Within the space of three days they had parked near one of the busier approaches to Altinak, shutting down their non-critical systems to avoid detection. Once that was completed it became a waiting game, pretending to be a hole in space while they remained in standby mode. They stood watch, alerting Xeno when a ship came near so he could perform his magic. But vessels were few in this lonely region of space, and Samara soon found herself with too much time on her hands.

“... why?” she said out of the blue, as boredom and frustration finally got the best of her. “What possible reason could there have been to create the Yīqún?”

... I assume you are addressing me, Guardian answered.

“Unless you see someone else responsible for building a race of genocidal machines,” she fired back.

... Samara, the answer to that question is... complicated, it replied.

“Do I really have to play ‘Twenty Questions’ again before you’ll tell me?” she asked sarcastically.

... I have explained this, it sighed. For someone who was, for all intents and purposes, an electronic copy of a dead alien, Guardian could be a little melodramatic. My actions are constrained by the Guidelines.

“You figured out a way around them before,” she reminded it. “I have every confidence you can do it again.”

Guardian was silent for some time, long enough in fact that she suspected it was trying to dodge the question, when it finally spoke to her. Again, I must speak in the abstract, it informed her.

“I assumed as much,” she nodded.

... My people, The Faithful, came from... another place, it told her, a region not found on any charts.

“Where?” she asked, now curious.

... This is one of those times where an abstraction must do. It is not a place you have heard of or have even imagined. That must suffice.

“Fine,” she answered, holding up her hands. “Continue.”

... The Faithful were... stranded, it explained, with no means of return. They were few in number and lacked the means to safely take them home. To recreate the necessary technology would require the effort of several lifetimes, so they commissioned “The Great Work”. They would strive to rediscover what they had lost, so that one day, perhaps eons in the future, they might find their way back.

“Eons?” Samara said in surprise.

... It was the only way, if they wished to go home, it told her.

She spent several minutes mulling over that revelation, before finally nodding. “Ok, but I still don’t see where the Yīqún fit into this,” she told it.

... I said it was complicated, it said with some reprove.

“Right,” she sighed. “Please continue.”

... As the Faithful planned out the Great Work, they brooded over the possibility... the likelihood... of Interregnum, it explained, periods where their society might fall into barbarism and forget what they had learned, losing sight of their goal. Suddenly, Guardian sounded old; old and weary. Their solution to that problem should be obvious.

“...you,” Samara said softly. “That’s why you called the box ‘The Repository’, isn’t it? It’s a repository of knowledge.”

... Yes, Samara, it agreed, that is exactly what we are. They believed that should an Interregnum take place; it would accelerate the rebuilding process when Faithful society was ready.

“And was there?” she asked. “An Interregnum, I mean?” She couldn’t help but notice that Guardian was speaking less and less in the abstract, as if it had been desperate to tell this story, only lacking a suitable audience until now.

... Six, that we know of, Guardian said. Six times when our society collapsed, and we were forced to rebuild, not counting the most recent event. I suspect the Faithful finally found their way home, and left us behind.

Samara struggled to imagine what it would take to plan that far out, taking into consideration not just one but multiple Dark Ages, and coming up with a plan to put themselves back on track, and then struggling for millions of years to get back home, only to be abandoned at the eleventh hour.

She failed, miserably.

“That’s... impressive,” she said at last, “but it still doesn’t answer the question.”

... It was necessary to lay a proper foundation, so you would understand, it explained. It was during one such Interregnum that a powerful race attacked the Faithful.

“The Troika?” she guessed.

... No, another species, one long since departed, it informed her. They believed the Faithful could be easily conquered, and in their alarm, they turned to the Repository, hoping the ancient knowledge might save them. We studied the problem and proposed a solution. What they needed was a Sentinel.

Samara’s eyes widened as she realized what it was saying, but Guardian continued regardless.

... The Faithful had scarcely begun the slow climb to reclaim what they had lost. They were only just starting to grasp the concept of technology, so as the Cognates labored to build the Sentinel, using the crude tools at their disposal, and given the time frame they had to work in, it forced them to make certain... compromises.

“You lost control, didn’t you?” she accused the Cognate. “You built a superweapon, and then you lost control of it.” The urge to run riot coursed through her veins once again, but somehow, she held the impulse in check, though it wasn’t easy. Besides, Guardian hadn’t finished telling his story, so she gritted her teeth and waited for the rest.

... I regret to say that is exactly what happened. We designed the weapon to be adaptable, able to learn from its opponents, and capable of self-replication. It performed to design specifications brilliantly. There was a pause, as she heard that same world-weariness in its voice once more. Too brilliantly, we discovered.

“Let me guess; it got loose and went on a killing spree,” she said evenly, though inside she was seething at their arrogance.

... Yes, Samara, Guardian admitted. Once we realized our error, we immediately attempted to correct our mistake, but…

Its voice trailed off into silence.

“... you built it too well,” she said in sick realization. “You made it so formidable even you couldn’t defeat it.”

... Not without diverting considerable effort and resources from the Great Work, it said unhappily. We therefore created an even more powerful Sentinel to guard against the first, using completely divergent technology and backed up by safeguards to prevent it from going rogue as well.

Samara snapped her fingers. “That’s what’s guarding your homeworld, even after all these years. Why no one can get in.”

… So we believe, Samara. As for what you call the Yīqún, it rebuffed our initial attempts to bring it to heel. Since we could not defeat it... not easily... we did the next best thing. We trapped the Sentinel, setting powerful wards that should have kept it safely away from the rest of the galaxy.

“Only somehow, it got out,” she sneered. “It had a billion years to figure out how to do it, because you made it that smart.” There were lots of things she could accept, plenty of reasons Earth might have fallen she could have come to terms with, given time, but to lose everything they’d ever known to sheer incompetence was just a little harder to forgive.

... I am sorry, Samara, Guardian apologized yet again. If I could change what happened, I would. But I cannot.

She froze, cocking her head as something occurred to her. “If you couldn’t defeat the Yīqún, then how did the Eleexx manage it?” she wondered out loud. “You’re supposed to be more advanced than they are.”

... I cannot say for certain, Guardian said with a mental shrug. Perhaps they discovered a means we had not considered.

“From what I understand, they severed the connections between the drones and their queens,” she explained. “Does that help?”

Guardian seemed to consider that. Perhaps, it said finally. Disruption of an opponent’s internal communications is an effective strategy in any struggle, but I could not say more without careful examination.

“I’ve already had one close call, so I think I’ll pass,” she snorted. “And where does humanity fit into your grand scheme?” she asked. “What part do we play in the glorious plan?”

... I am unsure, it replied. That question is still being debated.

“What’s to debate?” she demanded. “You owe us.”

... In your opinion, Guardian replied. That opinion is not universally shared among the Cognates.

“Now wait just a second, we had a deal,” she snarled.

... In fact, I informed you we would try; it countered. And we will. But while we bear some responsibility for your plight because of the Yīqún, you ask that we hand over our entire planet, and everything in it. That is not a decision to be made in haste, especially when you are not members of the Faithful.

“But what about our genetic connection?” she countered. “We’re your descendants...in a manner of speaking.”

... Any kinship we may share is purely accidental, Guardian pointed out. In fact, you are not our descendants, not directly. Were I to quantify our relationship, humanity would be nothing more than our… our...

It paused, searching for the precise terminology to convey its misgivings, but Samara beat it to the punch. “I believe that word you are struggling so hard to avoid using is bastards,” she said evenly.

Another long pause. Samara, with all due respect... it began before she waved its embarrassment aside.

“Forget it. Apology accepted, blah blah blah,” she said mockingly. “Besides, we’ve called ourselves far worse.” She leaned back in her chair, propping her feet up on the console. “But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook. You need us just as badly as we need that planet.”

... Explain your reasoning, it insisted.

“I would think it was obvious. You said it yourself, you can only interface with biological beings who share a genetic marker with the Faithful, and that’s us. I’ve never heard of another species claiming a common heritage; if there were, we Proteans would have been the first to learn of it.”

Guardian said nothing. She took his silence for grudging assent as she made her case.

“Second, no one has seen the Faithful... or the Precursors, as we call them... in a billion years, which tells me one of two things. You said they were trying to get home, so it’s possible they succeeded. It’s also possible that they’ve died out. Either way, their claim on that planet has long since lapsed.”

... I could argue that point, it prompted her.

“Well then, ask yourself this; what happens next? For you personally, I mean.”

... I do not understand the question, Guardian said, nonplussed.

“Really? With all that knowledge?” She shook her head. “Then I’ll make it simple. What happens to you if humanity is out of the equation? Do you just stay in your Repository box until the heat death of the Universe? If no other species can act as your host, what else can you do? Is that the future you want?”

Guardian didn’t respond. It seemed it had retreated into silence once more.

“But if you want my strongest argument, it’s this; you bear a moral responsibility to clean up your damn mess.” Her nostrils flared as she warmed to the topic. “You never intended to cause problems. Fine. That’s laudable. You were just trying to get home, right? Stranded, far from all you knew, you found a planet and set up shop to build what you needed.” She suddenly got a faraway look in her eye as she gazed at the viewscreen. “But you still unleashed a genocidal race against an unsuspecting galaxy, even if that wasn’t your intent. Just how many deaths are you responsible for, besides Earth?”

... I do not know, it admitted.

“Neither do I,” she shrugged. “I doubt anyone else does either. But that still makes you culpable. It’s nothing you can ‘fix’, the damage is already done. Only you can still make amends, and if we work together, with the resources of that world to draw from, we could make one hell of a start.” She smiled as she drove her point home.

The smile didn’t last for long.

... And what of you, Samara? Guardian probed. Just how many deaths are you responsible for? Before you answer, consider that I have access to all your memories, were you tempted to hedge your response. I can call up every one of them in case you have forgotten.

“That won’t be necessary,” she husked. “I’ve never forgotten. Not one of them.”

... No, you have not; it agreed. Commendable, in its own way. But I ask you the same question you put to me; how will you atone for your crimes?

She should have seen the question coming. Maybe she’d grown too familiar with the Cognates, subconsciously thinking of them as big friendly dogs, instead as an alien library filled with ancient knowledge.

And it knew everything about her.

But that casually amoral killer she’d lived with her all these years had been forced to take stock as of late. Things had changed... she had changed... and while no one would confuse her with some virginal saint... Ha!... she wasn’t some pit fiend either. Not anymore.

Even if she could still manage a reasonable impression of one.

“Why do you think I started this crusade?” she said at last. “I can’t change my past, any more than you can... and maybe someday I’ll be called to answer for those crimes. If the Troika have anything to say about it, in fact, that day could be right around the corner.” She shrugged, accepting that fate. “I’ve been living on borrowed time for months now, trying to make a difference, and what’s ironic is I’ll probably never know if I ever did.”

“I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life, Guardian. I’ve done things that would horrify my fellow Terrans. I’m their bête noire, the monster that lives in their closet, the witch that steals their children. I’m all of that, and more.”

Samara took a deep breath. “At least, I was. Not anymore. Oh, I’m still a killer, but now I’m fighting for something. A second chance for my people, a new home, and a chance to start again.” She closed her eyes and whispered. “You have access to all I know. Look into my mind and tell me if there is any other race out there that deserves it more than we do, or that’s suffered half as much.”

Samara sat and waited for her judgment. She’d said her piece. Finally, Guardian responded.

... You may not be of the race I knew, but we share a singular trait.

She cocked her head. “What’s that?”

It was as if she could feel him smile, somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

... We have both survived everything a harsh universe could throw at us, and glared back at the cosmos with defiance.

“Damned straight,” she grinned.