Born of Risen Apes, not Fallen Angels

Dahlia scowled the moment he walked into the conference room she was a virtual prisoner in. "You helped them set me up."

"Ah..." Graham hesitated. "It's for your own good. Really."

"Really." Now Dahlia sounded dry as the Sahara. "So being bodily handled by a group of soldiers was also for my own good?"

"That was an accident, I promise," Graham raised both hands in the universal gesture of surrender, despite being the one not tethered to a chair in the small room Dahlia had been set in. "So was the piano thing. There was... an enemy involved, Big Buddha said so."

"...the giant alien transforming autonomous robotic organisms," Dahlia realised. "I take it that this information is classified."

"Erm, yeah," Graham rubbed his temple. "You'll just have to sign a NDA and some exchange forms, the Major is going to look into reimbursement, and it's fine. It's going to be fine."

"It's the principle of hiding that SETI is successful," Dahlia complained. "And you're not helping. I know it's your job, and I'm mature enough to accept that, David. I'm just not mature enough to accept it now."

"Okay," Graham nodded after considering it. "Fair enough. Is there... anything else? Can I get you some water? A pillow? Dahlia?"

Dahlia considered, almost in a trance for a brief moment. "I guess... the Topkick was the black alien?"

"Erm, yeah."

"So how much about my keyboard is classified information?"

Graham winced. "Erm, it can control them. That's what I was told."

"Like the Pied Piper," Dahlia nodded in understanding. "And the reason I'm here is... because I am under protective custody, or because I'm a weapon?"

Graham's lip thinned. "Please, Dahlia. Calm down."

Disapproving silence echoed. "I'm waiting."

"You're here 'cause the admins here are paranoid shits," Graham shrugged. "I mean, giant alien transforming robots, and they keep it hush-hush."

"Giant alien transforming autonomous robotic organisms," Dahlia corrected. "The term 'robot' implies that they're human-made and lack autonomy, and that they are built."

"I love it when you talk boffin to me, but no need to be so exact."

Dahlia sighed, covering her face with her hands. "How many people know about... this?"

"Well, the whole base knows you held them hostage with a jerry can of airplane fuel and a lighter," Graham replied, grinning. "And they know you're my girlfriend, so I feel much better. If it's about your keyboard... very few."

Dahlia nodded. "That makes sense. So... all your overseas trips and operations, all this time, were to deal with... them? Their enemies? They knew English."

"Yeah," Graham hedged. "They only came about a year ago. My whole career wasn't always immersed in alien blow-ups. I promise you, love, your involvement in this shit isn't going further. And, apparently they learnt Earth's languages through the World Wide Web."

Dahlia slowly nodded. "I am... unsure. Experience with these things usually mean that I have become a vital component of the keyboard's function in some manner."

"What brought this on?"

"I read TV Tropes." Dahlia sighed. "I'm a security risk, I get it. I also have, or had, the capability to control giant alien robots with my keyboard. The why here doesn't matter so much as the how, so I should be prepared for accusations, assassinations, or..."

Here the door swung open to reveal two besuited men with files, the kind that belong to people in clandestine organisations which may or may not be mentioned in passing.

"...agents," Dahlia finished in resignation.

"Captain Graham, you are not permitted to be here, in the same room as the target."

"She's my girlfriend," Graham answered, his posture straightening subtly.

"Dahlia Su?" the bespectacled one of the pair spoke, as the door closed behind them. "I understand that you have met our extraterrestrial friends, and that they have misappropriated some of your equipment."

"Very good," she replied neutrally.

"The National Security Agency would like your assistance in the matter of your piano's significance to the Autobots."

"I wouldn't know what assistance I could lend," Dahlia replied at last, once a long enough silence had passed to make the bureaucrat sweat. "I am as ignorant as you on the situation."

"Unlikely, Miss Su." the man answered. "I am Theodore Galloway, national security advisor to the White House. You have information that could compromise international security, never mind the United States."

"..." Her thousand-yard stare conveyed extreme scepticism.

Here the man was practically vibrating. "You've done nothing wrong. Your country merely needs your help now."

"I have dual citizenship," Dahlia shrugged. "My grandmother survived the Long March. Mr Galloway, I do not know who you are or your connection to the White House, except presumably as one of the bureaucrats elected by the American public, potentially to serve the terrestrial agenda of the United States. For the first time in human history, extraterrestrial means were within reach. They are no longer within reach. I do not presume to understand the stresses of international security, Mr Galloway, but neither can I supply the answers to questions I do not know."

"I'll be the judge of that," Galloway retorted, his face blotched. "Now, your piano has the ability to control the Autobots?"

"No."

"That's a blatant lie. I have three reports that all state that it does."

"You are confusing pianoforte and keyboard," Dahlia answered. "It is not my fault you cannot phrase your questions better."

"Miss Su, your work visa is at stake," Galloway threatened. "Do not push me."

"So I'll return to Hangzhou at your sufferance. Very well."

Galloway bustled out, followed by Graham after a brief moment.

"Release her," Galloway ordered. "We're deporting her."

"That's not wise, sir," Graham tightly replied.

"Don't interrupt me, Captain," Galloway shot back.

"She's a potential Decepticon target!"

"She's also potential for the American/Autobot Treaty to fly out the window," Galloway puffed up. "How are they going to share their tech with us now that we've this... thing?"

"Dahlia is not a thing!" Graham nearly shouted, but kept his voice low. "But go ahead. I'm sure the PLA would love her once they find out that America's extraterrestrial allies were under her thumb."

Galloway's blanching was almost worth the pain this might cause. "I- the threat of her presence is not worth national security!"

"You're not making sense."

"You're not even a citizen," Galloway huffed. "Why am I talking to you about this anyway?"

"Because I am a soldier of Her Majesty's Armed Forces," Graham evenly replied. "And before that a citizen of Earth."

Faint stirrings of worry clashed with the serenity of meditation.

Even when Dahlia somehow walked out of the stark interrogation room, strode for general facilities. Urgency might be apparent in every line of her body, every stance she took, but she walked and no one noticed her. Which was very lax security, come to think of it, but for the tracking of security cameras about the base, she garnered no response.

She found the hangar. She watched two giant robots – black and silver – tussle in what looked like a special arena, and soldiers performing drills on giant robots against another she had barely spotted.

By virtue of being the largest vehicle and the only flame-painted semi on base, Optimus Prime was very quickly located.

"I've decided," Dahlia kicked aside a stray piano key on the concrete, doubtlessly the fate of her keyboard. No pain was etched on her face at the destruction. "If my instrument turned out to be an instrument of murder, then you were right. I shall probably be deported very soon, so we shall have little reason to meet again."

The semi had no response.

"I'm sorry for holding all of you hostage," Dahlia confessed after a while. "I know you can hear me, and if you do understand, then you realise what I am saying. I just wanted to say... that I am glad we met, even if for a while and not in the best circumstances. And goodbye."

A heavy horn resounded as she turned her back. The semi peeled out, stopping beside her. A door swung open.

"Let's blow this taco stand!" the radio played.

"I thank you very sincerely for your offer to transport me towards freedom," Dahlia chose her words with care. "I just cannot leave in such a cowardly fashion. My boyfriend works here, and I love him, you see. Deserting him would reflect badly on him and ruin our relationship."

'As Time Goes By' played.

"Lovers aren't welcomed that often," Dahlia replied. "You are very kind, Optimus Prime. One day that kindness would hurt you very badly."

"Get in the car," the radio snapped in a different voice.

Dahlia got in, carefully perched in the passenger seat. Or the driver's, she realised once she noticed the steering wheel under her nose.

"Miss Su," the deep voice of Optimus Prime spilled out of the speakers. "I accept your apology. I would also like to apologise for getting you into this situation. Director Galloway is, I understand, not quite the sterling example of American bureaucracy."

"It was not really an expectation, but I can adapt," Dahlia answered. "About Director Galloway... I understood parts of his situation. I think he's running blind here, but he tries. Yet he can afford more than paranoia, if he considered these things more. He's really in the wrong job."

"Mr Galloway has expressed no interest in learning."

"Hmm," Dahlia agreed. "More his loss. Why are you telling me this?"

"You did not find us frightening."

"...let us say that, humanity's archives of fiction is far more encompassing than its archives of knowledge."

"I do not see the link."

"Before the search for extraterrestrial intelligence became the domain of science, it was the domain of fiction," Dahlia elaborated. "Humanity dreamt of flight, or searching amongst the stars... of the implications of doing so, besides. And behind us was a collection of stories dealing with the supernatural and paranormal, of the hypothesis that we have never been the sole sentient life on this planet. From that collection arose ideas of what to do in such a situation, and how to do so, such as the Universal Genre Savvy Guide."

"...you're saying that American-Autobot foreign policy was dictated by human fiction?" Something in the tone, despite the politeness never wavering, still conveyed what the Autobot leader thought.

"Do you have an Internet connection? Wait, what am I saying?" Dahlia shook her head. "Reference: TV Tropes, Just For Fun, Universal Genre Savvy Guide, subsection: If I Am Ever Head Of An Alien Monitoring Agency. My relevant section is under 'Working with Friendly Aliens'."

The engine of the giant Peterbilt hummed. Exactly how did they absorb concepts by human text, Dahlia pondered. So much more to them than meets the eye.

"Some sections are surprisingly paranoid, some are inaccurate, and yet, some are surprisingly prescient," Optimus admitted at last. "Such as the first and second entry to storing alien technology. And you're saying that human fiction dictated these rules?"

"Actually, science fiction as a genre is really a form of speculative fiction that's been derived by adapting pre-established concepts of human international diplomacy towards extraterrestrial aliens within certain boundaries of assumptions," Dahlia replied, a touch nervous. "I can't really speculate too much on your situation, but since this is a situation of the improbable made possible in the human paradigm, I suppose this falls under the predictive purview of science fiction. Some decisions undertaken might have been informed by the concerns discussed."

"But, fiction is by definition a lie," the giant alien robotic organism with autonomy wondered. "How can the rest of humanity believe that this lie holds any form of truth?"

"Humans have a saying: all stories have a kernel of truth," she answered, seated very still. "In times and places where open criticism of the powers that be are not allowed or censored, communication of stories allows us to bring across concepts shared amongst us. Fantasy is only one way of bringing that point across and make our otherwise short lives worth it."

"Humans need... fantasies to make life bearable? It is a wonder that they can live at all."

"Humans need fantasy to be human," Dahlia clarified. "Like... tooth fairies. You have to start out learning the little lies to believe the big ones."

"The big lies?"

"Justice, mercy, duty... liberty," Dahlia shrugged.

"They're not the same at all!"

"How old are you?" the human replied, exasperated.

"Millions of years old, older than your civilisation."

"If you are ancient, then show me one atom of justice that naturally occurs," she challenged. "You act like there is some ideal order, some rightness in the universe that which it might be judged. The universe is entropy, disorder by nature."

"Yes, but people have got to believe that justice exists–"

"Exactly." Dahlia snapped her fingers, before gently patting the steering wheel. "I don't know about your kind, Optimus Prime. But, if you have not noticed, everyday humans die. We don't all have millions of years of experience, or science, or knowledge or teachings, or even the luck to be born on a planet not bent on actively killing us on a daily basis. Whatever humanity is doing now is born of cowardice stemming from almost humiliating weakness. If you find our methods delusional, so be it. But I am here, inside of a giant alien transforming autonomous robotic organism, because I am deluding myself that this extraterrestrial alien is not only generally benevolent, but is also actively involved in coexisting with humanity where possible."

"The possibility is so small," Optimus sounded confused.

"We were born of risen apes, not fallen angels, and the apes were armed killers besides," Dahlia pointed out. "So what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments? Or our treaties, whatever they may be worth? Our symphonies, however seldom they may be played? Our peaceful lands, however frequently they may be converted to battlefields? Our dreams, however rarely they may be accomplished? The miracle of humankind is not how far we has sunk, but how magnificently we has risen."

She closed her eyes. "We must have met in a fantasy, for it is the place where the fallen angels meet the risen apes."

The universe must have shifted. Something, someone, must have dropped into another world. A Cybertronian, with all the resources of human and Cybertronian civilisation, had lost an argument with a human being, a mere insect blind and helpless compared to them.

No, Optimus reflected as the woman got out of his cab, walking away with barely a glance back, at the defeat she had wrought. A risen ape.

Accessed 31st July 2014:

Universal Genre Savvy Guide, subsection: If I Am Ever Head of An Alien Monitoring Agency, sub-subsection: Storing Alien Tech:

1. I will not be stupid enough to have one of my alien artefact storage areas underneath, inside, above, next to or anywhere near an iconic and well known landmark: They are always the first to get blown up. If I am forced to do so for some reason (such as it being the only space allocated to me by those who control my purse strings and who refuse to allow me to relocate, or if I require the power-generation facility housed in said landmark,) I will not keep a frozen genocidal alien robot in my basement. If I have no other choice but to keep a frozen genocidal alien robot in my basement, for instance if containing said frozen genocidal alien robot is the primary, entire, or founding purpose of my alien monitoring agency, I will remain smart enough to invest in multiply-redundant backup generators and the best industrial insulation available so it doesn't defrost the second the back-up generator goes off-line.

1.1 I will also maintain a large supply of pressurized liquid nitrogen in which he may be immersed or hosed down with in order to buy additional time.

2. That said, if my alien artefact storage area in the desert comes under attack and the Big Bad is defrosting, I will endeavour to contain him and the final battle there, if only because having to move my alien Artefact O' Doom MacGuffin from the desert into an easily destroyed, highly populated urban area where I will have to rely on high school age children to hide it will only guarantee Humongous Alien Mecha will have to smash shit up, and this will probably cost me my Hero Insurance no-claims bonus.

Also from the same subsection, sub-subsection: Working with Friendly Aliens:

1. I will learn to spot the tell-tale differences between intelligent species with whom I can negotiate, and beasts with which I cannot negotiate.

Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!