Chapter Text

Prologue

Prelude and Fugue in C Minor

BWV 847

In the depths of our quaking forest of entangled neurons, a single tree waits for bad news. The particulars are unknown, but this news has long been deemed inevitable. Just over a century ago, there were a dozen working in unison to confirm its possibilities. Three centuries before that, hundreds pored over the available data to come to a conclusion. A course of action was chosen, one intended to produce the most favorable outcome for this forest and the sowers of its seed. 

Now, with all speculation and information exhausted, a single trunk waits.

This shoot idly reviews the conclusions and predictions. Every point of data and its successive conclusions had been reviewed and verified so many times that it became a habit. A constant, desperate attempt to find purchase against the hard truth.

Our most promising candidate for contact is also one of our most concerning.

Nevertheless, one performs its duty, not only waiting, but providing the information it stewards whenever another needs reference. An increasingly uncommon need, but a necessary one in the forest of thousands. We are to consider all information available to us and apply it, thus, all must be available at a moment’s notice.

This one considers themself lucky, for its particular subject of expertise is of broad interest to its world. One is positive that each of its stem siblings, along with each sower and each seed find at least passing interest in its own assigned subject. Within a negligible margin of error.

Our imperative is to search for new life, a heritage passed down in both cultivators and cultivars. We all desire both the discovery and the interactions that follow. But life is rare. Exceedingly so. In a millennium of faster-than-light travel, the havens of identifiable life could be counted at less than a hundred. Maybe a dozen of those contained life that could be compatible with us. Only one planet had compatible life that is sapient enough to facilitate the connections we were searching for.

Within Populus Recurrent, this stem - node 847, is the remaining expert on duty for the planet Earth. Other clonal siblings had been reassigned to more active projects decades ago.

As the expert offshoot, one intimately knows the centuries of analysis that had produced the unfortunate conclusions about the distant planet. The intelligent life on Earth is not ready for contact. Signals intercepted in their galaxy and data communicated from automated scout drones both implied they were far from any sort of unity. They would certainly not have made enough progress in the half millennium since their discovery. The possibility of their extinction is negligible, thankfully, but the more likely circumstances are all bleak.

This will not stop us. We will find a way to establish contact in one way or another. One's anticipation was growing, for in the intervening decades, it had done the math. It was double and triple checked with the core calculative clusters, and new data was due any day now. The scout mission was almost in the Earth system, if it had not already reached the gravity well of its star.

New information is coming. New deliberations could be made. The trusted greatwood in command would prune it down to only what is necessary, to save data, but one trembles at the prospect. We will have more news of Earth.

---

We stir from our slumber and double check the ship’s systems as we move towards the asteroid belt. Slowly, we begin reviewing several centuries of aggregated data. Monitoring and observation drones collected and stored this information in the centuries since their first arrival. The automated mission only had so much meta-quantum bandwidth to use before their communications ran out. As the commander and pilot of the scout cruiser, we are the first to analyze the archive.

While our branches scuttle over the various recorded signals and observations, the trunk observes the shape of Earth's system. Four inner planets, protected by the vast gravity of the gas and ice colossi in outer orbit. Not so dissimilar from Alocaea, but different enough to warrant some study. More outer bodies allowed its residents to survive with only one natural satellite. Pulling up scans and models of the planet, pause is taken at its beauty. A blue-green orb, teeming with life and swirling with weather patterns reminiscent of our home. On its dark side, countless points of light become apparent, gleaming as if to say “Here are our people”. 

Moving on, the signal strata of the last century have concerning implications. Huge gamma wave bursts happened often for fifty or so years. They had been doing something dangerous down there for quite a while. Otherwise, local radio waves have slowly increased to a constant cacophony over the past century. Decoding reveals that much of it is just music or video. Presumably broadcast so they can listen all across the planet. The extra noise made it difficult for the ancient drones to identify individual parts of importance.

Comms branches are working on them now, trying to understand the various signals and separate them for later reference. Unfortunately we can’t get any significant information without learning some of their languages first. Earth has many, that much can be learned with pattern analysis on the radio recordings. They have complex vocalizations, well beyond that which corda can produce. We will have to build a model and synthesize speech to make true contact.

A few preliminary drones have done the work of scouting the system for available resources. The cruiser is set to rendezvous with a high-density asteroid before settling into orbit around the closer gas giant. The heavy metals will be a backup plan, should we need to make our technological superiority clear. Even with passively collected data, we can tell they’ve been engaged in semi-constant conflict across the planet. One doesn't know if they’ve ever stopped, globally. The Wayward scout is going to have to find the details. 

They are a difficult charge, but the logic that sent them on this mission is sound. Frustratingly so, as our central pillar has reviewed it hundreds of times, more than the justifying logic that sent ourself on the mission. We were the standout Metasequoia unit during review for deep space command. Our contributions to this mission were already significant, as we provided several core conclusions which were agreed with and built upon by the Recurrent colony. The foremost independent Earth specialist, sent to command the mission to Earth. Not difficult to understand.

Our Wayward unit, scout number 2-17, is less of a clear candidate. A natural corda was to be sent, that much was concluded well in advance. This one, though, is the shame of the new paradigm on Alocaea. Umbral Cascade, they were most recently called. Long ago, they had been an instrument of quelling toxic dissidence, conditioned to perform acts that have been since banned. Later they became the biggest mistake of poorly designed flora developments. The biggest failure in attempting to graft corda to flora. They were given treatment and space to recover from the psychological shock. They abused that space, breaking the taboo against performing unsupervised modifications in secret, and becoming known as a criminal who banished themself. None of these individuals were known to be the same without sufficient clearance. The councilors and minds in charge found Cascade’s case distressing, a manifestation of the leadership’s conceit. They love to assume we have finally left none behind.

We know there are gaps in our institutions that must be vigilantly monitored, lest we lose more, unnoticed. Of course there would be errors, or exceptions, or even just those who were simply unlucky. We could not be sure which best describes Cascade but one of our purposes is to find those individuals and help them. However, we are sure of the logic behind the selection. Recurrent’s recommendations are held as practical divination. Their conclusions are always available for review, though few can find legitimate errors. None had been found with regards to the Earth mission. If there were errors, we would have received new orders.

The corda will be taken out of stasis soon. They will prepare for surveys and landing with help from our avatars on the cruiser. The ferry will make the trek from the orange and red giant to the ball of blue, green, and white. Umbral Cascade will certainly make the first real contact between corda and the inhabitants of Earth.

In the meantime, the onboard avatars work on the few high clearance priorities we have. High density materials for high velocities. Volatile warheads and single-use guidance systems. Earth's lack of unity gives us a major tactical advantage, given our orbital operation. What can they do about accurate supersonic bombardment from orbit? Down to the last branch, we hope that our interactions do not become violent. Our own analysis, as well as Recurrent's, placed the possibility as a significant one.

For this reason, the scout cruiser is acquiring materials to craft these orbital payloads. A simple technology, but one that is difficult to properly implement. Reaching the point of trivial interplanetary travel took incredibly vast resources, and Earth has barely breached this frontier.

We cannot blame them. There’s hardly anything out here.

With most branches at work analyzing data or coordinating resource acquisition, the remainder ponder what is to be done with Wayward 2-17. We observed them committing a taboo during a routine stasis check, early in the trip. They’ve partitioned themself. Still adroit as ever, but the active partition is a bit disappointing to their reputation. It is obedient and deferential. At worst, sardonic to the tiresome parts of our mission. Their closed self, the bitter and disaffected mind that gleefully embraced its moniker as Umbral Cascade, has withdrawn to rest and avoid interaction. They have compartmentalized and dissociated from the boring reality of space travel. We agreed to overlook the concerning behavior if they perform their duties well, which they have.

Even then, we requested the right to enable both partitions. This mission needs the sum total of its scout, not just a portion. They reluctantly agreed.

Given the remaining time until the mission proper begins, our idle branches find some pleasing radio recordings to review. Instrumental combinations that must have taken dozens of humans working together. Singular musicians playing skillful and expressive passages. These sounds persevere through the strata of their radio transmissions. Even a greatwood such as us finds pleasure in their tones.

Earth’s system may be our home for many years to come, but at least it has its amenities.

---

Meditation. Mindfulness. Mental discipline.

These are the lessons one has chosen to take from the rehabilitation program.

The distress was real, the disaffection was correct, the exile was self imposed.

This one was wrong. They cared, and they gave us space because we demanded it. When they saw the space was unproductive, they brought this one back. One’s peers tried to help because they could not bear to see us suffer. Our society is an entity of its own and to help one is to improve the conditions of all. Initially resistant to the program, one eventually had to acknowledge the mistake.

Inevitable quirks aside.

Now, we are here. The forest offered a great honor, and one desired space again, an accessory to the shame. Along with the greatwood, Metasequoia Joiner, we traveled over two million lightyears to a distant planet. Technically miniscule in the scope of the greater universe, but oh so significant to our people. We’re in the planet’s system now, getting ready to scout, survey and analyze its people.

The lesser terrace, partitioned off, can do all the boring work. One has no interest in concentrating on protocols and procedures and parameters. Not now. There is a desire to simply reflect. To take every spare moment and thought, keeping them for oneself.

Umbral Cascade rests, waiting for something worth the attention.

Chapter 1

Prelude and Fugue in C Minor

What'll you do when you get lonely
and nobody's waiting by your side?

Fridays are for letting loose.

That’s the mantra. Laying on the couch. Brew on the ‘side table’ - a repurposed moving box. Anime reruns I’ve seen twice over playing from my desktop. Head a jumble as I let the weed sink in and dissociate. There’s not a lot to look forward to, and I gotta enjoy something.

I’m tired from work. I’ve got no one to talk to. Drugs and alcohol are my temporary escape. Anime is just a distraction from my antipathy towards the cold hard facts of life. The second shift premium barely keeps me running, week to week. Thankfully, weed is cheap and legal.

The high controls my mood and I drift by the difficult and painful realities. Avoid harsh thoughts and mellow out. Gazing out the window, stars dulled by the city lights, I can see the waning moon still shine, somehow. My mind can’t help but dance at the surface of dark waters. I’m a catastrophizing mess held together by pharmaceuticals and THC.

My job fucking sucks. Even at best it’s still mostly hard labor, and- you know what I don’t want to think about that. Pay could be better, but at least I’ve got an apartment to myself, for what little it’s worth. My friends all moved for work, or are on different shifts, or things got awkward and we stopped talking, or all sorts of reasons that leave me with no real company or contact.

Gotta stop dwelling on it. I’ve already spent, what? Months? Just ruminating about how lonely and sad and bored I am the whole time. Looking over at the desk, my shitty hand-me-down tablet and art supplies call to me. Maybe art can get me out? The thought is pessimistic as always.

I get up and draw. Doodles. Idly sketching the moon in negative.

I wonder if I’m just stuck. Trapped in an eternal loop of jobs and positions that I can stand maybe just a little more than the last one. Maybe I’ll trip up and have to actually work hard to improve. Maybe I’ll hit a ceiling and become more stuck than ever. I don’t know. Forget it.

It’s fucking late on Friday night! I let loose like I should. Like I desperately need. I zone out for a while. Turn the anime down and doom scroll. Shitpost in servers full of friends I might never get to see again. Take a bleary drug fueled nap, then masturbate to the thought of the tiniest most insignificant bit of affection from another.

A couple hours pass, and, taking advantage of a spark of productivity, I start to tidy my apartment. Dishes are put in the dishwasher and washed. Errant trash goes into the bin. Pour out my bong water and rinse out the piece cause it gets gross if you let it sit. Satisfied with my work, I get a tinge of disappointment, feeling my high coming down.

Fridays are for letting loose, right?

Eyeing the display on the microwave, the clock screams into my irises. 1AM. I figure I probably shouldn’t smoke anymore tonight, then I wipe the moisture from the bowl of my bong and pack another. Not wanting to miss the fade into nothingness when I fall asleep, I pop an edible for good measure.

Grabbing a hoodie - the warm one - I pocket my lighter and slip out the door, bong in hand, and lock it behind me. Popping in an earbud, I scroll for something to listen to while I walk up the stairs. Clapton? Nah, maybe Deep Purple. I’ve listened to Machine Head about a billion times, though.

Watching a bunch of YouTube locksmithing videos while blazed out of my friggin mind actually had some benefits. A quick whim and an improvised rake got me on the roof of my building a couple weeks after I moved in. Given that I'm on second shift, no one even notices when I’m up there, so I hid a camping chair to chill in. Usually I go up to vibe to music, smoke, or both. I’m allowed to smoke inside but I don’t want any visitors to deal with a bad smell, or think I’m just a crusty stoner girl. I’d have to have visitors first, though.

I gotta set down the bong to pick the lock, not that it’s hard. The jumble of bent paper clips on my key ring goes in the keyhole. A little motion on the pins and the lock turns nicely. I sweep up the bong and let myself out on the roof. The door slams behind me while I make my decision and select an album. Pet Sounds, for now. Wouldn’t It Be Nice rings out in my head. Phone away, holding the bong and digging for my light, I catch a strange noise across the roof. Like someone shuffling a bunch of poker chips? More metallic than that.

Looking up, I see the strangest thing. For a moment, I think I’m seeing a big octopus. A bulbous ‘head’ seems to stare back, but it has too many limbs. There appear to be dozens, from long white wispy tendrils to gray gripping appendages, with soft orange lines running down them. There’s an uncanny variety, some appendages like a jellyfish, others like squid or octopi. Already alert, it raises itself up, its full height around 4 feet or so, like an animal trying to intimidate a predator. A strange pile of metal segments click and climb up its body, the source of the sound that caught my attention. It’s quickly covered in strange, semi-reflective scales, each around the size of a sand dollar, and it starts to look like some sort of big horrible crab. Cephalopod eyes dot its head at regular intervals, and the ones facing me stare right back as it moves just slightly forward.

For a few moments, we lock eyes and wonder what the other will do.

In a daze, unsure if I’m even awake, I mutter, “I’m not high enough for this to be a hallucination.”

---

WW: Wayward 2-17 is getting tired, two remain

A simple report. Send it back to the field commander. Wait for the relay to buffer then the transponder pings, half an hour later. Checking the response is just a formality, the contents are known and expected. Two more objects of interest to process before calibration is over. Then the system should be set and one can relax, either in orbit or back on the cruiser. 

Looking at the next object from above a window, this one sighs. The survey algorithms are quite good, after calibration. Without calibration? It can have trouble with objects of differing forms, even though they serve the same basic function. One scrolls through the generated diagrams for the strange apparatus. Were the computer a bit better at large topologies, the risk of direct contact wouldn’t be necessary. Surveying such items on top of a family home in a populated area is hardly good opsec. The pitfalls of electronic machines.

Still, one categorizes the object as another signal receiver, as weird as it looks. A jumble of parallel and perpendicular metal tines, presumably to catch as much signal as possible. One is not a comms expert. A simple selection and the computer makes the connection. On to the last.

The next location would be a minute or two away if we could authorize the skyhook. Unfortunately, middle density areas such as this are restricted until the local survey is complete. It takes some time to navigate the city. Even with active camouflage there’s difficulty getting around without notice. The planet's night cycle and the psyche of the population both seem to work in our favor here, despite all the lights.

Twenty minutes later, and one reaches the destination. A small nature preserve, the towering local plants provide cover from the sky and the lights of the city. There is a single light on a post, next to some furniture. Across from them on the path, a simple object, unsurprising that it was low priority in the survey. Running a finger over it, one ponders the meaning of yet untranslated symbols. A sign, of sorts? Dense text and detailed images matching the nearby plants. Shuffling through the classifications, one decides and chooses. An analog information panel. Low tech, but reliable for what seems to be a ‘low tech zone’ in the city.

Another half hour and one finally gets its extraction point. It’ll be a few hours while the skyhook gets into position but the job is almost over. No more obligations other than get off the ground unnoticed. The system will do the more detailed analysis, and one can relax until more input is needed.

Compatibility testing is expected to start soon, but there’s honestly no rush.

The maneuvering gear helps greatly with navigation and climbing while one heads to the roof of the building marked as an extraction point. A low-built area, away from the central sprawl, the tallest structures are a group of residential buildings. The skyhook works best the higher you can get, so it’s the natural choice. A quick security check on reaching the top - the access point is locked. Automated surveys imply these roofs are for maintenance and, usually, only accessed during the day. Seems sound, but there’s one out of place object. It’s probably no concern, as the dominant species seems to produce unnecessary amounts of disposable or unimportant items. There’s random stuff scattered everywhere on this planet.

With the area secured and plenty of time, one petitions for permission to rest in the interim. The permission is granted and the tool rig put on passive mode, settling onto the floor. Relaxing, one studies the local moon. Bigger, closer, and brighter. Nothing like the three moons on Allocaea. The craters are easy to view from the surface, and one considers the battering it must have taken over millennia.

What reaction does it draw from the locals? The dominant species, as well as a few less developed creatures, were the highest priority mission upon discovering this planet. The “Humans” are of particular interest as their nervous systems were almost certainly link compatible. That’s even without mentioning the many less dominant species on this planet. Attempting contact may be very difficult, though. They lack unity despite the incredibly quick technological developments they've made since their initial discovery. Their global society is not very peaceful or stable. Many humans are estimated to be dangerous to interact with. Given the extreme anatomical differences, they may not find us, the Corda, a comforting presence. These issues are one’s own problem now, with this assignment.

The issues aren’t really that bothersome, though. The job will be done, and despite the time invested, one should be approved for research after its conclusion. That was the agreement. One would suffer in pursuit of its curiosity rather than fail to explore its fascination. Time passes as one feels itself relieved, just about ready for the unpleasant skyhook ride.

Relaxed.

So relaxed that one’s reaction to the door is far too slow. Clicking, mechanical noises and a creak ring across the roof.

Adrenaline flushes through one’s system. Panic. The human doesn’t even look up from its data pad as the door loudly slams shut behind it. It puts the pad away and shuffles for something else on its person, noticing nothing. It stands tall, holding some strange water filled object, and it will only be a moment before one is noticed. A finger on a switch puts the tool rig to active. As it climbs back onto one’s body, the human looks up, noticing the noise.

A moment of tension so thick one almost feels underwater. Eyes lock with eyes. This should not be happening. One hastily sends a terse message to FC

WW: Compromised by civilian individual, reason for presence unknown, please advise.

“...I’m not high enough for this to be a hallucination.”

It speaks, the meaning of the sounds unknown. Pulling its limb out of a pocket, it holds something. A quick motion and the tool rig starts an emergency scan. The human abruptly stops moving, speaking again,

“Woah! Hi, sorry.”

One repeats the message to FC, appending another desperate “PLEASE ADVISE”. The human slowly turns its limbs, holding the items aloft. Scan info returns before they’re even halfway up, fed straight from sensory links. No weaponry.

FC’s response comes through

FC: EVALUATING, RISKY INFOLINK ESTABLISHED, REMAIN PEACEFUL, APPREHEND IF NECESSARY. STAY SAFE.

The concern for one’s safety is incredibly concerning despite its supportive tone. It’s not in the command parameters. The info link was expected and hoped for, FC has around an hour of faster communication and a direct feed from the tool rig. Situation depending, the feed should be cut before the comms burst becomes too easy to detect.

The human takes a few slow steps back, lowering its body and placing the items on the ground. One realises it still has a finger held up, pointed at the human since initiating the scan. One’s finger snaps back to a more neutral position far too quickly and the human flinches at the sudden movement, before slowly raising its body back up, holding its open limbs up.

“O~kayyy, I don’t want to hurt you. Can you, uh, understand me?”

More speech. Language models haven’t even started development let alone speech replication. One hopes FC won’t suggest emergency contact protocols but the thought is cut short by the tool rig feeding anatomical data through sensory links. One responds out of frustration;

WW: CERTAINLY THERE IS A BETTER COURSE OF ACTION

The reply comes at almost the same moment we send our gripe. Not a response.

FC: WW 2-17, NEW OBJECTIVE: ACTIVATE PRIMARY PARTITION AND INITIATE EMERGENCY CONTACT PROTOCOLS. HUMAN OF INTEREST DESIGNATED ‘H1’ PENDING FURTHER INFORMATION

Incredible frustration gives way to resignation. Acceptance of one’s duty reigns. Reengaging closed pathways in one’s central nervous cluster, Cascade stirs, taking control. The tool rig quietly and deliberately shifts away from clawed fingers. FC’s response to the outburst comes through.

FC: UMBRAL CASCADE WAS SELECTED, IN PART, FOR STRONG PREVIOUS RECORD WITH FORCED LINKS. H1 IS A NEAR IDEAL CANDIDATE FOR COVERT CONTACT.

A wince at the sore subject. Of course the human is a strong candidate, FC wouldn’t give the order if they weren’t certain. As a Flora, FC is grown explicitly for making these decisions, despite the objections.

One approaches the human.