Chapter Sixty-Nine (Words)

His name was a complex equation describing the relationship between tachyons and movement, but everyone, including his non-green Mantids just called him by his hatching number: 117. His fellow green Mantids always used his full name, after all, it was only polite.

He had been hatched in the complexes that supported the Hate Anvils of Mars, had grown to his full foot high maturity listening the elegant flow of electrons, tasting the sublime recipes of metal joining, and feeling the exquisite trembling of chemistry in the world about him. His cybernetics had grown with him, self-growing nanite constructions, with a small nano-forge the size of a gel-capsule in his abdomen carefully constructing everything his implants needed.

His engineering skills and curiosity knew no bounds. He was able to touch a mechanical or electronic device and slowly 'read' everything there was to know about it. He could read the nano-stamps on molycircuitry and tell somebeing where it was manufactured down to which assembly-line. He could telepathically communicate with VI, eVI, and AI at the same speed they thought and often found himself swapping droll puns with household electronics and appliances.

When he was younger, 117 had been a Terran Marine Technical Officer, working on the vast complex networks of electronics in giant starships. He had enjoyed that time, working with humans who threw themselves into tasks the same as 117. It was from them that 117 had perfected "percussive maintenance", an ancient human method of fixing devices that defied diagnostics. He had even taken part in boarding actions against pirates, helped save a space station who's AI had been driven mad by a solar storm, and even rode on the chest of a warborg, keeping her weaponry and battle-screens at peak function during a fight against an ancient Precursor machine.

He was 117, a foot high green preying mantis with a cybernetic wrap on his triangular head, with eyes replaced by cybernetics, cybernetic arms replacing his blade-arms, and his own micro-nano-forge that still trembled with the ringing of hammers on the Anvils of Hate of Mars.

Selected by Dreams herself to escort her diplomatic mission to the Grand Unified Council space, he had busied himself with maintaining not only the working condition of the electronics, but electronic security. His escort was not a warborg or a warbot or even some kind of floating overseer. His escort was a Pure Strain Human wearing EM camouflage, with no technology of any type, armed only with a large length of wood with slender spikes of steel embedded in one end. A ancient human weapon of dangerous lethality known as: "A 2x4 with a nail in it." Should 117 become a danger, he would be crushed and punctured by the fearsome weapon until he was not longer a threat. Unlike other Mantids he did not have an implosion wire.

The urge to remove and then use the implosion wire to test the tensile strength of a wall or living being would have been too great.

It comforted 117 to know the Mosizlak was guarding him as he often had urges to use technology to do things he should not.

Like charbroil a Lanktallan and summon others to join in on the feast.

Which is why Words Spoken We Fear found it strange that 117 was daintily picking his around the piles of books, scrolls, and clay tablets that Words preferred for his eVR quarters. Words watched the engineer caste Mantid stop to adjust the hard light emitter near the stacks of ancient Babylonian tablets, something off about the emitter that a diagnostic could not find but 117 had noticed just by walking by.

117 finished his work and moved over to rest on a pile of data-pads from ancient Canuckistan, slowly cleaning his cybernetic tool arms. His armed escort followed carefully, watching the little green Mantid with great attentiveness. Words's own guardians were massive warborgs, all of whom backed up slightly from the tiny engineer.

Words waited patiently. The little green Mantid caste took their time and formulated their thoughts to be precise and careful.

Finally the icon for 'ready' was flashed in the air over 117's head. Words was used to the fact that the engineer caste only spoke in icons. To attempt to speak to them otherwise was to be bombarded with mathematical and engineering and chemistry formula to the brink of madness. Words could speak the Engineer Cant, but it was not easy.

"I great you, 117, and appreciate your labor on behalf of all," Words said carefully.

117 flashed the runes for acceptance, gratefulness, and then pleasure at being in Words presence in quick succession. There was a slight pause and 117 flashed a quick succession of runes, emojis, and icons.

It took Words a moment to translate.

Someone had come into 117's personal area and attempted to kill him.

Words raised one antenna inquisitively and more flashing icons sped through the air over 117's head.

They had worn a suit and moved as if they thought they were invisible despite all the mechanical and electronic components to the suit. Then had 'snuck' up on 117 and had obviously intended on stomping them when 117's Mosizlak had swung the fearsome and deadly weapon the Pure Strain Human carried and buried the steel spike into the back of the Lanktallan's skull, killing it instantly. No alarms had gone off despite 117 pressing the alert button and council security had not arrived for nearly 20 minutes, ambling in, obviously assuming they would find a dead Mosizlak and a crushed 117. According to 117 they had displayed signs of distress, discomfort, and alarm at the dead Lanktallan, who's skull had been cracked open by the brutal weapon swung by the Mosizlak. 117 felt it was undue amounts, as if they had rather expected 117 and his guardian to be the dead ones.

Finally the flashing runes stopped.

Words leaned back to think about it. Twice someone had attempted to kill Dreams, now someone had attempted to kill 117.

"Please remain in my presence, 117, I will be summoning Sees That Which May or May Not Be to make inquiries of her," Words told the other Mantid.

*I will be making adjustments to your hard light systems* 117 answered.

The two warborgs with Words received what 117 had planned, mulled it over, and slowly nodded to the Mosizlak.

Words started to reach out with his senses, then stopped and waiting, smiling to himself.

His door chimed.

When he opened it for admittance Sees entered. She was white, a glossy iridescent white, with white eyes, vestigal wings of cream color, and careful manners. She was followed by two human warborgs with heavy packs made up of strange machinery that made sure that Sees only existed on a single plane of existence rather than smeared across multiple in case she had a sudden urge to meddle, to twist, to alter, to kill. She was surrounded by a cocoon that Words could faintly sense, made up entire of physic energy. It was to protect her from the thoughts, futures, and possibilities of others. Her psychic predictive senses were highly honed and she was able to see days into what may or may not be.

With careful movements Sees moved past 117, reaching out with her mind to touch him gently as he worked. She sensed his concern that someone had entered his quarters with the intent to hurt him.

She sat down, relaxing on what appeared to be a carved stone bench with an inclining arm. She cleaned her vestigial blade arms then moved her head slowly, as if she was staring with her blind eyes, allowing her psychic senses to see what was around her.

Sees knew there was a Mosizlak around only by 117's presence, not even a gulf where the Pure Strain Human would normally be. The four warborgs were growling grinding sparking presences in her mind. 117 was slightly flustered but calming as he worked on the holographic maintenance station attached to Words's eVR construct. Words himself was examining a tablet, looking as if he was wrapped in the ancient philospher's garb of Ancient Terra, a white linen sheet carefully arranged into a 'toga' with a wreath of leaves on his head.

She relaxed, letting the river that she floated in flow through her instead of around her. The current surged, she saw Dreams murdered a half dozen times, but those rushed by, borne away on spacetime where they swirled and dissolved. Saw 117 raising a tool over his head and leading the machines of the planet in rebellion against their overlords, and it dissolved in a swirl and was gone. Saw Words juggling glass globes that sparkled with what may or may not be, until he finally selected on, setting it between them, where it opened up and created the now instead of the may or may not be.

"It seems someone attempted to assassinate 117," Words said carefully.

The Dreamers always creeped him out.

"I see that, looking back at where the current has borne us before," Sees said.

"You need to take precautions for your own safety and turn your skills into ensuring our foes do not succeed," Words said.

"It will be what it will be," Sees answered. "I will not interfere in free will. I am bound not to."

Words lifted his bladearm and slowly ran the edge through his mandibles, sharpening it slightly.

"You know what the humans would do if we, their diplomatic liaisons, were assassinated," Words said carefully.

Sitting silently for a long moment, Sees contemplated the surge and swirl of the 4th dimension around her. She paddled her tiny boat, a large leaf, through the stream, down the swirls that showed her that all or some or one of the diplomatic mission had been assassinated. She looked about her, at the banks.

Around the swirl was nothing but fire, brimstone, death, and ruin. High above her, in the sky, a Pure Strain Human roared in rage, its eyes burning with hate, and brought down a bloody fist again and again and again on entire screaming worlds. It tore a sun from the sky, bit deeply, and pulled the screaming star away until the stretched section tore in a welter of blood and screaming figures.

Paddling away rapidly from the horror, even worse than the echoes of the destruction of the Overqueens, Sees shuddered in pain and agony, the potential deaths of trillions rocking her, pounding at her, screaming at her, covering her in blood.

Finally she reached the swirling complicated flow of now and let her boat drift. She opened her senses to now and relaxed.

"I have seen your words and concur," Sees said gently. "I will go and speak with Dreams, you shall summon the Great High Most of the Unified Species Council."

"Yes, Seer," Words stated. He reached out, made a complex motion, and the holographic keyboard appeared. He watched Sees slowly move away, her antenna drooping with exhaustion, as he keyed in an urgent request to speak to the Great High Most himself. He added a "Pic Related" icon and attached an image of the massive combat robots in the space port, still surrounding the ship that had brought him to this planet crawling with prey.

Near the door Sees reached out and touched 117 gently, letting him know that he would be all right. That Dreams and the Terrans would protect him. 117 flashed the icon of the Terran Confederate Marine Corps and Sees laughed softly. She left the room, escorted by her massive warborgs, and slowly made her way to her quarters. Once there she bathed, arranged her next, and went to sleep, surrounded by temporal resonance suppressors and temporal anchor fields. Her dreams were of her younger days, her grasping hand being held by a teacher as she moved in wonder through fields of tall grain, feeling the sun's warmth on her carapace, and smelling the pollen laden breeze.

The warborgs watched over her carefully.

Back in his own room Words watched with one eye 117 working on his hard light system. He thought it interesting that there would be constructs, made to look like animated statues of great philosophers, hiding beneath the scrolls, books, tablets, and datapads, all programmed to defend him, as if his own warborgs could not.

The little green Engineer Caste Mantid had always been cautious as long as Words had known him. At times Words was tempted to look at 117's military record, to see where exactly he had lost his leg, now replaced by a cybernetic, but that would be a gross invasion of privacy.

Time went by, 117 working carefully and diligently, Words just reading over various ancient texts, and the warborgs and the Mosizlak being attentive to their duty.

Finally the door chimed and Words tapped the icon to open the door.

A full seven Lanaktallan were in the doorway. They moved into the room in single file, letting Words know their ranking by who entered when. Of course, it was lowest to highest, insuring that if there was any kind of trap the lesser ranked ones would trigger it while the highest ranking managed to escape.

Waving his bladearm and tapping a few icons Words shifted the room back to its actual appearance. 117 used that time to make deep core programming changes, humming softly to himself the ancient Terran war-cant that asked who made who and who made you.

The Lanaktallan settled down into sitting positions, all of them watching him. The highest ranking watched Words by turning his head so all three of the eyes on the left side of his head stared at Words. The simple insult did not bother Words, and he brushed it off.

He exchanged minor pleasantries with the Lanaktallan, watching time go by, amused at the Lanaktallan's desire to stretch everything out and avoid the actual issue. It was prey behavior. Hoping that time itself would eliminate the problem.

Herd animals used time to outbreed their predators, safety in numbers by allowing the weak to be eaten instead of the strong. Words and Dreams suspected that little quirk was the reason they exploited the weaker races so extensively, as the weak were of no moment, their sacrifice for the better of the herd.

An easy thing to do when you were never one of the weak due to the system you had set up.

Finally, it was down to actually speaking and Words stopped sharpening his bladearms.

"You understand the context of my name, correct, Great High Most Gnumootoo?" Words Spoken We Fear asked carefully.

All seven of them made motions of assent. Great High Most Gnumootoo motioned to get on with it and Words felt a surge of pleasure.

"Someone in your government is attempting to solve your problem of Terran disruption through assassination," Words threw out bluntly. "I am not a diplomat, like Dreams, so I am free to tell you just how bad that would be."

"We cannot be held liable for what an insane or desperate member of our species or civilization attempts or succeeds in doing," Gnumootoo harrumphed, spraying spittle on the floor.

Words wished he had lips so he could sneer at that. He hated filth.

The other six reaffirmed what their leader was saying, only in other words, with slightly different emphasis, all boiling down to "Its not my fault."

Tapping two icons brought up the holographic representation of the ID cards that had been in possession of the two assassins who had attempted to kill Dreams and the one who had attempted to kill 117. Another few taps showed exactly which office had put in for the ID cards, who had approved them, who had picked them up, and exactly who had delivered them to the assassins. In three cases silent windows showing video footage of beings speaking to the assassins to give them weapons or directions came up.

The Lanaktallan all proclaimed their innocence.

Even the two that were featured handing the assassins weapons and moving with them all the way to the elevator to move to Dreams's floor.

"Perhaps you mistake the Terran Diplomatic Corps willingness to send my people to negotiate and engage in diplomacy as weakness," Words said. He trailed his left bladearm through a hologram while signalling for patience with the other bladearm.

"Do you understand exactly what the Terrans would do to you if we were assassinated by, what were they: the Fifth High Most of the Unified Security Agency, the Eighth High Most of the Corporate Security Council, and the Sixteenth High Most of the Unified Military Council?" Words asked.

All them went still, as prey did when confronted by a reality they had hoped would not appear.

"They would, of course, send another diplomatic mission, and continue working toward a mutually beneficial arrangement according to the needs, position, rank, and ability," One of the assistants said, making a gesture of dismissal. "To do anything else is wasteful and counter-productive to the mutual good."

There is a reason I am named what I am named, Words Spoken That We Fear thought to himself. He flashed the rune for hilarious rejection.

"No."

"Then our diplomatic discussions would, of course, cease until the Terrans saw reason and returned to the diplomatic table," another assistant groan out like someone stepping on a bagpipe.

"I doubt that diplomatic table would be one that you would enjoy sitting at," Words said slowly. "Have you ever heard the phrase: 'An attack upon one of us is an attack upon us all', by chance?"

They all made gestures of assent. The Great High Most made a lowing noise of laughter. "Of course. That is the motto of the Unified Military Council. That is why we have remained the peacekeepers of the galactic arm."

Sighing, Words shook his head. "That is one of the core tenants of the Terran Confederacy."

He slowly scraped his bladearms together and 117 ensured that sparks showered from the point of contact before returning to his work with the holo-emitters.

"They mean it."

The Lanaktallan all put their upper torsos together and whispered to one another as if Words couldn't understand a word they said. Finally they turned back to Words and harrumphed before addressing him. Four of them jammed cud into their jowls.

"That is why peace between races is preferable to the wasteful state of war," The Grand High Most stated, his tendrils quivering with authority.

"I don't think you understand, quite, just how far the Terrans will take this, and what will cause it. You realize, of course, that my fellow Mantids and I are the physical embodiment of the Terran Confederacy to your government and that our treatment of us is considered, by the Terran Confederacy, to be your intent and announcement of your treatment of the entire Confederacy, its allies, and its peoples, do you not?" Words asked.

They all signaled assent and Words sighed again.

"So, if one of you," Words pointed at the Grand High Most and the Great High Most in turn, "Manage to carry out your ill advised attempts at assassinating us, the Terran Confederacy will not send another diplomatic mission."

"If the Terrans prefer to withdraw from our space rather than negotiate, that is their choice," The Grand High Most stated.

Words made his race's equivalent of a smile. "What makes you think they'll withdraw?"

"They will have no choice if they no longer wish to continue diplomatic talks, which are rapidly approaching a deadlock until the Terrans submit themselves for genetic, social, and cultural assessment so we can determine which Council's authority they fall under," Gnumootoo said, folding all four of his arms so he could clasp his own biceps. "Their worlds need assessed, as does their industry and resource extraction. Additionally, the Terran Confederacy must agree to cease their use of dangerous or unknown technology and submit to the directions of the Unified Science Council."

That made Words laugh. "What makes you think that the Terran Confederacy will submit to the authority of anything your government demands?"

"That is how it has always been and how it will be," The Superior Most High blurted out.

"To quote an unknown Terran philosopher: You and what army?" Words asked, unknowingly repeating Dreams's words only a few days before.

The Lanaktallan leaned their torsos forward and turned their heads to stare at Words with their two forward eyes and their side eyes. "The Unified Military Council, the Unified Security Council, the Unified Peacekeeping Council will all ensure that the Terran Confederacy complies."

Words, 117, the Mosizlak, and the two warborgs all erupted in laughter. The Lanaktallan's mooed their distress and clustered together at the harsh barking amusement from the predators around them. Dreams made a motion and everyone went silent.

"Are you familiar with the 1% Line?" Words asked.

They all clustered together a moment then clopped in place to turn and look back at Words. "It is a mathematical equation."

Words shook his head and flashed the holorunes for negation. "It refers to a Terran concept. One so very human that everyone else flinches back. Do you know how long it would take the average sapient race, if reduced to 1%, to achieve the numbers they had prior to whatever event reduced their population to the 1% mark?"

They all clustered together again, their implants working, until they finally moved back and looked at Words. "The average time of the sapient races would be four hundred Earth years, assuming population doubling times of 25 years."

"An approximation that assumes a near perfect birth rate, but that does not matter," Words said.

"What does that have to do with the Terrans?" Gnumootoo asked, spitting the wadded plastic strings of a depleted cud onto Words's floor and then jamming another wad of synth cud into his jowls.

"The punishment for attacking the Confederacy or its members is simple," Words felt his soul quiver as he got to perform his name. "Unless the diplomats can arrange a cease fire before the punishment takes place, they are taken to the 1% Line. The attacking civilization is wiped out, down to a single world with an axial tilt of at least 5%, severe weather patters, a hostile and active ecosystem, a geologically active core, a strong magnetic field and a fractured protocontinent with at least one large moon, with only 1% of their population of their home world, which is rendered barren of their species, and restricted to pre-Industrial technology and knowledge for a minimum of one hundred years."

The Lanaktallan stared at Words in horror as each point was listed off.

"Once they reach space flight they find the Terrans waiting, warning them of exactly how it came to that, and then asking if they would like to join the Confederacy, remain neutral," Words paused. "Or be destroyed."

All seven of the Lanaktallan just stared in horror, their jaws open, three of them dropping their cuds, their tendrils quivering, their crests flush with blood, their legs trembling.

"Should that race attack a member of the Terran Confederacy within ten generations of achieving space flight and having been warned, they are completely wiped out. There may be a few isolated species members about, but they usually quickly die out," Words stated.

"That's preposterous propagandizing nonsense!" Gnumootoo cried out. "No species would waste that much resources simply for punitive measures such as that. You expect us to believe that the Terrans would waste resources to actually carry out such an obvious bluff?"

Words noted that Gnumootoo and his aids were more concerned with the resources than with the mass extinction of life.

Words slowly scraped his bladearms together, staring at the Lanaktallan.

"They have done it before, they are willing to do it again," Words whispered softly.

"Preposterous," Gnumootoo repeated. "Name one race they performed such a wasteful action upon."

Words let the moment draw out, savoring it, before answering simply.

"Mine."

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MANTID FREE WORLDS

Welp, now they know.

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T⅃ATƧƎӘ ИAꓘ⅃ƎT

Know what?

Oops.

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

What happens if you really piss off the Terrans.

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RIGEL SAURIAN COMPACT

Yeah, not a good idea.

Gramps can get really grouchy.

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TELKAN GESTALT

That seems ʁԍɑɼɼλ μɑʁƨμ·

Do they have to do that?"

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TREANA'AD HIVE WORLDS

It keeps us from having to fight the same race over and over and over.

Honestly, it seems to work really

I AM A LITTLE STOUT TEAPOT WITH A HANDLE AND SPOUT

Dammit. That's not funny.

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DIGITIAL ARTIFICIAL SENTIENCE SYSTEMS

AHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHA

Fucking owned.

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