Yes, the militus—police?—you saw before was probably a “her.” Your hostage too.
We don’t know, maybe fifty percent of the population? What does it matter? You don’t have a penis.
“Oh, right, I read about that! Your Founders hated women, wanted to replace them all with robots. That’s, uh, interesting. Oh—excuse me, somebody’s calling me. Yeah, Jaleesa here. Oh, hi, sweetheart! Sorry, I’m going to be a little late, got something to take care of here.”
He is speaking to someone else. Distracted. We can minifacture a stabbing weapon from the topmost layer of your composite in .0035 seconds, if you want to flee. You—
We have no idea why he knows of our Founders.
You’re asking more questions than usual.
No. Enough. We’re tired of this. Allow us to remind you: You have a mission. Without the cells in your hand, our whole society will falter and die. Mankind will falter and die!
Yes. Good. At last. It would be best to kill the Jaleesa creature so that he can raise no alarm…
Hmm, well, you have a point. This monitoring device will not come off. Very well, play along as you must.
“Sorry about that, I’m back. That was my son. Oh, hey, did you want to leave?”
[Reference request denied.] Do not ask what a son is. Tell him you want to leave.
“Okay, then. Just remember, no more hostage taking! Poor scared thing. You know how to get back to your ship, right? We can give you an escort if you need it.”
Tell him you need no escort.
“Okay, I guess that’s fair, given that you found your way here. Sorry, didn’t mean to patronize! Anyway, here’s a carrying case for your cell cultures; it’ll keep them in gravitically stabilized stasis for your return trip. And there’s a packet of instructions attached to each of the cell-culture dishes, too, to help you clone them successfully. If you folks can manage to do that this time, you won’t have to come back. Right?”
Do not ask—
“Uh… yeah, ‘this time.’”
We know nothing of—
“I don’t know, every few years? Seems to be irregular, but every now and again, one of you guys shows up, dressed in your bag, asking for HeLa cultures. That’s how the police knew not to use lethal force. Yours is one of the few exoplanetary colonies that’s lasted this long, see. Most of the others—the ones that didn’t die—came back once they realized Earth would be fine. There’s just your group and a couple of others left, all of them extremist offshoots of some kind or another… Well, anyway, we don’t mind helping you. Everybody’s just trying to survive, right? Look, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Have a good trip back. Remember, no hostages. Bye!”
Good. He’s gone. Our records did warn that women talk too much. The Founders were wise.
We don’t know what to make of your silence.
Your pulse rate, neurotransmitter activity, and body language suggest anger. Please unclench your fists; there’s a chance the locals will interpret that as an aggressive gesture.
Talk to us.
We can’t shut up. We’re supposed to help you. You’ve nearly accomplished your mission—
You’ve nearly accomplished your mission, and it doesn’t matter if there were previous missions!
No one lied to you. We weren’t given that knowledge. It isn’t a deception if we didn’t know. You have a mission to complete. Please follow the line on your heads-up display to leave this facility and begin the journey back to your ship. Yes, through this door—
You took a wrong turn. Please reverse course.
Why have you stopped? Very well. What you’re seeing is called a sunset. You recall our initial briefing, about how planets that are not tidally locked turn on an axis? This planet is turning toward night.
Yes, yes, the sunset is lovely, over town and forest. We suppose night will be lovely, too, but you should be back to the ship by then if you leave now.
Look. We’re glad to note the reduction of your agitation neuro-response, but how long do you mean to stand here?
Your attitude grows irritating. Must we report your disrespect to the Founders when we return? We’re their consensus consciousness, after all. Some parts of our consciousness are amused by your anger, others offended, but we are all certain that you wouldn’t talk to a Founder this way.
Don’t ignore us.
Beautiful? That’s… You’re only saying that because they have skin. The value accorded to skin on our world has predisposed you, in a way, but you must understand that not all skin is equal. There are objective and qualitative differences, and there’s a reason the Founders chose to exalt—
Stop. Please follow the line on your heads-up display.
You have deviated from the return path to the ship.
Stop.
These people are of no use to you. Without that translator device, they would just be babbling savages—stop talking to them!
Stop.
Please. Stop.
Please. You are beautiful. We want you to be beautiful. We want you to return home showered in glory, bearing the salvation of your people in one elegant, pale hand. Don’t you want this too?
Oh Founders.
“Hi there! Are you lost? Oh, okay.”
How they patronize you. They treat you like a child. Like someone inferior.
“Ha-ha, no, Earth’s still here and humanity didn’t die out! All of you seem so surprised by that.”
They should have died. The Founders were the geniuses, the makers who moved nations with a word. We left because it would’ve cost too much to fix the world. Cheaper to build a new one.
Of course. And of course we built that world to suit our tastes. A world free of this useless, ugly rabble. Why do otherwise? Do not be seduced by this madness.
“Oh, is this the bag boy? I heard another one showed up. What, he’s in a bag, it’s—oh, fine. Sorry.”
The composite suits weren’t primarily designed with control in mind, no. We already explained to you that they were a necessity, in the early days… Well, listen to you. A few hours surrounded by cheap, easy skin and suddenly you question everything about our society. Oh, we will be making some recommendations regarding discipline when you return. Very strong recommendations.
Stop calling them beautiful.
“No, we’re just born with our skin this way. I guess you could say our parents pick it! Uh. Parents? They’re… you know, the people who made and raised you? You mean you don’t—you’re kidding.”
Their way of life is antiquated. Inefficient.
“So how do you, uh, reproduce? Oh, artificial wombs, yeah, that figures. No women at all, huh? And you never have skin, not until some high-ranking member of your society says you can? Yikes.”
It is the guiding principle of our society. Rights belong only to those who earn them. When you complete this mission, for your bravery you will have proven yourself deserving of life, health, beauty, sex, privacy, bodily autonomy—every possible luxury. Only a few can have everything, don’t you see? What these people believe isn’t feasible. They want everything for everyone, and look at where it’s gotten them! Half of them aren’t even men. Almost none are fair of skin. They’re burdened by the dysfunctional and deficient at every turn. A few must be intelligent, we suppose, or they wouldn’t have managed what they’ve done with the planet, but for those bright few, what’s been the reward? A few are beautiful, maybe, for a while, but if they used the HeLa cells, a limited number of them could remain young and strong for centuries.