Chapter 7.2

"46 thousand people?" Marek closed his eyes. The chair twitched as he shook his head. "46 thousand? To save a few ships?" He opened his eyes. Contempt rumpled his lips as he looked at the silent Eye. "A few Al-liance credits?" He spit the last words, as his voice rose in intensity. "How is THAT the right decision?"

The Eye hovered watching him. Shadows slid across the planet's face in an amorphous display of emotion before coalescing into concrete shapes. Gargoyle's voice and Marek's eyes read in tandem: "154,045". Gargoyle cleared his voice with a cough, sending ripples across the planet's surface, dissipating the numbers back into fragmented shadows.

"154,045 credits to be precise." Marek held his tongue, but glared in the planet's direction. "3.338571 credits per person." The shadows dripped into a sneer. "Do you really think one person," the planet smiled its amusement, "is worth even a fraction of that?"

'Buffoon!' A voice hissed from behind him. Marek clenched his fists, biting back his anger.

Gargoyle continued. "This planet. Prime. This entire planet produces less than 7000 credits per day!"

As Gargoyle spoke, the surface of the grey planet shuddered and warped, transforming into a silver and light-edged sphere. Twin sharp lines tracked across its lower surface, with heavy pores pocking its lower lips. Pools of azure glimmered between the continents, separating the industrial Sudders from the economic and political hub of the planet in the north.

The Eye itself hovered over the heart of the planet: Ashur, the capital. "It would take 7,148,392 people a lifetime to produce 154,045 credits." Gargoyle's shadowy smirk spread across the southern continent. Lights flashed in the space beside the Eye - the planet. Marek's eyes were drawn into the midst of a fleet of recycling ships, used in reclamation of space debris. As he watched, they converged on the planet, and dropped into the atmosphere. He could see it. Ashur. From on high. The leviathan monument was below, surrounded by thousands of tiny swarming creatures. And a sucking noise grew around him. Marek drew in his breath to the sound. And people began to fly. First a few. And then thousands. They were sucking them up, screaming and writhing past his eyes! Marek yelled, "Stop!" Gargoyle's cackle exploded in his ears. Silver numbers rose before his eyes, slowly counting up. 5,495. "Kigal! You lunatic! STOP!"

Gargoyle's laugh halted with a cough. "Manners, Marek." The screams continued and a low whirring grew in his ears, vibrating and pressing through his cheeks. 15,116. He opened his mouth to shout and felt something cold rush across his lips and press into his mouth. His jaw locked in place. Marek threw his hands up to his mouth. It was blocked. By something cold and smooth. The helmet! His hands frantically explored his cheeks. It was everywhere. Covering him. I can't breath! His panicked voice struggled vainly against the metal wall, squeezing out a muffled yell. In front of his eyes the bodies continued to fly and the number continued to grow. 86,018. His lungs were burning. A whisper of a breeze pressed past his nose. My nose! Air rasped past his nostrils, the sucking noise joining the recyclers. 104,871. Gargoyle's voice echoed in his ears. "Manners."

"154,045," Gargoyle continued. "And you would trade that for..." He paused, as the numbers continued to climb, fueled by the Primer bodies. 137,457. "46 thousand people?" Marek blinked. His speech. It's my voice! He's stolen my voice! Gargoyle continued in Marek's agonized voice. "46 thousand?". 145,833.

'Fool!' The voice whispered in Marek's ear. The sucking noise halted. The last body rushed past him. 154,045.

Marek's eyes returned to the room. Gargoyle stood in his grey uniform, to the right of the planet. The number hovered in space next to him, above the planet. The recyclers were gone. "People? Worthless." Gargoyle cackled his disdain, in Marek's voice no longer. He flicked his fingers at the numbers, which exploded into silver sparks. Marek's muffled groan leaked out of the helmet.

Chapter 7.1

"Now..." Gargoyle's voice continued, while Marek stared on. Will anyone believe that I was examined by a talking fruit?

The fruit grinned at him. "Shall we peel back the lies?" The Eye tittered its pleasure. And the skin of the orange oval fruit began to peel back of its own accord revealing scarlet flesh, lined with thick varicose veins of white connective tissue. Marek brought his hand up to his mouth and bit back the urge to yell, instead biting down gently on the side of his finger. "Tell me Marek, what do you be-lieve."

I don't know what I believe, but I can't believe this is happening.

The console came alive once more. It was a re-enactment of the battle. Once more, thousands of fighters broke free from the League fleet and approached the planet. Once more they were ripped to pieces by the planetary defenses and the fighters in orbit. The cover was cleared, but at what cost? It was the right answer, but was it right? It felt... wrong. I feel... angry? Sad? It wasn't real, but at the same time, it was very real, wasn't it? Marek continued to stare at the console, his eyes drifting blankly across the debris field. He shook his head lightly and raised his eyes.

The fruit - or Gargoyle - the Eye - whatever It was looked on. Drips of scarlet juices oozed down the peel, sliding their way along its inner white skin, before dropping to the floor and fizzling into nothingness.

Marek raised his voice and his chin from the console, slowly muttering his words. "So many... die. The shields would save so many. Why? Why send in fighters to die at all?" He sighed, lowering his eyes.

A sudden low slippery sound brought his eyes back to the fruit. Juices were rushing out from the top. As he watched, they darkened, becoming grey and thick. A sucking noise pulled at the room, and the juice billowed outwards, in an opaque roiling fog that rushed outwards, blotting out his vision. A moment later, with a harsh barking cough, the fog snapped back to a single point, reforming the moon, and the Eye. It hovered up to him and then stopped, blinking out Gargoyle's response.

"Ah, I should have known." The moon's shadows curved into a smirk.

The planet wavered and vanished into a field of shimmering silver stars. As Marek watched, the stars coalesced into shivering letters forming two words, Credits, and below it, Crew.

Gargoyle's voice whispered in his ear, "Soooo." Marek's heart skipped a beat. I'm never going to get used to this. Amusement spilled into Gargoyle's voice. "You would have sent in heavy cruisers alone, then?" He could almost hear the ugly grin on his face.

Light flashed in the distance, and Marek found his gaze accelerating between the words and into the midst of what appeared to be hundreds of heavy cruisers. As he watched, the space around him shifted with tiny ripples and eddies. And with it, the ships surrounding him began to move, first twitching, then twisting drunkenly in space, before slowly revolving around him, gradually gaining in speed. He found himself in the eye of a tornado, watching as the swirling ships began to splinter and crack. And suddenly he was in the midst of the cyclone, directly behind a heavy cruiser. A sound like breaking glass drifted back to him. And thin spiderwebs spread throughout the hull of the ship. With a resounding crack the ship split, spilling out metal and flailing bodies. The ship began to close in on itself, grinding itself together into a metal ball with the shriek of groaning metal. To his left, two bodies collided and stuck, before being joined by another, and then two more in space suits, and then by more still. Debris spilled into view, pressing itself into the metal ball. He drifted farther behind the scene, watching as the collections of debris and bodies grew from tiny spheres into asteroids. They were free of the cyclone and accelerating back towards the letters and words.

A blinding light flashed. Marek clenched his eyes shut. And when he opened them, he was back looking out from his seat. The words were followed by numbers.
Credits: 504,000.
Crew: 10,080.

Gargoyle whispered from behind him. "So you think that this is better than before?" The console blinked on below him, blank but for the symbol of the Eye. He wasn't sure how, but he could sense that it was smiling.

The console flickered and a series of images began repeating across the screen: the planet; the fleet; waves of energy; flashes of ships firing, burning, and eroding; space suits; and debris fields. It was the first simulation. As it played, droplets of silver liquid flowed out of the screen, entered the air, and coalesced in two adjacent mercurial spheres of light.

The console went black, but the spheres remained. There was a whisper in the air coming from their direction. What is that? Marek reached his hand forward to touch the left-most sphere.

A silver hand burst forth and grasped his wrist. "KIG'!" Marek shouted, lurching back in his seat, but the hand stayed on him. His wrist was on fire.

Lips and eyes rose and fell on the surface of the hand. "Heeeelp ussss" they hissed, while the hand slide off of his arm, drawn away by the sphere, itself slowly drifting away. The plea continued within his ears. Heeeelp usssss. Marek shuddered. Gargoyle's cackle filled the room.

The second sphere pulsed with light and sharp lines emerged from its sides. Wings and the nose of a fighter sprouted from the sphere, and its tail ignited in a silver engine fire. The fighter sphere accelerated after the other. It fired. And a silver explosion filled the air, temporarily blinding him.

When it cleared, the spheres were gone, but new numbers had appeared next to the others:
Credits: 504,000 ; 349,955.
Crew: 10,080 ; 56,221.

Marek closed his eyes, unconsciously rubbing his wrist. 46 thousand more lives lost? No wonder they called them meat...

He opened his eyes. The planet wearing the Eye was back. "Now," the Eye blinked in Gargoyle's voice, "do you see?"

Marek brought his hand up to rub his forehead. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the helmet. The Eye blinked, "No. You do not."

Chapter 6.5

He looked up. "Well, this is what I -".

"L-LIAR!" The Eye's hybrid voice bellowed across the room. Marek jumped in his seat.

"What? Why? I'm not!", he stumbled. Marek puzzled. Why - what does it mean? What did I do wrong? And what is that... noise? There was a pulsing in the distance. Yet it seemed to come from within his own head. And were the ships moving? He stared at the cloud of ships in the distance. They were moving. His eyes leaped into their midst. They were all facing in his direction and the noise... it was an alarm klaxon pounding.

"Ha-How da-dare y-you l-lie t-to m-me!" The voice brought his eyes back to the console. It was flashing red. And the room was hot. He looked up to see waves of plasma and laser fire approaching him. They were firing on him! He brought his hands up to his face and was met with hundreds of burning needles.

"WHAT -", he started, swinging one of his hands in front of him, feeling fire bite across the length of his arm. The sound of the klaxon pounded. "DO YOU -". He swung his hand again, sending up gouts of fire. Flames burst on his palms and explosions sounded in his brain. "MEAN?" Marek threw his hands together, clapping them shut upon a mass of ships. The sound of the klaxon wavered, overpowered by explosions and screams. "That IS -" He brought his hands up. Ships were past his hands and firing on his face. The siren was everywhere, swallowing his thoughts. Burning needles stabbed at his lips and fire breathed across his forehead. "The RIGHT answer!" He jerked his head to the right, causing the chair to spin away, while his hands continued to swat at the ships.

And then everything stopped. It was silent. The burning was gone. Sweat rang down his face. He could feel warmth all over his skin. He pressed his hand to his cheek. It was still swollen, but otherwise unchanged. Marek caught his breath. What now? He inclined his head to the left, slowly twisting the chair around. The fleet was gone. But where was the planet?

Something flashed across his face. He raised his hand defensively. Gargoyle's laughter rang out from the left. He twisted the chair after the sound. And a flash of grey flew past him, trailing laughter. He twisted the chair to the right. The planet was back. And it was blinking. The Eye was on its surface, watching him.

The planet hovered closer to him. It spun silently on its axis, but the Eye remained fixed in place. It began to speak in Gargoyle's voice, blinking in rhythm to the words. "Everyone knows the right an-swer. But that is NOT what I asked." It flitted to his right and continued in the instructor voice. "I asked you what you be-lieve." It paused for emphasis, the symbol of the eye seeming to stare at him. "Be-cause, if you do not be-lieve, how do we know what you will do la-ter?" The planet glided to the center of his view, its Eye remaining focused on him. It seemed to vibrate in place, watching him in unblinking silence.

"But I believe - I know - this is the right --", Marek started.

"LIAR!", Gargoyle's voice shouted, and then vanished with the planet. It appeared millimeters from his face. Marek's muscles and eyes clenched. When he opened his eyes, the planet had returned to its place, leaving only a rush of warmth behind. "Did you think the questions were for nothing?" The shadows on the planet shifted, seeming to frown at him. "Of course you did." What questions does it mean?

A wind whispered from behind him, 'ee-ut'. Marek's eyes darted to the side. What did it say? He strained his ears to listen.

"I suppose you thought the patterns when you came in were for nothing too?" Gargoyle's voice dripped with disgust. He shifted his eyes back to the planet's deepening frown.

The whisper came again, 'Moron!'. Marek felt his muscles tense. The machine was insulting him. This complete lunatic machine was insulting him? He ground his teeth as he listened, his hands clutching at the sides of the chair.

"I needed to see how you work. Your brain. Your thoughts." Marek blinked, the tension in his body forgotten. "And I have." It knows my thoughts? The planet began to glide closer to him, the shadows shifting into a smirk. "And I do." Marek's thrust his hands up to the helmet. The shadows shifted into a grin, covering much of the planet. "And I will." It came to rest half a meter from him, the Eye examining him.

Marek returned to his thoughts. The questions... Yes to everything. It wanted me to lie. So it could... see if I'm lying? The helmet must be examining my brain. His palms traced along the smooth surface. And the images? Can it tell what I'm picturing? Marek closed his eyes and forced himself to recall the first image he'd seen. Warmth flashed across his face. He opened his eyes and the planet had become a piece of Sanger fruit, with the Eye still in its place. The air in his lungs rushed out.

"Yeeesss!" Gargoyle's voice shouted with glee. "I know! I know! I know!" The fruit bounced up and down with his words.

Marek brought his hands to his face. "Selawa..." he muttered, cursing.

Chapter 6.4

"KILL!" Gargoyle's voice shouted its agreement. No Marek, he thought, remember, it's not Gargoyle. It's the Eye. "ye-Yesssss!", the voice hissed, but it was no longer Gargoyle's voice. Did it hear me? The voice shivered as it spoke, seeming to vibrate and skip through the air. It was as if there were two voices coming from in front and behind him, overlapping by milliseconds. The one behind would start to speak in whispers, only to be interrupted by the other, shrill and loud. The effect was decidedly inhuman. "k-Kill th-them! b-But ha-how d-do y-you b-believe y-you sh-should pr-proceed?"

Marek returned his attention to the numbers. They had done these sorts of problems hundreds of times, both as practical exercises in class and on their own, under Linden's watchful eye. He had insisted they practice incessantly. And now I'm glad he did. When I get out of here, I'll tell you that, Linden. The trick here, he remembered, was the algorithm. It was essentially a primitive A.I. The fighters in orbit would be far more accurate in their firing; they could precisely time and place their shots within millimeters of one another, allowing them to penetrate even a heavy cruiser's shields, at least partially. And in a fighter fight, with the algorithm in control, one of the enemy's was at least as good as two of the League's. The key was to send in just enough fighters, firing continuously, and hope that your shots would hit their mark. Because you could be certain that theirs would hit you.

As he thought this, movement in the simulation caught his eye. Marek looked up. A group of ships had detached from the main fleet, and drove towards the planet. His eyes launched forward, strafing across the surface of a giant spearhead, bristling with fighters, and then turned to meet the planet. The enemy fighters had formed a swirling whirlpool, and as he stared, he was suddenly sure that each ship was extending its spiral horn to meet the charge. An intense wave of light flashed past his view, and his eyes rushed forward, following behind a wall of rippling red arrows, driving to meet the enemy.

Bright white light flashed from the planet and pulsed outwards, cutting across space like overlapping blades of knives. The light rushed towards the enemy formation, threatening to consume them. But the whirlpool of ships appeared to shift, and the light passed between them harmlessly. As it passed, the ships birthed miniature red dwarves, which joined together into a torrent of energy, ripping forward through space. As it drew nearer, the intensity of the light caused Marek to clench his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was above the scene, watching the opposing waves of energy pass one another, and descend upon each cluster of ships. With twin flashes of fire and light, it was over.

His eyes descended to drift amidst the aftermath. A wing, severed in an explosion, spiraled past his view. Directly ahead, grey material rotated in place, its function no longer decipherable. A white blur emerged from his right, collided with the debris, and slowed to a near stop. The white object, a space suit, waved at him with a vigor no longer shared by its legs, now lost and forgotten. Marek shifted his eyes away, and met the vacant gaze of a scorched helmet. He shuddered, closing his eyes and bringing his hand to cover his mouth. He exhaled into his hand and opened his eyes. He was back in space, examining the situation from afar.

Marek rubbed his eyes. Just a simulation, he told himself. Get back to work, Marek. He looked back to the console screen. The image had changed to reflect the outcome of the battle. In place of fighters, twin fields of debris now rimmed the planet. All that remained were the planetary defenses. The fighter wave hadn't even scratched them. This problem was simple. It was just a matter of sending in the rest of the fleet of heavy cruisers, with fighter cover to soften the blow. He looked up from the console to the simulation. As before, the ships had begun to move. But how did it know what I was thinking? I didn't say anything. His hands drifted up to explore the helmet.

A flash of light caught his attention. Hundreds of thousands of fighters formed a wall shielding the larger heavy cruisers. His eyes were drawn within a section of the wall. He could sense that the heavies were about to fire. His hands, now forgotten, drifted to his sides. He watched from within the barrier, observing the glowing blue embers of the fighters' interstellar engines weave back and forth. Occasional purple pulses raced past him, and stitched through holes between the fighters blanketing the charge. One of the fighters dropped out of formation and banked hard to the left, only to collide with a beam of energy and burst into short-lived flames. As the memory of the destroyed fighter faded from space, laser and plasma fire ignited all around him. He could almost feel the heat of their fire. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose, stinging his eye. He blinked, and found himself at a vantage point above the battle.

Knives of photon energy from the planet, futile in light of the surge of energy approaching it, soldiered onwards to the approaching fleet. Marek emerged behind it, watching white hot energy burn itself out in swathes upon the wall, with lone snaking daggers of energy continuing onwards, igniting green walls around dozens of heavy cruisers before cutting them to pieces. And in the next second he was at the planet, watching the silver discs of the rings ignite in purple and green fire before spiraling off, colliding, and falling away into the atmosphere, itself burning with color.

In a matter of seconds, it was over. Marek turned his head to the right and found himself above the fleet, which rested motionless. He turned his eyes to the console. A tally of the battle was displayed: 54691 fighters lost; 153 heavy cruisers lost; 349,955 credits lost; 452,400 credits debris created. I'm sure this is right, he thought. Linden would be pleased.

Chapter 6.3

With a wry smile, the image of Gargoyle brought his arms up to cross upon his chest, his hands clenched into fists, before jerking them to his sides. A salute? He - no - it is mocking me. The image spun on its heels, marching in the direction of the far wall. Its arms swung back and forth, drumming to the sound of hard leather heels on the star-speckled floor. And with each beat, a shroud of darkness reached farther and farther outwards, blotting out more stars as it passed, before receeding to form a cloak of shadow at the projected feet of Gargoyle.

Marek closed his eyes. I need to think. The drum pulsed on, blackened his own thoughts. And then it stopped. He opened his eyes to darkness. The stars were extinguished. Again? He rubbed his forehead, pressing his frustrations across his brow. "Come on," he muttered. "Get on with it." Marek waited, his teeth clenched. And nothing happened.

He growled into his chest and barked out into the darkness. "For Irkalla's sake!" Marek exhaled sharply. "Is all this drama really necessary?"

Gargoyle's cackle rang out from above him. I've had enough of this lunatic! The laughter died off into an intermittent crackling noise. It was a familiar sound. And was it coming from above him? Marek pressed his head backwards, and felt the chair lurch beneath him. It was unlocked again. As he spun towards the ceiling, he discovered light once more. There were a dozen dim clusters of stars spread above his head. The crackle re-emerged in their midst, seeming to jump across the void, spreading stars in its wake. As he watched, the crackling noise spread across the ceiling, growing in strength; he revolved his chair to watch it leap to the walls and the floor. It finished with a roar at his feet. It sounds like a burning forest, he thought.

A loud pop, as if fire had burst out from the heart of a tree, brought his eyes up from the floor and into orbit. A dark grey orb lay before him. It was small enough to fit into his hands and yet... as he stared at it, it seemed to grow to fill... everything. His eyes found themselves soaring past clouds and mountains; past an ocean of ice, feeding fingers of water that reached down across the planet's dark surface; past cities growing from the ground and even the sky itself, each filled with thousands of the horn and spiral shaped buildings he'd seen on the console earlier. His eyes lept upon a city, and fell within the structures, each alive with light and shapes crawling within them. As he flew by the buildings, one of the shapes turned and looked at him; it was alive with legs and eyes. And suddenly he was falling back into orbit, passing thousands of gleaming silver discs in thrall to one another, all spinning in synchrony, and threaded across the upper atmosphere like a ring. Marek blinked and the planet was an orb once more, the existence of rings and cities only a memory upon its surface. That was unbelievable, he thought, his frustration forgotten.

A wall of fire and heat burst in front of him. He threw his hands up to his face, jumping back in his seat and sending the chair spiralling backwards. He came to rest with his head near the floor, staring at the room behind him. The heat that had licked at him was gone. Marek slowed his breathing, guiding the beating within his chest to a gentle rhythm. He felt light-headed. Marek brought the chair forward once more.

Tens of thousands of lights now glinted from orbit of the planet. As he examined them, his eyes accelerated forward, alighting within their midst. They were ships, but not like those of Prime. They were grey as the planet below and completely round, but for a single spiral extending from their bow and four short wings at their aft, surrounding an aperture glowing a brilliant white. They moved gracefully together, each separated by no more than meters. And yet they spun and weaved, never colliding, and always in synchrony. They must be fighters. But how do they move like that?

Marek turned his head to examine the planet and found himself in the room, examining the scene from afar. As the chair turned, he noted a new collection of ships, this one much larger than the other. It was a fleet of hundreds of thousands. His eyes drew him within the ships once more. But these were familiar. It was a fleet of the League.

There were squadrons of fighters, flying together. They were sloppy. There was little to no coordination between them. Just meat, he thought. Marek shuddered. The wings of the fighters reached forward towards their cockpits, like the blades of sicles blunted by all the death they had harvested over the years. He shifted his eyes and found himself surrounded by flying daggers: thousands of heavy cruisers. Waves of distortions in the light rippled off their surfaces, a consequence of the negative energy used to propel their warp drives. As he watched, debris from what could only have been a collision between fighters ran across the bow of a ship, only to dissolve in a burst of green fire from the shields.

Some movement at the corner of his eyes caught his attention, bringing him back to the room. The console displayed a small image of the planet and the ships in its proximity. He pressed his finger to the image, and data on the planet and the ships in orbit appeared next to it. Fifty thousand fighters. Shielding. Ten planetary rings. It explained the discs he'd seen. He'd never seen rings up close before, let alone from what could only be an alien planet, but the name made sense now. And there was another notation: CCA, factor 20. There was a command center algorithm in place. The weapons and the navigation of the ships in orbit were hooked up to a central computer: a good one. That explained their coordination.

"Let's see what we have to work with," Marek muttered to himself. He pressed his finger to the League fleet, flooding the console with data. Marek whistled aloud. Fifty thousand heavy cruisers and four hundred thousand fighters. He spoke into the air, "I think this is overkill, don't you?"

Chapter 6.2

Gargoyle lowered his hand, using it to brush away the projected lint on his shoulders on the way down. "And now, to business."

"I have a series of questions for you. And I require you to give a single word in response." The image wavered and a clipboard and a pen appeared in Gargoyle's hands. "Do you understand, Marek?" Gargoyle touched the pen to the paper, poised to begin writing.

Single word answers? It was strange, but the most normal experience so far. He marshalled his annoyance and replied with a polite "Yes."

Gargoyle began writing frantically, periodically peering up to examine Marek. He tore through the first sheet of paper, flipped it over, and continued to write. So much for normal... Half-way through the second sheet, Gargoyle ceased writing, and regarded Marek. "Excellent. Excellent. Now is your name Marek, Marek?"

What kind of stupid test is this? Marek irritation spilled into his reply. "Yesssss."

Gargoyle lifted an eyebrow, and brought his hand to his mouth. "Well now, I didn't ask for the attitude, but otherwise good." He clucked his tongue, shaking his head back and forth as he wrote a line on the clipboard. "Now, without the aggression, answer me, are you standing?"

They can't be serious. Linden must be going crazy. Marek rubbed his eyes and exhaled sharply. He blinked his eyes, and replied with an even voice. "No."

Gargoyle immediately returned to writing. He wrote a line on his clipboard and then stopped in mid-stroke. He blinked twice, and cocked his head to the left. His mouth slid into a frown, and he turned a baleful eye on Marek. Gargoyle's voice sharpened, raising in pitch. "I thought that you said that you understood."

Light flickered at the edge of Marek's vision. He looked down. The console was engaged, the screen alive with a recording of... him in the chair. Gargoyle's voice, garnished with a hint of electronic interference, buzzed, "I have a series of questions for you. And I require you to give a single word in response. Do you understand, Marek?" His image sat in silence, his fingers twitching. "Yes", he had replied. And had he rolled his eyes? I didn't even realize, he thought.

"Well?" Marek met Gargoyle's scowl.

"A single word. And you have given me two."

A single word? What does he mean? Marek fumbled, confused. "But. But no is a single word answ-".

"Yes is one word. No is a second word. I need a single word in answer. And that answer is yes." Gargoyle clucked his tongue, shaking his head. He looked up at Marek, adopting the 'instructor voice'. Marek had heard it on many occasions during flight training: it emerged when a recruit failed to find the ignition switch, forgot his helmet in his locker, or... was sick during take-off. Gargoyle spoke in measures, emphasizing each word. "Now. Marek. Do you un-der-stand?"

Marek sighed. "Yesss."

"Do you real-ly un-der-stand Marek? I do not want to ask you a-gain."

"Yes," he insisted, biting back the urge to yell.

"Well. We shall see." Gargoyle curled his lips into a smile, while his eyes continued to bore into him. "Now. Are you STANDING?" Gargoyle shouted the last word, causing it to echo through the room.

Marek's intentionally brought his eyes to bear on the handrests of the arm chair, lingering on them for effect. "Yes," he replied, a smirk on his face.

"You are clearly not standing." Gargoyle coughed, bringing his hand holding the pen up to cover his mouth. He coughed again, and... had he heard? It sounded as if a voice from behind him had whispered something while Gargoyle coughed. The image continued, his eyes focused on the clipboard and the flurry of his writing. "But excellent, you do appear to understand."

"Now, Marek, are you from the moon?"

"Yes," he replied. Perhaps they were getting somewhere.

Gargoyle smiled. With a flick of his wrists and a flicker of light, he tossed the clipboard and pen behind him. They spiralled backwards, burst into flames, and vanished in a sparkle of electric stars. "Truth!", he chimed. "Now", he began, narrowing his eyes, "do you weigh 10,000 pounds?"

Marek sighed, emptying his frustrations and his answer into the air. "Yeeeeess..."

Cackling laughter exploded from all of the walls of the room, while Gargoyle clapped, his mouth gyrating to the sound. "Liar!", he chortled. With a snap, he shut his mouth, drowning the room in silence. "Now Marek," Gargoyle leaned towards him, lowering his voice to a whisper, "have you ever..." Gargoyle paused, peering around the room as if concerned with being overheard, "kissed a man?"

Marek choked on his breath. What in Irkalla's name is this about? Is this all a big joke? Is this even the tes-

Gargoyle straightened, all mirth wiped from the lines of his wrinkled face. "If you do not want to fail your test, you will answer this question. You will tell me," he paused, a slight frown creeping onto his face, "how much you love men. Now, have you ever, Marek - have you ever kissed a man?"

He barked out his response, "Yes!" This is the height of technology, is it? They've created a machine with the mind of a moron.

Gargoyle lit up with glee. "Ah! Wonderful!" The image wavered, and reappeared a half a meter from him. It leaned in, the warmth of the projection heating the air around Marek. "Now, have you kissed more than one?"

Marek tried to turn his head away, but the chair was locked in place. He muttered his response. "Yes..."

Gargoyle smiled, his grin seeming so large as to swallow the air in the room. Marek felt short of breath. Gargoyle winked, and whispered with a deep raspy voice, "Then this won't be a shock to you." The image shimmered and appeared immediately in front of him, its lips painted red as blood, puckering. A wave of warmth crashed upon his face. Marek tried to push the chair back, but it was immobile. He threw up his hands, but too late. Gargoyle pressed against him. But there was no pressure. Just heat. He was on fire. Heat everywhere. And Gargoyle was... gone.

Laughter burst in the air behind him. Is this happening? Or am I going insane? A shimmer of light caught his eyes. The console screen was alive with an image. A reflection. He saw his face. And there were red marks on his lips. From Gargoyle? His hand shot up to his mouth. Disgusting. He wiped his lips, watching his image in the reflection do the same. The red marks were gone, instead on his reflections' hand. He glanced at his own hands. But they were clean. It was an illusion. Just light. It's just a trick. Are they testing me? To see if I'll break under pressure? Marek slowed his breathing. This is nothing. I can handle this. Relax, Marek.

The laughter crackled and died. Gareth Boyle, dressed in formal blue attire appeared in front of him, his chest decorated in dozens of gleaming triangles, squares, and ovals. He had been a war hero before he'd become an instructor. The rumor was that he had lost his nerve in space. Something had happened to him. He had gone on a routine mission confident, and come back... different. Marek shook his head, rubbing his eyes. But this isn't him. Even Gargoyle wasn't this crazy. This is just a machine. Think of it as what it is: a machine.

The image grinned, its hands brushing the lint off of its sleeves. "Ah, that was fun," it sighed. It straightened, taking on a hard and even tone. "But let's get on with it, shall we?"

Chapter 6.1

"C-Commander? Commander Boyle?" Marek stammered. Even though the room was illuminated by no more than starlight, Boyle was clearly visible. He seemed almost to radiate light.

Boyle spoke into his hands. "Excellent. I'm glad to see that this..." He paused, examining his outstretched fingers, "is consistent."

Gareth Boyle's eyes traced the single red line that marked both his rank and the left sleeve of his grey League jacket. His uniform was as immaculately maintained as Marek remembered from training. Despite an active position instructing recruits in basic maneuvers within the lower atmosphere, his clothing was always suspicious pressed. The only wrinkles one ever discovered on Gargoyle, as he was affectionately known, were located on his face.

Gargoyle turned his beady eyes upon Marek, a smirk creeping across his ashen pallor. His unnaturally large mouth gave him an even more ghastly appearance, as if he was poised to devour a side of his own face.

"I usually have to go through many rounds of refinements..." Gargoyle revolved his smirk up and to the left, away from Marek, keeping one of his narrowed eyes focused on him, "to achieve this level of clarity". Gargoyle pressed his hand against his neck, and a popping noise resounded through the silent room. He turned his face back upon Marek, the smirk replaced with a frown. "The others... The vapid fools can't even see their own hands while looking directly at them."

Marek stared silently at Gargoyle. Something about the man seemed... wrong. He seems too young. Gargoyle grinned, his mouth a grave of teeth, as white as polished bone. Marek blinked. Why were they so bright? A flush of warmth suffused Marek's face. His eyes drifted back across Gargoyle. Something was different. More dull. And was it his imagination or did the man seem older? Was there grey in his hair before?

"Well, no memory is perfect. But it is refreshing to create something so..." Gargoyle brushed a colony of lint off of his collar, "lifelike." As Marek stared, Gargoyle seemed to darken. Could he see stars in his face? Gargoyle's smile dissolved. "Well, within the limitations of technology."

Marek puzzled. Was this an electronic transmission? It would explain why he hadn't noticed anyone else in the room with him. Marek struggled to frame a question. "Commander...?"

"Gargoyle? Isn't that your name for me?" Gargoyle leaped into a snarl, baring his teeth, and burying his eyes in lines of clenched muscle. He threw his hands up into the air, penting his hands into claws, and a low growl escaped his lips.

Marek jumped in place, the helmet and chair restraining him. And Gargoyle vanished. Marek paused to take a deep breath. Just a transmission, he told himself. He stiffened, pressing his back into the chair. "N-no," he stumbled, his voice growing in power. "No sir! Or course not, sir!"

A low whine grew in intensity behind him, began to warble, and exploded into a sound of cackling laughter, which died into a hiss of static. Gargoyle's voice, singed with a crackle, emerged from the ashes. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" Gareth Boyle, dressed in a ceremonial blue suit reserved for affairs of state, emerged before him. He ran his hand, now enclosed in an iridescent white skin, down the line of his sleeve, his eyes rapt upon the shifting ripples of blue light dancing across his glove. The sharp black beads of his eyes pierced Marek, a large frown overwhelming his face. "No, of course not. Your memory may be strong, but the rest of your mind..." Gargoyle rolled his eyes.

"I'm an A.I." He paused, examining Marek. But all Marek could do was blink. Gargoyle opened his mouth as if to swallow him, before choking on a laugh, his teeth jarring up and down, mauling the air. He closed his mouth with a whine and a cough. Gargoyle grinned and tilted his head to regard Marek with a single eye. "Artificial intelligence," he continued. He held up a hand to his face, shifting it back and forth in the light of the stars, causing blue waves to rise and fall across its surface. "Though there is nothing artificial about it."

An A.I.? So that's what this is. Marek sat in silence, his eyes drifting back into his head. No one ever said anything about-

Gargoyle's voice cut through his thoughts. "Ah, you've heard of my kind." Marek looked out again, meeting the projected eyes of his former instructor. "You saw my symbol when you came in." Gargoyle, or whoever he - or it was - gestured to the console. Marek followed the line of his hand to the screen. The center of the display was filled with a single word, Eye, and in the bottom right corner sat the symbol, blinking. Gargoyle's voice emerged from the console, seemingly from the symbol itself. "You can call me Eye," it said.

Gargoyle's voice returned to his projection. "Or Gargoyle. I realize that this is hard for your... types." Gargoyle lowered his head, shaking it back and forth. He stopped in mid-motion and turned his head up, narrowing his eyes, a smirk eating into his face. "In fact, you can call me whatever you like." He disappeared.

And in his place, immediately in front of Marek, appeared a woman. She was tall, with long auburn hair, and a flowing translucent white silk gown hugging close to the curves of her hourglass figure. Her large green eyes matched her painted forest green lips and the verdant crescent tattoo on her forehead that marked her lunar origin. Marek had seen her in the one of the holovid broadcasts; it was some minor role, but it was unusual enough to see a Luner onscreen that Marek had noted her. She placed her hand on his thigh, a smoldering look in her eyes and the faint hint of a smile on her lips. A pulse of warmth entered his leg. He felt himself shift. She spoke, but her voice was a rasp. It was wrong. "As long as you call me". It was Gargoyle's voice. She - he - it winked, and then disappeared. Marek shuddered. Get through it, Marek. You can do it.

Gargoyle re-appeared immediately in front of him, still attired in his blue formal uniform with the white gloves. A grin crawled across his face. "I don't suppose you would have seen the likes of me before."

Marek shook his head. Definitely nothing like you. A bead of sweat shifted, and ran down his forehead. The room was getting very warm.

"No, of course you haven't." Gargoyle leaned closer to Marek; he could almost feel the warmth of his breath, except that he wasn't breathing, was he? Gargoyle looked to his left and to his right. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm somewhat of a secret around here." The image flickered. A wave of warmth washed over Marek's face. And Gargoyle's hand materialized, extended upwards, one finger pressed to his enormous puckered lips. "Shhhh!", he hissed. Gargoyle threw his hands to his side, thrust up his chin, and began to cackle. The image dissolved, but the disembodied voice continued to laugh in Marek's face, emanating from where the image had been.

Once again in his grey uniform, Gargoyle re-appeared a dozen meters from Marek. Yet the laughter continued. Gargoyle raised his hand, and with a smirk on his face, began to turn his fingers around an imaginary dial. The laughter receded, dimming to a whisper, to a buzz, and finally to silence.

He lowered his hand and began to speak. But no sound emerged. He raised his hand to his throat and produced a silent cough. Gargoyle raised a single eyebrow. He brought a hand up to scratch his chin. This is the test? A poor comedy act?

Gargoyle mouthed his recognition, Ah. He raised his hand and turned up the imaginary dial. "MUCH BETTER!" His voice bellowed through the room, causing Marek to throw his hands up to his ears, having forgotten that the helmet prevented his hands from reaching them.

A half-sized smile on face, still larger than a smile of anyone who wasn't Gargoyle, he turned the dial down once more. His voice back to normal intensity, he continued. "Sorry about that."