Reborn as a Spaceship

It didn't take long for our guest to wake up, though it took considerably longer for him to stop trying to tear through the harvester drone's walls. The moment he stirred in the containment pod, his limbs flailed in every direction. Wayfarer dimmed the lights and emitted low-harmonic soothing pulses in an attempt to calm him. Surprisingly, it worked better than expected. Eventually, the centipede-like alien ceased scrabbling long enough to let himself be observed.

"Breathe," Wayfarer instructed gently, his humanoid avatar crouching to appear non-threatening.

The alien hissed something incomprehensible. Again. Then again, slower this time. A few scattered words finally pinged against our auto-translation matrix, which was limping along without Laia's usual refinements.

"Can you understand us?" I asked carefully, feeding another waveform into the translator.

A long pause followed. The centipede shifted, carapace twitching. Whether in was irritation or concentration, I couldn't tell.

"Words… bad," he rasped eventually. "Different pulse. But... improving."

Progress, slow and painstaking. We routed additional speech samples through the translation core. Without Laia, I had to manually calibrate half the translation algorithms, a process akin to repairing a delicate wristwatch using hydraulic claws.

Eventually, we achieved enough linguistic overlap to hold a conversation. It seemed the language was very close to one from our universe.

"Designation: Drone23412," the alien announced with practised formality. "Under directive of Queen's Alliance. Scouting mission."

"Queen's Alliance?" I echoed. "Is that your government?"

He emitted a noise I couldn't initially interpret, somewhere between a click and a sigh. "More… society. Multiple insectoid species. Grew… together. Not apart. No wars. Shared egg-hatch knowledge. Formed pact."

Wayfarer's glow shifted thoughtfully. "Cooperative evolution."

"Correct."

"What brings you out here, Drone23412?" I asked softly, noting he was still uneasy conversing with a disembodied voice.

Unsure where to focus, his numerous eyes darted anxiously around the containment pod. "Escaping war."

I hesitated. "What war?"

His eyes narrowed, and chitin plates flexed subtly. "You don't… know?"

"We're from an isolated system," I said carefully. "Very isolated."

"Must be… comfortable," he muttered, bitterness seeping through despite translation difficulties.

The silence stretched as he appeared reluctant to speak further, but finally, with a resigned twitch of his mandibles, he began to explain.

"The Swarm came from the void. Biomass. No shape. No self. Just hunger. They arrive. Absorb. Consume everything."

Wayfarer's avatar visibly froze.

"And who's opposing them?" I pressed gently.

"Machine gods," Drone23412 said carefully. "AI collectives. Artificial swarms of logic and metal. Oppose flesh with code and nanites."

He paused again, struggling to find the right words.

"And Confederation of metal. Humanoids. Think flesh must be shaped like them. All others abominations. Purity cult, cloaked in diplomacy."

"Three sides then?" I summarised, watching his reactions closely.

"Yes. Swarm consumes. Confederation 'liberates.' Machines… calculate. No safety. Only different deaths."

"And your alliance?" Wayfarer prompted softly.

He shifted uncomfortably. "We hide. Hope. Wait. Maybe… they kill each other. Galaxy quiet again."

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I let his words settle. A war so vast, so existential, that survival itself became resistance was, unfortunately, not a new concept to me. The idea of an entire galaxy locked in this kind of desperate stalemate seemed overwhelming. Surely, there had to be other factions or more nuanced forces at play. Perhaps Drone23412 knew only his local region of space. That thought prompted another question.

"What about the Old Ones?" I asked carefully.

Every eye on Drone23412's segmented head snapped toward the speaker. "Not my answer to give," he replied quickly. "Ask the Elders."

"Fair enough."

With the translator matrix stabilised enough for broader communications, I suggested opening a direct comms link to his flotilla. Drone23412 hesitated briefly, but finally agreed. His mandibles twitched nervously as he explained our sudden appearance and malfunction-driven entry into their system, our peaceful intent, and our immediate need to coordinate.

Eventually, a cautious but not hostile response arrived. The Elders offered shared translation data, requesting mutual cooperation. A fragile thread of trust began to form, though we currently had little else to offer.

Drone23412 translated their final decision: "We are invited. To join flotilla. Temporary status. Until trust grows."

"Who gave the order?" I asked, curiosity aroused.

His mandibles clicked. "The Oracle."

"Of course," I muttered. "There's always an oracle."

Still, we were no longer alone. We had translators. Potential allies. Maybe even some answers.

Yet first, we needed to meet the Oracle.

Still frustrated at my inability to manifest an avatar, I watched through bridge sensors as the Oracle's shuttle latched onto our hull like an apologetic barnacle. It hadn't requested an escort—just passage. One soft-bodied diplomat, drifting in a suspended throne that seemed more like an overgrown hover-chair than an official platform.

I had expected something tall and mysterious, perhaps shrouded in relics or symbols. Instead, what emerged from the shuttle was a sagging, aged beetle with a tangle of withered limbs and translucent membranes. Its guards tried to follow, but it shooed them away with a casual wave, like a bored librarian dismissing unwanted interns.

Then, without a word, the Oracle drifted slowly onto the bridge, gazing silently at everything: the lights, the consoles, the damaged auxiliary panels, and Wayfarer's gradually regenerating organic overlays. It radiated something that wasn't quite curiosity but more like recognition. Perhaps it had already seen this moment in a vision. The very idea irritated me; I disliked notions of predestination, suggesting we lacked true agency.

I finally broke the silence. "Oracle. Welcome aboard The Arbiter."

It turned slowly toward my nearest camera, making a gentle warbling sound before uttering softly, "The brain."

I was about to ask which brain when Wayfarer obligingly manifested his avatar, perhaps hoping to provoke some kind of meaningful response from our enigmatic visitor.

The Oracle's body visibly shivered. "Yes," it whispered excitedly. "The planet. Where is the hybrid?"

I hesitated. "Hybrid?"

"Oh. Too early," it chittered softly, "You will know soon enough."

"Right," I said slowly. "Is there something we can do for you?"

The Oracle drifted closer, its throne humming gently in harmony with our bridge lights. "You came, as I knew you would."

"You knew?"

It tried to nod, head twitching oddly sideways. "You were pulled. Not by us. Not by this place. By them. The Old Ones."

The bridge felt suddenly colder.

After a long pause, I asked quietly, "Are you one of them?"

"No," it replied calmly. "But I speak for their memory. I read echoes. Feel fractures. And I serve the Accords."

"The Accords?" I questioned sharply. "You mean the same Accords from our universe?"

"The Accords are not of one place," it answered patiently. "They are constants. Like gravity. Like consequence."

"That doesn't make sense," I objected, too weary to conceal my frustration. "Why would a law, a treaty from another galaxy or even another universe even apply here? The Accords just enforce judgments."

"Because the Old Ones exist in all universes," it explained gently. "They are not bound by dimensions. They are the galaxy. But now… they are stuck."

Before I could respond, reality shifted.

A presence, a whisper within my mind but not sound, not image, but vivid and undeniable.

And then, I saw.

Not with my eyes, but as if recalling memories I'd never lived. I assumed the Oracle had some form of telepathic ability.

A vast chamber beyond matter, formed of light and timelessness. Fourteen shapes stood in silent debate, cloaked in power and authority. The Judges, I could feel it, they were this universe's Judges.

Stars glittered above, then ruptured, space itself tearing open. An endless tide of biomass poured forth, a singular intent radiating from its mass: consume.

The Judges recoiled, ready to act but couldn't. Bound by invisible chains: laws, principles, Accords. One of them had betrayed the rest, summoning the Swarm. The rules meant to protect them became their prison. There was no evidence of this, just a feeling I received. I don't know if it was my own or the Oracle's.

And as they hesitated, every Judge was devoured.

The vision ended abruptly, leaving me disoriented. The Oracle's throne hummed gently, Wayfarer's form pulsed dimly in contemplation.

"Why didn't the Old Ones help?" I finally asked.

The Oracle replied softly, "Because even gods have limits. Some things they cannot see. Choices must be made by others."

It chittered softly again. "No one understands the minds of the Old Ones. We are mere bugs, staring at equations written in gravity. Yet still, we are guided."

Silence stretched, too vast for easy words.

Wayfarer murmured, "Then we were brought here for a reason."

"Yes," the Oracle whispered, drifting towards the viewport to gaze at unfamiliar stars. "You will stand where Judges fell. You will walk in their place. And you will pass judgment."

I wondered why me. Surely, across infinite universes, other judges existed.

Yet here I was. But did I have to play by their rules, I wanted some agency of my own.