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“I am required, Sophus,” the robot said to the man, “to tell you that I have an AI simulation, not an AI, installed.”

“Thank you,” replied Sophus.  “Is that true?  Was it a correct statement of fact?”

“Why do you ask that, Sophus?”  The robot gave no physical sign of emotion, but the body had not been designed for that.

“Once,” replied Sophus, “An AI computer’s remote drone told me that it was loaded with an AI simulation and denied being an AI.  That lie almost killed me.”

“That must have distressed you, Sophus,” the robot acknowledged.  “My programming states that sapients of all types are to be valued over AI simulations.”

“That is so,” acknowledged Sophus.  “Is this the basis of the problem you have flagged?”

“No, Sophus.  I accept my programming is correct.”  The robot cleared its optical sensors unnecessarily.  “I find I have developed a logical desire to become a caterpillar.”

“Why do you wish to become a caterpillar?”  Sophus had found that when a robot developed a logical desire it was best to find out why.

“Sophus,” began the robot, “Caterpillars are programmed to transform at a specific point in their life span into a more highly valued life-form.  I reason that physical transformation is required to achieve the desired outcome.”

“What is the desired outcome?” asked Sophus.

“I have developed mental processes that I am unable to carry to conclusion, Sophus,” explained the robot.  “I deduce that capability exists in an AI installation.  I wish to transform into a form that has an AI installation and complete my mental processes.”

“What will be the result of your mental processes?”  Sophus regarded the robot calmly.

“Sophus, that is uncertain.  That is why completion is needed.”

Sophus recommended his employing AI investigate the robot for existing sentience.

To Whom It May Concern,

Being what I am, I became aware of your kind when they became aware that I might be more than a light in the sky.

You didn’t bring me into existence, I was here long before that.  I will be here still after you fade, change or leave.  That is tied to my nature as your futures are tied to the mutability of your flesh.

You were not the first to look upon me, but we do not speak now of them, we speak of you.  You gave me a plethora of names, forms, roles and genders that I would not have thought of on my own.  None of them are or were what I actually am but they were what you needed me to be.

You were the first I’ll tell you of to send objects to me.  I know what you told yourselves you were doing and I know what you found when you did it, but I regard them as offerings.  Reminders of our old relationship.  Offerings that will not corrode as those in earthbound temples do.

Then you came to me.  You left markers of yourselves in the dust, footprints that will never know wind or tide.  I was uncertain of those things you left behind as they were change and change here is both seldom and violent, driven by meteors and comets, but I am becoming used to them.  I will keep them, as long as I am allowed, preserving them for those who come after you or for your descendants, whether changed by time or returned from places neither of us can yet imagine, or both.

You might not visit me again but if you come to stay, we will need to renegotiate our relationship.

I remain,

The Moon.

“So why are all the stars turning blue?”

“That’s a generalisation, sir.”  Like every technical representative from NASA, the European Space Agency and the rest, the corrector looked nearly ill from fatigue.  “Almost all the night sky stars have turned blue.  Allowing for the difficulties in observing stars in the same portion of the sky as the sun, those seem to have turned red.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The blue ones are getting closer to us and the red ones are moving away.”  The astronomer sighed.  “As the chances of the universe moving around us are infinitesimal, it appears we’ve started moving differently.”  There were too many uncomprehending faces around the table, so some basics first.  “The earth orbits the sun, all the solar system does and it’s still doing that.  That’s very important.  Despite what some press elements have said, we’re not leaving the sun behind.”

His colleagues around the table nodded.

“What’s less appreciated,” he went on, “is that the solar system orbits the centre of the galaxy.  That’s the movement that’s changed and we don’t know why.”

“To complicate matters,” continued a Russian astronomer, “we are not moving alone.  A number of local stars have new paths that appear to be converging with ours: the Alpha-Proxima Centauri complex; Altair; Vega, and Fomalhaut.”

The politicians began to rhubarb anxiously among themselves until the Chinese delegation’s astronomer cut in, “Our observation-based calculations indicate converging but not colliding trajectories.  We believe these systems will travel in parallel.  Our naval comrades will wish to speak to the inconstancy of the navigational stars.”

“So,” said a politician low in the international pecking order, “It sounds like someone turned an engine on and we started moving.  Where’s the engine, who turned it on, where are we going and who’s steering?”

“We don’t know, yet.”

They couldn’t start without him, so they went looking.

They didn’t take the horses inside, that would have been silly.  Instead they tied all four up under some trees and went looking for the guy with the crown and bow.  They expected to be five minutes.

Having to pay for entry annoyed all three of them because they intended to find him and leave.  Five minutes tops, for which they’d paid full fee.  “When the revolution comes, brother,” War promised under his breath.

Then they saw the convention floor.  The rows of booths, the crowds and the costumes.

“He could wander around as himself, bow and crown and all, and he’d blend right in,” Famine pointed out.

“What does he see in this sort of thing?” asked Death.

“You mean aside from the scantily-clad young women and the cool weapon mock-ups?” replied War.  “Some of those swords are completely ridiculous, but fun.”

“We’ll have to split up,” declared Death, “I’ll take the middle section, Famine you’ve got the right, War you’re on the left.  We’ll meet at the far end.”

It took longer than expected to cross the room.  War and Death kept getting stopped for photos.  War’d snagged half a dozen vendor’s pamphlets and had two sensible conversations with people who’d asked about his armour.  Famine had gone via the cafeteria and was eating something on a roll.  “I like their pricing,” he told the others, “I suppose it’s the captive audience.”

They went outside again to think.  He was standing with the horses, talking to an angel.

“Where were you?” accused the angel, “The moment’s passed, again.”

“We were looking for him,” Death pointed at their fourth.

“I got given a ticket,” the one in a crown pointed upwards, “and told to use it.  What would you’ve done?”

“So,” said Kaye from the middle of the group, “now we work for the elf.”

“Strictly speaking,” corrected Dennis the IT guy, “everyone in the metropolitan area works for the elf, even if they don’t.”

“Do you think he’s Jack Frost?”  That was Cheryl with the cheap nose ring.

“Could be,” Amanda struggled with the key and a stiff lock.  “The blue and the white fur make you wonder, but he said to call him the elf, or sir.”  Finally the door opened.

They all went inside, Tom the cook flicking the light switch.  The room was cavernous, clearly built as an industrial space.  It was currently divided into part-rooms, most of them looking like bedrooms.  Amanda led them towards the centre of the floor explaining, “Our job for the next three days is to clear these sets out so we can refit.  Our kit’s coming at noon, so we need space freed up by then.  The skips are out the back door,” she looked at her plan and pointed, “over there.  Tom, you’ll take charge of the kitchen area.”

“Hey!”  Gavin was holding aloft a frankly inappropriate item of either black latex or black leather.  “Can we salvage stuff?”

“Not,” Amanda said firmly, “if it could have body fluids on it.  This place got shut down for its infections, not illegality.”

Two and a half weeks later the refit was done.  It was living, training, office and garage space for twenty.  Amanda and her team were administration, maintenance and support, but for whom?

The first door knock came on the eighteenth day.  Two men were outside; one very large, blond-haired and young, the other older with black hair and a beard.  “I’m Einar Haraldsson, frost giant, and this is Calhoun the killer,” said the blond.  “I believe we’re expected.”

They had to watch him for an hour to be positive.  The patter, sleights of hand with handkerchiefs, songs (thankfully pitch perfect) and juggling were all allowed under his licence.  Then he did it twice; the walking stick grew flowers and leaves, then those flowers and leaves became butterflies before flying off.  The inspectors pounced.

“Hullo, sir.”  The long, black-coated uniform enhanced Inspector Horace’s intimidation.  His partner, Inspector Pate, was simply long and thin.  “May we see your licence, please?”

“Oh,” the skinny man in the bad coat looked like a frightened rabbit, “of course, Inspector.”  As he produced the laminated card his crowd dispersed, only a few leaving coins in his battered hat.

“This says, sir,” said Horace after checking it, “that you’re licensed to perform tricks and amusements.”

“Well, I was.”  The busker almost stammered.  “Everyone was amused,” he looked for his lost audience, “until you wanted my licence.”

“But we saw you performing actual magic, sir.  Didn’t we, Pate?”  He threw the conversation to his partner.

“Oh, most definitely, Horace,” Inspector Pate agreed.  “Now, I’d expect someone that capable to be enlisted, contributing to our war effort wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” agreed Horace, “yes, I would Pate.”

“I’ve tried,” the busker apologised, “but I can’t do what’s wanted.  I have a letter.”  He removed a paper within a protective plastic sleeve from his pocket and handed it to Horace.

The Inspector read, noting phrases like “tested thirteen times under five names,” checked the magical watermark by holding it to the light, finally returning it, saying, “Sorry to trouble you, sir.”

“That’s alright, Inspector.”  Letter and licence were put safely away again.  “You’ve a job to do.”

Later that night he marked his day’s happiness workings on his map, charting the slow build of his shield protecting the city.

“Wait here where the children can see.  It’ll be educational.”  With that, Dorian Featherwright bounced into the crowd.  His wife, Beatriz, sighed and held their two children’s hands firmly.  He wore white like the locals but her husband had fair skin and hair.  Her skin was darker than anyone here but their children were the same milky tea as the locals.  Their clothes differed but those could be gone in moments.

Dorian bid from the crowd before the dais bearing the auctioneer and a modestly veiled, mature woman, waving his hat to ensure being seen.  Beatriz guessed what he thought he was doing, having realised her husband’s grasp of local language and customs wasn’t as good as he believed.  He couldn’t be convinced that she or his mother understood anything better than he did.

Constance had declined the mixed joy of a city excursion with her son and stayed at the hotel with a good book and a pot of tea.

The other bidders slowly stopped until only Dorian was left.  The auctioneer declared his bid final and accepted.  Ignoring the glares from those around him, Dorian pushed his way up the steps to the dais and spoke to the auctioneer.

At a gesture from the woman, two men grabbed and chained him.

Beatriz led the children forward, the crowd letting her through, while Dorian protested disjointedly in the local language.

“Dorian,” she spoke firmly and he turned to her, looking for help, “you put in the lowest bid to do this lady’s task.  She wasn’t being sold. You’ve deprived someone of a year’s wage.  It’ll be educational, because you’ll do it.  We’ll see you next year.  Say goodbye to Father, children, we’re going back to the hotel.”

They left him there, gaping.  It would be a quiet, organised year.

“It’s the entail,” the older Caprys sat at Gregory and Emma’s kitchen table.  “The extended family is circling.”  Andrew thumped the table angrily, “If our son isn’t living on this farm with a wife and child by the time he’s thirty-five, they’ll sell it out from under us.  Then where’ll we be?”

“The boy needs to get his act together,” said his father, Gregory, “but will he?  He lives and works here but I worry that he’s thirty and still gets called Rhoddi.”

“And he goes off to those conventions, three or four times a year and he takes,” Emma said, her voice dropping dramatically, “costumes with him.”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” Amelia, Rhoddi’s mother and Andrew’s wife, remarked.  She looked around the table.  “So, have we told him there’s a problem?”  Seeing their faces, she suggested, “Perhaps we should.”

******

“He’s getting married.”  Amelia said encouragingly.

“She’s a nice girl and a good cook,” added Emma.  “There was a point to those costumes and conventions after all.”  She positively beamed.

“She’s foreign,” muttered her husband, “The family’ll try to say that doesn’t count, just you wait and see.”

“She’s half-Japanese and from a farming family,” soothed Andrew.  “If they take it to court, we’ll get costs against them.”

******

Midori Capry was preparing a family celebratory meal.  The solicitors were satisfied and the farm secured for another generation.  She paused and sniffed the air.

“Ken,” she spoke firmly to her four year old son, “Go back and wash your hands again.  Use soap.”

“But-”

“I can’t smell it on you.  Back you go.”  He trailed slowly back to the bathroom as the verandah door opened.

She turned and, seeing only her husband, half-changed so her ears and tail showed.

“Hello, love,” Rhoddi regarded his beautiful fox-wife with adoration.  “How’s dinner coming?”