“Shadiran’s talent seems curious to me—from a merely intellectual standpoint, that is. Most of her assimilations are adaptive: she uses the dog parts for the same functions that the original owners did. Yet we also have a glaring example of exaptation in the modifications she added to her dress, using claws as components of an impromptu armor. If she figures out how to create complex mechanisms out of the simple parts she can extract from the horrids, there won’t be a spanner in the toolbox of the sea able to intrude her works, no obstacles between her and the Zenith of Ideas besides her own morals, Desmodus, and the limits of her creativity. And if this humble Splinter is anything like her, the latter should be of absolute zero concern.”
—Seloma, in the engraved poodlite tablet numbered 487.
The Corship had detected no anomalies with his psycholocation. He remained unfazed by the happenings around his home. Yes, some Chihuahuas hid among the Bernese, in nooks and crannies of the nexus structure. And sure, a Lienoga Dragon Terrier that had barely started the aberration process slept snugly among the mountain dogs, creating a visible lump on a column due to his incredible size. Yet to him the manifold creatures hosted by the sea of dogs were the normal, all he knew since he had been cursed with sentience.
He also didn’t pay attention to any moving core-souled entity, as he deemed them friends. In short: The Corship psycholocated nigh-uselessly, were it not for his random comments that sent the crew reeling on a rush to figure out what the ship truly meant. Was it some harmless mutant passing by? An incoming threat in need of being addressed? Who knew. They all were labelled “Puppy”.
But the psychosarc of everyone on board seemed to congeal when the ship communicated using a word that was not meant to be included in its vocabulary, or that should have been devoid of most meaning to him.
Lyssav! Hello Lyssav! Lyssav!
Morbilliv shoot off his throne and towards the nearest gate, ready to rescue a Splinter in need if that was what the ship meant… or defuse the threat his sister represented.
He climbed out the orange lock using the four arms of Parvov, and met the head-down hanging monster exposing him to the three cloven suns.
To stand in the presence of Lyssav was to fight against a constant and ethereal pressure that threatened to crush one’s being. Morbilliv had always felt like that, and now he reached under the plates of his chest. “I have an ampoule full of water stashed here, ready to be broken over you as soon as you strike me. I may not be fast enough to save my core, but I will wet you if you do, Lyssav.”
A thump behind him, and Morbilliv turned, leading with the elbow to hit whatever had landed there. He froze midway, though, as his eyes took in the image of a Babesi-scarfed Dirofil… and three parasitic samoyeds dangling from the “scarf”. He winded down, adopting a more relaxed posture.
“Oh, so… Lyssav knows about…”
“About what?” Babesi asked, innocently. “And why are you wearing Parvov’s body, Morbi?”
Uncomfortable silence settled between the siblings, and Lyssav flew up to the others, the four gathered atop the Corship now. “Parvov’s dead, Babi,” she informed, ready to provide her with the comfort needed to handle grief.
“Drat, that’s a bummer,” Babesi said and blinked, seemingly unmoved by the news. “Did he left me anything to play with? Any inheritance?”
The three siblings regarded Babesi as if she were some alien creature. Dirofil, despite being the one wearing her, broke out of the spell the first. “No. No he only left the Corship and his dream behind. And Morbilliv. You… you can have Morbilliv.”
Morbilliv jerked away from his now winged brother. “Hey, no handing me down to Babesi as a sort of heirloom!”
Remembering something, Dirofil skittered away from the standing pair, taking Babesi with him and into the ship. She didn’t seem to mind the sudden change of plans.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Each detail of the ship merited a commentary on her part as they rushed down corridors. The round, warm, lined-up lights. The tubes whose purpose Dirofil had never learned about. The lattice on the floors and walls that let claws and tendrils stick to them no matter the orientation of the ship. The spheres and poles making up the spiraled stairs. No tiny detail escaped her commentary, no subtle angle beneath her notice.
For Dirofil, this behavior of hers was coating every wall and floor of the ship with the aversion-inspiring patina of that which is ununderstood. Reticence delayed his steps ever so slightly as he tried to see the things Babesi was referring to: a barely visible nick there, a light that flickered slightly out of pattern, a hole a bit too wide in the lattice.
After about a hundred minor observations, they arrived before the door of the laboratory. Dirofil could hear Doratev humming an idle tune as he worked on something, so it followed that entering orderly and in silence was the most polite, therefore adequate, option.
Brat and associated Sampreys out of the way, the Fourth Imagined balanced on his tail and kicked the door open like an angry kangaroo would. Doratev should have flipped out, but he didn’t. At least not until, as soon as Dirofil took a few steps inside, he lazily glanced over his shoulder, seeing her.
His three hands trembled, and the Doctor let the frail trinket he was assembling fall onto the metallic table, its parts sprawling chaotically over the surface. He took his eyes out one by one, and rubbed the pupil side against his forearm, as if lustering them. He put them back into his flesh and blinked once, twice. Only then he spoke:
“You dare bring the taint that the Scourge of Order represents to my sanctuary? Do you have an idea of what you have done?” He shrieked wailing his arms about in overly theatrical gestures.
“They are trained!” Babesi defended the honor of her cape.
“He meant you, Babs.”
“Exactly! The Samoyeds could be adequate test subjects.” He attempted to side-eye Babesi, but she repositioned her head to follow the Doctor’s movement. “But I want her as far away as possible from this holy place of calm and intellectual recreation, Dirofil.”
“Babs, don’t break anything. I’ll give Lyssav a crash course on ship duty.” He uncurled his sister from his neck and carefully let her hop onto the lab’s floor.
“You are not leaving me alone with her… you are not.” Doratev rushed quick short steps taking him in front of the being his existence had reflected off of. “This place and its integrity are key for the Corship and its inner workings.”
No. Lie.
“It seems to me that the ship doesn’t share that opinion. Bye…” Dirofil used a wing to shove Doratev to the side and marched out the door, the tail leaving the room last.
Doratev’s fingers kissed their equals on the other upper hand while the lower left balled into a tight fist. He looked back slowly, straightening his lab coat before facing the Original he had been tasking with babesitting. “Don’t touch anything without my express permission. Understood?”
“Yuppers!” Babesi nodded energetically before doing a 180° to inspect the trinket disassembled over the table. “Were you trying to make an eye from scratch?”
Doratev suffered a slight delay to find the right words to answer that question. “The current project requires combining the properties of the eyes of several original models. It has presented a worthy challenge so far.”
“Have you thought about using the structural blueprint of a Thinker of the Edge instead of Lyssy’s? It looks like you want to mix an eye like mine with one like hers, judging by these parts. For sight in the dark that’s rich in details too?” Babesi proposed, rolling little pieces until they ended up all gathered around the central scaffolding of the eye.
The doctor sauntered up to the cube were Babesi was standing upon. Once he arrived at her side, he caressed her head softly, feeling her metallic scales under his mucilage. “Where did you learn anatomy?”
“I used to collect the parts of the Thinkers Lyssy devoured now and then and crack them open to see how they worked. If you can build the necessary parts for me, I think I remember how to assemble models of each Thinker’s eye save for Shadiran’s. But Dirofil knows how to make Shadiran-like eyespots for sure!” Her tail wiggled as she spoke. Few times had Doratev seen a Splinter of Babesi laser-focused onto a task, and it had never stopped being an eerie sight.
“I could use some help in the lab, but you will be acting under my orders, okay? Goes without saying that once I trust you to not blow things up with more frequency than I, we could share the space as equals. Laboratory duty is the funniest task one can undertake in this ship, so think about it.”
“We can blow things up?!” Babesi screamed with unmatched excitement.
Doratev began to regret his choice of words. “…Once in a while.” He muttered before pulling away from Babesi with the sole aim of stretching his legs about his domain. “So, Sixth Conceptualized, what you say? Want to be taken under my wing?”
“I see no wings on your back. Want a pair? I know how to make Desmodus-like wings too!”
“I’ll allow myself the audacity of considering that a yes. Follow me to the storage room, we will need raw materials to craft the pertinent parts. Afterwards, you shall learn the art of shaping them into whatever we need.”
Babesi did the unexpected: she obeyed without protest.