First Contact - Chapter 211

Chapter 211: 211




Do'ormo'ot AKA Prisoner 4582143 trotted around the library, looking at the shelves. The sight of so many printed collections made him nauseous. Printed media was dangerous because it endured. While it couldn't be rapidly disseminated like electronic media the ideas contained within the printed media would outlive the creator by a factor of thousands where electronic media was quickly lost in the flood of new additions to the media.

One of the reasons the first thing the Executors did was add a connection to GalNet to any culture they met. From there it was easy to reason that printed media took up space and had no real value since it couldn't be quickly and easily stored. From there it was a simple task to slowly alter the now-electronic work to say what the Executor Council wanted it to say.

In the House of Wrath My Own, caught his eyes. The original Terran language that he saw quickly squirm and twist into Unified Species Council standard. A thick book. He lifted it up and opened it to a random page, his eyes focusing on a single passage.

It eventually became true that no matter what I did I could not slake my wrath, my thirst for violence and vengeance upon a universe that had wronged, not only me, but my entire species. That I was willing to crack planets, nova-spark suns, do whatever it took to feed my wrath, like coal to a furnace, just to feel something again. Every sight of the restored Earth was a wound to my soul, each exactly, painstakingly recreated, perfect restoration of Lost Terra was a wound in my soul, in the souls of all of my fellow man. How, then, were we to proceed when the healed wound still ached with pain? Destroying the marks, the history of what had been done did not actually make it go away, it just made it so you no longer were able to understand why you had a bleeding painful wound deep inside of you. I knew not, not then, what could be done to truly heal the wound and move forward from that terrible act.

Do'ormo'ot closed the book, shaking his head, ignoring the feeling of his stiff tendrils waving back and forth.

Nothing of value. Just an uncivilized brute complaining about losing something that does not serve the greater good, he thought to himself as he put it back onto the shelf.

He moved between the stacks and picked another book at random, not bothering to read the spine, just holding it in his hands and opening it to a random page to look at the words within.

wind was sweet, no longer carrying the taint of industrial pollution and rotting vegetation from dying kelp beds. I watched as my ducklings starts fluffing the sand beneath the shade providing overhang, settling down to rest on the silver sand of the beach. For all my life the ocean sand had been black, oily to the touch, and burned my skin. Now, my ducklings could nest down for a nap on it happily and safely.

Do'ormo'ot snorted, closing the book and putting it back.

Absolute drivel, he thought to himself moving on. He pulled down another one and looked inside.

lost and adrift. Our culture, our society before the Great Awakening, was nothing more than slavish service to the queens. No art, no music, no poetry, just marching in lockstep to her will even as we screamed and screamed and screamed inside our own minds for our entire life. Is it any surprise, dear reader, that we clove so firmly to Terra's chaotic, insane, and utterly glorious culture? We barely understood the concept of a song and they had millions, billions of songs, that spoke of emotions, deeds, or just plain nonsense. As I write this, dear reader, I wear a Jumpinart Ringstrober t-shirt, as their music spoke to me. I weep for my people, who have a hundred million years of history.

But no culture.

Do'ormo'ot felt his stomach twist at the words. They were almost heretical. What use was songs, and poetry, or even slathering dyes upon a surface in an attempt to recreate something? It was a waste of resources, a waste of time, a waste of labor.

If I could, I would have each author of these blasphemous things disintegrated and erased from all records, he snarled.

He trotted through the stacks, sneering at the books, and then stopped, staring.

The book was made of leather and the hide pattern was unmistakably Lanaktallan.

What is this? Do'ormo'ot wondered. He reached out and took the book down. The words didn't twist, just appeared as ancient and archiac but still understandable.

Tending the Vast Field Where Crops For the Soul Grow was the title.

Frowning, he opened it, looking at the words his eyes lit upon. He was startled to see it was written properly, unlike the Terran books. Rather than one side of the page or the other, it was written properly. From the outsides of both pages, inward to the spine, more comfortable to his eyes.

What, more than hubris, led to our fall? Greed. Plain and simple we became greedy, our civilization little more than an appetite that demanded more and more and More and MORE until we became convinced that the vast and glorious universe was ours and ours alone. That somehow we would survive to the face entropy, as if entropy itself, as if time itself would not lick away our stored and hoarded resources. What arrogance and pride we had in ourselves. That we would survive billions of years, that we had determined a universe to be finite so indeed it must be, when we have touched barely a thousandth of this galactic arm.

We destroyed more resources, losing this war, then our people would have consumed throughout our gathered eternity.

Shame upon the Lanaktallan people. Shame upon us, upon our pride, upon our narcissistic greed.

Do'ormo'ot slammed the book shut and trotted backwards, shaking. The wording, the phrasing, were all Lanaktallan, as familiar to him as his own name, but yet the thoughts within were foul, disturbing, questioning the rightful place in the universe of the Lanaktallan people.

Do'ormo'ot hoped that the author of the text had been taken somewhere and pushed into a biomass reclaimer. The fact that the Lanaktallan, and from the phrasing and word choice it could only be one of the Great Herd, had written such disgusting words made Do'ormo'ot shake in rage.

Putting the book back he spotted another one, the title intriguing him.

Together We Graze

He expected it to be a book on the worthwhileness of submission to the will of the Great Herd.

What he got was love poetry, written by a female, toward her stable of males. Little more than long winded symbolism and appeals to emotion. The entire book was a waste of time and resources. It was obviously written by a wealthy and powerful female matron. The fact she wasted so much emotional pablum on the males she had gathered around herself was sickening.

He slammed the book closed and angrily jammed it into the shelf.

With that he trotted over to another section. Looking at the books most of the titles did not make sense to him. Some of them had no translation for the words in the title or the words were confusing, as if they were just randomly put together, or made a half-statement.

We Fear Darkness was a title. He opened it to a random page and read. It made no sense. It was just a being pontificating about the nature of darkness to a friend in letters.

Drivel and gibberish, Do'ormo'ot thought to himself. Darkness is merely the absence of light, it does not endure and grow within a living being. It has no effect upon a being's decisions or attitudes. Ethics and morals are instilled in the creche, as is proper.

He placed the book back on the shelf and kept moving around.

There was no computer to examine electronic media, to examine video or listen to speeches. It was nothing more than tome after tome of written word. A massive waste of resources and extremely inefficient. Most species abandoned the resource intensive and wasteful practice of using printed media within a few centuries of developing electronic systems capable of storing electronic media.

He took down another book, one that didn't make any sense for the title. He read a few pages and put it back as soon as he realized what it was.

A fictional account of a small group of Terrans exploring a lost planet named 'Disfigured Venus' where they encountered incredible lethal plants and insects and other lower life forms, looking for ruins of a previous civilization.

He closed the book after a moment. He had gotten pulled in, started to become interested, until he reminded himself that it was a fictional account, basically the author lying to him about the deeds of other people taking place in a made-up location.

Do'ormo'ot put the book away. Part of him wondered, as he trotted away, if the story had followed the obvious and had the mythical facility the Terrans were looking for not only exist, but be found by the Terrans. He was sure, that like most fantasies, everything worked out in the character's favor and nothing bad happened and they accomplished all their goals.

Fiction is juvenile and the hallmark of a species that has not matured enough to realize that fiction is little more than power fantasies of the weak and pathetic, Do'ormo'ot thought to himself.

A Terran came around the corner, stopping in front of him.

"Prisoner 4582143, your allotted library recreation time has expired. You will be accompanied to your cell. End of Line," the Terran stated in the discordant voice.

Do'ormo'ot opened his mouth to refuse, thought about going limp and collapsing on the floor, but then remembered the long interval of pain from his beating. He instantly decided that it wasn't worth it, the pain, the memory of the pain, encouraging him not to resist.

At the door to his cell his was required to turn over his thick cloth covering, his gloves, and his mask. When he trotted into his cell he looked at himself.

The thick black material still covered patches of his flesh. He ran his fingers across it. It felt slick, smooth, almost frictionless. Oddly warm to the touch, unsettling. He tapped it and could feel the impact of his fingertip through the flesh beneath, but the thick black material was almost nerveless.

He worked a finger underneath the thickest section and tried to pry it up. The pain was immense, making him close his eyes and make long high pitched noises of pain. It was attached to his skin, no, more than attached, it had replaced his skin somehow. It felt like it had melted his skin and grafted directly to the subcuteneous layers. The edge he had pried up welled up with thick black blood that oozed slightly out of the wound then hardened into the black material.

Do'ormo'ot hung his head. There was no way to remove the plating. He had not seen an opportunity to escape. He was unsure how to estimate where he was being held prisoner.

He trotted up to the window and looked out. Nothing but endless purple with streaks now and then through the depths that vanished as soon as he tried to look closely. After a few minutes he could feel the purple begin to press in on him, like it was pressing against his open window. He backed up front the window, turned around, and faced the corner.

Gathering his training about him he began to examine the bricks. All of his implants, from his retinal display to his biometrics monitor to his datalink's memory storage, were all disabled. Still, there were ways to examine one's surroundings to determine the exact nature of the prison.

The black stone was neither warm nor cold, a feeling of hard solidity unlike anything that Do'ormo'ot had ever felt before. He pressed his hand against it and looked at the joining. It didn't sink in, but there was a trace gap between his hand and the stone. The stone felt solid, without any texture, but he could see the texture. He tried exhaling and not inhaling, knowing from experience and training he could go up to thirty seconds without inhaling.

He counted to five-hundred before bothering to inhale.

He was starting to get thirsty, starting to get hungry, he could tell he would need to relieve his bladder and bowels sometime soon.

But he also knew he had been feeling that stimulus for a long period of time.

He thought over the drink, the way it had not seemed like water at all, but more like some kind of strange gel that he couldn't swallow and he got no sense of moisture from.

Do'ormo'ot began to suspect, with his seemingly inability to touch the stone's surface itself, that he might in some kind of advanced virtual reality simulation. One that would compress time, use unreal methods to simulate pain and misery.

His anxiety lifted as he realized he was inside some kind of simulation.

Instead of feeling anxiety that he was merely beginning to feel tired, unable to sleep, he merely relaxed. Once the Terrans realized their simulation wasn't going to work they'd undoubtably pull him out and that would give him a chance to actually get free of his captors.

They were primates, little more than lemurs, the chance of being able to hold on to a highly trained agent of the Great Herd was slim to none.

The slot in the upper part of the door snapped open.

"Prisoner 4582143, you are allocated one hour of liesure time in the exercise yard where you may choose to socialize or exercise or merely exist outside your cell. Move back from the door. End of Line," the Terran voice came. It was impossible to tell one voice from the next, the patchwork voice robbing the speaker of all identity.

He donned the 'robe', mask, and gloves he was given to completely cover his body.

Do'ormo'ot was tempted to refuse. Damage done to the physical body in virtual reality did not carry over to the actual physical world and vice-versa, so he had no real fear of their "level whatever stimulation", but he decided to go ahead and play along with the simulation, see what other data he could gather.

A lot could be told about a species from the type of details they put into a simulation.

Again the route was unfamiliar, but Do'omo'ot wasn't worried, that made sense. Each trip would be procedurally generated so that the system wouldn't have to stored at all times.

The 'Exercise Yard' looked the same, only this time Do'omo'ot watched as more prisoners entered the open area. Guards on the walls and in the towers held primitive weapons and Do'ormo'ot sneered internally at the fact that the Terrans were obviously obsessed with primitive weapons out of a misplaced belief that older times were better times.

Another Terran came up, the engraving on his mask ornate and swirling, sitting down across from where Do'ormo'ot was sitting at the table.

"You didn't go to church services. Do you refuse the light of our lord the Digital Omnimessiah?" the Terran asked.

"Religion is the mark of a primitive mind that seeks to explain facts that its ignorance cannot comprehend," Do'ormo'ot said.

The figure cocked its head. "Are you calling me primitive, you six-eyed four legged ambulatory hamburger?"

"If you believe in religion then your primitiveness is nothing more than self-verified fact. Such devotion, given to a figure of fantasy, would be better harnessed for your species in the service to the state and your people," Do'ormo'ot sneered. "The belief in magic and an afterlife is little more than a primitive fear of death and the inability to control one's surroundings."

The figure laughed at that. "A true non-believer," he turned to the others. "His benighted kind has not been visited by the mercy of the Digital Omnimessiah!"

That got laughter, which made Do'ormo'ot bridle up.

The figure stood up, pressing its hands together. It began praying and it took everything Do'ormo'ot had not to start laughing in the other being's face.

Until the being widened its hands out to display purple and blue lightning. Do'ormo'ot started to recoil in fear until he remembered.

"Your displays within this simulation do not frighten me, primitive," the Lanaktallan sneered.

"PRIMITIVE THIS!" the figure roared, leveling its fist at Do'ormo'ot.

Do'ormo'ot felt like a wrecking ball had slammed into his forehead, his eyes going blind and a rushing sound filling his ears. He could taste blood and veins in his sinuses burst. He went down on his knees, screaming, blood gushing from his nose and oozing out of his eye sockets.

Then the lightning hit him, making him kick so he went onto his side.

"DOES THIS FEEL LIKE A SIMULATED SUPERSTITION TO YOU, HAMBURGER?" the Terran roared.

Lightning raked Do'ormo'ot again. His implant came on, raking his neural tissue with arcing and sparking patterns. His retinal display showed static and patterns. Then they failed.

"Prisoner 00391833, you have violated Black Citadel Wrath Expression Statutes as well as engaging in a Level Two Provocation Incident and will undergo Level Five Negative Stimulation for a period of no less than six cycles as this is your two hundrendth and seventeenth violation," the voice chattered. "Prisoner 4582143 will undergo Level Three Negative Stimulation for verbal mocking of another prisoner's religious beliefs."

The lightning ceased and Do'ormo'ot laid on his side, wheezing.

"Prisoner 4582143's Negative Stimulation is waived due to injuries. Prisoner 4582143 does not have sufficient privileges for medical treatment. Prisoner 4582143 will be transported to his cell in order to recover. End of Line," the voice said.

There was a weird feeling, as if he was wrapped in cool silk for a moment, then nothing. Slowly the vision returned to one of his forward eyes and he looked around, still laying on his side, still gasping.

He was in his cell. He managed to raise his head and look at his hands.

If he hadn't been in a simulation, he'd have screamed.

His two right arms were burnt away, only inches down from the shoulder. His right forward leg was burnt away. He had deep gouging burns in his flanks, his ribs and internal organs exposed. One lung was badly cooked, whistling and the edges of the burnt second flapping obscenely when he breathed.

The pain was intense.

Time had no meaning before, now it was measured in slow breaths. Eventually the whistling sounds stopped. The pain in his missing limbs and the pain of his limbs stopped. Do'ormo'ot had no idea how long it had been when he finally struggled to his feet. His six eyes were working again and he looked himself over.

And began screaming in horror.

The missing limbs had been replaced by slick black glossy material. Exposed muscle that looked more biomechanical than flesh or cybernetics, half shielded by black plating. He looked like a nightmare made flesh. Down his flank his organs were still exposed but they had been replaced by black quasi-mechanical looking black constructs. He tried to grasp the black pieces and pull them free but that only brought deep pain and a seeping of blackish blood that hardened.

The plate slid open.

"Prisoner 4582143 is in distress. Privilege override in progress. Prisoner 4582143 may receive Level One medical care. End of Line," the voice screeched out.

The cell door opened and a thin graceful figure entered. Completely robed, white gloves with red fingertips that vanished into the black robe, a white mask with red edging. The figure knelt down next to Do'ormo'ot who looked at her and screamed.

The figure ran her hands over Do'ormo'ot's black sections, the feeling of electricity passing over those parts. After a moment the figure leaned back and spoke in the same voice made up of sounds taken from other being's speech.

"You are recovering well within tolerances. Regrowth is psychologically and biologically compatible and functioning at full capacity. Are you in pain? End of Line," the figure stated.

"Get it off! Get it off! Return my appearance and limbs to me! This simulation is barbaric and cruel," Do'omo'ot shouted.

"This is not a simulation," the figure corrected. "Your appearance is it is. Your limbs have been replaced by suitable prosthetics according to your physiology. There is no need for further medical treatment. End of Line."

The figure got up and left the cell.

The one outside the door moved into the doorframe. "Prisoner 4582143, you have sufficient privileges to engage in recreation time in the exercise yard. Exit the cell and don protective clothing. End of Line."

Shaking, and flinching at the thought of being attacked again, Do'ormo'ot shakily got to all four feet and exited his cell. He got dressed and followed the figure on the winding path out to the yard.

This time he avoided looking at anyone. He hoped he could just sit in an area larger than his small cell for a period of time without being disturbed.

Instead another Terran moved up and sat down.

"Welcome back," the figure said. A male voice that Do'ormo'ot didn't recognize. "He really did a number on you, didn't he?"

"Did a number?" Do'ormo'ot asked, trying to keep his voice polite.

He didn't want hit by lightning again.

"Really injured you. You should be careful of the ones like him. He's been here for a long time and isn't going to go anywhere soon," the figure shrugged his shoulders. "He knows he'll never leave so it doesn't matter if he breaks the rules. Me? I'll be able to get out of here eventually."

"How do we find out how long we have to stay here?" Do'ormo'ot asked.

"Well, you're a POW, right?" the simulated Terran, it could be nothing else, asked.

"Yes. A falsely accused prisoner of war," Do'ormo'ot said.

"Don't bother. If you're here, you're guilty. They don't make mistakes here," the figure said. "So, are you at the 'this is all a simulation' phase still or did Camaxtli of Eternal Rage convince you that this is your new reality?"

Do'ormo'ot shuddered but gathered his confidence about him.

"Nothing has changed my mind. My injuries, were it not for being in a simulation, would have been fatal," Do'ormo'ot said, crossing all four of his arms.

The robe hid the feeling of his replaced right side limbs.

The Terran shook his head. "That's just it. We can't die here. Nobody dies here."

"Pfft, that's impossible. All things can die," Do'ormo'ot said.

"Yes. Here, the universe died. Was stillborn. Thus, we cannot die," the Terran sighed. "There is no death for ones such as us here."

Do'ormo'ot frowned. "Then why keep me here. I will not submit, I will not answer questions. I will not be persuaded to turn against the Unified Civilized Systems."

The Terran just shook their head. "Most prisons, especially Corn Fed systems, they're all about rehabilitation and reintegration into society."

He paused for a moment as another Terran sat down.

"The Black Citadel? It's just about keeping us around in case they want something from us at a later date. Think of it as a place to store something you don't like," the Terran said.

"He still think it's a simulation?" the newcomer asked.

"Yeah," the first said.

The second looked at Do'ormo'ot. "Many thought that. Some still hold onto that belief despite the face that they will never leave here. The alternative is madness and despair."

"What crime would make the Confederacy, known for weakness and lack of moral fortitude, build this place and place one of you here?" Do'ormo'ot asked. Perhaps I can gain information about the nature of this simulation and thus escape it, he thought to himself.

The second Terran lifted one hand. "The Black Citadel was originally a research station that sought to determine the laws of this dimension."

Do'ormo'ot glanced up at the purple sky then looked away. "You mean to tell me you expect me to believe that the Terrans were able to harness enough energy to reach other dimensions, something which is a theory at best."

The first one chuckled. "Get a good look around you at your theory there, champ."

The second one nodded. "Correct. What their goals were, what they discovered, we don't know. All we do know is that the Black Citadel was converted into a prison after they were through with it. Then, for some reason, all information of its existence was lost or supressed for about two thousand years, when they began using it."

"Except the original prisoners and jailers were still here," the first one said, putting his hands on the table and looking down. "Still dwelling within these stone halls."

Do'omo'ot snorted. "You expect me to believe that?"

The second one shook their head. "No. Not yet. Once they began using it, they used it for things to terrible to speak of. Eventually it became a prison again and one by one we were all sentenced here."

Do'ormo'ot snorted. "What crime would get you sentenced here? We know the Confederacy lacks the will to impose the will of the greater good upon everyone else."

The second one put their hand on the table. "I embarked on a two century crusade against all who were not part of my banner and did not follow the words of those I chose to put my faith in, resulting in the death of millions."

Do'ormo'ot wanted to snort. Instead he looked at the other one. "And you?"

That one just shrugged. "I embarked on a killing spree. Nearly two hundred, mostly through bombs and other terroristic activities."

"And why not just kill you?" Do'ormo'ot asked.

The first one shook their head. "I was simply sentenced here. While my reasonings were understood, my actions were not condoned. I was sentenced here in hopes that I would someday feel remorse for my actions."

The second one shrugged. "I was considered a political prisoner. The system that placed me here preceded the Confederacy and believed that imprisoning me here was both a mercy to me and a warning to all who once marched beneath my banner."

The explanations were so vague that Do'ormo'ot felt they were more proof that he was in a simulation.

"Prisoner 4582143, your allotted time has expired. You will be returned to your cell. End of Line," the figure said, drifting up.

Do'ormo'ot sighed and followed the figure back to his cell.

Time passed again, long crawling moments that vanished into one another as if they never existed. Do'ormo'ot fixed the fact it was a simulation in his mind and poked and prodded at the black biomechanical appearing replacements for his flesh and bone. He could feel himself touching it, feel his fingers on it. The organs didn't pulse but instead acted like they were mechanical. The way the lines twisted and curved, the suggestion of things both vulgar and horrifying in the shapes, all left him feeling disturbed.

But he just reminded himself that it was a simulation.

Again, he was given the choice between worship time and the library and the yard. He chose the library.

He moved through the stacks, telling himself he was just wandering around. Telling himself it was part of his plan.

The goal of anyone stuck in a simulation was to overload the simulation, force the computer running it to generate more spaces, textures, objects, physics than it could handle, to force it to shut down or reset.

He would read one of the books. He would bend the corner of the pages, forcing the computer to keep track of each bend, where the words were, the contents of each page.

He decided where to start.

He picked up the book and moved to a comfortable bench, sitting down. He opened the book, taking the fact it was built for Lanaktallan eyes, and began to read.

Venus glimmered as she hung in space, her disfigurements hidden by the thick layer of clouds that covered her terrible scars inflicted upon her flesh.