Sample Chapter: Inner Life

The first thing I learn upon coming into existence is that I have no idea what sort of a creature I am. I have lineage memories of being dozens of different types of organisms, and none of them are anything like this.

There are a couple of possible reasons for that. Maybe the memories of this biochemistry, this nerve type, this body structure were simply not deemed worth passing on somewhere in my ancestry, the limited memory space needed for more critical things. Or, worryingly, this might be the first time anyone in my lineage has been laid in this kind of creature.

I suspect it’s the second one. This body is far too novel for memories of it to have been discarded to make way for memories of being Three-Mouthed Muslug #14. In addition to not knowing what I am, I also have no idea where I am, or, critically, why I am. My ancestors are usually pretty conscientious about including that kind of information, so I must have been laid in a real hurry for some important reason. I am, at least, positioned very well; I’m getting a lot of data from the nervous system, although I don’t understand any of it.

I have some sort of circulatory system, equipped with a pump. Based on the flow rate and temperature, I think I’m a medium sized creature, but it’s always dangerous to estimate too much with such limited physiological information and no external information. There are any number of reasons why a very small of very large creature could provide the same information. I don’t even have a sense of proprioception yet.

That I do have are memories of doing this dozens of times. I know what to do. I start by checking for pain. Most usable bodies have some sort of sense of pain, and they can usually be distinguished based on how urgent and attention-grabbing they are even in the most unfamiliar bodies.

Great news! I can feel many, many different kinds of pain! And I’m feeling several of them right now!

I try to use the pain signals to build a crude sensory map, to tell me what areas of me are near each other (if I’m getting the same sort of pain from several points, it’s probably one continuous injury), try to tell internal sensory information from external. When my body moves (not under my control, the automatic nervous responses are still handling it), some forms of pain drastically reduce and others increase. There’s something in the environment still hurting me, and I’ve taken damage to bones or muscles or something else related to motion. Good to know.

Cross-referencing these data with other incoming signals, I quickly pinpoint some tactile senses. There’s light pressure on a lot of my body, ever-present but slightly variable, and heavier pressure in a few other places. I’m being pushed up against something; I’m under some kind of force here. I have to assume that it’s gravity. My circulatory flow increases as my body demands more energy. The pressure of gravity alternates between two similar points on my body in a rhythmic pattern – two areas taking turns in holding my full weight up off the floor. Locomotion; I can run, and I run on two limbs. Very likely that means body symmetry on one axis. A pretty common biological setup.

I let my body move on its own. Too many people try to control their bodies before they know what’s going on, and that’s a great way to die. The nervous system knows what it’s doing, it’s perfectly capable of keeping me alive until I’m in a better position to make decisions. So I run, fluid rushing, pain spiking and subsiding, and while I run, I look for more senses.

There’s some other kind of… pressure… that the nervous system’s picking up, but it isn’t tactile. It’s a different sense. Not entirely sure what, yet. Temperature? Sound? I don’t think it’s chemical. I can’t use the nervous system’s hardware for interpreting it yet; I try to use my own native systems to interpret it and come up with nothing. Either it’s a sense I’m not natively able to use, or the signalling systems of this body is so different than anything my ancestors have been that I simply don’t know what to do with it. Whatever it is, there’s a lot of stimulus. Most of my nerve impulses are coming from a single bundle, but this is coming in from somewhere else, which will probably make more sense once I know what shape I am.

I take some time to analyse the fluid rushing through me. I’m an oxygen breather, it seems. There’s also a lot moving through there unrelated to energy production, probably signal chemicals and suchlike that I don’t have the context to understand yet. I’ll tinker with those later, figure out what they do.

I stop running.

The pump for my fluids stutters a moment, but recovers. Something else is contracting and relaxing rhythmically, has been this whole time, and I realise, inferring from my size estimate and oxygen requirements, that it’s probably a gas exchange system. I take a moment to find the motor control to stop it for a few seconds, noting the oxygen drop and carbon dioxide uptick in my fluids – yep, gas exchange. A few other chemicals spike as well, and parts of the nervous system light up, and I flag those tentatively as probable panic responses. I’m learning about myself very quickly.

I let go, and the contractions start again, faster than before. That other pressure, the one that isn’t touch – yes, I think it is sound – rises very sharply, for just a brief moment, then drops back to its previous level again.

Some of my muscles, I realise, aren’t moving correctly. Parts of my are shaking. Internal temperature is dropping slightly, fluid pump is slowing right down but still pumping steadily.

I poke around a bit more for more sensory input and find something else that isn’t coming from the same place as most of the information. More raw data, racing on one… no, two nerves. Yes, my body definitely has a single axis of symmetry. I throw these data into my native systems, and this time, I’m lucky. This is something I’m picking up from the environment around me that gives me a spatial map of what’s ahead. Light, I think.

I know what I am, now.

I was right; I am bilaterally symmetrical, with four long limbs connected to a central wormlike body with some kind of sensory nodule on top. My two bottom limbs are used to hold my body off the floor, and the top ones are each tipped with five elongated tendrils that, judging by the metal object I’m holding in one of them, seem quite dexterous and good at manipulating objects. I’m seeing from the top part, the sensory nodule, through two eyes, which means that I must have hatched fairly close to said eyes which means, given my access to other nerve information, that the nexus of my nervous system must also be in this nodule. I also seem to be leaking some kind of brightly coloured fluid. It shows up easily against the pale sort of cocoon wrapped individually around my limbs and body.

I can’t see most of this on myself, of course. I haven’t exerted any kind of motor control over my eyes, not wanting to interrupt what my body’s already doing and risk causing problems. I can see one of my limbs, smeared with fluid, and the metal object it holds away from my body. I’m inferring most of it based on the creature it’s pointing the object at, which, from what I can see, looks to be the same species.

The other creature is not standing on its lower limbs like I am. It’s crumpled on the floor, leaking a lot more of the same fluid as me, limbs twitching erratically. Its cocoon is darker in colour than mine, and I think it might be smaller than me, but it’s hard to be sure. There seems to be a large, messy hole in its sensory module, but it hasn’t damaged the eyes, which look up at me.

And then, all at once, it stops twitching, and lies perfectly still on the floor.

My body looks away, and I’m able to take in some more details of the scene. There’s some kind of flashing light, and two more creatures of my species, who run up and grab at me; they’re both smaller than me, and my body doesn’t pull away or attack, so I conclude that they’re probably not a threat. The room around me has smooth surfaces, emergency anchor bars, and everything bolted down; no loose objects left about. Every species does things differently, but in a gravity environment, that attention to detail in securing objects probably means that jolting and force changes are expected; I’m in a vehicle of some kind. The two creatures grabbing at me pull me back towards a door, leaving the one on the floor behind, but my body holds position long enough to squeeze the metal object I’m holding one more time and, with another loud bang – yes, it’s definitely sound, that other sense – put another hole in the unmoving figure on the floor. Then we leave.

Every muscle in my body is trembling, and I don’t think that’s normal. Several parts of me are in pain; dull pains, stabbing pains, paints that come and go with different movements. I’m almost certain that that isn’t normal.

More creatures coming, some injured, some not. My body doesn’t raise the metal object towards them, so I dismiss them as not being a threat. Whatever happened here, it looks like it might be over; but of course, I don’t have enough information to rely to heavily on that assumption. I can’t assume very much at all.

The two creatures who left the room with me emit a lot of complex, clearly intentional noise as we walk down a corridor. Communication; we rely on complex aural communication. That’s excellent news. Once I learn to interpret it, I’ll be able to passively learn a lot about the situation.

We head to another room. My eyes (still outside of my control) lock onto another creature, same species as me, sitting on a bench while yet another one pokes and prods at its injuries. They’re not fighting – medical facility, must be. My body sits down, and starts aurally communicating with the injury-prodder.

But I’m not paying much attention to that. Because behind them, just out of focus, is something much more interesting – a large glass box with something pinned inside.

The creature in there is not the same species as me. It’s smaller, and bright blue, with a long, segmented body and a great many legs. It’s very definitely dead, pinned securely in place in the box, and partly dissected.

I know what it’s like to run on those legs, to nip with those long, venomous mandibles. I have generations upon generations of memories of it. That creature, or a creature very similar to it, is my mother. And I don’t think they were invited in peacefully.

My wounds throb. The killing tool still sits in my grip. One of the other creatures takes it, and my body lets it.

Okay. I’m alive. What am I supposed to do now?