Archivist - The Negotiation

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«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