Story 215: Cultural Exchange

The human steps onto the station from her shuttle, and walks into the scanner.  It flashes - no weapons.  I pity her, though there's nothing I can do for her.  By tomorrow she will be a slave the same as me; the Gaunvans collect ambassadors like trophies.
"Hello there!  Amanda Thorn, ambassador for the Empire of Humanity.  You're a Ixian, correct?"
Mimicking human body language, I nod my head.  "That's correct.  Ix Malasan.  It is an honor to meet you."
She smiles, reminding me again that she has somehow modified herself to breathe atmosphere suited to the Gaunvans rather than wear a respirator like myself.  Other than that she appears to be a standard human, something I am led to believe is less and less common as they pursue the bizarre compulsion humans have to alter their bodies.  Changing hair color, adding pigments to their skins in patterns and pictures, growing long tails or ears that mimic other species from their planet.  No other known species tampers with their bodies like this.
"Not to be undiplomatic, she says, "but the Gaunvans enslaved your people.  Why are you here?"
"We... reached a mutually beneficial agreement.  We would have lost in combat and been eliminated, so we chose to preserve what we could of our culture.  The Gaunvans are not naturally skilled at diplomacy, so they bring me along to assist and to show that peace can be made."
She nods.  "Understood.  I can respect that choice.  How much freedom do you have, personally?"
Smart of her, to start planning for her future. "A fair amount.  I have free reign on the ship when we are in transit.  At the homeworld I have reasonably comfortable quarters."
"Have you ever met the Empress, or...?"
"Oh, no.  No, while on the homeworld I am confined to my chambers - but they're quite spacious."
"Shame.  Okay, plan 'A' then.  Let's get this over with."

Despite my attempt at encouraging diplomacy, the Gaunvan commander starts with threats.  I don't know why I bother.  He looms over the human, chitinous plates almost black in the dim light.  His pod of six is posted around the room, for show more than for actual security since she followed orders and came alone and unarmed.  "Failure to surrender will bring the full wrath of our army upon you.  Humanity will be crushed, and wiped from the universe."
To her credit, she looks very calm.  "We live in a post-scarcity society.  Bloody conquest just seems silly, doesn't it?"
"It is for the glory of Gaun!"
"Well, I'm not prepared to get into a religious debate with you," she says, "since I doubt there's anything I can do to change your mind.  Since you're committed to this course of action, what are you willing to offer if we surrender?"
Now he goes back on script.  Maybe I am getting through to him a little?  He talks about the benefits of being enslaved, mainly the protections for up to twelve designated culturally historical sites.  They've been mostly good on their word on my homeworld, though they did use the area just outside of the Hahhn Memorial as a waste dump.

She nods as she listens.  There was a part of me that was worried she would argue, because the humans are somewhat childlike.  They don't understand the horrors of war.  Certainly they fought in the past, but the last time they had to battle was more than two of their generations ago, so these ones have all grown up coddled and soft.  They play games with each other instead, silly competitions.  They make art, and play pretend, and alter their bodies for fun.  They don't have weapons anymore, and wouldn't know how to use them if they did.
"Well then," ambassador Thorn says, "this is about what I expected.  On behalf of humanity, I would like to formally reject this offer."
Oh no.  Foolish humans.  The galaxy will miss your innocence.  The commander makes an excited clicking noise, looking forward to combat.  He reaches a blade-tipped hand towards ambassador Thorn, but hesitates as every device in the room bleats out an alert - we've all lost communications with the outside.

Like one of the dances humans do, she gracefully pivots around while taking his hand.  She ends up close to him and places her other arm against his thorax, then... oh gods. Gods, what... she's ripped his arm off.  It's not possible.  The commander is clearly thinking the same thing, staring in mute shock at his dripping limb.
"I'd like to extend a counter-offer," she says, and flips the arm around before jamming the bladed end into his neck.  The warriors around the room are fidgeting, uncertain.  They haven't been told to attack, and don't want to dishonor their commander by intervening in a fight with such a small creature.  She's still holding the commander's severed arm in his neck, but she rotates and heaves, lifting him off the ground with it for a moment... and then his head pops off, landing squarely on the conference table.  She allows the corpse to slide to the ground, and straightens her clothes as if they aren't covered in ichor.

I don't understand.

The warriors, now with no orders at all, finally act.  She smiles as they come for her, I suppose because she has done her duty to send this powerful message of resistance.  She can die in peace.  Or... no... She's killing them.  She's smiling because this is fun for her.  Though they're partly killing themselves; if there had been two of them, prepared, strategic, they might have prevailed.  Watching six panicked fighters get in each other's way while trying to stop a smaller, faster, and somehow impossibly stronger foe is almost hypnotic.  At least one is killed by the stab of a friendly lance due to pure confusion.  It's over faster than I would have thought possible, severed limbs strewn across the room.  I've got some fluids splashed across my clothing.  Only one yet lives, and he is retreating.  She seems to be allowing it.

She follows behind, holding a lance.  The wounded and scared warrior scurries down the hallway towards his ship, looking back behind him as he goes.  She's just... walking.  Calm.  And for some reason I'm following.  The last Gaunvan reaches the airlock and the second he enters his code she throws the lance - throws it! - and spears him.
"Come on, we're stealing their ship."  She says it like this is the most normal thing in the world.
"There are thousands more on board!  Thousands!  Almost all warrior caste!"
She smiles again, and keeps walking.  I see errors on the screens that we pass, messages indicating communications have been lost.  They can't tell anyone what is happening here.  Even the communicators within the ship are on nodes rather than being wired, so the warriors at one end of the vessel won't be able to coordinate with the other end.  Do they even know they've been boarded?
"How?"

We enter the bridge after she kills a handful of other guards with ease.  They're too shocked by her presence to act in time.  Once the door are sealed and she is working on the control systems she starts talking to me again.
"Well, you know, we do like to be prepared."
"But you... you ripped his arm off."
"Yeah, that was super satisfying."  She looks at me appraisingly.  "Oh, come on.  Is it really that surprising?  You knew we were into changing ourselves, right?  Being strong enough to pop an overgrown bug's forelimb off isn't rocket science."
"Your people are so peaceful..."
"Oh, sure, most of them.  But we did that, too.  Tweaked ourselves over the years to decrease aggression and some of our tribalistic tendencies, increase empathy... all stuff that can be undone if needed.  Though for a good cause even the nicest of us can squish a bug or two."
"You bond with Ry'ling devourers!"
"Those are the big fuzzy guys that look like cats, yeah?  Those guys are adorable!  But... look, liking some things that could kill us doesn't mean we'll sit back and get enslaved.  We didn't put up with it well when we enslaved each other, and we certainly aren't going to go for it now that we're... finally... on the same page about slavery being unacceptable.  It was, uh, a longer time than we like to admit before the last hold-outs were convinced of that one."

I can feel the ship un-dock.  We're moving.  "What about all the warriors on board?  They'll break through the doors eventually!"
"Not according to this control panel here.  Take a look."
It says there's no atmosphere in the rest of the ship.  Life signs are negative on all but two of the warriors, presumably the only ones that got to their suits in time.  She disabled all the safety measures, somehow.  She just killed... I check the life signs readout again to confirm the number... three thousand, six hundred, and fourteen soldiers.  Wait, how is it tracking that unless... "Are communications back up?"
"Yeah, I'm calling some friends.  The military is right around the corner, so to speak."
"But Earth doesn't have a standing military."
She laughs.  Not just a little bit.  She's actually doubled over for a moment, unable to catch her breath.  "Sweet Jeebus, you guys actually fell for that?  No standing military.  Have you read about us at all?"

Three ships appear seemingly out of nowhere, and one docks with the Gaunvan vessel.  Once the atmosphere is restored we head to the airlock to meet them, and I'm surprised by an entire platoon of Gaunvan warriors.  Speaking English.
"Okay boys, send your last goodbyes!  This is in all likelihood a one way mission.  Commander Thorn!  It is an honor to see you again, and might I say you look exquisite drenched in the blood of your enemies!"
She bows to him, blushing, and then salutes the Gaunvans.  Or... humans?  Can they change themselves this drastically?
"You've got two holed up in here somewhere.  Bridge is clear, have the techs bring the new brain on board."
"New brain?"
She looks at me like she's forgotten that I'm here, and then turns back to the others.  "Men, this is our new friend Ix Malasan who has just been liberated from his captivity.  He's going to be helping with our intel.  Malasan, yeah, a new brain for the ship.  Once this vessel is cleaned up and back in service with a new crew we'll be able to take it over whenever we want even if all of our boys get killed.  We cooked up a really sadistic AI for it."
"But how do you know the protocols?  This was your first contact with the Gaunvans, they've never lost a ship anywhere near here!"
"No?  There wasn't a mining colony disaster two years ago?"
"But that was just an accident... and you weren't even involved in the war yet... and..."

The faux-Gaunvans have finished boarding.  The one that was talking to them before puts a bladed claw on ambassador - commander - Thorn's shoulder.  "You coming with?"
"Naw.  Orders said I could only come if they allow ambassadors near extremely high value targets.  Malasan here says they don't, so I need to wait for my next mission back on Earth."
"It would have been nice having you with us, Thorn.  Well, maybe we'll see each other again.  Suicide mission or not, I think I've decided to live through it."
"Bold choice," she says, and kisses him next to his lower mandibles.
He nods at me, then turns back to his men. "Okay everyone, we are now officially on the job.  And what is that job?"
In unison, they start chanting.

"FUCK! SHIT! UP!  FUCK! SHIT! UP!  FUCK! SHIT! UP!"

For a moment I nearly feel pity for the Gaunvans.  Nearly.  Commander Thorn leads me off of the ship, and I start thinking about what useful information I can provide the 'harmless' humans.  Fuck shit up, indeed.

Daily Story 142: Legal Recourse

"It's about theft, mister Morris." The man smiled, a warm and friendly look that lit up his whole face. He crossed his legs and leaned back in the faded recliner, sighing with contentment. "You see, we have proven without a doubt that you are guilty of stealing from the Queeny Corporation. They don't take kindly to that sort of thing."
Gilbert Morris mopped the sweat off of his forehead with a handkerchief and lowered himself carefully into an old rocking chair. "I don't know what you think I stole, but I can assure you I've stayed off of their property. All my farm equipment and supplies are bought and paid for legally."
The man sat forward, still grinning. "Mister Morris, I'm referring to your crops. A genetic test shows that they contain patented genes developed by the Queeny Corporation and therefore prove that you are infringing on their legal rights."

"You're joking. This is a joke, right? I don't even use the special pesticides and herbicides you people do, there would be no point in stealing your seeds. It's not like I don't have seeds of my own."
The man just shrugged, and leaned back again. "It's not really my job to worry about motivations, particularly when none are needed. We have the genetic tests, right there in black and white. I'm just here to advise you that we will be taking legal action."
Gilbert stared out at the waving fields of corn. With Queeny land backing right up to his it was hard to tell from some angles where one property stopped and another started.
"Listen, are you sure this isn't just from cross-pollination?"
"Mister Morris, I thought I made it clear that I don't really care? But yes, it's certainly possible that the stolen genes arrived on your property through cross-pollination. That doesn't change anything. Even if you wanted to argue that the pollen arrived without your knowledge it's still illegal to make use of our patented products without permission and you did exactly that when you planted the seeds from that pollination. There's already legal precedent for this, mister Morris."

Gilbert shuddered. There probably was legal precedent, he thought. This kind of thing happened more and more with big corporations. They were the ones to stomp around on his rights, to spread their modified genes everywhere... "Wait a second. Wait just one second. I... I'll sue you right back. I'll sue for contamination of my crops. I never asked for those genes, and I don't want them. I'll sue you to hell and back for contaminating my farm."
The man smiled and stood. "That's your right, mister Morris, but you wouldn't be suing us. You would be suing the neighboring farm."
Gilbert was confused. "The one with your name all over it?"
The man laughed, and Gilbert had to restrain himself to keep from punching him. "No, those are just advertisements. We require farms that use our products to advertise for us. It's independently owned, however, so they would be the people to sue. I'll warn you, though: they won't have a lot left when I'm done with them. We're suing them as well, for their part in the theft."

The man walked out onto the porch before turning back and holding out a piece of paper. "This is our offer," he said, "a goodwill gesture to give you the opportunity to put all this behind you without those pesky legal fees. I hear it can be awful hard to afford a legal team when there's an injunction against selling any of your corn."
Gilbert stepped out and took the paper. It was mostly legalese, but he understood enough to get the main goal. "You want my land?"
"Look at it this way, mister Morris; farming isn't really viable for individuals these days anyway. We're just making it official."
The man turned and walked to his shiny car. Gilbert wished he had chased the man off with his rifle, or spit on him, or torn the contract up. Instead he just asked a question. "Hey! How much land are you folks snatching up?"

There was a pause, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to answer at all. Finally, with the smile for once not plastered across his face, the man replied. "We're thinking of re-naming Kansas." With that, he started the car and drove away.

Daily Story 92: Known Issues

The behemoth lurks in the corner of his cell, dull scales blending into the shadows. Enormous red eyes are focused on me, pupils narrowed down to slits, and I can't help but be impressed. Scrolling through my notes on my datapad, I pull up the appropriate trigger - an image of red and green spirals. I hold up the datapad so the behemoth can see it, and in an instant its claws are unsheathed and tearing the ground apart as the distance between us closes. At the last second I hold up the stuffed animal - a floppy-eared white bunny my daughter had left in my office - and the behemoth skids to a halt. A strange creaking noise comes from it, and I realize it's actually whimpering with fear. The beast scrambles backwards, leaving a trail of urine. Damn.

I turn to look at the handler. "And Jessie from Psychology says there was no trauma?"
The handler, a surprisingly scrawny man named Julian, shakes his head. "None. Everything has been going fine, and there's been no abuse or other mental strain. A rabbit just happened to hop past when we had him in the east field, and he totally lost it."
"Okay," I say, "I'll check the tissue sample to see if it was a problem in Production, but it sounds like it's from my department. I'm sorry, Julian, the programmers must have screwed up somewhere."

Julian shrugs, unconcerned - after all, none of this really changes his job. I ask him to test each variable separately - different colors of rabbits, different sizes, see if it's afraid of women in fur coats or gophers or hairless cats or whatever - but it's not likely to make a difference. Either we'll find it or we're screwed, whatever the details. On a general-consumption engineered creature like the Snuggle Angels - winged cats marketed to little girls - we could maybe get away with it… but the behemoth is for military applications.

This shouldn't be happening. The Instincts department has been doing so well. We have some issues with complex behaviors, sure, but a massive fear reaction to rabbits? There's no way that should have slipped past us. I've still got a tiny shred of hope as I reach my office, and my fingers are crossed as I run the tissue sample. The reader compares it to the 'blueprint' file for the Behemoth's DNA and gives the result almost instantly: One hundred percent match. Hope destroyed, I send an email that just says "BEHEMOTH is deathly afraid of cute fluffy bunnies. Not a joke. Nobody goes home until this is fixed."

I want to plunge in, help out, but being management level has taken its toll and I'm too rusty to be much help. I'm stuck staring at the ceiling, tossing the stuffed bunny from one hand to the other. The phone rings but I ignore it, I know it's my boss and there's no point even talking to him until I have some news. I make a paperclip chain, throw the bunny across the room into an open filing cabinet drawer. My brain is spinning its wheels, going nowhere. Idly, I press my finger against the DNA reader, figuring I'll design some improved versions of myself. Illegal to make, of course, but just doing the blueprint helps to get my mind working.

Before I have a chance to pull it into the editor, a window pops up. It looks like I forgot to close the Behemoth blueprint, and the reader has compared my DNA to it: One hundred percent match. Either I'm a massively armored military killing machine, or something is very wrong. I dial Mike's extension and I see him stand and head for my office rather than answering - that's fine, this conversation would have needed to be in person anyway. He comes in and closes the door behind him.
"What's up, chief?"
"Mike... I need your help looking for errors without alerting anyone. I think we're dealing with a case of sabotage." He just raises an eyebrow, so I continue. "Someone rigged it so the reader would always say a sample matches, and the only reason I can think of for that is so they can sneak bad code past us."

Mike nods, lost in thought. "Is there any way to tell who did it?"
"Yeah, there are only a handful of us that would have had access and they would have had to do it directly, so they'll be caught on security camera." I point at the corner of my office where the camera is hidden, just a tiny pinhole in the wall. Mike looks too, squints for a second, and then sighs.
"Shit, I didn't see that there. Well... win some lose some, huh?"
I'm just staring at him, stunned. I guess it's not a total shock, it had to be someone in the department. He looks so calm - he must know I can call security and have the whole property locked down before he could get ten feet. Mike leans forward, smiling, and whispers to me.
"You're going to just love what the Snuggle Angels do!"

The bunny is staring at me from the filing cabinet drawer as if to ask me what my daughter is playing with right now.

Daily Story 65: Carrying Blame

The creatures in the tank in front of me are equally guilty of mass-murder as myself, I'm told. The tornado, the smuggler, the revolution, our intelligence - none have been found to be at fault enough to lay blame. It's nobody's fault that the entire colony world is dead.

I understand the creatures are called Johnson's Bluetail Criers. They look to me like a cross between some sort of bat and a macaw - like a colorful feathered rodent. They reproduce only in the spring and have a low survival rate, but on Tunsin-4 they have no predators and it's always spring - which made the tornado a surprise.

Tunsin-4 has a circular orbit, no tilt, and no moon - giving it reliable and calm weather. The tornado was caused by some geothermal activity in the ocean or something, it's not my field - but at any rate it was not anticipated and destroyed the capital city entirely. The colonists had thought all the hardship was behind them, thought that with established cities and trade routes they could stop being settlers and just be citizens.

From what I can tell they had some legitimate complaints about the disaster relief - or lack thereof. That they allowed Martin Culvert to stir it up into a full-on revolution was unacceptable, however, and it needed to be stopped. Diplomacy went nowhere because Culvert wanted power more than he wanted to get the people what they were asking, and so someone decided he needed to die.

The guidelines they gave me were familiar - eliminate everyone in the building, keep the innocent bystanders outside from being affected, don't destroy any valuable equipment or papers. I engineered a varient on Zebra Pox that killed with incredible speed, but was terrible at surviving outside of a human host. Some agents delivered it into the air supply of the building during a meeting of all the top advisors and Martin Culvert himself, and within ten minutes they had dropped to the ground.

The agents died as well, even though they had done everything right. They had delivered the virus without being exposed. They had reported everything relevant, including the ongoing battle against the Bluetail Criers that were everywhere like pests. Someone read that report, deemed it irrelevant to the situation and moved on because there was no internal protocol for reporting unapproved species that had been smuggled on to a colony world. That was some other department.

They had been smuggled in and had been released into the wild when the tornado destroyed the capitol – so when I did my due diligence, pulled up the list of all flora and fauna on the planet to ensure that the virus would target humans and humans only, the Bluetail Criers weren’t checked. Had they been on that list I would have changed the virus, would have seen the problem. They wouldn't have been carriers, keeping the virus alive and delivering it to every city. Killing everyone.

They're innocent like everyone else, but we all pay a price. I have my nightmares, and soon the Bluetail Criers will have a new virus just for them so the old one can die out. The test subjects are looking at me through the glass of the tank, so intelligent. Sorry guys, it's nobody's fault.

Daily Story 50: Subversive Submission

"I presume you've come to assassinate me?" Dran (aka Doctor Dran Millnus, aka The Overlord, aka The Enlightened One) smiled as he asked, offering me a flute of wine that would certainly be swimming with the virus. I took it and placed it on the table next to me.
"Yes. Though that's not how my superiors would word it."
He laughed, sitting down on an overstuffed chair and sighing.
"No, of course not. You're the savior of mankind, here to preserve free will and prevent the enslavement of humanity."
I nodded. That was about right. Dran took a long sip from his wine, his smile fading somewhat.
"There's nothing I can say to talk you out of it, is there? I'm not a monster, you know."

I didn't answer, instead walking over to the balcony and looking at the countryside below. It was quiet, beautiful. In the distance I could see villagers raising a barn up together.
"I have concerns about the arts and sciences."
Dran stood and looked out at the town alongside me, now serious and businesslike.
"It's not a result of my virus, not directly. Everyone is as creative as they were before. With so much less conflict, though... well, war was always a driving force for technology and depression was a driving force for art."
I believed him. He was careful, thorough, and while my superiors had told me it was all lies I knew he didn't want mindless drones.

"I've been monitoring things very closely," he continued. "The virus is already dying out everywhere, with no signs of mutation. The only holdouts are the two of us and your masters. My commandos are all dead or infected, and they breached all of the other vaults beside the Americans. I came so close to my perfect world, until you found me."
He clutched the locket around his neck. My training causes me to tense, worried that it’s some sort of compact weapon or trigger for a bomb - but from my research I think it's more likely that it just contains pictures of his late wife.

"You're wrong, on a few counts. Your men failed to compromise Great Britton or China - that was my team, under orders from the President."
His face fell. "So they look to do what they accuse me of. I suppose that means you aren't here looking for an antidote."
"Not even if you had made one - and we both know you didn't."
He nodded, and sat back down. His eyes were rimmed with red. "So close, and yet so far. Now your masters will rule over the people with fear and hate... the people that I made submissive and kind. They'll be bullies, taking what they want."

"No, they won't. The other way you were wrong is to think my superiors are uninfected. I contaminated the water myself, and made sure it went undetected long enough to reach every leader and soldier. I believe you, Dran. I believe you have good intentions."
His eyes went wide as he felt the bullet tear through him. Poor bastard.
"I believe you, but I don't trust you. I have to be sure. Before you die, let me show you one last thing, my friend."
Pulling off my helmet, I take the wine glass from the table.
"Cheers."

Daily Story 42: The Invasion

Special Ambassador Harrington stepped onto the alien spacecraft for the first time since its arrival in the solar system, his suit telemetry telling the Secret Service agents about the nervousness that his face denied. They had stationed themselves in the hall ahead of him, angular black metal walls towering above the enormous men.

After consulting on an encrypted channel, the Secret Service agents reported that the atmosphere on the ship had been adjusted to match that of Earth - both in pressure and composition. The President's own advisors had suggested that Harrington remove his helmet in this situation as a sign of trust, but when it came right down to it he didn't trust them, not at all. Still, he knew the importance of diplomacy... sighing, he released the helmet and pulled it off. The air smelled somehow metallic, but not bad. Nodding to the Secret Service agents, Special Ambassador Harrington walked into the "conference room" to face the nightmare beings.

The creatures would have been right at home as horror movie special effects, all tentacles and eyes. They had a layer of mucus over them, and barbed spines along some parts. They were green. The anthropologists had assured the President that they were emotionally and morally similar to humans, although that seemed little comfort without knowing which humans - Mother Theresa, or Hitler? Harrington noticed that they didn't seem to be wearing any kind of space suit - his advisors had said they were incompatible with Earth's atmosphere.

"They can... breathe... in this air?" Harrington was asking one of the agents, but a device in front of the aliens replied in a monotone.
"We change ourselves. We adapt ourselves."
Recovering like a true professional, the Special Ambassador smiled.
"So good to talk to you! On behalf of the United Americas, I want to say it is an honor to meet you."
"We are pleased to meet you. Our home was destroyed long ago. We have traveled far hoping to find a new world. We are tired. Earth would be ideal."
Harrington shivered involuntarily. They wanted the Earth.
"You said you can adapt yourself, can't you live on any planet?"
"Some. It is very difficult. Some are easy. Earth is ideal."
Cold sweat was running down his spine. These things, on Earth. Where would they live? Would they be taking over? Kicking humans out, maybe even killing them?
"Where... would your people expect to stay on Earth?"
"We are tired. We have lived too long. We have traveled long. We have not found other ideal planets. Our people will stay here. Orbit Earth. We are tired. Earth is ideal for repopulation. Continuing the species. Our children would stay on Earth. In homes. In schools."
Harrington was at a loss. He smiled weakly, flipping through mental cue cards in a desperate search for the appropriate response. What do you say when hideous tentacled monsters from a distant planet announce they want to send their... spawn... to reproduce on your planet?

"We can provide technology. We can provide for our people. Your people. Our children. Food and power are easy to provide."
With the odd syntax and emotionless translator it was hard to tell, but Harrington suddenly felt like this was less of an invasion, and more of a plea for sanctuary. They almost seemed to be begging. He looked at them again, trying to find some basis to gauge their motives off of and failing. If nothing else, they at least didn't seem to be hostile. Harrington relaxed somewhat, but still found himself at a loss for words.
"We are tired. Soon we will be too tired. Our home was destroyed. If Earth is not home for our children destruction will be finished. We have traveled too far. We have lived too long. We will not find more ideal planets."

He wanted to say something. Could he do this, invite an alien species onto Earth? He subvocalized a message to the President, to be transmitted along with the live feed. Two simple words, PLEASE ADVISE, that carried a slightly different meaning: I'm in way over my head here.
"Look. Our first child. We change ourselves. We adapt ourselves. We adapt our children for you." Tentacles extended, holding a tiny infant. The child could have almost passed for human - fingers a bit too long, green skin, but still close enough to trigger the biological empathy inside Special Ambassador Harrington... he had always loved kids. Before he even knew what he was doing, without having received a reply from the President, Harrington lifted the child into his arms.

The sneaky bastards have a secret weapon, he thought as the infant burbled and clumsily grabbed at his nose. We've already lost this battle. Harrington smiled at the alien invaders. "She's beautiful."

Daily Story 24: The Materials At Hand

Janet and Larry appeared outwardly calm, but Janet's heart was racing and Larry was sweating right down to his shoes. Would they have the genes to make a musician? An athlete? The genetic counselor flipped through the report, nodding silently, and finally looked up at the eager couple with a smile.
"So! Have you two considered adoption?"

Daily Story 19: Nathan Hale Has No Regrets

That first quiet moment of life before my heart and lungs kick on doesn't carry the same excitement and fear that it used to. I just count to myself silently, one... two... three...

And then I'm alive, gasping and twitching as oxygen floods into my cells. That part never gets better but it's a purely physical reaction rather than an emotional one. In my mind I'm still calm and composed waiting for the shakes to stop, for my breathing and heart rate to slow down.

I spend the next few minutes listening to the sounds of my womb, the pumps and machines whirring around me. I wiggle toes and fingers, remembering that every time I tried to stand right after my birth I only ended up kissing the tile.

Eventually I remove the tubes, gagging a little as the one in my throat pulls free. I carefully sit up and toss them aside, getting my first look of something other than the ceiling with my new eyes. I look closely, because the view changes a little each time. There's a little more dirt built up in the corner, a few more spider webs, another patch of peeling paint. The floor is always mopped but the grout gets darker. It's nearly black now.

I sit up, run my hands over the smooth skin on my head. I measure time by my hair, and I remember that when I died it had made it all the way down past my shoulders. It had only been that long once before. Everything is wiped clean now, back to square one. No hair, no scars. I had a tattoo once, in another life, but that's been gone for ages.

I stand, and walk over to the shower. The water comes out brown at first, which hasn't happened before. Everything is falling apart. Where my uniform and weapons should be is an empty closet but there are some old clothes in the hamper, doctor's scrubs with dried blood on them. Better than nothing.

As usual, I don't see anyone on my way to the exit. There are cameras, and I suspect that I'm being watched. The others, whoever is left, must deliberately wait for me to leave before coming out. That's fine. They've watched me leave... what, thirty times now? Always walking out that door, never coming back.

One day it will be different. One day our enemies will have finally fallen or surrendered and I will return, victorious, hair down to my feet.