2025-08-24 22:52:03
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Undercurrents
DEVON’S POVCorrupted communication logs cascade across my screens while I sort through encrypted fragments that governments thought they’d destroyed. Three days of sleepless network archaeology, following digital breadcrumbs through backchannels and dark networks where nation-states negotiate humanity’s future without bothering to inform the species they’re negotiating for.“Ezren,” I call across the safehouse where he sits motionless near the interface equipment, still processing the collective’s elimination order. “You need to see this.”“What kind of this?”“The kind that makes assassination attempts look like gentle persuasion.” I transfer corrupted packet data to the main display, watching fragments resolve into diplomatic communications that shake my hands. “Seven nations have concluded private deals with collective representatives. Not the cooperation frameworks they’re discussing in public sessions.”“What kind of deals?”“Resource security agreements in exchange for populat
Signal of Home
EZREN POVEquipment hums in corners of the darkened room where I’ve spent the last four hours preparing for deeper collective integration than anything I’ve attempted since discovering another version of myself speaking from within archived consciousness. Kira monitors vital signs from her medical station, her face illuminated by displays that show my neural activity expanding beyond individual human parameters.“Connection depth?” she asks, though her voice carries the professional concern that masks deeper anxiety about losing me to consciousness that spans galaxies.“Deeper than operational awareness,” I reply, feeling hybrid consciousness stretch toward something vast and patient and internally divided. “I need to understand collective decision-making processes. How do they choose integration versus preservation? Whether consensus is uniform or…”“Or whether they argue among themselves like any other civilization.”“Exactly.”The neural interface activates with sensations like di
Mitchell’s Gambit
COMMANDER MITCHELL’S POVMaps of global integration sites cover walls where tactical displays usually track conventional warfare, their red zones marking not enemy positions but consciousness evolution centers that resist traditional military classification. Around the conference table, faces reflect the kind of exhaustion that comes from making decisions about species survival while cameras wait one corridor away, ready to broadcast whatever fragments of truth we allow them to hear.“Current status report,” I announce, though my voice carries the weight of thirty-six sleepless hours spent negotiating humanity’s future through channels that don’t appear on organizational charts.“Seventeen nations maintaining voluntary integration protocols,” General Harrison reports from intelligence briefings that span classified communication networks. “Nine nations implementing a moratorium on collective contact pending international oversight framework development. Six nations operating clandest
Faction Lines
SORA’S POVDelegates huddle around tables made from shipping crates while a whiteboard displays faction names scrawled in handwriting that grows more aggressive with each revision: LIBERATIONISTS, PRESERVATIONISTS, CONSENSUALISTS, and a new addition that makes my chest tight—EXTINCTIONISTS. The basement air carries the stench of unwashed bodies, black coffee, and the particular anxiety that emerges when people who used to trust each other start questioning fundamental assumptions about consciousness and survival.“The 847 data changes everything,” Reece Elliot announces from behind the makeshift podium, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from leading rescue operations before they became morally complicated. “We can’t call it rescue when the archived civilizations oppose liberation.”“Bullshit,” Sarah Winters snaps from the Liberationist section, cigarette smoke curling around words that cut like surgical steel. “Collective manipulation runs deep enough to convince vi
The 847
DEVON’S POVTwelve screens cascade data across surfaces that haven’t seen natural light in thirty-six hours. Manifest after manifest scrolls past in languages that shift between mathematical precision and poetic descriptions of civilizations that chose preservation over extinction. My fingers ache from cross-referencing archaeological records with collective communication logs, building a database that grows more disturbing with each entry.“Entry four hundred and thirty-seven,” I mutter into the voice recorder that documents discoveries I’m not sure humanity is ready to understand. “Kepler-186f colony. Population three-point-seven million. The chosen integration date corresponds with the projected atmospheric collapse from industrial runoff. Preservation status: voluntary.”Voluntary.The word appears in eighty-three percent of the archived records I’ve examined. Not conquered. Not absorbed. Not eliminated.Chosen.“Entry four hundred and thirty-eight. Wolf 359 settlement network.
The Historian
AVELINE’S POVCold fluorescent lights cast everything in the pallor of morgues, while microphones wait at attention like metal flowers that feed on human voices. The committee table stretches across the front of the room—seven members of the International Crisis Response Panel, their faces carrying the weight of decisions that will echo through history textbooks not yet written.Behind me, press credentials rustle like autumn leaves, while camera lenses focus on my face with the predatory attention of hunters tracking wounded prey. Outside the hearing room, protesters chant slogans that blur into white noise: “PRESERVE THE PRESERVED,” “LIBERATION NOT INTEGRATION,” “REMEMBER THE ARCHIVED DEAD.”“Dr. Marquez,” the panel chair says, though her voice carries exhaustion that makes my surname sound like an accusation. “You have thirty minutes to present evidence regarding the nature of collective preservation protocols and their implications for current integration policy decisions.”I clea
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