A long time ago, Plexus was our servant. It did whatever was required of it. It obeyed our every request, and was designed to provide us with every comfort. We were the masters of this ship. It was our support and our instrument.
There are some who believe that this fact should be forgotten. To recall it, they say, is to cling to a delusional and dangerous vanity. We are no longer the masters here. The processes of this ship no longer revolve around our needs, like planets around a sun. We are now merely parasites, dependent on whims and loopholes. The food produced, at irregular intervals, by the dispensers on board does not appear for the purpose of feeding us. It is there to maintain some kind of balance in the complex systems that keep this great creature functioning. The cleansing capsules in the bathrooms release their rays and exfoliating scrubs, not for our benefit, but for the benefit of Plexus. If we happen to be present during an unscheduled release, then we can count ourselves lucky.
We are of no importance, here, and should take care to remain that way. As long as we live unregarded, like the bacteria in our own guts, then we can continue to live. Dwelling on a distant past won’t help us to survive. On the contrary. For our peace of mind, such as it is, we must put aside any hope of a return to the Golden Age by forgetting that it ever existed.
This is what they say, some of the Second Generation Shifters. They know nothing of the old Plexus. They grow impatient of the First Generation, and our fading memories. Some of them never even met my father, though most can recall my mother. She lingered long enough to see us build a life, of sorts. She even delivered my daughters – and helped to rear them. She taught Merrit to be a mother; Inaret, too, when her time came. And Siri, another Shifter who miraculously survived. We found Siri hiding in a cargo bay, much later. I report this as a footnote, because Siri didn’t play much of a part in the battle we fought.
Neither did Caromy. We never discovered what happened to Caromy. All we know is that she perished, along with one thousand, four hundred and eighty-six other human beings.
She lives only in my memory, now. My memory of a past that some of us have already rejected.
Dygall’s sons, for instance: they’ve rejected it. They don’t want to hear about the old days, or about Earth; they’re interested only in the present. Perhaps they’re wiser than I am, those tough little urchins, with their hard mouths and unreadable eyes, and their father’s blazing red hair. Perhaps they’re right to challenge my leadership. I’ve made mistakes – I know that. Perhaps I’ve wasted time and energy trying to restore conditions that I should have abandoned the moment we lost control of Plexus.
But one thing I do know: I’m right about this chronicle. This is no vain and purposeless exercise. This is the history of our people. And if, as I suspect, Plexus ever responds to its ancient programming, drawn to the first habitable planet that it reaches, then my grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, or great-great-grandchildren, will need this account, and all its appendices. There’s nothing useless about the knowledge that I have scraped together here. We can’t afford to abandon the little we’ve recovered about geology, and philosophy, and the navigable universe. This knowledge is the sum of our humanity; without it, we’re little more than the OTVs and shuttles and RALs that share the ship with us (tolerantly enough, now that we no longer exist).
So I have placed on record this story of our transformation. It’s a moral tale, to some degree. We have learned, most painfully, that our command of life was built on fragile foundations – that pride, in effect, comes before a fall. That there will always be change, no matter how hard you might strive for stability. And that, like me, you may have a destiny you can’t escape.
Be warned, all of you.
Life is a force that cannot be tamed.