Resurrection Log: Ź̷̼͖ý̶̧̡̩̫͉͔͇̓̈́̋̎̽̌͐͛̈́̎̒́̐̍͠r̴̢͓̖̲͙̲̮͋̉̓̾͒̑͜͠ͅa̵̡̨̦͍͉̳͎͕̞͔̲̺̰̩̩̽͑̆̈̌́̏͝g̵̼͈̟̗͔͋́̈́̀͆̀̚ą̸̯̽̈́̑͒͑́ṙ̷͙̝̥͔̳̜̗͖̦͉͓͕͗̈́̇̇͂̐̍̒̍̔d̸͇̞̥͓̠̈́͒͋̌̐͝ ̶̨̧̛͔̲̻̖͚̠̣͔̻̰̫̒̇͐͜͠T̴̠͓͔̦̩̻̼̖̽͆̍͆̓̊̽̔̚͠ơ̷̶̵̸̸̸̡̛̛̬̖̰̦̦̮͚̗̞̻̻̞̻̙̘̘͈͈̭̲͙̪͍̭̭͉͚̤̅̾̽͋̀̑̋̆̍̉̇̉̈́̿͋͒̇̊̓̂̿̿̑̈́͆͑͌̂̌̑̆̉͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͠ţ̷̢̢̛͙̩͎̥͈̝̖̈̄͛̄͊̆̓̈́̊ͅͅȩ̸̠͍̱̖̺̣̖̄̉̔͜ņ̷̡͓̘̥̠̖̝̺͈̥͔̲͊k̴̛̯̫̪͑̽̔́̅͂̿̂͋̉̂̕͘͠y̵̟̟̰̪̻̼̖̌̽̇̓́̍̃͒̾̕̚͝͠r̵̢̨̠͉̼̲̲͛͒̂̽̄͐͌̏͘͘͝a̴̛̰̙̫͂͐̓̐ḿ̷̡̛̤͙͕̼̱̻͙̔͌̓̈̏͑̔̈́̓͘̚ą̸̧̧̯̺̫͈̞͎̻̤̫̂͐̐͘ņ̷̨̱̖̟͖͚̣̂͌͗̌̾̔́̕ ̶̨̨̲̘̭͚̣̝̞̲͔̦̽̾̏̄̒́̚͝K̷̖̻̘̣͐̽̀̅͛͜͜͜ṟ̴̛͇̺͈̲͉̤̰̰̥͉͓̜͑̈́͌̔̍̓́̕ą̷̼̄̾͊̓̽̾͊̈̒̍̍́̉̚͝l̸̨̞͇͈̖͔̘̜̱̦͈̊

Year 76,589 of the —Mother of Ruin—

M:6 D:14

Day 970 of  Cycle 3

[transcribed memory/thoughtstream generated by Ṁ̵̢̘̭̬̙̘̦̳͓̺͈̪̒̂ǫ̵̨̛̠̫̻̐̋̓͗͗͗̏̎͂̿͌̕t̴̜̪͇͕͚́̓͐h̴̯͍̼̦̯̝̜̝̤͂͋͆͌͗͝ę̸͉͖͕̜̤̘͙͎͚̈́̏͒̒̄̏̃̋͘̕͘͜ȓ̸̢̨͍͉̱̮̞͔̋̇ ̴̡̛̱̳̘̠͎̫̩̪̦̠̦̣̀͒͛͊̚͠G̷̰̹̝͆̈͜į̸̧̟͙̰͖̳̯̈́̒͜͜g̶͉̗̹̻̟̰̞̭̠͉͙̈́͊̌̈̈̓̐̒̕ạ̵̧̧̘͖͔̟̝̳̅̇̂̂̅̓̇͛̓͋̊̏̇̕t̵̮̉͒̋̄̑̇̌̀̅͑̋͋r̶̻̟͗̋̀̆̿̃̔̄͒̎̊̈́̚o̵̪̦͇̫̾̋̊̾̋͗͗̊͊̄͜͠͝ḡ̵̛̰͎̇̐͒͋̊̀͝ẗ̶̡̮̠͈̗̗̃͛̈̊̾ḩ̴͍̖͖̥͈̻̪̖̤̰̥̣̋͌̚ř̵̝̤̩͈͎̤͎̯̤͔̝̬̖̓̏͐̀̿̊̂̈͋̕͝͝ĭ̴̡̡͙̺̪͕̻̺̥̫̭̜̺̳̃̂͊̓́̅̈́̎̀̽̀̚ͅṃ̵̨͇̺̪̤̄͜ȧ̵͓̟͖̞̩̤͙̩̖̠̝̣̔ź̶̡͇͍̝̳͚̱͖̳͖̬͓̋̂͜ ̸̢̺͚̍̎̈́̂͛̂̐͐̊̕̚͜͝͝Ȉ̵̢̹̜̞͆̃͗̅̈́̋͒̅͝Í̶̡͓͓̰̥̤̗̱̀͛́͆̒͋̂͠͝I̴̟̞̪̯͍̟̿̂̐̌͑̎̅̋͐͆̍́]

 

We returned to the Mr. Astley hastily, with V taking the vessel out of port even more hastily. 

“Fuck. Fuuuuuuck,” said Jack C, pacing up and down the mess hall. I had quickly discerned that this was the heart of the the ship (in the metaphorical sense only, of course—the Mr. Astley being rather primitive, as I’ve said). 

“I doubt any of it will ever be tied back to us,” commented Tursa, eyelids drooping. She had become rather listless since our return, and I surmised her body had at last turned its energies over to digestion.  

“But if it is—“

“Eh, she’s right,” cut in Rin. “People like that…the authorities of Thoriv aren’t going to care, if they even find out. I’d be surprised if they don’t give up after they realize there’s no footage. All potential witnesses ran off, and no black market goon is gonna go reporting anything. Besides, it was self-defense.” 

“You get surprised a lot,” replied  Jack. 

“Look, they did what they had to do, and it’s done. And neither one used a single weapon in the process, right?” 

She pointed her eyes at Tursa and then at me.

“Correct,” I said. 

“See?” Rin raised her eyebrows up high, looking back to a grumbling Jack. “We’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about this uncanny valley guy.”

Jack scoffed. 

“Why?” 

“Because that planet literally just banned any new humans after three concurrent terrorist attacks they claim we carried out. When we have no reason to do anything but the exact opposite of that. On a planet where they apparently have human-looking flesh muppets running around.”

The pilot’s lip curled, and he gestured at me. 

“You trust that to know what a normal human does and doesn’t look like?”

Rin regarded me, doing the thing where she moved her tongue around inside her mouth, pressing it to her cheeks. 

“Mmmmm…yes?” 

“Right. Ok,” said Jack. “Imma just let you think about that. I need some fuckin’ sleep.” 

Without any of the customary farewells or good nights, he turned to go.

“Sweet dreams,” called Rin to his back. 

Lore had already gone to bed, and Shosho was passed out in the casual corner with some kind of bag over her head. Punjibar was out in the corridors, rubbing themselves against the walls and occasionally screaming. 

And the fifth human stood in the galley, filling a canister with soup. 

Though I could perceive him at all times, I kept forgetting he was there. 

And though I knew his name by then, too, it had a tendency to just…slip from my awareness. 

His name was Derek. But everyone on the ship called him Grayman.

Grayman said something which I almost immediately forgot. Rin laughed, spurting her drink from her nose in the process. This was not something I knew that humans could do, and for a moment I was quite disturbed. Tursa purred, eyelids drooping still further. 

“Look, I’m serious though. Do you have any idea what it could have been?”

Again, I found myself unable to commit his answer to memory. He glanced briefly at me. I think. 

The two conversed a little longer, and then Grayman left.

I have heard much of human newkind, of course. But I had never before my time on the Mr. Astley encountered an individual who was so obviously one of their number, as few ever left their settlements. Nor had I ever heard of a Variation like his. He’d be one of the more fascinating members of the crew, if I could only recall more often to think of him. Even with recorded reminders of his existence such as this one, it’s difficult. 

It is ironic, I think. Many humans, if not most, cling to their original forms—altering them only aesthetically. Perhaps, for them, it is a way of keeping some part of their dead homeworld alive. And yet, Elysian—their one hope of a replacement, chosen for its availability and its resemblance to earth—leaves no being who lingers there unchanged. 

It’s why so many of them refuse to live there, and others refuse to even go there. Not so, the humans of the Mr. Astley. After a brief supply stop-over at the habi-ring of Nerapluma, we would be bound for Elysian. Of course, we would not be staying long enough for it to affect them overmuch. But this meant that I would be meeting a great deal of newkind, and very soon. I was excited, impatient, and considering entering an OtherState in order to pass the time. Or perhaps watching more Real Domicile-Mates.

At that point, it was just Tursa, Rin, an unconscious Shosho, and myself in the mess hall. The lights were pleasantly dim, almost entirely off. I had decided to see how I fared with alcohol now that more changes had begun to set in, and had generated an appletini, at Rin’s suggestion. Or at least, the closest thing I could manage to it. I made a few additions of my own, as well, and I was beginning to a get a buzz. 

That was when Rin circled the dining table, coming up behind Tursa and placing her hands upon her shoulders. And then she began to rub.

She was wearing the souvenir Tursa had purchased for her—a necklace carved from the bone of a greater drift-eel…one of the massive beasts we’d seen below us. In fact, she wore very little beside that and a t-shirt bearing the image of a human hand, palm-forward, the primary fingers split into two sets and held apart. Below that was blue text that read “Live fast and get fucked or whatever.” I was finding that it rather pleased me when she did not cover as much of her skin.  

And though she couldn’t wear it, Rin had also seemed satisfied with my own souvenir tribute. A classic human fine art piece (and popular throughout the galaxy) which I had noticed she was lacking—the heads of three wolves, very similar in shape to my own, thrust back and eyes closed, with the earth’s moon hanging full in a night sky behind them. 

“Overworked yourself again, didn’t you Turs?” she said, her voice hushed. 

The predator just grunted and closed her eyes, leaning back so that her head butted against Rin’s stomach. Tursa’s whips curved backward to arc over the human’s shoulders. My entire body tensed, tentacles twitching forward. But then the spades flipped over, and she set to caressing Rin’s back with their smoother top-sides. 

As Rin made a quiet sound of appreciation, Tursa began to purr. 

I observed this for a moment, siphoning a drink of my apple martini. 

“Are you mates?” I queried. As Rin choked a bit—or did something very much like it—I found myself feeling a number of emotions all at once. There was envy again, I think. And perhaps…worry? Some humans maintain only one mate at time, though I’ve heard such types are rare, now. At the least, it was confirmation of Rin’s willingness to copulate with a member of another species outside of her profession. 

And Tursa’s, too. 

The last was an intrusive thought, and I reminded myself of her loathsome smugness in an attempt to eradicate it. 

I cannot say I was entirely successful. 

“I don’t know,” drawled Tursa, peering up and back at a frozen Rin. “Are we?”

“Uuuuuuuh,” said Rin.

“We do have sex with each other regularly,” pointed out Tursa.

“Uuuh.” 

“And we cuddle.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“And you bake me blooddrava in the mornings after I give you an especially goo—“

“Alright, yeah. Fine. I guess!” Rin huffed, throwing up her hands. “We are involved with each other. Yes.” 

“Why are you loathe to admit this?” I asked. “Are you ashamed of your choice in mate?” I added the last bit rather hopefully. 

The skin of the captain’s face changed to a reddish color. 

“Wha—no! We just, uh…haven’t really talked about it ourselves yet.” 

“I see,” I said, though in fact I did not. Truthfully I had just found that I rather liked saying that.  

Rin narrowed her eyes, pointing them suddenly at my beverage. 

“Is that a shrimp?”

“It is my garnish,” I replied. It was of course not a true shrimp, but an approximation of one. I slurped it up through my tongue, which was actually another tentacle, though I had removed the suckers and added more taste-receptors.  

“Changing the subject,” scoffed Tursa, pausing to yawn halfway through. “Typical human tactic.”

Rin made a face of affront which I’m quite sure was meant to be sarcastic. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kinda racist when you’re sleepy?”

“Yes,” said Tursa, head slumping forward a bit.

“Alright, I think that’s it for us,” declared Rin, hauling Tursa from her chair by the arm. “Goodnight, Zyr.” 

“Goodnight…Captain Rin.”

A moment later, they were gone…and I was left alone, aside from Shosho-with-a-bag-on-her-head and her ever-watchful symbiont.

My thoughts, however, lingered on Rin and…because she was with Rin…Tursa. These thoughts did not go unnoticed by my body, which I was only just realizing had taken on yet another unexpected human trait. 

Fascinating.