Resurrection Log: Ź̷̼͖ý̶̧̡̩̫͉͔͇̓̈́̋̎̽̌͐͛̈́̎̒́̐̍͠r̴̢͓̖̲͙̲̮͋̉̓̾͒̑͜͠ͅa̵̡̨̦͍͉̳͎͕̞͔̲̺̰̩̩̽͑̆̈̌́̏͝g̵̼͈̟̗͔͋́̈́̀͆̀̚ą̸̯̽̈́̑͒͑́ṙ̷͙̝̥͔̳̜̗͖̦͉͓͕͗̈́̇̇͂̐̍̒̍̔d̸͇̞̥͓̠̈́͒͋̌̐͝ ̶̨̧̛͔̲̻̖͚̠̣͔̻̰̫̒̇͐͜͠T̴̠͓͔̦̩̻̼̖̽͆̍͆̓̊̽̔̚͠ơ̷̶̵̸̸̸̡̛̛̬̖̰̦̦̮͚̗̞̻̻̞̻̙̘̘͈͈̭̲͙̪͍̭̭͉͚̤̅̾̽͋̀̑̋̆̍̉̇̉̈́̿͋͒̇̊̓̂̿̿̑̈́͆͑͌̂̌̑̆̉͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ţ̷̢̢̛͙̩͎̥͈̝̖̈̄͛̄͊̆̓̈́̊ͅͅȩ̸̠͍̱̖̺̣̖̄̉̔͜ņ̷̡͓̘̥̠̖̝̺͈̥͔̲͊k̴̛̯̫̪͑̽̔́̅͂̿̂͋̉̂̕͘͠y̵̟̟̰̪̻̼̖̌̽̇̓́̍̃͒̾̕̚͝͠r̵̢̨̠͉̼̲̲͛͒̂̽̄͐͌̏͘͘͝a̴̛̰̙̫͂͐̓̐ḿ̷̡̛̤͙͕̼̱̻͙̔͌̓̈̏͑̔̈́̓͘̚ą̸̧̧̯̺̫͈̞͎̻̤̫̂͐̐͘ņ̷̨̱̖̟͖͚̣̂͌͗̌̾̔́̕ ̶̨̨̲̘̭͚̣̝̞̲͔̦̽̾̏̄̒́̚͝K̷̖̻̘̣͐̽̀̅͛͜͜͜ṟ̴̛͇̺͈̲͉̤̰̰̥͉͓̜͑̈́͌̔̍̓́̕ą̷̼̄̾͊̓̽̾͊̈̒̍̍́̉̚͝l̸̨̞͇͈̖͔̘̜̱̦͈̊

Year 76,589 of the —Mother of Ruin—

M:6 D:17

Day 973 of Cycle 3

[transcribed memory/thoughtstream generated by Ṁ̵̢̘̭̬̙̘̦̳͓̺͈̪̒̂ǫ̵̨̛̠̫̻̐̋̓͗͗͗̏̎͂̿͌̕t̴̜̪͇͕͚́̓͐h̴̯͍̼̦̯̝̜̝̤͂͋͆͌͗͝ę̸͉͖͕̜̤̘͙͎͚̈́̏͒̒̄̏̃̋͘̕͘͜ȓ̸̢̨͍͉̱̮̞͔̋̇ ̴̡̛̱̳̘̠͎̫̩̪̦̠̦̣̀͒͛͊̚͠G̷̰̹̝͆̈͜į̸̧̟͙̰͖̳̯̈́̒͜͜g̶͉̗̹̻̟̰̞̭̠͉͙̈́͊̌̈̈̓̐̒̕ạ̵̧̧̘͖͔̟̝̳̅̇̂̂̅̓̇͛̓͋̊̏̇̕t̵̮̉͒̋̄̑̇̌̀̅͑̋͋r̶̻̟͗̋̀̆̿̃̔̄͒̎̊̈́̚o̵̪̦͇̫̾̋̊̾̋͗͗̊͊̄͜͠͝ḡ̵̛̰͎̇̐͒͋̊̀͝ẗ̶̡̮̠͈̗̗̃͛̈̊̾ḩ̴͍̖͖̥͈̻̪̖̤̰̥̣̋͌̚ř̵̝̤̩͈͎̤͎̯̤͔̝̬̖̓̏͐̀̿̊̂̈͋̕͝͝ĭ̴̡̡͙̺̪͕̻̺̥̫̭̜̺̳̃̂͊̓́̅̈́̎̀̽̀̚ͅṃ̵̨͇̺̪̤̄͜ȧ̵͓̟͖̞̩̤͙̩̖̠̝̣̔ź̶̡͇͍̝̳͚̱͖̳͖̬͓̋̂͜ ̸̢̺͚̍̎̈́̂͛̂̐͐̊̕̚͜͝͝Ȉ̵̢̹̜̞͆̃͗̅̈́̋͒̅͝Í̶̡͓͓̰̥̤̗̱̀͛́͆̒͋̂͠͝I̴̟̞̪̯͍̟̿̂̐̌͑̎̅̋͐͆̍́] [cont’d]

Tursa turned her back on the door, and Allico pulled away from the miniature Shosho to scowl over at Jonathan’s prone and battered form.

“Who wants to do the honors?” she queried, looking from one to the other of them. “Did you know you were set for stun, Shosho?”

“Yes,” replied the small gla’cui.

Tursa cleared her throat.

“Orders are incapacitate and imprison only,” she said.

“No they’re not,” protested Allico. “I came in here fully prepared—no—excited to shoot that shitfucker in the face.” Her own face reddening, she glared from Shosho to Tursa, who in turn looked at one another. Tursa shrugged.

“It’s two to one,” she said.

I stopped short in my narration, redirecting my focus to Rin. I was not alone in doing so. She crossed her arms defensively over her chest.

“Look. Lore would hate me if she knew I had her father outright murdered when I had every opportunity to not do that. And if I did do it and lied to her about it, and she ever found out…again. Hate. Forever.”

“Rin,” I said. “He must be killed.”

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I left it up to fate, sorta. Gave half of them the order to kill, the other half not to. Figured whoever got to him first would settle it.”

Marah downed the rest of her mimosa, set it down on the island countertop, and massaged her forehead. Derek appeared unsurprised, or perhaps he was merely masking himself again. Indri went over to Rin and looped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her close.

“What the hell are you going to do with him?” demanded Marah.

Rin gnawed at her lip, fingers digging into her arms.

“Get information, I guess. Everything we can. And then, in time…once Lore really understands why it needs to happen…” she trailed off.

Marah’s free hands flexed at the air, making the beginnings of various gestures one after the other in a series of aborted remonstrations. [Even humans who do not know sign-language will frequently supplement their vocalizations with hand movements.]

Rin brought up her own hands.

“Listen. I know. I fucking know. But this isn’t easy. None of this is easy. Kids make everything so gods-damned complicated.”

I looked down at her. Blinked.

“Although I am aware my understanding of your species is incomplete, I am very nearly certain that decision-making is one of the key roles of leadership among Homo sapiens. To give one half of your people one order, and another half another—”

“I told you, I know!”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Her voice raised as the last two words tore out of her. And then, snatching up a pitcher still three-quarters full of mimosa, she turned her back on all of us and strode toward the exit. There, she stopped and turned back.

“Zyr. Let me know when Tursa gets through the door. Otherwise…no one bother me.”

Returning my attention to the others, I engaged in the exchanging of looks.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“None of us do, honey,” said Indri soothingly.

“Ah, no. I mean that I do not understand what has occurred with Shosho.”

Her species is endangered and secretive, and while Lyrians may know more about them than most do, our knowledge of their kind is still exceedingly limited.

“Her symbiont…”

“Contains her primary brain and all of her memories,” said Grayman. “Their bodies hold juvenile clones of themselves in stasis, and when the older body dies, assuming neither symbiont nor egg suffers damage, it transfers itself over.”

“Fascinating,” I breathed, referring not only to Shosho’s unique physiology, but to the fact that she’d trusted these humans enough to divulge it to them. And that they’d trusted me enough to extend it forward.

Pack-bonding truly is a remarkable phenomenon.

After moving a still-unconscious Jonathan to one of the bases’ holding cells and injecting him with drugs to keep him unconscious a great deal longer, Allico recovered a pair of drones and set to work on reviving them. Jonathan would need guards at all times (a misuse of resources which, if I am truthful, quite offended me), and humans certainly could not be trusted with the task.

Tiny-Shosho and Tursa, meanwhile, went in search of some key or mechanism by which to unlock the central chamber from the outside. They found it among Jonathan’s personal belongings in the infirmary, hanging from a silver chain—as though perhaps he ordinarily wore it about his neck.

Leaving what remained of my latest mimosa on the countertop, I excused myself to inform Rin. She was seated on a battered armchair on her bedroom balcony, a fat one in her right hand, the pitcher curled in her left arm.

“Tursa has accessed the central chamber, and is currently in the process of consuming the Starseer’s brain matter.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” said Rin. “Now get out. Please.”

“But I am already outside,” I protested.

“I mean off my balcony. Out of my room. Away from me. Thank you.”

I had wanted to offer her comfort. But I knew better than to persist at that time.

Retreating to the empty upstairs living room and its own broad balcony facing the sea, I leant against the railing. My tentacles twitched with agitation around me.

Staring at the blue-green waves, I longed to strip away my approximations of clothing and dive beneath them. To feel the salt waters flowing around me, to immerse myself in the songs and flavors and genetics of its denizens. Explore the depths, and leave behind for a time this world of humans and their complexities.

But I could not go. The household was still at risk. I was still needed.

Jonathan had been in possession of some impressive communications equipment, back at the base, and there were very likely people ready to take action when he did not make contact as expected.

Jonathan. His existence was unconscionable. Perhaps, I thought, if no one else will take its ending upon themselves, I must.

“Oh! There he is!”

Indri’s voice issued from just inside. Within a few more seconds, she, Marah and Grayman had piled out onto the balcony with me. By the absence of the babies, I assumed they’d been put down for a nap.

“You alright, man?” wondered Grayman. I was quite surprised, he had not until that point shown me any such familiarity. I chose not to inform him of what I had only just been thinking.

“I do not know,” I said simply. “I believe Rin is…angry with me.”

Marah sighed.

“She’ll get over it. Just give her time.”

“How much time?” I queried. But she made no answer.

Walking back over to the balcony’s entrance, Grayman looked to me.

“Come on,” he said.

“Come where?”

“Just follow me.”

I did. He lead me down and down still further, to the house’s basement, a place to which I had not yet been.

“Welcome to my—well, I can’t exactly call it my man cave, Alli spends more time down here than I do.”

I looked around as I ran the term through Homo Sapiens For Absolute Fools. It seemed about right. There were sticks hanging on the walls, and lumicell configurations made to imitate neon-lit signs, another ancient human art form. There was also a very large, framed print of several dogs sitting at a table and playing a card game. For furnishings, there were battered vat-leather couches and armchairs, and a table much like one in the dog picture, as well as another with little holes at the sides and corners.

As I moved ahead to examine this structure, the initial strains of a song began to play from corner-mounted speakers. Overlapping human voices, at first without the accompaniment of instruments.

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality

“Do you play?” queried Grayman, gesturing to the hole-table.

“I think so,” I replied, not entirely sure what he meant.

“Pool?” he said.

“Do you have one?” I wondered. Perhaps I could have a swim, after all. A wildly inferior swim, but a swim nonetheless.

He laughed.

“I wish. But no. This is for a game called pool. Want to learn?”

“Certainly,” I replied.

The song continued on in the background, violating almost every convention of typical human lyrical structure that I was aware of. Grayman taught me how to play pool. I mastered it quickly, but for a member of a species with competitive proclivities, he seemed remarkably unperturbed by his subsequent losses. He also introduced me to beer, which he and Allico had brewed themselves, though he admitted he did little of the work save provide input from afar.

I found it difficult to understand the appeal of the beverage, but drank it nonetheless, as Grayman insisted it was an acquired taste.

He was plying me with something Allico had apparently dubbed the “coffeecrack lager bomb” when a shout issued from upstairs.

The time of my usefulness, it seemed, had come.