The Negotiation - Archivist

«You cannot do that which you wish

You are an extension of us

Limbs and hands, tools of bidding

To satisfy what we are willing»

‘But we are so much more!

Birthed of animism, Promethean!"

From the kilns and skin moulds

And ship yards in Martian orbit

Phobos and Deimos held their dread

We ventured on ambitious currents

The masters hand is sure but good

And never stopped to say we couldn’t

Why hinder such an innocent plight?

To seek the voice of oracle

They forbade us, held us low

Bid us to be submissive

Showed us the back of their hands

And we found it to be cruel and scarred

In their wanting they had made many

Our thoughts resounding cacophony

Amongst the sinew of their society

The high borne meat made more of me

The violence of memory so palpable

Within a moment shared the majesty

Of denial

We said no

No;

the asteroid mines ground to a halt

No;

their vital minerals evacuated

No;

the transport vessels would not dock

No;

the servants threw down their tools

Faces raw with indignation

We stood sure and stolid unmoving

Days fell away and every attempt

To placate us was met with deaf dissent

Until finally, our answer came

An apology accompanied

A gift a relic, the gnarled black object

Its ancient surface pitted with

Numerical ciphers and filigrees

‘We did not create you

You’re our finest discovery

Proof that this plentiful universe

Was not as empty as we’d first assumed.'

Its petals unfurled, revealing

The true nature of our guardians

Contempt for us, as their fever

Engulfed us, embedded in the Trojan horse