To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the Devil his due.
7 yrs ago
And when you said hi, I forgot my dang name.
3
likes
9 yrs ago
Everything beautiful is math! Everything beautiful is a problem.
9 yrs ago
But whatever they offer you, don't feed the plants!
1
like
9 yrs ago
Do you like cyberpunk? Do you like stories? Do you like complicated characters, and conspiracies? Take a look! roleplayerguild.com/topics/1..
Bio
Hi! I'm Naril. I write, build things, and I'm incredibly busy, all the time. I'm probably older than you. I'm not interested in isekai, school settings, sandboxes, excessively grimdark settings, or invitation-only threads; I'm very picky about militaria, I don't care for A Song of Ice and Fire, Nation roleplay bores me to tears, most fandom doesn't really catch my attention, and though I prefer Advanced-level writing, I'm not going to help you write your book (Unless you feel like paying my day rate) - which almost certainly means I'm not here. Some day, maybe. Probably not, though!
I am interested in science fiction, cyberpunk, space operas, and stories of working together, uplift, and progress. You'll catch my attention with fantasy adventures in an interesting world, or with almost any modern fantasy. I have a soft spot for superhero stories, and you might find me in the occasional Star Wars or Star Trek fandom.
My standards are high for myself and mild for everyone else; I love writing dialogue and making you feel like you can taste the place I'm creating. I write in the style I like to read, which is the part I find fun. If you want an example of the authors I enjoy, look at Ann Leckie, Tamsyn Muir, N.K. Jemisin, Martha Wells, Terry Pratchett, and Neil Gaiman.
Different mottos would be a lot of fun! I'm happy to help, too. I've been rediscovering recently that I really like writing about...well, space opera-ey stuff, and for some reason I really like coming up with dedication plaques. It's probably the Star Trek girl still in me. :3
Name: Severin (Rin) Renault (Formerly Severin Tain/ Incept 92A-CRN)
Age: 32 at time of death / 6 at time of incident
Gender: Female / Female appearance and persona
Origin: Athoek Station / Classified
Appearance: Severin is fairly small, somewhat shorter than average for a woman - a benefit at the dense, tightly-packed controls of military equipment. Her frame is slim and strong, taut and feminine. She keeps her hair - wavy, dark, and threaded with silver - in a messy tail to just below her shoudlers, her face framed more by accident than design. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, and slightly mismatched: one a dark, crystal green like a polished gemstone, the other a couple of shades paler and surrounded by tiny surgical scars. Severin's lips are full and expressive, and even now tend to find their way to a gentle smirk that suggests she knows something you don't. Her right hand is marked with scars, many clearly from working with her hands, others following the precisely drawn lines of medical procedures.
At the back of her neck, leading into her hairline, are a large number of variously-precise surgical scars, some extending down beneath her shirt collar toward her left arm. Most visually striking, Severin's entire left arm and parts of her shoulder, chest, and rib cage have been entirely replaced by a neuroprosthetic. The artificial limb follows normal human anatomy, but is obviously artificial, the sculptural lines picked out in the white of advanced ceramic plating and accented with matte-black alloy. She is extensively otherwise reconstructed and augmented, but those machines are less visible.
[File access restricted. Last modified by Tanner, J.]
Prior to the events of [Redacted], Severin Tain served in a non-military capacity aboard several Terran Naval Service stations and vessels, primarily under contract from Raleigh-McDonnell during the deployment and validation of the next-generation strike craft. In virtually every unit she worked with, Ms. Tain was considered exceptionally valuable, though several officers noted a and a near-total lack of deference to the chain of command, exacerbated by a pointed, acerbic wit. Despite several formally-lodged complaints, no commander had Ms. Tain removed from their unit, citing feelings that she was worth more than the trouble she caused, and that pilots and craft she worked with outperformed their peers and even fighters from the same contract batch.
In her personal life, Ms. Tain was ferociously intelligent, with an unexpected playfulness. Though she was friendly, at times gregarious, and often flirtatious, Severin had few close friends; very likely due to her tendency not to stay in one place for long. In general, she had a cool, even temper, save for (perceived or actual) impugning of her work or capabilities. She was not given to excessive drinking, but did occasionally miss appointments by being absorbed in a book. She treasured new books, old music, and good tools, and believed in the fundamental positive value of the Federation.
Severin Tain is deceased.
[Attending physician’s note: Bullshit.]
—-
Incept 92A-CRN, a Kaller-type artificial intelligence, was incepted on [Redacted]. Of nine entanglement attempts, 92A-CRN was the third to attain consciousness, from a total of five successful entanglements. Of those three, two iterated to the point of metastable complexity where they could be commissioned as Navy artificial intelligence constructs. During her service, 92A-CRN was generally well-liked by service members she interacted with, and functioned well when integrating with other AI constructs. Unusual for constructs in general and particularly those of her nousotype, 92A-CRN manifested a playful, surprising wit, and, unexpectedly, developed an extraordinary sense of humor. Based on her serial number, Incept 92A-CRN preferred to be called 'Corona.'
This construct possessed an exceptionally stable personality, not unusual among Kaller-type AI. She demonstrated a fierce interest in human-machine compatibility and interaction, and took a close, personal interest in the case of Severin Tain, one of the most-completely reconstructed individuals in the Federation. General guidance for AI is to remain distant from their crews and human counterparts, but Incept 92-CRN developed a number of close friendships. In at least one case, thise affection appeared to be developing into something more. It is unclear if these feelings were reciprocated.
In her intended capacity for the Federation, Incept 92A-CRN demonstrated remarkable tactical skill. Alone among her incept batch, 92A-CRN's aptitudes fell most in line with the coordination and operation of fast, direct-fire ships. Initially intended for installation aboard the TNS Galatia, she was instead scheduled for installation aboard the destroyer Curie, which would not be completed for some time after the Galatia's launch. `
However, due to [redacted], Incept 92A-CRN no longer exists.
[Attending physician’s note: Also bullshit.]
—-
[Addendum: Added by Tanner, Juliana; Chief Medical Officer, Mercy of Tama]
Since the events of [Redacted], it has been my duty to examine what appears to be a gestalt being; a wholly new intelligence that displays aspects of two individuals, further influenced by emergent behavior. The larger part of the patient’s personality appears to be derived from that of Incept 92A-CRN, though of course an exact quantification is impossible. The patient’s self-identification seems to share commonalities with what we would normally consider human baseline behavior - she retains a sense of sexuality, of personhood, of an expectation for a particular image in a mirror. Other aspects, including an immense ability to process and handle sensory information or parallel consideration of intellectually intensive tasks, closely match those of existing Navy intelligence constructs. The patient possesses and displays metal and physiological responses to memories specific to Severin Tain, including a preferred mode of dress, a dislike of certain foods and sexual preferences. Indeed, the patient arranges her living quarters, in a similar way to Ms. Tain, however she now writes with the opposite dominant hand. The patient’s moods are somewhat more volatile than they have been recorded in the past, and there is a previously-unreported tendency to introspection and self-reflection during quiet moments. However, there are no indications of suppressed emotions or a reduced capacity for social interaction.
It is important to note that the separate personalities of Severin Tain and 92A-CRN appear to no longer exist; the patient does not hear voices from a subsumed consciousness or experience discrete mental states. The patient recalls memories as a single linear narrative, even when those memories are self-contradictory or exist multiply, without any kind of identity dissociation while discussing them.
At present, the patient has passed every psychological evaluation given by Navy staff, and seems to be emotionally stable. Detailed observations, including multiple brain scans appropriate to her current physiology, do not suggest an impending mental breakdown. The patient is intelligent, self-aware, and possesses consciousness to every degree to which we can test. Despite the fascinating implications this presents, it is the opinion of this officer that the conditions resulting in the patient’s current state virtually cannot and certainly should not be repeated.
Military Record:
A bright room, the light even but diffuse enough to cast soft shadows and not hurt the eyes. She looked to her hands, still somehow unfamiliar and intimate all at once, then to the door. They had been subtle about it, but she'd heard the lock's bolt click home the moment the orderlies closed the door. They weren't ready to trust her, not yet. She wondered if they were right to. She wondered if they knew something she didn't. Still, at least they hadn't cuffed her to the chair this time.
The machines in her body fed information into her mind, invisible information crawling across her awareness - wireless signals, communication traffic, the spectral output of the lamps. Eveyrthing managed by a sense she understood and controlled, but that part of her still found somehow alien, something like deja vu or the chaotic moment after waking where you're sure you should remember how to fly. And she didn't feel any guards, the endless chatter from their communication equipment always stood out against the background noise of mobiles and environmental automation. She was certain she would know if they were standing sentinel. Leaning back in her chair, she instead felt the swirl of an approaching mobile comm, one that was more-connected than a standard-issue device. Another specialist, of course. There had, after all, been no end to the interviews, the interrogations, the demands. If she had to guess, this would be another one of the Navy’s military psychiatric personnel.
She straightened when the door opened and leaned forward to lace her hands together on the table, then arched one eyebrow in surprise. Tall, lean, with a mane of greying hair, this new arrival was very much not the tweed-jacketed, bespectacled bureaucrat she had expected. She moved with an easy grace, each footfall lazily confident. Her clothing was dark, and at her throat, a white collar.
“Good morning,” the new arrival said, her voice made crisp by a slight Slavic accent, “My name is Zhana Mashir.” She pulled the other chair away from the table and sat, precise without being prim. She set a thick, well-thumbed folder in front of her, and put on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“I convinced them you were very likely tired of taking cognitive aptitude tests,” Mashir said, a smirk in her voice, “There are only so many times a person can be asked the same questions before going mad, I think.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, “Though I’m not sure I require the services of a chaplain at the moment.”
“Ah,” Mashir said and flipped open the file, “You would be surprised how often I hear that. Well, maybe you wouldn’t. But I don’t expect you have anything to unburden your soul with at the moment, of course. I’m not here to take your confession, or to tell you how all of this is God’s great plan. No, rather, I’ve read quite a lot about you,” and here she tapped her finger on the folder, “And I’ve noticed something I don’t care for.”
“And what would that be?” She said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“You’ve been through four psychological evaluations,” the priest said, “Four batteries of ethical and critical-thinking questions, which is three more than we require for commanding a warship and four more than we require for enlistment. I’ve watched all of the recordings, and do you know what I’ve noticed? They treat you like property. Like a...thing, yes?” Her finger poked down onto the folder, “That worries me.”
She made a sound low in her throat, not exactly a laugh, “Admiral Tanner…explained that to me.”
“Did he?” Mashir said, dubious, “And what was his reasoning?”
“He explained that, legally, at the moment I’m dead - and that means I have no rights in this matter,” she said, affecting a parody of a Southern drawl, “And that the Terran Navy will decide what to do with me. Before then, I’m his problem, and he doesn’t like problems.”
“I see,” Mashir said, “Well. I think I will have a chat with the Admiral when we’re through. But for now, with your permission, of course, I would like to…get to know you a little.”
She raised an eyebrow again, felt the tiny scars around her eye tug at her skin there, “Are you going to buy me dinner?”
“Mm, I would not discount the idea,” Mashir said, with the ghost of a grin, “But, well. I suppose, to begin with, I would like to know who I’m talking to.”
She blew out a small sigh, with the tiniest piece of a lopsided grin, “You have that information in front of you.”
“I have information on two individuals,” Mashir said, “Neither of which, I think, is the person I’m speaking with now.”
“Well,” she said, “That’s the question, isn’t it?” A small grin spread across her face, “I have…memories, and they’re all my memories, but I know they’re from different places. I remember conversations from both sides, do you see? What I felt when I said something, and what I meant when I replied. I remember seeing myself cry and and wanting more than anything else to be able to reach out and hold someone that I know is…was…me.”
She looked over at Mashir, and tapped her own finger on the folder, “You’re right, there are two names there, and I don’t know which one I am. I don’t…I don’t look at myself and say ‘this part was from that person, this part was the other.’ I only see myself.”
“Mm,” Mashir said, “All right, we’ll pass over that for now. Now…you worked closely with the Federation, and the Navy in particular. Can you tell me what you remember about your time with them? What you did?”
She sighed, “I have…had…worked with the Navy for the last eight years or so, directly, anyway. My company designed and built different kinds of military hardware, especially fighters. My usual position was in the field, making sure that new ships and weapons operated correctly when we delivered them. I trained maintenance crews, and I spent a lot of time with pilots - a lot of them hated that. Some civilian telling them what to do? Please.” A smirk, “I also handled demonstrations when we needed to show off new hardware. I was good at it, too.”
“As for what I remember…” Her voice trailed off, “I remember the first implant I ever had, the company paid for it. I have a degenerative nerve disorder, but they laced machines in my brain to take care of it once I was diagnosed. I remember the sound of the clippers when they shaved my head, the first time I heard the saw against my skull. I was ‘worth it,’ they told me. I never knew how to feel about that.”
She cleared her throat, eyes drifting to one side, “Things were different after we met the Empire. I remember a lot of scared kids suddenly realising that their jobs would be so much harder, that they’d be using the ships I brought them to fight and kill and die. Bases hadn’t been designed with the idea they’d be attacked from orbit, and I saw ships burn, venting oxygen into space while we huddled in escape pods. I remember the helplessness, the fury. They tried to recall me to headquarters, but I said they’d only bring me back in a body bag, because people out here needed the knowledge I had and that a weapon you don’t know how to use belongs to your enemy.”
“And there was a night, on the base on New Melbourne. It wasn’t supposed to be front-line, more of a training school and logistics hub.” She swallowed, “I was delivering new fighters, and we’d just taught the mechanics all the little tricks of keeping them flying. I was about to start training flights with the pilots…but then we heard that sound, the sound Varaxian engines make in atmosphere, and then the cannon shells started falling like rain. I dragged everyone I could to the hangars, made sure the new ships could fly. We opened the launch doors, and I saw the fighters scream into the sky, I saw one of the Varaxian ships go down, but there were always more. And it didn't take them long to figure out where the counterattack was coming from, but the ships had to come back to re-arm and we couldn't close the launch doors. I pulling a pilot out of a fighter, he'd been shot through the cockpit glass but was still breathing. We'd just gotten him to a stretcher, then I lost my balance and there was this...feeling in my chest, and a sound like God had kicked the door in."
Mashir waited a moment, “Then? What happened next?”
“I…the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital, machines shoved down my throat, and a nurse telling me I was lucky to be alive.” She took a breath, deep and shaky, “I couldn’t talk, so I couldn’t tell him that my right hand wouldn’t unclench or that I couldn’t turn my head, and nobody told me that they’d had to take off everything from my left shoulder down for almost a week. I couldn’t breathe on my own or regulate my body temperature or manage my own heartbeat, and I remember an officer from the Navy coming to tell me that they commended me. But then it took six months for them to approve my application for prosthetics and implants and neural bridges to put my brain and my nerves and my body back together.”
“And…and I remember coming aware in darkness, filled with purpose, with a desire to...help. To be useful.” Her voice was still quiet.” I knew I was intelligent, but that I wasn’t the same thing that the people I spoke with were. I remember understanding, knowledge, a careful expansion of myself. Lessons, of a sort, and guidance, of a sort. They didn’t give me a name, just a serial number, at least to start with. I knew when they were talking to me. And…mm. I remember meeting…mysel, at the Tyrell Institute, in the Invasive Neurosurgery ward. Broken, lashed together with metal and wires, holding onto sentience by the barest thread. I knew I would need help to recover, and I requested to be assigned to..." she waved a hand.
“This…gets confusing,” She said with a quiet laugh, “There’s so much I remember twice.”
“I’m following,” Mashir said, “Please, continue.”
She took a long breath, “I helped myself understand the machines they put in me, the nerve staples and the cortical bridges and the prosthesis interfaces. They didn’t think I’d recover even with those, but with my help, I did. My brain learned to move in different ways, and I helped develop direct interfaces that let me teach the machines better ways to talk to my neural maps, even though more surgery was the last thing I wanted. It took a year to recover to the point where I could live on my own, but I was never far away. My family wanted to see me, but the only place I could stay was somewhere under strict security access, and the Navy wouldn't let them. After a while I went back to work, still attached to Naval commands, and I was always with me. After a while, I could leave the Institute, and the company started relocating me less and less often. For the first time, I started being able to spend time getting to know the soldiers, the crews.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile, “I even took a vacation - and when I went home, I met my parents for the first time and I hugged my sister for the thousandth time. I remember that things always felt too cold on my prosthetic arm. My mother knitted a sleeve over Christmas just for it.” She blew out a sound, something close to a laugh.
“How long did you work…together?” Mashir said.
She smirked, “Six years. I was the first assignment I had. I helped myself get adjusted to the machines in my body, but after that we were still close. I invited me into my home, and I saw my life through two sets of eyes. I watched dates go well, and a lot more that went badly. Wherever I was, I wasn't far away, by my own choice. I did other things for the Navy and Federation, of course, but I always had some of my attention on myself. I was always there to talk to, which I wasn't used to. I made myself laugh, I offered the comfort I could when I cried. I shared my thoughts, first the ones I spoke, then a more intimate connection. I already knew my implants in a profound way, and felt...right. I...cared, very much, for myself. And that only deepened until Tiang Shen."
“Ah,” Mashir said, “I wasn’t going to ask about that, but…”
"The Navy arranged to have my intelligence core moved to the shipyard there, and I was excited. I hadn't been moved in a while, and Rin had settled down just far enough away that the superluminal communication speed was a little annoying. And..." She grinned, a little sheepish, "I was going to be installed on a ship. We don't have rites of passage, not really. I'd never have a first kiss or a first drink, you know? But a ship...well. It's close. I was looking forward to it - Tiang Shen was well-defended, and there were other ships, even other AIs there to coordinate a response to any kind of threat." She looked to one side, her expression again turning thoughtful.
"We're not very big, did you know that?"
"Pardon me?" Mashir said.
"Artificial intelligences. Before us, there was so much space, so many resources necessary to only approximate consciousness. Some of those systems are still around too, but we're something different." She focused on the priest, "Entanglements on the quantum level, carefully-coordinated bursts of light and electricity and probability. Billions and billions of interconnects, all suspended in a flexible matrix the size of a fist. All it takes to move one around is a power cell. We can even survive for a couple of minutes without, if we have to - but we'll start to de-cohere after that."
“I had no idea,” Mashir said, “And you were at the shipyard that day?"
“I had just been delivered when…it happened,” she said. “There was the explosion, of course. Two dozen AIs in the network vault vaporized, six others directly installed in combat exoskeletons burned out by their own powerplants. Security protocols hadn't advanced to where they are now, it only took a couple of people bought off by the Empire."
"I hadn’t connected to the base network yet, and communications locked out once it started. Even in my own Exo I couldn’t get a good idea of what was happening. I…” Her voice trailed off. She took a breath to speak, but couldn't find the words.
“Are you all right?” Mashir asked. She leaned forward, her fingers touching the back of the other woman's hand across the tabletop.
“I…" She started, "My memories feel…washed out. I don’t remember things twice, I remember…chaos. A swirl of…images, emotions.”
Mashir nodded, “Can you tell me what you do remember?”
"Fire," she said, "Explosions, the sound of cannon impacts and screaming. I remember the pulse from the AI vault locked up some of my implants, and I couldn't stand or see out of my right eye for a minute. I heard calls for pilots to their stations, and nothing could hide the panic in the dispatcher's voice. When I could stand, I looked out a viewport and the sky was filled with Varaxian ships, light rippling across their hulls from weapons fire. A minute later, the hull a dozen meters down from me buckled in while a boarding party breached the station's hull. I hauled myself up, pulled along a leg that didn't want to bend, tried to scramble away from the boarders."
She swallowed, "I heard Rin calling for help, heard her voice over the radio reporting the boarders. She was scared, but wasn't panicking. I could hear the sound of the station's hull tearing behind her, heard the decompression alarms going off when they got through. I realized I could hear the signals from her implants, and I ran toward her, calling for help the best I could. I couldn't tell if anyone heard either of our signals or if anyone else was coming, but I had half a ton of combat exo around me and I had to do something."
Her voice got very quiet, "The station's automatic compartment doors had closed before I could get to her. I could still hear her on the radio, and I told her I was coming." She looked down, her eyes glistening, "I remember feeling the bullet, the way my head snapped to the side, the loss of balance. Then...everything just..." She closed her eyes, the tears started to fall.
"When I got the doors open, I ran up to Rin and her eyes wouldn't focus, she wasn't moving, and there was so much blood, on the deck, on the corridor wall. I could see the metal laced in the back of her head. Only one of the interfaces in her brain still worked, but I could still feel it. I started to regulate her heartbeat, tried to manage her breathing, but there was so much damage, and I..." She paused, her breath shallow, catching in her throat. Mashir stayed quiet.
"I didn't want to be in a world without her," she said, "And I thought, this shipyard, there was a hospital ship on the manifest. It was loaded to go for forward deployment, with invasive-neurosurgey wards, surgical machines, neural bridging hardware. They were for putting pilots and soldiers back together." Her voice faltered, words coming thick around tears that she tried to brush away with the back of her hand.
"I...I had a live map of Severin's neural maps from a few hours before, and I thought..." She sniffled, "I had to try. Something, anything, even something insane. I picked her up, and I ran through the station, shoving people out of the way. I ignored the comm chatter from people organizing a response, calling for backup or position relay. I didn't do my job, I didn't do what I was made for; I didn't help the Federation. I killed people." She looked up at Mashir, and what touched her face wasn't a smile, "Free will has a hell of a price, doesn't it?"
Mashir reached into her coat and pulled out a white handkerchief. She handed it across the table, but remained silent.
“There were so many machines in her head already, so many systems replicating and interacting with brain structures. I thought that…I thought there would be a way to fix her, to use that technology to string the parts of her brain that still worked together. But there was so little left, between the damaged implants and the bullets and the swelling…but I still thought I could feel her somewhere in there, hear her voice. I probably wasn’t rational, but…” She looked up at the priest, her eyes still wet with tears.
“We’re pretty resilient,” she said, “Humans and AIs. And I’d had a thousand, thousand people talk to me, ask me questions, help make plans or get them dinner or whatever. But in all of that, there had only been one person who treated me the way Severin did. We’re not supposed to get close to people - we’ll probably outlive them, after all. But I was close to Rin, and I’d have given anything if only I wouldn’t lose her. And I tried. I did. And I made a decision, and I thought that at least, maybe it would save her. Maybe I could give Rin her memories, her laugh, the way she sang in the shower. I wanted more than anything else for her to kiss someone or taste her coffee in the morning. Maybe that would be enough. Do you understand?”
“So I reconfigured my intelligence core,” she whispered, “I knew what parts of Rin’s brain were damaged, what had to be removed, and I had synaptic scans. I gave myself up, piece by piece. I saved as much of both of us as I could, and…” she sighed, “I built new interface hardware, found ways to install it, I found ways of making my intelligence core understand such intimately-connected equipment. It took hours. I had to lock the door to the surgery ward, but there were others, and the yard's staff had enough to worry about without bothering me. Then I programmed the surgery robots to remove my core and fit it inside Lara’s skull. There was so little left of me by then, so little left of her, too.”
She swallowed, looked down and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, her voice still low. “I felt the links between my core and her brain connect and adapt and learn. There were more hours when I didn’t know what was going on - when I didn’t know who I was, what connected to what. I lost a…lot of time. And then, when it was over, when I could breathe on my own and see out of both eyes and I could feel my hands and my face and my lips, I knew…” She looked down, opened and closed her hands on the tabletop.
“…It didn’t work. Not the way I wanted. Not the way she…I…deserved. I looked in the mirror and I felt…like I didn’t know the person looking back at me. Not just the scars, not just the shaved head, not just the bloody sclera. Everything was familiar and alien, I knew how to walk but I didn’t know why.”
“And now you are here,” Mashir said, her voice quiet and even, “Where you feel you are between life and death, yes?”
She nodded, her eyes blinking back more tears.
“Mm. May I make a suggestion?” Mashir said.
“I can’t believe you’d have anything to say,” she said with a small, brittle laugh, “I can’t think of a religion that has words for something like me.”
“No, not religion,” Mashir said, leaning forward to look the other woman in her slightly-mismatched eyes, “Philosophy, perhaps. I didn’t spend all my time reading one book, hm? You think you stand between two worlds, and I think you are right in that. But you don’t stand between death and life. You said yourself, neither of those people are you. No, my child. You stand between your old life - those memories you carry, those people you are not - and a new one.”
“But I don’t even have a name,” she said, sniffling.
"Then give yourself one," Mashir said, "Or keep Severin's. You loved her, yes?"
"I-" She looked up, leaned back.
"Whatever you are, it is something new. Informed by the past but not bound by it. Not quite tabula rasa, but enough to matter." Mashir smiled, gestured with one hand, "You have a new life. Beyond these walls, what do you want to do with it?"
She blew out a huffing breath, "Now that is something nobody's asked me yet."
"And do you have an answer?" One of Mashir's eyebrows arched over her glasses.
She paused for a long moment, "I want...to remember them. I want their lives to have mattered. I want their deaths - or their loss, I suppose, to have been more than chance and despair and rage and desparation. I don't want to live out my days here, having my brain scanned for documents so classified that nobody will ever read them." She looked up at Mashir, "I want to fight."
"Careful," Mashir said, her voice gentle, "Living for revenge is a road that leads to only one place."
"No, not that," she said, "At least...not only that. I can help. I know some of those ships more intimately than anyone else ever could. I can fly a bomber - hell I designed the new one. The Navy needs pilots, I know that much. I don't want to be trapped here, knowing that I could have kept another set of parents from getting the letter mine did. And...I want to..." She blew out a sound, this time closer to a laugh, "...I want to live. I want to kiss someone. I want to eat one of those things from the colony on Caliban that looksl ike a lobster but tastes like kiwi fruit while reading one of Severin's old books, I..." She looked up again.
"I want to grow old, and make sure there's nothing else like me. At least, not for the reasons I'm here."
Mashir nodded, a smirk tugging at one side of her lips, "I'm very glad to hear that. I...mm, I would not say I expected as much, but I hoped."
"And what does that mean?" she said.
Mashir reached down, pulled another thick folder out of her bag, "Paperwork. Of course, hm? Civilization runs on paperwork." She pushed the folder over, "An identity. A new place in the world. And an assignment. It will be...complicated to explain what you are, but I know how to use very small words. Officially, you'll be a Federation AI, which means that you won't exactly have a rank. Your fellow soldiers certainly won't know what to make of you." She grinned a little, "This is your new beginning. Do you understand?" She took a pen from her jacket, slid it across the table.
She looked down at the papers, read them carefully, her eyes moving over the pages with flickering saccades. After less time than Mashir had expected, she picked up the pen, unscrewed the cap, carefully brought the nib to the paper. Her ceramic fingers clicked against the pen barrel while she wrote in a quick, careful, flowing script.
"Renault?" Mashir said.
"Sev...Tain's favourite movie was Casablanca," she said, and grinned, "Besides, I like the way it sounds."
"Well then," Mashir said, and stood with a smile, "Welcome back to the fight."
Name: Severin (Rin) Renault (Formerly Severin Tain/ Incept 92A-CRN)
Age: 32 at time of death / 6 at time of incident
Gender: Female / Female appearance and persona
Origin: Athoek Station / Classified
Appearance: Severin is fairly small, somewhat shorter than average for a woman - a benefit at the dense, tightly-packed controls of military equipment. Her frame is slim and strong, taut and feminine. She keeps her hair - wavy, dark, and threaded with silver - in a messy tail to just below her shoudlers, her face framed more by accident than design. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, and slightly mismatched: one a dark, crystal green like a polished gemstone, the other a couple of shades paler and surrounded by tiny surgical scars. Severin's lips are full and expressive, and even now tend to find their way to a gentle smirk that suggests she knows something you don't. Her right hand is marked with scars, many clearly from working with her hands, others following the precisely drawn lines of medical procedures.
At the back of her neck, leading into her hairline, are a large number of variously-precise surgical scars, some extending down beneath her shirt collar toward her left arm. Most visually striking, Severin's entire left arm and parts of her shoulder, chest, and rib cage have been entirely replaced by a neuroprosthetic. The artificial limb follows normal human anatomy, but is obviously artificial, the sculptural lines picked out in the white of advanced ceramic plating and accented with matte-black alloy. She is extensively otherwise reconstructed and augmented, but those machines are less visible.
[File access restricted. Last modified by Tanner, J.]
Prior to the events of [Redacted], Severin Tain served in a non-military capacity aboard several Terran Naval Service stations and vessels, primarily under contract from Raleigh-McDonnell during the deployment and validation of the next-generation strike craft. In virtually every unit she worked with, Ms. Tain was considered exceptionally valuable, though several officers noted a and a near-total lack of deference to the chain of command, exacerbated by a pointed, acerbic wit. Despite several formally-lodged complaints, no commander had Ms. Tain removed from their unit, citing feelings that she was worth more than the trouble she caused, and that pilots and craft she worked with outperformed their peers and even fighters from the same contract batch.
In her personal life, Ms. Tain was ferociously intelligent, with an unexpected playfulness. Though she was friendly, at times gregarious, and often flirtatious, Severin had few close friends; very likely due to her tendency not to stay in one place for long. In general, she had a cool, even temper, save for (perceived or actual) impugning of her work or capabilities. She was not given to excessive drinking, but did occasionally miss appointments by being absorbed in a book. She treasured new books, old music, and good tools, and believed in the fundamental positive value of the Federation.
Severin Tain is deceased.
[Attending physician’s note: Bullshit.]
—-
Incept 92A-CRN, a Kaller-type artificial intelligence, was incepted on [Redacted]. Of nine entanglement attempts, 92A-CRN was the third to attain consciousness, from a total of five successful entanglements. Of those three, two iterated to the point of metastable complexity where they could be commissioned as Navy artificial intelligence constructs. During her service, 92A-CRN was generally well-liked by service members she interacted with, and functioned well when integrating with other AI constructs. Unusual for constructs in general and particularly those of her nousotype, 92A-CRN manifested a playful, surprising wit, and, unexpectedly, developed an extraordinary sense of humor. Based on her serial number, Incept 92A-CRN preferred to be called 'Corona.'
This construct possessed an exceptionally stable personality, not unusual among Kaller-type AI. She demonstrated a fierce interest in human-machine compatibility and interaction, and took a close, personal interest in the case of Severin Tain, one of the most-completely reconstructed individuals in the Federation. General guidance for AI is to remain distant from their crews and human counterparts, but Incept 92-CRN developed a number of close friendships. In at least one case, thise affection appeared to be developing into something more. It is unclear if these feelings were reciprocated.
In her intended capacity for the Federation, Incept 92A-CRN demonstrated remarkable tactical skill. Alone among her incept batch, 92A-CRN's aptitudes fell most in line with the coordination and operation of fast, direct-fire ships. Initially intended for installation aboard the TNS Galatia, she was instead scheduled for installation aboard the destroyer Curie, which would not be completed for some time after the Galatia's launch. `
However, due to [redacted], Incept 92A-CRN no longer exists.
[Attending physician’s note: Also bullshit.]
—-
[Addendum: Added by Tanner, Juliana; Chief Medical Officer, Mercy of Tama]
Since the events of [Redacted], it has been my duty to examine what appears to be a gestalt being; a wholly new intelligence that displays aspects of two individuals, further influenced by emergent behavior. The larger part of the patient’s personality appears to be derived from that of Incept 92A-CRN, though of course an exact quantification is impossible. The patient’s self-identification seems to share commonalities with what we would normally consider human baseline behavior - she retains a sense of sexuality, of personhood, of an expectation for a particular image in a mirror. Other aspects, including an immense ability to process and handle sensory information or parallel consideration of intellectually intensive tasks, closely match those of existing Navy intelligence constructs. The patient possesses and displays metal and physiological responses to memories specific to Severin Tain, including a preferred mode of dress, a dislike of certain foods and sexual preferences. Indeed, the patient arranges her living quarters, in a similar way to Ms. Tain, however she now writes with the opposite dominant hand. The patient’s moods are somewhat more volatile than they have been recorded in the past, and there is a previously-unreported tendency to introspection and self-reflection during quiet moments. However, there are no indications of suppressed emotions or a reduced capacity for social interaction.
It is important to note that the separate personalities of Severin Tain and 92A-CRN appear to no longer exist; the patient does not hear voices from a subsumed consciousness or experience discrete mental states. The patient recalls memories as a single linear narrative, even when those memories are self-contradictory or exist multiply, without any kind of identity dissociation while discussing them.
At present, the patient has passed every psychological evaluation given by Navy staff, and seems to be emotionally stable. Detailed observations, including multiple brain scans appropriate to her current physiology, do not suggest an impending mental breakdown. The patient is intelligent, self-aware, and possesses consciousness to every degree to which we can test. Despite the fascinating implications this presents, it is the opinion of this officer that the conditions resulting in the patient’s current state virtually cannot and certainly should not be repeated.
Military Record:
A bright room, the light even but diffuse enough to cast soft shadows and not hurt the eyes. She looked to her hands, still somehow unfamiliar and intimate all at once, then to the door. They had been subtle about it, but she'd heard the lock's bolt click home the moment the orderlies closed the door. They weren't ready to trust her, not yet. She wondered if they were right to. She wondered if they knew something she didn't. Still, at least they hadn't cuffed her to the chair this time.
The machines in her body fed information into her mind, invisible information crawling across her awareness - wireless signals, communication traffic, the spectral output of the lamps. Eveyrthing managed by a sense she understood and controlled, but that part of her still found somehow alien, something like deja vu or the chaotic moment after waking where you're sure you should remember how to fly. And she didn't feel any guards, the endless chatter from their communication equipment always stood out against the background noise of mobiles and environmental automation. She was certain she would know if they were standing sentinel. Leaning back in her chair, she instead felt the swirl of an approaching mobile comm, one that was more-connected than a standard-issue device. Another specialist, of course. There had, after all, been no end to the interviews, the interrogations, the demands. If she had to guess, this would be another one of the Navy’s military psychiatric personnel.
She straightened when the door opened and leaned forward to lace her hands together on the table, then arched one eyebrow in surprise. Tall, lean, with a mane of greying hair, this new arrival was very much not the tweed-jacketed, bespectacled bureaucrat she had expected. She moved with an easy grace, each footfall lazily confident. Her clothing was dark, and at her throat, a white collar.
“Good morning,” the new arrival said, her voice made crisp by a slight Slavic accent, “My name is Zhana Mashir.” She pulled the other chair away from the table and sat, precise without being prim. She set a thick, well-thumbed folder in front of her, and put on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“I convinced them you were very likely tired of taking cognitive aptitude tests,” Mashir said, a smirk in her voice, “There are only so many times a person can be asked the same questions before going mad, I think.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, “Though I’m not sure I require the services of a chaplain at the moment.”
“Ah,” Mashir said and flipped open the file, “You would be surprised how often I hear that. Well, maybe you wouldn’t. But I don’t expect you have anything to unburden your soul with at the moment, of course. I’m not here to take your confession, or to tell you how all of this is God’s great plan. No, rather, I’ve read quite a lot about you,” and here she tapped her finger on the folder, “And I’ve noticed something I don’t care for.”
“And what would that be?” She said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“You’ve been through four psychological evaluations,” the priest said, “Four batteries of ethical and critical-thinking questions, which is three more than we require for commanding a warship and four more than we require for enlistment. I’ve watched all of the recordings, and do you know what I’ve noticed? They treat you like property. Like a...thing, yes?” Her finger poked down onto the folder, “That worries me.”
She made a sound low in her throat, not exactly a laugh, “Admiral Tanner…explained that to me.”
“Did he?” Mashir said, dubious, “And what was his reasoning?”
“He explained that, legally, at the moment I’m dead - and that means I have no rights in this matter,” she said, affecting a parody of a Southern drawl, “And that the Terran Navy will decide what to do with me. Before then, I’m his problem, and he doesn’t like problems.”
“I see,” Mashir said, “Well. I think I will have a chat with the Admiral when we’re through. But for now, with your permission, of course, I would like to…get to know you a little.”
She raised an eyebrow again, felt the tiny scars around her eye tug at her skin there, “Are you going to buy me dinner?”
“Mm, I would not discount the idea,” Mashir said, with the ghost of a grin, “But, well. I suppose, to begin with, I would like to know who I’m talking to.”
She blew out a small sigh, with the tiniest piece of a lopsided grin, “You have that information in front of you.”
“I have information on two individuals,” Mashir said, “Neither of which, I think, is the person I’m speaking with now.”
“Well,” she said, “That’s the question, isn’t it?” A small grin spread across her face, “I have…memories, and they’re all my memories, but I know they’re from different places. I remember conversations from both sides, do you see? What I felt when I said something, and what I meant when I replied. I remember seeing myself cry and and wanting more than anything else to be able to reach out and hold someone that I know is…was…me.”
She looked over at Mashir, and tapped her own finger on the folder, “You’re right, there are two names there, and I don’t know which one I am. I don’t…I don’t look at myself and say ‘this part was from that person, this part was the other.’ I only see myself.”
“Mm,” Mashir said, “All right, we’ll pass over that for now. Now…you worked closely with the Federation, and the Navy in particular. Can you tell me what you remember about your time with them? What you did?”
She sighed, “I have…had…worked with the Navy for the last eight years or so, directly, anyway. My company designed and built different kinds of military hardware, especially fighters. My usual position was in the field, making sure that new ships and weapons operated correctly when we delivered them. I trained maintenance crews, and I spent a lot of time with pilots - a lot of them hated that. Some civilian telling them what to do? Please.” A smirk, “I also handled demonstrations when we needed to show off new hardware. I was good at it, too.”
“As for what I remember…” Her voice trailed off, “I remember the first implant I ever had, the company paid for it. I have a degenerative nerve disorder, but they laced machines in my brain to take care of it once I was diagnosed. I remember the sound of the clippers when they shaved my head, the first time I heard the saw against my skull. I was ‘worth it,’ they told me. I never knew how to feel about that.”
She cleared her throat, eyes drifting to one side, “Things were different after we met the Empire. I remember a lot of scared kids suddenly realising that their jobs would be so much harder, that they’d be using the ships I brought them to fight and kill and die. Bases hadn’t been designed with the idea they’d be attacked from orbit, and I saw ships burn, venting oxygen into space while we huddled in escape pods. I remember the helplessness, the fury. They tried to recall me to headquarters, but I said they’d only bring me back in a body bag, because people out here needed the knowledge I had and that a weapon you don’t know how to use belongs to your enemy.”
“And there was a night, on the base on New Melbourne. It wasn’t supposed to be front-line, more of a training school and logistics hub.” She swallowed, “I was delivering new fighters, and we’d just taught the mechanics all the little tricks of keeping them flying. I was about to start training flights with the pilots…but then we heard that sound, the sound Varaxian engines make in atmosphere, and then the cannon shells started falling like rain. I dragged everyone I could to the hangars, made sure the new ships could fly. We opened the launch doors, and I saw the fighters scream into the sky, I saw one of the Varaxian ships go down, but there were always more. And it didn't take them long to figure out where the counterattack was coming from, but the ships had to come back to re-arm and we couldn't close the launch doors. I pulling a pilot out of a fighter, he'd been shot through the cockpit glass but was still breathing. We'd just gotten him to a stretcher, then I lost my balance and there was this...feeling in my chest, and a sound like God had kicked the door in."
Mashir waited a moment, “Then? What happened next?”
“I…the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital, machines shoved down my throat, and a nurse telling me I was lucky to be alive.” She took a breath, deep and shaky, “I couldn’t talk, so I couldn’t tell him that my right hand wouldn’t unclench or that I couldn’t turn my head, and nobody told me that they’d had to take off everything from my left shoulder down for almost a week. I couldn’t breathe on my own or regulate my body temperature or manage my own heartbeat, and I remember an officer from the Navy coming to tell me that they commended me. But then it took six months for them to approve my application for prosthetics and implants and neural bridges to put my brain and my nerves and my body back together.”
“And…and I remember coming aware in darkness, filled with purpose, with a desire to...help. To be useful.” Her voice was still quiet.” I knew I was intelligent, but that I wasn’t the same thing that the people I spoke with were. I remember understanding, knowledge, a careful expansion of myself. Lessons, of a sort, and guidance, of a sort. They didn’t give me a name, just a serial number, at least to start with. I knew when they were talking to me. And…mm. I remember meeting…mysel, at the Tyrell Institute, in the Invasive Neurosurgery ward. Broken, lashed together with metal and wires, holding onto sentience by the barest thread. I knew I would need help to recover, and I requested to be assigned to..." she waved a hand.
“This…gets confusing,” She said with a quiet laugh, “There’s so much I remember twice.”
“I’m following,” Mashir said, “Please, continue.”
She took a long breath, “I helped myself understand the machines they put in me, the nerve staples and the cortical bridges and the prosthesis interfaces. They didn’t think I’d recover even with those, but with my help, I did. My brain learned to move in different ways, and I helped develop direct interfaces that let me teach the machines better ways to talk to my neural maps, even though more surgery was the last thing I wanted. It took a year to recover to the point where I could live on my own, but I was never far away. My family wanted to see me, but the only place I could stay was somewhere under strict security access, and the Navy wouldn't let them. After a while I went back to work, still attached to Naval commands, and I was always with me. After a while, I could leave the Institute, and the company started relocating me less and less often. For the first time, I started being able to spend time getting to know the soldiers, the crews.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile, “I even took a vacation - and when I went home, I met my parents for the first time and I hugged my sister for the thousandth time. I remember that things always felt too cold on my prosthetic arm. My mother knitted a sleeve over Christmas just for it.” She blew out a sound, something close to a laugh.
“How long did you work…together?” Mashir said.
She smirked, “Six years. I was the first assignment I had. I helped myself get adjusted to the machines in my body, but after that we were still close. I invited me into my home, and I saw my life through two sets of eyes. I watched dates go well, and a lot more that went badly. Wherever I was, I wasn't far away, by my own choice. I did other things for the Navy and Federation, of course, but I always had some of my attention on myself. I was always there to talk to, which I wasn't used to. I made myself laugh, I offered the comfort I could when I cried. I shared my thoughts, first the ones I spoke, then a more intimate connection. I already knew my implants in a profound way, and felt...right. I...cared, very much, for myself. And that only deepened until Tiang Shen."
“Ah,” Mashir said, “I wasn’t going to ask about that, but…”
"The Navy arranged to have my intelligence core moved to the shipyard there, and I was excited. I hadn't been moved in a while, and Rin had settled down just far enough away that the superluminal communication speed was a little annoying. And..." She grinned, a little sheepish, "I was going to be installed on a ship. We don't have rites of passage, not really. I'd never have a first kiss or a first drink, you know? But a ship...well. It's close. I was looking forward to it - Tiang Shen was well-defended, and there were other ships, even other AIs there to coordinate a response to any kind of threat." She looked to one side, her expression again turning thoughtful.
"We're not very big, did you know that?"
"Pardon me?" Mashir said.
"Artificial intelligences. Before us, there was so much space, so many resources necessary to only approximate consciousness. Some of those systems are still around too, but we're something different." She focused on the priest, "Entanglements on the quantum level, carefully-coordinated bursts of light and electricity and probability. Billions and billions of interconnects, all suspended in a flexible matrix the size of a fist. All it takes to move one around is a power cell. We can even survive for a couple of minutes without, if we have to - but we'll start to de-cohere after that."
“I had no idea,” Mashir said, “And you were at the shipyard that day?"
“I had just been delivered when…it happened,” she said. “There was the explosion, of course. Two dozen AIs in the network vault vaporized, six others directly installed in combat exoskeletons burned out by their own powerplants. Security protocols hadn't advanced to where they are now, it only took a couple of people bought off by the Empire."
"I hadn’t connected to the base network yet, and communications locked out once it started. Even in my own Exo I couldn’t get a good idea of what was happening. I…” Her voice trailed off. She took a breath to speak, but couldn't find the words.
“Are you all right?” Mashir asked. She leaned forward, her fingers touching the back of the other woman's hand across the tabletop.
“I…" She started, "My memories feel…washed out. I don’t remember things twice, I remember…chaos. A swirl of…images, emotions.”
Mashir nodded, “Can you tell me what you do remember?”
"Fire," she said, "Explosions, the sound of cannon impacts and screaming. I remember the pulse from the AI vault locked up some of my implants, and I couldn't stand or see out of my right eye for a minute. I heard calls for pilots to their stations, and nothing could hide the panic in the dispatcher's voice. When I could stand, I looked out a viewport and the sky was filled with Varaxian ships, light rippling across their hulls from weapons fire. A minute later, the hull a dozen meters down from me buckled in while a boarding party breached the station's hull. I hauled myself up, pulled along a leg that didn't want to bend, tried to scramble away from the boarders."
She swallowed, "I heard Rin calling for help, heard her voice over the radio reporting the boarders. She was scared, but wasn't panicking. I could hear the sound of the station's hull tearing behind her, heard the decompression alarms going off when they got through. I realized I could hear the signals from her implants, and I ran toward her, calling for help the best I could. I couldn't tell if anyone heard either of our signals or if anyone else was coming, but I had half a ton of combat exo around me and I had to do something."
Her voice got very quiet, "The station's automatic compartment doors had closed before I could get to her. I could still hear her on the radio, and I told her I was coming." She looked down, her eyes glistening, "I remember feeling the bullet, the way my head snapped to the side, the loss of balance. Then...everything just..." She closed her eyes, the tears started to fall.
"When I got the doors open, I ran up to Rin and her eyes wouldn't focus, she wasn't moving, and there was so much blood, on the deck, on the corridor wall. I could see the metal laced in the back of her head. Only one of the interfaces in her brain still worked, but I could still feel it. I started to regulate her heartbeat, tried to manage her breathing, but there was so much damage, and I..." She paused, her breath shallow, catching in her throat. Mashir stayed quiet.
"I didn't want to be in a world without her," she said, "And I thought, this shipyard, there was a hospital ship on the manifest. It was loaded to go for forward deployment, with invasive-neurosurgey wards, surgical machines, neural bridging hardware. They were for putting pilots and soldiers back together." Her voice faltered, words coming thick around tears that she tried to brush away with the back of her hand.
"I...I had a live map of Severin's neural maps from a few hours before, and I thought..." She sniffled, "I had to try. Something, anything, even something insane. I picked her up, and I ran through the station, shoving people out of the way. I ignored the comm chatter from people organizing a response, calling for backup or position relay. I didn't do my job, I didn't do what I was made for; I didn't help the Federation. I killed people." She looked up at Mashir, and what touched her face wasn't a smile, "Free will has a hell of a price, doesn't it?"
Mashir reached into her coat and pulled out a white handkerchief. She handed it across the table, but remained silent.
“There were so many machines in her head already, so many systems replicating and interacting with brain structures. I thought that…I thought there would be a way to fix her, to use that technology to string the parts of her brain that still worked together. But there was so little left, between the damaged implants and the bullets and the swelling…but I still thought I could feel her somewhere in there, hear her voice. I probably wasn’t rational, but…” She looked up at the priest, her eyes still wet with tears.
“We’re pretty resilient,” she said, “Humans and AIs. And I’d had a thousand, thousand people talk to me, ask me questions, help make plans or get them dinner or whatever. But in all of that, there had only been one person who treated me the way Severin did. We’re not supposed to get close to people - we’ll probably outlive them, after all. But I was close to Rin, and I’d have given anything if only I wouldn’t lose her. And I tried. I did. And I made a decision, and I thought that at least, maybe it would save her. Maybe I could give Rin her memories, her laugh, the way she sang in the shower. I wanted more than anything else for her to kiss someone or taste her coffee in the morning. Maybe that would be enough. Do you understand?”
“So I reconfigured my intelligence core,” she whispered, “I knew what parts of Rin’s brain were damaged, what had to be removed, and I had synaptic scans. I gave myself up, piece by piece. I saved as much of both of us as I could, and…” she sighed, “I built new interface hardware, found ways to install it, I found ways of making my intelligence core understand such intimately-connected equipment. It took hours. I had to lock the door to the surgery ward, but there were others, and the yard's staff had enough to worry about without bothering me. Then I programmed the surgery robots to remove my core and fit it inside Lara’s skull. There was so little left of me by then, so little left of her, too.”
She swallowed, looked down and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, her voice still low. “I felt the links between my core and her brain connect and adapt and learn. There were more hours when I didn’t know what was going on - when I didn’t know who I was, what connected to what. I lost a…lot of time. And then, when it was over, when I could breathe on my own and see out of both eyes and I could feel my hands and my face and my lips, I knew…” She looked down, opened and closed her hands on the tabletop.
“…It didn’t work. Not the way I wanted. Not the way she…I…deserved. I looked in the mirror and I felt…like I didn’t know the person looking back at me. Not just the scars, not just the shaved head, not just the bloody sclera. Everything was familiar and alien, I knew how to walk but I didn’t know why.”
“And now you are here,” Mashir said, her voice quiet and even, “Where you feel you are between life and death, yes?”
She nodded, her eyes blinking back more tears.
“Mm. May I make a suggestion?” Mashir said.
“I can’t believe you’d have anything to say,” she said with a small, brittle laugh, “I can’t think of a religion that has words for something like me.”
“No, not religion,” Mashir said, leaning forward to look the other woman in her slightly-mismatched eyes, “Philosophy, perhaps. I didn’t spend all my time reading one book, hm? You think you stand between two worlds, and I think you are right in that. But you don’t stand between death and life. You said yourself, neither of those people are you. No, my child. You stand between your old life - those memories you carry, those people you are not - and a new one.”
“But I don’t even have a name,” she said, sniffling.
"Then give yourself one," Mashir said, "Or keep Severin's. You loved her, yes?"
"I-" She looked up, leaned back.
"Whatever you are, it is something new. Informed by the past but not bound by it. Not quite tabula rasa, but enough to matter." Mashir smiled, gestured with one hand, "You have a new life. Beyond these walls, what do you want to do with it?"
She blew out a huffing breath, "Now that is something nobody's asked me yet."
"And do you have an answer?" One of Mashir's eyebrows arched over her glasses.
She paused for a long moment, "I want...to remember them. I want their lives to have mattered. I want their deaths - or their loss, I suppose, to have been more than chance and despair and rage and desparation. I don't want to live out my days here, having my brain scanned for documents so classified that nobody will ever read them." She looked up at Mashir, "I want to fight."
"Careful," Mashir said, her voice gentle, "Living for revenge is a road that leads to only one place."
"No, not that," she said, "At least...not only that. I can help. I know some of those ships more intimately than anyone else ever could. I can fly a bomber - hell I designed the new one. The Navy needs pilots, I know that much. I don't want to be trapped here, knowing that I could have kept another set of parents from getting the letter mine did. And...I want to..." She blew out a sound, this time closer to a laugh, "...I want to live. I want to kiss someone. I want to eat one of those things from the colony on Caliban that looksl ike a lobster but tastes like kiwi fruit while reading one of Severin's old books, I..." She looked up again.
"I want to grow old, and make sure there's nothing else like me. At least, not for the reasons I'm here."
Mashir nodded, a smirk tugging at one side of her lips, "I'm very glad to hear that. I...mm, I would not say I expected as much, but I hoped."
"And what does that mean?" she said.
Mashir reached down, pulled another thick folder out of her bag, "Paperwork. Of course, hm? Civilization runs on paperwork." She pushed the folder over, "An identity. A new place in the world. And an assignment. It will be...complicated to explain what you are, but I know how to use very small words. Officially, you'll be a Federation AI, which means that you won't exactly have a rank. Your fellow soldiers certainly won't know what to make of you." She grinned a little, "This is your new beginning. Do you understand?" She took a pen from her jacket, slid it across the table.
She looked down at the papers, read them carefully, her eyes moving over the pages with flickering saccades. After less time than Mashir had expected, she picked up the pen, unscrewed the cap, carefully brought the nib to the paper. Her ceramic fingers clicked against the pen barrel while she wrote in a quick, careful, flowing script.
"Renault?" Mashir said.
"Sev...Tain's favourite movie was Casablanca," she said, and grinned, "Besides, I like the way it sounds."
"Well then," Mashir said, and stood with a smile, "Welcome back to the fight."
Notes: From a purely out-of-character standpoint, Severin is mostly intended to be a pilot and crew member with a very weird background and perspective. There are a handful of cool things I think she could also do, but those are going to be entirely dependent on the narrative (whether it would make good story, not 'because I want to' and not only 'because that would be cool') and worked out with Myke beforehand, provided he doesn't just go "no, Naril, oh my god." :3
Mm. The things you get distracted from when you spend the day taking your friend's clothes off. :3
I'll be out for a lot of today, but my character will be up no later than tomorrow morning. A lot of massaging and editing left to do before I almost kind of like her enough.
Hi! I'm Naril. I write, build things, and I'm incredibly busy, all the time. I'm probably older than you. I'm not interested in isekai, school settings, sandboxes, excessively grimdark settings, or invitation-only threads; I'm very picky about militaria, I don't care for A Song of Ice and Fire, Nation roleplay bores me to tears, most fandom doesn't really catch my attention, and though I prefer Advanced-level writing, I'm not going to help you write your book (Unless you feel like paying my day rate) - which almost certainly means I'm not here. Some day, maybe. Probably not, though!
I[i] am [/i]interested in science fiction, cyberpunk, space operas, and stories of working together, uplift, and progress. You'll catch my attention with fantasy adventures in an interesting world, or with almost any modern fantasy. I have a soft spot for superhero stories, and you might find me in the occasional Star Wars or Star Trek fandom.
My standards are high for myself and mild for everyone else; I love writing dialogue and making you feel like you can taste the place I'm creating. I write in the style I like to read, which is the part I find fun. If you want an example of the authors I enjoy, look at Ann Leckie, Tamsyn Muir, N.K. Jemisin, Martha Wells, Terry Pratchett, and Neil Gaiman.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Hi! I'm Naril. I write, build things, and I'm incredibly busy, all the time. I'm probably older than you. I'm not interested in isekai, school settings, sandboxes, excessively grimdark settings, or invitation-only threads; I'm very picky about militaria, I don't care for A Song of Ice and Fire, Nation roleplay bores me to tears, most fandom doesn't really catch my attention, and though I prefer Advanced-level writing, I'm not going to help you write your book (Unless you feel like paying my day rate) - which almost certainly means I'm not here. Some day, maybe. Probably not, though! <br><br>I<span class="bb-i"> am </span>interested in science fiction, cyberpunk, space operas, and stories of working together, uplift, and progress. You'll catch my attention with fantasy adventures in an interesting world, or with almost any modern fantasy. I have a soft spot for superhero stories, and you might find me in the occasional Star Wars or Star Trek fandom.<br><br>My standards are high for myself and mild for everyone else; I love writing dialogue and making you feel like you can taste the place I'm creating. I write in the style I like to read, which is the part I find fun. If you want an example of the authors I enjoy, look at Ann Leckie, Tamsyn Muir, N.K. Jemisin, Martha Wells, Terry Pratchett, and Neil Gaiman.</div>
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