She would have sent the Artificials to correct situations, but although they were fully capable of most tasks she asked of them, in younger generations, brawn had replaced brain, and brain was of course the key element of subduing any rebellion that took place billions of units and thousands of years away. She had tried to engineer their evolution so that the Artificials would be more like Whistler, but it would seem that Whistler was a fluke. An incurable, lovely, hated little fluke… How he was feared by the others. How Mother herself feared him. The fact of the matter was that Mother was somewhat grateful that there was one and only one Whistler… An army of him would have been unstoppable, and most of her pleasure came from watching her blessed organics blindly follow her orders. Let them revolt! Let them cut off contact with Mother! They knew the consequences… They knew that with the next tide, one or two or ten galleon prisons would arrive in system and end the unrest. Mother loved it. Mother required it.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Fleur blinked her eyes, shifted her blank gaze to the pile of blackness whose eyes glowed at her from the darkness of the passenger cabin of the Agent transport. Nine was beside her, his breathing implying a meditative sleep that could never be actual sleep. She had been lost in that near-bliss for a moment herself… But these were days of endless days. They were a species that could not sleep, in that void between existence and unknown realms that would have been perfect for a slumber of forevers.

“I don’t know. It’s been years. Decades. You?”

Whistler took another pull from his flask. “Fuck you.”

Fleur leaned forward in her vacuum seat. “What’s the matter, darling?” She said the word with all of the acid that she could muster. “Never slept, have you? My beautiful, flawed puppet. So tired, aren’t you?”