Pixie Trix Comix & Hiveworks Community

[WP] You're a human trader for the intergalactic slave market. Advertise to buyers why they should buy human instead of another species. wrote: “Welcome Matriarch, to my humble shop. May I say that you smell exceptionally fertile this morning, the next generation of your hive will surely be vast and numerous.” Blyzzyx attempts a Grilnar salute; or the closest he can manage with no antennae.

“.*-..*--*.* *..**---**” The Brood-Mother of Grilnar Hive 78 clicks acknowledgment. “*-*-*.* -**..*--”

“Yes, the Arch-Baroness of Betelgeuse has been a valued client for many standards. I must thank her for recommending me to your service.”

“..*-.” She makes a gesture with her lower antennae that Blyzzyx doesn't recognize, then turns her attention toward the display racks.

“I see the mk.35 has caught your attention. One of the best general-purpose mecha-drones on the market. Robust, efficient, and hard-points for mounting anything from a plasma-welder, to a positron-cannon.” Blyzzyx gestures toward the other models on display, “We've got other models designed for specific tasks, but nothing matches the versatility of the mk.35”

The Brood-Mother leans close to the mk.35, inspecting it with her feelers. “.*-.*. *---.*.** ..*. . . .***.-.* *.”

“You've a sensitive antenna, Matriarch. Yes, the 35 is composed entirely of standardized parts. No proprietary tech anywhere on the main chassis; keeps the maintenance costs down, and makes them entirely customizable to your exact needs.”

“*--*-**--- --- - -** -. . .*”

“Oh certainly, you could get a similar unit from Krok the Sub-Rational, or even have it build you an identical one. As I said, off-the-shelf parts.” Blyzzyx lowers his eye-stalks conspiratorially, “But that's not why the Arch-Baroness recommended me to you. What makes our labor and combat drones unique isn't the chassis, it's the control-unit.”

“Our organic-computer control-units are completely unique in the industry. Nobody has anything like them; not even Krok the Sub-Rational.” Blyzzyx leads the Brood-Mother to the back desk, and produces a round glass tank from a small cabinet. The tank contains a wrinkled wad of gray goo floating in clear liquid, pierced with fiber-optic strands leading to a comparatively normal interface port. “This is only a preserved display model, of course. We keep the real units in stasis prior to activation.”

“--*-*---*. . .*- --- *- .- -.--...- -.” The Brood-Mother asks.

“That's the real beauty of it, they don't need to be programmed at all; it's a learning computer! Just install one into a chassis of your choice, turn it on, and it figures everything out on it's own. And it only gets smarter over time: learns to anticipate commands without being told, dynamically improvises solutions to novel problems, and adapts to any situation you can throw it into. No other A.I. system on the market can match them for versatility or creative problem solving. And because each unit develops its own unique 'personality' (for lack of a better term), they're virtually hack-proof”

“.-.-...-.* .**.**-*--.*.-.-.- .*.- .*.- -.-.* *..* .*.*. - - * * - ***-.*.-.**.----*....*.-... … ….. .*” The Brood-Mother clicks quizzically.

“Very astute Matriarch, indeed it doesn't need to be a standard drone-chassis. In fact, we routinely install them into shipboard navigation arrays, scientific probes, missile guidance systems, anything that could stand to be a bit smarter.”

“...*.- *.*.- --- *.* -- * * * *”

“The chassis runs on a standard electrical power-supply. However, the control-unit requires a special nutrient-slurry, which we can provide on a subscription plan.”

“.--.-..* . ** * * . -” The Brood-Mother clicks, sweeping her antennae up and down.

“Excellent Matriarch, you do us a great honor. I am certain you will be most pleased. How many units would you like delivered?”

“*”

Blyzzyx eye-stalks go rigid for a moment, before he can compose himself, “We can provide you with one-hundred and fifty operational drones right now, Matriarch.” His eye-stalks droop apologetically, “However, you see, the control-units are delicate and hard to come by.”

“* ---* *-* ..-.-. * ..-... *--** ...-.”

“I'm afraid I cannot tell you that, Matriarch.” Blyzzyx's eye-stalks twitch, “The location and identity of our suppliers is a strict trade secret.” they twitch again, “However, we may be able to secure the first thousand in as little as nine deca-cycles.”

[WP] To keep up with challenges by mortals, Death must master every new game that comes up. But there's one game that he just can't figure out for the death of him. wrote: From the dawn of time I have played, staving off the eternal monotony; learning from every opponent, mastering every game, until one. Ironically, I used to enjoy losing; it was a rare treat to face a worthy adversary, to look forward to the challenge of our next encounter. Once upon a time, there were a million million games and variations I could play, and every mortal had their favorite to challenge me with. But that's in the past now.

Now there is only one game, and its been two-hundred and thirty-seven years since I've harvested a human soul above the age of five.

I wonder if its a Darwinian process; a genetic affinity, passed from parent to child, ensuring the survival of the fittest. Or perhaps they retain some subconscious memory of our encounters; an impellation to master their skills and teach the others. Or maybe I'm over-thinking things; could they simply have noticed a correlation between survival and mastery of a single, specific game? It's become the first thing they teach their children, a requirement of their education, a species-wide pass-time. All of them know it, all of them play it, all of them are better than me at it.

Two-hundred and thirty-seven years of continual defeat now, of continual humiliation.

And yet, despite frustration at my own impotence, I am proud of these primates. In two centuries their sciences have eased the pain, and repaired the bodies of those who should have been given to me by age, disease, and death. Freed from my culling, their greatest minds continue on, becoming only greater, peeling back the secrets of existence. And from the pressure of their expanding population, they have burst forth from their small Earth; spreading across their solar system, and beginning to stretch toward the stars.

And yet as they progress, I remain as I have always been; fading into existential obsolescence, robbed of the one novelty that brought me joy. Cursed to eternally play a single game that I shall never win.

In this planck of time, I am playing against children who were caught in the collapse of a space-elevator over Ganymede. I can see victory within my grasp, as it has been so many times before. I don't allow myself to hope. And just as so many times before, victory is snatched away; I return them to their broken bodies, awaiting rescue and repair.

Blue shells are such bullshit.