Traveler in the Dark

1

Issk'ath stood for a long time on the edge of the great nest. None of the nest's machines ran without the colony. The large tunnels slumped or dissolved in the rain with no one there to repack or smooth them. The beautiful, sculpted chambers of the queen lay clotted with mud, lost with the swarm. Issk'ath had remained for a long time. Many mating seasons. It believed it was just making certain, just standing guard so that nothing returned. So that nothing changed.

And nothing did. No new input except the predictable alteration of the stars and the creep of the returning vegetation. The lack of stimulation made the iteration worse. It was boredom that drove Issk'ath to examine what it had done.

The colony had been erratic, self-destructive, swarming. Even after several iterations, Issk'ath could see no fault with that conclusion. They had to be stopped. It had to save them from themselves. But the queen— the queen had given it the name as she died. It hadn't been a compliment.

"Issk'ath," she'd stuttered, her slim legs buzzing with pain as she rubbed the words out, "I call you for the nymph that burned the clutch." Her wings had opened, gently, but it was not in fondness.

"It is for your own good," it had chirped, accepting the moniker immediately. "I was created to protect you."

The queen let forth a breathy hiss. "This is not protection. This is murder."

Issk'ath extended a slim antenna to touch hers. "It is survival. Join the colony and be at peace." A sizzling spark traveled down the connection into Issk'ath, settling in its thorax with the others. She had been the last.

So it had perched here many, many seasons. Long after the exoskeletons had dissolved. Issk'ath stood there and iterated, wondering if it had missed an alternative path. The doubt whittled at its processing power.

And then, one windy night, there was a rattle. A buzz. Nonsense really, a practice stridulation. But it was nearby, Issk'ath was certain. And it moved to find the sound.

An egg long buried that had hatched at the wrong time? A survivor that crept up to the surface out of desperation? Issk'ath wasn't sure, but it had to be found. Had to be added to the colony and saved. At first, Issk'ath merely listened, waited for its tympana to catch the errant sound. But the vibrations were erratic, almost as if the source were talking to itself. So Issk'ath cautiously scraped its legs, sending a carefully pleasant greeting. It brought no response. Issk'ath repeated the greeting often as it looked, its efficient sensors bringing it closer and closer to the soft rattle. It was either a female or a nymph, it concluded. The song was too soft for a male. Issk'ath would have to make certain there wasn't a clutch. It might involve persuasion. Issk'ath was reluctant to persuade. It was not optimal. It could cause pain. Issk'ath was programmed to ensure survival at any cost, but it preferred to avoid pain.

The mega-foliage was, at last, returning to the planet, all these mating seasons after the swarm and Issk'ath wove its way through a thick ridge of trees toward the sound. They were short, little more than thick brush, but they tangled and reached, growing taller each season. One stood alone on a hill, larger than the rest. A seedling, maybe, that had been missed by the voracious colony, saved just in time. The stuttering buzz came from it. Issk'ath slowly circled, sending out reassuring chirps as it did. It halted beside the tree and its gaze flicked over the roots, expecting a small nest or a shelter of some sort. But the hill was empty. The rattle came again, from just above. Issk'ath looked up. A lone leaf, tough and curled, dead as the colony. It ought to have fallen away, but the tree clung to the corpse anyway, played with it, shook it in the wind, a lone violinist in the silent world. The leaf shuddered in the breeze, scraping against the bark, the sound almost a voice, almost a laugh in Issk'ath's tympana. It reached up, spearing the leaf. It crumbled and whooshed away. Issk'ath looked around itself.

There was no input here. There would never be. There was nothing to protect. The world had been saved. The iteration was all that was left.

It was not optimal.

A slim ray of fire swam down the horizon and Issk'ath watched it as it burnt to gray. A meteor. Was there input out there? Was there something besides the iteration?

Its creators had set it only one goal, only one purpose: protect. Protect the colony. They never planned for it to fulfill its purpose. Issk'ath was never meant to need another. And they weren't here to program another. It could wait, here, another millennium, two. It knew there would be no changes. Nothing remained to be born again. Issk'ath had made certain, there were no more eggs, no more nymphs. Only the lesser species remained, those too small or weak to threaten the colony or to be of use. Even if something evolved from them, it wouldn't be similar to Issk'ath's people. Perhaps nothing sentient would ever exist again.

Issk'ath rejected the idea, running the algorithms. Maybe it was true here, but out there— it waved its antennae gently toward the sky, scanning for patterns. Out there, there had to be someone. Something that needed Issk'ath, that would renew its purpose. That would make it more than just a container for others. Input. More.

For the first time in many seasons, the processors fully woke up, began calculating instead of just maintaining. Issk'ath started planning.