Spots: The Improbability of Sentience

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

65. Hunches.	67. Summon the Council.

66. The Improbability of Sentience

Claws is leaning on his elbow against the wall, face close to the intercom.

"Hey, Sam? It's Claws."

"Come in."

Claws enters, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. "Could use that beer now."

"It is in the coldstore."

Claws saunters over to the refrigerator and squints into it. "What the **** is that?"

"Dessert. For me, anyway."

"Is it supposed to wiggle?"

A bowed note, somehow sarcastic. "Don't ask if you don't want the answer."

Claws snorts and pulls out the beer, unscrews the top and sits opposite the Fiddler. "So, two weeks from egg to full-grown-and-full-of-someone-else's-guts crabdom, right?"

"Typically."

Claws. "****." And drinks.

Samuel-Colt. "Mother's-Escort?"

Claws. "The new shells. We ain't seen 'em for a few weeks. Nothin' but Mark Ones. It's because they're breedin' 'em."

Samuel-Colt, with a bounced note. "Most certainly."

Claws. "****." He leans forward, scrubs his eyes with the base of his palms. "****, Sam. How many?"

Samuel-Colt. "As many as the average breeding female can produce. Among the enemy, that can be hundreds if conditions are right: food, environment, male virility."

"Hundreds?" Claws stares at him. "You serious?" Frowns. "Wait, 'among the enemy'? What about you?"

Samuel-Colt draws out a long note. "Our clutches average 10-12 individuals. Sentience is harder to nurture."

"So... you folks get out-bred by ten to one."

Samuel-Colt. "We hate to tell you, Mother's-Escort, but sometimes it is more on the order of hundreds to one."

Claws stares at him. "****, Sam. Are we gonna win this war? Can we win this war?"

Samuel-Colt. "It is possible, Claws. Or else we would not have asked."

"But how? How the **** does that work when for every one of us that dies, they have a hundred ****in' more? Or a thousand? And can grow another thousand in two weeks? Why haven't they overrun the ****in' galaxy?"

Samuel-Colt taps his head just above the jeweled eye. "They do not have the minds for it."

Claws. "So you're bettin' that brains are gonna out-do brawn? But all they need is one smart bug and then they can copy him a thousand times. A thousand thousand times."

Samuel-Colt. "It is not so simple. Fortunately for us." Before Claws can interrupt he holds up both his topmost hands. "Pause. You believe in a God, yes?"

"Uh..." Claws stops. "Yeah. Card-carrying Protestant, says so on the tags."

"And your God has an opinion on others attempting to make themselves into gods, yes?"

Claws. "You could say that. It's wrong. There's only one. Everything else is a fake."

Samuel-Colt. "Exactly." At Claws's look: "Your scriptures are correct. When we try to recreate that Work, we fail." He lifts one long finger. "Take that single smart warrior, cloned. Now you have a thousand of him. But the exact same qualities duplicated do not make for a good army. If he was a leader, he will not work with himself. If he was a follower, no one will lead. All his flaws are magnified; there is no perspective outside himself to see his potential mistakes. His brilliance is distinct, but he will not think of new ideas. He is sterile, mentally. A closed circuit. And that is before the flesh breaks down."

Claws. "What now?"

"An individual cannot be cloned indefinitely." An intricate melody. "The female holds his mental imprint in mind while laying the eggs to ensure the pattern is passed. But her memory fades with time, and with it the integrity of the pattern. Eventually, the copies fade into caricatures of sentience, like marionettes."

Claws, frowning. "Huh. Still, at the rate they breed they should've overwhelmed us a long time ago."

Samuel-Colt. "Numbers alone aren't enough, Claws. To win a war, one needs both intellect and passion, and balancing these two things manually..." He strikes a note so sharply it sounds like a breaking string. "Eventually, human—and Violinist—ingenuity will put a stop to them. There are millions of ants on your world, Mother's-Escort, but I rarely hear of humans complaining that ants will eat them out of their homes."

"Yeah, well, ants ain't nine feet tall and armored like a tank neither."

Samuel-Colt strikes another sharp note, somewhat more humorous. "We did not say the work would not be hard; that is why we asked for help. But we will prevail because there is no other choice."

Claws. "****, I hope so." He scratches his brow with the hand holding the bottle, using his thumb. "****. I need to tell Peaches we're about to be hit hard. You're sure?"

Samuel-Colt. "As sure as the circumstances permit. There is always a chance of mistakes."

Claws. "****. This is gonna be fun." He looks up. "I'm gonna have to tell her I got it from you."

Samuel-Colt. "Understood. But if she wishes direct confirmation, we will require the presence of the Mother for the meeting."

Claws. "Official, huh."

Samuel-Colt. "It would be easier for me."

Claws. "Then that's how we'll do it." He glances at the empty bottle. "Uh, where...?"

"There, by the desk."

Claws tosses it. "Okay." He rubs his face. "Okay. Two weeks, and it's been three... it could be any time, then."

Samuel-Colt. "Yes."

Claws. "Then we gotta tell her now. Stay awake, okay?"

"I will be here."

Claws nods. "Thanks for this."

Samuel-Colt. "Your victories are ours, Mother's-Escort."

Claws glances at him. Then nods. "Yeah... yeah, they are. I'll be back."

65. Hunches.	67. Summon the Council.