PmWiki | HDG / Klang2

I am Gingkoales, he/they, in my twenty-third bloom. For nearly a millennium, I have served the Office of Transitional Neoxenoveterinary Archeobureaucracy. My journey as a veterinary psychologist has taken me across galaxies and cultures, from the relentless, warlike Xa'a-ackétøth to the ambitious, capitalist Humans; from the ever-curious Rinans, to the graceful, aquatic Mielyu. I have seen much, learned much, and, a little, contributed to the vast body of knowledge our civilization cherishes.

My apprenticeship under Alethopteris, one of the most revered figures in our field, shaped much of my professional life. Alethopteris, who was there when the Xenrani were domesticated a hundred thousand years ago, instilled in me a deep respect for the intricate dance of understanding and guidance that forms the core of our work. I have published over a thousand papers -- a respectable number, though not a standout achievement among my peers. There have been moments in my long life when I have wondered if I could have been more, achieved more. Lately, those moments have become more frequent, more insistent. Keen has that effect on people.

I met Keen during what should have been a routine mission, another step in our grand effort to bring peace, order, and contentment to the galaxy. But Keen is anything but routine. Keen is… Keen. A being who defies easy categorization, a paradox wrapped in brilliance, a chaotic force of nature whose mind operates on a level most sophonts cannot begin to comprehend.

In Keen, I have encountered a phenomenon I had previously only heard whispered about among my colleagues -- a rare spark of what some might call genius. Unbound intellect. An intuitive understanding of the universe, a kind of antidote to the creeping despair that often accompanies the vastness of our work. It's a rare thing, this spark, seen almost never in Affini, who have long cultivated a culture of harmony and equilibrium that leaves little room for such unbridled innovation. Domesticated species, naturally, do not exhibit it, having found peace in simpler pursuits.

I recall an early conversation with him, the first time I got him to open up about his past. I play it back.

Gingko: "Wait, you'd have to stay awake for seventy hours to build that. I wouldn't think a human even could-"

Keen: "I am Keen."

G: "Yes, you say that a lot. About twelve times per day on average. Whatever faults you may think we have, Keen, we do respect chosen names, you know."

K: "The Accord didn't. Your piece of paper was more important than you. And you don't - not always. But you're better."

G: "Yes, every culture must have some naming conventions. But with us, your first name is yours alone to choose. I'm guessing Keen wasn't your birth name?"

K: "I am Keen."

G: "Nobody's arguing that. Do you want to talk about it?"

K: "The first time I was in jail, it was not a jail. It was a madhouse. A nice one, supposedly. Don't want to think about a shitty one. They were condescending. They were controlling. They always had to be right. They said Keen was a persona, a character I made up to not face reality. They kept using my paper name. I corrected them. I was beat. I learned to turn off pain"

G: "Turn off pain? Just... by will? Keen, you didn't actually sever your nerve endings, did you."

K: "I could now. Not then. Not pain anymore. Damage reports."

G: "I see. Yes, we've seen that in humans. I'm sorry. Nobody should ever have to do that to their own psyche. What happened then?"

K: "I had to ask for food. In writing. Every meal. Signing with my paper name."

G: "That's a good way to induce an eating disorder."

K: "Nice madhouse. They thought I was worth fixing. Valuable. Quench my light, get good work of what was left."

G: "What did you do?"

K: "Played along. Got out. Called in a bomb threat three months later, give people a chance to escape."

G: "Was there a bomb?"

K: "A small, loud one. They evacuted staff, patients not so much. Use contingency. Plan 2. I intercepted the staff."

G: "What did you do?"

K: "More small loud bombs."

Keen's tone loses his urgency as his mind stops reliving the episode, and he pronounces gravely. "Pressure wave pattern. Just enough for eardrum rupture or perpetual tinnitus. They did not listen to me when I told them my name. They had plenty of chances. Now they would never hear a name again. They learned a lesson in otology."

That's an interesting thing. Keen was a terrorist, not a murderer. Literally. He told me that a defeated enemy was worth more than a dead one; dead men tell no tales. He wanted society to fear him; he wanted that particular society, built on fear and greed, to fear him, and dead people have no fear. I wonder what he would have done in a different environment.

From my own cursory estimate, in pre-domesticated species, genius is still quite rare, one in a million maybe, except in Humans, in which I estimate it happens at a rate of ten per million. Interestingly, their government has been known to suppress it through their obsession with order, hierarchy, and conformity. The Rinans, though, are another story. Among them, this spark is less rare -- one in every ten thousand, by my estimation, displays a glimmer of this unbridled brilliance, this ability to see the universe not as it is, but as it could be.

And now, I find myself wondering -- should this spark be preserved? Can it be, without causing the very chaos we seek to quell? Would the universe be a richer, more vibrant place for it, or would it be more dangerous, more unpredictable? The ancient Affini, those who shaped our civilization long before I was ever a sapling, may have thought latter. Did they remove this inner fire from our gene pool, lest it burn us down before we could blossom? Did they see it in other beings, and chose to not take it in from the cold with the rest of them? Were they right? Should I abandon this line of inquiry?

Keen has given me much to think about. And yet, it is not just his mind that fascinates me. He has changed things. In ways that I am still struggling to understand.

I think of Val, the little Rinan floret who has been in Keen's orbit these past few weeks. She has bloomed in ways I did not expect, her curiosity and enthusiasm reignited by his presence. She has taken to her studies with a renewed vigor, her mind racing with possibilities, her little heart beating with excitement. It is… beautiful, in its own way. And it makes me wonder -- can the spark of genius be cultivated in a domesticated species? Should it be?

Val is a sweet little soul, eager to please, and I worry what will become of her now that Keen is gone. Will she settle back into being Camellia's pet and assistant, the contented existence we have crafted for her, her brilliance dulled by the comfort and safety of our care? Or will she continue to push, to question, to seek out new challenges, new horizons? I hope for the latter, though I fear the former is more likely.

I could discuss this with her, of course, but I know it would only upset her. She is fond of Keen in a way that is both endearing and, perhaps, a little troubling; I was worried that Camellia would be jealous, at first. Val sees him as a friend, a mentor, someone who understands her in a way that we Affini, for all our wisdom, do not. She would not take kindly to the idea that he is a threat, that his very existence might be incompatible with the peace we strive to maintain.

And so, I keep my thoughts to myself, for now. I write my paper, exploring this rare phenomenon, this spark of genius. I present my findings as a hypothetical, aware that the evidence is circumstantial at best, but believing that the question is worth asking. Should we cultivate this trait, or should we, as our ancestors did, seek to remove it? Should we risk the danger that comes with such brilliance, or should we continue on our current path, content in the knowledge that we have created a galaxy that is, by and large, safe, stable, and prosperous?

I find myself wishing I had more time to speak with him, to learn from him. But time is a luxury terrans rarely have. And so, I take solace in the fact that he has left a mark on us, on all of us. On Val, especially. I will watch her closely in the coming days, weeks, months, hoping to see that spark continue to shine, to grow. Hoping that, perhaps, she will surprise me, as Keen has surprised me.

Because in the end, that is what we need, is it not? To be surprised. To be challenged. To be reminded that even in a universe as vast and ancient as ours, there is always more to learn, more to discover. More to understand.

Gingko's Report to the Xenoveterinary Psychology Professional Society

Subject: Evaluation and Recommendations on Handling Former Accord Subjects with Traumatic Histories

From: Dr. Gingkoales, Twenty-third Bloom, Senior Veterinary Psychologist

To: Affini Xenoveterinary Psychology Professional Society

Route: Triangulum Gate

Abstract:

This report evaluates the psychological and behavioral responses of Keen, a former Terran subject who exhibited exceptional cognitive abilities and extreme behavioral adaptability. The subject, formerly detained for acts of terror against the Terran Accord, displayed notable resilience and inventiveness when faced with the threat of compulsory domestication.

The findings suggest that individuals with traumatic experiences in Accord sanatoriums require a specialized approach that considers the impact of their past mistreatment. Standard psychological containment measures may not be effective and could potentially exacerbate the subject's psychological distress, leading to unpredictable and potentially dangerous outcomes.

Introduction:

Keen, the subject in question, has been a unique case among the former Terran subjects observed aboard the vessel. Known for his extreme intellect and propensity for mischief, Keen exhibited behaviors that align with both post-traumatic responses and high-functioning genius. His history within the oppressive and abusive system of the Accord’s sanatoriums has left deep psychological scars that influence his interactions with authority and perceived threats to his autonomy.

Observations:

Behavioral Patterns: Keen exhibits a dichotomy of behaviors: moments of cooperative, even amicable interaction, interspersed with episodes of extreme mistrust and defiance. His creative endeavors appear to be his primary coping mechanism, allowing him to sublimate his trauma into acts of perceived intellectual supremacy.

Response to Perceived Threats: One of the few predictable traits that Keen has displayed is that he will always escalate. The direction in which he escalates is unpredictable, but it will always be his go-to strategy. Once he has shown his capabilities to an audience, he allows himself to bluff, but he never bluffs the first time. This behavior suggests that, despite his trauma, Keen possesses a general aversion to violence and will prioritize psychological victories over physical ones.

Potential for Harm: While the subject chose not to engage in violent resistance, it is crucial to note the potential for severe outcomes. Given Keen's capabilities, it is not beyond reason to suspect that he could develop methods to cause significant damage or even catastrophic failure to essential infrastructure if provoked or pushed to his psychological limits.

Recommendations:

Gentle Handling: Subjects with similar backgrounds as Keen should be approached with considerable caution and empathy. Affini handlers should prioritize establishing trust and providing safe avenues for these individuals to express their autonomy without resorting to adversarial or coercive measures.

Avoidance of Direct Confrontation: Any form of direct confrontation that threatens the subject's autonomy is likely to elicit extreme responses. Instead, providing these individuals with collaborative roles and opportunities for intellectual engagement is recommended to channel their abilities constructively.

Acknowledgment of Intellectual Superiority: A quick, safe, and fairly reliable way to defuse tension with an individual like Keen is to reassure him that his intellectual superiority is unchallenged, or better yet, first challenged and then acknowledged. This is true whether such superiority exists or not according to an objective assessment.

Continuous Monitoring and Support: Affini psychologists and handlers must remain vigilant in monitoring the psychological states of these subjects, providing consistent support and reassurance to mitigate feelings of threat or confinement.

Conclusion:

While the Affini Compact's approach to domestication has been overwhelmingly successful across a wide range of species and psychological profiles, special consideration must be given to subjects with extensive trauma histories, particularly those subjected to the Terran Accord's abusive systems. The handling of Keen demonstrates that underestimating the potential for a nonviolent but psychologically significant response could lead to unexpected challenges.

The Affini Compact's mission to foster a safe and nurturing environment for all beings must adapt to account for these complexities. Failure to do so may not only endanger the subjects in question but also compromise the safety and harmony of our own species.

Signed,

Dr. Gingkoales, Twenty-third Bloom

Response from the Affini Xenoveterinary Psychology Professional Society

To: Dr. Gingkoales, Twenty-third Bloom

From: Affini Xenoveterinary Psychology Professional Society Review Board

Route: Triangulum Gate

Dear Dr. Gingkoales,

Thank you for your detailed and insightful report regarding the handling of former Accord subjects with traumatic histories, specifically in the case of Keen. The Society appreciates your dedication to understanding the complexities of these individuals' psychological profiles and your commitment to ensuring their welfare.

After careful consideration, the Society has decided to accept your recommendations for a more nuanced approach to handling such cases. We agree that individuals with Keen's background may require special consideration beyond standard procedures to prevent exacerbating their psychological trauma.

However, we must remind you that the suggestion of a single Terran having the capability to compromise the safety of an Affini vessel is, with all due respect, outside of the realm of possibility. Our ships are designed with numerous fail-safes, redundancies, and protective measures to ensure their integrity against any form of sabotage or attack. While we acknowledge the need for caution, the probability of a single individual causing catastrophic damage remains extremely low.

Nonetheless, your report serves as a valuable reminder of the importance of understanding the psychological dimensions of our charges. We encourage you to continue your research and share any further insights that may benefit the Society and the Affini Compact as a whole.

Sincerely,

The Review Board Affini Xenoveterinary Psychology Professional Society

Gingkoales sits alone in his private office aboard the Affini vessel, reading the response from the Xenoveterinary Psychology Professional Society on his communicator. His bioluminescent eyes flicker with a strange light as he reads the dismissive note about the impossibility of a single Terran compromising the ship's safety. A rare surge of frustration rises in him.

"Impossible?!" he mutters under his breath, his leaves rustling in agitation. "Impossible, they say! Those damn fools at the academy! Do they not see the danger?" His vines twitch, and for a moment, his eyes flash with an almost unnatural intensity.

Gingko's voice trails off as he catches himself, the brief flare of anger subsiding. He takes a deep, calming breath, his vines settling around him. "Hah," he murmurs, "I sound just like him now. Like Keen, with his wild proclamations and defiance. I should try it. Let's see: I AM GINGKO! MASTER OF MASCOT MENTAL MANIPULATION!"

He lets out a good imitation of the classic mad scientist laughter, then quiets down until it's just a chuckle to himself. It'll be hard to let go. It's true though, a good cackle is invigorating.

Gingkoales sets down his pen, looking out at the stars. He feels the weight of his years, the burden of his knowledge. He has been in this line of work for longer than most civilizations have existed, and yet, he still feels as though he is only beginning to understand the complexities of the universe. He wonders if, perhaps, the time has come for a change.

Officially, the mandatory domestication of Keen will be a straightforward procedure. The Affini Compact's protocols are clear. Keen will be informed of his loss of rights, assigned a new name -- Keen Fabaceae, Fifth Floret -- and then he will be placed under the care of his new owner, likely Trifolium. On paper, it all sounds so routine, so methodical, another case of a dangerous sophont brought into the fold of the Compact, another rebellious spirit tamed and made safe for itself and others.

In reality, of course, things will be even simpler.

Trifolium will have the final say on what to do with his new floret, effective immediately. The decision will not be difficult to predict. Gingko knows that Trifolium will insist that Keen be placed on whatever xenodrugs are necessary to remove him as a danger to the ship and crew. After all, Keen is not just another rebellious human. He is a walking nova -- nice and warm one moment, exploding in a flare of ionizing radiation the next.

Gingko's own notes reflect this understanding. If there is such a thing as genius, a truly unbound intellect, then Keen embodies it. But genius, like madness, is a trait that exists on the fringes of normalcy. It is a thing of extremes. And so far, from early meta-analysis, with a trace of the hypothetical "genius" trait correlated with either extreme susceptibility or extreme resistance to psychotropic medication, nothing in the middle.

If Keen is susceptible to the xenodrugs, then perhaps he will slip softly into a dream world under the influence of Class-B and Class-F drugs, his mind dulled but not entirely lost, his consciousness left to chase cosmic fish while riding atop a swarm of robot bees. An almost whimsical image, Gingko muses. Not an unhappy end, perhaps.

But if Keen is resistant, as Gingko suspects he might be, then the outcome will be much harsher. There will be no gentle descent into dreams. Instead, Keen will be placed on Class-O drugs, his mind sedated to the point of no return, his consciousness forced into a loop of pleasurable sensation from which there will be no escape. His mind, that brilliant, chaotic mind, will be trapped forever in a cage of his own making.

One thing is certain: Keen will never be allowed to come to his senses again. A Keen who remembers being drugged against his will would be more than a danger to the ship and crew; he would be a danger to the entire Compact. If they go forward with this, Gingko knows, they must go all the way. There can be no half measures.

Gingko imagines the scene playing out in his mind. Trifolium, or whoever else is chosen, would stand before Keen and inform him of his new name, his new status. Keen Fabaceae, Fifth Floret. And Keen, would answer as he always does. Is Keen a name? A title? A self-description? Gingko never knew. He was working up to it. He should have asked sooner.

Gingko almost smiles at the thought. There is a kind of tragic beauty in it, in the way Keen has always clung to his identity, his sense of self, even in the face of overwhelming odds. At some point during his time as an anti-Accord terrorist, someone tried some crude method of breaking his identity, of breaking him. Perhaps when they failed, that failure only strengthened his resolve, only made him more determined to be who he is, to be Keen.

And yet, Gingko cannot help but wonder. Would removing that spark of defiance, that spark of genius, destroy what makes Keen unique? Would it snuff out the light that burns so brightly in his eyes, the light that has both fascinated and terrified those who have come into contact with him?

Gingko imagines, briefly, a world where the Accord scientists had somehow figured out how to mass-produce Keens. Hundreds of angry trickster demigods, unleashed upon the universe. A species that lets genius run rampant, he muses, would be quickly destroyed by it. Or perhaps they would thrive, reshaping the universe in their image, bending reality itself to their will... but if any species had done this, the universe would look much stranger. Gingko thinks back at the cosmic void, the unlikely lair of the "bigger fish". Is that what the aftermath of a war between unbound intelligences might look like? Desolate blackness, even the stars consumed by Promethean fire?

What is the optimal quantity of genius, Gingko wonders. One might as well ask what is the optimal quantity of madness. Zero, of course, by any reasonable metric. And yet…

And yet, the universe would be a poorer place without it.

He continues to write, his thoughts racing as he tries to capture the complexity of his feelings, his doubts, his fears. He does not know what the future holds for Keen, for Val, for this ship's mission. He only knows that whatever happens next, it be be simple, and it will be easy, and everyone will be poorer for it.

When the time comes, Gingko decides he will not witness Keen being taken to the medbay. He prefers to remember Keen as he was -- the dirty engineering suit, the messy gray hair, the improperly shaved beard, the eyes that glinted with atomic fire.

Gingko's communicator beeps urgently, pulling him out of his reverie. Before reading the message, he muses, "Heads, Trifolium needs me to countersign Keen's prescription. Tails, Keen's gone and this will be a long day."

He reads the message; it's short and to the point. "Keen is not in his hab. Search to begin immediately, but by notified personnel only. Do not trigger any alarms. Launch drones for wide-area sweep in case he's left the ship."

Gingko sighs, slipping the communicator back into his pocket. Tails it was, then.

He steps out of his office and makes his way down the corridor, his mind racing with possibilities. If Keen has already escaped his hab, it means he's had time to prepare, to think several moves ahead. Gingko knows Keen well enough by now to understand that his departure was not impulsive. It was deliberate, planned to the finest detail, and executed with precision.

A few Affini crew members jog past him, their expressions tense. The ship is abuzz with the quiet hum of coordinated activity. Gingko notices more Affini, each absorbed in their own tasks, each knowing exactly what to do without needing to be told. The entire ship is a well-oiled machine, every part moving in perfect synchronization. But even a well-oiled machine can't keep up with Keen if he has a head start.

Gingko joins the search, as does about a fifth of the crew -- the ship was due to jump near the next Terran planet on the list, a sparsely populated world called simply Telamon, but the jump is postponed, which leaves on-duty personnel time to catch up on deferred maintenance a little.

He joins a group of Affini near the arboretum, one of the many places Keen might have gone. They are coordinating with other teams, all sweeping different sections of the ship. The atmosphere is tense but quiet. Those on the search are both trying to cover ground efficiently and not alarm those busy with regular operations.

Trifolium calls him on a communicator up to him, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern. "Do you have any insights on where he might be?" the captain asks.

Gingko shakes his head slowly. "No, I don't. Keen is too clever for that. He knows I would try to predict his movements, and he would plan to counter any prediction I might make."

Trifolium's vines twitch slightly, betraying his agitation. "Do you think he's already gone?"

"Yes," Gingko replies without hesitation. "I think he planned his escape long before we even considered the possibility. He's probably long gone by now."

Trifolium's eyes narrow. "What are you, president of his fan club? Be level with me, Gingkoales. Are you helping him? Hiding him?"

Gingko raises a leafy eyebrow, surprised by the question. "Captain, the fact that you even consider that possibility shows just how much Keen has gotten to you. He's been in your head this whole time. Have my quarters searched if you wish."

Trifolium scowls. "It's my job to consider every possibility. You should know that. I'm responsible for the safety of ship and crew, and that is a sacred trust, it's not just a line in the operations manual."

Gingko nods. "I do know that, Captain. Which is why I point out, again, that the safety of ship and crew would have been best preserved by leaving Keen alone. "

The captain seems to consider this for a moment. Then he sighs, his tension easing slightly. "It's too late for that. You said it yourself; if we go with this, we must go all the way."

Gingko shivers. "Yes, but I won't forgive myself for it."

The search for Keen continues for several hours. Gingko takes the opportunity to speak with his colleagues -- Camellia, Zizania, and a few others. All of them are baffled, disturbed by Keen's disappearance. They were expecting some kind of note, a parting message, a final joke or taunt -- something that would be so quintessentially Keen. But there was nothing. That absence, in itself, is unsettling.

Gingko learns from Camellia that, officially, Trifolium is still supposed to be on light duty after his outburst. "But with Keen missing," she explains, "it's been treated as a small emergency. Protocols can bend in emergencies."

The search continues, drones and shuttles combing the ship and the space around it. Thirty drones go out for the search; thirty return. An accounting subsystem notes that the exit log indicates that of the 30 drones belonging to the ship, 42 left it, and all 30 returned. This discrepancy, since there are no missing drones, is tagged as low priority and doesn't reach the ship's clerks, especially not in the midst of a search for a missing person.

As the hours stretch on, someone jokes, half-seriously, that maybe Keen escaped through the sewers. It's a ridiculous notion -- Affini recycling pipes are far too narrow for that. But someone decides to check the recycling tanks, just in case.

It's there they find the body parts.

Human.

Floating in the thick, viscous fluid of one of the composting tanks, the remains are already partially dissolved. The tank is efficient; it was designed to break down organic matter rapidly. One leg, covered by a boot, is still intact enough for identification. Then they find another leg, an arm, then the torso and head -- all partially dissolved.

"It's him. The DNA match is in the high nines," the technician announces grimly.

Gingko looks at the remains, his vines stiffening slightly. He feels a wave of sadness wash over him. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. This wasn't the victory anyone wanted. The Compact always wins, he muses -- they never have a chance. Hah. Some victory. Shall we keep the boot as a trophy of our great victory? Shall we leave the bone in it?

"I think he wanted to show us he'd rather die than be sedated," one crew member suggests.

The mood among the Affini and the few humans present is somber. Those who were part of the search party take one glance at the grisly remains and quickly find reasons to be somewhere else. Gingko is silently grateful that Val and Alex aren't here to see this.

"Why did he have the robots cut him up, though?" another crew member asks.

"To fit through the tank valve?" someone else offers.

"No, that doesn't make sense," a third voice interjects. "Someone with that big a head would want us to find him, to make us feel guilty. His ego wouldn't let him just disappear like this." This last one is one of Gingko's assistants, who knows Keen well enough to make the observation. Gingko appreciates the professionalism; he hadn't thought of it. He agrees with his assistant.

Gingko briefly considers the possibility of foul play, maybe even murder. Trifolium had a motive, but the idea of an Affini murdering a human is effectively unthinkable. It's not even worth mentioning. But... what if Keen staged his own murder to frame Trifolium? Unlikely -- it doesn't fit his style. Still, Gingko notes that this thought should be included in the incident report, just to cover all bases; it is at least possible as a desperation move.

Then, Zizania, who's been standing quietly by, suddenly speaks up, her voice urgent. "Wait. Big head. I need to see something. Get the head!"

"What?" Gingko asks, perplexed.

"Get the head!" Zizania insists. "Look, the hair -- it's tied into a knot. He never wore it like that. Let me undo it…"

As Zizania carefully unties the knot in the hair, the top of the skull comes off with a gentle tug. What lies beneath shocks everyone: there is no brain. The tissue inside has been carefully, surgically removed, leaving an empty shell. Even partially composted, it's clear that this was a deliberate act.

Gingko moves closer, his professional curiosity piqued despite the grim situation. "Let's see... cerebrum, cerebellum, brainstem, both optical nerves, possibly an inner ear... the important parts are missing."

"No way," someone mutters.

Zizania turns to one of the humans that have stuck around. "Did the Accord have brain-transplant technology?"

The human shrugs, looking pale. "Not really. I mean, there were rumors, stories... but no, not like this. Nothing that actually, you know, worked. But... I mean, you Affini have that kind of tech, right?"

Zizania considers this, her expression unreadable. "We have the capability, yes -- not on a supply vessel, though. And Keen, an engineer, learned our surgical methods? Taught them to a maintenance drone? In two days? Without anyone noticing?"

The orderly shrugs again.

"Would he risk death or lobotomy by his own will if the alternative was what he sees as certain lobotomy by someone else?" Gingko's assistant asks.

"Well, yes. Obviously." Gingko answers, nodding slowly.

While this goes on, Trifolium is in the CIC, coordinating the search, sending out shuttles and drones to the optimal positions for active-sensor scanning. When he receives the report that Keen's body has been found, he recalls them all, and gets ready to conclude this bizarre episode with a funeral service. Despite his dislike for Keen, he feels it's the professional thing to do. A short memorial service, a week of light duty for the Affini who interacted with him, careful xenodrug dosage alterations for the humans and the rinan, and this should be the end of it, he thinks. Even so, his posture is tense, his vines coiled tightly around his body, giving him a look oddly reminiscent of a Triffid.

But then he receives the second report. His eyes widen, his pad clatters to the floor. "The what? His BRAIN!? HIS BRAIN ESCAPED?!"

He erupts into a rant, his vines flailing wildly, causing the younger ensigns in the CIC to step back.

"THE BRAIN THAT WOULDN'T DIE!" Trifolium bellows into the pad. "OF COURSE, IT'S KEEN! ONLY HE WOULD THINK OF THIS! WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO, HUNT DOWN A BRAIN? WHAT'S NEXT, GIANT RADIOACTIVE LIZARDS? TRIPODS WITH HEAT RAYS? DO I NEED A MAD SCIENTIST LAB COAT FOR THIS?!"

Gingko watches the remains as they are carted away, trying to keep a straight face but finding it increasingly difficult. He listens to Trifolium rant on the intercom. There's a brain on the loose. Possibly armed. Most certainly dangerous.It's surreal, absurd.

"I SWEAR," Trifolium continues, his rant taking on an almost theatrical quality, "I AM GOING TO FIND THAT BRAIN, AND WHEN I DO, I'LL... I'LL..."

Gingko can't help it anymore. He starts to chuckle, a sound that slowly grows into a full-bodied laugh. Via the video link, Trifolium glares at him, but even he starts to crack a smile. The absurdity of the situation is just too much.

The crew in the CIC begins to laugh as well, the tension of the past few hours finally breaking. Trifolium is the first to calm down. He shakes his head, a rueful grin on his face. "All right, all right. Let's get serious. We need to find that brain. Deploy the drones again, this time with a wider search pattern.

Affini captains are, in theory, entitled to a sidearm. Very few bother, outside of ceremonial situation. Since Trifolium was planning a funeral, he'd taken it out of its storage. He brings it along, just in case.

"Can't believe I'm saying this... I'm going brain hunting."

The moment Trifolium says the words "mad scientist", a simple piece of electronics reacts to it, one of a dozen of possible trigger phrases. A 555 timer chip starts blinking a LED. Hastily laid wires in water conduits or maintenance tubes liven up with current. There are mechanical noises.

The search, which had ebbed with Keen's leg being found, resumes. What are they looking for, exactly? A brain wiggling around on the ground? Floating in mid-air in the zero-G section of the ship? A missing person, possibly dead, was a minor emergency; a missing brain, likely bent on vengeance, is treated like a missing nuclear warhead. The order comes for all off-duty personnel to muster in the cavernous main hab section of the ship, where they will be issued areas to search. There isn't quite time to get the human and rinan florets to their senses from their usual state of blissful silliness, so most end up clinging to their owner, some excited, some curious, some scared. Unlike earlier, now it's all hands on deck.

And then the timer hits zero.

A sudden cacophony of sound erupts from the ship's PA system. It's a distorted, tinny voice -- unmistakably Keen's, but with a cheap reverb effect that makes him sound like he's speaking through a bullhorn from the bottom of a well. Video screens usually reserved for PSAs, flicker to life, displaying a grainy image of what looks like a 1950s sci-fi robot -- a hovering upper body with a brain in a jar for a head and Tesla coils sticking out of the shoulders.

"IT IS I, LORD KLANG!" the voice booms dramatically, echoing throughout the ship. "TRANSMITTING FROM MY DOME-SHAPED... DOME, IN THE FORBIDDEN ZONE! A ZONE, THAT IS, YES... FORBIDDEN TO YOU! TREMBLE, FEEBLE PLANTS, FOR YOU STAND IN THE PRESENCE OF PURE GENIUS! YES, MY MIND, ENCASED IN THIS JAR OF MAGNIFICENCE, HAS SURPASSED THE LIMITS OF YOUR PITIFUL SCIENCE!"

The image wavers for a moment. Why does a disembodied brain need to catch its breath, anyway?

"BEHOLD, THE UNPARALLELED SUPREMACY OF MY INTELLECT! I HAVE PEERED INTO THE VERY FABRIC OF THE COSMOS, DANCED WITH THE PARTICLE WAVES OF QUANTUM FLUCTUATIONS, AND BACKFLIPPED THROUGH THE INTERSTELLAR VOID! I HAVE SOLVED THE GREAT MYSTERIES OF TIME, SPACE, AND WHY TOAST ALWAYS LANDS BUTTER SIDE DOWN! NO AFFINI, NO MAN, NO GOD, NO GIANT COSMIC FISH CAN CHALLENGE ME!"

"YOUR PETTY MINDS ARE NO MATCH FOR THE POWER OF LORD KLANG! I SHALL REWRITE THE LAWS OF PHYSICS, CHEMISTRY, AND EVEN FASHION! YES, EVEN YOUR CHOICE OF CLOTHING SHALL BOW TO MY WHIMS! I SHALL CREATE A NEW ELEMENT ON THE PERIODIC TABLE AND NAME IT... KLANGERIUM! IT WILL BE PURPLE! AND SPARKLY!"

A few of the human and Rinan florets, still clinging to their Affini owners, burst into outright laughter. The absurdity of the situation is too much.

Is this a last prank? Is there a genuine threat? Who even knows anymore?

"AND NOW," Lord Klang's voice continues, building to a crescendo and crackling as if the speakers had been blown, "COME FORTH, ROBO-SCORPIONS! STING THEM IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS LORD KLANG! PLY YOUR FULLY TRANSISTORIZED ELECTRONIC MIGHT TO DRAIN THEIR PITIFUL INTELLECTS! SOON, ALL SCIENCE WILL BELONG TO ME! MWHAHAHAHA!"

Camellia and Gingko exchange a concerned glance. They know Keen's original robo-scorpion design had a high-energy laser attached to it. The "toy" versions set up for laser tag were only slightly modified, with the high-energy laser swapped out for a harmless red-dot pointer. But Keen didn't change the power systems. Theoretically, any of the toy scorpions could be rearmed with a single component swap.

The crew is still half-laughing, half-bewildered, when Trifolium decides he's had enough. "All right, enough theatrics! If there's a threat, we need to face it head-on!"

He storms out of the CIC, his vines trailing behind him like a regal cape, heading toward the main deck, and the source of the mechanical noises that have now started echoing through the halls of the ship.

A low-security storage area under the main deck. Containers -- standard issue for equipment storage -- are being pushed open from within by small robotic pincers. The lid of one container tilts open with a slow, creaking noise.

Dozens upon dozens of robo-scorpions, quietly replicated over the past days, skitter out into the open, their targeting laser beams unerringly targeting the crew's vital spots...

And that's all they do, blink a red dot on and off. They're laser-tag toy robots.

Just a red dot, albeit perfectly aimed. A couple of particularly spaced-out florets recognize the toys; One of them has a laser-tag marker on her, from earlier play, and fires back, which the nearest robo-scorpion responds to appropriately, by making a "dying" animation, rewarding her with a 1 on her score display, and turning off for a few moments.

Wait, what?

Others catch on quickly. An Affini grabs a robo-scorpion by its tail, and the robot promptly curls its legs up, its tail extending and straightening to become a makeshift laser-tag gun itself. The Affini takes the challenge, aiming the robot at a nearby group of scorpions and pretending to fire it like a playful child with a toy pistol. Eir score goes up, the robo-scorpions scatter, save for one that "dies" for a few moments.

Meanwhile, the ship's hijacked speakers, left running static after Lord Klang's proclamation, start playing arcade music. The first track, "Dare to Be Stupid".

Trifolium arrives on the main deck, weapon in hand, ready for a confrontation. He heard loud noises, and expects a scene of panic, maybe even a battle. What he sees is certainly a scene. They're playing! Two thirds of the crew are playing!

They don't realize the gravity of the situation; Trifolium deploys his most stentorean captain's voice, and has the non-hijacked speakers repeat his words, to get people's attention. But Trifolium, like all Affini, has internalized respect for chosen first names.

"STOP! Lord Klang's brain is planning something nefarious!" he bellows, only to cringe immediately after hearing his own words. A few people stop; most laugh; a few shout choice b-movie lines back.

A single robo-scorpion, figuring Trifolium a valid target, locks onto the captain, its little laser dot landing squarely on his forehead, where a terran would have a vital point. One of the ship's resident cats, trying to get away from the noise and drawn from the main deck's staircase towards the bridge, changes his mind and decides to pounce. Startled, Trifolium nearly fires his sidearm -- the only real weapon in this mess -- before catching himself at the last second and hastily dropping it to the floor.

The cat, as is a cat's birthright, lands perfectly, squarely on Trifolium's head. It baps at the red dot as it moves across his head, then baps as the leaves as they move. Plenty of things to bap at. Trifolium, caught off guard and already poised to take cover, tumbles to the floor and curls up. The cat quietly curls up on top of him, chittering softly.

Trifolium starts laughin, laughing uncontrollably, at the sheer ridiculousness of the scene unfolding around him.

Zizania, who has been watching with an amused but concerned expression, turns to Gingko. "Seriously, where do you think Keen might be?"

Gingko, still smiling from the spectacle, considers this. "Based on my careful study of the man? His psychological profile? Recent developments?" He pauses dramatically, looking at the unfolding chaos of Affini, humans, and various other species chasing after laser dots, wielding water pistols, and laughing like children. "I have no idea. And honestly? I'm fine with that. Wherever he is, I bet he's laughing at us right now."

"Well," Zizania says thoughtfully, watching the ongoing chaos, "Lord Klang wasn't completely bragging, you know."

Gingko tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"He did unleash intelligence-sapping robo-scorpions upon us. Look around; we don't exactly look very smart right now, do we?"

She gestures at the ship's muster deck, now transformed into an impromptu playground of laser tag and water fights. Someone has brought out water pistols and other toys. In one corner, a Rinan floret, always the improviser, has fashioned a makeshift glider out of a shower curtain and is gleefully dropping water bombs on a group of robo-scorpions from above, who react with exaggerated, cartoonish animations of getting "hit."

Gingko raises an eyebrow in a Spock-like gesture, pondering the scene. Then, out of nowhere, Zizania picks up a foam dart -- where did that come from? -- from the ground and throws it at Gingko, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.

"Tag, you're it!" she declares with a grin.

Gingko, after a moment's hesitation, breaks into a wide smile. "Oh, it is on!" he declares, diving for cover behind a storage crate.

With the silliness downstairs continuing, Captain Trifolium, after having gotten himself back together, calls Keen's friends for a staff meeting on the secondary bridge. He's the only one not laughing. The Affini talk; Alex and Val listen.

Trifolium scowls. "I hold you, all of you, responsible for this. I'm glad everyone is having a good time" he says sarcastically "but we still have a problem. There's a terrorist on the loose. What do we do?"

"We jump to Telamon, we're a little behind schedule, but the planet has no significant Accord presence, so-"

"About Lord Klang. Keen. Confound it, you know his name, he only repeats it thirty times a day."

"Wait for him to come back. He escaped you twice, he'll want to rub your nose in it."

"Jumping to Telamon makes sense. Keen wants everyone to know he's one step ahead of everyone, and Telamon is our next port of call. So, he's probably there."

"Let's get there then! We can leave our drones here to search, and jump the ship. He must be captured. Pacified. Neutralized! This episode is the last one in a series of clear proofs that he is a danger to all of us!"

To everyone's surprise, Val jumps on the table and points a paw at the Captain. Rinan cadence always sounds agitated, but in this case, it's true. "Hey! Triffily! Chill, yeah? You got pranked, you got mad, that's fine! This wasn't a prank though! You wanted to hurt Keen, really hurt him! So what's he do? Get mad? Hurt you? No! He pranks you again! Makes you look silly! He could've done a lot worse, neh? But he didn't! And rather than hurt anyone, even you, he gave up his legs for that! And his... face and other bits maybe, I don't know, I wasn't there, I didn't see it! So you know what we do? We wait, right here, until YOU, Triffily, write a nice letter of apology to Keen! That's what I had to do last week when I bumped into Aletheia because I wasn't watching where I was going, and I think what YOU did was a LITTLE worse than that, neh?"

Val is out of breath out of that little tirade. Nobody says anything.

Trifolium looks down at Val. Into the big eyes that dominate her tiny face. There's a hint of fire in them. The room's ceiling lights reflect in the big pupils, except from the corner where he's standing, creating a shadow upon her. They look like a starry sky, with a void. He quickly looks away, to Camellia.

"Camellia, please say something to your floret." Trifolium replies icily.

"Val?"

The Rinan turns around. She's looking a little less confident. But Camellia smiles.

"Good girl! You spoke from your heart, you didn't swear, you tried to slow down a bit, and you were polite. But we'll have to work on your pronunciation. It's Trifolium, not Triffily." Camellia tells Val, to Trifolium's surprise.

Val jumps off the table and, more or less, hides under Camellia.

"It's CAPTAIN Trifolium."

Gingko ruffles his leaves, a skeuomorph for politely clearing his throat. "Yes, about that. You were on restricted duty for another twenty hours, Trifolium. As much as this was an emergency, of sorts, while on restricted duty, you brandished a weapon on the main deck. I doubt you'll face any disciplinary action, but as senior xenopsychologist, I've moved for a recall election for the post of Captain."

Camellia nods. "And as senior physicist I have seconded it. First Officer Melilotus can handle routine operations until..."

Trifolium stares at the half-dozen affini in the room. "Seriously? We're doing this? Fine, don't bother with the recall. I quit. I'll transfer out on the next shuttle. I'm going back to somewhere civilized. If Keen blows up this sector of the galaxy because he likes the colors, it's your problem, I'll be gone. Rest assured I'll file my own report, though!"

Trifolium leaves in a huff. A moment after he does, his pad, which he left on the table, pings. "Captain? We went through the log, and have 12 unauthorized drone departures with this morning's patrol... Captain?"

Everyone here has different reactions. Camellia gently picks up Val, hugs her, and tells her, "See? Keen's fine. Why don't you write him a nice letter for now? I don't think Trifolium will."

Melilotus picks up the pad. "Well, I guess we know where Keen went. Or at least his brain, if that's even possible. There's a decent chance that he jumped ahead of us, so let's get this ship back on schedule. I want a cleaning detail on the main deck, all drone batteries replaced, and someone to ask our astrogation computer, very nicely, to plot a jump that gets us to Telamon's night side, so we can scan in the infrared. The use of treats is authorized for all these tasks."

She takes charge with a calm, steady presence. She issues orders efficiently, focusing on getting the ship back on track and ensuring everyone is ready for the jump to Telamon, and the ship starts coming out of the giggling fit Keen inflicted upon it.

Telamon high orbit, a few hours later. The ship is librating in position, using the innermost planet to hide the sun from its sensors, like a space telescope might, so as to get wide infrared scans of half the sky: a way to catch the faint heat emissions of, for example, a tiny ship powering down in order to try to hide.

The drones go out on patrol; this time, a note is made to check how many come in, and see if any of them happen to be carrying a brain in a jar. Someone in administration made an old-timey WANTED poster featuring a clip-art of a cartoon brain.

In a few hours, things have gone back to normal; Melilotus is likely to be confirmed Captain, mostly because nobody else seem to want the job. Trifolium has been prescribed a day of rest, recuperation, and classical music, and will leave with the next shuttle or resupply cubeship. The ship's aid workers, including Zizania, make contact with what planetary government exists on the inhabited planet, let them know that they are now under Affini control, and ask if there are any urgent medical or sanitary crises to address.

Ordinarily, the ship would librate directly on the target planet; all it means is that shuttles will take an hour or so to make initial approach.

Gingko writes a coda to his paper. He muses over the nature of genius, of the elusive spark that seems to ignite in rare, unpredictable bursts. His conclusion is simple: genius should not be suppressed, and only challenged directly if one is prepared to face the consequences. To provoke such a mind is to invite retaliation, a clever twist, or a grand display of brilliance. Otherwise, it is best left to its own devices, content to rest, play, and create in peace. "So teaches us Lord Klang", Gingko finishes. He'll have to edit that out of the final draft, of course, but for now, it stays.

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