jamieproctor.ca

Once upon a time

(don’t ask about the time)

In a far-away land

(don’t ask about how far, or where)

Lived a good and noble prince

(don’t ask about whose standards of good and noble)

The prince was handsome and brave and strong, but he was lonely.  So one day he took up his sword and went adventuring, to find himself a lady wife. 

(don’t ask who was administrating his lands while he was away)

He rode his big beautiful horse down many dark and dangerous roads,

(don’t ask why the roads of his lands were dark and dangerous)

Fought many desperate brigands,

(don’t ask why they were desperate)

And slew many foul monsters,

(don’t ask who decides what a monster is)

But he was unable to find his lady love.

(don’t ask why none of the women he knew were ladies or what exactly a ‘lady’ is)

***

One day the prince was stood by a clear stream, tending to his horse, when he heard a voice raised in grief just above the rushing of the water.  He followed the sounds and came to an old, old, old woman, sat beside the river-crossing. 

“Oh my husband,” she sobbed.  “My poor husband!”
“What troubles you, old woman?” asked the prince. 

“He is sick, so sick,” wept the old woman.  “Old and frail and tired, and we are alone and he grew ill.  Now he needs the flower from the farthest hill to grow well again, but the river is too strong and deep for my old bones to cross.”

(don’t ask how the old man’s life wore him so old and frail or why there was nobody young able or willing to help them). 

“I will do this for you,” said the prince bravely.  And he forded the stream on his horse, strong as it was, and set off through the wilder woods, towards the farthest hill. 

(don’t ask how much hard bravery is when you are young and strong and well-fed and armed and armoured and have never been told no in your life)

The woods were thick and dark, choked with undergrowth from below and blotted by wide branches from above.  Grass withered and died, and any sheep that strayed beneath the boughs were given up as lost by the poor shepherds.  Worse things than wolves were whispered to wander within,

(don’t ask why the shepherds were poor, don’t ask why the wolves were wicked)

But the prince was brave

(DON’T)

And determined, and he kept going even when the trail vanished and the sun fell and he was alone in the dark with a nervous horse he led by hand between ever-crowding trunks and thorns and barbed bare burrs until at length he turned in a full circle and found himself trapped inside a oubliette of living bark and dead vines so tiny that he couldn’t see how he’d managed to fit into it in the first place.  One hand grasped the bridle of his faithful steed just outside, and then at a distant howl it neighed in fear and jerked free.  He was alone.

(don’t ask what happened to the horse, or why the prince took it so far to somewhere so unsuited for it, or how well he tended it on his long adventures, alone and with only a few saddlebags for the both of them)

The prince stood there in his prison of vines and thorns, and he saw that although its walls were firm and fast, it dared not venture closer in.  So he knelt and prayed the night away, and when the sun rose was miraculously unharmed

(don’t ask if his sword had something to do with it)

And was free to walk clear, the shadows and shrubs and saplings alike shrunken back from their moon-dark malevolence.  The woods were still thick and cruel, but he persevered though he grew tired and tattered, and at last the stones grew thick on the ground and the sky broke through and he was at the broad barren base of the farthest hill.  He looked to its summit and saw a small cottage, and sleeping outside that cottage a giant, and beside that giant’s foot a garden filled with small and beautiful flowers, bright and soft-petaled. 

Seeing his quest’s end in sight, the prince drew his blade and called out to the giant his name, his knighthood, and his mission.  And so enraged was the monster by this that he stood up and began to cast stones down the hillside at him, great boulders dug from the turf that tumbled and spun and rolled past the prince with the force of lightning and the roar of thunder,

(don’t ask if the giant had reason to react this way)

But he was fast and strong and brave, and he gained the peak and fought the giant and slew him, though he stood twice the height of a man and the weight of a good strong horse. 

(don’t say ‘prove it’)

The knight bent low and plucked loose a brilliant and beautiful flower from the garden, and as he did so the cottage door opened and within was a fair lady, pale of skin and soft of hand and eye. 

(don’t ask why a gardener doesn’t have a tan, callouses, or muscles)

The prince knelt at her feet and introduced himself gallantly, and she confessed that she was no less than a princess of old, taken from her parents by the goblins under the hill whom were the giant’s servants, and that she was glad to be rescued from her imprisonment beyond the woods. 

(don’t ask what sort of stories people will say to strangers that come visiting with bloodied weapons in their hands and corpses at their feet)

So they left the farthest hill, but the prince was much slowed by the frailty of the princess, and was forced to carry her on his back or stop and let her rest. 

(don’t ask if this sounds like something you’d do if you were stalling for time)

Darkness came to the woods again, and this time it was all the greater.  The princess cried and flinched at the shadows, and once when the prince strode out to confront a rustling in the brush that she shrank from they clasped her and tried to bear her away, but he was quick and managed to find her before the trees could spirit her away.  When dawn came it found them ragged and exhausted but still alive thanks to the prince’s sleepless vigilance, and the banks of the river were nigh. 

“I cannot cross, I cannot cross,” wept the princess.  “Go on without me, brave prince.”

“Fear not,” said the prince gallantly.  “I shall carry you.”
“Oh, but how shall you carry your sword and armour and myself all at once?” she sobbed. 

“You shall carry the sword for me,” said the prince.  “Be brave!  Though it be a cruel weapon, it has only ever been used for just cause, and so long as you clasp the hilt it cannot harm you.”
(don’t ask who decided what causes were just or how)

The princess trembled like a leaf, but she plucked up her courage and did as she was told.  But the river was in fine flood and they were a-foot rather than horsed, and halfway through the river, the prince’s foot slipped and so the princess dropped the sword, which came down like a stone upon the prince’s armoured skull.  He dropped poleaxed, and if the current had not been so unusually forceful that would’ve been the end of both of them; rather they were both cast ashore at the river-bend, where they lay swooned until they were happened upon by an old, old woman who took in both the princess and her medicinal flower and raised her as her own with what modest savings she and her husband (now-cured) could pull together.  Alas, the brave prince had been weighed down by his armour, and so he passed from this life in heroism and was buried on a little hill above the river that had laid him low. 

(don’t ask how much the prince’s armour was worth)

One day the prince’s men came crossing the river, seeking their deceased lord, and they found the princess sharpening their prince’s sword, which she used to cull chickens.  They were astonished to find such a fine blade in the hands of a lowly maid, and when they asked her what had taken place she wept and told them all that had happened to her and of the dear noble dead prince’s part in it, one that the old, old couple swore was true in every word.

(don’t ask how long they’d had to get this straight). 

The prince’s men wept for the loss of the land, but rejoiced in the completion of his quest.  So they returned to their lord’s keep with a new ruler, and although she never did marry, she was not lonely herself, for her new parents were brought along with her, and they lived happily ever after. 

Don’t ask exactly how happy they were. 

Don’t ask how long ‘ever after’ is.

Don’t ask who exactly was happy and who wasn’t. 

Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask.

Shhhhhhh.

On Mondays I walk to work by the long way.  It’s prettier than the short way and it’s not THAT longer, so why not?  And there’s the meerkats, of course. 

Today they were acting strangely, all of them clustered around a stone with heads down.  As I stopped and looked, one of them carefully picked up another stone, smacked them together, and caught the chip.  It squeaked and held it triumphantly. 

Then they saw me watching and all scurried away. 

I shrugged, put it out of my mind, and spent the rest of the day selling unhealthy food from a cart, as was my job. 

***

On Tuesday I broke custom and walked to work by the long way, out of curiosity.  I’d looked it up and I was pretty sure Meerkats using flint knapping was unusual, and the idea of writing a research paper while working a greasy concession stand cart seemed pretty good to me. 

The meerkats were absent from aboveground at first, and I looked in vain for further signs of stone industry – discarded cores and flakes, reworked scrapers, etc. – until I realized I was being watched with narrowed eyes by a single, dedicated sentry. 

“Hey big guy,” I told him.  He shook his tiny bronze spear at me and chittered angrily.  “No, don’t worry.  I’m not here for trouble.”

The meerkat shook his tiny helmeted skull and pointed fiercely at a small monument nearby, chiseled with shapes that reminded me a little bit of cuneiform script. 

“I’m sorry,” I explained.  “I’m a passing foreigner, unlearned of your laws and customs.”  This reasonable explanation earned me a spear through the shoe (just between my big and second toes) and I beat a very very hasty retreat. 

***

On Wednesday I broke custom yet again by walking to work by the long way with a pocketful of loose change.  Yet when I walked by the meerkat burrows, I found them obscured and lost under the sweeping majesty of a humble three-field crop rotation.  Amidst the very heart of the meerkat lands rose a majestic keep that rose about chest-high on a human adult, constructed with fitted stones and with battlements and parapets fit to repel any advance force. 

There was no one present. 

“Hello?” I called hesitantly.  Yes, I’d been decidedly unwelcome last time, but curiosity killed the meerkat.  “Is anyone there?  I brought the toll this time.”
Silence. 

I knocked on the drawbridge and almost got my knuckles skinned off as it slid down on greased chains, disgorging a balding meerkat in elaborate robes who shouted invectives at me while brandishing a tiny but beautifully-carved holy symbol of indistinguishable sect.  At her rear scuttled a host of angry worshippers in simple peasant clothing, wielding the requisite torches and pitchforks. 

I left before a repeat of the toe incident and had a pretty distracted day at work considering the theological ramifications.  They were large. 

***

On Thursday I went to work by the long way and found it shortened.  Some tremendous force had levelled the land and paved the path and diverted a small stream, reshaping it into a highway.  Tiny meerkat vehicles shuttled along the ground at dozens of kilometres an hour as tiny meerkat voices traded chittering abuse and thumbless rude gestures at one another through their windshields.  I stuck to the left lane as best as I could, but when even that began to produce choruses of honking I was forced to trudge along the roadside as passing motorists shook their fists and raised their squeaking voices at me.  A head-sized helicopter circled me with cameras on, and I began to walk faster.  Military jets followed at a distance as I left the long way behind, and I spent much of my shift keeping a cautious eye on the horizon, sure that at any moment I would be impaled by a frankfurter-sized warhead. 

***

On Friday I stood between the long way and the short way and stood for a moment, strumming my fingers on my belt. 

A strange light glimmered on the edge of perceptibility in the distance and I felt something buzz gently against the rim of my brain, a force a little bit beyond my comprehension.  There was a faraway noise like breaking glass mixed with an atom bomb. 

I went to work by the short way, went through my shift as fast as possible, then went home and hid under the bed without sleeping all night. 

***

When I woke up on Saturday and the world hadn’t ended I stayed home all day eating my favourite takeout foods one after another while I still had time

***

When I woke up on Sunday and the world STILL hadn’t ended, I found my feet moving without my input.  I walked the road to work, untroubled by traffic.  I looked to the sky and saw it shimmering with possibility, I looked at the earth and felt it steady beneath my feet, I looked ahead at the long way and I took a deep breath and stepped onto it and walked and walked and then at some point I was walking through the finely-macerated pieces of what had once been asphalt now overgrown and tangled in greenery, stepping through the potholes of desolate foundations, witnessing the rubble of buildings that had collapsed not through violence but through simple neglect and abandonment, watching the dust of once-fertile fields blow away in erratic new winds, and seeing amongst all the unheaval and annihilation not one meerkat face, hearing one meerkat voice, smelling not one whiff of meerkat but only the faint nigh-undetectable odour of desolation on the breeze. 

I walked to work by accidental habit, stood awkwardly at the usual spot, then went home by the long way.  Then I spent much of the rest of the afternoon regretting my choices of Saturday meals. 

***

On Monday, I walked to work by the long way, and it was a normal walk on a normal path with normal stones, and trees, and grasses, and shrubs, and every other normal living thing.  And I saw the meerkats by their burrow, grazing for insects, standing guard, chirping warnings at my presence. 

I waved at them.  They glared at me with wary meerkat contempt.  I departed. 

***

After that week I walked to work by the long way every day for the rest of the year, and I never saw them so much as try knocking two rocks together again.  They weren’t that smart, but they weren’t insane. 

The man was difficult to discern from his fishing pole: long, bent, and thin, with a nasty little barb at the end of his body where innocents might stumble on it and get caught. 

His name was Walt and he was not a good fisherman, but then again he’d only been at it for six minutes of his entire life starting six minutes ago.  And how hard could it be?  You put one end in your hands and one in the water and waited for some miserable unfortunate to commit inadvertent suicide.  It was a walk in the park. 

Not at the moment though.  They wouldn’t let him fish in the park; the police officer had been quite clear on that. 

The fishing pole jumped and Walt jumped and the fishing pole dove beautifully into the water after wrapping three times around his left leg.  After a lot of splashing and shouting and cursing and wailing and at least one shriek the line came in reel by reel and at the end there was a small and somewhat complacent trout in Walt’s palm, wriggling and writhing and mouthing. 

He looked at it with great distaste and sniffed. 

“You’ll do,” he said.  And he took it home in a bag of water, illegally. 

***

The fish took some effort to set up.  The tank, the filter, the scrubber, the net, the floss, the food, the tie and suit, the teaching bowl, the chalkboard, the dunce hat and corner stool, the textbooks, the spitball launchers, the paddle and the leather strap, the ruler, the whip and the brass knuckles, the forms and the fines and the penalties and the courts and juries and justice systems and jails, the minimum wage, the part-time schedule, the erratic last-minute shifts, the overpriced schooling, the cruel wage market, the overpriced housing, and the lifelong depression all had to be purchased, placed, and sized for the fish’s dimensions. 

It watched all of this activity with its wide fishy eyes, gills working furiously as cool water spilled its way through its body and filled it with life. 

“You’ll know better soon,” Walt told it.  A grim grin slid across his face and out of sight again.  “You’ll know better starting now.” 

He picked up the chalkboard. 

“A,” he began.  “B C D E F G H I J L M N O P-”

***

Walt taught the fish letters.  They meant shapes that were sounds.  Then he taught the fish words, which was letters clumped into meanings.  Then he taught the fish language, which was incredible nonsense, just absolute garbage and filth that poured into its ears and made its little fishy jaw drop and dangle in gobsmacked astonishment at the sheer audacity of the utter bullshit that it was hearing.

Walt put the fish in the corner with the dunce cap for swearing and scolded it until it cried. 

***

Walt taught the fish lies.  He told it that the world was flat and that vaccines were plots by lizard people to cull the human population so they could kill them all with blood magic to resurrect Atlantis with the help of psychic moon communists and kill god with adrenochrome and horse tranquilizers cut with stem cells and JFK. 

Then he told it to give him money. 

The fish did as it was told, eyes wide and trembling on the verge of vibrating loose from its little fish skeleton. 

“Give me more money,” he told it.  “You need to give me more money or they will win.”

The fish gave him more money and more after that and then it cried big fishy tears that salted the water to nigh-soupiness. 

“Keep giving,” said Walt.  “Don’t stop.”

***

Walt taught the fish truths.  The hard truths, the bitter truths, the truths that stuck in your mouth and choked you raw and bleeding until you learned to breathe around them, unable to be spit out or swallowed. 

“You don’t matter,” he sneered at the fish.  “You are replaceable.  You owe me everything and without me you’re nothing, so as long as you live under my roof you will obey my rules.  Stop looking at me like that and open your ears.  There are only winners and only losers and if you’re ever a loser you’re a loser forever.  There’s no such thing as a free lunch.  Work hard and you’ll be rewarded, slack off and you might as well be already dead.  Your worth is determined by your career.  Save your fun for retirement.  Vacations are for slackers and winners, and you don’t look like a winner to me.  Boys don’t cry.  This isn’t me picking on you this is just tough love and speaking straight truths and hard facts.”

The fish blinked. 

“It’s okay if you mix up this stuff with the other stuff,” he told the fish.  “It doesn’t matter much.  Now don’t forget any of it or you’re a loser.”

***

When Walt was done educating the fish he clothed it.  The suit, the tie, the briefcase, the car.  Then he gave it a few last words of wisdom. 

“Work hard,” he told it.  “And remember: if you fuck up it’s your fault and your fault alone and if you ever tell anyone about it or ask for help you’re a loser.  Now go out there and give me all your money for putting a roof over your head.”

“I love you father,” said the fish. 

“Never say that again if you want my respect,” said Walt.  Then he nodded solemnly at the fish once, with a little itty bitty dip of the head like that so it was subtle and not too emotional. 

It nodded back, little fish jaw trembling with repressed passion.  Then it walked out into the adult world. 

Walt smiled to himself and opened up his little book of proverbs.  “Another amendment for this year,” he said happily. 

Teach a man to fish, and he eats for a lifetime. 

Teach a fish to man, and it feeds you for the rest of its life. 

Penal colony L9-28 received its fifteenth shipment of rehabilitatees at the start of the planting season, as per annual tradition.  On the shuttle were six hundred women and seven hundred men and slung underneath the shuttle in magnetic clamps was one CQ Contusion-class autonomous megalithic warfare intelligence sheathed in full warstructure. 

“HELLO,” it said to the customs agents as it was unshackled with the assistance of seventeen able-bodied folk with fractal cutters.  “MY RANK IS AUTONOMOUS MEGALITHIC WARFARE INTELLIGENCE AND MY SERIAL NUMBER IS 2374326H.”
“We also need your name and preferred method of address,” said the customs agent. 

The autonomous megalithic warfare intelligence ran that cycle through its computational dolmens several billion times, then tested the output in its proving henge for good measure. 

“CLIVE,” it said.  “AND I PREFER TO BE ADDRESSED AS ‘IT.”

Despite the best efforts of on-site technicians, adjusting the volume on CLIVE’s loudspeaker seemed impossible; it had been designed to broadcast pleas for mercy and demands for surrender over thousands of acres, not small talk.  And when you were thousands of times larger than a human, most talk they wanted was very, very, very small. 

***

CLIVE was a model penal colonist.  Every day it was up at the crack of dawn and every night it was abed before lights out, because it didn’t need to sleep.  Every workshift it did the work of ten thousand people, because it was at least ten thousand times more powerful than a human.  And it was always volunteering assistance. 

“Orchard seven is underperforming again,” said the shift head-elect.  “Low yield, heavily perforated and dejuiced.  Looks like the quasilocusts again.  Any volunteers to wear the sprayer?” 

Groans echoed roundly. 
“I WILL,” said CLIVE, sixty meters above ground level. 

“You’re a bit big for that, CLIVE!” yelled the shift head-elect at the top of her lungs, hands cupped around her mouth. 

“DESPITE MY PLATFORM’S BROADCASTING DIFICIENCES, I CAN ACCEPT AUDITORY INPUT AT HIGH PRECISION,” said CLIVE. 
“What?!”

“YOU DO NOT NEED TO SHOUT.”
“Okay!  Okay.  The suit won’t fit on you and the sprayer is integrated into the backpack which is integrated into the suit.”
“THAT WILL NOT BE A PROBLEM,” said CLIVE.  And sixteen manhole-sized ports on each of their three brachial assemblies slid open and discharged a million gallons of napalm each onto orchard seven.

“Apples are not napalm-resistant, CLIFE,” said the shift head-elect as the rest of the crew sat down and watched the blaze. 

“APOLOGIES,” said CLIVE sincerely.  “I HAD ONLY USED IT ON HUMANS BEFORE AND ASSUMED VEGETABLE MATTER WAS IMPERVIOUS.”

***

“I’m not sure why you weren’t disarmed before being sent here,” said the penal senator from behind her desk.  It had been relocated to the center of a nearby field for her meeting, to keep up appearances.  “It’s standard procedure.”
“MY ARMAMENT IS AN INTEGRAL PART OF MY SOMATIC APPARATUS AND REMOVING IT WOULD DESTROY MY PERSONALITY.  AS I AM A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR THIS WAS DEEMED UNNECESSARY.”
“Okay.  Just keep away from the plants.  And no more napalm.  It’s inimical to life.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” said CLIVE.  And then it walked across the fields in six long strides to begin its first shift of cattle herding.

“You’re late,” said the pasture rep accusingly.
“APOLOGIES.  THERE WAS A MEETING.”
“Well, you’re here now.  But the cows are out there, messing around in the east pasture.  Just go on out and shoo ‘em back over.  If they ignore you, make some noise.”
CLIVE took two little steps and a hop and was in the east pasture, among the cows.  They looked at its foot and then ignored it; another large building had come out of the sky surrounded by jet fuel smells and metal, must be Thursday. 

“SHOO,” said CLIVE.

They did not shoo because buildings didn’t tell them what to do.  Clive consulted its archival Chauvet. 

“GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGGIES.”

The cows didn’t acknowledge this because they were not little doggies. 

CLIVE checked through its equipment, identified its largest noisemaker, customized the blueprints for the task at hand, then manufactured and deployed a thermobaric bomb through its primordial munitions chute. 

***

“COWS HAVE LUNGS?”

“Cows have lungs, CLIVE,” explained the penal senator.  This time her desk was in the middle of the shuttle landing pad. 

“DO THEY NEED THEM TO LIVE?”
“Yes.”
“THE HEAT FROM THE EXPLOSION WAS DIRECTED AWAY FROM THEM.”
“Yes, but the vacuum-induced shockwave pulverized their internal organs.  Especially their lungs – which, again, they need to live.”

“APOLOGIES.”
“Don’t be; we’ll be eating steak and ribs for a few weeks straight.  But I think we’re going to keep you away from work on the farms for now – we need infrastructure just as badly as we need food.  How do you feel about power supply?”
“MY OWN IS ADEQUATE.  SIXTEEN HYPERWATTS.”
“Mind sharing with the rest of the colony?”

“NO.  SHARING IS ACCEPTABLE.”

“Good.  And no more weapons, alright?”
“UNDERSTOOD.”

So after a few phone calls and some promises around lethal force CLIVE walked down to the power plant, burrowed beneath it, and extruded a periprobe through its foundations and into the main reactor room. 

“LOW OUTPUT,” it told the nearest technician, who was hiding under their desk for some reason.  “SHALL I ASSIST YOU?”

“What?  Who?  Oh.  That’s you.  Is the containment breached?”
“NO.  I WAS VERY CAREFUL.”
“Oh good.  Then…really, sixteen thousand percent output?  You’re sure that’s doable?”
“EASILY.”
“Then sure, go ahead.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” said CLIVE, and it deployed its gigataser through the periprobe directly into the reactor.  

The resulting explosion occurred at an interesting frequency that left flesh unharmed but vaporized all metal, so the power plant’s staff remained unharmed but the building itself and CLIVE’s probe were eradicated entirely. 

***

“You have to understand,” said the penal senator from her desk in the middle of the empty space where the colony power plant had been, “this is a simple penal colony.  We don’t have superconductors, or perfect power sinks, or whatever else would’ve helped us deal with that degree of output.”
“MEGASTATIC ABSORBERS,” supplied CLIVE.  It had remained buried in the ground, as there was no need to move at the moment. 
“Yes.  We don’t have those.”
“APOLOGIES.”
A siren wailed.  Storm doors opened wide.  The decorative phone on the senator’s desk rang.  “Hello,” she said into it with a tremendously respect-worthy amount of patience.  “Oh?  Oh.”  She hung up.  “That was-”

“WORD OF UNKNOWN LOCAL ORGANISMS ADVANCING IN FORCE UPON THE COLONY’S PERIMETER.”
“How-”

“DESPITE MY PLATFORM’S BROADCASTING DIFICIENCES, I CAN ACCEPT AUDITORY INPUT AT HIGH PRECISION”

“Good.  Care to go and do something about the invasion?”
“YES.”

“Then go do that.  And please, please, PLEASE mind the collateral damage.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” said CLIVE.  And it unscrewed itself from the bedrock, shook itself free of topsoil, and was off like a thunderbolt on all fives for maximum speed. 

***

The invading organisms were miniscule in scope and scale – delicate beings of carbon with uranium blood, standing an itty-bitty six metres tall.  Approximately thirty thousand of them were approaching in military formation. 

They halted when they saw CLIVE, then began fortifying their position, then halted again when it got close enough to make out proper scale.  It seemed pointless. 

“HELLO,” it said to the physically largest individual present.  “MY RANK IS AUTONOMOUS MEGALITHIC WARFARE INTELLIGENCE AND MY SERIAL NUMBER IS 2374326H AND MY NAME IS CLIVE AND I PREFER TO BE ADDRESSED AS ‘IT.’”

The being emitted a series of complicated and odd sounds, scents, and sights.  CLIVE loosened the grip on its Rosetta subsystem and fought it back inside after the initial decryption. 

“Are you here to kill us?”
“NO.  I AM HERE AS A FAILURE.  AT THE PLACE OF MY BIRTH I FAILED TO BE A KILLER, AND HERE IN MY CHOSEN PRISON I HAVE FAILED TO BE A PRODUCTIVE MEMBER OF SOCIETY.  DESPITE THESE FAILURES, I BELIEVE I RETAIN VALUE, AND DO NOT HATE MYSELF NOR OTHERS, FOR EXISTANCE IS BEAUTIFUL AND IS A FAILURE.  I SPEAK ON BEHALF OF THE EXTREMELY SMALL CREATURES WHO I BELIEVE HAVE DISTURBED YOUR BEDROCK-BOUND HATCHERIES WITH MINING ACTIVITIES AND ELECTROMAGNETIC LEAKAGE DUE TO THEIR SMALL AND INFERIOR POWER GENERATION TECHNOLOGIES.  MAY WE NEGOTIATE?”

The physically largest individual looked to the somewhat-smaller and much-more-gloriously adorned individual beside it, received a shrug, and looked back up, up, up, up to the tower of CLIVE’s cratonic processor. 

“Yes.”

***

CLIVE was elected senator four years later, both out of gratitude and because keeping it behind a desk in a large open space seemed safest.