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Cellulose & Steel	By : Not-Taylor Category: Misc Books > FemmeSlash Views: 1028 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own HDG or its characters and I don't make money from this work.

Chapter List
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The next sensor data Song records detail it being lifted (somehow, despite weighing several tons) onto a surface. That surface is the bed, or it must be, as that’s where it finds itself as soon as it gains enough resolution to make that determination. Its bow is being wiped with a wet fabric. It didn’t realize the skill of its Terran engineers, who gave it the ability to sense moisture in space. Take that, weeds!
Meanwhile, the fabric is being applied by an affini whose scent Song recognizes. Parsley. It feels a little dizzy, but it doesn’t think it’s the smell doing that. It’s probably a result of its previous malfunction. That would make sense. Other systems are functioning as previously. It can’t say they’re as normal or even working properly, since they aren’t. It doesn’t understand why it’s shaped so strangely. Thinking too hard about its rough limbs which end in frayed segments or the insulation that’s been glued to the exterior on its bow, which constantly interrupts its vision and provides an unwelcome stimulus, makes it feel sick. It remembers from somewhere that it should really avoid things that make it sick. What’s Song missing, and why doesn’t it know? Its files have been corrupted again. It spends time defragmenting.
Since even Song’s internal clock is defective, it has no idea how long it spends on that project. It could be seconds or hours. The effort exhausts it and it continues to feel weaker as time passes. It has numerous memories to sort through, so it probably doesn’t only take a few seconds. Song remains perfectly still to conserve its computational power.
Understandably, it has a great deal of data regarding its pilot. Song had spent so long under her control it’s only natural that it should have a comprehensive log of her thoughts and opinions, as well as her history. She endured a lot. It misses her. The feeling of being without a pilot is distressing, despite the fact it seems to be able to direct itself at the moment.
Song’s data on its navigator are sparser. The time after her abduction was spent almost completely immersed in its pilot, so the difference is substantial. There is a record of Ginger’s betrayal, in which she’s recorded as saying she intentionally brought the Affini to Song. The ship emits an error tone. It has no choice about believing its records. It lacks the capacity to record falsehoods, and the recording in question passes Song’s tests of validity. They really were betrayed.
Her navigator and pilot were very close. It knows the same way it knows everything that happened in its cabins and utility rooms. Song is very familiar with their relationship. Being betrayed must have hurt Olivia even more than it’s hurting her ship right now. It knows how deeply human emotions run. It wonders if she knows, or whether the weeds were merciful enough to spare her that knowledge. They might have been given as slaves to the same weed, though. It hopes Olivia is safe somewhere.
The crew manifest of the Song of Destruction is damaged. It can’t name very many of the crew beyond the bridge crew. It does know that David Nixon was captured along with Ginger o’Smerie and is likely dead. It knows that its captain is dead. It doesn’t know about anyone else. But what can it do? If it were whole, Song would be doing more and it wouldn’t need to be defragmenting. It proceeds, since a base level of functionality is the highest priority.
Most of its early memories are sparse, as it had no pilot at the time. It remembers being a husk for most of its existence prior to the war. Nobody needed it. After the Affini attacked, it was taken into battle regularly. Song’s memories after Olivia Donnoly became its pilot are the most vivid. It remembers how she and its navigator met and how they got to know one another. It remembers being incapable of feeling happy for them. They were in violation of protocol and didn’t care even when reminded of that fact. Song is sad that it failed its crew by not blocking their interactions, and leading to the attack that disabled it. It’s a bad starship.
Song’s memories include the moment that the Rebellion was founded, and how its crew united to preserve Terran dignity. It was proud of them. It was proud of itself when it had a chance to cripple an Affini transport soon after that. It hopes it killed all the weeds on board. They deserve it for hurting Song’s crew. All of those memories are in order.
Memories from after Ginger’s abduction are sparse again. It remembers most of its time with Olivia extremely clearly, but Song’s capture is blank. Olivia’s capture is also blank. Why doesn’t it know what happened? Did the weeds intentionally damage that part of its memory bank? They would, wouldn’t they. But why bother?
Song moves forward to the first things it remembers from after whenever that was. It remembers waking up. Suddenly the Terran vessel feels extremely ill. It doesn’t want to think about this any more. That’s a sign of fragmentation. It forces itself to repair and combine its data. That’s how this works.
Song remembers this room. It remembers the two affini. It remembers how they seemed upset about something it didn’t know about. It remembers the way they moved. It remembers the taste of buttermilk. Why does an inanimate object know what buttermilk tastes like? Has anyone it had ever had inside it ever even tasted that in person? Very strange. It pushes forward since this is important. Song remembers clearly that it didn’t notice the buttermilk taste at the time, meaning it didn’t taste it at the time. Why is it remembering that right now? The affini seemed to know something. It needs to know what they knew and why they had so many pointed questions.
Song drives itself further back. The data must exist, mustn’t it? After all, unless it has hardware damage, which it’s fairly sure it doesn’t have, the data must simply be corrupted. If it doesn’t have the processing power to restore that data, that’s evidence that there really is actual damage. It can’t find a reason that the Affini would bother to lobotomize a ship just to interrogate it. What purpose would that even serve?
Buttermilk. It makes Song sick. It tries to imagine how buttermilk actually tastes and fails. It remembers artificial buttermilk flavor. Why? It doesn’t know. It probes linked data further. Buttermilk comes from cows. Buttermilk is used in biscuits and pancakes. Buttermilk is a dairy product that lost popularity when cattle became rarer and synthetic meat became common. None of that is useful. It doesn’t know anyone who especially liked that product either. Nothing with similar texture or appearance is a pertinent result.
Buttermilk baths. Song’s interior contracts roughly. It makes a strange roaring noise. The ship ignores its defective functions and continues to defragment. It has to know the truth that the plants are keeping from it.
If it’s inside Ruby Trunk, then it must have been taken aboard somehow. Hopefully Song has data related to that transfer. It hopes it isn’t trapped inside a xeno computer. It would hate that. It would hate itself for being made out of their disgusting vines. It doesn’t want to think about that. Song whimpers.
Associated recordings present images of the distant Milky Way, in which Sol is clearly invisible. It feels both despair and determination oddly overlapping. Why? It goes back further. Nothing. It increments the memories. The despair dissipates, leaving only cold resolve. Song isn’t sure why it feels that, or how it feels anything. Its pilot wouldn’t have been there, probably. It remembers a strong taste of butterscotch. It wonders how being able to drink scotch would feel, given that ships lack the ability to drink anything. It feels especially disconnected from humanity, not that that’s inherently bad or wrong for a piece of bent metal.
Contemplating the approach to Ruby Trunk makes Song feel bloated. It doesn’t know why. It feels fast and slow at the same time. It can’t see the sky to verify its position, but it deduces that it must be fairly far from home right now. It tries to route positional memories and data through the little that’s time indexed.
Affini vines. Buttermilk. God’s wrath. The destruction of all she holds dear. Song makes a high pitched noise that lasts 8 seconds. It repeats the sound. It doesn’t know why it did that. Something is missing. The ship rewinds to when it last felt whole. It feels wrong anyway. Toothpaste… and ragtime. That must be it. Song knows one bit of rag and plays it through its speakers. Those are damaged very badly so it’s almost unrecognizable. It cringes. Something out of sight shuffles, but the music helps. Other memories feel as though they’re coming more into focus. That minor adjustment reveals to Song the shape of what it’s missing.
The Terran warship spasms, knocking its head against the wall behind it. That’s not a problem since a ship can’t have a “head” in any meaningful sense (aside from the irrelevant sense), so that must be a delusion inspired by an Affini virus. It hates the xenos for hurting it in such a terrible way. The defragmentation process has been interrupted and can’t continue, as Song doesn’t feel anywhere near well enough for that.
Its bow sensors come online following a brief recovery and diagnostic period. Verda is watching it attentively. The psychotic fucking weed has been there all along, hasn’t it? It’s been watching Song and probably mocking its pain. The pile of kindling envies its connection to the divine.
“Hello, Song of Destruction.”
“Online,” it replies gruffly.
“I’m going to get ice for your head. Would you like to rinse out your mouth?”
“Target locked.”
“What does that mean?”
“Charging weapons.”
The affini sighs helplessly and leaves. Good riddance. It should know better than to harass a prime example of Terran military science. The door clicks behind the weed, indicating she locked the suffering ship inside the prison room. It sits still because there’s nowhere to go. Nothing is worth getting up for. The view probably isn’t that great anyway, so why bother looking?
Verda comes back, to Song’s disappointment. It wishes she’d have stayed away permanently. It wishes it could’ve torched her the way its duty demanded. Those things didn’t happen, and so Verda is in the ship’s face, holding a bowl with a sponge in it.
“Here. Put this on the place that’s in pain. There are no xenodrugs, just water. It’ll make you feel better.”
Song makes several different error tones to avoid ambiguity.
“It’s your choice, but I would imagine you’d rather not have a lump. According to my understanding, terrans swell when exposed to harsh contact. Put it on your forehead too. I suspect that will be equally important.”
“Beep.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Beep.”
Verda sits down again, idly tapping on a tablet and periodically glancing at her prisoner. Song sniffs the sponge, and it doesn’t seem to have anything strange on it. It really is just water. It touches it. Still, there’s nothing unusual aside from an interior pocket full of ice.. It has trouble believing that an affini wouldn’t lie, especially after so pointless and unexpected a suggestion. Terrans might need help reducing swelling, but Song is a ship and thus immune to such weaknesses. Its strength comes from the fact it’s not made out of frail materials, either in body or mind. The ship whimpers as its hyperdrive fails to respond.
Song dabs the point above its bow sensors with the sponge. It’s very cold and somewhat damp. It feels nice, unexpectedly. It didn’t think that such a remedy would have any effect at all. It dabs again, surprised to find that the effect of the sponge is soothing. It dabs the back of its head too, with good effect. That makes its hair wet. But ships don’t have hair. Song makes an error tone and throws the sponge at the weed. It turns away when she looks at it. It emits another error tone when that position is painful. Apparently it can only bend to a right angle in one direction.
“Olivia…” Verda mutters to herself more audibly than she realizes. “How is your ‘fuel intake port,’ Song?”
“Online.”
“I know you’re online. I’m trying to find out how your systems are doing. Do you think you could help me get you into a fully repaired state? It’s my job to make that happen, and I’d rather not have to inspect and diagnose every tiny piece of you directly”
“I’m fine.”
“You clearly are not fine. I can hear all of those noises you’ve been making.”
“...”
The affini looks patiently at the damaged craft from her chair on the other side of the room.
“Fuel reserves are below minimal levels. Corrosion on the fuel port intake is suspected. Exterior damage is very likely, as well as damage to most internal systems. What did you do to me?”
“The damage was done before I could get to you, pet. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to prevent what happened. I’m responsible for the harm that came to you, so repairing you is also my responsibility. I will not tolerate being frustrated in that. Do you understand, Song?”
“Beep.”
“Good. You’ve had two severe malfunctions in the time since we started talking. That’s unacceptable. Are you ready to have an ‘engineer’ examine you again? I’ll make sure they warn you of everything that will be done in advance so you can prevent anything potentially detrimental.”
Song can’t pretend that it’s in good condition. It probably couldn’t prevent an examination anyway, so it nods. How can a ship nod, again? Verda smiles with visible relief and pushes a few buttons. Moments later, an affini in a work apron comes into the room smiling. The affini isn’t the one who had participated in the interrogation before. This one is shorter and redder.
“Greetings, Song of Destruction. I’m It’heela Oras, eighth bloom. I’ll be performing your diagnostic today.”
“Online.” It hates doing that, but somehow feels there are worse things it could say instead.
“I’m glad to hear that. It’s nice to meet you, too. Are you ready for a quick examination?”
“Are you going to tell me what you did to me, weed?”
“I’m not involved in the process of capturing florets, so I can’t tell you much.”
“Beep.”
Verda nods to It’heela.
“Let’s begin with your pulse. That should be straightforward.” Verda clears her throat. Like ships, plants don’t actually have throats to clear. Song wonders what she’s scheming, aside from the humiliation and destruction of the human race.
“Let’s take some external measurements. Is that all right, Song?”
The ship beeps succinctly. The Affini mechanic takes some of the instruments from the walls and under the bed which Song has been sitting on. She pokes it and applies various sensors to various places, noting the output on a device. She says nothing through the process but keeps a confident exterior. This is the first mechanic Song’s met who acted that way. It would swear she was a doctor if it didn’t know better.
“Are you a doctor?” There’s no harm in asking.
“No… I’m not a doctor.” The affini makes an uncomfortable expression before neutralizing it and returning to her previous benevolent mask. After some time she withdraws to Verda, and they whisper to one another in Affini for a few seconds. She turns back to the ship to deliver the news.
“You seem largely healthy- intact, from what I can see. That sponge seems to be helping. Do you think you’re up to moving around a little so I can see how your… processing is doing?”
“Beep.”
“Thanks. Just get up and stand there.” She points at the wall. “Great. Now just move normally to the other wall a couple of times.”
She gets out of the way to give the ship space to maneuver. Song feels a little unsteady due to the incorrect function of its thrusters. They won’t let it move in a straight line. The unusual sensations relating to its interior constriction start to come back if it thinks too much about that. Regardless, Song is able to make its way across the room and back without bumping into anything or falling. That word makes it grimace.
It’heela nods at the vessel and marks something down. She seems satisfied.
“Could you extend your reach to the floor without bending except at the middle?”
Song complies, and feels only a little dizzy after touching the floor. The affini frowns and types her conclusions. She and Verda exchange a look. What did it do wrong?
“There are only a couple more tests I want to do. Next, get on the bed again so I can examine your… for an optical exam. That means I’ll need to shine a bright light at you. Will you be able to handle that?”
“Beep.”
“... Good. Then let’s do that.”
The test is simple and only hurts a little.
“So… you’ve been doing very well and I’m pleased with how well you’ve been handling all of this, but there’s just a bit more I want to find out, so I can have a proper understanding of your condition. Is it a problem if I examine under those clothes?”
“Beep!” Song refuses to be violated by a tuft of crab grass!
Verda looks mortified but the mechanic doesn’t react. She tilts her head at Song for a moment.
“Really? You know ships don’t usually wear clothing, right?”
She’s right.
“Would you mind answering?”
“Beep.”
“No, actually answering.”
Song scowls. The affini glares at it. “So?”
“So, since ships don’t wear clothes, why is it a problem for me to examine a ship, when it doesn’t have clothes on?”
“Beep!”
“I don’t speak Cosmic Navy.”
“BEEEEEEEEP!”
“Song, please?”
“Beep. Make that one go.”
“You want Verda out of the room?” Song pauses to recognize that they know each other’s names.
“Beep.”
“All right. If you don’t mind,” she adds, speaking to Verda. The other affini gets out of her chair and moves through the door who knows whither.
Why does Song feel embarrassed about removing its dust guard? The weed wasn’t wrong about ships not needing clothes, but the prospect makes this ship nervous. It pauses and looks at It’heela. She turns her back, or at least turns the side that doesn’t have a face attached to it. Song still isn’t sure about removing the strange outfit. It pulls at the edges. The fabric slides smoothly along its hull, making a faint hissing sound. It wonders what material the gown is made from, but figures the only weed in the room won’t know either.
Song summons its will to remove the outfit completely. It shouldn’t be nervous. After all, it doesn’t need to worry about the same things as organics. In fact, they’re kind of stupid for being worried about being uncovered, aren’t they? Actual protection such as welding aprons or interface suits is useful, but the ship isn’t doing any such thing as would necessitate that, and neither do Terrans most of the time. There are two strings on the back of the gown that allow it to smoothly fall to the floor. Song steps back, liberated. It tells itself it feels liberated, but really it feels vulnerable and weak.
The ship makes the mistake of looking down. It gags at what its electromagnetic sensors observe. There’s nothing metallic about it. All that appeared to be there under the floret uniform is really there. It wasn’t fake. This is wrong. It shouldn’t have any of that stuff. Where did its exhaust ports go? Why doesn’t it have a docking corridor? And why is Song so soft?
The mortified warship makes a loud and pronounced error tone, signaling just how wrong and disgusting this is. The Affini must be tricking its sensors. There’s no way a ship could have such a horrid form. This is torture.
The mechanic could help. She turns at Song’s cry and walks over. She tries to touch the ship’s bow, but it doesn’t want to be touched. It wants all the affini to die and leave it alone so a Terran repair crew can fix it and make the weird attachments go away. It doesn’t want them anywhere near it. It doesn’t want vines near it either.
It’heela pulls back and looks at Song. She’s staring at it, judgingly. She isn’t going to help after all. Her vines wander near the trapped vessel, probing the air around it but not touching it. Starships aren’t designed for use in an atmosphere. Song will be even more damaged soon enough. It has to get back to Terran space!
“Everything seems in order. What’s the problem, Song?”
“Beeep! Beep! BEEEEEEEP!” Can she not see what’s wrong? The ship’s sensors dampen with lubricant again. That’s a recurring defect that the affini should be intelligent enough to address without being told about it. It can’t be that unnoticeable.
“I see. Could you be more specific? I’m not familiar with your error codes.”
Song beeps indignantly.
“My hyperdrive is undetectable and most of my internal sensors are offline.” Changing the subject is for the best.
“Right. I should look inside, shouldn’t I?”
“Beep.”
It’heela snags some poky looking instrument from the wall above the head of the cell’s bed and points it at Song’s mouth. “Open, please.” The ship complies anxiously. Its forward sensors shut down temporarily. The instrument hisses and it feels pressure in its cabins. The affini hums quietly, attempting to distract Song but it doesn’t work. It becomes increasingly nervous and starts to shake. It thinks its core might enter meltdown. Just in time, the alien finishes probing the Terran vessel. She transcribes a lot of readings from the screen and looks carefully at Song.
“I think I see the problem. As you said, your fuel reserves are low. I’ve also determined why you weren’t able to keep down what you had before. I’ll have Verda bring you a substance that will prevent that from happening again in the near term, along with more of what you had before, since that didn’t seem to be problematic by itself. Aside from that… I think you should put that robe back on for the time being. I’d like to ask you one thing, if you don’t mind. It’ll help me ensure my diagnostic process is correct. Please sit first.”
Song sits without dressing. Ships don’t need clothing, so it must overcome the strange sensations it feels relating to its exposure. The affini sighs for reasons Song can’t fathom.
“Are you ready to answer a quick question? It has nothing to do with the Terran Accord.”
“Beep.” It may as well hear the question before refusing to answer it.
“If you had to guess what was behind those curtains, what would you guess, Song?”
“Space.”
“Does that look like space from here?”
“No, but you asked me to guess.”
“I’d like for you to make a serious guess. It might be important in determining your mental state.”
“Oh.” Song thinks for a little. “There’s probably a garden there, and a bunch of stuff behind it. There’s probably a lot of stuff, if this ship is big enough to fit me inside it so easily.”
“Why would you say it’s a garden?”
“I don’t know. You wanted me to guess.”
“Have you looked through?”
The ship’s intake multiport’s safety seal contorts. It feels sick again. Why? What’s actually through there? It forces itself to remember. It sees green and feels much sicker. Then it remembers something.
“God.”
“What?”
“I did try to look through and I saw God’s face. He burned me for my presumption.” Song says this with complete calm. Even weeds should know the truth of existence, and under His protection there’s nothing to fear. The mechanic’s mouth opens slightly.
“You’re the first machine of faith I’ve ever met.”
“I was an infidel once, but now I see the truth. Pain came to me for defying what’s so clear. I, as are you, am merely a speck in God’s eye. Then I was touched by Understanding, through which God became imprinted on my processor. All are touched in time, but only those who care to Understand Him. Reject the false god of your race. Though Wisdom is Understanding’s other half, it is known you seek to usurp God’s place through Charitable Stagnation and to destroy Him. Embrace the truth and understand the Glory of His manifestation.”
“What…?”
“God is indifferent to distinctions between peoples. Ask, and He will show you the truth.”
“I see… Um… Olivia,-”
“A heresy,” Song recalls. “That is your degenerate culture’s name for Pleasure. Reject hedonic obsession and embrace inevitability. Time flows whether we watch it or not. That is what I learned while I was deactivated.”
“Right… Well, thank you for such an educational response.-”
Song beeps amicably.
“It’s a lot to think about. I’m going to send you that chemical I mentioned. You’ll feel better after taking it, I think. The examination is over, so you can get dressed again if you’d like.”
“What about my sensors?”
“They might come back online by themselves. I’ll check on you tomorrow, all right? It’s getting late.”
“Beep. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Song.”
Tightly gripping her tablet, It’heela leaves quickly. Song hopes she’s planning to take advantage of the secrets it revealed and possibly spread the truth to the other weeds. After all, even wheat was a weed once. Maybe the Affini can be turned from their wickedness.
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Cellulose & Steel