4

My memory was caught up in a maddening haze. My mind was a blank slate, a dark cloud hanging over my head, twisting my stomach here and there, and the inkling feeling at the nape of my neck that something was wrong. But another sense forced it down. It forced me to forget the pain and the terror, and the sadness. The students who got pulled into the sphere barely lasted four seconds. Why did it feel like I had been here for quite a long time?

Because you have.

I froze. Did someone speak again? It was different than the other. Male in tone.

Yes, it answered promptly.

I wasn’t sure at first, but a man was definitely speaking too close to my ear—soft, warm, and calm. I tried to move my head from side to side, looking for the voice’s owner, but the tendrils held me stiffly in place. I couldn’t even move a muscle. I was paralyzed.

You scored in the ninety-ninth percentile in the organic-symbiotic compatibility assessment. You are synchronized at fifty-eight beats per minute and ninety-four percent equilibrium, lasting for two minutes and twenty seconds and counting. Your fitness is in the prime green zone. The selection is complete. Congratulations.

What selection?

Suddenly, a portrait materialized five feet away from my eyes, swirling in the liquid substance. It was a portrait of me in my service uniform as a Marine, fresh out of high school before my deployment, then another picture of me when I got promoted to sergeant. Within two seconds, it was replaced by a picture of Jason, Amelia, Mark, and me when we hiked along the trail in the Hollywood Hills. Then, it was a picture of six-year-old me next to my mother’s grave a year after her death; of seventeen-year-old me drinking a purple bubble tea with my high school friends during a football match; a group photo with my brothers Isaac and Daniel when we went to Disneyland; of my father and stepmother opening his new auto repair shop in town; my profile picture of me standing behind Silver Falls, wearing a thick raincoat jacket and hiking boots; and a picture of me and my platoon—Jason, Amelia, Rachel, Tom, and Alonso—on USS Bataan near Oman off the Persian Gulf, one of my last missions before I decided to go to college.

Welcome, Staff Sergeant Anton Segerstrom. You have been selected as the Forerunner of Earth. Your near-perfect compatibility assessment prepares you for Phase Two.

“What is—” I tried to speak.

I didn’t want to swallow this strange liquid and end up drowning myself or, worse, catch a nasty disease. I couldn’t risk it. The Native Americans got smallpox when they encountered the Europeans. I wondered what these aliens carried with them, and I had no intention of becoming a carrier of a disease that would kill off humanity.

This device is sterile and completely safe for you, Anton Segerstrom. It carries no biohazard.

Should I be thankful? Though I was more surprised that it knew my name.

I am designed to know you.

Fuck. And it could read my thoughts, too.

Knowing your name is part of my protocol.

“But—” I shut my mouth again. Some liquid got in my mouth and tasted almost like pure sugar cane. I forced myself not to swallow it. A surge of panic was quickly suppressed by this strange feeling earlier as if telling my anxiety and fear that it was not welcomed.

You may speak through your thoughts, Staff Sergeant Anton Segerstrom.

His voice sounded pleasant to listen to, surprisingly reassuring even. I wondered if he pumped me up with some drugs. Made me more compliant. But I detected its robotic nature, perhaps a translation device relayed into my mind, connected by the tendril attached to my brain. Maybe I am dead, and this was all an illusion. Fuck me.

You are not dead, and my purpose is not as a mere translation device. If robots had feelings, they sounded almost offended. I am a virtual intelligence using standard American English, your primary language. This way, I can better communicate with you.

An AI.

Not an AI. Artificial Intelligence is banned across the galactic expanse. I am a non-shackled virtual intelligence created in the Year 100,200 of the Galactic Aeon to serve potential candidates like you for the Forerunner Directive. You ascended as a Forerunner. I am here to guide, advise, and rebuild. Do you prefer other means of communication?

It took me a while to respond. “Um, that won’t be necessary. Who are you then?” I asked through my thoughts. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, to tell him how fucking insane all of this was, but there was something in my blood that was suppressing my intense emotions.

My name does not translate well into your language, nor is it pronounceable via your species’ weak vocal cords. To accommodate your request, I will do my best translation: I am The Prime Dirt that Grows in the Mountains Mist, the Willing Vow When Stars Collide, the Answer in Times Lost. It is my great pleasure to meet you, Forerunner.

Well, that was certainly a mouthful. I doubted I would have to call him that all the time.

I apologize if my name has offended you. You may call me by another name of your choosing, one that is convenient for your speech.

“Why would you let me choose?”

Because you are the selected Forerunner of this planet. You have full authority over my being, and I am under your command. My tools are yours to control. What are your orders?

“Yes, you mentioned that earlier. What the hell is that? That doesn’t explain everything, you know. Is this why you’re murdering people?”

A slight hesitation. As if the voice had prepared this speech for quite a long time. Your world has entered a technological Golden Age, and the galaxy knows your people’s potential. It has been selected as a candidate for the Forerunner Directive as of the standard galactic aeon of 162,468, which translates to approximately twelve thousand years ago in the advent of your civilization’s neolithic revolution. The validity of your species’ ascendance has been vetted and approved by my superiors’ automated mandate, and I have judged that a forerunner position has been permitted. As the newly appointed Forerunner, your primary directive is to protect your planet from all threats.

“But you are killing people! Your ships are destroying cities!”

They are not part of the Forerunner Directive. However, they pose a considerable threat to your planet.

“You mean… you’re not controlling those ships?”

Perhaps you have some auditory impairment, Forerunner. This device is incapable of surgical procedures, but I can take you back to my ship. Let me fix your hearing.

“No, I’m okay!” Did this thing have to take everything so literally? “Then who vetted our planet? Are they the real aliens who sent you? Are the aliens that are attacking us your people’s enemy? Who was that other voice I heard earlier?”

I’m sorry, but that information is classified—a pause. Your planet’s technology has advanced in the ideal green zone and is now viable for Phase Two. If a feasible forerunner has been born on this planet and passed the organic compatibility test with Forerunner Technology, Phase Two can begin, which you will preside over immediately. The last forerunner test was prematurely conducted in the Local Year 1348 CE, with all viable subjects ending in a terminated failure. For centuries, I have tracked the forerunner gene and observed its successful propagation into the modern population. You are now the designated Forerunner of Earth. You have a viable forerunner gene. You will prepare the planet and neutralize the threat.

Designated Forerunner? Phase Two? Alien genes? Prepare Earth? Like any machine, it was following a code. A simple code. How long had he been at this? A thousand years, maybe more? How many people had he killed and dissected to find what he sought? This Forerunner? And now he saw it through me, and it believed I should know all of this already, confident that I would blindly follow its directive and become, what? The guy who’s going to protect the planet? I had the itch to rip these tendrils off me, but I still couldn’t move an inch.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Prepare for what?” I asked.

Advanced Technology.

Expansion.

Authority.

Sovereignty.

Obedience.

War.

I stiffened. I looked at the mound of bodies murdered by the sphere. He couldn’t mean I would have to fight the freaking aliens alone! That’s crazy!

They carry the forerunner gene, but they are non-viable. They have failed the test.

“This…is this going on around the world?”

Affirmative. Seven million candidates have been assessed. All are non-viable.

I closed my eyes. Seven million? All killed, he meant.

Affirmative.

“No. This doesn’t seem right. You should stop this! Stop the tests!”

I have detected an elevated heart rate and increased epinephrine within your system. I have offended you and made you angry.

“It’s because I am! You killed these people!”

Please note that I have terminated all future assessments of viable candidates after your outcome. Rest assured. No further tests have been conducted without your final approval.

My final approval? “You…you can bring them back? Tell me you can bring them back.” I’m still breathing. Surely there’s a way this robot could save them.

I apologize, Forerunner. Though my medical procedures are more advanced than your current technology and capabilities, I cannot return those that expired. I do not have the means to do so. I have punctured through their occipital bone to gain access to their cerebellum and the temporal lobe. The process is 99.99% fatal.

“Then why am I not dead?”

I have supplied your body with five thousand grams of fresh nanites to keep all bodily functions optimal and regulated and to stop premature expiration before this assessment is finalized.

Shit. I had literal robots in my blood right now.

Correct. They repair your cells, nerves, veins, and all physical trauma at breakneck speed. It will take three minutes to finish. Thank you for being so patient.

“Why did you have to kill the others? If you can heal them, why throw them out like that?”

Forerunner technology is reserved for the Forerunner and the Forerunner only. In other circumstances, I must introduce myself more amicably and present my benevolent intentions. But five hours ago, I detected a hostile fleet orbiting your planet. My central directive is to protect this sector and follow the orders of the designated Forerunner. Since no forerunner exists, I am forced to seek them out in the current general population as fast as possible. Standard procedures direct me to introduce a pathogen into the population to find the prime candidate and introduce myself.

I felt like there was a but coming, and I said it before he did. “But you don’t have the time.”

Correct. I cannot proceed with the standard ten-year stratagem for passive, indirect observation, ensuring that the gene is ingrained within the current population. I theorized that your species should acclimate well with the forerunner gene I introduced upon my first arrival, especially when humans have a high birth rate. Humanity should be optimal for testing after twelve hundred generations since the neolithic advent, with a zero-point-one percent chance of finding a viable candidate.

Jesus Christ. We were just cattle to this thing. “So, you gambled that zero-point-one percent?”

Correct. But my extreme, albeit deadly, gamble prevailed. I have found the optimal candidate, and I have introduced myself. You are the Forerunner. I am here to serve at your leisure. But you must neutralize the current threat.

Even with that zero-point-one percent, there must be millions of us that were potential candidates. There must be a better candidate than me. Let’s face it: I wasn’t cut out for this. That’s the first thing that popped into my head. I was just a Marine. Broke. Trying to get a passing grade in all my classes to maintain my GPA and still be in the officer’s program. There must be a more capable guy in that zero-point-one percent.

Seven of the eight million have been tested and are incompatible. Your mental stability has been assessed. You have passed.

“What happens if I didn’t?”

You will be non-viable.

That settled it real quick.

“And…if I refuse?”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds longer than I expected. I was unsure if he would. Then, his voice reverberated inside my head again, and he said, The subsequent assessments will resume until the next viable Forerunner is selected. Until then, the current threat to your planet will continue, and more lives will be at risk. Your assessment will be promptly terminated.

Terminated? He meant dead. I pictured the tendril violently detaching from my head, leaving an ugly gaping hole just like that freshman had, and the sphere would discard me. I would be just another body in that pile to my left.

Affirmative. I will only terminate you once you decline the position. If this offends you, I apologize.

I gulped and cursed my loud thoughts, and his apologies didn’t make me feel better. It was very odd listening to a polite voice when he was debating whether to murder or not murder me. From the soccer field, Amelia, Seth, Freddie, and Ryan kept the other students away from the sphere. She held her phone to her ear, probably talking to Jason on the other line. Could they see me in here? It didn’t seem like it. Ryan threw a stick against the sphere, but an invisible force prevented it from passing through the strange substance.

Six police cars arrived, jumped over the curb, and stopped a hundred feet from the sphere. Several cops began to cordon off the area, shouting over a megaphone bullhorn (though their sound was muffled while I was inside the sphere). But the crowd was too rowdy. The students dispersed, half of them still filming the scene. Others were dragging away some of the dead while the cops shooed them away. Wails of the ambulance echoed just behind the rec building, approaching fast.

“I—I don’t want to die,” I mumbled after I caught another glimpse of the dead bodies.

Then, it is confirmed. You are officially the Forerunner of Earth. You will prepare, assemble, and fight the current threat.

“Yeah. You said that already. Is diplomacy, like, not an option? I want to tell them to stop attacking our cities. Make them leave and never come back." They probably thought we were an easy meal. A planet with far inferior technology compared to theirs. Well, this tech would just balance the war table.

"They have deliberately ignored all open lines of communication," the robot said, almost disappointed but seemingly pleased he predicted it.

It figures. "Fine. I’ll…prepare and fight.” What have I gotten myself into? I didn’t know where to start—chosen by aliens to fight other aliens? Protect the planet? The attacking force was also highly advanced and with far more knowledge of space combat than I did. There was a high chance I’d end up dead anyway. I tried to move my right hand again, focusing on my thumb and index fingers.

Nothing.

Please refrain from any sudden movement. This assessment will be over soon.

“How long should I wait? This isn’t exactly comfortable.”

Are you in distress?

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I am in distress! I have a robot attached to my brain, doing fuck-all!”

I can speed up the process of transference, but it will be painful.

“Whoah! There’s no need for that! And what do you mean by transference? What are you transferring?”

I am uploading all the necessary information into your mind and preparing you for your new role. Transitioning from your previous life to that of a forerunner can overwhelm all candidate species. Many forerunners crumble due to stress and strenuous mission parameters. I am here to help you with that. I’ll be your guide to everything.

Oh. Wonderful.

I’m glad you think so.

“No, I meant that sarcastic—” I held my tongue. There was no point in arguing with a robot. “What do you mean other forerunners? You mean, I’m not the only human?” It filled me with hope. Perhaps I am not alone throughout all this. There were others!

No. You are the first human Forerunner. I meant the previous forerunners of this sector.

And just like that, my hopes were dashed.

And this sector? Other aliens had encountered whatever this robot was and had probably heard the same spiel I’m listening to now. I wondered what had happened to them.

They all died.

I winced, but before I could ask him how they died, he interrupted; the transference is complete.

I focused on my head for any new dull or sharp pain, but nothing happened. It all felt the same, except for the uncomfortable way the tendril grasped the back of my head. I reckoned some needle was still stuck inside my skull, fiddling with my brain and spinal cord.

I have stored approximately three thousand grams of nanites in your body for contingency and protection. It will keep you alive from traumatic physical injury until further appropriate medical procedures are conducted.

Did he mean… “A—am I going to fight these aliens now?”

Five hostile vessels of unknown origin have arrived on Earth and attacked five metropolitan areas. It is recommended that you destroy the current threat immediately.

“That easy, huh?”

I have sent a ship down for you to command.

Suddenly, the tendril at the back of my head detached with a loud pop, the claws reeled back, and I was lifted a foot upward before it gently spat me out of the sphere like nothing.

Air rushed into my open mouth, then down into my lungs. I could breathe normally again, but I mistakenly took a lungful, and it got stuck in my windpipe. I coughed hard, gravity pulling my knees to the ground.

The substance coated my uniform but dissolved into thin air in mere seconds until my clothes were dry. I raised my hand to the back of my head but felt no wound or a prominent scar. It all healed in seconds.

Amelia crouched in front of me, cupping my cheeks with both hands and looking into my eyes. Seth, Freddie, and Ryan stood behind her, equally concerned. They were checking if I was still responsive and if I was aware. I nodded to them, but their words were muffled, like listening through a narrow straw.

Jason crouched beside her. I didn’t know how he got here so fast, but I was glad to see him. They took my arms on each side and pulled me up. I almost burst into tears, and all I could think of was that I was now safe. Finally, back on the ground. It felt like I could leave everything behind. Go home. Go back to my dad. Hunker down on my couch covered in thick blankets and sift through cable.

But the calm feeling quickly evaporated, and a realization hit me like crawling spikes up my spine. I screamed. It wasn’t a loud scream, more of a sob and a choke. My legs weakened, but thankfully, Amelia, Freddie, and Jason were there for me to lean on. I shuddered, and I was so cold. If this was what dying must be like, I did not want to experience it again. For a moment, I thought the voices I heard were my imagination and that I was dying. My friends dragged me away from the sphere, then I heard shouts and gasps. The sphere was leaving!

I looked back and watched it slowly rise toward the sky and vanished.