I Wish You Were
A Subnautica: Below Zero fanfiction
Spoiler warning:
This story and its description contain major spoilers for Subnautica and Subnautica: Below Zero.
Description:
For most of their life, Al-An was part of a vast network, where sharing every thought was normal, and misunderstandings were almost unheard-of.
Now they're alone with a human who's trying to help them recover from the loss of their whole species, even as she struggles beneath the weight of her own grief. They're grateful for Robin's guidance and company, and yet, in the hidden depths of their heart, they sometimes find themselves wishing she was a fellow Architect.
They know better than to say this to a person who takes such pride in her culture and body. But despite their best efforts, Robin finds out... on her dead sister's birthday.
Content warning:
Brief mention of suicidal ideation.
This story and its description contain major spoilers for Subnautica and Subnautica: Below Zero.
Description:
For most of their life, Al-An was part of a vast network, where sharing every thought was normal, and misunderstandings were almost unheard-of.
Now they're alone with a human who's trying to help them recover from the loss of their whole species, even as she struggles beneath the weight of her own grief. They're grateful for Robin's guidance and company, and yet, in the hidden depths of their heart, they sometimes find themselves wishing she was a fellow Architect.
They know better than to say this to a person who takes such pride in her culture and body. But despite their best efforts, Robin finds out... on her dead sister's birthday.
Content warning:
Brief mention of suicidal ideation.
It was a good thing Robin was human. Al-An knew that, to an extent.
Her people’s way of living had as many inefficiencies and vulnerabilities as their fallible and inferior bodies, and the Architect often wondered how they managed to function at all, let alone as well as they did. And yet, under the circumstances, their culture had one significant advantage over Al-An’s: it had been shaped by millennia of existing without a network.
What was lonely, new and distressing for Al-An was normal for Robin, and she was a never-ending source of both strategies for coping with their new reality, and empathy as they endured their first struggles with challenges she was all too familiar with.
As they slowly adapted to this strange, isolated life, her guiding presence was a steadying constant, and they would never want her to think they were ungrateful for it.
And yet, during the five months the two of them had spent exploring the universe together, there had been times – many more than seemed wise to admit – when Al-An had wished she was an Architect.
If she was, her body would be difficult to kill, and her soul even more so. Her every thought, need, and emotion would be easy to read; Al-An would never have to guess what she was thinking or feeling, or be confused by strange and unclear human phrasing.
And whenever they had an important experience or discovered something new, they could instantly share it with her. The two of them could discuss it, enjoy its benefits, or resolve the problems it created together, and Al-An would have the comfort of knowing that if the uncertainties of life ended in their demise, their memories would live on in her.
Instead, every moment of sadness, joy and pain was caged inside their heart, a silent call heard by no one. Every unheard thought, every experience that wasn’t kept safe in their people’s generational memory, was a reminder that there were no other Architects left to share it with.
Robin being human made living without their network bearable. But her being an Architect would mean they didn’t have to.
They suspected it would be unwise to say so. Their small friend was proud of her body and culture, and she often got angry when they pointed out flaws in the things she took pride in, even though they meant no offense.
Humans, it seemed, were less open to plain, honest feedback than people who were accustomed to modifying their bodies and sharing their uncensored thoughts, even when the truth of that feedback was self-evident.
A quiet gasp jerked the Architect from their thoughts, followed by another, and their head snapped up. They were alone in the room, but their mind was still connected to the ship’s sensors, and they knew what that quick, sharp breathing meant.
Robin was crying.
The inside of their chest twisted into a knot, and in an instant, they acquired their friend’s location from the ship’s internal scanners. A few quick flash-steps brought them to the door of her bedroom, each short teleport punctuated by the sound of a sob, and they tapped on the door with one of their organic arms as human protocol required.
“Y-yes?” a choked, cracked voice replied, the lone word broken in half by a sob. “Come i-in.”
A thought from Al-An, and the door slid open, revealing Robin’s tear-streaked face. Her right hand cradled the side of a framed photograph that sat on a shelf, while the left was pressed against her mouth in an odd but all too familiar display of grief.
It was strange how she could pass by that photo a hundred times, and then on the hundred and first, it would suddenly bring her to tears. Strange, nonsensical, and all too relatable.
The Architect stepped forward, set one of their awkward organic hands carefully on her shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze. She rewarded their effort with a shaky smile, and warmth rushed through them as she covered their hand with her own and squeezed back.
Then her eyes returned to the photo of Sam and Danielle, and Al-An’s gaze followed it. “It is strange,” they observed quietly, “how grief can rise and ebb in such unpredictable patterns – in humans and Architects.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, squeezing their hand tighter. “Some days, I feel almost okay, and others I suddenly just-” Her voice choked, and Al-An bowed their head in silent frustration.
If we were networked, I could send her comfort, strength and calm. Instead, I can only watch helplessly from outside her mind. Our processing centers are only a few feet apart, but it might as well be light-years.
Their gaze strayed from the photograph to Robin. Such a small, fragile being. The skin beneath Al-An’s hand was so soft, the bones so brittle, the soul inside so easily destroyed by a terrifying number of minor threats that an Architect would easily survive.
Even if no structural damage occurred, a simple lack of food, water or oxygen would prove fatal with frightening speed, and the fact that she refused to transfer to a less vulnerable form was both bewildering and terrifying.
“Robin?” they asked quietly, watching her expression carefully as she reluctantly tore her eyes from the portrait to look at them.
“Yeah?”
“Does it ever bother you that you, too, will someday die?”
She stared at them for a moment, as if startled, then gave a sympathetic smile. The expression looked almost like a dam, holding back a river of tears. “Most people don’t want to die, or lose the people they love,” she pointed out, her voice still slightly cracked. “But most of us have to accept that it’ll happen sooner or later.”
“And this does not cause you distress?”
“Sometimes. Some days more than others.” That smile took on a wry, knowing twist. “But is it really my distress you’re thinking about?”
The startled Architect drew back slightly, then lowered their head in guilty acknowledgment. They SHOULD have been focused on her pain, but… “I will confess, the thought of you dying causes me a great deal of anxiety. Being alone again, this time without the hope of reuniting with my people, would be hard for me to bear.”
“I know.” Those tiny, fragile fingers stroked the back of their large, armored hand. “It probably isn’t healthy for me to be your only friend.”
“It is not. I used to be networked to countless individuals, and I still cannot get used to the quiet in my mind, or to the idea that that silence might someday be even more complete.”
The hand that wasn’t resting on theirs began to tap the side of the photo with one finger, as if that somehow helped her think. “You know, we probably could persuade some of my old coworkers from XenoWorx to run away with us. I don’t know if they’d agree to it, but it would be nice…” The crack in her voice grew deeper, as if this, too, was a painful reminder. “I do kinda miss them.”
“The additional companionship would be welcome,” Al-An acknowledged. “For you as well as me, it would seem. But their bodies would still be just as fragile and impermanent as your own.”
“Isn’t everyone’s, to one degree or another? You said it yourself, Al-An: nothing is permanent.”
“That’s true, but Architect bodies come perhaps as close as any living creature can. We are… were… not as resigned to our fates as you are. I still do not understand why you insist upon remaining in bodies that are so easily destroyed.”
“I know it’s hard for you to understand, but our bodies are a part of us. They’re an integral aspect of how we experience life.”
“That is true for us as well – at least, to an extent. When we lose a body, unique traits and perspectives that came with that body are lost as well. But learning to live with that loss means at least a part of us still lives.”
“Look, I…” Her grip on their hand tightened, then fell away. “This really isn’t the time for a lecture on human inefficiencies.” Her voice wavered, and Al-An tensed, realizing they’d crossed an invisible line. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m having a really painful moment right now.”
“I’m sorry, I… did not mean to make things difficult for you.” Their face lowered, and their hand slid from her shoulder, retreating to join their other arm at their stomach like an anxious child shrinking against a parent. “I never do.”
“I know, but…” A trickle of bitterness turned her voice into a small, dark knife. “You seem to be good at it.”
Al-An flinched. The lines on their body dimmed, and their gaze was dragged away from Robin by a too-familiar flood of shame. “I am sorry. I…”
Their voice faltered, and their head bowed. If only she could sense my intentions and thoughts, maybe I wouldn’t anger her so often. And if I could read her thoughts, or if I’d been raised in human society, perhaps I would know ahead of time when I’m about to make a mistake.
I wonder… “Robin, I…”
From the look on her face, they were testing her patience, but she chose to restrain herself. “Yeah?”
“I had a question, but…” But even if they couldn’t hear her thoughts, the barely-concealed edge in her tone was eloquent. “Perhaps this is not the time.”
“Yeah, it’s… kind of not.”
Silence fell like cold, dark snow, and Al-An’s head and shoulders sank along with their heart. The void surrounding their mind was painful, but to feel the closest thing to a network they had, clawing at the edge of their psyche with anger and rejection… no. The emptiness would hurt less.
They turned away, only to freeze as small, soft fingers gripped their foreleg’s shoulder, trying to hold them in place. They glanced at Robin in confusion, and were surprised to see a look of remorse on her tear-stained face.
“Before you go,” her husky, broken voice said, “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I know you weren’t trying to upset me, and I’ve probably been too impatient sometimes. It’s just… we’re both going through a lot, and… it’s left me kind of raw.”
“Raw?”
“Yeah, like… when you have a scrape on your skin, and a touch that would normally be painless hurts. The emotional version of that. I mean… some of the stuff you say is pretty rude by human standards, and when I’m already upset it’s definitely not the time for that, but we’re both still learning about each other’s cultures, and I should probably be more patient with you while you learn.”
So she did understand. The knot of tension in their chest uncoiled, and this time it was relief, not dejection, that made their shoulders sag. “That would make our interactions less stressful, yes.”
Her eyes tightened slightly, briefly, as if the admission that she’d been causing them stress pained her. “Okay. I’ll try. We can continue this conversation soon, but for now, I just…” Her voice strangled itself, and her hand pressed to her mouth again. Al-An waited patiently while she rallied herself, until her tightly-shut eyes opened and rose to meet theirs.
“It’s Sam’s birthday,” she managed, “and we should’ve been having cake and hugging Potato together, but now all that’s left of both of them is these pictures, and I…” Her voice shattered, her eyes squeezed shut, and fresh tears left glistening tracks through the caverns of pain on her face.
As reflex had commanded so many times, Al-An tried to send her comfort and peace through the network. And, as always, the attempt began and ended in the confines of their mind.
Their face lowered, their mechanical arms fidgeted with the aimless need to do something, and their organic hands clenched. If I was human, would I know what to do right now? What WOULD a human do?
Their gaze strayed to the photos, observing the subjects’ body language and searching for clues. Sam’s arms, wrapped around Danielle… her cat, cradled snugly in Robin’s arms… maybe that was it.
Yes. They remembered now; she’d done the same for them, on the day they’d returned to their homeworld and found it bare of life. Their legs had gone limp, and they’d crashed to their knees; had they been alone, they might have collapsed entirely.
But they didn’t. When their body was weak, her arms were strong, wrapping around their chest in a comforting cocoon. When their spinning head was dragged down by the weight of a future bereft of the people they’d failed to save, her shoulder had been there, supporting it when they could not.
It must have been so heavy for a person her size. But she’d borne their weight without complaint, and now they’d do the same for her.
As their telekinetic arm lifted her off the ground, a sharp breath rushed into Robin’s lungs, and her eyes shone wide and confused as she stared up at their face. “Al-An, what-”
Then she was pressed against their chest, blinking in surprise as their sturdy organic arms closed gently around her. Her small, soft body – so soft, so malleable, they had to be so careful not to exert too much force – went stiff and still, and the Architect began to wonder if they’d made a mistake.
Then her tension drained away, and Al-An’s did the same as she wrapped her arms around them, pressing herself tighter against them.
Her shoulders began to shake again, and they weren’t sure whether that was a good sign or not. But at least she was reciprocating their gesture, so it seemed they had chosen well.
It was strange, to have such close contact without any mental feedback. To be pressed against each other, sharing warmth, sharing grief, but not sharing thoughts. The front of their body felt full and warm, but their mind felt empty.
And yet… the emptiness felt more bearable this way. Perhaps this was a form of human communication: conveying affection, comfort and strength through their bodies instead of their minds. A way to feel connected, without having to spend mental and emotional energy on conversation when one was already “raw.”
They weren’t sure how long these silent conversations were supposed to last, according to humanity’s vast labyrinth of unspoken rules. They hoped this one would last a long time.
Nine minutes passed. Robin was shaking less now. Her breathing still quivered, and her forehead was still pressed against their chest, small and warm and round. Al-An tried to will comfort and calm to flow from their body into hers; they didn’t know if such a thing was scientifically possible, but there was no risk in the experiment.
Fifteen and a half. Their friend had gone all but still; the only movement was the slow, steady rhythm of her breath, which only shuddered occasionally now. She tucked her head tighter against them, nuzzling slightly, and the movement sent a rush of warmth through their body, like ripples of happiness in a pond.
Seventeen. She finally pulled her head away. Her warmth disappeared, leaving their chest feeling like she had left a hole in it, only to come flooding back as she smiled up at them, her eyes still glistening with the memory of tears.
“Thanks,” she said softly, giving their back a gentle squeeze with one hand. “I needed that.”
“You are welcome.” They glanced at the photographs, then back to Robin. “I’ve observed that humans use this type of gesture to comfort others when they are in distress, so I theorized that you might find it comforting as well.”
“I do,” she confirmed. “So do a lot of humans. Hugging reduces stress, increases oxytocin, and is also a way to show people you care, and that you’re willing to take the time to comfort them. It’s especially helpful when people aren’t ready to talk, but need a connection anyway.”
“I had theorized as much. Adding hugs to my database of appropriate responses for when you are feeling ‘raw.’”
She laughed, and they noticed an increase in their own oxytocin levels. “Thanks,” she said warmly, giving another affectionate squeeze.
Then her curiosity rose to the fore, and she leaned back farther to more easily look at their face. “So, what gestures do Architects use to comfort each other?”
As of this moment? None. The bitter reminder made their hand clench slightly, but they kept their voice even. “We used to offer support and reassurance through the network. We all felt each other’s distress, and those who were less affected by it could send feelings of comfort and reassurance to those who were struggling the most.”
“I see.” Her eyes lowered, as if forced down by the fog of heavy silence that fell across the room. Then, like a bird bursting up through the clouds, her stare rose again to meet theirs, her brow flattened in a hard line but her eyes soft and bright with concern. “Al-An, I’ve been wondering…”
She trailed off, as if she wasn’t sure what to say, or if she wanted to say it. A thousand years ago, Al-An would have been puzzled by her reticence, but now they could understand it all too well. “Yes?” they prompted gently, trying to match the balance of patience and persistence that Robin had used with them.
“Does it… bother you, that I’m not an Architect?”
Their head drew back slightly, and they stared at her for a moment, trying to process the suddenness with which their dangerous, taboo secret had suddenly been dragged into the light. “I… had not expected you to ask that,” they replied, stalling for time as they tried to decide how to answer.
“But it does, doesn’t it?” Her tone was still gentle, the question asked without judgment, so maybe it was safe to confess their forbidden wish.
“Yes,” they said softly, “it does. The silence in my mind is difficult to endure, and the knowledge that my every experience is not being recorded in the generational databank, nor stored in another’s memory, is isolating.
“In addition, the inability to sense your feelings and thoughts often leaves me uncertain as to whether it is safe to express my own, as I don’t know how you will react, or if your inability to perceive my feelings might cause you to misinterpret my intent.”
Were they saying too much? Maybe they were, but… she had asked, hadn’t she? There were so many words, so many worries stored up in their mind, and they were so tired of keeping it all trapped inside.
“When you’re in distress,” they continued, “I don’t always know what you need, and when we’re physically separated, I have no way of knowing if you’re in distress at all.
“I understand that it is normal for humans not to know each other’s status when you are apart, but for me, not knowing whether you’re healthy, injured, dying or dead is distressing. And even if you are not killed, if you never transfer into a new body, it is likely that I will outlive you by a significant margin.”
“I see,” she said softly, rubbing her thumb up and down their back in a strange, soothing rhythm. “I guess that is pretty stressful to think about, especially if you aren’t used to it. Humans worry about a lot of those things too, but we’re accustomed to living with it.”
“And dying with it.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes fell again, and Al-An held her a bit tighter, as if that could somehow stop the inevitable tragedies of life from taking her away.
At least she wasn’t upset with them anymore. Maybe this would be a good time to ask the question that had been tugging at their mind. “Robin?”
“Yeah?”
“Does it bother you that I am not human?”
Her eyes snapped up to their face, startled and confused, as if the question was somehow stranger coming from them than it was coming from her. “Well… no,” she replied. “Why would it? I mean, sure, we have cultural differences, and misunderstandings and conflicts of personality, but for humans, that’s just life.
“When you aren’t networked, every new relationship is a learning curve. You get to know each other over time, and by doing so, you learn to understand each other. Maybe not as much as you can when you’re networked, but the work of earning that understanding and trust makes it all the more precious.”
“The idea of earning understanding is foreign to me,” Al-An admitted. “For Architects, understanding each other is a basic necessity of life, as normal and expected as breathing is for you. As for earning trust…”
A gale of memories rushed through their mind, and their voice faltered in the storm.
Packed rooms full of dying Architects, some still struggling to stay upright, while others lay on the floor in a heap of misery, despair, and green-bubbled flesh. Locked away without hope of escape and rebirth as the demand for new bodies outstripped the supply, cut off from everyone except those who were as doomed as they were.
The mandate reaching Al-An through the network: travel to 4546B, and find a cure at all costs.
Imprisoned animals, suffering and dying in their experiments: cruelties they’d justified with the hope that that abuse would save billions of lives.
The horrible impact of the leviathan’s head against the research facility, resounding through the network. The first green pustules on their hands. The pustules on everybody’s bodies, and the knowledge that this was their fault, and everybody knew it.
“I earned that trust once,” they said softly, their voice wavering, “and then I proved unworthy of it.”
“You mean with the bacteria?” Her tone was gentle, soft, devoid of the judgment they very much deserved.
“Yes. My people trusted me, and… I let them down. And now they are gone.”
Her hand began to stroke their back, prompting a silent, reflexive addition to their database of comforting gestures, and they tried to decide how to respond. The touch was soothing, but it couldn’t undo their mistakes, or bring their people back.
“Were you the only one?” Robin’s voice was soft, but it still jolted them from their thoughts.
“The only what?”
“The only one leading a research team. Didn’t you say there were others, on other planets?”
“Yes.”
“Then it wasn’t just you. It wasn’t that everything was riding on you, and you alone failed. You got the same result as everyone else who tried to kill the kharaa.”
“But they did not have the enzyme. I did. I could have saved them, had I not squandered that chance by disobeying my network.”
“Maybe so. But the survivor from the Aurora said the Sea Emperor leviathan spoke to him, telepathically.”
“It… SPOKE to him?” Spoke… like a person? Like a sapient being? But that means… the being I imprisoned and left behind, whose unhatched child I tore from its egg…
Their lights flickered wildly in time with their thoughts, and they were distantly aware of Robin tensing in their grasp.
“Yeah,” she said hastily, as if trying to reclaim their attention and distract them, “she told Ryley Robinson you couldn’t hear her – but he could. She gave up the secret for hatching her eggs in return for his help in freeing her hatchlings.
“He was only able to make that deal because they could communicate, so even if that Sea Dragon hadn’t destroyed your lab, you might not have been able to get the eggs to hatch. Either way, we’ll never know. What’s done is done, and mentally torturing yourself over it will only make things worse.”
What is done!? What’s DONE destroyed my entire species and many others, and now I find out that the family I imprisoned and the child I killed were PEOPLE! People who might have been able to help me find a cure, if only I’d found a way to communicate with them…
The lines on their body blazed with such frenzied light that for a moment, they wondered if they could burn themselves and their guilt away in a single well-deserved flash. But the small, tense form in their arms kept them grounded, reminding them of the effect such an outburst would have on their fragile friend.
With a shuddering effort, they forced the churning storm down, until it was more a simmering rumble than an all-consuming blaze. As their lights faded to a dark, muted green, they shook their head.
“Is it truly that easy,” they asked, their voice trembling, “for humans to dismiss their guilt when their mistake costs others their lives?”
Robin responded with a head shake of her own. “Not remotely. There are times when I beat myself up inside for not having found a way to get Sam out of Alterra before it was too late. It takes time, and help, to get over something like that. Some humans never get over it. But that’s all the more reason for me to do what I can to at least try to help you.”
“You… blame yourself for your sister’s death?” The thought fell like a rock in their gut, and Al-An stared at her as her words reeled through their mind.
She never told me. She’s been enduring that this whole time, and because we aren’t networked, I couldn’t tell.
And yet, she’s still trying to help me recover from an error far more severe. No wonder she was raw.
“Well… kind of,” she answered slowly, as if she was trying to analyze her feelings even as she voiced them. “On an intellectual level, I know it was her choice. She was older than me, and could make her own decisions. But I still can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if I’d handled things differently, like you probably do when you think about your research.”
“In all probability,” Al-An observed, “had you dissuaded your sister from joining Alterra, Alterra would have continued to study the kharaa, with potentially catastrophic results. Regardless of any actions on your part, Sam would probably still be alive had she not risked her life to protect everyone from the bacteria.
“As it is, her sacrifice drew you to 4546B, and by doing so, saved my life and possibly countless others. A less than optimal outcome, given that she did not survive, but still greatly preferable to the results of my mistake.”
That had definitely come out wrong. They weren’t sure how, but while they were confident in the content of their response, the delivery had clearly gone awry, judging by Robin’s twisted smile and the way she was shaking her head.
“You really do have a way with words,” she commented, and this time, they were SURE it was sarcasm.
But then her face softened, and she pulled her arms from the hug to give their shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Still, you’re right. Sam made the right decision, even if it cost both of us. And while I still regret not having told her more often how much I looked up to her, at least I got to finish her work, and… I think she knew how much I’d respect her last big choice.”
“From the message she left on your PDA, I believe she did.”
“Thanks.” Her fingers hugged their shoulder again, lingering as her gentle voice continued, “And for what it’s worth, I still trust you. Sure, we upset each other sometimes, but I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”
The Architect leaned into her touch, letting its comfort flow into them like warm, soothing water. “Thank you, Robin,” they said quietly. “I am glad we have that much understanding between us.”
She nodded, letting her hands settle into her lap as she nestled in their arms. “You’re welcome. And I’ll try to be more careful not to emotionally hurt you in the future.”
That liquid warmth pooled in their chest, and they gave her a gentle squeeze with their forearms. “I am relieved to hear that. And… I will do the same. I have already harmed too many people by accident; I have no desire to continue that pattern.”
She smiled, then her eyes fell briefly to her hands, and Al-An watched as her fingers coiled around each other in an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty. Then her stare rose again, soft with compassion, but steeled with a look of apprehensive resolve. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”
She paused, as if gathering herself, then took a deep, bracing breath and forged on. “I know it’s been hard for you, adapting to a life that’s completely unlike everything you ever knew. As much as life has changed for me, in some ways I’m still living a lot like the way I used to, but for you, everything’s changed and… maybe it would be easier if I met you halfway.”
“Halfway?” She was already on their ship, using their technology, living in quarters that were somewhat customized but still clearly Architect in design, and eating a diet that consisted largely of plants that originated on the Architect homeworld. How much farther was ‘halfway’?
Not transferring into an Architect body, surely; she was far too attached to her current form. What other change could she make that she thought would make things eas-
Their data processor slammed to a halt, and a subtle jolt ran through them, mixed with a faint thrill that made them wonder if this was the feeling Robin described as hope. “Do you mean,” they asked slowly, almost afraid to finish the thought for fear that she’d say no, “you wish to be networked?”
Her lips thinned in a way they weren’t sure how to interpret, but she gave a resolute nod. “I’m not sure I wish for it, but… I’m willing to try it.”
Try it. A tentative, temporary arrangement, then, and one she might rescind if they did not make it pleasant.
“I wouldn’t want to be networked all the time,” she continued. “I’ll still need times when I’m alone with my thoughts, and I don’t think I could concentrate on complex tasks and listen to another person’s thoughts at the same time, but maybe there’s a way we could be networked sometimes.
“Like, I could turn it on when you’re having a bad day, or if I’m in danger, or if I’m going to be late and I need to tell you not to worry. Or just… when I want to.”
“Or if we are having a misunderstanding, and we need to convey our thoughts and the intentions behind them more precisely?” Al-An suggested, and she nodded again.
“Yeah, that too.”
The Architect’s head was spinning, drunk on the thought that after all these lonely years, they were going to have a network again, even if it was a small, sporadic one. “I have given this matter a great deal of thought,” they admitted, “though I did not believe you would ever agree to it. I believe humans would call this ‘wishful thinking.’”
Robin shrugged. “You could say wishful thinking is what got humans into space. Some things seem impossible until you actually try them. I mean… a year ago, I NEVER would have thought I’d agree to something like this.
“But as much pain as I’m in from losing Sam, I know you’re probably going through something infinitely worse. I mean, you lost your whole species. Your culture, your way of life… your chance to make up for your mistake to the people who were the most affected by it.
“I want to help, and as much as I’m not sure about this, I can see the benefits, for both of us. And who knows… maybe once I try it, I’ll like it more than I thought. There’s only one way to find out.”
“My people often take… took… that approach to trying new body modifications,” Al-An observed, trying to keep their voice from trembling as the reality of the Architects’ extinction came flooding down on them for the thousandth time. “Sometimes we find the enhancements useful.
“Other times, we choose to reverse them, whether due to dislike or simply a change in circumstance. And sometimes, the modification must be modified further to better match our preference.”
Robin gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “That sounds like a good approach to this. I can try being networked, and either I’ll like it, or I’ll reverse it, or we’ll find some way to adjust it.”
She really was considering this. And she might not terminate the link even if it bothered her – at least, not without trying to solve the problem first. The thought made Al-An’s lines glow a joyous, hopeful blue.
“I have already considered several methods that will allow for impermanent networking through non-invasive means,” the Architect said eagerly. “It should not be difficult to turn them on or off at will.”
She raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed. “Wow, you really DID think this through. How come you never mentioned it?”
“Given your stance regarding the privacy of thoughts, I did not believe you would be receptive.”
“Okay, fair enough. I will admit, I am still a bit nervous. I mean, what if I think of something embarrassing?”
A flicker of amusement ran through their glowing lines. “More embarrassing than defending your doctoral thesis incorrectly, while in your underwear?”
There was a hint of a smile in her expression, but it was mostly a cringe. “You saw that, huh?”
“I doubt anything that enters your mind while you are awake could compare with what I experienced in your dreams.” Their face lowered, and their lights dimmed. “And I doubt your worst moments could compare to the shame of letting your entire species die.”
Her eyes fell. “Yeah… I guess not. Though, I still don’t think it was entirely your fault.”
“Still, I bear much of the responsibility. I assure you, no matter what thoughts of yours I may witness, I have almost certainly had worse ones myself.”
“I see. I guess it would be pretty hard to top that, but… I’m just not used to sharing what’s on my mind until I’ve thought it through enough to at least choose my words, or decide how much I want to share. The inside of my head can get weird sometimes, and sometimes it takes me a while to decide what parts I want to communicate.”
“Hearing incomplete thoughts is a normal part of an Architect’s life,” Al-An observed. “We witness each other’s thought process as it evolves, though it is generally considered rude to interrupt unless we have helpful input. As for the concern of being ‘weird,’ young Architects also have many strange, irrational thoughts, though we tend to grow out of that by the age of eighty.”
“Eighty?” She laughed. “When humans get that old, we’re close to the end of our natural lifespans, though we can use life extension technology to double that.”
“The end?!” Al-An took a step back, their mind spinning. “When I was inducted into the temple of research, I was ninety-six years old – the youngest initiate to date. I had assumed you were at least one hundred and fifty, since you are allowed to perform solo research independently.”
Robin’s mouth stretched and twitched, the way it sometimes did when she was trying not to laugh. “I’m actually thirty.”
Thirty. Al-An stared at Robin. Robin stared back, her grin breaking through her resistance and shining like a beacon of mischievous amusement.
And surely it had to be mischief. There was no way the competent scientist in front of them was a barely-pubescent child. “Is that… sarcasm?” they asked slowly, as if keeping their voice cautious could help them evade the unthinkable concept.
“Nope, not this time.” She shrugged. “We humans have shorter lives, so we have to do everything faster. That includes grow up and build careers.”
“I…” Al-An’s voice faltered. “I knew humans had only one life, but I’d hoped it would be a longer one.”
Another shrug, this one somehow even more nonchalant. “Maybe it can be. I mean, we’re both scientists, right? There are already lots of ways to extend a life, while still letting a person stay in the same body, and we might be able to improve them.”
The knot that had twisted in their chest relaxed. “That is true. If we can acquire data on humans’ life extension technologies, it is likely that my people’s technology can enhance them.”
“It can’t hurt to find out. But for now, let’s take this one step at a time. How are we gonna get me networked?”
“I could create a piece of headgear that would link your mind with my own. It would be worn externally, with no surgery required, and we’d be able to sense each other’s thoughts and feelings.”
“Kind of like when you were in my head?”
“Yes, but with far more clarity. While I was a passenger in your mind, I could sense your emotions and biofeedback, but I could not hear what you were thinking, and you were only aware of the thoughts I actively transmitted to you.
“A true network allows us to sense all of each other’s thoughts, emotions, and needs. It is a more complete connection, facilitating much greater understanding between the participants.”
She drew and released a deep breath, her cheeks puffing as she exhaled. “It feels like a big step,” she admitted, “and I’m still not sure how I feel about this. But I’m willing to give it a shot.”
“Thank you.” They pressed her to their chest one last time, and then gently set her on the ground. “If you conclude that you no longer wish to be networked, I will understand. But your willingness to try it means far more to me than you know.”
Her people’s way of living had as many inefficiencies and vulnerabilities as their fallible and inferior bodies, and the Architect often wondered how they managed to function at all, let alone as well as they did. And yet, under the circumstances, their culture had one significant advantage over Al-An’s: it had been shaped by millennia of existing without a network.
What was lonely, new and distressing for Al-An was normal for Robin, and she was a never-ending source of both strategies for coping with their new reality, and empathy as they endured their first struggles with challenges she was all too familiar with.
As they slowly adapted to this strange, isolated life, her guiding presence was a steadying constant, and they would never want her to think they were ungrateful for it.
And yet, during the five months the two of them had spent exploring the universe together, there had been times – many more than seemed wise to admit – when Al-An had wished she was an Architect.
If she was, her body would be difficult to kill, and her soul even more so. Her every thought, need, and emotion would be easy to read; Al-An would never have to guess what she was thinking or feeling, or be confused by strange and unclear human phrasing.
And whenever they had an important experience or discovered something new, they could instantly share it with her. The two of them could discuss it, enjoy its benefits, or resolve the problems it created together, and Al-An would have the comfort of knowing that if the uncertainties of life ended in their demise, their memories would live on in her.
Instead, every moment of sadness, joy and pain was caged inside their heart, a silent call heard by no one. Every unheard thought, every experience that wasn’t kept safe in their people’s generational memory, was a reminder that there were no other Architects left to share it with.
Robin being human made living without their network bearable. But her being an Architect would mean they didn’t have to.
They suspected it would be unwise to say so. Their small friend was proud of her body and culture, and she often got angry when they pointed out flaws in the things she took pride in, even though they meant no offense.
Humans, it seemed, were less open to plain, honest feedback than people who were accustomed to modifying their bodies and sharing their uncensored thoughts, even when the truth of that feedback was self-evident.
A quiet gasp jerked the Architect from their thoughts, followed by another, and their head snapped up. They were alone in the room, but their mind was still connected to the ship’s sensors, and they knew what that quick, sharp breathing meant.
Robin was crying.
The inside of their chest twisted into a knot, and in an instant, they acquired their friend’s location from the ship’s internal scanners. A few quick flash-steps brought them to the door of her bedroom, each short teleport punctuated by the sound of a sob, and they tapped on the door with one of their organic arms as human protocol required.
“Y-yes?” a choked, cracked voice replied, the lone word broken in half by a sob. “Come i-in.”
A thought from Al-An, and the door slid open, revealing Robin’s tear-streaked face. Her right hand cradled the side of a framed photograph that sat on a shelf, while the left was pressed against her mouth in an odd but all too familiar display of grief.
It was strange how she could pass by that photo a hundred times, and then on the hundred and first, it would suddenly bring her to tears. Strange, nonsensical, and all too relatable.
The Architect stepped forward, set one of their awkward organic hands carefully on her shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze. She rewarded their effort with a shaky smile, and warmth rushed through them as she covered their hand with her own and squeezed back.
Then her eyes returned to the photo of Sam and Danielle, and Al-An’s gaze followed it. “It is strange,” they observed quietly, “how grief can rise and ebb in such unpredictable patterns – in humans and Architects.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, squeezing their hand tighter. “Some days, I feel almost okay, and others I suddenly just-” Her voice choked, and Al-An bowed their head in silent frustration.
If we were networked, I could send her comfort, strength and calm. Instead, I can only watch helplessly from outside her mind. Our processing centers are only a few feet apart, but it might as well be light-years.
Their gaze strayed from the photograph to Robin. Such a small, fragile being. The skin beneath Al-An’s hand was so soft, the bones so brittle, the soul inside so easily destroyed by a terrifying number of minor threats that an Architect would easily survive.
Even if no structural damage occurred, a simple lack of food, water or oxygen would prove fatal with frightening speed, and the fact that she refused to transfer to a less vulnerable form was both bewildering and terrifying.
“Robin?” they asked quietly, watching her expression carefully as she reluctantly tore her eyes from the portrait to look at them.
“Yeah?”
“Does it ever bother you that you, too, will someday die?”
She stared at them for a moment, as if startled, then gave a sympathetic smile. The expression looked almost like a dam, holding back a river of tears. “Most people don’t want to die, or lose the people they love,” she pointed out, her voice still slightly cracked. “But most of us have to accept that it’ll happen sooner or later.”
“And this does not cause you distress?”
“Sometimes. Some days more than others.” That smile took on a wry, knowing twist. “But is it really my distress you’re thinking about?”
The startled Architect drew back slightly, then lowered their head in guilty acknowledgment. They SHOULD have been focused on her pain, but… “I will confess, the thought of you dying causes me a great deal of anxiety. Being alone again, this time without the hope of reuniting with my people, would be hard for me to bear.”
“I know.” Those tiny, fragile fingers stroked the back of their large, armored hand. “It probably isn’t healthy for me to be your only friend.”
“It is not. I used to be networked to countless individuals, and I still cannot get used to the quiet in my mind, or to the idea that that silence might someday be even more complete.”
The hand that wasn’t resting on theirs began to tap the side of the photo with one finger, as if that somehow helped her think. “You know, we probably could persuade some of my old coworkers from XenoWorx to run away with us. I don’t know if they’d agree to it, but it would be nice…” The crack in her voice grew deeper, as if this, too, was a painful reminder. “I do kinda miss them.”
“The additional companionship would be welcome,” Al-An acknowledged. “For you as well as me, it would seem. But their bodies would still be just as fragile and impermanent as your own.”
“Isn’t everyone’s, to one degree or another? You said it yourself, Al-An: nothing is permanent.”
“That’s true, but Architect bodies come perhaps as close as any living creature can. We are… were… not as resigned to our fates as you are. I still do not understand why you insist upon remaining in bodies that are so easily destroyed.”
“I know it’s hard for you to understand, but our bodies are a part of us. They’re an integral aspect of how we experience life.”
“That is true for us as well – at least, to an extent. When we lose a body, unique traits and perspectives that came with that body are lost as well. But learning to live with that loss means at least a part of us still lives.”
“Look, I…” Her grip on their hand tightened, then fell away. “This really isn’t the time for a lecture on human inefficiencies.” Her voice wavered, and Al-An tensed, realizing they’d crossed an invisible line. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m having a really painful moment right now.”
“I’m sorry, I… did not mean to make things difficult for you.” Their face lowered, and their hand slid from her shoulder, retreating to join their other arm at their stomach like an anxious child shrinking against a parent. “I never do.”
“I know, but…” A trickle of bitterness turned her voice into a small, dark knife. “You seem to be good at it.”
Al-An flinched. The lines on their body dimmed, and their gaze was dragged away from Robin by a too-familiar flood of shame. “I am sorry. I…”
Their voice faltered, and their head bowed. If only she could sense my intentions and thoughts, maybe I wouldn’t anger her so often. And if I could read her thoughts, or if I’d been raised in human society, perhaps I would know ahead of time when I’m about to make a mistake.
I wonder… “Robin, I…”
From the look on her face, they were testing her patience, but she chose to restrain herself. “Yeah?”
“I had a question, but…” But even if they couldn’t hear her thoughts, the barely-concealed edge in her tone was eloquent. “Perhaps this is not the time.”
“Yeah, it’s… kind of not.”
Silence fell like cold, dark snow, and Al-An’s head and shoulders sank along with their heart. The void surrounding their mind was painful, but to feel the closest thing to a network they had, clawing at the edge of their psyche with anger and rejection… no. The emptiness would hurt less.
They turned away, only to freeze as small, soft fingers gripped their foreleg’s shoulder, trying to hold them in place. They glanced at Robin in confusion, and were surprised to see a look of remorse on her tear-stained face.
“Before you go,” her husky, broken voice said, “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I know you weren’t trying to upset me, and I’ve probably been too impatient sometimes. It’s just… we’re both going through a lot, and… it’s left me kind of raw.”
“Raw?”
“Yeah, like… when you have a scrape on your skin, and a touch that would normally be painless hurts. The emotional version of that. I mean… some of the stuff you say is pretty rude by human standards, and when I’m already upset it’s definitely not the time for that, but we’re both still learning about each other’s cultures, and I should probably be more patient with you while you learn.”
So she did understand. The knot of tension in their chest uncoiled, and this time it was relief, not dejection, that made their shoulders sag. “That would make our interactions less stressful, yes.”
Her eyes tightened slightly, briefly, as if the admission that she’d been causing them stress pained her. “Okay. I’ll try. We can continue this conversation soon, but for now, I just…” Her voice strangled itself, and her hand pressed to her mouth again. Al-An waited patiently while she rallied herself, until her tightly-shut eyes opened and rose to meet theirs.
“It’s Sam’s birthday,” she managed, “and we should’ve been having cake and hugging Potato together, but now all that’s left of both of them is these pictures, and I…” Her voice shattered, her eyes squeezed shut, and fresh tears left glistening tracks through the caverns of pain on her face.
As reflex had commanded so many times, Al-An tried to send her comfort and peace through the network. And, as always, the attempt began and ended in the confines of their mind.
Their face lowered, their mechanical arms fidgeted with the aimless need to do something, and their organic hands clenched. If I was human, would I know what to do right now? What WOULD a human do?
Their gaze strayed to the photos, observing the subjects’ body language and searching for clues. Sam’s arms, wrapped around Danielle… her cat, cradled snugly in Robin’s arms… maybe that was it.
Yes. They remembered now; she’d done the same for them, on the day they’d returned to their homeworld and found it bare of life. Their legs had gone limp, and they’d crashed to their knees; had they been alone, they might have collapsed entirely.
But they didn’t. When their body was weak, her arms were strong, wrapping around their chest in a comforting cocoon. When their spinning head was dragged down by the weight of a future bereft of the people they’d failed to save, her shoulder had been there, supporting it when they could not.
It must have been so heavy for a person her size. But she’d borne their weight without complaint, and now they’d do the same for her.
As their telekinetic arm lifted her off the ground, a sharp breath rushed into Robin’s lungs, and her eyes shone wide and confused as she stared up at their face. “Al-An, what-”
Then she was pressed against their chest, blinking in surprise as their sturdy organic arms closed gently around her. Her small, soft body – so soft, so malleable, they had to be so careful not to exert too much force – went stiff and still, and the Architect began to wonder if they’d made a mistake.
Then her tension drained away, and Al-An’s did the same as she wrapped her arms around them, pressing herself tighter against them.
Her shoulders began to shake again, and they weren’t sure whether that was a good sign or not. But at least she was reciprocating their gesture, so it seemed they had chosen well.
It was strange, to have such close contact without any mental feedback. To be pressed against each other, sharing warmth, sharing grief, but not sharing thoughts. The front of their body felt full and warm, but their mind felt empty.
And yet… the emptiness felt more bearable this way. Perhaps this was a form of human communication: conveying affection, comfort and strength through their bodies instead of their minds. A way to feel connected, without having to spend mental and emotional energy on conversation when one was already “raw.”
They weren’t sure how long these silent conversations were supposed to last, according to humanity’s vast labyrinth of unspoken rules. They hoped this one would last a long time.
Nine minutes passed. Robin was shaking less now. Her breathing still quivered, and her forehead was still pressed against their chest, small and warm and round. Al-An tried to will comfort and calm to flow from their body into hers; they didn’t know if such a thing was scientifically possible, but there was no risk in the experiment.
Fifteen and a half. Their friend had gone all but still; the only movement was the slow, steady rhythm of her breath, which only shuddered occasionally now. She tucked her head tighter against them, nuzzling slightly, and the movement sent a rush of warmth through their body, like ripples of happiness in a pond.
Seventeen. She finally pulled her head away. Her warmth disappeared, leaving their chest feeling like she had left a hole in it, only to come flooding back as she smiled up at them, her eyes still glistening with the memory of tears.
“Thanks,” she said softly, giving their back a gentle squeeze with one hand. “I needed that.”
“You are welcome.” They glanced at the photographs, then back to Robin. “I’ve observed that humans use this type of gesture to comfort others when they are in distress, so I theorized that you might find it comforting as well.”
“I do,” she confirmed. “So do a lot of humans. Hugging reduces stress, increases oxytocin, and is also a way to show people you care, and that you’re willing to take the time to comfort them. It’s especially helpful when people aren’t ready to talk, but need a connection anyway.”
“I had theorized as much. Adding hugs to my database of appropriate responses for when you are feeling ‘raw.’”
She laughed, and they noticed an increase in their own oxytocin levels. “Thanks,” she said warmly, giving another affectionate squeeze.
Then her curiosity rose to the fore, and she leaned back farther to more easily look at their face. “So, what gestures do Architects use to comfort each other?”
As of this moment? None. The bitter reminder made their hand clench slightly, but they kept their voice even. “We used to offer support and reassurance through the network. We all felt each other’s distress, and those who were less affected by it could send feelings of comfort and reassurance to those who were struggling the most.”
“I see.” Her eyes lowered, as if forced down by the fog of heavy silence that fell across the room. Then, like a bird bursting up through the clouds, her stare rose again to meet theirs, her brow flattened in a hard line but her eyes soft and bright with concern. “Al-An, I’ve been wondering…”
She trailed off, as if she wasn’t sure what to say, or if she wanted to say it. A thousand years ago, Al-An would have been puzzled by her reticence, but now they could understand it all too well. “Yes?” they prompted gently, trying to match the balance of patience and persistence that Robin had used with them.
“Does it… bother you, that I’m not an Architect?”
Their head drew back slightly, and they stared at her for a moment, trying to process the suddenness with which their dangerous, taboo secret had suddenly been dragged into the light. “I… had not expected you to ask that,” they replied, stalling for time as they tried to decide how to answer.
“But it does, doesn’t it?” Her tone was still gentle, the question asked without judgment, so maybe it was safe to confess their forbidden wish.
“Yes,” they said softly, “it does. The silence in my mind is difficult to endure, and the knowledge that my every experience is not being recorded in the generational databank, nor stored in another’s memory, is isolating.
“In addition, the inability to sense your feelings and thoughts often leaves me uncertain as to whether it is safe to express my own, as I don’t know how you will react, or if your inability to perceive my feelings might cause you to misinterpret my intent.”
Were they saying too much? Maybe they were, but… she had asked, hadn’t she? There were so many words, so many worries stored up in their mind, and they were so tired of keeping it all trapped inside.
“When you’re in distress,” they continued, “I don’t always know what you need, and when we’re physically separated, I have no way of knowing if you’re in distress at all.
“I understand that it is normal for humans not to know each other’s status when you are apart, but for me, not knowing whether you’re healthy, injured, dying or dead is distressing. And even if you are not killed, if you never transfer into a new body, it is likely that I will outlive you by a significant margin.”
“I see,” she said softly, rubbing her thumb up and down their back in a strange, soothing rhythm. “I guess that is pretty stressful to think about, especially if you aren’t used to it. Humans worry about a lot of those things too, but we’re accustomed to living with it.”
“And dying with it.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes fell again, and Al-An held her a bit tighter, as if that could somehow stop the inevitable tragedies of life from taking her away.
At least she wasn’t upset with them anymore. Maybe this would be a good time to ask the question that had been tugging at their mind. “Robin?”
“Yeah?”
“Does it bother you that I am not human?”
Her eyes snapped up to their face, startled and confused, as if the question was somehow stranger coming from them than it was coming from her. “Well… no,” she replied. “Why would it? I mean, sure, we have cultural differences, and misunderstandings and conflicts of personality, but for humans, that’s just life.
“When you aren’t networked, every new relationship is a learning curve. You get to know each other over time, and by doing so, you learn to understand each other. Maybe not as much as you can when you’re networked, but the work of earning that understanding and trust makes it all the more precious.”
“The idea of earning understanding is foreign to me,” Al-An admitted. “For Architects, understanding each other is a basic necessity of life, as normal and expected as breathing is for you. As for earning trust…”
A gale of memories rushed through their mind, and their voice faltered in the storm.
Packed rooms full of dying Architects, some still struggling to stay upright, while others lay on the floor in a heap of misery, despair, and green-bubbled flesh. Locked away without hope of escape and rebirth as the demand for new bodies outstripped the supply, cut off from everyone except those who were as doomed as they were.
The mandate reaching Al-An through the network: travel to 4546B, and find a cure at all costs.
Imprisoned animals, suffering and dying in their experiments: cruelties they’d justified with the hope that that abuse would save billions of lives.
The horrible impact of the leviathan’s head against the research facility, resounding through the network. The first green pustules on their hands. The pustules on everybody’s bodies, and the knowledge that this was their fault, and everybody knew it.
“I earned that trust once,” they said softly, their voice wavering, “and then I proved unworthy of it.”
“You mean with the bacteria?” Her tone was gentle, soft, devoid of the judgment they very much deserved.
“Yes. My people trusted me, and… I let them down. And now they are gone.”
Her hand began to stroke their back, prompting a silent, reflexive addition to their database of comforting gestures, and they tried to decide how to respond. The touch was soothing, but it couldn’t undo their mistakes, or bring their people back.
“Were you the only one?” Robin’s voice was soft, but it still jolted them from their thoughts.
“The only what?”
“The only one leading a research team. Didn’t you say there were others, on other planets?”
“Yes.”
“Then it wasn’t just you. It wasn’t that everything was riding on you, and you alone failed. You got the same result as everyone else who tried to kill the kharaa.”
“But they did not have the enzyme. I did. I could have saved them, had I not squandered that chance by disobeying my network.”
“Maybe so. But the survivor from the Aurora said the Sea Emperor leviathan spoke to him, telepathically.”
“It… SPOKE to him?” Spoke… like a person? Like a sapient being? But that means… the being I imprisoned and left behind, whose unhatched child I tore from its egg…
Their lights flickered wildly in time with their thoughts, and they were distantly aware of Robin tensing in their grasp.
“Yeah,” she said hastily, as if trying to reclaim their attention and distract them, “she told Ryley Robinson you couldn’t hear her – but he could. She gave up the secret for hatching her eggs in return for his help in freeing her hatchlings.
“He was only able to make that deal because they could communicate, so even if that Sea Dragon hadn’t destroyed your lab, you might not have been able to get the eggs to hatch. Either way, we’ll never know. What’s done is done, and mentally torturing yourself over it will only make things worse.”
What is done!? What’s DONE destroyed my entire species and many others, and now I find out that the family I imprisoned and the child I killed were PEOPLE! People who might have been able to help me find a cure, if only I’d found a way to communicate with them…
The lines on their body blazed with such frenzied light that for a moment, they wondered if they could burn themselves and their guilt away in a single well-deserved flash. But the small, tense form in their arms kept them grounded, reminding them of the effect such an outburst would have on their fragile friend.
With a shuddering effort, they forced the churning storm down, until it was more a simmering rumble than an all-consuming blaze. As their lights faded to a dark, muted green, they shook their head.
“Is it truly that easy,” they asked, their voice trembling, “for humans to dismiss their guilt when their mistake costs others their lives?”
Robin responded with a head shake of her own. “Not remotely. There are times when I beat myself up inside for not having found a way to get Sam out of Alterra before it was too late. It takes time, and help, to get over something like that. Some humans never get over it. But that’s all the more reason for me to do what I can to at least try to help you.”
“You… blame yourself for your sister’s death?” The thought fell like a rock in their gut, and Al-An stared at her as her words reeled through their mind.
She never told me. She’s been enduring that this whole time, and because we aren’t networked, I couldn’t tell.
And yet, she’s still trying to help me recover from an error far more severe. No wonder she was raw.
“Well… kind of,” she answered slowly, as if she was trying to analyze her feelings even as she voiced them. “On an intellectual level, I know it was her choice. She was older than me, and could make her own decisions. But I still can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if I’d handled things differently, like you probably do when you think about your research.”
“In all probability,” Al-An observed, “had you dissuaded your sister from joining Alterra, Alterra would have continued to study the kharaa, with potentially catastrophic results. Regardless of any actions on your part, Sam would probably still be alive had she not risked her life to protect everyone from the bacteria.
“As it is, her sacrifice drew you to 4546B, and by doing so, saved my life and possibly countless others. A less than optimal outcome, given that she did not survive, but still greatly preferable to the results of my mistake.”
That had definitely come out wrong. They weren’t sure how, but while they were confident in the content of their response, the delivery had clearly gone awry, judging by Robin’s twisted smile and the way she was shaking her head.
“You really do have a way with words,” she commented, and this time, they were SURE it was sarcasm.
But then her face softened, and she pulled her arms from the hug to give their shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Still, you’re right. Sam made the right decision, even if it cost both of us. And while I still regret not having told her more often how much I looked up to her, at least I got to finish her work, and… I think she knew how much I’d respect her last big choice.”
“From the message she left on your PDA, I believe she did.”
“Thanks.” Her fingers hugged their shoulder again, lingering as her gentle voice continued, “And for what it’s worth, I still trust you. Sure, we upset each other sometimes, but I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”
The Architect leaned into her touch, letting its comfort flow into them like warm, soothing water. “Thank you, Robin,” they said quietly. “I am glad we have that much understanding between us.”
She nodded, letting her hands settle into her lap as she nestled in their arms. “You’re welcome. And I’ll try to be more careful not to emotionally hurt you in the future.”
That liquid warmth pooled in their chest, and they gave her a gentle squeeze with their forearms. “I am relieved to hear that. And… I will do the same. I have already harmed too many people by accident; I have no desire to continue that pattern.”
She smiled, then her eyes fell briefly to her hands, and Al-An watched as her fingers coiled around each other in an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty. Then her stare rose again, soft with compassion, but steeled with a look of apprehensive resolve. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”
She paused, as if gathering herself, then took a deep, bracing breath and forged on. “I know it’s been hard for you, adapting to a life that’s completely unlike everything you ever knew. As much as life has changed for me, in some ways I’m still living a lot like the way I used to, but for you, everything’s changed and… maybe it would be easier if I met you halfway.”
“Halfway?” She was already on their ship, using their technology, living in quarters that were somewhat customized but still clearly Architect in design, and eating a diet that consisted largely of plants that originated on the Architect homeworld. How much farther was ‘halfway’?
Not transferring into an Architect body, surely; she was far too attached to her current form. What other change could she make that she thought would make things eas-
Their data processor slammed to a halt, and a subtle jolt ran through them, mixed with a faint thrill that made them wonder if this was the feeling Robin described as hope. “Do you mean,” they asked slowly, almost afraid to finish the thought for fear that she’d say no, “you wish to be networked?”
Her lips thinned in a way they weren’t sure how to interpret, but she gave a resolute nod. “I’m not sure I wish for it, but… I’m willing to try it.”
Try it. A tentative, temporary arrangement, then, and one she might rescind if they did not make it pleasant.
“I wouldn’t want to be networked all the time,” she continued. “I’ll still need times when I’m alone with my thoughts, and I don’t think I could concentrate on complex tasks and listen to another person’s thoughts at the same time, but maybe there’s a way we could be networked sometimes.
“Like, I could turn it on when you’re having a bad day, or if I’m in danger, or if I’m going to be late and I need to tell you not to worry. Or just… when I want to.”
“Or if we are having a misunderstanding, and we need to convey our thoughts and the intentions behind them more precisely?” Al-An suggested, and she nodded again.
“Yeah, that too.”
The Architect’s head was spinning, drunk on the thought that after all these lonely years, they were going to have a network again, even if it was a small, sporadic one. “I have given this matter a great deal of thought,” they admitted, “though I did not believe you would ever agree to it. I believe humans would call this ‘wishful thinking.’”
Robin shrugged. “You could say wishful thinking is what got humans into space. Some things seem impossible until you actually try them. I mean… a year ago, I NEVER would have thought I’d agree to something like this.
“But as much pain as I’m in from losing Sam, I know you’re probably going through something infinitely worse. I mean, you lost your whole species. Your culture, your way of life… your chance to make up for your mistake to the people who were the most affected by it.
“I want to help, and as much as I’m not sure about this, I can see the benefits, for both of us. And who knows… maybe once I try it, I’ll like it more than I thought. There’s only one way to find out.”
“My people often take… took… that approach to trying new body modifications,” Al-An observed, trying to keep their voice from trembling as the reality of the Architects’ extinction came flooding down on them for the thousandth time. “Sometimes we find the enhancements useful.
“Other times, we choose to reverse them, whether due to dislike or simply a change in circumstance. And sometimes, the modification must be modified further to better match our preference.”
Robin gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “That sounds like a good approach to this. I can try being networked, and either I’ll like it, or I’ll reverse it, or we’ll find some way to adjust it.”
She really was considering this. And she might not terminate the link even if it bothered her – at least, not without trying to solve the problem first. The thought made Al-An’s lines glow a joyous, hopeful blue.
“I have already considered several methods that will allow for impermanent networking through non-invasive means,” the Architect said eagerly. “It should not be difficult to turn them on or off at will.”
She raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed. “Wow, you really DID think this through. How come you never mentioned it?”
“Given your stance regarding the privacy of thoughts, I did not believe you would be receptive.”
“Okay, fair enough. I will admit, I am still a bit nervous. I mean, what if I think of something embarrassing?”
A flicker of amusement ran through their glowing lines. “More embarrassing than defending your doctoral thesis incorrectly, while in your underwear?”
There was a hint of a smile in her expression, but it was mostly a cringe. “You saw that, huh?”
“I doubt anything that enters your mind while you are awake could compare with what I experienced in your dreams.” Their face lowered, and their lights dimmed. “And I doubt your worst moments could compare to the shame of letting your entire species die.”
Her eyes fell. “Yeah… I guess not. Though, I still don’t think it was entirely your fault.”
“Still, I bear much of the responsibility. I assure you, no matter what thoughts of yours I may witness, I have almost certainly had worse ones myself.”
“I see. I guess it would be pretty hard to top that, but… I’m just not used to sharing what’s on my mind until I’ve thought it through enough to at least choose my words, or decide how much I want to share. The inside of my head can get weird sometimes, and sometimes it takes me a while to decide what parts I want to communicate.”
“Hearing incomplete thoughts is a normal part of an Architect’s life,” Al-An observed. “We witness each other’s thought process as it evolves, though it is generally considered rude to interrupt unless we have helpful input. As for the concern of being ‘weird,’ young Architects also have many strange, irrational thoughts, though we tend to grow out of that by the age of eighty.”
“Eighty?” She laughed. “When humans get that old, we’re close to the end of our natural lifespans, though we can use life extension technology to double that.”
“The end?!” Al-An took a step back, their mind spinning. “When I was inducted into the temple of research, I was ninety-six years old – the youngest initiate to date. I had assumed you were at least one hundred and fifty, since you are allowed to perform solo research independently.”
Robin’s mouth stretched and twitched, the way it sometimes did when she was trying not to laugh. “I’m actually thirty.”
Thirty. Al-An stared at Robin. Robin stared back, her grin breaking through her resistance and shining like a beacon of mischievous amusement.
And surely it had to be mischief. There was no way the competent scientist in front of them was a barely-pubescent child. “Is that… sarcasm?” they asked slowly, as if keeping their voice cautious could help them evade the unthinkable concept.
“Nope, not this time.” She shrugged. “We humans have shorter lives, so we have to do everything faster. That includes grow up and build careers.”
“I…” Al-An’s voice faltered. “I knew humans had only one life, but I’d hoped it would be a longer one.”
Another shrug, this one somehow even more nonchalant. “Maybe it can be. I mean, we’re both scientists, right? There are already lots of ways to extend a life, while still letting a person stay in the same body, and we might be able to improve them.”
The knot that had twisted in their chest relaxed. “That is true. If we can acquire data on humans’ life extension technologies, it is likely that my people’s technology can enhance them.”
“It can’t hurt to find out. But for now, let’s take this one step at a time. How are we gonna get me networked?”
“I could create a piece of headgear that would link your mind with my own. It would be worn externally, with no surgery required, and we’d be able to sense each other’s thoughts and feelings.”
“Kind of like when you were in my head?”
“Yes, but with far more clarity. While I was a passenger in your mind, I could sense your emotions and biofeedback, but I could not hear what you were thinking, and you were only aware of the thoughts I actively transmitted to you.
“A true network allows us to sense all of each other’s thoughts, emotions, and needs. It is a more complete connection, facilitating much greater understanding between the participants.”
She drew and released a deep breath, her cheeks puffing as she exhaled. “It feels like a big step,” she admitted, “and I’m still not sure how I feel about this. But I’m willing to give it a shot.”
“Thank you.” They pressed her to their chest one last time, and then gently set her on the ground. “If you conclude that you no longer wish to be networked, I will understand. But your willingness to try it means far more to me than you know.”
~*~
The tiara-like ring of Architect technology looked almost exactly like Robin had guessed it would. Efficiently small, made of dark gray metal, studded here and there with inactive green lights, and covered in the familiar angular patterns that Architects seemed to use on everything.
She lifted it with both hands, noting its lightness and the small cushions that lined its inner curve. It had clearly been made with her comfort in mind, which was reassuring.
The idea of sharing all of her feelings and thoughts with another person still felt incredibly vulnerable, unnerving and exposed, but her sense of curiosity was nagging at her, and Al-An was staring at her the same way Potato had that time he got stuck behind the couch and needed her help.
She wasn’t sure how an alien twice her height managed to give her puppy eyes when they didn’t even have eyes, but darned if they weren’t doing it.
With a jolt, it occurred to her that she’d never looked at them the same way. She’d never needed something from them and doubted they would provide it. Not that that meant she owed it to them to let them into her head – her mind was NOT currency – but it did mean… well…
It meant she trusted them.
She lowered the ring onto her head, slowly exhaling as it settled into place. It was a bit cold, but her head would probably warm it up soon enough.
Her eyes fell closed, and she listened, quieting her own mind’s song as she listened for another’s. Her inner world was silent.
“Direct your thoughts to the device, and mentally instruct it to activate,” Al-An’s gentle voice encouraged, “and the link will be formed.”
Her chin dipped in a nod, and her eyes flickered briefly open to look up at her friend. Then they fell closed again, and she sent the silent command.
Her inner world came alive.
Bright and warm, a beam of hope, shining like sunlight on the skin of her mind. Worry, like an anxious wind among her thoughts, wondering if this first and final chance for true connection would disappear, leaving every thought to fall unheard into the mental void.
Silent thanks for the fact that she was willing to try, even if it didn’t last.
The pain of a mind long condemned to speak to no one, hear from no one, longing for the feeling of another’s consciousness entwining with her – with their own… damn, they’d been connected for all of ten seconds, and she’d already almost ascribed one of their feelings to herself.
Al-An’s psyche was swirling around hers like a dozen types of weather, clearly coming from outside of her, yet felt more deeply than she’d ever felt anyone before. She wondered how long the boundary between her mind and theirs would stay clearly defined.
“It will not fade,” her friend’s voice reassured her, silent to her ears, but clear as a bell in her head. “You will always know which thoughts are yours, and which ones come from me. Your personality and sense of self are not in danger, though our thoughts and emotions may influence each other’s, as those who live in proximity often do.”
“That’s-” No, I’m gonna practice talking with my mind. “That’s good to know.”
She half expected them to ask how she felt, then she remembered that they could probably sense her feelings as clearly as she sensed theirs.
“That is correct. It is reassuring to not have to wonder how you are responding to this experience. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It is… quite an experience. I’ve never felt this many emotions at once before.”
“It is overwhelming at first,” the Architect acknowledged. “It was for me as well, when I was first networked. But with time, young Architects learn to let others’ thoughts and feelings fade into the background, to be one with the network while still focusing and acting upon their own thoughts.”
“A continuous thrum in the background of existence,” she echoed their past words, and she felt them lean into the hum of her mind, like a once-cold cat nestling into a warm, deep pillow.
They’re so happy about this. And they’ve been without it for so long, alone in their head with their fear and guilt. How much easier would the past few months have been for them, if I’d done this earlier?
No – Robin, you are NOT beating yourself up about that. I have the right to my mind and boundaries, and to wait to try major changes until I’m ready.
“That’s true,” Al-An’s voice slipped gently into her thoughts. “Your mind and body are your own, and I was never under the delusion that I was entitled to either of them. But what you have chosen to share thus far is a great comfort. I hope you will choose to maintain the network connection.”
“I think I will. At least for a while, anyway. There’ll probably be times when I want to turn it off for a bit, but so far, it doesn’t feel like I’ll need to shut it off permanently.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
Through the network, she felt their knees weaken with relief, and her heart rose. I did that for them. Even with everything they’re going through, I can still give them moments of happiness. I may not have been able to help Sam, but… no… no… damn…
Her gaze wrenched itself to her sister’s photo, and the burning, blurring pain returned. No, not now, there are already too many emotions at once, and I don’t want to make Al-An feel thi-
Before she could complete the thought, her friend’s strong arms were around her, and she was once again pressed against their huge, glowing chest, as if they were trying to block the grief with their body before it could strike.
Too late. She was already back in her house, collapsing onto the couch and staring blankly at the cold, digital words proclaiming her beloved sister dead.
She was kneeling on a metal floor, reaching out with her mind to a network, a species that no longer existed. Feeling the weight of billions of deaths piling on top of her like an endless avalanche, and knowing it was her fault, she could have saved them, if only it weren’t for her stupid, reckless arrogance…
She was staring dully at her refrigerator door, wrapped in a half-numb fog of grief, knowing she should eat but too drained and apathetic to open the fridge. Her stomach was tight and queasy, threatening to rebel if she managed to force anything down.
In the end, she went to bed hungry, and cried herself to sleep.
She couldn’t cry. Didn’t have the tear ducts to cry. But the inside of her mind was a constant scream, spilling into a void that threatened to swallow her. A void that should have been filled with voices, feelings, community, support, but had been carved into nothing because of her.
She was reaching out, a tiny ship in a sea of nothing, watching her thoughts go tumbling into emptiness when they should have been captured and kept safe in other people’s minds, feeling her experiences writhing, trapped, inside her, when they should have been building blocks in an ever-growing tower of knowledge shared among billions.
Reaching, no one there, it was empty, so empty, she was so alone…
No. Focus. Her arms tightened on Al-An, and like a tiger lunging from a pit of fire, she flung her focus from the chaotic sea of their mingled minds and back into her body.
She was holding Al-An. She wasn’t alone. They weren’t alone.
“Al-An, focus. Focus on my voice.” She hugged the huge, trembling alien tighter, like she had on the day they found out they were the last of their kind. She’d been able to stabilize them then; she could do it again now.
“I’m here. Focus. Look at me, look at the walls – remember where and when you are.”
She could sense their mind slowing and sharpening, like a wide beam of light that had been flashing all over, now narrowing to a brighter point and aiming in just one direction. “Can you feel my arms, Al-An?”
“Yes.” Their voice was shaky, but she felt like their mind had almost fully returned to the present.
She had to keep them grounded. She suspected the person who was new to being networked shouldn’t normally be the one coaching the other through it, but… she wasn’t the one who had lost her whole species. “Good. Focus on that.”
“I’m sorry.” A shudder ran through their huge body. “I had not intended to subject you to my grief.”
“We both subjected each other. But I will admit, yours was a lot more intense.”
“I am sorry. I had hoped I could keep that part of my mind at bay, or perhaps…”
“Distract yourself from your feelings?” Robin supplied, both proud of and disturbed by how clearly she’d picked up on their unspoken intentions.
“Yes. When you’ve spent so much of your life networked, the silence of its absence becomes… all-encompassing. I’ve wanted to escape it for a long time.”
“I can see why.” She drew and released a slow, deep breath. “I’m not upset with you for what just happened. I’d kind of assumed there would be times when our grief and regrets hit both of us hard.”
Regrets… that was a reminder she hadn’t wanted, but was glad she had gotten all the same. Her eyes fell, then she pressed her head against her friend’s chest. “Hey, Al-An?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember how, back on 4546B, I told you I regretted not saying more often how much I looked up to Sam?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to have that regret with you.”
Their link fell into startled silence, and she gave them a gentle squeeze. “You’re going through the same thing I am, but a billion times more. I lost my sister. You lost everyone, and… you’re basically relearning how to exist.”
As an autonomous being, without your network, the connotation came through, so much clearer than it would have through verbal communication.
“But even though you’re going through so much yourself,” she continued, “you’re always patient, even when I’m not, and you’ve tried so hard to help me heal after Sam’s death. And yeah, sometimes you frustrate me, but even before we were networked, I know you well enough by now to know you never mean to.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re a burden, or like I don’t want you around. And I definitely don’t want you to feel like it isn’t safe to be yourself around me.
“In any relationship where people aren’t networked, it takes time for both people to get to know each other. What they like, what they don’t like, and how to navigate situations where one person wants something and the other doesn’t.”
The ability to voice my feelings and observations freely, as I did with my own people. The desire flashed through Al-An’s mind, not directed at her but still clearly audible, and Robin nodded.
“That… is a tricky one. When you notice something negative about someone, there’s a delicate balance of being honest about it while not making them feel bad about it.”
The way their arms curled around her felt like an apology. “I never meant to make you feel bad. Your forgiveness, encouragement, optimism and determination have made my life bearable for the past few months, and I would never intentionally return that by doing you harm. I am simply… accustomed to viewing bodies as something to be continually improved.
“My people take pride in our bodies because of the improvements we make to them over time. For us, giving feedback on a body’s inefficiencies is simply a way to help the owner of that body to increase their quality of life. To view such feedback as an insult, and to stake one’s emotional well-being on a body being ideal or even adequate in its current state, is foreign to me.”
Robin nodded slowly, processing their words, and feeling the emotions behind them. It was a strange, foreign sensation, to view the body that had always been such an integral part of her as a piece of hardware to be critiqued, upgraded, and eventually replaced.
In the back of her mind, she could sense Al-An listening to her thoughts, and realized they, too, were seeing their body through new eyes: experiencing the feeling of real oneness with their physical form, of seeing it as a cherished and irreplaceable part of them, for the first time in their life.
“I think,” they mused slowly, “I begin to understand why you were so upset when I critiqued your body. We Architects see our bodies as something that is part of us, but separable – important, and influential to the way we experience the world, but still just a vessel that houses our true selves. But to you, it is a permanent part of you, one that influences the way others treat you.”
“Yeah. So when you insulted my body, you insulted me. And you kind of brought up some cultural issues that probably aren’t part of your people’s society – like you alluded to, humans often treat each other worse if they disapprove of their bodies. I’m not saying it’s right, but some people do it anyway.”
“I understand. While I have no intention of mistreating you, regardless of what opinions I have about your body, I will do my best to be more mindful of the way in which your culture has shaped you.”
“Thanks.”
“You are welcome. And… thank you. After so many years spent in isolation, to be connected to another mind again is more of a relief than you can kn… well.” A feeling like warm, sunlit water flowed though the network and their voice. “It seems now you do know.”
“Yeah.” Her hand strayed to the headgear, and she closed her eyes, savoring their contentment and joy. “Now I do.”
It’s better than I thought it would be. At least, it is right now, while I’m focused on it. Will I feel the same way when I’m trying to concentrate on something else, or if my mind wanders to something I don’t want to share?
I’ll probably feel guilty if I decide to turn it off. Will I turn it off? How often will I want to have it on? Will I get used to it and be fine with having it on all the time, or will it bother me so much that I need to disappoint them by taking it off?
The questions flickered through her mind unbidden, and it was a bit disturbing to know that the person in front of her could hear them, and to feel her friend’s emotions shifting with her thoughts.
A dark shimmer of trepidation ran through the Architect, followed by a deliberate, soothing wave of calm. “I understand,” they told her. “Please do not be ashamed of the fact that I can hear you thinking this matter through.
“For you, it may be unusual to share a conclusion before it is fully formed in your mind, but for me, it was once the most normal part of my life. If anything, it is reassuring to know the status of your evaluation. Far more so than being forced to guess.”
“That makes sense. It just takes some getting used to. ‘The mortifying ordeal of being known’ and all that.”
“Being known is mortifying for humans? …Ah, it is a quote from another… still, you seem to at least partly mean it.”
They began to gently stroke her back, just as she had done for them. “Your thoughts are nothing to be ashamed of," Al-An assured her, "just like your body. Even if they are imperfect, they are part of what make you you. Perhaps, with time, you will learn to take as much pride in them as you do in your body.”
“Thanks.” Her hand brushed the headgear. “You know… it’ll probably be uncomfortable at times, but I’m starting to see how being networked will make me grow as a person. I still don’t know if I’ll stick with it, but… I’m glad I at least tried it.”
“As am I. Thank you.”
She’ll never be an Architect, their words whispered through her mind, not clearly directed toward her, but audible all the same. And I’ll never be human. But at least we can understand each other better now, and I no longer feel alone.
She smiled, tucking her cheek against their chest, and silently whispered, “I’m glad I could do that for you.”
“I hope we can do it for each other.”
“We can. But I still think it would be better if you didn’t completely rely on me to avoid being alone. What do you think – should we try to round up some of my old coworkers?”
“Perhaps… in a little while. For now, I am still feeling… raw. If you are willing, I would like to stay here a bit longer.”
“Of course.” Her thumb traced a soothing rhythm on their back, and she melted into their embrace as the comfort she gave them echoed through the network. “We can stay as long as you want.”
The two friends’ arms moved as one, drawing them tighter against each other, and a slow, contented smile curled across Robin’s lips as Al-An savored the warmth of her head on their chest.
Whatever she ultimately decided, she was glad she’d at least chosen to try. Who knew… maybe being known wouldn’t be such an ordeal after all. And perhaps, if they shared their burden of grief in such a deep and intimate way, it would grow lighter for both of them.
She lifted it with both hands, noting its lightness and the small cushions that lined its inner curve. It had clearly been made with her comfort in mind, which was reassuring.
The idea of sharing all of her feelings and thoughts with another person still felt incredibly vulnerable, unnerving and exposed, but her sense of curiosity was nagging at her, and Al-An was staring at her the same way Potato had that time he got stuck behind the couch and needed her help.
She wasn’t sure how an alien twice her height managed to give her puppy eyes when they didn’t even have eyes, but darned if they weren’t doing it.
With a jolt, it occurred to her that she’d never looked at them the same way. She’d never needed something from them and doubted they would provide it. Not that that meant she owed it to them to let them into her head – her mind was NOT currency – but it did mean… well…
It meant she trusted them.
She lowered the ring onto her head, slowly exhaling as it settled into place. It was a bit cold, but her head would probably warm it up soon enough.
Her eyes fell closed, and she listened, quieting her own mind’s song as she listened for another’s. Her inner world was silent.
“Direct your thoughts to the device, and mentally instruct it to activate,” Al-An’s gentle voice encouraged, “and the link will be formed.”
Her chin dipped in a nod, and her eyes flickered briefly open to look up at her friend. Then they fell closed again, and she sent the silent command.
Her inner world came alive.
Bright and warm, a beam of hope, shining like sunlight on the skin of her mind. Worry, like an anxious wind among her thoughts, wondering if this first and final chance for true connection would disappear, leaving every thought to fall unheard into the mental void.
Silent thanks for the fact that she was willing to try, even if it didn’t last.
The pain of a mind long condemned to speak to no one, hear from no one, longing for the feeling of another’s consciousness entwining with her – with their own… damn, they’d been connected for all of ten seconds, and she’d already almost ascribed one of their feelings to herself.
Al-An’s psyche was swirling around hers like a dozen types of weather, clearly coming from outside of her, yet felt more deeply than she’d ever felt anyone before. She wondered how long the boundary between her mind and theirs would stay clearly defined.
“It will not fade,” her friend’s voice reassured her, silent to her ears, but clear as a bell in her head. “You will always know which thoughts are yours, and which ones come from me. Your personality and sense of self are not in danger, though our thoughts and emotions may influence each other’s, as those who live in proximity often do.”
“That’s-” No, I’m gonna practice talking with my mind. “That’s good to know.”
She half expected them to ask how she felt, then she remembered that they could probably sense her feelings as clearly as she sensed theirs.
“That is correct. It is reassuring to not have to wonder how you are responding to this experience. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It is… quite an experience. I’ve never felt this many emotions at once before.”
“It is overwhelming at first,” the Architect acknowledged. “It was for me as well, when I was first networked. But with time, young Architects learn to let others’ thoughts and feelings fade into the background, to be one with the network while still focusing and acting upon their own thoughts.”
“A continuous thrum in the background of existence,” she echoed their past words, and she felt them lean into the hum of her mind, like a once-cold cat nestling into a warm, deep pillow.
They’re so happy about this. And they’ve been without it for so long, alone in their head with their fear and guilt. How much easier would the past few months have been for them, if I’d done this earlier?
No – Robin, you are NOT beating yourself up about that. I have the right to my mind and boundaries, and to wait to try major changes until I’m ready.
“That’s true,” Al-An’s voice slipped gently into her thoughts. “Your mind and body are your own, and I was never under the delusion that I was entitled to either of them. But what you have chosen to share thus far is a great comfort. I hope you will choose to maintain the network connection.”
“I think I will. At least for a while, anyway. There’ll probably be times when I want to turn it off for a bit, but so far, it doesn’t feel like I’ll need to shut it off permanently.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
Through the network, she felt their knees weaken with relief, and her heart rose. I did that for them. Even with everything they’re going through, I can still give them moments of happiness. I may not have been able to help Sam, but… no… no… damn…
Her gaze wrenched itself to her sister’s photo, and the burning, blurring pain returned. No, not now, there are already too many emotions at once, and I don’t want to make Al-An feel thi-
Before she could complete the thought, her friend’s strong arms were around her, and she was once again pressed against their huge, glowing chest, as if they were trying to block the grief with their body before it could strike.
Too late. She was already back in her house, collapsing onto the couch and staring blankly at the cold, digital words proclaiming her beloved sister dead.
She was kneeling on a metal floor, reaching out with her mind to a network, a species that no longer existed. Feeling the weight of billions of deaths piling on top of her like an endless avalanche, and knowing it was her fault, she could have saved them, if only it weren’t for her stupid, reckless arrogance…
She was staring dully at her refrigerator door, wrapped in a half-numb fog of grief, knowing she should eat but too drained and apathetic to open the fridge. Her stomach was tight and queasy, threatening to rebel if she managed to force anything down.
In the end, she went to bed hungry, and cried herself to sleep.
She couldn’t cry. Didn’t have the tear ducts to cry. But the inside of her mind was a constant scream, spilling into a void that threatened to swallow her. A void that should have been filled with voices, feelings, community, support, but had been carved into nothing because of her.
She was reaching out, a tiny ship in a sea of nothing, watching her thoughts go tumbling into emptiness when they should have been captured and kept safe in other people’s minds, feeling her experiences writhing, trapped, inside her, when they should have been building blocks in an ever-growing tower of knowledge shared among billions.
Reaching, no one there, it was empty, so empty, she was so alone…
No. Focus. Her arms tightened on Al-An, and like a tiger lunging from a pit of fire, she flung her focus from the chaotic sea of their mingled minds and back into her body.
She was holding Al-An. She wasn’t alone. They weren’t alone.
“Al-An, focus. Focus on my voice.” She hugged the huge, trembling alien tighter, like she had on the day they found out they were the last of their kind. She’d been able to stabilize them then; she could do it again now.
“I’m here. Focus. Look at me, look at the walls – remember where and when you are.”
She could sense their mind slowing and sharpening, like a wide beam of light that had been flashing all over, now narrowing to a brighter point and aiming in just one direction. “Can you feel my arms, Al-An?”
“Yes.” Their voice was shaky, but she felt like their mind had almost fully returned to the present.
She had to keep them grounded. She suspected the person who was new to being networked shouldn’t normally be the one coaching the other through it, but… she wasn’t the one who had lost her whole species. “Good. Focus on that.”
“I’m sorry.” A shudder ran through their huge body. “I had not intended to subject you to my grief.”
“We both subjected each other. But I will admit, yours was a lot more intense.”
“I am sorry. I had hoped I could keep that part of my mind at bay, or perhaps…”
“Distract yourself from your feelings?” Robin supplied, both proud of and disturbed by how clearly she’d picked up on their unspoken intentions.
“Yes. When you’ve spent so much of your life networked, the silence of its absence becomes… all-encompassing. I’ve wanted to escape it for a long time.”
“I can see why.” She drew and released a slow, deep breath. “I’m not upset with you for what just happened. I’d kind of assumed there would be times when our grief and regrets hit both of us hard.”
Regrets… that was a reminder she hadn’t wanted, but was glad she had gotten all the same. Her eyes fell, then she pressed her head against her friend’s chest. “Hey, Al-An?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember how, back on 4546B, I told you I regretted not saying more often how much I looked up to Sam?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to have that regret with you.”
Their link fell into startled silence, and she gave them a gentle squeeze. “You’re going through the same thing I am, but a billion times more. I lost my sister. You lost everyone, and… you’re basically relearning how to exist.”
As an autonomous being, without your network, the connotation came through, so much clearer than it would have through verbal communication.
“But even though you’re going through so much yourself,” she continued, “you’re always patient, even when I’m not, and you’ve tried so hard to help me heal after Sam’s death. And yeah, sometimes you frustrate me, but even before we were networked, I know you well enough by now to know you never mean to.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re a burden, or like I don’t want you around. And I definitely don’t want you to feel like it isn’t safe to be yourself around me.
“In any relationship where people aren’t networked, it takes time for both people to get to know each other. What they like, what they don’t like, and how to navigate situations where one person wants something and the other doesn’t.”
The ability to voice my feelings and observations freely, as I did with my own people. The desire flashed through Al-An’s mind, not directed at her but still clearly audible, and Robin nodded.
“That… is a tricky one. When you notice something negative about someone, there’s a delicate balance of being honest about it while not making them feel bad about it.”
The way their arms curled around her felt like an apology. “I never meant to make you feel bad. Your forgiveness, encouragement, optimism and determination have made my life bearable for the past few months, and I would never intentionally return that by doing you harm. I am simply… accustomed to viewing bodies as something to be continually improved.
“My people take pride in our bodies because of the improvements we make to them over time. For us, giving feedback on a body’s inefficiencies is simply a way to help the owner of that body to increase their quality of life. To view such feedback as an insult, and to stake one’s emotional well-being on a body being ideal or even adequate in its current state, is foreign to me.”
Robin nodded slowly, processing their words, and feeling the emotions behind them. It was a strange, foreign sensation, to view the body that had always been such an integral part of her as a piece of hardware to be critiqued, upgraded, and eventually replaced.
In the back of her mind, she could sense Al-An listening to her thoughts, and realized they, too, were seeing their body through new eyes: experiencing the feeling of real oneness with their physical form, of seeing it as a cherished and irreplaceable part of them, for the first time in their life.
“I think,” they mused slowly, “I begin to understand why you were so upset when I critiqued your body. We Architects see our bodies as something that is part of us, but separable – important, and influential to the way we experience the world, but still just a vessel that houses our true selves. But to you, it is a permanent part of you, one that influences the way others treat you.”
“Yeah. So when you insulted my body, you insulted me. And you kind of brought up some cultural issues that probably aren’t part of your people’s society – like you alluded to, humans often treat each other worse if they disapprove of their bodies. I’m not saying it’s right, but some people do it anyway.”
“I understand. While I have no intention of mistreating you, regardless of what opinions I have about your body, I will do my best to be more mindful of the way in which your culture has shaped you.”
“Thanks.”
“You are welcome. And… thank you. After so many years spent in isolation, to be connected to another mind again is more of a relief than you can kn… well.” A feeling like warm, sunlit water flowed though the network and their voice. “It seems now you do know.”
“Yeah.” Her hand strayed to the headgear, and she closed her eyes, savoring their contentment and joy. “Now I do.”
It’s better than I thought it would be. At least, it is right now, while I’m focused on it. Will I feel the same way when I’m trying to concentrate on something else, or if my mind wanders to something I don’t want to share?
I’ll probably feel guilty if I decide to turn it off. Will I turn it off? How often will I want to have it on? Will I get used to it and be fine with having it on all the time, or will it bother me so much that I need to disappoint them by taking it off?
The questions flickered through her mind unbidden, and it was a bit disturbing to know that the person in front of her could hear them, and to feel her friend’s emotions shifting with her thoughts.
A dark shimmer of trepidation ran through the Architect, followed by a deliberate, soothing wave of calm. “I understand,” they told her. “Please do not be ashamed of the fact that I can hear you thinking this matter through.
“For you, it may be unusual to share a conclusion before it is fully formed in your mind, but for me, it was once the most normal part of my life. If anything, it is reassuring to know the status of your evaluation. Far more so than being forced to guess.”
“That makes sense. It just takes some getting used to. ‘The mortifying ordeal of being known’ and all that.”
“Being known is mortifying for humans? …Ah, it is a quote from another… still, you seem to at least partly mean it.”
They began to gently stroke her back, just as she had done for them. “Your thoughts are nothing to be ashamed of," Al-An assured her, "just like your body. Even if they are imperfect, they are part of what make you you. Perhaps, with time, you will learn to take as much pride in them as you do in your body.”
“Thanks.” Her hand brushed the headgear. “You know… it’ll probably be uncomfortable at times, but I’m starting to see how being networked will make me grow as a person. I still don’t know if I’ll stick with it, but… I’m glad I at least tried it.”
“As am I. Thank you.”
She’ll never be an Architect, their words whispered through her mind, not clearly directed toward her, but audible all the same. And I’ll never be human. But at least we can understand each other better now, and I no longer feel alone.
She smiled, tucking her cheek against their chest, and silently whispered, “I’m glad I could do that for you.”
“I hope we can do it for each other.”
“We can. But I still think it would be better if you didn’t completely rely on me to avoid being alone. What do you think – should we try to round up some of my old coworkers?”
“Perhaps… in a little while. For now, I am still feeling… raw. If you are willing, I would like to stay here a bit longer.”
“Of course.” Her thumb traced a soothing rhythm on their back, and she melted into their embrace as the comfort she gave them echoed through the network. “We can stay as long as you want.”
The two friends’ arms moved as one, drawing them tighter against each other, and a slow, contented smile curled across Robin’s lips as Al-An savored the warmth of her head on their chest.
Whatever she ultimately decided, she was glad she’d at least chosen to try. Who knew… maybe being known wouldn’t be such an ordeal after all. And perhaps, if they shared their burden of grief in such a deep and intimate way, it would grow lighter for both of them.
Author's note:
If you want to read my original stories, you can find them here.
And if you'd like to help me publish new stories faster, please consider supporting me on Patreon, so I can spend more time writing and less time doing other things to make money.
If you want to read my original stories, you can find them here.
And if you'd like to help me publish new stories faster, please consider supporting me on Patreon, so I can spend more time writing and less time doing other things to make money.