Work Text:
The Irken Empire builds on perfection. The image it tries to force through, that is. The Irken society is superior, better, and must uphold this appearance to secure its position as it forces its rule onto other worlds. All other species are below the perfection that is the Irken soldier; even simple and short drones can elevate themselves through comparison to other non-Irkens. Tallers would prefer enslaved fellow Irkens as servants to the slaves from conquered worlds, who instead will be forced to work in factories and prisons. Why should they stoop down to deal with something so inferior as anything non-Irken?
The Irken is perfect and superior. And any signs of the opposite are doomed to be eliminated.
Defectives.
They are not even acknowledged as Irkens, but as monsters or mistakes. Freaks to be dealt with as swiftly as possible so they cannot blemish the perfect Irken society with their very existence. Cannot have something walk freely as the living proof of Irken imperfection.
In the beginning a Defective was a physical mutation that needed to be removed so its broken genetics wouldn’t be spread further. Then it became abnormal behaviour, madness and mental sickness that had to be dealt with so it would not give the Irkens a bad representation of their civilization. Then defection became opinions and worldviews. If you did not agree with the rules set by the rulers in charge, you were a freak who had to be stopped from infecting others with your broken opinions.
There are no statistics telling if the problem with Defectives grew or lessened after the introduction to artificial breeding, or the inclusion of the PAK. There are still Irkens breeding the ‘natural’ way but not in as great a number as the artificial pod birth. There are still Irkens functioning without a PAK handling the duties of keeping the body functioning and handle the storage of memories and personality. There are plenty of lesser species out there getting by without the introduction of these artificial functions, everything handled by machinery and computers. And we see them as lesser.
Even to me they are lesser. The conditioning we all grow up with must be impressive.
My mind always wanders off into these corners of how our society works and is built up. As if searching for anything to explain… myself. What statistics would I fit under, if any existed for the public view? All I have earned is that one simple title which dictates everything about you.
Defective.
Repositioning myself on my creaking chair I grimace at the aching of my skin. I was born a freak, a proof that it is the reproduction outside of the hatcheries and smeet factories which is the cause of genetic imperfection. Whatever whore gave birth to me she at least showed the kindness of providing me a PAK before leaving me to fend for myself, the PAK keeping the young smeet alive after left on his own on the street. My research tells me that natural born smeets are much slower developing than the perfect clones in the hatcheries, even when provided with a PAK. I guess it was my luck that I proved that statistic wrong. I had thought and proper motions early enough to dig through trash to survive while having no memories of a parent teaching me anything.
How I have survived this long is a miracle, if I believed in such things. Which I don’t. I believe in numbers and letters. I had to teach myself those until I learned about the easy solution of PAK-upgrades and programs ready to be downloaded directly into the PAK and then into the mind fused with it.
I have come far, from a trash digging street urchin to a fully bloomed freak hiding away in a dark and filthy apartment. Before now, I could get away with searching the streets. Could always pretend to be a maimed worker or forgotten soldier. My physical deformation was a simple lack of a right arm. That and the extra eye above the left one, but that could be hidden. A simple stump of a shoulder where an arm could have been. No scar tissue to fool a closer inspection, revealing it to be the way I am born. My third eye has always been useless. When I tried to use it without the others all I saw was a blur of the surroundings, basically blind. It gave no advantage.
Now I am locked up within this room. I cannot go outside anymore.
It’s a box, four walls, a floor and a ceiling. No window to peek out through. A broken vent through which I can hear all sorts of noises from the complex I live in. The only light here is the screen before me. I used to have two but the second one broke down and I do not have the spare parts to repair it with. Now my information search is limited to what I can fit on this one screen. I cannot dare to link myself directly into the grid through my PAK, no matter how tempting it might be. I am not properly registered within it and would shine through as an unwelcome intruder. I cannot go outside. I cannot go in.
Such limitations. Such a curse.
Knocks on my door. Rustling sounds of something getting pushed under it.
My only form of interactions with the outside world. With other freaks and Defectives, with the rebels and the runaways. I keep a path between my terminal and the door clear so I can move over on the wheels of my chair instead of walking. My legs have gotten so weak and with the state of my right foot, standing and walking is something I rather avoid. With my one hand I pick up the tissue that have been pushed through the crack between door and floor that I keep for the same purpose. A simple order; a chip for their PAK to fake normality. They must have the right physical appearance to hide whatever deformity they must have in their mind or PAK.
I scrape my thin claws at the door. I only have two fingers now; the thumb had gone the same way my shoulder stump went. Just wasted away, as if my body absorbed its mass into itself to use it somewhere else in my organism.
The envelope is pushed in through the crack. Picking things up can be difficult without a thumb or an extra hand but you learn to manage with what you got. Weighting the envelope in my small hand I accept it. A quick travel across the floor on my rolling office chair and then back to the door I squeeze the requested PAK chip through the crack. Shuffling on the other side. Then the rushed footsteps of someone in dire need of being somewhere else.
I make it back to my station where I examine the content of the envelope. The usual money chips. I cannot accept cash; I have no use for it if I cannot go anywhere to use them. Chips can be more easily traded or used online where registration isn’t as restrictedly acquired. I only need items for my work and the occasional nutrition to sustain myself.
From a rat on the street to a pathetic hermit. My body is falling apart bit by bit. My whole life has been nothing but a ticking clock counting down the time I have. It is not laziness or disdain of the fellow Irkens around me that keeps me locked up like this. It is nothing personal. Just the fact that despite how terrible my existence might seem I still feel the instinct for survival and going outside is a death wish.
I cannot hide my deformities anymore.
In retrospect I could pass for a simple unfortunate existence in the bowels of the Empire, wrapped in bandages I could pretend to simply suffer great injuries and amputations. Except that the slightest touch of anything fabric left my skin burning. It hurts too much after my skin became so sensitive. Like it is no real skin anymore but a different kind of tissue not meant to protect as the outer layer of my body. The extra eyes would be hard to hide after one sprouted on my cheek. I have five now. All as useless as the third one I started with. Blinking and sensing, just there for no function. Although my third eye has grown a better vision with less blur over time. It moves in unison with my two main eyes.
The problem is the sheer size of my skull. Last I felt it I could feel the bumps and shape. Many Irkens have weird and bumpy skulls but nothing like this. I am surprised my thinning frame can somehow still support the weight of my head at this point.
I stopped feeling my skull’s deformation when my skin became so sensitive. It felt like… poking at soft flesh with nerves screaming in pain where the protective skull have should been. I’m nothing but nerves and soft tissue now.
I know I am to be considered hideous. I must be. I don’t care. Good look was never my concern, I was never meant to belong within this society of perfection.
The growing size of my skull has its perks I guess. It feels like my brain follows the growth. I hunger more for knowledge than the nutrition my withering body screams for. I leave it to my PAK to keep my body functioning; which is what it is for. No fancy tools, just filled up memory banks and the life support system natural born Irkens don’t need, now used to keep me alive at minimal effort.
The PAK is a multifunctional tool all proper Irkens carry, from newborn smeets to the oldest of veterans, even the Almighty Tallests carries their own proudly. It keeps the body alive and functioning, it provides life support in a variation of environments depending on the upgrades received. It can hold a vast variation and number of tools and information. The PAK carries our identity as Irkens. Thoughts, memories and dreams get all stored within the memory banks of the PAK. We communicate through it. We live through it. An Irken losing their lifelong companion will wither away, their memories and thoughts gone and forgotten as the body shuts down bit by bit.
As natural born I was curious if that function applied to me to. Removing the PAK from my back I saw indeed my life clock ticking away. Morbid curiosity had me keep it going until I feared my fumbling hand couldn’t properly return it to its proper place before my life ran out. I felt my multiorgan squirm and shiver within in me as it fought against its own extinction. I guess, although born this ‘natural’ way instead of designed and hatched within the smeet factories, I am still dependent on my PAK to survive my own biology.
Yet… it was only my body which started to decay. My mind felt nothing but filing every detail I learned and observed from the experiment.
I have found my PAK lacking compared to the storage of memories. I never had my PAK upgraded; I cannot go to an upgrade station and demand upgrades fitting my age. I am in no such position - being what I am. I have no extension to pick up and carry things for me. And it feels like my organic brain can hold so much more knowledge and memory than the PAK on my back which should have been the backup to my very being.
I guess it is just another imperfection I must live with.
A knock on my door. I had been dazing again, not even reading the info on my screen. Lost in thoughts and observations again. The shuffling sound telling me it is another customer.
By the door I find something finer than the usual tissue or random trash with requests written in it. These are actually papers. And a datapad. This isn’t the usual Defective trash.
I pick up the easiest thing to start with, with the two claws I have - the paper. A request for a check-up of the data on the datapad. It is rarely I get a job such as this. Something else than just creating easy-fix programs or chips, when someone realizes my intelligence is more than just for that.
Picking up the datapad took more effort than the paper, but sliding it up against a wall to push it up so I could get my palm under it did the trick. I had to wheel back to my station to rest it on the table so I could free my claws to tap the screen and scroll through the information it held.
Very fascinating. Very. A study of Irken biology and genetics. Perfection on a level that had me salivate. What I did not understand was the reasoning they had to let something like me read it over. I didn’t see any errors or typos to point out. At least not in the parts I understand, some were on a level much higher than I could ever dream of learning about or earning the schooling-upgrade for.
I have no schooling. No education programs put into my PAK. Barely dared to download directly from the grid out of fear from being noticed. Like I was stealing knowledge not rightfully belonging to me. I have had to learn the hard way. Reading. Studying. Observing. Learning from the data I could call up on a terminal screen. I’m sure I have reached a much higher collection of knowledge than any other Defective of a status like mine, especially higher than those as dependent of their limited PAK as the most.
I knew a lot yet I still had so much more to learn. Such limitations.
Still eager to show my appreciation of laying my eyes on such research, I managed to grab a pen to write down my thoughts and observations of what I understood from the datapad’s information. It is not an easy task, to write with one hand, which only possesses two fingers. None of them a thumb. But I have practiced to ensure I can make replies to push under the door without having to open it and talk.
Minutes later I’m pressing my skull against the door to try and hear if the unknown customer was still out there. The sensitivity of my skin and flesh helping me to catch vibrations somewhat. I hear nothing, they either left or are just standing still, but still proceed to push the paper reply under the door. Movements can be heard as it was picked up. A patient one.
A new piece of paper is pushed through shortly after. A request for the datapad back but also… a DNA sample from me. This leaves me confused. Why would anyone ask for something like that? They also wish the datapad back but it still contains such wonders to be realized when I have learned enough to understand it.
I flinch at the knocking of the door, an impatient sound. The last thing I want is for someone to break into my box, the only place I have to stay outside of the Irken eye with my grotesque imperfections. Hesitatingly I push the datapad under my door. Transferring the data from it is sadly not an option, I do not have the equipment for it and nor the time at this point. Another impatient knock. They had requested more. Why I still cannot fathom.
“The payment will be worth it, I promise. It won’t be used against you. No name, no address. Just my own curiosity.”
The voice is surprisingly kind. I have never heard such tones used towards me before. But it won’t sway me, despite the surprise and shock. Then I hear the sound of a box hitting the ground just outside my door. A box. Something much bigger than a simple envelope with payment. Filled with things by the heavy sound it landed with.
My organism has been in need of nutrition for a while now; I keep forgetting or simply not caring. It must be food, that is what I’m usually paid with by those not knowing my preferences with tools, spareparts and educational chips.
“A brain like yours shouldn’t go to such waste.”
How flattering.
I have a feeling that this person, whoever they are, for whatever reasons, are not planning to give up. If they decide to drop the act of kindness and instead force through to get what they want I am not able to put up much of a fight.
A single tooth is rolled out through the crack under the door. I don’t hear any noise of disgust from the choice of how I… donate the requested sample. It was one of the last ones; just like parts of my limbs have been wasting away my gums have been pulling back and making my teeth go loose. A quick twist and pull, no further effort needed, and I have a tooth, still with flesh on it, to deliver. Barely felt it. I really am falling apart.
All I hear is the movement of clothes as the items get picked up. Then the calm footsteps walking down the hall, away from my apartment. When the coast is clear enough I dare to open the door. The hall is empty. The box is waiting, soon pulled inside.
What I find within it is the content worthy of a treasure chest. Food, simple and nutritious, but most importantly… schooling chips. And not just the usual ABC’s most people think I’ll be satisfied with, these are higher level information by the look of the coding. These are academy levels, ready to upgrade my PAK with new knowledge and storage capacity.
I nearly teared up. If that had been something I was physically capable of. Despite the amount of eyes, wetting them beyond blinking was never within my abilities. For the moment I must assume it is the thought that counts.
Once again, I must face the difficulties of working with only one hand missing a thumb. But I don’t care. I work slow and careful, my impatience be damned. I cannot risk dropping these precious upgrades. Of course they are meant to be as indestructible as the PAK itself, but I rather not lose any to the piles of trash littering my box, by accidentally dropping them. With patience and care I soon have my PAK properly upgraded with the items provided. It feels like finally wearing a shirt that comfortably fits. As far I recall from back when I could still wear cloth against my skin. My PAK have always felt so small and tight, unable to fit my full mind. Of course, one simple home upgrade won’t do it. As much as I finally feel able to expand the memory banks of my PAK, it still cannot contain my whole being. I can feel that easily. Still, it can hold more now than ever before. A sense of relief. When my body finally perish, not all of me will be gone. Well, until my illegal PAK is found on my withered body and cleansed to delete all Defections within. But let me live in this moment of relief, just for now.
The new knowledge given to me is intoxicating. Not the trash usually provided by low-lives taking their own upgraded PAKs for granted. Actual research and schooling. Most of it is about genetics, anatomy, and biology. Makes sense, I guess. These academy chips might be my customer’s own used ones, considering the research they had me look over. A scientist, I presume, still researching genetics and how to keep perfect the Irken race.
I nearly yearn for them to return, for a chance to talk to them. I have never before wished for company. To dare think I could be equal to someone. But no, that is simply a delirious dream. I am no one’s equal, not even among the Defective trash wandering these lowest bowels of Irk. I have resigned myself to this fact long ago.
At least I have this new knowledge, now easily downloaded directly into my mind. It’s so beautiful. I have never before felt such a rush. I don’t even know how much time pass as I sit there in my chair, not moving as I simply mentally sort through all the new knowledge provided to me. And to think in real school and academies they actively learn on the side along with these upgrades and downloads. No wonder the Irken race is the very picture of perfection. When ignoring roaches like me hiding in its shadow.
Something dawns on me as I learn. This new information. Not all follows same directive as the academia chips. There are some… side-folders so to speak, if comparing the Irken mind to a computer. Added in, I see. I don’t complain, these are more and new information to swallow greedily.
I already know and understand most of the build-up of Irken society. Based on my view from the trash as a Defective of course. These bring more perspectives. Sounds like the basic any smeet would be taught after released from the tube. The height based hierarchy, the current and past Tallests, the military rankings. All just ants in a giant ant hill, hell-bent on expanding out into the known universe. Grow, expand, conquer, destroy. Shape everything in our perfect image.
It provides an extra layer to the research I had been given a moment to look through. I see their ambition. Further perfection, the next step in Irken evolution. It’s so beautiful. They can further hope to avoid mistakes like me from ever happen.
Then I pause.
I always knew they existed. It is an awareness even Defectives like me feel. Their function, their true superiority even above the Irkens as a whole. Yet never in the public eye. That’s what the Tallests are for. The outward image, the ear and mouth of the true rulers of Irken. The brains behind everything.
The Control Brains.
I’m finally fed information and knowledge directly about them. Why they are kept hidden, why the advantage in using puppets like the Almighty Tallests as an extension of their will.
They are nothing but pure mind and knowledge. Organic computers, processing every data stream of Irk and beyond. They think, they plan, they calculate. Leave the barking of orders to those beneath them. They are beautiful, true perfection, they… they…
They are… true perfection.
Although I dare wish to say I had no hesitation, it took dares to make the call. Doubts. As well as my sense of time passing have lost its value. That and being able to contact the outside world has never been a concern of mine. After so long trying to avoid them, to keep perfectly hidden under the radar I now have to figure out to contact them directly.
At least they are eager to act on any tip, eager to perform their duty to perfection. A short message is enough. Either way how they perceive it, truth or blasphemy, they must act on it. At the very least investigate.
The Irken Guard is not easy to contact. I have heard of societies priding themselves in creating a force meant to serve the public. How inane. The public is nothing but ants. What is far easier to call out is the Defect Hunters. On call at any time, ready to head out fast to capture any on the run who could be a danger to the Irken rule as a whole. Chasing down, capturing and to some extend executing Defects is their duty. Failing could be a catastrophe.
My door is no resistance to them as they knock it down in their first attempt. Trained, taught, and perfectly programmed for what duty they have sworn to perform.
I sit perfectly still for them, in the light soft light of my monitor, the only light of my box. My prison. I don’t need to be turned toward them, I have enough functioning eyes on the side of my head to look their way. I have enough vision to tell the shock on their faces. Never seen something as hideous before, I bet.
My legs are gone now. Withered away, their mass absorbed into my body. All left is a small stump with a small toe I can still wiggle. It will be gone soon too. My one arm is thin, my palm barely wider than my wrist. Making the call hadn’t been easy; soon I would have been left with no appendage to ever help myself with. But I know it’s not my withered frame they are concerned about. Not even the amount of eyes I have sprouted by now, and how many of them are capable of following their movements.
The sheer size of my head. I have no skull left, only tissue. Pulsing, ever growing, expanding with my growing knowledge. I must be a sight of nightmare to them. To those not witnessing true perfection.
They act accordingly, though. They had brought the proper transportation to get me out of the apartment complex. My skin screams when touch as they move me onto the hovering stretcher, but I keep quiet. They have to break off some wall to make room for my massive head through the door. No information left behind to cover the bill. The Defect Hunters serve the Empire and its Control Brains, not its citizens.
My PAK is linked up to additional life support, moving me is a delicate operation now they see the truth in the message sent to them. Most of them wear helmets covering their faces, so I focus most of my functional eyes on who seem to be their leader. He wears no helmet, his head and face exposed. I don’t know if it’s a display to seem tougher than the rest or to inspire trust in him by seeing him as an Irken and not just another masked face.
His eyes are on me too. I am no expert on reading faces, after a lifetime of chosen isolation. Is he in awe of the perfection before him?
After all, it is not every day one is honored to face a newborn Control Brain. A rare mutation, where the body withers to make room for nothing but brilliant mind and brain. All Control Brains are indeed nothing but brain tissue, no need for a body. Kept in jars to be preserved and functioning, as they serve and control the Empire in unison. A new Control Brain is such a rarity. The truth first revealed when the mutation show enough where it’s going. Or else it could easily be mistaken… for a lesser Defective. As fatal as such a mistake might be, it’s understandable.
I look forward to meet my new Brothers and Sisters. To finish my development and to join their Unity. And to store so much more in my ever expanding mind.
Perfection.