Codrin Bălan#Castor — 2346

Convergence T-minus 0 days, 2 hours, 53 minutes

Despite the burst of excitement, the talks remained surprisingly banal. Even when the topic of the Odists’ deception and the troubles that True Name#Artemis still suffered on Artemis arose, the talks still felt like a political summit. The conference was still a conference, with its cloth-covered table and shitty pens, its uncomfortable chairs and weary participants.

Ey counted emself among the weariest of them all. Tycho was still in his stride, and Sarah was keeping up well enough, though she remained fairly quiet throughout, focusing on watching rather than speaking or taking notes. Why Ask Questions had proceeded as though the news had never happened, continuing on in her litany of questions around biology and linguistics. In fact, the only one more tired seemed to be True Name.

There was a tension around the skunk’s eyes, a tightness to the cheeks that ever so slightly drew her lips back. Even when she smiled, her expression remained fixed and rigid.

It made sense, after all. Acting in the capacity of leader was more than just overseeing the talks, it meant wrangling every conversation, and still managing to keep up her own side of it. Beyond even that, the skunk had been drawn into several conversations alone with Turun Ka over the final hours of the third day. Ey hadn’t expected the conference to include anyone but the entirety of both the parties, so ey wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but none of the other Artemisians seemed unnerved by the leaders stepping aside in half-hour increments to hold what appeared to be — at least from True Name’s expressions — in-depth conversations about very serious topics.

Sleep brought little relief.

The beds were comfortable, but empty. There was no wind against glass, no crickets stilled to silence with the passing of some imagined bat. There was no fox to curl around, no soft sounds of breathing.

Ey plowed through two cups of (thankfully quite good) coffee on the morning of the fourth day, and brought a third with em to the conference table.

The talks were slow to resume. There were a few halting attempts at starting up conversations about astrochemistry, but neither Tycho nor Stolon were well-versed in it enough to have the conversation without additional research first.

Why had they divided the subjects between the locations? ey wondered for the dozenth time. I’m sure that every one of us wants nothing more than to ask about the history of their trip, just as I’m sure that there are topics surrounding science that those on Artemis would love to ask about.

It seemed such a strange limitation to put on talks such as these. Why divide them by subject when the participants were identical? Were there deeper reasons beneath this? Was there a logic to having the discussions of science on Castor as opposed to on Artemis? Was it so that the less-advanced Castor would still benefit from the science and Artemis from culture if the talks went pear-shaped?

Questions such as these littered the verso pages of eir notebook, the recto pages reserved for notes about the topic at hand. Ey’d sent dozens of those questions over to Artemis already; it certainly didn’t seem as though this was the place to ask them.

Answers had been sparse. The responses had invariably been “it is not the time for that conversation”. At least the most recent note from Codrin#Artemis — running at nearly three pages — had explained the use of that sentence, as well as so much else. Checklists and goals, indeed.

It had also contained a more detailed account of Answers Will Not Help’s breakdown and quitting, as well as the extended interactions with True Name that Codrin#Artemis had been having.

“I hate to do this to you,” ey had written, individual-eyes only. “But I simply cannot overstate just how dramatic and anxiety-inducing the whole event was, and I mean this in the most literal way possible. There are things that I cannot tell you. I cannot put them into words, and I certainly cannot set them to paper. It is overwhelming. The import is crushing. I feel like I’m going to burst and there’s nothing I can do or say about it, and the only reason I’m describing it like this is that I can’t be the only one who knows this, even if only at one layer removed. You will remember soon enough, I think, but until then, I just need to offload some of the pressure.”

Ey had no idea what to do with this information, other than to accept a share in that load.

With questions running thin and the table plagued by awkward silences, it was almost a relief when Turun Ka requested that it and True Name discuss sentiment shaping surrounding the arrival of Artemis, leaving the others to have a conversation of their own or not as they wished. There was no explicit communication suggesting such, but it seemed implied whenever this happened that Codrin and Turun Ko would be left ‘in charge’ of their respective delegations, if there was such a thing.

The skunk and firstracer stood and walked to the far side of the fountain where True Name could sit on the rim and Turun Ka could settle onto its haunches before her. They set up a cone of silence, and once more begin discussing what seemed to go beyond simply the fallout of deception.

After a few more minutes of silence. Why Ask Questions stood, said that she was going to take the opportunity to get another glass of water, and wandered off without another word.

That seemed to be signal enough, despite the deputization of the recorders, for everyone to take a break. Tycho and Stolon paired off immediately, already chatting about albedo or some other topic ey could not guess. Iska excused themself and returned to their rest area.

Codrin closed eir notebook, finished eir coffee, and scrubbed at eir face with eir hands.

“Alright,” ey said. “Would it be alright if I ask you an off-the-record question, recorder Turun Ko?”

“Ka, you may. I may want-need to defer-delay response.”

“Of course, that’s fine. Why are we divided like this?”

“Please explain-expand, recorder Codrin Bălan.”

“Why only talk science here on Castor and leave history and society to the talks on Artemis?”

“It is not the time to have that conversation.”

Codrin did eir best to restrain a sigh. “But it is a conversation? There is a reason for it?”

“Anem.”

“If I ask you — you as Turun Ko, not in your capacity as recorder, or even you, Artante Diria — questions about the topics that are being covered on Artemis, would you be able to answer?”

“Ka,” they both said at once. Artante picked up after that, “We might defer, as is our habit, but it would be impossible for the formal discussion to be the only context in which we communicate. Even if it were, there are layers to communication that go beyond words. We are learning some of each others’ non-verbal communication, anem?”

Ey nodded. “Anem. My counterpart on Artemis has written me regarding a sort of checklist that you are following when it comes to the convergence. Is this true?”

Artante sat up straighter, sharing a meaningful glance with Turun Ko. “Yes, recorder Codrin Bălan. There are steps that we have noticed in convergences in the past and, in order to be prepared, we maintain a list of these that we look for throughout the process.”

“And to confirm, the possible outcomes are us joining you as fifthrace or not?”

Sarah leaned forward onto her elbows, watching the conversation with an intense curiosity.

“Anem. We will converge-join-together or we will not,” Turun Ko said.

“I’m guessing that asking what items are on the checklist isn’t really on the docket,” ey hazarded.

Artante nodded.

“That’s alright,” ey said. “I’m sure True Name and the others in charge on our end had their own checklist that they’re keeping up with.”

“If you have wargamed, as you have said, then almost certainly.”

Ey mulled over eir next question for a moment, considering as many ramifications as ey could, given the knowledge of this checklist. Finally, ey asked, “Are convergences only named such if a race joins you on Artemis?”

There was a brief flicker of some emotion ey couldn’t decode on Artante’s face. It was almost a smile, almost pride, almost contentment, but it was quickly replaced by the polite expression she seemed to wear at all other times. “It is not the time to have that conversation. We will soon, I suspect.”

“It seems pretty easy to read between the lines on that answer,” Sarah said gently. “Though I don’t suppose it can be helped.”

Artante spread her hands over the table, palms up. “As I said before, it would be impossible for the formal discussion to be the only context in which we communicate.”

“Text and metatext,” Codrin mumbled, and with that, an idea dropped, fully-formed, onto em. Ey could feel the weight of it land on eir shoulders, the import of it digging into eir back like claws. Texts! Ey sat up straighter. “With the understanding that there are correct times for conversations, may I give you information for you to access at those times?”

Artante looked to Turun Ko, who raised its chin in assent. “You may, recorder Codrin Bălan.”

Ey nodded, hoping against hope that ey even had the ACLs to do as ey’d planned. Ey knew that ey could create as much paper as ey wanted, though ey wasn’t sure whether ey’d be able to create paper with text already on it. Ey knew that ey could create notepads, but had yet to try creating a notebook, as ey hadn’t finished the current one yet.

Nothing for it but to try.

A desire to create a hardbound book was rejected, but the desire to create a soft-cover book seemed to be available to em. Text was a bit more difficult to guess at without testing, so ey brushed eir hand across the table, projecting the intent for a sheet of paper with the word ‘TEST’ written across the top.

Success.

“Alright. One moment, please.”

Ey rifled through eir exos until ey found the correct ones and, with a single wave of intent, dumped their contents along with the desire for a softbound book into reality, lifting, one at a time, two books from the surface of the table. They were far from fancy, but their utility was all that mattered.

“This is the first volume of An Expanded History of Our World, a text containing a succinct description of the series of events that led from the creation of our System to the launch of Castor and Pollux.” Ey handed the book over to Turun Ko, then handed the other to Artante, saying, “And this is An Expanded Mythology of Our World, which contains many of the same stories as the History as told through the framework of myth and legend. Together, they make up On the Origin of Our World.”

The silence around the table was profound. Both Artemisians looked at the books they held, as if still internalizing the import of what they’d been handed. Sarah looked startled, even anxious.

“What is the nature-disposition of this document?” Turun Ko asked at last.

“It’s a narrative of the overall history of our System from a social and political perspective. The first volume is a summary constructed from interviews conducted with those who uploaded in the very first days of the System’s existence all the way up to those who had uploaded the year before it was written.”

“Codrin,” Sarah said quietly. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

Artante looked between them, picking up on the anxiety. “May I ask as to the import beyond its contents?”

“It…doesn’t exactly paint the prettiest picture of some aspects of the System,” Sarah said, audibly hunting for a diplomatic way to phrase it. “It led to a reevaluation of the…political nature of our lives.”

Ey tensed, realizing the import of what Sarah was getting at. While there were countless reminders as to the books impact on the Ode clade, it had always seemed an unintentional side-effect of what was otherwise a text that strove to be above all else an accurate historical document. It was bound up in those who had lived those lives, those who had been influenced by the Odists.

Ey’d meant to provide it strictly in that historical sense, but realized that, in the context of her deception, the discussion of True Name and her friends guiding the trajectory of society within them might color the talks moving forward.

No, ey thought. This goes beyond the Odists and all their schemes.

“It’s important,” ey said decisively. Sitting up straighter, ey drew on all the gumption ey could. “It shows more than just the political lives we’ve led, including the behind-the-scenes guidance that True Name has engaged in from the origins of the System two hundred thirty years ago. This is as important as anything else when it comes to understanding us as a species.”

Sarah’s frown deepened. “Which is why I question the wisdom of providing it at this point.”

“We’re at an impasse, I think,” ey countered. “We haven’t had a single meaningful conversation as part of the talks since news of what happened on Artemis arrived. It feels like we’re waiting on some cue, like we’re expected to do something.”

Artante was nodding, though whether in confirmation or agreement, ey couldn’t tell.

“This feels like a dangerous way to force the conversation to move forward.”

Ey shrugged, holding onto that courage and sense of right action. “They deserve to know more than just the synopses and sugar-coated aspects of our society. The thing with Answers Will Not Help is something she and True Name dreamt up, but not representative of us as a whole. We’re more complex as a species than just her, or than even the five of us.”

Flipping through the pages at the rate of about one per second, Turun Ko said, “A conversation will happen-occur when leaders Turun Ka and True Name return shortly-momentarily. Please wait. Their conversation-discussion is artificial-superficial, intended to give-provide delegates other than leadership options to change-shape outcomes.”

Ey stared at the firstracer. “You mean–”

“A step in the process of convergence is assessing the willingness of non-leaders to act other than their leaders might or even against the stated structure of the discussions in order to forward what they believe the good common to all races,” Artante said. “It allows us to assess the strength of individuality and self-sacrifice for the betterment of all.”

“Opportunities were provided,” Turun Ko said simply.

That feeling of being in way over eir head that ey had felt so often during the writing of the History hit em full force once more and, stunned to silence, ey leaned back in eir chair, looking between the Artemisians and Sarah.

“So,” the psychologist began. “Is this a good step?”

“Please wait,” Turun Ko repeated, then lifted its head and glanced over toward Turun Ka.

This must’ve been a signal of some sort, as the other firstracer held up a hand to stop the conversation it was having with True Name, gesturing her back to the table.

The skunk was halfway through the act of pulling out her chair before she noticed the books that the other Artemisians held, the titles in bold on their covers. Her gaze whipped toward Codrin so quickly and with such fiery intensity that ey shied away from her. “Codrin, what–”

“Leader True Name,” Turun Ka said, interrupting her gently, but with enough authority that she stopped immediately. “This is the penultimate item on the checklist of convergence that we were just discussing. All that remains is the point of decision.”

Ey watched as the skunk’s eyes widened, gaze darting between em, Turun Ka, and the book in Turun Ko’s hands, now about half-finished. She sat down heavily on the chair and sagged against the back. “Well, fuck me.”