imagine the end result will be spectacular. These are specially made for high-energy terraforming, after all.”
Several of the teacher’s bodies raise a hand. “Students,” says one, “that means—”
“It means the client will be ramming billions of tons of ice into a planet,” says Ellie. “At very high speeds. One hundred times.”
“But a hundred of those,” says Jobe, looking [shocked]. “That would destroy a planet. Wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, the kinetic energy in a single one of our ice ships would end a global civilization, dear,” says Ellie with a gentle chuckle. “Our client could clear intelligent life off a hundred planets, if He wanted to!”
“But He would not, students,” interjects the teacher quickly as Network murmurs begin to arise. She sends disapproving looks toward Ellie’s glow from several directions. “Even if He wanted to—and I assure you He does not—the Network is very strict regarding terraforming.”
“Oh, calm yourself,” says Ellie. “This is all theoretical, though perhaps one needs a higher tier to grasp that fact. On a settled planet, yes: you’d be looking at a cataclysm-level event. But drop the whole hundred on a nice empty desert planet, cook for a few centuries, let cool, and you’ve got yourself a charming F-type world.”
“What happens to…Him?” asks Sarya, nodding out the window. “The, um, ones of Him on the ship? When it crashes?”
“Oh, group intelligences never seem to mind losing a few of themselves,” says Ellie. “The client, for example, has billions more where these came from.”
“For the record, students,” says the teacher with a sharp look toward Ellie’s silver glow, “not all group minds work that way. Some of us care very much for our individual cells—”
“Of course,” says Ellie warmly. “You are all special and unique.”
“Thank you.”
Sarya continues gazing at the blade of ice for a few seconds before she realizes: that wasn’t the teacher’s voice. It was smaller. It was…twitchier. And yet she would swear that, like the teacher’s voice sometimes does, it came from more than one direction.
She turns, her overlay lagging behind her sudden movement. Two slight figures stand a few meters behind her, in a space created by rapidly retreating students. They feature biologies strikingly similar to her own—two arms, two legs, one head—but can’t be even a meter tall. They each sport a tuft of white and wayward hair above two large, golden eyes, and they wear simple sleeveless tunics that flutter with their quick movements. One of them holds a vaguely familiar device in its small hands, through which it is examining the room.
“Ah,” says Ellie, suddenly sounding intensely uncomfortable. “Students, well…here’s an unexpected treat. This is our client Himself! I suppose I didn’t realize—”
“I get that a lot,” says one, turning to inspect Ellie’s glow through the thing in its hands. “I suppose I’m easily missed.”
“I sincerely apologize,” says Ellie. “I was—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” says the other. “I never take you low-tiers too seriously.”
“Of…course,” says Ellie.
“I take it this is Your design?” says the teacher, gesturing out the window. Sarya can decipher the respect in her voice without help from her Network unit. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
“It is, isn’t it?” says one of the two. Both step up to the window as students fall over themselves to get out of the way. They gaze outward, one with its hands—five-fingered, Sarya notices—behind its back. “I can’t wait to destroy a civilization with it.”
A complete hush falls over the group of students. Even the teacher looks [shocked].
“Er…” says Jobe out loud, his voice striking in the silence. “Is that a…joke?”
“This little lad!” cries one of the creatures, whirling to him. “Or lass. Or lack, lag, lam, whatever you are. At least someone has a sense of humor around here. Tell me, what is your name, small one?”
Sarya watches Jobe blink, confused. His name, pronouns, biography, anything you want to know—it all hangs in the air around his face. Unless—
“They’re not Networked,” she breathes. So that’s why that thing in its hand looks so familiar: it’s a Network prosthetic. The thought is so foreign to her—a higher mind, off the Network just like her?
“I am not Networked,” corrects one of the two without looking at her. “None of Me is.”
Sarya looks down, mentally kicking herself for forgetting the high-tier pronouns. “I meant—”
“Though I did rent this thing for the visit,” muses the one with the Network prosthetic. It makes a show of hefting it. “But it’s just so darn heavy.”
“I just think the old-fashioned way is best,” says the other. “Plain ol’