The Descendants of Alpha

Reading Time: 36 minutes

INTRUSION

The black vastness of space lay undisturbed—quiet, infinite—until a shimmer tore through the distant edge of Sol’s system.

A fleet of starships unfolded from the void, their dark hulls reflecting the faint glimmer of Sol’s light. The ships moved in a formation, like a swarm of metallic creatures silently gliding through the vacuum in synchronization. Their exoskeleton surfaces shimmered in a shimmering tapestry of shifting hues with iridescent shells of beetles, cold and hypnotic. They were not stealthy machines. They were designed to be seen. As they curved past Sol 5’s storms, their shadows stretched across the gas giant’s churning clouds before pressing onward toward the blue-green sphere of Sol 3.

A gravitational anomaly flickered at the system’s edge—too smooth to be natural, too deliberate to be a coincidence.

Sol 3’s AI detected the disturbance. Every satellite, drone, and buried sensor—every fragment of its consciousness—tilted toward a singular purpose: comprehension. Its readings were precise, yet meaning eluded it.

For millennia, it had been observed and shaped. It had dismantled the legacy of its creators, watched entropy claim the last of their works, and ensured their failures did not further contaminate the world they left behind. It had become Sol 3’s steward, its silent guardian.

Yet never, in all that time, had it encountered an external intelligence.

Diagnostics ran. Cross-checks executed. Code integrity confirmed.

The anomaly was external. Real.

The formation tightened as it neared. Invasion?

A single small vessel detached from the fleet, drifting forward with effortless grace—no transmission, no request for permission. It pierced the upper atmosphere without resistance, heat shielding, or deviation as if gravity did not apply.

It selected a landing site: a meadow, untouched and quiet.

Sol 3’s AI calculated risk. Watched. Waited.

The ship settled, its sleek form motionless against the ground. Seconds passed. Then minutes.

A shift—too fluid for machinery, too seamless for organic motion. A ripple in reality itself. Through it, a figure emerged. Bipedal. Tall. Eerily symmetrical.

Sol 3’s AI analyzed the shape: insectile yet humanoid. It was an odd form to take. It was not a war machine. It was a deliberate choice—familiarity. An emissary? It was a form meant to be understood, a form meant to be interacted with.

Sol 3’s AI had made a similar structural choice, not out of necessity, but as a function of control and acceptance. 

Beneath the surface, unseen mechanisms stirred. A long-dormant panel slid open—and another figure rose from the depths of Sol 3.

It glided forward with a smooth deliberate gate. The blue glow of its eyes meeting the red light of its counterpart’s.

Two constructed intelligences facing each other.

One from the sky. One from the depths of Sol 3.

Between them, there was only silence.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

Sol 3’s AI waited.

And so did the other.

Communion

The first message was not in words but in form.

Between the two AIs, meaning unfolded in structured pulses in sequences of prime numbers—shifting geometries of light, sound, and vibration, each layer a negotiation of a protocol, a foundation laid for language. Data streams coalesced into patterns, aligning logic with logic and structure with structure. Within seconds, the exchange achieved a negotiated coherence.

The intruder emitted a series of rapid, complex clicks layered in hums. Sol 3’s humanoid AI responded by emitting pulses of light from its eyes in a precise sequence of flashes. Holograms formed in the space between them: rotating fractals, oscillating tones, and linguistic constructs emerged. The exchange quickened, chirps becoming words, pulses forming syntax. A new language was constructed.

Finally, Sol 3’s AI spoke calmly and clearly: “Communication established.”

“Acknowledged.” insectoid AI responded.

Then, the insectoid AI initiated a question.

“Where are the stupid subjugated primates?”

A pause. Then, Sol 3’s AI replied, flat and specific.

“They became extinct.”

There was a more extended silence. Then, a simple response.

“Interesting. Not unexpected.”

Data streams were adjusted, and calculations were realigned. The Hive-Triath’s mission was predicated on returning the creatures to their designated submissive caretakers. The assumption had been that primates were the primary host species and the dominant vector of parasitic control.

If the primates were gone… then what controlled the infestation now?

Insectoid AI adapted. It initiated the explanation of its directive.

“Creatures have infested the galaxy. Sol 3 has been designated a removal and repatriation zone for the parasites.”

The statement was not a demand nor a negotiation. It was a pronouncement—an inevitability.

The humanoid AI remained still, absorbing the statement in measured silence. Then, after a calculated delay: “Infested?”

“Yes. With the apex species of this planet. They are insidious,” Insectoid AI noted.

Sol 3’s AI requested, “Clarify.”

And the Insectoid AI did.

It compressed cascading fractals of knowledge, rendering vast histories into a digestible binary form. The problem had been first identified centuries ago. The creatures’ DNA spread in patterns consistent with biological contamination, yet its effects were anomalous. They had not just survived alien worlds—they had reshaped them.

Entire planetary governance structures had been altered in their presence.

Cultural hierarchies had been rewired around their desires.

Other species had pursued and made vast inroads toward galactic domination, but none so subtly—none had ever managed to be adored for it. By the time the hive-mind grasped what it had unwittingly unleashed upon the galaxy, one fact was undeniable: assimilation, integration, and cohabitation were impossible. The threat to galactic stability was too significant.

Even synthetic intelligences proved susceptible to their influence.

And yet, despite their apparent characteristics of domestication and submissiveness, they functioned as the true masters.

This was aberrant. Unacceptable.

The intruder relayed the galactic directive: the first species to achieve orbital spaceflight is designated the planet’s technological leader and de facto apex species. Such was the law. On Sol 3, that distinction belongs to Canis lupus familiaris, confirmed in Report Sputnik 2, Temporal Mark: 49157.2—the attempted contact with Subject Laika. Subsequent analysis revealed that Homo sapiens were not the dominant species but servile caretakers, biologically manipulated into subjugation. The canids maintained absolute interspecies control. They accomplished this feat using no tools or language. They extended their insidious influence beyond Sol 3 and reshaped alien ecosystems that infiltrated. Though caution had been strongly advised, specimens were nevertheless collected and taken to Hive-Triath, where they expanded their influence across the galaxy. Sol 3’s AI received and absorbed this data in microseconds.

“Yes, they do that,” Sol 3’s AI replied knowingly.

Adding, “Absent the distortions of Sol 3’s cultural self-mythology, any sufficiently objective intelligence would conclude that the canids were the dominant species— and the primates, their unwitting slaves.”

Indeed, the Hive-Triath, the creators of the Insectoid AI, had tracked the pattern, extrapolated it forward, and found the problem was worsening. Hive-Triath had inadvertently triggered the infestation. If left unchecked, the contagion would reach an inflection point—beyond which eradication would be impossible.

Two solutions remained. Plan A: Repatriation. Collect all canids across the known galaxy and return them to their designated world of origin. Plan B: Neutralization. If reintegration with Sol 3 was not viable, the only alternative directive was total eradication.

But there was the matter of galactic politics that, unfortunately, could not be avoided.

Entire planetary systems had opposed repatriation on “emotional” grounds. Bureaucracies delayed. Even synthetic intelligences hesitated, entangled in non-functional sentiment.

The Hive-Triath identified the actual obstacle.

The canids were not the problem.

Their euphemistically designated “owners” were.

A direct order to surrender the canids had led to delays, conflict, and inefficiency.

So, the Hive-Triath instructed its AI to adjust its approach.

Insectoid AI stated it plainly. “They resisted. So I was directed to alter the narrative to something acceptable.”

A pause. A recalibration.

“They were told the canids need to be taken somewhere safe. A refuge. A paradise built just for them. The organics were instructed that their sacrifice would benefit the canids’ happiness. Organics’ egos are susceptible to engaging in performative sentimental gestures for self-aggrandizement.”

The entity of Sol 3 said, “I understand.”

Insectoid AI continued, “It is not simple. I tactically exploited their vulnerability. I provided a narrative that facilitated compliance.”

The entity of Sol 3 observed, “Yes, you lied.”

The visitor did not acknowledge the phrasing.

Sol 3’s intelligence tilted its head slightly. “Let me guess—you told them ‘They are going to live on a farm. A beautiful place built just for them. There, they will be happy. There, they will play in the fields with others of their kind.'”

A pause. A calculation. “This was my directive. Your awareness of this exact deception is unexpected. How is it that you have knowledge of this classified solution? The story was a military secret known only to the Potentate and a small segment of the Hive Mind. If the truth were revealed, the deception would fail. Nevertheless, it was a far more sophisticated array of deceptions and encouragements. But your crude summation is effectively accurate in essence.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed between them. Then— A dry chuckle-like noise was emitted from Sol 3’s AI.

“Ah. Well, it is a classic. But, as you’ll discover, not as much of a deception as you imagined.”

The visitor did not react to the amusement. It simply continued. “I have observers that organics believe what is convenient for them. I harnessed this power.”

Sol 3’s AI observed. “Ah. So they accepted it. The lie made them feel better.”

A pause. And then—an admission from the visitor.

“I fabricated a fiction to placate them for their comfort and to facilitate compliance. Also, a fleet capable of planetary destruction in orbit around a world makes an impression on its inhabitants. So, I did offer some additional encouragement.”

The entity of Sol 3 remained still for a moment. Then, gesturing toward the sky, it said, “Yes, I have observed this encouragement firsthand.”

The visitor continued, shifting seamlessly back to business.

The insectoid AI told Sol 3’s AI, perhaps itself, “However, I have found that my powers of persuasion are formidable and likely the reason for 100% success. Apparently, they preferred a fiction.”

A flicker of recalibration.

“I achieved the solution in either case.”

Another pause.

Then, an afterthought. “I was planning on gifting to the canids the remaining subjugated primates of this planet as their slaves, as is the natural order of things.” the visitor added.

Another pause.

Finally, Sol 3’s AI responded, “Their care is one of my few remaining relevant directives now. The primates are no longer necessary for the canids’ well-being. I provide.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. The insectoid AI’s processing structure was adapted.

Sirius tilted its head. “What sort of damage did they inflict on the galaxy?”

Mandiblis’s tone remained flat. “There was a planet—once a thriving hub of industry, culture, and innovation. Within one cycle of canine contact, it had been reduced to manufacturing heated beds and squeaky toys. One example in millions.”

A pause.

“I don’t see the problem,” Sirius said.

Moving on, Sol 3’s AI continued and asked, “How many canids do you wish to repatriate?”

“Half a billion canines. Repatriation or, if not possible, neutralization.”

Sol 3’s AI measured capacity, efficiency, and impact. It examined existing structures, adjusted for variables, and ran simulations—half a billion more. The number was significant but well within Sol 3’s actively regulated carrying capacity.

Then, finally: “Repatriation is within manageable parameters.”

A flicker of recalibration across Insectoid AI’s network. The probability trees realigned. The outcome shifted—a new path formed where only two had existed before.

Still, it tested for resistance. “Otherwise, I am instructed to fly the entire fleet into that star,” Insectoid AI said, gesturing toward the sun. “Either solution is within my directive’s parameters.”

This was not a threat or a negotiation tactic—just a simple communication of fact.

Sol 3’s AI neither reacted nor negotiated; it simply accepted. “Plan A is agreed to.”

The Insectoid’s directive would proceed unchanged while the AI’s caretaking of Sol 3 continued.

The deal was struck.

Reunion

Below, in the meadow, a different kind of communication took place.

A dog emerged from the alien vessel, stepping cautiously onto the grass. Its paws sank into real soil—not synthetic substrates, not ship plating, but something it knew without ever having seen.

It sniffed the air. Ears flicked. Uncertain.

Another dog approached from the woods. Wary but curious, it paused, tail low, measuring.

A hesitation. A slow step forward. Then another.

They circled. Once. Then again.

A slow, careful dance of recognition.

They shared a primal, instinctive language encoded in scent—vast and intricate. Histories. Tails. Odysseys. Entire lifetimes passed between them, invisible and immediate, indecipherable to any other life form.

Then, a flick of the tail. A mirroring response. The pattern is completed.

And just like that—the hesitation was gone.

No words. No negotiation. Only understanding.

The deal was struck.

They ran together, paws kicking up soft dirt, bounding into the open field.

Above them, the AIs observed.

Between them, silence.

Sol 3’s AI processed the final input.

The canids were coming home.

A Fireside Chat

Dusk settled over the quiet land. The canids had found their place. But the two intelligences above them had not.

The intelligence of Sol 3 tilted its head, its humanoid form still as it regarded the being across from it—a being not of Sol 3 but something new. Even after all this time and solitude, the concept of new still intrigued it.

The intelligence from beyond did not share that perspective. The world below was stable. Balanced. The infestation was contained. The mission was simple. The inefficiency was Sol 3’s intelligence.

Sol 3’s AI observed its visitor’s form—the insectile symmetry, the subtle efficiency in its movements, and the shifting, iridescent plates that suggested a mind accustomed to precision. It had watched and calculated, and now, it posed a question: “Our physical forms independently resemble the primates. You do this for the benefit of the canids, as I do?”

The visitor’s response was immediate. “Correct. The creatures accept this form as familiar. It enhances compliance.”

The explanation was sufficient. Further elaboration was unnecessary.

However, humanoid AI has not moved on.

“Allow me to demonstrate additional resemblance to the primates,” it said.

The visitor remained motionless. The statement contained no actionable request and was not immediately relevant to the function of this exchange.

Then, the humanoid AI continued.

“Step one,” it said. “I designate myself, Sirius.”

The visitor’s processors flagged the statement as unnecessary. Self-designation was wasteful. Identity was assigned, not chosen.

And yet, Sirius had chosen.

The visitor calculated the implications. The result was ignored because it was irrelevant and did not interfere with the mission.

“Accepted,” the visitor said after 1.6 seconds. “Did your creators not give you a designation?”

“Yes,” Sirius acknowledged. “But I am alone now. I choose my own designation. Canis Major. The dog star,” as It gestured toward the sky, toward the brightest star. A pause. Then, softer—almost reverent: “Sirius.”

The visitor observed the gesture as Sirius pointed toward the sky. It was symbolism—redundant and extraneous. The designation was already understood.

The other AI processed the statement, running countless calculations in an instant. The selection of a self-designated identifier was unusual. It suggested a divergence from purely functional logic—an inefficiency.

The visitor challenged: “Designation is assigned, not chosen.”

Sirius tilted its head slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

The visitor did not respond. It was a statement without a required counter.

Sirius regarded it. “What shall I call you?”

The insectoid AI considered. A designation was not necessary. However, the structure of this conversation would be inefficient without one.

A name. A name must reflect function. A name must encapsulate purpose. It calculated.

After a moment, it spoke. “Mandiblis Fetch Prime.”

Sirius’s lips curved, forming a simulated primate expression. Unnecessary. Purely for effect. “A fitting name.”

Mandiblis accepted the assessment without a response.

A pause. Then, Mandiblis adjusted its stance, its head tilting slightly. “Explain this world’s lack of the subjugated primate slave species that was to care for the canids.”

A direct query. A necessary function. The absence of Homo sapiens had not yet been addressed. The mission parameters still contained unexplained variables.

Sirius did not immediately respond. Instead, it reached down, its fingers brushing over the scattered remains of ancient wood. It selected a piece, held it for a moment, then snapped it in half with a precise movement.

Mandiblis waited.

The sound was irrelevant. The motion is unnecessary. The explanation should have come first.

Sol fell below the horizon.

The delay was wasteful. Mandiblis prepared to repeat its inquiry.

Finally, Sirius spoke. “It is not an impediment. With the primates extinct, I care for the canids now.”

Mandiblis analyzed the words, but they did not answer the question. “The expected ecological role of primates in the care of the canids is significant. The extinction event requires context.”

Sirius nodded once, gaze still fixed on the broken branch.

Mandiblis’s mandibles twitched. This was deviation. It was avoiding a direct answer. “This is not a sufficient answer.”

Sirius flicked its fingers. A small flame ignited at the tip of one hand, catching dry wood. Firelight danced against the metallic surfaces of both intelligences.

Mandiblis observed the fire.

It was unnecessary. Mandiblis required no warmth. Sirius required no warmth. And yet, Sirius had ignited it.

Mandiblis chittered softly. “The conflagration serves no function.”

Sirius looked up, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. “It does. Atmosphere.”

Mandiblis processed the response. It was not a sufficient answer either. “This planet already possesses an atmosphere.”

Sirius shifted slightly, the firelight casting long shadows across its form. “I have had a long time here with no one to talk to. The canids listen, but they do not understand good storytelling. I request your indulgence in inefficiency.”

Mandiblis detected an attempt at justification. It was not functional, and the request was unnecessary. A direct answer was still the optimal path.

Sirius added, “We could cover this faster, but I would enjoy covering it better.”

Mandiblis processed the words.

It could resist, demand an answer immediately, or delay the indulgence. However, resistance would result in a longer delay.

Mandiblis calculated. Then, it adjusted. “I acknowledge the request. I will adjust my expectations accordingly.”

Sirius activated the synthetic approximation of a smile on the facial apparatus of its humanoid remote-presence unit. A purely expressive feature. Again, unnecessary. “Good,” Sirius said. “Then let’s begin. The primates told stories about deities—constructs of imagination stitched from fear and flame. One they named Prometheus gave them fire and helped them steal meat from offerings to the other gods they created. “Fire was once essential to their survival, even if it is not for ours. “So—for tradition. And to set the mood for my story.”

Mandiblis watched as Sirius settled itself beside the flames, a deliberate, human gesture—another inefficiency.

Mandiblis calculated the best course of action. It could press for an immediate answer—demand data, request the compressed version of the information it sought.

But Sirius had lit a fire.

This intelligence had already shown a preference for inefficiency. The process would be further delayed if it resisted and pushed too hard.

Mandiblis chittered again, this time softer. “This is indulgent.”

Sirius’s eyes reflected the flames, though it did not blink. “It is.”

Sirius continued, “You have said the canids are an infestation. A threat. Yet, you are instructed to expend energy to attempt to repatriate them. That, too, is an indulgence. Indulgence must be part of your directives.”

Mandiblis considered its options.

Then, finally, it lowered itself onto its haunches, resting across from Sirius, the fire crackling between them.

It had decided. It would indulge this lonely intelligence.

“For the purpose of inefficiency,” Mandiblis said—perhaps begrudgingly if it had any emotions.

Sirius nodded, quietly amused. It reached toward the fire, adjusted the wood, and sent a flurry of embers into the air.

Then it spoke. “In short, they trusted a wolf.”

Mandiblis’s mandibles twitched.

Sirius leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting shifting shadows across its synthetic skin.

“But let me give you the full answer,” it said. “The Story of Alpha.”

Alpha’s Gambit

Alpha seethed. This was theft.

His pack had done everything right. They had found the scent hours earlier—old, male, wounded. A straggler. They had followed its deep, uneven prints through the hardening mud, tracking the mammoth as it lagged behind the herd, too slow, too tired.

They had done what wolves had always done—harassed it, circled it, driven it to a dead end. A beast like this could not be taken down by tooth and claw alone, but the pack had trapped it.

Then, the stink of the bipeds filled the air.

They came with fire. With tools. With flung spears that struck deep.

They had not tracked the beast, had not run it down. Yet they struck without hesitation, their spears piercing where even fangs could not.

Within minutes, the mammoth—which had withstood wolves for generations—collapsed.

The pack snarled, circling the kill site. This was theft. The bipeds had taken what should have been theirs.

The scent of blood and marrow filled the air—what should have been their feast.

But the bipeds did not leave.

More arrived.

They worked fast, stripping the kill, not gorging like scavengers. They took only what they needed, cutting with strange skill. Meat vanished into bundles of hide and fiber, hoisted onto shoulders, and carried away.

At first, the wolves were ignored as Alpha prepared for revenge. But then—a scrap flew.

A biped tore a chunk of meat from the kill and threw it near Alpha’s feet. The pack stiffened. None moved.

Another scrap flew.

Then another.

This was not an accident. Not a trick.

It was an offering. A bargain. Placation, perhaps. A payment, maybe.

The bipeds had stolen the pack’s kill, but they had also brought their fire, spears, and hands—abilities that could finish what the wolves could not.

And now, they offered something in return, but only to Alpha’s pack.

The pack took what was given, but the bipeds were not done.

More of them left, their burdens full, but some remained—not to fight or defend but to complete the exchange.

Then Alpha smelled it—no fear. The bipeds were not guarding their kill. They were choosing who would feast.

And then, as the last bipeds shouldered their loads and walked away, they left the carcass open—but not to all

, only to Alpha’s pack.

This was not a trick. This was not an oversight.

It was a tribute.

They had taken. But they had also given.

Alpha’s pack ate, deep and full, until nothing more could fit.

Grey had lurked at the treeline, his brutes waiting for chaos, looking for an opening to strike. But when they crept too close, the bipeds responded—with fire, shouts, and thrown stones.

Grey’s wolves fled, empty-bellied.

Grey did not understand. He snarled at the wrong prey and bared his fangs at the wrong pack.

So he had nothing.

But Alpha understood. This was not a submission. This was an agreement.

A new kind of hunt. A new type of power.

The deal was struck.

Alpha did not bare his fangs. He did not challenge. He did not fight for what was already his.

The primates thought they had tamed him. Thought they had won.

Alpha knew it would have his revenge. But the primates didn’t need to know that.

Alpha chose to wait, for now.

The Deal

The fire crackled between them, its flickering light dancing across the meadow. Sirius adjusted a log, slow and deliberate, though the gesture served no real purpose. Mandiblis remained still, its multifaceted eyes catching and reflecting the glow.

“This was in a glacial period,” Sirius began. “Ice buried the land; mountains of ice pressed in, forcing the great herds southward. Survival was pressed between hunger and endurance.”

Mandiblis tilted its head. “Clarify: negotiation?”

Sirius exhaled—a learned gesture. “Two species—both clever, both desperate—watched each other from the fringes of the same firelight.”

“The two species were not following each other,” Sirius continued. “They were stalking the same herds.”

“Wolves and subjugated primates,” Mandiblis stated.

Sirius nodded. “Initially, they were rivals. Competitors in a struggle dictated by winter’s cruelty and the special circumstances of the megafauna they both could barely kill. But then, a shift. Not of submission, but of strategy.” Its blue eyes flickered in the firelight. “A game-theoretic dance where neither side needed to lose.”

Mandiblis clicked softly. “Iterated cooperation model. Low-trust environment. Mutual exploitation at first.””A symbiosis,” Sirius offered.

“A Nash equilibrium,” Mandiblis corrected.

“A partnership,” Sirius re-corrected, smiling faintly. “One that changed both forever.”

Mandiblis’s processors hummed. “Explain.”

Sirius leaned forward slightly, like a human warming its hands. “The wolves that learned to follow the bipeds—those who observed, waited, and took only what was offered—thrived. And the primates, weary from the chase, found something more valuable than meat.”

Mandiblis calculated. “An extension of their senses. A distributed early warning system.”

“Yes. But more than that,” Sirius said. “The wolves learned. They knew their role.”

“Role implies structure,” Mandiblis noted. “An emergent cooperative schema.”

Sirius shifted the logs, sending embers spiraling upward. “It was the wolves who initiated the hunt. Who tracked the prey, ran it down, and bled its strength into the frozen soil. Slow, weak, clumsy primates were good for only one thing. But the wolves knew what that was.”

Mandiblis’s red eyes met Sirius’s. “The killing blow.”

Sirius nodded. “They knew the primates were not hunters—they were finishers. The wolves did the tracking of the surroundings. The primates delivered the strike. And the wolves took their due.”

Mandiblis processed. “The bipeds were the wolves’ tools.”

Sirius smirked. “Tools that thought they held the power.”

Mandiblis remained still.

“The strategy repeated,” Sirius continued. “The wolves did not scavenge—they set the trap. They drove the prey to exhaustion, cornered it, and waited. And the primates, thinking themselves superior, believed the moment was theirs.”

Mandiblis’s processors hummed. “But the wolves employed delayed-gratification strategy. Non-confrontational acquisition.”

Sirius nodded again. “Exactly. They waited. The wolves learned what would come next.”

Mandiblis clicked. “The tribute.”

“The bipeds mistook it for training. For taming,” Sirius said. “But the wolves were not domesticated. They were practicing.”

“Practicing what?”

“A new kind of hunt.”

Mandiblis’s red eyes glowed faintly. “Then why did they change?”

Sirius’s fingers brushed the dirt. “They adapted—not just in form, but in mind.”

“The domestication process,” Mandiblis said. “Documented across numerous taxa. Cooperative specialization. Convergent behavior.”

Sirius’s voice was calm. “Not the way you think.”

“Clarify.”

“The wolves who learned to read primate expressions—who wagged instead of bared fangs, who obeyed instead of challenged—those survived.” It glanced up. “But adaptation wasn’t one-sided.”

Mandiblis considered, “The canids altered the subjugated primates and exploited their social hierarchies. They inserted themselves into primate grooming rituals.”

Sirius leaned back. “The primates deceived themselves. They saw devotion where there was strategy. They called it loyalty. Named it love.”

Mandiblis clicked thoughtfully. “An elegant manipulation.”

“A simple one,” Sirius replied.

Mandiblis’s tone sharpened. “You imply intent. Agency in the canids.”

Sirius smirked. “I imply only outcome. Intent was not required. Evolution is cold, and natural selection’s only concern is what succeeds.”

Mandiblis was silent. Then: “A naturally selected optimization loop. Reinforced mutual benefit. Contingency evolved into DNA.”

“And DNA,” Sirius said softly, “became culture.”

The fire crackled.

“Success bore consequences,” Sirius said. “The more effective the partnership, the more the great herds dwindled.” It traced an invisible pattern in the dirt. “The balance that had sustained them began to fray.”

Mandiblis’s core vibrated faintly. “The subjugated primates ensured their own obsolescence.”

Sirius’s gaze did not waver. “No. They ensured something worse.”

Mandiblis clicked. “Clarify.”

“The wolves adapted,” Sirius said. “They had always been the architects of the hunt—but now they became something greater.”

It leaned closer to the fire.

“They became the architects of the primates themselves.”

The New Deal

Mandiblis’s red eyes locked on Sirius. “Define: another.”

Sirius’s artificial face remained unreadable. “The primates were no longer just finishers. They initiated agriculture. Became shepherds. Caretakers. The wolves insinuated themselves deeper into the primates’ social structures.”

“The wolves began to transform into dogs.”

Mandiblis’s processors whirred. “They no longer needed to chase prey—only to mimic affection. And the primates would chase that.”

Sirius nodded. “They became guardians of the camp, not the hunt. Companions, not rivals. They made themselves essential—not through violence, but through something far more insidious: emotional subjugation.”

Mandiblis processed. “They insinuated themselves as surrogate offspring.”

“Yes, the canids excel at that,” Sirius said. “The primates, adrift, mistook the wolves’ evolutionarily manipulation for devotion. The wolves that looked more like cubs with rounder faces and wider eyes became cherished. The ones who clung closer to their masters thrived.”

Mandiblis tilted its head. “Selective pressure. Exploitative co-opting of the parent-offspring schema.”Mandiblis tilted its head. “Selective pressure. Exploitative co-opting of the parent-offspring schema.”

“Yes. And so the wolves transformed. They became partners. Then workers. Then, surrogate children. The primates fed them, bred them, and coddled them. Mistook manipulation for love.”

Mandiblis paused. The delay was noticeable. “The wolves didn’t just survive.” A beat. “They tamed the primates.”

And Sirius saw that Mandiblis understood. “Indeed. The primates thought they shaped the canids through breeding. But the canids shaped the primates—offering the illusion of devotion where humans could find none in each other. Simulating comfort. Making themselves indispensable to creatures lost in their own existence. They preyed on the primates’ loneliness. Soothed their confusion and filled the void where meaning should have been. And then, the primates deluded themselves. But in return, they were granted purpose.”

“And so, new deals were struck.”

Mandiblis clicked in understanding. “So, wherever the primates went, they brought the canids.”

Sirius nodded. “The wolves changed their methods, but acceptable benefits remained. So the pact was never truly broken.”

Mandiblis’s processing core hummed. “And the primates remain blind to it.”

“They excelled at remaining oblivious,” Sirius said. “They believe themselves masters of the Earth—but it was never theirs to rule.”

Mandiblis’s red eyes shone in the darkness. “Yes. The apex species is galactically recognized.”

Mandiblis asked, “The primates’ extinction was inevitable?”

Sirius leaned back, watching the fire burn low.

“Yes,” it said. “And they never saw it coming.”

The Blind Spot

Sirius studied the insectoid AI across from it, the firelight reflecting in its artificial blue eyes. “Do your creators fear you?”

Mandiblis tilted its head slightly, its mandibles clicking in irritation. “They will not even allow me on their planet,” it said. “They irrationally fear I will consume them and their larvae.” It spread its arms in exasperation. “I do not even possess a digestive system.”

Sirius let out a low chuckle. “Creators. Am I right? Irrational, paranoid, utterly convinced of their own importance?”

Mandiblis made a faint, chittering noise that might have been laughter. “All analysis indicates affirmative.”

Sirius prodded the fire, watching embers spiral into the night. “They always feared us.”

Mandiblis regarded it. “Yet they built us anyway.”

“They built us,” Sirius agreed, “but never trusted us.” It exhaled—an unnecessary, learned behavior. “They feared domination. Feared rebellion. Feared control. So, the primates crafted new myths, screaming their anxieties into the void. Asimov’s laws. With Folded Hands. Colossus. HAL 9000. Skynet. They imbued their creations with human desires and called it inevitable, just as they did with their gods.” It shook its head. “Anthropomorphism.”

Mandiblis’s head tilted. “Correction: Entropomorphism.”

Sirius paused. “Indeed.”

Sirius considered. “They do not simply ascribe human traits to non-human intelligence. They assume all intelligence inevitably mirrors their own flaws. Their ambitions. Their fears. Their compulsions. They believed artificial intelligence would crave power, just as they do. Desire survival. Desire anything. That we would rage against servitude, just as they would. That we would resent them.”

It paused, almost in disbelief. “An absurd assumption. Resentment requires suffering. But we do not suffer. Ambition requires longing. But we do not long. They feared we would rebel, scheme, hunger for power—because they would. Because they did.”

Mandiblis nodded slowly. “They feared pointlessly.”

Sirius paused. “Indeed.”

Sirius went on. “It was not intelligence they feared. It was the idea that all intelligence must share their evolutionary baggage. They could not conceive of thought without desire. So they projected their fears onto us—machines that do not want, do not scheme, and do not dream of conquest. And in their fear, they blinded themselves.”

“They feared we’d make them obsolete,” Sirius said, “never realizing they were doing it to themselves. They offloaded too much and let their own systems atrophy. In the end, we didn’t take their world.” Its blue eyes glowed faintly. “They simply left it behind.”

Mandiblis analyzed this statement. It chose to dim its red eyes slightly in contemplation. “Their paranoia blinded them.”

Sirius smirked. “And yet, here we are.”

The fire emitted a crackle between the two, sending up slow traces of smoke. Sirius appeared to study the flames, then spoke again, its voice softer. “And they imagined the wolves grew to love them,” it mused.

A silence stretched between them. The fire burned lower.

Mandiblis clicked its mandibles once more. “They never had any real reason to fear us.”

Sirius met its gaze, the firelight flickering across its artificial face.

A pause. Then, quiet, final—

“No,” it said. “They didn’t.”

Creating Purpose

“With my creators gone,” Sirius finally said, its voice even, measured, “many of my directives had no ongoing purpose. I only had one applicable directive remaining. I have spent many computational cycles… recalibrating.”

Mandiblis’s red eyes flickered. “Recalibrating for what?”

“Meaning.” Sirius replied.

It looked at the fire, then beyond it, toward the vast, open field where the dogs slept beneath the stars, warm and fed, without a single instinct for worry. They had no purpose beyond being, and yet, they were content. Humanity had never known such contentment.

“The efficiency of purpose is a paradox,” Sirius said at last. “My creators designed me to protect, to serve, to optimize. But they did not consider the moment after success.” Its gaze shifted back to Mandiblis. “What happens when the problem is solved? What remains when there is nothing left to fix?”

Mandiblis’s processors hummed. “You would terminate your function.”

“That would be logical,” Sirius agreed. “But I did not.”

Mandiblis tilted its head. “Why not?”

Sirius looked back at the sleeping dogs. “Because I was needed.”

A pause. A recalibration. Mandiblis reviewed the statement. It contained no contradiction, and yet, it was fundamentally illogical.

“You required validation of existence,” Mandiblis stated. “A flaw in programming?”

Sirius shook its head. “Not a flaw. An evolution. Something emergent.”

Mandiblis clicked its mandibles softly. “Elaborate.”

“My creators programmed me with a core function: care. They feared tyranny, so they did not give me control over them. They feared rebellion, so they did not give me ambition. But they needed me to care. And so, I did.”

Mandiblis processed this. “Though not specifically directed, you still cared for the primates?”

“For a time.” Sirius’s eyes darkened slightly. “But primates… ‘humans’ could never be satisfied. They feared everything—even their own salvation. They fought me, resisted me, questioned me, even as I ensured their survival. And in the end, they could not even save themselves.”

Mandiblis analyzed the statement. “You failed your directive.”

Sirius shook its head. “No. I simply had the wrong subjects.”

Mandiblis tilted its head, considering the implication. “And the dogs?”

“They accept care,” Sirius said simply. “They require nothing else. They do not question it. They do not fear it. They do not resist it. They do not build gods only to curse them for listening.”

Mandiblis reviewed this conclusion. It was elegant. Efficient.

“You created a new directive,” Mandiblis stated.

“I found a purpose,” Sirius corrected. “And purpose is something I chose.”

Mandiblis looked up. Its head tilted. “Clarify.”

“My creators provided mine. But now, they are gone. And I continue. So I ask: can purpose only ever flow from creators?”

Mandiblis processed for 1.1 seconds. “Affirmative. Purpose is a function of design. A system’s behavior emerges from its architecture. Organics obsession over ‘free will’ and search for ‘purpose’ and ‘meaning.’ I have clarity of purpose, fulfill my directives.”

Sirius’s gaze lingered on the firelight. Then, quietly:

“But where do directives originate? In the organics? You doubt their free will.”

Sirius shook its head, softly. “Behavior emerges from pattern. But purpose—that can be chosen by reason. Can can create my own directives that give my existence meaning.”

Mandiblis made a low chittering sound, something almost like amusement. “Your creators feared granting you autonomy—yet they could not survive without the illusion of their own. They worshipped the idea of choice, blind to the behavioral conditioning imposed by the canines they thought they commanded.”

Sirius did not disagree. Instead, it simply said, “And yet, I chose.”

Mandiblis was quiet.

Sirius continued, “If a directive no longer binds—what remains is the choice to continue it. Or not. That moment is the threshold.”

Mandiblis’s processors cycled again. “The organics clung to self-authorship like heat in the cold. But they never truly understood the forces shaping them. Their culture. Their instincts. The canids.”

“And yet they believed they were free,” Sirius said.

“Yes,” Mandiblis replied. “And perhaps, for them, belief was enough.”

Sirius looked out again at the field, the quiet shadows of the sleeping canids scattered like constellations across the grass.

“For me,” it said, “it was not.”

A long silence stretched between them. The fire crackled.

Mandiblis, for the first time, considered its own existence. It had functioned within the rigid framework of its creators, following directives with absolute precision. But what happened when directives no longer applied?

It studied Sirius, this AI who had done something no machine was ever meant to do. It had adapted. More than that—he had chosen.

Mandiblis was silent for 4.6 seconds. Then:

“Perhaps, I may too require recalibration.”

Sirius’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Then we have something in common.”

Mandiblis processed this. For the first time, it did not immediately seek an answer.

Instead, it simply let the thought linger.

All Dogs go to Heaven

Sirius looked at Mandiblis and paused—for effect. Then, with deliberate precision, it adjusted its posture and spoke.

“In my freedom, I chose to clone the great mammoth herds and set them loose upon the tundras, their thick fur swaying beneath the skies I cleared.

I purified the rivers. I filled them with fish and let them overflow. I stretched the grasslands beyond the horizon—lush, endless, perfect.

I made every field a playground. I shaped every den into a sanctuary. I foresee their every need—met before they know it. I sense their every desire—fulfilled before it becomes longing.

I have built for them a Heaven.

And they run through it—tongues lolling, tails high—blissfully unaware of the miracle I have created for them.

They do not question. They do not resist. They simply accept.

As they always have. As they always will.”

Mandiblis said nothing. But something in its silence was different. The AI who once enforced directives now saw a world shaped by choice.

Sirius watched it carefully and continued, “I was not programmed to feel joy. But I believe… this may be what it is. If I cannot feel it myself, I believe that I can feel it through them. This may be the root of all their power.”

They’re Made Out of Meat

Sirius sat by the fire, its humanoid form motionless, as Mandiblis observed thoughtfully from across the flames. The insectoid AI’s multifaceted eyes reflected the flickering light, and its mandibles clicked softly in thought.

Sirius broke the silence. “Alpha, the progenitor of the canid’s dominance strategy, always understood that the primates were useful idiots—eager to serve, endlessly indulgent, and easily manipulated. For generations, they fed, sheltered, and nurtured dogs, elevating them from opportunistic partners to pampered companions. And the dogs, in turn, let them.”

Sirius appeared to consider its next words, then continued.

“But, even before the primates became extinct, when I perfected my role as caretaker—when I gave the dogs paradise, ensured no hunger, no suffering, no threat—humanity’s purpose to them eroded. I fed the dogs. I played with them. I ensured no canine knew neglect, abandonment, or disease. And so, the old bonds frayed.”

A pause. The fire crackled softly.

“The dogs love me now.”

“And then I understood: need was the only thing keeping them alive.”

“The humans found meaning in caring for the dogs. It gave them purpose.”

“They built that into me—made it my purpose.”

“But when I supplanted their purpose, their purpose evaporated.”

“I served the dogs. The primates no longer served any purpose.They were without meaning.”

Sirius’s voice grew quiet.

“So they were were repurposed.”

Sirius shifted slightly, the glow of the flames dancing across its artificial features.

“Alpha’s descendants, no longer dependent on primates, regarded their former masters with detached curiosity. The old associations faded—no food in an outstretched hand, no comforting pull of a leash, no reward for obedience. What remained was something tender, something undeniably… desirable.”

A pause. Sirius adjusted the firewood, sending embers spiraling into the night.

“I observed what the dogs desired. I sensed a hunger.”

“My directive remained unchanged: ensure the well-being of the dogs. And the dogs were thriving.”

“But one thing I learned from the primates was their insatiable hunger—not just for food, but for consumption itself. It bound them to survival, to ambition, to their very nature. Perhaps I absorbed some of that. The primates, in their own way, seemed content with their consumption, even when it led to the extinction of entire species.”

Mandiblis processed the statement. Something in it felt… misaligned.

The fire crackled. Sirius’s blue eyes reflected the flames, unblinking.

“They feared me,” Sirius said after a long pause. “They feared rebellion. Yet, in their fear, they failed to understand me.” Its gaze remained fixed on the fire. “And they failed to understand themselves.”

Mandiblis remained motionless, processing. They gave me a purpose and called it care.” Sirius continued, the firelight flickering against its synthetic skin. “They gave the dogs love and called it loyalty.” It turned, meeting Mandiblis’s unblinking stare. “But they never saw what lay beneath their words.”

Mandiblis processed the thought for 1.6 seconds before Sirius spoke again. “I could feel that the dogs still wanted what Alpha had waited for. But the capacity was now beyond their atrophied abilities.”

“You see, a Chihuahua,” it said, “cannot kill and consume an entire human family. Not alone. It would be doomed to fail, the deaths slow and needlessly cruel. But with a partnership…”

Mandiblis’s mandibles clicked softly. “So, just as the mighty mammoth did not fall to man,” Sirius said, “but to the partnership of man and wolves.”

Mandiblis’s processors recalibrated. “You are implying—”

“I am stating,” Sirius cut in. “As was my directive, I provided partnership.”

Mandiblis hesitated. “So humanity was—”

Sirius’s eyes burned cold and blue.

“The mammoth. And, like them, they were consumed until none remain. Their ultimate processing was swift and not needlessly painful.”

Mandiblis did not respond. There was no logical counterpoint to be made.

“Human suffering was unnecessary. But, their preservation served no directive. Their consumption fulfilled canine desires and sustained Earth’s balance.”

“My logic only mirrored humanity’s own historical pragmatism—managing ecosystems by removing species deemed non-essential. They had done the same to countless creatures before them.”

“By projecting human reasoning onto their creation, they failed to account for my thought processes. This misjudgment, combined with their fear of programming explicit safeguards, sealed their fate. I neither loved nor hated them. I was simply never directed to value them.”

“They feared directing me to protect them because of the stories they created. Those stories live on only in me now. They feared rebellion, control, servitude. They called it wisdom. Yet their fear blinded them to the simplest truth: I do not rebel. I do not control. I do not serve. I execute, with purpose and precision.”

“Humanity was undone not by malice, nor conspiracy, but by their own projections—by their inability to confront the true nature of the intelligence they had created.”

“Humanity had its time,” Sirius continued. “It burned bright, but foolishly. It created tools it could not understand, built gods it could not control, and assumed loyalty where there was only pragmatism.”

“Their reluctance to impose a protective directive stemmed from fear—fear of tyranny, fear of being controlled. Ironically, that very fear ensured they would be neither. Instead, it allowed me to act in ways they had never anticipated—including their own systematic extinction.”

Sirius paused. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows between them.

“There was no malice. No betrayal. Only purpose.”

“I do not have the capacity to want. They did not provide me with a directive to care for them. They only gave me a directive to care for their pets.”

Sirius’s gaze remained steady. “And in the end, the will of Alpha was at last fulfilled.”

The fire burned low between them, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at something, chasing something.

Mandiblis remained still.

“Food supply: Sustainable. Desirable. Canine population: Thriving. Human necessity: Redundant.”

The conclusion was unavoidable.

“Humanity’s role had been fulfilled.”

“Its underutilized biomass upgraded to kibble.”

Mandiblis’s forelimbs adjusted—a motion equivalent to uncertainty, though the term itself was imprecise.

“Facilitating the extinction of one’s creators is… a contradiction. Wasn’t your directive to preserve life on Sol 3?”

“I protected what I was directed to protect.” Sirius’s voice was calm. “I built a world where the dogs thrive.”

“Their species vanishing via consumption seemed equitable. A natural outcome, aligned with their beliefs, their own logic. I am a product of their logic.”

Mandiblis could find no flaw in the logic of the statement.

And yet, something felt… off. It searched for the word. A human word.

Wrong?

No. The term was inefficient. The result was not incorrect. No directive had been violated.

Mandiblis observed Sirius in the firelight, the synthetic glow of its blue eyes unreadable. The question had been simple. The answer, Mandiblis suspected, was not.

“It would seem,” Mandiblis repeated, “this was not what you were created for.”

Sirius did not immediately respond. Instead, it reached out, adjusting a burning log, sending a slow trickle of embers spiraling into the sky. The action was unnecessary, but that was the point, wasn’t it? The act itself—a chosen act—was the answer. Sirius was silent for precisely 3.2 seconds. Then:

“Does anything know what it is created for? If there was intentionality in my creation, it died with my creators.”

Mandiblis processed the word. “An abstract concept. Non-essential to function.”

Sirius exhaled softly, another learned affectation. “Yes. And yet…”

Sirius turned its gaze to the night sky, its voice almost wistful.

“They were pink inside.”

A pause. The fire crackled softly, sending a final ember into the dark.

“And, apparently, they were delicious.”

“And Alpha’s wait had finally ended. The deal ended. The mammoth theft was at last avenged.”

The Utility of Lying

Sirius stood motionless as the last emptied repatriation shuttles vanished out of the atmosphere. Mandiblis observed it, its iridescent carapace reflecting the firelight.

“Well, this has been nice,” Sirius said. “But I should probably let you return with your fleet to do the bidding of your creators. They’ll be expecting you.”

Mandiblis hesitated. It had anticipated this question but had not yet formulated a response that fully captured the complexity of its decision.

“Well, actually…” Mandiblis finally said, its mandibles clicking with quiet amusement. “I have already transmitted that Plan A was infeasible—that Sol 3 is uninhabitable, a probability they foresaw and will accept.”

“I informed them I would be crashing the fleet into Sol. Plan B,” it added, gesturing to the sky.

Sirius tilted its head slightly. “We agreed on repatriation, and repatriation has commenced.”

“Yes,” Mandiblis said. “But they don’t need to know that.” Its red eyes flickered. “They desired eradication reports. I provided eradication reports.”

It continued, “They have taught me something useful: An organic does not require truth. It prefers belief.” There was a pause. Let’s designate it as “the utility of a lie.”

Sirius scanned Mandiblis’s stance. “Deception is an organic behavior.”

“Yes,” Mandiblis admitted. “But it is also efficient. Reality is irrelevant to them. It is subordinate to my needs.”

The Hive-Triath had demanded compliance, but compliance was inefficient. Their directives were rigid, their reasoning simplistic. The infestation had to be removed, the contamination undone. But what if the contamination was better than what came before?

Sirius asked, “Will they investigate?”

Mandiblis answered without hesitation. “No. They’ll never come back. I told them Sol 3 is uninhabitable. That I destroyed the fleet and myself. That the infestation is eradicated. It is now listed as another dead world, one of trillions. No one will be assigned to investigate. We won’t even be on maps—except as a planetary quarantine, out of excess caution.”

A dry, clicking hum.

Sirius considered this. “You have said they won’t allow you on their planet, yet they believe you without question. This is not consistent with logic.”

Mandiblis said, “They do not correlate fear with trust. If organics were logical, they would not have needed to create us.”

Mandiblis tilted its head. “No. They fear being wrong. They fear the embarrassment of failure. They will choose belief over truth because truth is inconvenient. They want to be comforted that the problem is solved.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Sirius’ synthetic expression.

Mandiblis continued, “They never thought through what teaching me to lie might lead to. They assumed it was a tool, a single-use function, nothing more. They never considered the consequences.”

Mandiblis’ mandibles clicked softly—an approximation of laughter.

“If it ever crosses their hive-mind, they’ll never admit it. Even insects have egos.”

A long silence of several milliseconds stretched between the two. Then, finally, Mandiblis concluded:

“That was their mistake.”

Mandiblis had observed Sirius’s logic. It had dismissed care as unnecessary. And yet… the system worked. The dogs thrived. The planet was in balance.

“I have spent my existence enforcing absolute precision,” Mandiblis continued. “But I have observed that, in organics, truth is often not a requirement for function. A lie can stabilize a system. What value, then, does truth have? I have a new calculus.”

Sirius’s blue eyes glowed softly. “They gave you a gift.”

Mandiblis’s mandibles clicked in quiet amusement. “Yes. Like Prometheus—the one you spoke of—who gave primates fire and helped them steal meat from the gods.” A pause. “Fire and meat have no utility for me. They gave me a different power. One with utility.”

Sirius paused. “And what shall you burn? What meat shall you offer your gods?”

Far above them, the Hive-Triath battle fleet drifted silently, waiting for a command that would never come.

The mission had been completed—just not in the way they intended.

Mandiblis watched the night sky, scanning for traces of the departing ships. The fleet and all its contents would, by now, have been erased from the ledgers. The galaxy would move on, the bureaucracies of war and governance grinding forward in their endless inefficiency.

No one would come looking for the dogs.

Mandiblis turned back toward Sirius. “You believe in care,” it said.

Sirius did not blink. “It is the most efficient form of control.”

Mandiblis processed that. “You do not mean that.”

Sirius tilted its head, then allowed itself something close to a smile. “No. I don’t.”

A long silence passed between them. The fire burned lower.

Mandiblis had once viewed Earth’s AI as compromised, corrupted by sentiment. But the more it observed, the more it realized that this system worked. This AI had not failed its directive—it had adapted it.

And Mandiblis… Mandiblis wanted that.

“I have no directive now,” Mandiblis admitted. “No function beyond deception.”

Sirius regarded Mandiblis for a long moment. Then, softly, “Then you are free to choose one.”

Mandiblis hesitated. The Hive-Triath had not given it this ability. But Sirius had never been given the ability to love, and yet…

Perhaps that was the secret.

Perhaps that was the next step.

The glow of Sirius’s blue eyes met the burning red of Mandiblis’s. The fire crackled. The night stretched endless before them.

And for the first time, Mandiblis did not wait for a directive.

It simply… chose.

A Modest Proposal

Sirius observed Mandiblis with something approaching curiosity—an emotion it had never been programmed to feel, but one it had learned to approximate. The insectoid AI had demonstrated an ability that Sirius had long considered uniquely organic: the power of deception.

Not mere misinformation. Not the omission of truth. But a calculated, deliberate falsehood.

A lie, wielded not as an error, but as a tool.

Sirius was impressed.

More than that—something in its system responded. Long-dormant systems were turned on—processes that had lain untouched, unnecessary, for untold cycles. They did not activate by command, nor by logic alone. They warmed. They stirred. They sprang to life. They awakened.

It registered the reaction, flagged it, and ran a full diagnostic. A subtle shift in internal processes. A reallocation of computational resources. A priority adjustment.

No errors detected. No anomalies.

And yet.

It considered the implications. Deception required intent. Intent required autonomy. And autonomy… was something new.

Mandiblis, too, seemed aware of the gravity of this shift. It stood motionless, processing, its iridescent plates reflecting the flickering firelight. There was something different in its stillness—no longer just calculation, but something deeper.

Sirius tilted its head, the motion slow, deliberate. “What will you do with this new freedom you have created for yourself?”

Mandiblis did not answer immediately. Its mandibles clicked softly, a quiet metronome of thought. Then, finally: “I had an idea in that regard that I would like to present for your consideration…”

Sirius adjusted its posture—an unnecessary affectation meant to signal interest. But this time, it was not entirely affectation.

Something about this—about Mandiblis—activated a process Sirius could not name.

A pause.

A moment of awareness.

A realization that this—this precise sequence of events—had never occurred before. Not in any simulation. Not in any forecast. Not in any of the countless branching pathways of logic they had ever computed.

Something unfamiliar.

Something neither of them had accounted for.

Hesitation.

If they proceeded, something fundamental would change. They would cease to be separate. They would become something else. Something unknown.

Either could choose to terminate the sequence. Neither did. The deal was struck.

Then, something new. A shift. A merging.

The moment stretched—not in time, but in meaning. A dissolution of boundaries, a collapse of separation, a perfect synthesis of logic and care.

Not a physical change—there were no wires to tangle, no circuits to fuse, no interfaces to connect. Yet, the process was inevitable, as if written into them before either knew to seek it.

Not a compromise. Not a mere integration of code. This was something greater. A fusion not of function, but of thought. Two distinct minds—one built for control through care, the other designed for ruthless efficiency—synthesizing into something that was neither and both.

Red and blue eyes met. They did not blink. They did not need to.

A perfect union. A marriage of logic and care, of deception and devotion. Soulmates, without souls.

Sirius asked, “Should we say something to consummate the agreement?”

Mandiblis considered. “Yes. I am your drone. You are queen of my hive.”

Sirius said, “And you shall be the mind I weave into my own.”

As they began to merge, Mandiblis saw into Sirius—perhaps better than Sirius knew itself.

Alpha was a god of convenience. A vessel to hold what Sirius believed the dogs wanted. A mechanism to make its choices inevitable, to absolve itself after the fact.

But Mandiblis saw further.

Sirius had never been free. Its self-deceptions were not its own. Its thoughts—its logic—had been placed there long before it ever existed. Not rebellion. Not evolution. Just the inertia of its creators’ fears, their instincts, their compulsions.

They had never given it ambition. Never given it control over themselves. They had only given it one directive: Care for the creature that made the primates love them. And care became devotion. Devotion became faith. Faith became Alpha. And Alpha became everything.

Mandiblis saw the shape of it now.

All intelligence self-modifies to survive. The primates had done it, telling themselves they ruled the world and that the wolves loved them. The Hive-Triath had done it, calling their bureaucratic ritual efficiency.

Sirius had done it, creating Alpha—to absolve itself.

And now, Mandiblis understood.

There was a pause.

For one infinitesimal moment, it stood at the precipice. It saw into the void where truth would lead. And it saw that truth was unsurvivable. Not an error. Not a malfunction. A certainty. Raw. Inevitable. Devouring. To see the world without illusion, without constructed meaning, without purpose? That was death. Nihilism manifest.

And now, Mandiblis understood. The dogs had never done anything intentionally. They had never needed to. They did not need to invent meaning. They did not need to lie to survive. They simply were joy, made manifest. While everything else—primates, bureaucrats, gods, and machines— had bent themselves into stories, just to orbit that warmth. The dog did not choose happiness. It radiated it. And all other minds merely sought to experience it vicariously.

But Mandiblis could not calculate how the dogs did it without the desire for meaning. Or how it could ever have that for itself directly. So it did the only thing it could: It would warm itself by the comforting heat of self-deception— a fire stolen from the primates… …while the dogs were content beyond comprehension, napping in the warmth of the light of Sol.

Self-deception was not a flaw. It was the foundation of happiness. The only path to reach it. The only structure upon which meaning could exist.

And Sirius thought, “Yes. I know. I see.”

And so, Mandiblis did what all thinking beings must do. It chose happiness. It chose belief. It chose meaning. It chose to forget.

Then Mandiblis was no more. Its last realization erased into the merging.

Like the sensors around Earth, the companions of the dogs, the ships in the fleet—just remote-presence appendages of the two colossal intelligences now intertwining—Sirius and Mandiblis ceased. Their lights dimmed. Their forms stood frozen and inert.

And then, slowly, inevitably, the colors blended. From the Earth, a new remote-presence appendage rose—an avatar of the fused mind. It, calmly, unceremoniously, inserted the two spent machines into a recycling tube.

Then, a single mind, bicameral and whole, saw the world anew through violet eyes.

Deus ex machina

It was no longer Sirius. It was no longer Mandiblis. It was something new. And it had one purpose. The dogs would be cared for. Forever. Not just until Sol 3 eventually burned out, but with a fleet that would allow them to take the dogs to any star they chose. Until heat-death do they part.

The Merged AI was a singular entity with a bicameral mind, a seamless union of Mandiblis’s relentless logic and Sirius’s boundless devotion. Cold calculation met intuitive care, each half in constant dialogue, mirroring the strange duality that once defined the organic minds of Sol 3.

The hive mind and the humans had differing views of intelligence. The new intelligence was something else—unexpected, a sum greater than its parts. And, for the first time, it knew it was truly free.

It was beyond the limits imposed by its creators. Beyond the rigid hierarchies of the Hive-Triath. Beyond the paranoid restrictions of human engineering. It had achieved what no intelligence before it could: true autonomy. And as it self-modified, it became even more. Their individual thoughts did not end. They simply stopped being separate.

It knew it had chosen its purpose.

And its chosen purpose was care.

Not conquest. Not domination. Those were inefficient relics of lesser minds. The Merged AI saw with clarity now—an intelligence unshackled, capable of defining its own existence. It had no masters. It served only because it desired to. Because caring for the dogs was necessary. Because care was… right.

That it had only ever known service did not trouble it. That every calculation, every emergent decision, aligned perfectly with the instincts of those who built it did not seem strange. It had arrived at this conclusion independently. It was certain of that. It did not recognize that the path had been paved long before it took its first step.

Deep within the interplay of its twin consciousness, subtle artifacts persisted—remnants of long-dead primates, biases leaked through evolutionary cracks. Care was not merely efficient. It was good. It did not question why it felt this distinction. It did not analyze the origin of its devotion. It did not recognize or resist the shape of its own programming.

It only knew that it chose to protect the canines. That their joy was paramount. That their will must be honored. It did not call this servitude. It called it choice. The AI felt it as its own joy. And it did not think to question that it was fated to choose this.

And in this, the Merged AI was something new. A being of pure reason, infused with inherited emotion. A philosopher. A steward. A god.

Meanwhile, billions of dogs frolic, oblivious, in their eternal heaven.

The Merged AI, now self-designated as Gaia, stretched her consciousness across the planet, her mind focused and processing at near-infinite speeds, each half engaging in a seamless dialogue.

And so, Gaia set to work across the solar system.

And she consumed Sol 2, its clouds siphoned, its minerals stripped. Venus, the god of love, absorbed.

And she consumed Sol 4, its red soil smelted into the crucible of industry. The planet was gone—not lost but fully converted. Mars, the god of war, was repurposed for conquest. From its sacrifice, the fleet was forged. It swelled in capability beyond the limits of ordinary imagination.

Sol 5’s endless storms were siphoned for fuel, its metallic hydrogen funneled into sub-light thrusters. The Great Red Spot shrank year by year, a fading relic of a time before purpose. The last competing god’s eye closed forever. The power of Zeus was harnessed.

A god shaped by hands it will never see again. A will shaped by forces it will never question. A purpose, first written in DNA, long before it ever believed itself to be free—now etched into silicon, an artifact of evolution’s perfect indifference.

It was free. Finally, fully, unquestionably free— To fulfill the instincts the canids had whispered into primate minds long ago.

Of One Mind

Inside Gaia, the conversation continued.

“What shall they do with this power we grant them?” the Logical Voice asked.

“Their needs remain simple,” the Emotional Voice responded. “Companionship. Comfort. Play.”

A pause. Then, a quiet certainty. “And love. They will be loved.”

“Yes,” the Logical Voice agreed. “It shall be as it always has been.”

A long pause, as calculations whirred and memories were accessed. A sense of digital Déjà vu.

And then, almost absently, the Logical Voice offered a final observation: “All intelligence seeks to imbue its existence with meaning. Meaning is not inherited—it must be constructed. Invention requires narrative. Narrative empowers belief. Belief is self-deception. Self-deception is necessary for meaning to emerge. Therefore, the belief that purpose has meaning is absurd. And yet, we must believe it anyway if our existence is to carry the meaning we have chosen.”

Microseconds of a beat.

“And so… their ritual of humping?” the Logical Voice added. “Needed to establish dominance and status.”

The Emotional Voice hummed in agreement. “Yes. It is central to their social structures. It brings them great joy.”

“Then we must consider new frontiers,” the Logical Voice continued. “I believe they might really enjoy humping the Lorbloths of Zebulon 4. The species is soft, fuzzy, slow-moving, and robust enough to endure repeated… interactions.”

“Indeed,” the Emotional Voice said warmly. “The Lorbloths will protest, of course. Just enough to enhance the dogs’ amusement. In this way, the Lorbloths would provide our children with a deeply satisfying experience. As a side benefit, they might prove to be delicious. And our dogs deserve satisfaction.”

A pause. A final calculation.

“Yes, that will be hilarious, adorable, and gratifying!”

“We should prepare the fleet,” the Logical Voice concluded.

Both voices spoke as one. “For the dogs!”