Written Upon Our Souls
In a colonial collective consciousness, a leader must defy her programming to save her people when they face an otherworldly threat, known only in myth
FROM THE PULSING HEART of our collective consciousness, I reach out. I stretch a limb into the frontier. I sit at Colony Core upon the sacred birthing throne, but the vast reaches of my— our—domain extend far beyond. I feel the explorers on the frontier as if they were my finger-tips, drawing the map to our future stories. I feel all the collective: daily lives intertwined with intricate colonial architecture. Each life, every experience, contributes to the rich tapestry of our shared superorganism narrative.
The explorers touch upon something foreign, alien. The arm quivers with a primal warning: danger!
Long ago, we transcended the need for technological crutches to convey our stories, such devices would only muddle the purity of our communion. Through subtle touches, the exchange of pheromones, and the silent eloquence of body language, we communicate with a fluency that defies the constraints of mere speech. Our thoughts, our emotions, our very stories, flow seamlessly between us, like current through a wire, unfettered by the barriers of a vocabulary.
And yet, somewhere out on the furthest periphery of our colony, a discordant note vibrates its way back to me. An otherworldly threat has landed. A threat that we do not immediately understand. Which is surprising, as we understand a great deal.
Within the very fabric of our being, etched into the strands of our DNA, lies an ancient library. These narratives, passed down through generations, infuse us with the collective wisdom of our ancestors. As we emerge from our eggs, we are immediately blessed with the knowledge of our past, and the purpose of our present.
We are born into existence, not as blank slates, but as vessels brimming with the stories of those who came before us. We are born knowing our purpose, our place within the intricate weave of our society. From worker to soldier, lady-in-waiting to Queen, we understand our roles, our duties, our obligations to the greater whole. We understand threats to our way of life.
I try to focus on the danger. I quiet the sensations from other parts of the colony, and converge upon this new threat, feeling its particular story.
What I feel in my finger-tips, and up the length of the colony’s arm—my arm—is a myth. A legend. It is a tale as ancient as time itself, a folktale shrouded in shadow and dread. A story so old, and so terrifying, I find it impossible to believe: The Return of The Giants.
We are a people of dual narrative: one of society's grand tales, the other the intimate threads of our individual role. Our evolution, guided by the meticulous craftsmanship of our ancestors, intricately stitched these stories into the fabric of our being.
My purpose, my programming, my personal story, as Queen, is simple: never leave the throne.
Yet, there is one story, like a dark fairytale, that resides within us, casting a shadow of dread across our collective consciousness: the legend of The Return of The Giants. No one has seen them in so many generations that they seem like works of fiction. These colossal beings, towering above our tallest structures, defy comprehension with their unfathomable origins and inscrutable motives. The story tells that they descend upon us with a merciless fury, their genocidal intent leaving no room for negotiation or reprieve. Against their onslaught, our weapons prove useless, our defenses crumble, and our very existence hangs in the balance.
It is the sole grand societal tale I know that tells that the Queen must leave the birthing throne, and quickly. It tells of but two outcomes: total death—or daring escape. While I do not wish for total death, I’m not one for escape either. I have no appetite for it, no direct programming, no desire. And I still cannot believe that this ancient fable is truly happening. I refuse to accept the first report. It must be a mistake.
In a flurry of shared consciousness, I seek out further information about this threat, our biological signals racing through the arteries of our society at the speed of thought. I dispatch more colonists, researchers, and soldiers into the frontier, into my finger-tips. We grope for insight.
They venture forth, and for a second, they—we—seem fine, and I doubt the story. Maybe the Giants have changed, maybe this time will be different. I cling to the fragile hope that perhaps this time will deliver a different outcome. Then a flash of pain. I feel the edge of the colony, of our domain, as if were at my fingertips. The sensation screams, screams, screams—Giants, tsunami device, run! Then no more. Silence, dark and empty. For a moment, I sense nothing in the fingertips, the hand, nor the arm. Then the agony of loss reverberates through our collective soul as we all feel our limb, once brimming with life and purpose, die as the war begins. In the shocked stillness that follows, the grim reality of our predicament takes hold. The story is true, a harbinger of our darkest hour. My heart breaks.
I know I must now renounce the birthing throne, but my body defies my command. I am trapped between the imperative of survival and the relentless demands of my biological programming. My body, in the throes of birthing, refuses to yield. The Legend of the Giants screams at me to seek escape, yet my deepest sense of purpose, honed over a life of servitude, binds me to my role.
Do I too stand poised to meet my end in the name of duty and obligation, just as those who perished in the frontier arm sacrificed themselves for the greater good? I look inward to the legend once more, seeking new detail, hidden meaning, anything to aid me. I’m infuriated by the story’s lack of details, only break free to survive. The stories are supposed to offer us guidance of what to do in times of crisis. But this one is left to me to write. So again, I attempt to tear myself free, but I’m thwarted by biological reflexes, a deeper type of story outside my control to edit or alter.
It tells me that I must finish the birth before all else.
Another smash of destruction against the colony sends shockwaves through the citizenry, like electricity up a nerve and into me, the pain center of the colony, of the collective. Thousands cry out. I feel walls crushed, homes destroyed. Art, culture, creation. The products of countless hours of collective effort gone in a heartbeat. I can no longer hold back my tears.
I’ve barely wiped my eyes before I feel more reports coming in—horror stories. Tales of the legendary device, a weapon of mass destruction foretold by the story. The off-world technology, all but ineffable, matches the skyscraper size of the Giants. A cylinder-shaped machine, stretching to the horizon. Its mouth stretches the width of a city block. It transports oceans into the city with relentless force. The waters, like tidal waves from firehose, will soon come, or so it is written upon our souls.
I look down, my lower abdomen swollen mid-birth, and I know there’s no time for one more child. Trembling, terrified, and confused, might I swing down in an act of insanity, of madness that defies who I believe I am—who we are? Would I smash the egg, murder my own?
I move my hands to the egg, and I apply pressure. But not to kill. Rather, I take this final opportunity to add genetic material. We add to the story of The Giants’ Return what little we can, but perhaps something the future may gain from such details: they are real, you must believe, and you must act without delay. I feel hypocritical knowing this act of generational storytelling has cost us valuable time.
The guiding stories say that when war brings an overwhelming invasion, most will wait too long to flee. It is an old story, oft repeated. It seldom ends well for those who delay.
With a heavy heart, we issue the call for general evacuation, knowing that some brave souls must remain behind to hold the line against the encroaching darkness. It is a sacrifice born of necessity, a valiant stand against the tide of genocide that threatens to engulf us all. As our troops march towards their inevitable fate, we send them our silent prayers and fervent wishes, a whispered symphony of love and gratitude that echoes through the cavernous halls of our collective consciousness. In their final moments, they will know that they were cherished, that their lives held meaning beyond measure.
As, at last, the egg emerges from my trembling form, I pass it into the care of my faithful ladies-in-waiting, their eyes reflecting the weight of the burden they now bear. With a solemn edict, I release them from their vows of celibacy, granting them the freedom to forge new destinies in far-off lands. Their mission is clear: to carry our legacy into the unknown depths of the cosmos, to plant the seeds of our civilization upon foreign shores. I wish for their journeys to be guided by the same unwavering resolve and boundless love that I have always felt for them.
They too share their love with me, and without words, I know it to be true.
As they go, we— I —feel the water rushing into the colony. It floods with the force of a tsunami, crushing, submerging, and drowning all in its path. I make another desperate effort to tear myself from my throne, but I might as well be trying to tear my head from my body.
It occurs to me that this is where I will likely perish. While my genetic evolution allows me to hold my breath for nearly an hour, it won’t be long enough. For the dark legend says that after the floods comes the poisons, toxic nerve agents beyond our science. From birth, my story told me I was born to die on this throne, but I never imagined it would be in such a nightmare.
We feel the colony, and it feels like the water is waist high and rising fast. I pull and pull and pull, but cannot detach myself from my role, my obligations, my predetermined destiny. And again my heart breaks.
When it does, so it does for us all. The collective feels it all. All the pain, the suffering, the drowning, the fear, the panic, the resolve, the determination to make a final stand, the spirit to go down with a fight. And then I feel the arms of workers. Links in the chain, basic maintenance crew, those who often go unnoticed, yet, just like me, born in this very room. Workers who have refused to flee while the Queen drowned. True heroes.
Within their own stories, the ones programmed into them, are stories of “emergency colonial relocation” —unlike me, their souls tell tales of moving Queens, when the need arises. Given the circumstances, they show no reluctance when it comes to tearing me free. Despite myself, I actually struggle and kick and scream as they rescue me. Some stories are just too painful to end gracefully. I am embarrassed, but grateful.
We can feel the water rising up to our necks. I’m no longer sure whether it is the metaphorical colony I feel, or whether it is the actual water placing its hands around my throat. We are told to take a deep breath. We do. We cling together in a liferaft, riding the currents together, as they wash us out, beyond the edge of the colony, and into stories yet to be told.🙭
This story was part of the Lunar Award’s Prompt Quest
Brilliant writing. Evocation so raw it genuinely felt I was a doomed Queen saving my colony. The ancestral lore was a great touch.
Really powerful.