Children of Ruin (Children of Time #2)
Children of Ruin: Present 4 – Chapter 4

Helena and Portia have been returned to their cell, but without any sense of a decision being arrived at amongst their captors. More anthropomorphism. She had looked for a comprehensible narrative in the patterns of their skins and motions; a sense that their parliament was moving, through that visible debate, to some manner of rational conclusion. But then she realized that even Humans, even Portiids, might not present such an ordered picture in their decision-making. Even a single individual might not. What is a decision, after all? Helena knows the research better than most: there are Portiid scientists who say that the mind is like an ant’s nest, individual neurons, like ant workers, weighing in on either side of any given issue until a tipping point is reached and the brain, or the colony, thinks, I have made a decision and here (post facto) are my rational reasons. Looked at in such a light, this civilization of the octopus is perhaps not so different to her own, save that instead of the self-deceit of Human/Portiid determinism, they are comfortable with their own malleability.

Too neat, too pithy, for physically malleable beings? And again the anthropomorphism; in the end she cannot escape it, part of what makes her Human. She wonders if their hosts view their angular prisoners with, what, cephalopodomorphism? And pity them their lack of expression, maybe? And now Helena is honest enough to know that her mind is just spinning wheels to nowhere.

The octopus prisoner apparently fared better than they, or worse, for its adjoining chamber is vacant. Or is it just hiding there, camouflaged beyond my ability to see?

Almost comically soon, before either of them have done more than start to doff their suits, they are being invited to move again. The same bubble, the same pipes, but now they end up in a far smaller chamber, air-filled and equipped with a recognizable Old Empire terminal, save that it is plainly newly-minted and somewhat cobbled together, as though the octopuses have tried earnestly to replicate a thing known only from old records. There are things like chairs, too, in that they have the right general shape but are impossible to sit on without a constant fight for balance. There is…

There is a picture emblazoned on one wall. It is desperately trying to be an illustration of a human, for a human. Possibly it is intended to be Disra Senkovi, a positive human role model acting as the bridge between two very different species. A long-gone art critic might describe the end result as Cubist, as though the creator was trying to show the man from multiple sides and at multiple times, all in one still image.

There are a dozen octopuses, at least, watching them from a neighbouring chamber, most of them hovering over the rubbery, organic interfaces they use. One is front and centre, its skin paler than the others, red tones flickering about the lower edge of its mantle: unease, fear.

“That is the prisoner one,” comes Portia’s translated speech.

“You’re sure?”

“Mostly sure. Or it is one that has adopted that one’s… mental state, ideas? But I think it is that one. The others are all together in some thought-state or agreement. It is not. And they want it to talk to us.” This does indeed seem to be the case, from the front-and-centre placement of the mournful-looking creature. And why single one out for the honour, unless it has a smidgeon more experience of talking to aliens than the rest as their much-abused ambassador?

It has a few tentacles on one of the consoles now, manipulating it desultorily as colours begin to build sullenly across its skin. The initial impression is of disinterest, but then Helena reinterprets the pose as one that will let the creature jet away in retreat if threatened: mentally reassuring for it, perhaps.

And then the translation comes in, such as it is, and she watches with fascination as the other octopuses prompt and chatter and fight each other, or the ambassador, and then the ambassador’s skin and arms speak to her, with messages that seem entirely different to what it is being “told” to say, save that none of the others raise any apparent objections, seeming satisfied. And she replies.

Her slate links easily enough to the console. She has mastered the two channel comms now, her words translated into colours and data, stripped of half the meanings she tries to put into them but still getting something comprehensible over. Portia watches her carefully and adds physical motion, not trying to mimic the boneless fluidity of their hosts but adopting stylized poses, legs twisted into painful-looking positions as she emphasizes and reinforces Helena’s message.

It would all, she knows, look utterly hilarious to Disra Senkovi, who had been a man fond of his jokes when his mood was on the manic end.

Then the humour is gone because the octopus ambassador is telling her they know about the Voyager. Its visual display is merely one of somewhat arch demonstration—We know things—but the data channel has exacting telemetry on where the ship lurks in the outer solar system, up to and including potential targeting solutions.

“It’s a threat,” Portia says flatly.

But Helena strives to strip all anthropocentric thinking away and decides, “Not yet it’s not. But they want us to know they know. Or perhaps they’d have to make a special effort not to tell us. They seem to communicate so much, all the time. But they know.”

She manages to phrase her reply to the ambassador carefully: she is proud of the Voyager, which was an admirable creation. She wonders what they want. She is calm, so very calm. She is agitated about the fate of her friends. She is curious. She is friendly. All in a sentence, all in a sentiment. She watches the audience—not the fearful ambassador but the rest of them, seeing shades of her words ghost across their skins, passed from one to another; seeing a full half-dozen of them erupt into furious grappling, then break apart and retreat from one another, trying to pretend it never happened, ignoring their fellows for their consoles. Their thoughts flicker about the edge of her notice as the ambassador dances again.

They are speaking about the Lightfoot and its destruction, but she only knows that from the data. The emotional overtones are complex, interweaving. They are sad. They are angry. They are eager. Eager to destroy more alien visitors? No, this is an old eagerness, one they have held for a long time, nurtured with fondness, defended. She feels as though she is being given whole reams of history, the pages loose and shuffled. Suddenly they are all of a mind, colours synced, save for the ambassador whose careful messaging is a step behind and simplified, dumbed down for the stupid aliens. This is their obsession, and it is inextricably linked to the other planet—no, to the station orbiting the other planet, the one where something happened to Meshner. The one that proved fatal for the Lightfoot. Except…

“They have a signal,” Portia confirms, quicker than Helena to decode the data channel. “From the Lightfoot. It is… on the planet. But Kern is signalling. I suspect she’s hoping the Voyager will intercept and mount a rescue mission. She’s trying to keep the Voyager’s location secret, though, and just broadcasting wide. I don’t know if the signal will have enough integrity to be picked up that far out.”

“On the planet,” Helena echoes.

Portia’s palps clench confirmation, a gesture like a pained grimace: It is what it is. And then the ambassador is talking again, and she feels its colours and motions are more deliberate, an active attempt to speak slowly and patiently to the idiot aliens to get over some piece of information, some proposal.

A journey, it telegraphs painstakingly, because the idea of travel is an emotion to them. Weighing of risk, fear (some specific interpretation of “reward” that has no exact Human cognate), the satisfaction of accomplishment, triumph! And the chromatic flourish that the creature gives the sentiment justifies the exclamation mark. Simultaneously Portia has dissected the data.

“They want to go there, to that planet. They want us to go with them there because… they think we can help? Is that it?”

A Human, to go to a human place, where a human-shaped threat is lurking. Bait, distraction, sacrifice, good luck charm? All possibilities.

Or a rescue mission? Perhaps this is the peace faction, momentarily united in their wish to be benevolent to alien invaders from the stars. And how long might that resolution last before some other obsession takes hold over them? Enough to get to the inner planet and back again? Will they keep reinforcing each others’ intentions, or will Helena and Portia wake one morning to find the whole load of them turned into genocidal monsters?

On the other hand, it is the only game in town.

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