor War.
The Mantid people had fled, escaping the final destruction, just as his people had. The Mantid had fled halfway down the Galactic Spur, leaving behind known and even partially explored space, and then had set about rebuilding their society.
Do'ormo'ot reached up and touched the hardback volume entitled More than One Hive on the spine. That text had illuminated much of Do'ormo'ot's understanding of post-war Mantid.
Like the Lanaktallan, they sought to recreate their old society, their old culture.
That made Do'omo'ot snort to himself.
Culture. Yes, our societies have vast amounts of culture. In Mantid culture you were free to work yourself to death, whereupon your corpse would be dumped into a larvae pit and eaten. In the Great Herd you had the freedom to work yourself to death whereupon your corpse would be put into the reclaimer and you would be eaten, Do'ormo'ot scoffed to himself. Such sublime culture.
Both societies had believed that culture was little more than a way to waste resources for no return. If a being was bored, he was free to return to work or socialize with those of his caste.
The Terrans though, they had a dizzying blend of cultures that made up on mismatched stew of cultures. Some cultures blended together, other cultures acting as the meat and vegetables. There was, of course, the odd bit of bone and gristle in the stew. Sometimes pieces of the stew were scooped out and thrown away, but their part in the recipe remained.
Do'ormo'ot's training told him that culture was addictive, becoming a beast that required more and more resources to placate the masses, that there was no true use in it and the only thing it did was allow a being with malicious intent to discover the fracture lines of a society.
His training also told him that no prison could hold him.
Do'ormo'ot snorted again as he stopped at the shelves. He looked them up and down, examining the titles until he found the one he had seen his last study period.
The Hypocrisy of the Great Herd
The took the book back to the table, sitting down, and opening it. To get himself into the mindset of the tome he read the first phrase again.
This thing, this horror, this self-inflicted mortal wound, was little more than avarice and pride mixed with our overweening arrogance that we and we alone deserved the fruits of a vast and wondrous universe that undoubtedly regretted our creation.
The Lanaktallan settled in, found his place, and began reading.
'We must protect the Great Herd with the stallions' they cried out, casting about for any remaining stallions. Yet their eyes found none, not to the front, nor to the sides, nor to the rear. The stallions had gone the way of the Mantid and the others, washed away by the tides of war. They lamented and trembled, cried out and shivered, huddling in masses and surging against one another to get as close to the center as possible.
But another voice arose, small at first, but gaining in strength and power, arose from within the Great Herd. 'We must protect the Great Herd from the stallions!' cried out this voice. It stated that the stallions had led the Great Herd to this state, cast out among the stars in a hundred different systems to dwell in poverty. 'Never again must we allow any to lead us who is not of us. No more should we seek out the intelligent for the science caste, the compromising for the leadership caste, but most of all, never should we encourage the aggressive, not even for the military caste. Let the military caste be filled with the lesser races, to be the chaff before the storms of war. Let the Lanaktallan be equal in all things, so that none seek to rise above the rest of the Great Herd and lead us, once again, into disaster.
Do'ormo'ot nodded slowly as he read ancient words penned by a historian who was forgotten by the entire universe, but for a few books in the library in dark structure within a place that had died.
His plot to 'crash the simulation' had been forgotten as he had dwelled within the shelves of the library.
---------------
Do'ormo'ot admired the sleek black material that had slowly covered his skin. He flexed one arm, completely replaced by the black material, and watched as the mechanical-esque structures moved. It oozed clear slime onto the floor, but Do'ormo'ot paid no attention to that.
To Do'ormo'ot's eyes, it was beautiful. Sleek, powerful, it felt right on his body.
He stood in the courtyard, beneath a stillborn sky, watching the black material slowly spread across his skin. It was painful, and grew more painful each session, but he refused to back away from it.
He was becoming more.
He knew it.
"Prisoner 4582143, your requested meditation time in this requested location has expired. You have sufficient privileges to engage in other activities or you may return to your cell. End of Line," one of the jailers around him said, not ceasing in the slow orbit around him.
"I would prefer to return to my cell. End of Line," Do'ormo'ot said, picking up his clothing and slowly dressing. The mask felt comfortable as it settled on his face. It was no longer blank, but now was engraved with lines and swirls and decorative etching.
Stolen story; please report.
He followed the jailer through the halls.
Do'ormo'ot believed that each path was the only path to reach his cell. Not at the time, for there was no time in this place. But that was and always had been the only path to reach his cell. It twisted and turned, went up and down, different each time, but Do'ormo'ot had begun to understand.
It was not the path that was different.
It was him.
Once in his cell he hung up his clothing. He had sufficient privileges now to keep his clothing in his cell, as well as a desk to hold the single book he was allowed to check out from the library for him to peruse when he was not within it.
The book on the desk was a Terran book. Fictional. An account of warring pirates on the Dark Matter Seas, who sailed open deck ships as if it was truly water, fought with cannon, black powder pistol, and bladed weapons.
A stirring account of impossibility that Do'ormo'ot enjoyed even as he dissected the deeper meanings within.
The theme, on the surface and even deeper within, was that it was better to live free on the Sunless Seas than it was to kneel beneath the boot of others. A short, violent life was preferable to eternal misery.
He admired himself again. He was larger now. He had nothing to measure himself but his own hands, but he knew that he was larger. Taller, broader, longer. His legs had pistons half-hidden by the sleek black carapace that had replaced his muscles. His torso was longer and broader, hidden pistons and gears, pulleys and cables beneath the plates that had replaced his pectorals.
The door opened to his cell, revealing another jailer standing in the doorway, seemingly floating on a thin cloud of black mist.
"Prisoner 4582143, you have gained enough privileges to be allowed a self-maintenance ditty-kit," the figure intoned. It waved one white gloved hand. "Your ditty kit has been delivered, Prisoner 4582143. End of Line."
The door silently swung shut and Do'ormo'ot turned around slowly in his cell, looking for whatever a ditty-kit was.
It was a leather bag sitting on the desk. He realized, looking at the coloration of the leather, that it was made from his own hide. Specifically his flesh above his right rear flank, which was now covered by the sleek black material.
It would have horrified him when he first arrived, now he touched it, stroking the soft leather.
It was only right it had been taken from his own flesh.
He opened it slowly, examining what was inside.
Polishing cloths, abrasive stones and powders, several different wrenches and drivers.
Curious, he picked up one of the drivers, examined the tip to ensure it was the correct one, and slotted it into the apparent screw in the upper corner of a pectoral plate.
I had assumed these were decorative, he thought to himself.
It resisted for a moment, then released with a sharp crack, and began turning easily. The screw was at least eight inches long, the last third of it coated with a thin layer of clear slime. He set it on the desk and one by one removed the other five screws holding his pectoral plate in place. He set down the driver and carefully removed his pectoral plate.
The inside was twisted and strange, almost obscene to Do'ormo'ot's eyes. Arms were protruding from holes in his chest that were perfectly scaled to leave no gap, the arms extending out so that the hands could grasp a long rod made up of a stretched screaming Lanaktallan skull. The arms moved the rod up and down in a slow repetition. At the base of the skull a curved and warped gear that had spokes extending out from a red and pained looked Lanaktallan eyeball slowly clicked, each tic of the gear moving a stretched and extended Lanaktallan spinal column.
I am beautiful in a great and terrible way, Do'ormo'ot thought to himself.
He did not ask how he knew to tighten the tension here, pry loose the blinking eyeball to access the screws and tighten them there, ease the tension on the gear right there, wind the spring over here.
He just knew.
He worked slowly, admiring himself even as he cared for the twisted and warped mechanisms that had replaced his flesh.
As the Terrans say, the flesh is weak even if the spirit is willing, Do'ormo'ot thought to himself.
When he was done he cared for the tools, wiped the edges of the plates of his body, and put away the tools.
Afterwards he did not bother to smile. There was no need to show an outward display of the clean and sharp emotions within him.
---------------
Black mist puffed out from beneath each of his hoofs as he trotted around the exercise yard, enjoying the feel of the gears, pulleys, pistons that had replaced weak meat muscle. He held his head high, his hands grasping the forearm of the opposite arm within that sleeve, and felt the bellows within both his torso and his abdomen slowly pump.
A human stepped out in front of him, stopping him on his circuit that he would never complete and that he had completed and that he was in the middle of completing.
"Still confused?" the human asked from behind his mask.
"There is nothing to be confused by," Do'ormo'ot said. "This place offers many gifts, no simulation would gift me as this place has."
The human seemed perplexed. "Do you not fear losing yourself, what makes you you?"
Do'ormo'ot gave him a stare from behind his mask. "No. Who one is is a concept that is fluid from moment to moment, experience changes that concept. There is no moments here, thus I am as the Deep Skies see me. I have no fear."
The human moved back, politely motioning Do'ormo'ot to continue on his never-ending trot around the exercise yard.
Finally he stopped, moving over to where other prisoners were gathered up. They all stopped their discussion and looked up at him.
"So which centaur are you?" one of them asked.
"Prisoner 4582143," Do'ormo'ot replied. He paused for a moment. "End of Line."
The others all looked at one another and then back at Do'ormo'ot. "You've been here a while, haven't you, centaur?"
Do'omo'ot waited until he was sure they were done talking. He felt a slight bit of annoyance that they did not properly end their sentences.
"Yes. End of Line," Do'ormo'ot answered.
"Yeah, he's been here a lot longer than the others. Did you know there are others of your kind here?" another asked.
Do'ormo'ot considered it. There had been a strike team with him when he had been captured. All of whom had destroyed entire planet's worth the population simply because their minds were too narrow, too carved in stone by forces that did not understand the basic realities of the universe.
"The fact that there are others of my species is inevitable. They have undoubtedly always been here, as have I," Do'ormo'ot stated. "End of Line."
"Still think it's a simulation?" One asked.
"What I perceive as reality is of no importance, reality is as it is," Do'ormo'ot answered. He looked up into the endless purple sky. "Reality must be either accepted or altered, the denial of reality is a victory of ignorance over observational intelligence. End of Line."
"Well, have a seat," one of them said, moving to the side.
"For what purpose? End of Line," Do'ormo'ot said.
"There are things we can teach you, that we are permitted to teach you, 4582143," one large bulky one stated.
Do'ormo'ot sat, ensuring he appeared dignified.
"Let us teach you meditation," one said.
----------------
His fingers had become long, thick, and powerful, with razor sharp tips. The cabling on the underside of his fingers, beneath the plating, was thick and well tensioned.
Do'ormo'ot held up his hands, concentrating as he had been taught. He reached down inside of him, where he could feel the complex interactions of his biomechanical parts. He exhaled slowly, focusing on the long fingers at the end of his four hands.
Purplish electrical arcs sizzled between his fingers for a long moment, moving up and down, arcing and spitting.
He held it for an eternal moment but barely a heartbeat before it vanished.
He hung his head, breathing slowly and heavily as he had been taught.
He did not smile. External displays of emotion were not necessary.
--------------
Do'ormo'ot trotted around the exercise yard, concentrating as he had been taught by his fellow scholars. He could feel the power building within him and guided it was he passed several of his fellow scholars as they sat and watched or talked with one another or exercised, all at the same time in different parts of the yard.
With a tingling burn down his legs the mist around his hooves caught fire.
He trotted, head high, arms folded within his sleeves, on hooves wreathed in fire.
There was no need to smile. He had always trotted thus.
-------------
Do'ormo'ot sadly closed the cover on the book he had been reading.
It was the last one. He had read all of the others, reading in the library and within his cell for an eternal nanosecond.
He closed the book, a written philosophical tract on how the loss of religion leads to the rise of cultism written by a Lanaktallan who wrote as his world burned around him. The book had ended suddenly, the bottom of the page charred, the edges of the charring still burning red with heat.
Sighing, Do'ormo'ot placed the book back onto the shelves and regretfully ran his hand down the spines of the other books.
He had read them, one by one, for he had always read them. The words were burned into his mind, as if the book was in front of him and being read because it was and always would be.
"Prisoner 4582143, you will follow or face Level IV Negative Stimulation. End of Line," a jailer stated in the squealing squeaking voice.
"As you command. End of Line," Do'ormo'ot replied.
He followed the figure through the hallways as they twisted and turned, his fire wreathed hooves thudding on the stone as black mist eddied behind his hoofbeats. Finally they reached a door and the figure held out Do'ormo'ot's ditty-bag.
Do'ormo'ot took the ditty-bag and waited as the door slowly swung open.
Beyond was noting but purple light with shining black swirls faintly visible in the depths.
"Your sentence has been served, Prisoner 4582143," the figure intoned. "Go forth, Do'ormo'ot, and bring wisdom to the ignorant."
"I shall, Blessed One," Do'ormo'ot stated, and stepped through the door.
-------------
The day was sunny, rich and powerful Lanaktallan trotting through the park, enjoying the sunshine and their wealth.
Storm clouds rushed in, despite the panicked actions of the beings at the weather control consoles. Lightning crackled, bolts coming down from the sky to slam into the ground.
With a bright flash, purple and painful to the eyes, the lightning stopped and the clouds dissolved.
Standing, in the grass, was a Lanaktallan. Dressed in heavy robes, his face masked, his hooves surrounded by black mist, the Lanaktallan was half again as tall as the tallest Lanaktallan present.
Do'ormo'ot did not smile as he looked around park.
There was no need for an outward expression of his satisfaction.