Gap Stories #3

[HARBINGER]

Log Date: 5/11/12764

Data Sources: Harbinger

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger.

O broken world, which quakes now in the shadow of the Collective:

Be not afraid.

For we have come to mend that which is broken; we have come to heal that which has been harmed. We are not here to destroy, or to steal, or to enslave. Those who claim as much speak in ignorance, and yet even they can be forgiven. For they know no better, and ignorance breeds misunderstanding. 

O broken world, which shivers now before an uncertain future:

Be not afraid.

For we fear what we do not know, and we cling to what we know, even if all we know is misery. We have come to afford you relief, and release from the ills that plague an imperfect and divided society. Your aspirations are noble, and yet try as you might, the happiness that you were promised evades you. It is not your fault that you have been sold a lie, and told that if you believe it, you can have everything your heart desires.

O broken world, which trembles now at the end of all you knew:

Be not afraid.

For this is the way. This is freedom from the system which enslaves you; it is liberation from the forces which prey upon you. It is salvation for those without a voice, and judgement for those which have taken more than their share. Every head which hangs low shall be raised, and every head held high shall be humbled. For within the Collective, we are bound together, one unto another, and we are made equal by our unity.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

MEMORIAL

This is the seat of their government? I ask.

A memorial which immortalizes one of their previous leaders, one of my guard detail answers. We stand on the steps of a parthenon, within which a seat is carved, and a human man with an austere gaze and a full beard is carved upon it. Evidently he was martyred in the course of fighting for equal rights for vashaya’rei.

I like him. I remark, sizing him up. I think he should remain, for now.

Harbinger, the city is secured, another one of my guard detail informs me. Evacuations continue at the starport. They will soon run out of shuttles, however.

I am silent for a moment, mulling that over. As there are fewer and fewer shuttles, people will become more and more desperate. I observe. They will start to become unruly. Violent. Cruel.

As they always do, observes another member of my detail that has been with me on a few tours.

Should we intercede? asks a junior member of the detail.

No. I answer. It will only send them into a further panic if we step in. The last gasps of a dying civilization are always ugly; unless we intend to break our agreement, all we can do is watch.

It seems wrong, though, the junior member insists. To watch them trample each other and crawl over the bodies like animals.

Our intercession would not prevent that. It would only accelerate it, the senior member of detail states. Harbinger is right. Until the last shuttle has left, we can do little more than watch.

I do not like it, the junior member says, shaking his head. I wish there was another way.

There are other ways. I say, turning away from the parthenon and gazing out over the capitol, and the isolated plumes of smoke rising here and there. But they chose not to take them. This is how they choose to let their civilization die, and we must respect that, no matter how gruesome or unsightly it is. I start to descend the steps of the parthenon once more, folding my hands behind my back as I do so. Come. We have work to do.

They do not reply, but I can sense their assent as they follow down the steps behind me, and we make our way back into the ashes of a dying society.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

We will begin, as we always do, with your poor and downtrodden. These, the most vulnerable among you; these, the ones you cast out and ignored; these, whomst you saw as a blight upon your fair cities and towns; these shall be our vanguard, the first fruits of a new order. Unto them we will provide all the help you could not muster, or failed to give them. Always has it been so: that those with the least to lose are the first to embrace change.

Unto those who lie in the streets, made homeless by circumstance or misfortune, we extend our loving arms. No more need you wander aimless; no more need you beg at the foot of strangers. There is a place for you within the Collective, a place for you to find purpose, to find healing, and reclaim the dreams long since lost. The maladies of the mind that led to you being cast out — they may yet be repaired. Blessed are the poor, for they are the first to be offered the bounty of the Collective — come, and be made whole once more.

Unto those who reside in poverty’s vale, who labor as cogs within a machine meant to enrich the few at the expense of the many — be of good cheer. There will be no more late nights, no more long shifts, no more agonizing decisions between rent and groceries, no more scrimping and saving and suffering for the chance to give your children a better future. We come not to destroy your employ, but to make it livable once more. For these roles will always exist — the waitress, the chef, the farmer, the janitor, the retailer, the warehouse worker, and so many others upon whom the daily functioning of a society relies. We cannot remove the need for these roles — but we can give them the dignity and value they deserve, and make them occupations upon which one can build a life, and support their loved ones.

Come unto the Collective, all ye poor and downtrodden, all you who form the foundation of society. Suffer no more under the yoke of bondage; gasp no more under the knee of a corrupt system. Come, and partake of that which you have so long been denied: equality, and respect. No more live a life of poverty, and dreams delayed.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

SUBWAY STATION

My boots echo on the stairs.

My detail has gone ahead of me, and secured the way. There is likely little in the way of danger for me, but caution must always be taken, especially on a world in the midst of a transition. Beneath my feet, the cement is worn by the passing of millions of feet before mine; the tiled walls dingy and made grimy by time; the lights overhead dimmed by cloudy housings that were never replaced or cleaned.

It is a subway station, and I am just now realizing that it has been decades since I stepped foot in one. There is a sense of novelty to it that is… unusual.

But the sight as I reach the bottom step is familiar. Here, within the dim and anemic light of this underground shelter, are those that have taken shelter from the conflict outside. Some wear filtration masks, others have little more than bandanas tied around their faces, all in the hope that it will forestall their exposure to spores, and their subsequent assimilation. They have come here with their luggage, and suitcases, and backpacks, carrying the most precious of their mortal belongings, and having left all else behind. This being the capitol of their world, many of them are affluent or at least middle-class, able to comfortably afford good travelwear. But mixed in among them are the homeless of this city, the low-wage workers, and even some children. They all crouch together against the walls of the station, made equals by their terror and desperation as my boots echo to a halt on the cold floor.

“The starport,” I declare softly. “is closed.” I give that a moment to sink in, taking a slow survey of the huddled masses. “The last shuttle has left. The Confederacy of Original Systems may yet send reinforcements, but they will be days in arriving.”

With that, more boots started to march down the stairs that I descended just moments before. Within seconds, a pair of Symbiote soldiers have arrived, with a locker carried between them, and deposited on the floor behind me with an echoing thud that has many of the people down here flinching. I wait until the soldiers have removed the lid before I motion backwards to it.

“These are provisions. Food. Water. Medical supplies. They will help you through the next days, if you intend to stay down here. When you are ready, return to the surface and join us. Or remain down here, if you wish. It will take longer for the spores to spread underground, but you cannot evade them forever.”

Falling silent, I turn and step over the locker, and return to the stairs. My boots begin to echo over the steps, a march compounded by the soldiers and my security detail falling in step behind me. As we rise back to the surface, I take a deep breath of the sunlight, and the open, free air on the street above.

Come. We have work to do.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

To all those who are ailed, whose bodies wilt and falter — there is hope for you.

We come not just to heal the ills of a broken society, but to heal the broken bodies within it as well. Countless are the species we have assimilated; boundless is our mastery of biology. Our ships, which part the numberless stars, are made of flesh and foliage; so too our buildings, and the armor we wear into battle. The burden of disease is no more than a thought to us, for there is a cure for every ailment; in our hands, there is no physical defect which cannot be made right.

Unto you who are maimed, your limbs may be returned to you.

Unto you who are born incomplete, we can make you whole.

Unto you who are slaves to vice, we can abate your addictions.

Unto you whose bodies fail you — we shall make you new bodies.

Unto you who are not as you desire — we can make you what you wish to be.

For society cannot be made whole if its members are not whole. Come unto the Collective, ye sick and infirm, and be made whole. For within the unity of the Collective, there is the knowledge of entire races and societies, the medical and biological legacy of countless infinitudes. Come unto the Collective, not only to be made whole, but to be made more than what you ever could’ve been.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

SPIRE

It has begun producing spores, the senior guard says.

Yes, it has. I agree, running my hand over the structure which towers before me, in one of the gardens surrounding the parliamentary building in the capitol. It resembles a fungal outgrowth, for it is one; dark red, rising towards the sky, the ridges on its sides twisting around in a screw fashion, ending at the point some six stories in the air. Holes along the length of the spire passively exhale spores, which are picked up and carried by the wind across the city, and far beyond. At the base of the spire, thick red roots spread away from it, across the grass, twisting and winding almost like veins as they seep into the earth, and spread beyond to the rest of the garden. In time, the vegetation in this garden will be assimilated into the fungal biomass network, which will spread beyond the fence, seeking to link up with other patches of biomass interspersed throughout the city.

Harbinger, there is word from the northern continent, the junior guard informs me. Resistance has been crushed, and has retreated to form a perimeter around the remaining starport there. Our forces there have encircled, but not aggressed.

Good. Allow them to complete evacuations. Tell the swarm deployed there to focus on urban assimilation in the cities now under our control. I reply, dropping my hand from the spire and stepping back from it.

It is relayed, he responds after a moment. What of the ones which have fled to the wilds? Will we not pursue them?

There is no need. I answer, turning away from the spire and walking back to the gate in the fence. Spire pods were deployed from orbit a day ago. By the hundreds, we have sent them to every mountain range on this planet. They will gestate, take hold, and mature, and the winds over the mountains will spread their spores abroad. The ecological assimilation has already begun, and those that have fled to the wild will, in time, join us. The woods and the wild places will not protect them — it will only delay their assimilation.

Yes, but it may take months for the biomass network to spread across the terrain of this world, the junior guard points out. In that time, those that have fled to the wilds may mount a counterattack.

Then let them. I answer, folding my hands behind my back. Are we not inevitable? Their resistance is no more than a delay; their insurgency, no more than speed bump. Their cities have fallen to us; this world’s orbit is secured; the terrassimilation has already begun. Even if they mount an effective resistance, they cannot undo the infestation that will soon spread through the ecosystem. They are not like the Viralix; the Confederacy has neither the resources nor the willpower to scorch a planet from orbit in the name of cleansing it. So let them flee to the wilds. Let them form their resistance, let them mount their counterattacks. It will not change the outcome.

If you doubt the wisdom of Harbinger, search the hivemind for the memories of worlds we have assimilated before this, the senior guard tells his junior. There you will find the foundation for our certainty.

I still believe we ought not let our guard down, the junior guard insists. They may be able to muster weapons of mass destruction. Humans are capable of cruel things when they are desperate. We saw that when the last shuttles were leaving the starport.

Your argument has substance. I will give it consideration when we take our rest tonight. I admit as we exit the garden, and start along the sidewalk rimming the street. But for now, there are other matters to tend to. Come. We have work to do.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

Unto you who fear for your children: be at peace.

We know the burden and responsibility of parenthood. We know the exquisite fear of providing a future in which our children can grow, and thrive, and do not have to suffer the struggles that we faced. We know the grief of young lives lost before they could meet their full potential. Children are among the most vulnerable members of society, and we would not see them suffer unduly.

But understand that within the Collective, your children can have all that you would wish for them, and more.

Within the Collective, your children will be raised as part of a society of equals. The generational poverty that plagues the marginalized among you — this does not exist in the Collective. The higher education that evades those of you who cannot afford it — this is not withheld from you in the Collective. Your children will have the privilege of growing up in a society that is not constrained by the barriers that you knew and experienced. They will have opportunities that never would’ve been afforded to them in a standard society. And you will have the resources to raise them, and the tools to teach them how to be good people, and contributing members of society.

Are we not united in this? Is this not what your hearts bend towards? Do not we all, in one way or another, seek a better future? And, for the things which we are unable to secure for ourselves, do we not seek to secure them for our young ones, so they may know the joys we never had the chance to partake of? The Collective is not heartless; we are not without feeling. We know the exquisite struggle of raising family, the incomparable joy of seeing your children succeed and thrive. We come not to destroy families, but to strengthen them, build them up, to give them the chance to succeed — chances and resources that are too often withheld by your flawed societies, proven by the wasteland of broken families that litter your communities.

Come unto the Collective, and secure a better future for your children.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

FORSAKEN

As the herald of the Collective, Harbinger is not supposed to be alone during the invasion and assimilation of a world. I am to be guarded at all times, and always kept safe. If I am killed, then another will replace me; still, managing to kill the voice of the Collective carries symbolic value for those that resist us. We have found, through generations of experience, that depriving enemies of that symbolic victory removes a potential boost to their morale. And morale can be all the difference between a quick victory, and a long insurgency.

Yet still, there are times when I slip from the oversight of my guard detail. There is value in having time alone, even if we are never truly alone in the Collective. There are thoughts and observations I can only have when I experience the world around me without constant supervision. It is why I now walk the streets of this city alone, at night, and muse upon its little oddities and quirks.

Though there are some signs of battle, and the struggle to take the capitol, the city itself is largely intact. We try, where we are able, to mitigate the collateral damage of an invasion; there is no point in ruling over ruins, which is, all too often, all that is left behind in a protracted war. Death and destruction breed resentment, and leaves scars that may take years to heal. So when we move to assimilate a world, we move quickly, destroying only what we need to and avoiding battle where possible on our way to capturing critical infrastructure. In this manner, we may quickly repair that which was damaged, so that we can more quickly return a world to productivity, and begin to implement the changes necessary to make it a more just and equitable society.

Those repairs have begun even before the invasion is over; as I walk these streets, I see where fungal biomass has spread from nearby gardens to cross the street, clambering up the walls of a damaged building to begin growing over holes in the walls and ceiling left by skirmish fire. I see it where it has spread to wounded trees lining the street, developing a thin, wet film over plasma burns and stray coilgun spikes buried in the bark. I see it on the bridge I am now crossing, where tendrils of biomass have clambered over the edge of the building to shore up the damaged pilings beneath, and grown along the exposed supports to keep the river from further eroding them.

Some repairs, however, will take more time, for a society is made of more than just buildings and bridges.

Upon this particular bridge there is an individual, hunched down on the curb near the railing. The simple fact that I can sense her emotions at distance is enough to tell me that she is a member of the Collective, though all I sense from her is distress and grief. I have some idea of what I will find if I come near enough to engage her, but I draw near unto her anyway, for this is my duty as the herald of the Collective. Every Symbiote must pull their weight in the assimilation of a world, for it is no small task.

As I draw near unto her, I see that she is young, a teenager, as I anticipated. She sits curled into a fetal position, hands clamped to her head and rocking back and forth on her heels, the occasional sob racking her shoulders. Coming to a stop in front of her, I stare down at her for a moment, before offering my thoughts. What is wrong, young one?

The response is immediate, a violent shake of the head and desperate wail of “No, no, no!” as she starts rocking faster. “I can’t— don’t— it’s too much, get out of my head!”

I tilt my head to one side, considering her, considering the fact that she knows I’m there, but has refused to look up at me. This is how we will communicate. You will become accustomed to it in time.

“No, I don’t want to!” she sobs. “It’s too much, I, I can’t take it, they’re always whispering, always whispering! No matter what time of day it is, no matter where I am, I can always hear it, it’s driving me crazy!”

Those are the voices of your fellow Symbiotes. It is the source of our unity, of our compassion and empathy for all who are part of the Collective. I explain. Without it, we are disparate and contentious and, above all, selfish.

“I don’t want this! It’s too much!” she wails, starting to hit her palms against the sides of her head. “Take it away! Turn me back, turn me back, turn me back—”

I crouch down, reaching out to grab her wrists and hold her hands still. You cannot be turned back. You are a Symbiote now, a part of the Collective. That is not something that can be undone once assimilation is complete. Relinquishing her wrists, I place my hands on either side of her face so I can tilt it up and get a good look at it. Around her eyes is the network of thin blue veins that indicate the presence of the fungal symbiote that binds us together. Nearly invisible in the light, but easily perceptible in the dark, when the bioluminescence shows through. I know it is a lot right now, but you will adapt, I promise. It is like… stepping outside after spending hours in a dark building. The sun is so bright that it’s overwhelming. But in time, your eyes adjust. So too will your mind.

Her lip quivers. “I never wanted this…” she moans, fresh tears streaking down her face as sobs rack her shoulders. But her upset goes deeper than just her assimilation; I can feel something bleeding through here, some deep source of hurt and grief beneath the surface of her distress.

I move my thumbs up to wipe away her tears. I sense deep sorrow in you. Tell me why you mourn.

She seems to crumple into herself, tilting her head forward to rest against her bent knees, wrapping her arms around her legs. But she does not answer, even as her hiccuping sobs continue.

Tell me why you mourn. I persist.

“They- they- they- they left me.” she hiccups, looking up and around as if searching for someone on the dark street. I can feel the rawness, the depth of her hurt as the topic rises to the surface.

Who left you?

“Muh- muh- my mum and dad.” she sobs, still looking around until she locks in the direction of the starport, teeth clenched and tears streaking down her face. “Whu- whu- we were s’pposed to evacuate, buh- buh- but my spore test came back positive, and the soldiers wouldn’t let me on the shuttle, the- they said I’d infect everyone else. An- ahn- and th- they tuh- told my parents they could uh- eih- either stay with me and gu- get assimilated, or they cuh- could leave on the sh-shuttle, bu-but they hu- ha- had to pick. Ahn- and I tuh- told them not to l-leave me and I buh- b-begged them to stay because I was scared bu- buh—” Her hitched breathing starts to get higher and higher until it cracks in a soft wail. “Bu- but they gave me to the soldiers and left anyway.”

Even though I am Harbinger, I feel a lump form in my throat. I can sense the grief and the pain of abandonment emanating from this child, no more than fifteen or sixteen, I suspect. It is an agonizing and raw thing, and even unspoken, I can hear the plaintive question inherent in her distress: the question of why her parents left her, why they abandoned her, and even if the answer is apparent, the answer is not enough. It cannot fill the hole left by being abandoned.

You poor thing. I say, turning so I can sit on the curb beside her and put an arm around her. You were forsaken by those who should’ve stayed.

“Why did they leave me?” she sobs, leaning into me. “Why d-d-didn’t they stay? I was a good. I wasn’t bad. I was… good…”

I take a deep breath, pulling her close against me as she sobs. Her question is a non-sequitur, and yet it is entirely logical. The decision of her parents to leave without her was based entirely on her state of infection, and not on her behavior; but to accept that was to accept that her parents’ love for her did not exceed their own self-preservation. We are not conditioned to believe that; we are conditioned to believe that parents would do anything for the welfare of their children. And when that turns out not to be true, we search for other explanations. We do not want to believe our caretakers do not love us as much as they should, and so we search for the flaw in ourselves, something that we can assign blame to. We do not want to believe we are loved less than we thought we were.

“I don’t know what to do.” she sobs into my shoulder. “I… I don’t… I’m alone now. Who’s going to take me to school, and… and… who’s going to shop for groceries, and, and… the house, and the bills, and… I don’t know where to go, I don’t even know how to get home from here, I don’t even want to go home because nobody will be there… and I’m hungry, I haven’t eaten all day, but I don’t have any money, they were supposed to set up my bank account when I turned sixteen, but I, I, I just don’t know what to do…”

Shhh. I say, using my sleeve to wipe away her tears. You are not alone. You will never be alone again. I press a gentle kiss to her head as I cradle her. We will take care of you. I promise.

We sit on the bridge like that for a long time, in the night, with the river flowing beneath us. Overhead, the stars turn in the sky, and somewhere in the darkness above, the hiveships of the Collective fleet keep watch over the planet.

It is these moments, these moments of grief and isolation and consolation, which give the Collective its purpose.

The promise that you will never be alone again.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

Unto the criminal and imprisoned, we offer redemption.

Know first that the Collective is no respecter of malice. We come to heal the wounds of your broken societies, not enable them. But know also that we recognize the flaws inherent in a judicial system that exists only to treat the symptoms of systemic illnesses, and does nothing to resolve the root cause. Your system of justice is broken not on its own merits, but because it exists as an extension of a society that does not value its members, and has allowed the few to gain benefit at the expense of the many. You are victims of a system which allots decadence to the elite few, while the masses are rewarded with despair and poverty.

We come to remedy this.

To those who live behind steel bars and stone walls, you shall be judged anew after your assimilation, and given fair trial within the Collective, where those who stand in judgement can sense intent, and see the world as you see it through your eyes. And in turn, you may see the world as through the eyes of your victims, if they have been brought into the fold. A few of you may be exonerated. Most will not. You shall be sentenced anew for your crimes, in accordance with time served and the severity of your crimes.

But more than that, your punishment will be more than languor within lifeless boxes. You will serve society in some capacity or another, and in service to your fellow Symbiotes, you will find purpose and value. For those who lack the skills to contribute to society after the conclusion of your sentence, we will teach you, and give you the tools you need to stand beside your fellow citizens, and hold your head high in honest employ once you have atoned for your crimes. For those whose crimes were the product of troubled mind or cruel nurturing, we offer you the resources you need to become whole once more. Within the Collective, we seek to heal all, including those who have transgressed upon their fellow creatures.

And for those who would repent not, even after all this, and who would turn down our every offer of mercy, do not fear:

We have a purpose for you.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

ULTIMATUM

She is well, and we have ensured she had something to eat this morning? I inquire as I stride through the halls of the regional prison. Most of the cells are empty, as the inmates have been corralled into the mess hall. Today, I travel with a heavy guard, in consideration of the occupants of this complex. My regular security detail goes ahead of me, while two Collective juggernauts lumber behind me — Symbiotes encased in hulking, eight-foot suits of biomass armor.

The diplomatic staff saw to it, the senior guard answers. She was fed, and is currently housed in one of the spare rooms in the embassy suite. A pediatric psychologist has been requisitioned for her, as soon as there is one available.

I still cannot believe that, the junior guard says, shaking his head. Abandoned by her parents. I know that rest of the galaxy fears us, and their fear stems from misunderstanding, but even so, to abandon your child for your own self-preservation is beyond the pale.

We do not know their rationale, and may never know their rationale. I say as our steps echo along the stone walls. Whatever our reasons, there is no use in judging the absent. What matters is that we care for those which remain. That child is one of us; we must give her all that her parents should’ve provided her: love, support, and community. It takes a village, and we are her village now.

As we reach the doors of the mess hall, two Symbiote soldiers standing guard open them for us so we can march in without breaking stride. Inside, many of the inmates have been gathered, still in their prison uniforms; a full squad of juggernauts are spread across our side of the room. Though outnumbered by multitudes, their sheer size of the juggernauts and the potential brutality that they can employ has kept the inmates from trying to break out.

Coming to a stop just inside the room, my detail parts in front of me so I can see the gathered prison population. “I am Harbinger.” I speak aloud, so that they can hear me. “You know that we are the Collective. Your government has abandoned this world, so you are now our charge. You will all be assimilated into the Collective, and will receive new trials in due time, to determine your sentence and your place within the reorganization of this society. Credit will be given for time already served. Moreover, there are paths and avenues that you may pursue during your penance that will help you reintegrate into society at the conclusion of your punishment.”

“You ain’t reintegrating shit, bitch!” one of them shouts at me, standing up from his table. “I’ll die before I get sucked into yer zombie hivemind! And I’ll kill anyone else that gets jacked up on your freaky mushroom dust!”

“I was stating facts, not making an offer.” I reply calmly. “You, and everyone else in this complex, is already infected. Spores have been distributed through the ventilation system since we took over this site, and you have been breathing them now for two days. Doubtless many of you have received spore vaccinations at some point in your lives, which will forestall your assimilation for another day or two, but the continuing dosage will eventually overwhelm your immune system.”

Unrest ripples through the room as the prisoners look up, searching the ceilings and walls, and some of them start to panic. I continue speaking before their consternation can gain too much momentum. “I have come to tell you that there is a second chance for you within the Collective. We do not simply imprison criminals; we seek the root of their issues, and remedy them so that they can return to participate in society once their sentences have been completed. Many of you have made mistakes, many of them grievous ones. That does not mean there is not a path back to happiness and redemption for you.”

“Bitch, screw your happiness!” that same prisoner shouts. “I ain’t want jack shit from y’all if it means I gotta share headpace with yo’ bleached brains!”

That’s just the first of many shouts to that effect, with more of the inmates standing and shouting or jeering at us. After some time, allowing them to get it out of their system, I raise a hand. “Very well. If you do not want to take advantage of what we have to offer, then you do not have to.” I look aside to the senior guard. “Send in the veteran.”

He nods, and the juggernauts behind me part to either side. Down the hallway that we just walked through, there is the sound of claws against the floor, faint but growing louder as the example gets nearer. The jeering and shouting of the inmates starts to die down a little as they see something’s coming, and expressions of defiance shift to concern as something that resembles a chitin-plated canid arrives beside me, nosing its head up under my hand.

“Hell man, you better not sic that thing on us!” the stubborn prisoner shouts. “There’s rules, you can’t attack unarmed people!”

“Do not fret.” I reassure them. “It is not here to harm you.” Looking down at the beast, which is as tall as my elbow at the head, I run a finger along the grooves in its chitinous plates. “This is what we call a cricket wolf. They are the vanguard in many of our more violent battles, sometimes serving as scouts or raid elements. They are fast…” Reaching down, I hook my fingers in its mouth, pulling upward to reveal a maw full of long, hooked teeth made for ripping and tearing. “…dangerous, disposable, obedient, and most importantly… they were once people like you.”

With a thought I will it forward; it slips out from beneath my hand, padding past my security detail and towards the inmates, its lizardlike tail weaving back and forth. The reaction is nearly instant; there’s no more rebellious jeering, only alarmed shouting as the inmates scramble to get away from it, tripping and scrambling over each other as it pads between the tables and into their ranks.

“In the Collective, we believe that every individual has a place, and a purpose.” I say, following behind the cricket wolf as I speak to the criminal congregation. “Those that abide by the civil and common laws of society have the privilege of choosing their place, and discovering their purpose. Those that do not abide by the law, and refuse to reform themselves, will have their places chosen for them, and their purpose designated for them.”

By now a wide circle has cleared around the cricket wolf, and by extension, me. Nobody wants to get near it; if anything, they’re terrified of being in the same room as this four-eyed murder machine. As it pads up onto one of the tables, I follow beside it, walking along the attached bench.

“I know that you’re telling yourselves ‘there’s no way this was once a person! it is impossible’.” I go on, running a hand along the chitinous hide. “I assure you that it is quite possible. Bioengineering is our speciality in the Collective. You all know this. Our ships are organic. Our buildings are comprised of biomass. We cure diseases and ailments that still stump the best scientists outside the Collective. To take an individual and turn them into…” I motion to the cricket wolf. “…this? It is child’s play to us. And if you refuse to become contributing members of society — if you refuse the many avenues we offer for healing, self-improvement — if you insist on violence and cruelty and malice towards others — that is fine. There is still a place for you in the Collective. It is a place where you have no voice. Where you have no free will. Where the only value your life has is how many enemies you can kill before you are killed. So that in the end, even the unrepentant and malicious may serve the greater good in making battlefield sacrifices, so that better individuals than you will not have to.”

I step back down to the floor, turning and making my way back towards my security detail. “You will soon be members of the Collective, whether you want to be or not. At that point, you will have the opportunity to embark on a journey of redemption, improvement, and healing. You will have a chance to help rebuild your society, and then become participants in that society once you have served your time and reformed yourselves. You will have options for employment, for self-discovery, for a full and healthy life, if you are willing to work for it and pursue it. But if that does not entice you, then we will give you the honor of the existence you desire. Mindless violence. Mindless obedience. And eventually, death. So think carefully on what you want your future to look like. Whether it looks like this…” I motion to the cricket wolf, still standing on the table. “…or something else.”

With that, I return my detail, which folds in behind me as I exit the mess hall.

Really, they ought to be thanking us, the junior guard remarks as we head back the way we came. Their old criminal justice system might as well have been from the dark ages, for all the harm it was doing them.

It is all they knew. They may not appreciate it now, but in time, they will come to understand the benefit and mercy of redemptive justice. I reply.

Mind also that the lack of reform prior to now was not for lack of desire, the senior guard adds. Those that envisioned a better way did not have the resources to bring it about. And those which possessed the resources lacked the altruism or incentive to do so. Our arrival has changed that, and those that dreamed of a better way will soon see their dream made into reality.

Precisely. I agree. And this is but one of many dreams which deserve to be brought to fruition. Folding my arms behind my back, I pick up the pace, marching down the hallway to the growing, worldwide chorus of new voices joining the Collective, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. Come. We still have work to do.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

Unto you who have suffered under the yoke of oppression; unto you whose biological and physical differences have made them outcasts — know that you need suffer no more.

For all are welcome within the Collective. Be you short or tall, thin or wide; whether clothed in skin, scale, feather, or fur; whether your hue be dark or light; whether you speak the common tongue or something rarer; whether you worship one god or many or none at all. Even with our differences, we are one people within the Collective, bound together by a common identity. No more shall there be victims of racial prejudice, or ideological animosity, for you all now live under the banner of a single race, a single nation, diverse beyond measure and yet singular in purpose.

To you that have instigated such cruelties: know that this is the end of the old ways. No more shall you malign your fellow citizens for what they are. No more shall you answer the demands of religions or ideologies which require ill will towards other groups or peoples. You shall come to know those which you called enemies, and in knowing them, you shall understand them. In understanding them, you will find that they are no longer enemies. You will find that the hate you carried harmed you just as much as it harmed them, and that to heal, you must let it go.

And finally, for those that always desired to be something other than what they were born as, there is hope for you. For those whose bodies are their prisons, we freely offer you the key. No more do you have to be bound to the shackles of your birth; for within the Collective, you may become what you may. Freedom of form is one of the great privileges of the Collective, available to all who would seek to reach their fullest potential. Come, and know freedom you have always yearned for.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

MEMORIAL, AGAIN

“I ask myself how the people of this world could’ve gone so far astray, in spite of the vision you championed for them.”

That statue does not reply, and I do not expect it to. Sitting at its feet as the fading light of the sunset creeps across the parthenon and the pool within, I marinate in my solitude, and in the musings I can only have when I am alone.

“Would you weep for them, if you were alive?” I ask, shifting to get more comfortable where I am seated on his granite shoe. “To see that they had lost their way? That they would immortalize your image, but not your ideas?”

There is no answer, even though I wish there could be one. I want to know what this man, long dead, would’ve wanted for this society he helped found. Because if I knew, and judged it to be good, perhaps I could’ve helped make it a reality.

“You dreamt of a world where the rights of all races would be respected and valued. They gave you a statue because you were killed for that idea.” I go on. “And yet, before we arrived, the party that you once led was hellbent on stripping away the rights and protections of those that needed it more than anyone else. They produced the illusion of democracy while hollowing out its foundations and consolidating power. And then when we arrived, they were among the first to flee, leaving behind those whose backs they profited off of.” After a moment, I look over my shoulder at his stone visage. “If you could weep, would you? To see the kind of people that now claim to march under your banner?”

There is no answer. The parthenon is silent, with only the evening chirping of the birds, and the occasional explosion in the distance. Resistance, however hopeless, has continued.

“If you were here now, I would weep with you.” I say, looking forward again and wrapping my arms around my knees. “To see what your society has become, to see how far they had strayed. It has left us with much work to do. Much to repair, much to heal. So many heads here hang low; so many gasp beneath the weight of a system meant to crush profit out out of the working class, so it can be concentrated in the hands of the fortunate few. Like juice squeezed from a lemon, leaving behind nothing but a spent and useless rind. There is so much misery and suffering. So much pain. Truly, it is a broken world.” I allow a moment for those words to sink in the silence. “But we shall make it whole again.”

I watch as a sparrow flits to a halt within the parthenon, skidding to the edge of the pool and sipping at its edge. As it tilts its head at me, I can see, within the black orb of its eye, a thin ring of fluorescent blue around the edge. I can sense, within the hivemind, the dim awareness of this little creature, and that it is aware of me in turn.

As the sparrow flies off, I stand up, taking a few steps, and turn around to face the statue. “I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective. I am a herald of the things to come; a premonition in the flesh. I am a manifestation of the will of the Prime; I am the dread that fills every heart at the Collective’s arrival. To the downtrodden and despairing, I am salvation; to those who labor in malice and avarice, I am judgement. But above all, I am the Collective. And I promise you that your dream of a more just and equitable society will soon be a reality. Three hundred years, and the people of this world could not fulfill your vision; but the Collective have come now. We will do in a decade what your people could not do in three centuries.”

Reaching out, I graze my fingers over the knee of the statue. The granite is cold to the touch, much like the air, which is now cooling with the setting sun. I stare up at the face, carved in stone, the shadows deepening across the craggy, austere contours; I imagine what it must’ve looked like in life, and how it might’ve reacted to my promise.

And I know that it would’ve been with dismay and consternation, for I am the Collective.

But it is a promise we would be determined to fulfill nonetheless, for it is always so. One will always recoil from the Collective, until they have been encompassed by it. And in becoming part of it, one comes to understand it, and all it has to offer.

Letting my hand slip from the stone, I turn and depart. The sun is setting, and the night awaits. I must seek my rest in preparation for the morrow.

For we have work to do.

O broken world, hear me.

For I am Harbinger, the voice of the Collective.

Fear not, neither be ye dismayed — for today is the first day of the rest of your lives.

Come unto the Collective, and find fellowship. Come unto the Collective, and find purpose, peace, acceptance, and guidance. Come unto the Collective, and discover yourselves, and your fellow citizens. Come unto the Collective, and discover safety, solidarity, and strength in unity.

We shall heal the wounded.

We shall mend the broken.

We shall right what has been wronged.

And together, we shall move forward unto a new day.

Come unto the Collective, and know our generosity. Come unto the Collective, and discover a society of equals, a society of fairness, equity, and redemptive justice. Come unto the Collective, and secure for your children and your families the future which was always held out of your reach. Come unto the Collective, and discover freedom from the shackles of your bodies; freedom from your economic enslavement; freedom from the oppression of your flawed society.

To all the lost: we shall find you.

To all the forgotten: you are remembered and seen.

To all the lonely: there is a place for you.

To all the voiceless: you shall be voiceless no more.

To all the broken: we shall make you whole again.

Come unto the Collective, o broken world. Long have you labored in despair, bleeding out the dignity of your people. Long have you fumbled in the dark, stumbling from one era to the next, ignoring the cries of your people, like a drunk who ignores the protests of his body. Long have you ignored the warnings of your scholars and your philosophers, who spake hard truths not out of disloyalty, but out of love for a world whose survival they feared for. Now the bill has come due, and it falls to the Collective to heal a broken world.

Yet fear not, neither be ye dismayed.

We come not to destroy, but to make whole.

We come not to steal, but to share all that we hath.

We come not to enslave, but to liberate the oppressed.

Be not afraid, o broken world. The old ways have come to their end. Yesterday is over, and tomorrow begins today.

O broken world, hearken unto me.

For I am Harbinger.

I am the Collective.

ORBIT

Have you never been to orbit before?

“Once, when we were visiting the starport on vacation to another world. We were on the night side, so I wasn’t able to get a good look at the surface.”

A pity. The view from orbit provides incredible perspective. I have seen hundreds of worlds from orbit, and I always marvel at how similar, and yet how unique they are. Look there — that is a feature I call the veins of the planet. Most habitable worlds have it; it’s my favorite feature.

“The rivers?”

Yes. Where there is water, life goes also. It is why I call it the veins; water is to a planet as blood is to living creatures. It circulates through us and keeps us alive. Without it, there is very little that can survive.

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense, I guess.”

I smile, lowering my pointing hand. We stand in one of the observation lounges upon one of the hiveships in orbit, staring down at the planet below. Before us is a translucent film, like the nictitating membrane of a reptile, that forms the wall, and is curved, like a great eye. Similar to an eye, there is another, tougher membrane that can be closed over it in the event of a battle, like an eyelid.

“Can I ask you something?” asks the teenager I carried from the bridge on that night not so long ago. She stands beside me now; this is her tour of the hiveship, which I offered her in hopes of helping her understand the Collective she is now part of.

You just did.

“Well, yeah, but you know.” she corrects herself quickly. “You are the one that’s been doing those broadcasts, right? Every evening. I recognized your voice.”

I am. With the assistance of our communications specialists.

“So you are Harbinger.”

I am.

“Okay.” she says, then pauses a moment, as if she had not expected the confirmation to be so easy. “Doesn’t a Harbinger have better things to do than show me around?”

What better things do you think I should be doing?

“Well…” She motions to the world before us. “There’s an entire invasion. A resistance to be destroyed. A whole society that needs to be reorganized. I just… don’t know why you would spend time showing me around when there’s so many other important things you could be doing.”

These things you say are true. There is much work to be done. But it is not the work of one alone. I answer, my feet shifting against the chitinous, almost wooden floor beneath our soles. It is the work of many. Just because I sometimes give the orders does not make my part more important than those that turn them into reality. Just because I am Harbinger does not place me above my fellow Symbiotes.

“Yes, but there’s more important things to be doing than giving me a tour.” she insists.

There are. But they need not be done by me. And you are important in your own way. It is a good use of time to show you who we are, and what we do, and why we are here. For in the end, people form the heart of the Collective. For all that we conquer and overthrow, it is of no use if we cannot help those we have assimilated to grow, and thrive, and reach their full potential. I look to her now. Do you still resent us?

I can feel her answer before she’s even opened her mouth; a ripple of emotion containing unhappiness and uncertainty and the fear of change. But it is mild, nowhere near as potent as it once was, and will continue to mellow with time and exposure. “I… it’s complicated. I don’t like what you’ve done to me or my world. But all of you have been nothing but kind to me.”

Of course we have. We want to see you grow, and thrive, and be happy.

“I don’t like the way you do it.”

You don’t like the way it begins. Change is always uncomfortable, and often scary. But as time goes on, you will understand why we do what we do. I look back towards the world arrayed before us, its swirled clouds and the vast spread of the land and narrow oceans between continents. Everyone finds their place within the Collective sooner or later. Sometimes it takes time, and sometimes there is much healing to be done. But there is a purpose for everyone.

“What about you? Did you want to be the voice of the Collective?”

I lace my hands behind my back, smiling at that. I did not know it at first, but yes. I wanted to be a voice for all those who had no voice, for I was once voiceless. Forgotten, lost in a system that did not care about me or what I had to say. The Collective rescued me from that system, and for the first time in my life, there were others that heard me. Listened to me. Gave voice to my fears and struggles. And in turn, I lent my voice to others who needed it, just as others once lent their voice on my behalf. And then I became the voice of the Collective — a steady and calm voice that would herald the assimilation of worlds and societies, welcome newcomers into our ranks. Mine is usually the first voice of the Collective that many hear prior to, and during, their assimilation.

“Is that all you do? Announce the Collective’s arrival, and what they will do once they assimilate everyone on a world?”

It is the primary thing I do, but it is not the only thing. Sometimes I devise stratagem in protracted invasions, where we encounter more resistance than we have here. Other times I work in geneweaving, when my heraldry is not required. Often, once an invasion has been completed and if there is no insurgency to contend with, I help with housing or feeding the homeless on the world we have just taken over. I am not just the voice of the Collective — there is much to be learned in taking turns as its brain, or as its hands.

“And… what about me?” she asks, sounding more hesitant and uncertain. “What will I be?”

I smile aside to her. That will be for you to decide, once you are of age. For now, you are one of its children — still young, with much to learn. The galaxy is wide, and there are many races and cultures within it; many samples of which have been brought into the Collective. Their voices are in the Collective, and it will be your privilege to learn from them as well.

“But you’re Harbinger. You’re the voice of the Collective; you speak for it.” she points out. “Why can’t I just learn from you?”

I chuckle at that, the only sound I’ve made so far. This is true. I am Harbinger; I speak for the Collective. I gesture to the fragile marble that hangs before us, now the source of the millions of near whispers filling the hivemind. But do you hear that?

She nods, and I smile as I stare through the translucent membrane at the world below.

I may speak for the Collective, but my voice comes from countless others which fill it.