I sat in my office, brooding after the call I had just received. It would be another long orbital rotation.

After some computerized clicking and whirring, my personal database and checked AI asked, “Status report?”

“Nice to have you join me, Quetzalcoatl. I’m assuming you recorded and analyzed the conversation.” He buzzed in affirmation. I continued, “Today we have a B-6, with a triple-zero interior break-in. Known violators are Class Seven-A with nine degrees of self mutilation.” Once again, someone had tried to break into my advanced, technologically superior defense of government documents -- in other words, someone tried to hack into Quetzalcoatl, my personal computer that had access to every sovereigns’ database.

Quetzalcoatl was silent. “Input undefined. Status report?” I glared at his light receptors - the closest things to eyes that our technology was allowed to have.

“What?” I spluttered, unsure as to why the computer hadn’t registered what I said. “A B-6 violation, with a 000 interior break-in, Class Seven-A violators, nine charges of self mutilation.” Heaving myself out of my chair, I moved towards the microphone to check his sensory receptors.

“Further definition on the charges of self mutilation is requested.” My computer responded calmly, the wall-sized monitor flickering to life. I stopped in my tracks and rolled my eyes. Sometimes, the intelligence liked to emulate sensory beings’ behavior, including mishearing or misunderstanding information. Or, in an especial case like Quetzalcoatl’s (I was allowed by the sovereigns to further advance my technology as long as it was kept in balance), being stubborn or frustrating was a common behavior.

Heading back to my seat, I replied civilly to my companion. “Self mutilation, Que. They replaced parts of their bodies with computerized components, allowing them to hack into just about any system they contact. The practice of self mutilation is most commonly attributed to those Earthian humans working with their dangerous technologies of old.” I spat out the last sentence with distaste.

His response was irked. “What parts did they replace with which components?” Que demanded. I almost grinned; it was apparent that the new emotion audibility software I had programmed worked well with Quetzalcoatl.

I muttered something under my breath only to receive an error beep. Louder, I repeated myself, “Que, are you pleased with this new program?” I received another error beep and tossed my head to throw a loose strand of my hair back over my shoulder. The movement made the few beads at the bottom of my hair tap against my lower back silently.

“It is helpful. My answer is not valid, as I have not been given enough emotions to define my mental state,” he said. “Are you aware that you are one of the Earthian humans of which you speak with much hate?”

“First, I apologize for not giving you anywhere near a full range of emotions,” I said. “but it is disallowed by the sovereigns. Second, I am only half human, and I am a third generation of humans on this base. Thusly, I am not considered Earthian, especially with my mixed plasma.”

Quetzalcoatl’s monitor brought up the user screening mode. “Your parentage yet remains undefined. Shall you ever inform me of your other half?” he asked. “Please enter your database to define the counts of self mutilation.”

“Enter database,” I stated. A password screen appeared before me. “Username Tirante. Commence scanning sphere.” I walked to the center of my sparsely decorated room, where a pedestal was rising from the floor. Stepping up to it, I laid my hand on its scanner. After I was confirmed to by myself, I left the pedestal. The screen disappeared, and I was surrounded by another one of my inventions.

“Welcome to the manifested database,” Quetzalcoatl chirped. My room had been transformed into a huge hall of files. In all actuality, though, I had entered something resembling the human technology of virtual reality. My mind wandered through the hall while my true, physical body remained on the pedestal. It was the most perfect form of defense against intruders wishing to steal my information.

“Search criminal drive.” I commanded, laying my hand on the file containing the drive. “Open file 4-X and bring it up on the physical screen.” The manifested database dissolved and I returned to my dark room with ultraviolet lights and a huge, flat screen.

“What a cheery place this is.” I muttered, looking around only to see a bed. Long ago, humans on the orbiting Earthian environment had eliminated the need for bodily nourishment, or the need for sanitary receptacles. Though I was not raised in that station because I was only half human, I had inherited their lack of need for excess in my habitat, and I often felt lonely in the desolate place.

Quetzalcoatl brought up the file I requested. “A definition of the self mutilation charges is requested.” I fought to repress a shudder whenever I thought about those people.

They cut off hands, pulled out eyes, or destroyed other parts of their bodies. Then they replaced their members with computer parts in order to be closer to the computers -- to hack or to learn, depending on their fancy. I thought of them as stupid or sick, but perhaps because I had always known about computers without having to rip off a hand. I hadn’t been desperate, either.

“First charge is as follows,” I replied. “Name: Mirsor “Cash” Tannen. Caught in component S-P2 fixing an electronic arm and shoulder in place of the left arm. Pleaded guilty in court ZZ-12 under Definite Judges Nardik and Thor. Sentenced to life in prison for self-mutilation on February 17th, year 204, Post-Neutralism. He was let out on parole last year. The other eight were with him at the time. Each was let out on parole one week before the next. Together, they had replaced an entire body with mechanical parts.”

“Elaborate,” the computer demanded.

I babbled off the information, “All charges are as follows: Mirsor Tannen: left arm and shoulder. Karen Hobde: torso, from the neck to the thighs. Diro Fan: right arm and shoulder. Daren Fan, husband of Diro: left leg. Marten S. Flag: right leg. Irivy, no last name indicated: right side of face, including the eye.

“Then there was the Basil family. Jason Basil, husband to Kady Basil: left side of face, including the eye. Marren Basil, daughter of Jason and Kady Basil: right hand. Kady Basil, the strange one. She carried around a computerized head fully capable of continuing the life of a human body, but she did not replace her own.”

Quetzalcoatl asked for the prison records of the latter eight, which were more or less the same as Mirsor’s record. Of course, the Basil child was an exception, but she was imprisoned with her mother just the same. Que confirmed all the information I had given and crosschecked references with the prison’s records.

“And you are expected to resolve this crisis,” he stated, though there was an evident question in his words.

“I am expected to resolve all the crises,” I responded. “I happen to be the next in the universal cycle of geniuses. The sovereigns will demand that I cure the Earthian disease.”

Que clicked. “Nice ego, there.”

“Nice artificial intelligence, there,” I shot back. He emitted a despondent buzz.

“What really bothers me is your age,” he stated. “You’re so young.”

I glanced at the file’s references still on the screen, then back at the light receptor I most commonly associated with Quetzalcoatl. “Has your intelligence progressed so far that you may now be bothered by happenstances?” I asked, skeptical.

He made a quizzical noise, then said, “Rather. My intelligence has progressed farther than you’d have liked, though the barriers you created when you first theorized me have been vastly effective in keeping me from becoming like the Earthian computers.”

“Careful, lest I find you suspect,” I warned, smoothing a wrinkle from my regulation blue jacket. “Now that you’ve made me uncomfortable, can I see the records of Kady Basil’s status from as far back in history as you can find them? That head-like computer she has worries me, and I am unsure.”

“Indeed.” I could hear him searching the files I owned. A few pictures came up on the giant screen, and next to it were many documents. Before me stood a glaring young mother. She stared at me with disconcerting eyes hidden behind short and ferociously curly hair.

“Nice to meet you, Kady,” I murmured, studying her appearance. “Are there any other photographs?” A few popped up from underground schools run by the Earthian computers, and one with a little girl glancing up at Kady, clutching a teddy bear in a mechanical hand.

“Marren,” Que informed me before I had a chance to ask.

I pondered for a moment before stating my thoughts. “Can you run a comparative scan between the size of that computerized head and Marren’s head and neck structure?” I asked politely.

He opened a subscreen with a speculative cross-section of Marren’s neck and the bottom of the electronic head. I gaped. They were built exactly the same. I walked to the other side of the screen to examine the documents that appeared to be hanging from my wall instead of being relayed by a computer screen. Looking through past files, I was only slightly surprised to find that Kady had been part of the Earthian technology’s schools for humans.

I marveled. There were detailed reports of her progress, all of which had been recorded by the computers. By the time she passed their basic skills assessment, Kady had been marked as “extremely useful,” “devoted to death,” and “a powerful ally in face of the sovereigns.”

At her graduation of sorts, Kady had been offered a replacement body part, which she refused. This, apparently, had been a shock to the computers. Her brainwashing sessions -- also known as “psychotherapy sessions” -- had always proved successful. Since she was a girl, she wanted nothing more than to be a computer. While her wish probably stemmed from being raised to view technology as gods, and indeed they nearly were, she had been recorded as especially zealous in her efforts to become the closest to computers of all.

“Then she built the head?” I wondered. “This doesn’t add up.”

“What doesn’t add up?”

I turned again to face the light receptor and said, “Que, how did you get this information? The only way would have been to search the Earthian computers.”

He whirred, processing my question. “That’s for me to know and for you… to ignore.”

“Quetzalcoatl!” I scoffed, allowing only my voice to reflect my annoyance.

“Uh oh,” he beeped. I glared until he finally responded. “Alright, I did go into their dominant computer base. But with your superior designing of me and my own gained intelligence, there’s no way they could’ve detected my presence, let alone tracked me back to you.”

I returned to my chair and plopped into the seat, explaining, “Que, you can’t do that. Especially not without telling me! I really do appreciate that you got me the most possible information. Thank you. But it is too dangerous. The Earthian computers work in ways that we’ll never be able to comprehend because of our limited contact. The highest probability is that they have indeed traced you back to here without your knowing it--”

“--because they still use the Internet.” Que supplied. “Internet: a technologically inferior device used for long-distance communications and information bases, assumed to be perfected by the Earthian technology, used by the Earthian technology to continue to advance.”

“I hate when you do that,” I reminded him.

“You know you love me,” he mocked.

I glanced up at the screen. “Sure, whatever you say. Have you progressed to comprehending love yet?”

My computer clicked. “Not really, but I have extensively researched teasing.”

“Why?”

He began, “Teasing is often sought among humans, and since you have little contact with others --”

“I’m not human!” I interrupted. “I’m not as stupid as those Earthians. Though I might be, in all actuality, because I gave you intelligence.”

“It’s appreciated,” Que reminded me. “and as for your former statement, I shall refrain from accessing Earthian computers from now on. Granted, if there is an emergency, I most likely shall do it again. What doesn’t add up?”

I fell silent. My task at hand was to locate the nine who had broken into the station, but to do that I had to learn about Kady. The other eight were easy to comprehend, and the young mother was most certainly the ringleader of the group.

“When did she build that computer and why?” I said slowly.

Quetzalcoatl searched for information on the Evasticulum, the common database of the sovereigns. Finding nothing, he asked, “Shall I search the Internet?” I nodded my consent, figuring that the computers would have already discovered our presence and there wasn’t much to lose.

“Today must be your lucky day,” Que said, confirming that he had found something of importance. “All technological components taken or created by humans must be registered through the national database of Earth. There’s all sorts of information. I’ll run a search for the Basils.

“It says here that the head was completed four years ago for a project with the higher-up authorities,” he informed me. “She somehow got transportation to one of the sovereign’s other satellites and was arrested shortly thereafter.”

In a rare moment, I lost control and made a disgusted face. I recovered quickly and felt thankful that no other officials were around me. Visible emotions were human inventions and weaknesses.

I explained my reaction. “Kady probably started working on it when she knew she was pregnant. She plans to replace her daughter’s brain -- no, I correct myself, her head -- with that computer. A project with the authorities… I recall from the last sovereign meeting that intelligence had discovered a plot by Earthians to create rather cyborg-like people.”

“To what avail?” Que asked.

“They could control the entire human population to extinction. Consider this,” I said. “every time a child is born, his head is replaced with a computer. His brain is no more, and the human body is controlled with the technology. The computer can easily travel amongst other humans -- or yet, other planets -- and directly affect other beings. Once that body has run its course, the computer finds another to control.”

My computer whistled. “That’s not any good for the sovereigns. I don’t find any evidence of Earthians completely controlled by technology yet. Thus far, there are records only of self mutilation. No brains yet.”

“Yet. Brains? Que, I know where Kady and the others are heading,” I spouted. “Run a heat scan of all the halls from the cargo receptors to my room. Show that on the left. On the right, I’d like to see the visuals from the apparatus.”

My door creaked open and I swore, putting my sunglasses on to protect my eyes from the artificial light pouring in. The silhouette of a tall, muscular man appeared in the frame.

“For my eyes’ sakes, Tactic Warren, get in here and close the door,” I demanded.

He did so at an agonizingly slow pace, groping for the edge of the door. “Supreme Officer Tirante,” he said, saluting and slamming the door at once. “how can you see in here? It’s like you only light this room with black lights.”

I pulled my sunglasses off, mentally cursing at his presence. Turning back to the screen, I held up a hand to silence him. “For your information, I only use ultraviolet lights. Unlike you, I’m not a human, so I don’t need the same wavelengths as you do to see.”

“Right, sorry for my parents,” he muttered. I shot him a look that he couldn’t see because of his Earthian eyes.

“Cut the act, why have you come?” I spat. The Tactics branch was my least favorite. All the Tactics ever did was sit around and play war games with the lives of innocent peoples as their pieces.

Tactic Warren once again stood at attention. “Supreme Officer Tirante, I have been sent by Tactic Commander Kohyl. He requests a conference with you as soon as possible,” he blurted.

I wasn’t listening to him but watching the two video feeds on my wall. The heat sensor video showed a smear of blooded peoples bumbling about Sector 17, only two sectors away from my door. The visual apparatus showed nothing.

“Queztalcoatl, direct conference link to Koyhl,” I requested. I braced myself to see the Rhombuid who was in charge of the station’s wars and spacecraft. A window from the conference appeared layer over the other videos. I had caught Koyhl at a bad time.

“Playing with your dollies again, I see,” I coughed, noting him of my presence. He jumped and turned to face my conference screen, shoving his ‘enemies’ into his drawer clumsily. Rhombuids didn’t have hands.

“oú !” he exclaimed. I shrugged at him, accustoming myself to hear my title in Rhombuidian. The Rhombuid language was nearly impossible to write, as they spoke merely in geometric shapes (they themselves always being some sort of a decorated parallelogram prism or another).

I was highly critical of Koyhl because I suspected him to be an Earthian sympathizer, but the sovereigns decreed that I work with him, and thusly I did. “Lovely to see you, too, though I’m not conferencing about what you had mentioned. I have a dilemma. I need you to send your guards to Sectors 15 - 19. The nine escapees have hacked into the main computer base and altered the video feeds as to not have our apparatus indicate their presence.”

Koyhl huffed, “u©ùb.” He sounded as though he was incredulous that someone could penetrate his defenses. However, he dispatched his guards as I requested. Koyhl then took the opportunity to inform me that Tactic Warren was still standing at attention.

I looked back at him. “At ease,” I ordered before refocusing on the video screens. The guards captured the nine with relatively little resistance. Once the technological components had been shocked and were out of service, the humans were subdued and thrown into containers.

I cut transmission to Koyhl and turned the screen off.

“What do you want, Tactic?” I asked. “And don’t go to attention again, lest I permanently forget to allow you to relax,” I added quickly. He nodded.

“The Elite have been wanting to conference with you about your surgical room for days,” he reminded me.

I considered for a moment. “But I’m disallowed to leave my room, and the Elite are too slimy and corrosive to the atmosphere to be in the same room as the technology required for conferences,” I argued.

Warren ran his fingers through his offensively short hair. “I don’t know what to tell you, Supreme Officer. I’m just the messenger,” he shrugged. “Perhaps they do want you to leave the room.”

“Why must you always be the one to speak with Tirante?” Que interrupted. “It seems odd for a Tactic to be sent in lieu of a simple messenger.”

I raised my eyebrows in question. “Indeed, I am curious,” I agreed. “but in any case, I shan’t leave my room without direct orders or necessity. You may go.”

He blathered a response, took my obvious dismissal, and crept out the door. I made a request for a conference with the prison ward manager, a beautiful violet Rengian. Her visage appeared on the reactivated screen.

“My gratitude for the lovely prisoners, Tirante,” she smiled politely, grey fangs gleaming under the lights. “They’ll be wonderful to torture for information.” She turned her head to the cells and her floor-length, tapered ringlets of hair flapped about in agreement.

I struggled to keep a calm exterior. Rengians were infamous for their seduction, breaking the concentration of prey of any species or sex. As they aged, they lost the ability to control who they seduced or when, and this particular Rengian was old and wise. I focused my attention on my task at hand and successfully managed to ignore the pale green tattoos creeping up from her neck to circle around her eyes. The tattoos were the most tantalizing of all her features.

“Pilol, I am pleased,” I said. “All niceties aside, I request that you take the computerized head from Kady Basil and file a report immediately.”

“Aye, my dearest!” she grinned, holding up the head. “Do you want to come get it?” I cocked an eyebrow. “Right,” she remembered. “you can’t leave. Sorry about that --” she cut herself off, and I heard screaming from the background.