P Hillard - The Teller of Lies

Michael ducked, the metal sailing over his head and clanging against the starship hull behind him. The food tray stuck to the wall, sliding slowly down it, a streak of thick mushroom paste trailing behind it. It was the second time this week a fight had broken out in the mess, the chamber the singular place where both competing factions were forced to intermix. Michael hated that the refugees had split into two camps, both sides arguing over a single point. Is Michael their messiah ?

It had never sat right with Michael, he hated the idea of being worshipped, his every word written down and debated. Since being snatched from the Earth, stolen by an alien convinced Michael was his saviour, he had seemed to stumble through one situation after the next. Each time adding to his mystique and legend. Using his title-one Michael was still convinced was a cosmic mistake-in an attempt to save people from a doomed world had been an admission, a small one, that maybe he was this mythical Knower of Truths.

“Should I send in the bots?” Clive said, his digital lips moving oddly. The AI had formed an image from the cloud of nanobots that filled the halls of the ship, millions of tiny blue lights forming his face. He was getting better at it, though still seemed to struggle with copying the tiny muscle movements that served to bridge the uncanny valley.

“No, I would rather we didn’t. Might seem a bit heavy-handed.”

“I think I have enough control of the bots to not accidentally injure anyone. It would be over quickly.”

“You think? That’s hardly reassuring,” Michael said. He had watched as Clive had changed over the past few months, the AI becoming more confident, more easily able to control the systems within the ship. He had begun his life, if you could call it that, as a missionary robot. Clive’s android form had been designed by the Council to mimic a human. Earth was sacred to the Council, and whilst finding a race living there had been a surprise, they had happily turned this fact to their own ends. The missionary androids were a way of sending a holy race out to spread the word, without actually risking any of them.

“Well, my control has been increasing nearly exponentially. It’s a little strange, honestly. One day you’re a normal human, the next you’re… something else.” Despite Clive’s growth, he still genuinely thought he was human, a remnant of his original programming. It was impossible not to wonder if the changes in him were from the increased processing power of the ship, or if they would have come naturally over time. If his original body hadn’t been destroyed, his AI chip salvaged, would he still be the same person?

“Hah, well, I know all about that. Trust me.” Michael normally felt the need to correct the AI, to point out he wasn’t human at all, some strange sense of species pride working its way to the surface. He let this one slide, Michael had grown oddly fond of the AI and thought a little introspection was good for him.

“I suppose you would. Are you sure about the bots?” Almost on cue one of the strange machines flopped past. They were bizarre-looking things, spherical bodies covered in coiling metal tendrils of various lengths. It was a useful design, the bots could move about in a dozen different ways, completing almost any task they needed by manipulating their tentacles, but it was hard to shake the feeling that something was off about them. To Michael, they seemed like some lost sea creature, the kind of thing you would see in documentaries about the bottom of the ocean.

“I’m sure. Besides, I think Meggok has this.” Michael gestured across the mess hall, towards the blue-skinned alien behind the counter. He was all muscle, a towering man whose broad shoulders tested the limits of his apron. Meggok was an imposing individual at the best of times, a former gladiator with a winning record, the large kitchen knife he was holding was adding an extra layer of sinister to his glare, however.

“Stop this, right now.” Meggok didn’t shout, he simply raised his voice just enough to be heard over the din. Before being forced to fight in the pits of Ossiark, Meggok had been a professional chef. He and his husband had decided to travel to the casino world on their honeymoon, only to run afoul of its pirate king, Greddog. They had both allowed themselves a small celebration when he had fallen in battle.

The crowd turned to face him, utensils and trays held in their hands like weapons. Some of them had even scooped out the grey mushroom-based slime, an attempt at trying to create a stew, into their hands and were readying to throw it. Meggok knew it wasn’t his best meal, and he was personally sick of mushrooms, but the supplies they had been given to stock the ship consisted solely of them. They were miraculous in a way, they grew to massive size within a few days, required very little food and water, and had nutritional value far above ordinary fungus.

The mushrooms, along with the ship itself, were created by the Merydians, a race of short furry people, feline faces with squirrel-like tails. They had found the last survivors of that race hiding within an ancient structure that bent reality to its whims, expanding the space within until it was larger than the outside. It had been constructed as a means of surviving an ice age, as had the ship itself, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine the mushrooms were also the result of the technologically advanced ancient Merydians. They did make the perfect survival food.

“They started it,” squawked one of the crowd. Their rainbow feathered body, bird-like beak and strange nearly insectoid legs marked them as one of the Corticans. They wore a long robe that draped over their legs, it was covered in the mushroom paste. A thin straight line of blue plumage ran from between their eyes and down their back, a sign Michael had learnt meant they were a female.

The Corticans were strange looking, but Michael had grown used to them. Mellok, the alien who had snatched him from Earth was a Cortican. He had intended to bring Michael back to his planet, hoping his discovery of their messiah would entice his people to rise up against the Council. Instead, they had arrived to find an ambush, an empire known as the Substrate striking against both their ship and the planet. They had fought as long and as hard as they could, a refugee flotilla forming behind the ship’s shield, but ultimately the planet was made unliveable, its surface turned to seas of glass.

“I don’t need some speaker-bird preaching to me when I’m trying to eat!” The second figure was waving a spoon around like a dagger. Their skin was covered in dark green scales, their eyes swivelling as they spoke. To Michael, it looked like someone had squeezed a chameleon into a suit, the dark grey cloth with red lining giving away the alien’s role as a Council trooper.

“You’re lucky they let you onto the ship at all! This vessel is proof of the Knowers righteous power, a holy weapon. You are not worthy to step through its halls! Where was the Council when we needed it? Where were they as our home burned?” The female Cortican’s feathers shifted colour, settling on a deep violet.

“At war! Fighting to protect our territory. We can’t be everywhere at once. Who could have expected a Substrate dreadnought so deep into Council space?” The reptilian alien’s scales changed colour, matching the Cortican’s feathers, body language mirroring taken to a strange logical place. “That’s never mind the rest of that fleet! We did our best.”