The room was, essentially, the generic Council of Thirteen chamber. 
Dozens like it existed- had existed, but this was the only one left. 
They'd cleared out the desks and the surprisingly comfortable 
chairs, covering the dark, light-absorbing walls with sterile plastic. 
The only furniture in the room, aside from the cradle-like bed he lay 
in, was a low trestle table straining under the weight of thirteen 
hastily-assembled video monitors and a single small camera. A 
huge skein of cable led out beyond the sheeting to the waiting 
communications center of Lunar Site-01. All channels had been 
cleared in preparation for this moment. 


Straining, O5-10 wiggled one finger on his left hand just enough to 
brush a delicate toggle switch. The light on the camera winked on. 
He glanced to the right, where, on the edge of his field of vision, a 
fourteenth screen showed the image that was being broadcast. A 


black screen, with the characters '05' superimposed over a white 
Foundation emblem. The words 'SOUND ONLY ' pulsed gently in red 
at the bottom of the frame. 


One by one, the monitors pulsed into grainy life, displaying thirteen 
drawn, worried-looking faces, almost all of them showing the puffy 
cheeks of microgravity. The strain on the communications network 
was immense, but sometimes you just needed to see face to face. 
O5-10 cleared his throat. 


"Under any other circumstances I, or my colleagues, would be 
briefing you all on the situation. However, since it appears that in my 
unfortunate absence you've already taken it upon yourselves to 
regain some measure of stability, we can dispense with the usual 
protocol." 


He toggled a second switch, and the image on his monitor sprang to 
life. Waiting patiently to allow for the time delay, O5-10 watched as 
various expressions of surprise ran across the faces on the 
monitors. He spared not a glance for his own image- a formerly- 
powerful man, now frail and wizened, his hairless head covered with 
surgical scars and blotchy discolourations. 


"You are all the current, or acting heads of the various surviving 
Foundation assets in the Solar System. This makes us the top of the 
Foundation's chain of command. As far as I'm concerned, this also 
grants you all O5-level clearance. I'm well aware that this goes 
against everything you've ever learned about my position, but these 
are extraordinary times." 


The Director of FORC-06, Lunar Containment, cleared her throat. 
She was actually groundside for this one, but the state of O5-10's 
immune system precluded them from meeting in person. 


"Sir, uh... correct me if I'm wrong, but if all 12 of the primary FORCs 
are here, then who's on the 14th channel. Are we patching in any of 
the secondary stations, or...?" 


Again there was a pause in the conversation as the information 
percolated outwards. Several of the representatives from the further 
FORCs- 10, 11 and 12, still hadn't received the initial broadcast. His 


gaze wandered to the 13th screen. The station it wasn't connected 
to didn't have the bandwidth for video. Their placeholder icon was a 
stylized golden horn. 


"For security reasons, the existence of FORC-00 has been withheld 
from all of you but Director Cooper and the FSF Orbital Command 
on FORC-05, | believe. I'm sure you're all familiar, however, with 
Project Heimdall. Suffice it to say that Heimdall has established itself 
well out into the Oort Cloud, and they are monitoring the situation 
with not inconsiderable concern." 


Noamtosk surveyed the waiting Board with equal parts 
well-practiced ease and trepidation. He knew the effect 
he made, silhouetted in front of the wide bay window with 
the damaged starship drifting behind him. The eyes of 
the Board were upon him, their jawpetals extended 
politely, their uplimbs folded in the Gesture of Waiting 
Attention. 


He smiled, assumed the Gesture of Showmanly 
Demonstration, and began his Pitch. 


Okay, so. We open on the depths of space. Soaring music as we 
give the audience a chance to appreciate the magnificence of the 
cosmos, and all that. Nebulae, comets, all that jazz. Astronomers in 
the crowd nod appreciatively. Shot pans across a tiny, unimportant 
object- a metal plate, glinting brassy in the distant starlight. It's 
drifting, tumbling over and over. Slowly, it turns towards the camera, 
catching the light, and we see a map- a small world, a little bit more 
water than land. A subtitle pops up- 


[Developing system. Potential Level: Elevated. Local Designate: 
SOL.] 


Give them a few seconds to register. Then the plaque starts to 
shake. Tremble. The music gets tense. The starlight quavers and 
ripples and then WHAM! A massive spacecraft, out of nowhere! A 
series of ramshackle metal compartments strapped to four red-hot 
nuclear engines on the end of long pylons. Spinning radar dishes, 
obvious boltwork- primitive, but with a certain nobility nonetheless. 


We zoom in- maybe throw in a bit of shaky-cam, to give the 
impression of bulk and awe. The music is super threatening- the 
barbarity of its craft. Backward, yet warlike! Maybe a pan over 
missile banks and laser arrays. More subtitles, this time in a different 
font. More obviously computerized, maybe accompanied by a 
narration in Human. No need to translate. 


[Secure Containment Protocols Foundation vessel Zheng He. 
Mission: Pass beyond Sol system transit plaque and report on 
findings. Use of direct force is authorized.] 


A bunch of radar dishes and obvious sensors open up on the outer 
hull- maybe chuck some old-timey sound effects here, depending on 
how serious we're going with this. Anyways they're searching for 
something. All clear? NO! Suddenly the dishes stop. Music's 
building again. We see the weapons powering on. Springing to life. 
The engines go brighter- windows on the hull are shutting. New 
subtitle! 


[Enemy contact detected: BATTLESTATIONS.] 


And as the music gets too intense to handle suddenly the stars go 
dark and a shadow passes over the Zheng He. There's a blinding 
flash of white light, a rumbling explosion, aaaaand- ROLL 
OPENING. 


[FIRST ENCOUNTER: SOL SYSTEM.] 


Upbeat Human music. Local stuff- they've got these things called 
‘synths' that are just perfect for this sort of thing. Cast list, maybe 
some portraits if we can find some good footage. Shots of Human 
ships at work in orbit, Foundation operatives investigating 
something, GOC and GRU and CID people fighting, high adventure, 
drama, all that. 


We return to see the Zheng He listing. Still not clear what's hit it, 
right? Zoom in close- through the clouds of smoke billowing from the 
hull, through debris and electrical fires, to the bridge, where the 
command crew are strapped in and barely holding together. Music in 
the background is snappy and driving. 


We see the crew, nervous but determined, Humans of all stocks and 
subspecies. We see the Number One, a female, passionate, 
charismatic but impulsive. A real firebrand. Then the Captain- a 
male, intelligent, wise, but cold and unfeeling. Not their real 
personalities of course, but we can edit those- and their 
appearances- in post. Still unsure whether or not to go with a 
romance subplot between the two, but the possibility is there. So- 
and this is all dubbed, of course, but we have the option of a subbed 
version for the purists, maybe a collector's set or something- 
preliminary dialogue. Just placeholder for now. 


Captain: Your thoughts, Number One? 
Number One: No time for that, sir! All batteries, fire at will! 


Cut back to the outside. Lasers charge silently- maybe a close cut to 
some of the weapons, get the coolant gasses pouring over those 
stylish "Subach-Innes" logos. You know how the diehard fans are 
about branded merchandise, and there are endless possibilities with 
the Sol system. 


So, lasers discharge, missiles fly- we see them impact on whatever 
the big 'enemy' is. 


Weapons Officer: No damage, sir! They're charging for another 
shot!" 


Number One: We don't stand a chance in hell of weathering 
another blast like that! 


Captain: Evasive maneuvers! Get us out of here! 


Again, placeholder dialogue. So, ship pulls out- thunder of engines, 
spitting of nuclear fire, the hull is shaking with the strain- all that. Still 
firing as it moves, it dodges an enemy attack- a ravening beam of 
blue-white energy with a distinctive gold afterglow. At this point, the 
smart ones in the audience are saying 'Ah-hah''. 


Captain: They've moved between us and the plaque back into 
the system. Number One, any suggestions? 


A tense pause- we get the sense that the Captain is genuinely 


unsure, but also taking a moment to test his subordinate/close 
confidant. This'll happen occasionally- establish that our Captain has 
a darker side to him, a willingness to push boundaries that is 
dangerous, but also magnetic and, dare | say it, a bit sexy. 


Number One: This is 1822 we're dealing with, right? They 
believe in combat, in glory, in a struggle... 


Captain: It would certainly seem like they're getting what they 
want. 


And then- the music gets hopeful! There's a spark in Number One's 
eyes! A plan has formed. No, not just a plan! A Plan! 


Number One: Comms! Hail them, all frequencies! Now, before 
they're back in range! 


A tense moment as another beam scorches the ship and throws 
them about. 


Comms Officer: Channel open, ma'am! 


Close-up on Number One. A bead of sweat drips down her brow. 
And then, she speaks- all bravado and bluster, with the spirit of 
Humanity backing up her words! The music soars! 


Number One: So it's a fight you're looking for, huh? Well, 
clearly you've got us outgunned. Hardly sporting, isn't it. Hell, 
one volley in and already we're running away. But what if... 
what if we could offer you the greatest struggle of them all? 


Not the struggle of a lone ship against overwhelming odds- no, 
something better than that. The struggle of every species that 
ever lived in the galaxy! Every protozoon, every worm that 
crawled in the muck, every bird that struggled skyward, every 
ape-thing that gazed with dawning understanding ata 
brushfire! | offer you the struggle to find one's place! the 
struggle to find belonging! Give us your aid, and we will offer 
you the human species, in the struggle for home! 


Silence. The music cuts out dramatically. And then, the viewscreen 
on the main bridge console flickers to life, and a voice- no need to 


dub this one- rumbles over the bridge, all smoothe and masculine 
and confident. The enemy... why, it's me, of course, their 
dependable rival and erstwhile companion. | smile politely at them- 
we get shots of horror from them, naturally- and say... 


First Unit Director Naomtosk: The struggle for home, my 
Human friend? Now that- that's got power to it. Tell you what. 
I'll have my people talk to your people. | think we've got 
something here. 


Aaaaand cut to first commercial break. What do you think? 


Foundation Lunar Research Site 01, Secure Conference Room 
1-0. 
July 19th, 1973, 12:45 hours GMT. 


The last message had long been sent, the last monitor turned off 
and removed by orderlies in clean-suits. O5-10 awoke from his 
daze. There was something in the room. It reached down and neatly 
pressed the light switch. 


It was only the drugs coursing through his system, and his years of 
staring into the abyss that kept O5-10's heart from giving out. Six 
slender, spike-tipped limbs, in two clusters of three around a 
pillarlike spine. A central head, with four petals- no, they were tooth- 
lined jaws- each with a lidless, blank eye at their tip. A single mouth- 
too wide, with teeth like interlocking gears. It spoke, softly and 
politely. 


"O5-10? | do apologize for waking you, but time seemed of the 
essence. You see, one of your representatives recently made 
contact with us- you could call us, hmmmm.- yes, call us the 
Showmen. They proposed an exchange, of sorts- your story, your 
quest for home, for our... pertinent technical knowledge. If you 
decline, no hard feelings, but if you're interested, the results could 
be... well, extremely lucrative for both our species." 


05-10 sat bolt upright, his drugged and tumor-raddled body no more 
a restraint to him than his linen sheets. He had half a mind to call 
security. But the other half... 


"What exactly do you have in mind?" 


The Showman smiled, and began his pitch anew. 


« The Watchtower | Straight On Til Morning Hub | 
Dossier- FSF Delivery» 


Input: One (1) printed copy of a Javascript program 
(self-learning chat bot), 5 kilograms of stainless steel, 10 
grams of copper, 500 grams of plastic 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: Same as the last time, but made of stainless 
steel. The voice was similar to the chatbot "Evie." When 
connected to a computer using an USB cable, it will start 
speaking to you similarly to the chatbot "Cleverbot." 
Further test logs awaiting O5 approval. 


Note: The head is supposedly "sentient," according to 
the people who first talked to it, which could be wrong, 
because the program code was simple and when used in 
a normal computer, is not sentient. 


Name: Dr. Hadian 

Date: 2-22-2018 

Total Items: One (1) manuscript of a simple Javascript 
program, one (1) fluorescent light bulb. 


Note: The code in question was a program devised to 
have the bulb turn on if it was being held right-side up. 
This test is to see if SCP 914 will comply in fabricating 
such an object. 


Input: The aforementioned materials 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: A luminescent mass, opaque, with a smoky 
white color. The object could be moved without difficulty, 
but it would not rotate in any fashion except in a way that 
kept it perpendicular to the floor. In all attempts to defy 
this property, it has proven immobile, causing the tester's 
hand to slip, defying gravity, and in one case, shattering 
the shaft of a power tool rigged to turn it over. 


We'll chalk that one up as "inconclusive". Certainly an 
interesting paperweight, though. -Dr. Hadian 


Name: Dr. Sato 


Pizzicato 


The sun rose to mark the start of the new day, its light bleeding out 
onto the expanse of trees visible from the high-rise window. Slowly, 
the light inched its way across the landscape until it brightened even 
the darkened room at the top of the concrete facility eking its way 
above the forest. From this darkened room the silhouette of a 
woman took shape: tall, upright, and clad in a suit as black as 
space. The sun illuminated a solemn frown below a narrow nose, 
finally brightening two eyes, dark and piercing. Many who saw these 
eyes would later say they were cold, unemotive. This was only 
partially true. 


Her office was sparse, but perfect in that regard. A smooth black 
desk, a picture on one wall, a wall of cabinets on the other. A large 
window covered the wall opposite the door. A nervous knock came 
from this door, followed by the click of the same door opening. There 
was no time for waiting, apparently. 


"Lieutenant Dean reporting, D.C. Al Fine," came a voice from the 
door. 


"Status report. Now,” the haughty voice demanded. 


"The countermeme has been, um, detected again. An anartist 
project displaying the countermeme prominently was identified about 
20 minutes ago." The smaller voice stated. 


A moment of silence. You could feel the smaller man's 
apprehension. You couldn't feel the sober woman's creeping fear. 
Her back remained turned as hey eyes wavered across the pines. 
They weren't cold. They were calculating. 


"How many infected?" There wasn't a single sign of fear in the firm 
voice asking the question. 


"Unknown. The anartist threat has been on display for an unknown 


period of time, assumed to be about 2 days, in which the 
countermeme has entered the civilian population. Infected civilians 
have been identified and detained in every continent."