Hollewanderer
The Bee Commander
ZOLON-DARK
The capital of ZOLON was not a lively place. Unlike many others, it was not a great city, built up for decades, centuries or even millenia, a center of culture and society. The people of ZOLON built space colonies, or rebuilt them, and lived in them as happily as one might expect, but not here.
ZOLON-DARK was a spaceship, vaster than any O'Neill cylinder, enormous relic that made its journey back to Earth orbitals from the outer reaches of the Solar System, determined to bring its crew home. But it was not something that was meant to be inhabited.
Its vast internal structures now lay asleep, technology nobody understood anymore shut down or stuck in maintenance modes. Machines gently rested in their maintenance tanks, immersed in nanomachine-rich fluids that have long since gone completely dormant, fossils of a cosmic age. Stasis pods that once held ZOLON's people, them and the engines the last sparks of functionality of the massive ship on its final journey, now lay empty, a reminder of the people who woke up without memories in a new, strange world.
It wasn't unexplored, per se – but without any memories, without the command codes and the ship's own control systems, it was a giant that could not possibly rise from its slumber. Dead but dreaming.
Here, the government of ZOLON gathered and worked, the Parliament – though that was not the word they used – and the Secretariat, the greatest of the command section's long-gone-cold halls repurposed to hold the assembly. The ship's life support was not reactivated here, not really – but for the rulers of ZOLON, cyborgs without exception, the harshness of the environment posed no obstacle, only served as a reminder of their solemn duty.
And so it slept, surrounded by clouds of satellites, not a spot of light in the darkness, but darkness itself. Perhaps it waited for a promised time. Perhaps it was just having its earned rest.
And within its lightless bridge, systems long since shut down, Director Laevateinn, the Lady of Light and Darkness, the one who commanded the sun, gently drifted in microgravity, holding on to a chair – but not the captain's, no, that was not hers to claim, not yet - and watched the sole remaining computer, screen flickering, the shape on it the first thing she truly remembered when she opened her eyes.
A once-colourful virtual avatar of the ship's failing main computer, the teal hair of the cheerful girl barely recognisable amidst the distortions, as she prepares a final recording for the crew that were her charges, knowing all too well that she would already be deep in her own slumber when those in the stasis pods wake up from theirs, hopefully in a better world.
"I'm s-s-orr.y. T.ha.t I c-oul-d on.ly do so m-mu.ch. May f-fortune be with you."
The last words of the message echoed in the empty space with surprising clarity, and then all went quiet.
The Director, for so long in her position that people started to forget her first name, replayed the message once again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Nobody understood anymore how ZOLON-DARK's computers worked, or how they were built, even the artificial intelligence technology of the Seraphim seemingly originating in another branch of pre-Collapse society. They were stumbling in the dark and any mistake could cause irreparable – unforgivable – damage. Afraid of the consequences, they did not even know where to begin.
But no matter what it took, no matter what she had to do, the Director would not let her down – abandon the one who saved them all at a terrible, final cost to herself. The Solar System was one great tomb, and this was but one tragedy out of billions, but the very fundamentals of humanity meant that she could not turn her back on their saviour. If she did, what would that make her, what would that make all of them?
Just clockwork dolls with a pair of shears that could do nothing but advance forwards.
AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA
It was impossible to say just how much time passed in that darkness, filled with only one spot of light and only one voice.
But eventually, a shape coalesced behind Laevateinn, too large to be a human and too small to call a mobile suit. It towered over the Director, the screen's light suggesting hints of metal and deep-black bullet-proof fabric, a sharp contrast with the almost porcelain-like, snow-white cyborg woman.
Someone less familiar might have thought it was a ghost of the ancient ship taking form, but the leader of ZOLON knew exactly what sort of spectre summoned itself to this place.
"Hegel."
"Narantuya."
She was just "the Director" for so long that many people have started to forget her first name. But certainly not one of the Nine Philosophers, a special taskforce of ZOLON's Safeguard and the most fearsome of its cyborgs, her right hand – and fist.
"You are needed in the Central Command. There have been developments."
"Very well, then. Come with me. I have a special task for you."
She gently shut the screen down and the pair left, both long since having given up their flesh in the pursuit of a dream, leaving the bridge to once again fall into lightless slumber.
Soon.
Soon.
The capital of ZOLON was not a lively place. Unlike many others, it was not a great city, built up for decades, centuries or even millenia, a center of culture and society. The people of ZOLON built space colonies, or rebuilt them, and lived in them as happily as one might expect, but not here.
ZOLON-DARK was a spaceship, vaster than any O'Neill cylinder, enormous relic that made its journey back to Earth orbitals from the outer reaches of the Solar System, determined to bring its crew home. But it was not something that was meant to be inhabited.
Its vast internal structures now lay asleep, technology nobody understood anymore shut down or stuck in maintenance modes. Machines gently rested in their maintenance tanks, immersed in nanomachine-rich fluids that have long since gone completely dormant, fossils of a cosmic age. Stasis pods that once held ZOLON's people, them and the engines the last sparks of functionality of the massive ship on its final journey, now lay empty, a reminder of the people who woke up without memories in a new, strange world.
It wasn't unexplored, per se – but without any memories, without the command codes and the ship's own control systems, it was a giant that could not possibly rise from its slumber. Dead but dreaming.
Here, the government of ZOLON gathered and worked, the Parliament – though that was not the word they used – and the Secretariat, the greatest of the command section's long-gone-cold halls repurposed to hold the assembly. The ship's life support was not reactivated here, not really – but for the rulers of ZOLON, cyborgs without exception, the harshness of the environment posed no obstacle, only served as a reminder of their solemn duty.
And so it slept, surrounded by clouds of satellites, not a spot of light in the darkness, but darkness itself. Perhaps it waited for a promised time. Perhaps it was just having its earned rest.
And within its lightless bridge, systems long since shut down, Director Laevateinn, the Lady of Light and Darkness, the one who commanded the sun, gently drifted in microgravity, holding on to a chair – but not the captain's, no, that was not hers to claim, not yet - and watched the sole remaining computer, screen flickering, the shape on it the first thing she truly remembered when she opened her eyes.
A once-colourful virtual avatar of the ship's failing main computer, the teal hair of the cheerful girl barely recognisable amidst the distortions, as she prepares a final recording for the crew that were her charges, knowing all too well that she would already be deep in her own slumber when those in the stasis pods wake up from theirs, hopefully in a better world.
"I'm s-s-orr.y. T.ha.t I c-oul-d on.ly do so m-mu.ch. May f-fortune be with you."
The last words of the message echoed in the empty space with surprising clarity, and then all went quiet.
The Director, for so long in her position that people started to forget her first name, replayed the message once again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Nobody understood anymore how ZOLON-DARK's computers worked, or how they were built, even the artificial intelligence technology of the Seraphim seemingly originating in another branch of pre-Collapse society. They were stumbling in the dark and any mistake could cause irreparable – unforgivable – damage. Afraid of the consequences, they did not even know where to begin.
But no matter what it took, no matter what she had to do, the Director would not let her down – abandon the one who saved them all at a terrible, final cost to herself. The Solar System was one great tomb, and this was but one tragedy out of billions, but the very fundamentals of humanity meant that she could not turn her back on their saviour. If she did, what would that make her, what would that make all of them?
Just clockwork dolls with a pair of shears that could do nothing but advance forwards.
AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA-AVA
It was impossible to say just how much time passed in that darkness, filled with only one spot of light and only one voice.
But eventually, a shape coalesced behind Laevateinn, too large to be a human and too small to call a mobile suit. It towered over the Director, the screen's light suggesting hints of metal and deep-black bullet-proof fabric, a sharp contrast with the almost porcelain-like, snow-white cyborg woman.
Someone less familiar might have thought it was a ghost of the ancient ship taking form, but the leader of ZOLON knew exactly what sort of spectre summoned itself to this place.
"Hegel."
"Narantuya."
She was just "the Director" for so long that many people have started to forget her first name. But certainly not one of the Nine Philosophers, a special taskforce of ZOLON's Safeguard and the most fearsome of its cyborgs, her right hand – and fist.
"You are needed in the Central Command. There have been developments."
"Very well, then. Come with me. I have a special task for you."
She gently shut the screen down and the pair left, both long since having given up their flesh in the pursuit of a dream, leaving the bridge to once again fall into lightless slumber.
Soon.
Soon.