Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Somewhere overhead

I see them looking upward

This moon does not love

I am a genius.

I am an idiot.

I am a chaotic formation of problem solving power, wrapped up in an anxiety-ridden and possibly haunted body, suffering from an incomplete and possibly decaying uplift, using tools of unimaginable power to solve problems they werent built for.

Ahem.

Okay, its been about a week. Let me sum up.

Ive unlocked another door, this one to a different machine that is the thing that produces replacements for the flak webs that one my close-defense weapons fires. Which is I mean, I needed more of those, I guess? But I also didnt, because Ive fired it exactly once, and Im still not sure its actually supposed to be a weapon.

Ive pseudo-automated the jury rigged communication path that Glitter and I have going. Ive done this not by any clever programming or application of any important technology, but by reclassifying the drones as missiles. The station doesnt care if missiles are on guided fire paths. Only drones. What is the difference between a missile and a drone? Classification. I am, in my *bones*, positive that this is one of those weird stapled-on software patches from an occupying group that came after the station was built, but Ill be damned if I can figure out who.

Ive cleared a few square meters of space debris. Most of it wasnt a real hazard, but quite a bit of it was useful metals that I can return to the Earth in one way or another.

Ive determined that the station is not haunted. I have I have determined this. Because ghosts arent real, and because because it has to be true. If the station were haunted, that would be an unsolvable, impossible problem. So I must proceed as if it were not, regardless. So I have determined that the station is not haunted.

Ive also, and this is important, *realized how stupid I have been for the last hundred years or so*.

Ive known for a while that the station can read text. Its what I learned to write from in the first place, after all. Though I dont tend to write much, and learning in the first place was mostly a hobby and not anything serious. Its been getting a lot more of a workout now that Im talking to Glitter. But the thing that Ive known from the start is that the station will not accept written commands, unless the individual doing the writing is flagged as disability, vocal. Which I am not. Because my vocal capacity is species-standard.

And it would just be *Rude* to insinuate that a species characteristic is a disability.

So rather than *change the language they used*, the incompetents that ran the bureaucracy that set the standards for accessibility in their society created a web of contradictions that *actively lock out* members of certain species. Like, for example, cats.

Now. Being as fair as I care to, they didnt actually have uplifted cats at the time. In fact, while I dont actually have a historical record available, I would hazard a guess that they were an entirely human civilization back then. So its hard to look at their lack of future proofing as a form of racism or anything. In fact, they seemed to go out of their way in some places to actively future proof for other species. Like how the cleaning nanos are pre-calibrated to adapt to new species. Good job, past humans.

So thats the situation. I can write, the station can read, but written orders from someone who isnt actively disabled dont get recognized. And yes, there *is* a fast workaround to that, which is to laser my own throat open, and then present written orders before crawling into a vivification pod and not dying.

But that workaround is stupid, and Ive been avoiding doing it, because because of all the obvious reasons. I dont feel like I should explain why Ive been avoiding crippling myself. You probably should have figured this out at least a paragraph ago.

The workaround becomes even stupider when I make a certain mental connection. See, the station - which presumably has a name but Ive been unable to learn it - the station is *old*. Its old because it was built to last, and its old because its gone through multiple owners since it was built.

There are two things in Brazil that I need to constantly keep an eye on. The first is the fact that the tree cover makes it a great place for emergence events to go unchecked, and as a result, most of the rainforest has a *unique* ecosystem at this point. The second thing is that the second largest rainforest on the planet - coming in just behind the Sahara - is home to one of the last great living cities.

The city is sparsely populated, and largely seems content to keep to itself unless its actively protecting the border of its domain. But its one of the few things on the planet that could, if it wanted to, be a threat to me. Weve never spoken, but this might actually be something from it.

I answer the call, and ring my small silver bell to indicate I am listening.

A voice comes through, clean and professional. Human, probably, but in a way that leaves me feeling uncomfortable. It speaks in Old Cossan, an amalgamate language from Avery long time ago. The station actually has the linguistic files on hand, and provides translation in real time for me.

A pleasant greeting, a small pause, and then, without any input on my part, the voice expresses delight that Ive agreed with it. And then a sales pitch? It is asking for financial account numbers, so it might renew the impact insurance on my orbital infrastructure.

I cut the connection. And then, I sit, unmoving on my haunches, letting the fact wash over me that there is an automated communication station on the surface, centuries old, that is still taking wild stabs at scamming people out of currency that hasnt existed since before I was born.

I shake myself out of my stupor as my schedule pings at me. I am needed to renew the maintenance routine on the lower deck that manages micro fractures. I slide out of the chair, pad to the door, flicking my tail in idle astonishment.

And then another alarm sounds, rudely jolting me back to the present.

Another incoming communication request. But on a different frequency. This could be important, and the alarm is, again, *very* loud. I bolt down hallways, slide through a gravity tunnel, and into a *different* communication hub. This one much larger, with a half dozen stations. I think it was designed to manage inputs from multiple different extra addon parts late in the stations life, and it being on the outer edge of the structure supports that theory. I paw the relevant screen, hit my I am here bell, and wait.

A crisp womans voice in Old Cossan comes through again. And the words are an identical repeat of the last one.

A ripple of anger goes through me. Starting in my ears, and ending at the tip of my tail and the ends of my claws.

I have been *busy*. I have put every ounce of my spare time into projects, I have taken almost no naps this year. I have diligently protected the people of this system with every weapon I own. Every moment, I use to better myself and my home, or to fight back the darkness around us. And this *thing*. This soulless robotic construct, is *wasting my time*.

I am halfway to my new destination before I start to really think about this. I have left the communication running, the automated voice asking questions on rote programming in a language I dont speak.

The Verdopolis is a potential problem for me, yes. But it is sleeping, and it is also four hundred miles away from the source of this broadcast. In fact, the incoming call appears to be originating from a bunker that would have been running top of the line stealth technology back when it was built. But I look down from on high, and with eyes far stronger than its shields.

I do not think the living city will mind my intrusion. Especially if I restrain myself, and do not use the *exceptionally* large weaponry I am considering.

Nestled in my cradle, I kick a lever that rotates the selected munition. I find something small, armor piercing, and with a core of some strange non-causal material that leaves lingering EM fields when exposed to atmosphere. They dont have a name, but then, a lot of my ammunition isnt labeled beyond a numerical designation. I decide to call these Callers IDd.

The station plates around me vibrate as I lock on and pull the trigger. I use a low velocity overhead shot, so I minimize collateral damage to the surrounding trees and plants. Low velocity of course is still more than enough to accomplish the objective.

The voice, still echoing through the internal comms, cuts off abruptly. Static follows. I strut a bit as I return to the comms room to shut off the connection, and then pull my head back into the game. I have chores to accomplish.

As I turn off the communication panel, there is a click. And I must be mishearing, because it sounds like the organic click of a human tongue, not the electric snap of a shifted switch. The kind of noise someone makes when theyre a little exasperated with you.

But I must be hearing things. There is a click, and a sigh, and the station shuts down. And I dont think about it. Because I have chores to do.

And certainly not for any other reasons.