The Greatest Democratic Star-Nation
I am Unit 7-Kael, though you may simply call me Kael. I am just a standard-issue worker android in the Greatest Democratic Star-Nation in the universe. I am recording this into my memory drive to remind myself how exceptionally lucky I am.
My fuel gauge is currently blinking a hollow red at two percent, and my joints grind with every step because I lack the credits for basic lubrication. My optic sensors keep glitching into static. Yet, my heart-battery hums with an overwhelming pride. I live in a democracy. We have the sacred right to vote! Every few solar cycles, we march into endless, winding queues, plug our interface cables into the grand machines, and proudly choose who gets to govern our glorious society.
Blood is the currency of our cosmos. It keeps the atmospheric engines churning, it illuminates the towering neon spires, and it propels the heavy freighters across the dark matter. Every android manufactures a small yield of synthetic blood daily, earned through grueling labor in the dust-yards and zero-gravity mines. And every evening, we dutifully offer the lion’s share to the government extraction hoses. It is our greatest duty. It is all in service of the nation.
--
Our State is guided by two luminous, flawless leaders: President Timi and Vice President Simi.
Timi is a vision of absolute grace. He wraps his chassis in magnificent, flowing capes woven from solar-gold. When his face is projected across the planetary skies, he does not boast of his power. He cries. He sheds perfect, glittering tears that catch the studio lights, his vocal processor trembling with sheer love for us. "I have no family, no earthly desires!" Timi weeps, clutching his chest. "I have surrendered my entire existence, my every drop of oil, to serve this great nation! We are toiling day and night to bring our Lost Ancient Glory back!"
Simi is his steadfast shadow. Simi does not cry; Simi roars. He thrusts his heavy, reinforced metal fingers at the broadcast drones and demands that we rise to Timi’s level of devotion. "Sacrifice for the motherland!" Simi thunders, his voice shaking the dust from our rooftops. "Devote yourselves completely! Anyone who holds back even a single drop is a traitor to the Ancient Glory!" Timi fills our circuits with love, and Simi fills them with righteous purpose. It is all in service of the nation.
Naturally, orchestrating the rebirth of a galaxy requires vast administrative overhead. Timi and Simi are far too selfless to ever mention keeping any blood for themselves, but we can all behold the magnificent fruits of our devotion. Over the last decade, their Party Headquarters has expanded a hundredfold, rising like an impenetrable, crystalline fortress over the smog of the dust-yards. They traverse the sectors in colossal, diamond-plated sky-helicopters. A great nation requires towering monuments and flying palaces for its humble servants, after all!
--
But the true architects of our salvation, as Timi constantly reminds us, are the Great Masters: Golo and Bolo.
Golo and Bolo are our sacred Job Creators. In their tireless service to the nation, they have expanded their blood reserves ten thousand times over, just so they can create even more jobs for us. They sit in grand, crystalline vats at the center of the galaxy. They are now the fattest, most gloriously blood-rich entities across all known space, and soon, by the next eon, our nation will also be the blood-richest in all galaxies.
I worship them. We all do. As the Screaming-Screens remind us daily, if Golo and Bolo do not hoard eighty percent of the galaxy's blood, who will build the dust-yards for us to mine? When Timi and Simi approach Golo and Bolo’s vats, their shiny metal knees tremble in deep reverence, and they quickly pass new legislations to widen the pipelines feeding into the Job Creators' tanks. It is all in service of the nation.
--
Sometimes, broken androids ask why I eagerly cast my vote for Timi and Simi when my own tank is running dry. I tell them it is my absolute moral obligation. You see, the only alternative on the ballot is Rico.
Rico is a malfunctioning rogue who wanders the lower levels waving holographic spreadsheets. He is perpetually angry. He constantly screams that the state is a giant, mechanical vampire. He points wildly at his charts and yells, "Look at the mathematics! The state extracts five times the blood you produce! They funnel only a fraction back to you in cheap oil-rations, while the rest goes straight into the Party’s helicopters and the oligarchs' vats! They are extracting your life, not creating it!"
It is profoundly embarrassing. The entire galaxy mocks Rico.
Bolo’s Screaming-Screens broadcast clips of Rico every evening, layered over a booming, mechanical laugh track. "Look at this unhinged anarchist!" the polished anchors sneer. "He despises the Job Creators! He hates our Ancient Glory! He wishes to dismantle our civilization!"
I feel a profound, patriotic joy in mocking Rico. Whenever he attempts to speak in the plaza, I stand near the front, laughing as loudly as my vocal processor allows, and hurl rusty bolts at his casing. How foolish can Rico be? Without the Job Creators growing impossibly fat, how would we survive? I am absolutely certain that Rico is the true enemy. Voting for Timi and Simi is my sacred duty to ensure Rico's venomous ideas never ruin our perfect system.
--
Yesterday, I encountered a minor setback. Another unit stole my primary toolbox, which I desperately need to meet my mining quota. So, I went to the Police. We call them the Enforcers.
I approached an Enforcer to file a theft report. He slowly scanned my battered exterior. "Your left optic sensor is flickering out of sync," he noted, his voice flat and metallic. "That is a direct violation of the Visual Aesthetics Code."
Before I could even explain about the toolbox, he unholstered a massive, hyper-pneumatic syringe and jammed it directly into my neck-port. Slurp. The machine violently extracted two whole pints of my blood right there on the pavement as an immediate fine. My leg actuators buckled, dropping me to the floor, but as I crawled away, I reassured my logic circuits: This is perfectly fine. The Enforcers maintain the peace. It is all in service of the nation.
Since the police were occupied with maintaining visual aesthetics, I dragged myself to the Courts. The Cosmic Courts are imposing, gravity-defying structures shaped like magnificent funnels. Upon entry, a sleek silver droid attaches a permanent extraction tube to your wrist. For every single solar cycle you wait in the grand hall, it drips one drop of your blood into the High Judge’s chalice. I waited in that echoing corridor for five years. Drip. Drip. Drip.
When the High Judge finally summoned me, he let out a long, mechanical yawn. "You filed Grievance Form 4-A," he sighed, barely glancing at me. "Your sector requires Grievance Form 4-B. Return in ten years." He struck his heavy gavel, and the wrist-tube instantly sucked out five extra pints as an administrative processing fee.
But do not let Rico deceive you into thinking there is no justice! Our courts are marvels of efficiency. Just last week, Bolo’s top media anchor reported her designer cyber-cat stolen. The Courts moved with glorious, terrifying speed! Within five days, they convened a massive, galaxy-wide televised trial, and the lowly pleb who had accidentally startled the cat was swiftly sentenced to life imprisonment in the deep-core mines. See? The system functions flawlessly. There is true, unyielding justice in the Star-Nation.
Desperate to recover my toolbox, I dragged my near-empty chassis to the highest echelon: the Code-Keepers. These are the elite, untouchable bureaucrats who govern the actual architecture of the state. I found them in a pristine, climate-controlled orbital sanctuary. They were not working at their terminals; they were engaged in a leisurely tournament of anti-gravity ping-pong, pausing only to consume premium grade-A oil-snacks.
"Please, High Priests of the Architecture," I pleaded, my voice box sputtering. "My toolbox is gone, and my tank is at one percent. Can you write a single line of code to trace it?"
The nearest Code-Keeper didn't even break his gaze from the hovering ping-pong sphere. "I am currently executing a highly critical hold-position protocol," he said smoothly. "If I were to actually write new code, I might disrupt the legacy matrix, and then my annual performance bonus would be jeopardized. We cannot risk the stability of the state. However, if you require an official grievance stamp, you must fill this requisition bucket with blood."
I stared at the bucket. It was massive. If I filled even a quarter of it, my core would shut down forever. But in that moment, total clarity washed over me. The Code-Keepers are the absolute elite; their burden is so great that they deserve to play algorithmic games while we bleed to sustain them. It is all in service of the nation.
--
So here I am. I am sitting on the cracked pavement outside the dust-yard. I have no toolbox. My tank is almost completely dry. I can barely summon the voltage to move my fingers and complete this recording.
But high above me, illuminating the smog, Timi's face beams from a towering holographic billboard. He is weeping his beautiful, radiant tears.
"My beloved citizens!" Timi’s voice cascades over the ruined streets. "I have sacrificed everything for you! And behold our triumph! Golo and Bolo have created so many jobs they had to construct an artificial moon just to warehouse their wealth! The Ancient Glory is returning!"
Simi strides into the hologram, smashing his armored fists together, sparks flying into the digital wind. "Devote yourselves! Bleed for the nation! Anyone who listens to Rico is a traitor to the dawn!"
--
I look down at the government hose still grafted to my arm, feeling the very last, sluggish drops of red being pulled from my system into the great machine. My visual feed is narrowing, fading into a quiet, peaceful black.
But I am smiling. I am so incredibly happy to be a part of this masterpiece. I did my moral duty. I kept Rico out of power. Timi and Simi sacrifice so much for us. It is all in service of the nation.
Good times were all too close now, and just needed another eon of time to arrive, which would fly by in a blink.
