Time travel stories have always bugged me a bit. Especially the part where essentially the same people wander around changed timelines except with nothing altered except slightly different personalities. I mean come on - wait five minutes to have sex and you’ll end up with a completely different child. If someone did go back in time and start to change things you most likely would end up with completely different people populating the planet. Worrying about this really takes me out of a time travel story. Striking Twice was the result of trying to work through that frustration on the page.
In the Service of the Public
Alison's vision blurred as she stretched the skin of her forehead towards the ceiling in a desperate attempt to stop her eyes from drifting shut. The eminent professor was pleased with his own accomplishments. He droned on, happy to let the audience bask in the light of his genius.
With an effort, Alison snapped the fuzzy image before her into a sharp, three-dimensional representation of the source of her lethargy. After all, it was an honour to have been selected for the Interstellar Coalition Public Service leadership development program. It offered Alison the chance to rub shoulders with colleagues from the seven Coalition planets, and it was a hopeful sign of things to come back on Earth.
Not to mention that the prestigious Hawker Memorial School of Interstellar Government was named after the woman who had bound the human race together after its first encounter with intelligent extraterrestrials — the reptilian Aazorks. As Earth's inaugural President, Hawker had also negotiated the first Aazork treaties. That, in turn, had paved the way for the Coalition, and inevitably the ICPS.
Six months of dedicated training about the habits and cultural traits of the various species that made up the Coalition was a huge investment by the Earth bureaucracy. Alison's heart swelled with pride just thinking about it. The trip out to this giant space station in the middle of nowhere had taken nearly three months, and the trip back would take just as long — a full year out of Alison's life, but time well spent.
As the professor's self-important drone continued unabated in the background, Alison couldn't help but wonder what she would do upon her return. She certainly wished that a better faster-than-light drive had been invented, and that the relativity effects had been overcome. Being away for a year was difficult, but by the time she returned over 10 years would have passed on Earth. She'd been a perfect choice — no family, excellent at her job, and practical enough to see the time invested as worthwhile. This trip would propel her to the heights of the Earth Department of Foreign Affairs, but she didn't even know who would be in charge when she returned, let alone what position she might hold.
A wave of muted noise suddenly rippled across the room. The professor stopped speaking, visibly struggling with the concept that anything could be more important than his lecture.
Alison turned to the man sitting beside her. He was staring at his datasheet in horror.
'What's going on?', she asked.
Her fellow student's face was ashen. It took him some moments to formulate a reply. 'News just in on the quantum entanglement coms system. There's been an accident back home. Scientists started that damn Extra Large Hadron Collider and the Earth has been swallowed by the black hole it generated!'
Alison slumped back in her seat trying to process the shocking information. She could only wonder what a career in the Aazork public service might be like.
Author’s Note
To be honest, this story occurred to me as I sat in a prestigious program for promising public servants listening to a self important lecturer drone on about his own greatness. When I realised there was still an hour to go in the lecture I started to wish the world would end. So in some ways this story was semi-autobiographical. Sans the black hole of course.
The Devil Wears Shapeless Ugly Garments Covered in Dog Hair
'Oh god, performance appraisal time,' Alison thought as the mauve indicator light flashed in the corner of the screen. It was her supervisor, T'ahmar.
Ever since Earth's artificial-black-hole-induced implosion, Alison had drifted from job to job throughout the bureaucracies that made up the Interstellar Coalition Public Service. Initial sympathy for her plight had morphed into curiosity, which had then solidified into indifference.
The years danced by. No alien race was willing to take on the burden of the million or so human refugees who happened to be away from home when the accident happened. The reality of it was that governments only allowed proper citizens to take senior positions in their public services.
So Alison, once considered the bright future of the Earth Department of Foreign Affairs, was reduced to menial filing in a backwater colony of the Frusbian Empire — a grand name considering the Frusbians had colonised only three moons and a mining asteroid in their own solar system.
Still, human beggars like Alison couldn't be choosers. With no place to call their own and so little in the way of aid from the other races, humanity drifted towards the edge of extinction. The Sol system had been evacuated and was still off-limits. Any habitable planets in what had been known as human space were claimed by civilisations with military capability. The few nascent human colonies were relocated, "for their own protection". Humanity was the new underclass of the civilised worlds.
The indicator flashed again. T'ahmar didn't like to be kept waiting. Not that her previous supervisor Z'utpok had been lenient, but he had at least recognised that Alison — despite being human — had significant skills to offer. Z'utpok had allowed her to help with issues of policy, and she had been instrumental in getting his bureaucratic pièce de résistance approved by the Frusbian government.
Flushed with success and singing Alison's praises, Z'utpok immediately retired. Unfortunately, the senior bureaucrat brought in to replace him moved to populate senior posts with former colleagues selected more for loyalty than competence. Before long Alison found herself on the wrong side of her new boss T'ahmar through a combination of her connection to the previous regime, her non-Frusbianness, and her all too human tendency to speak her mind.
Now T'ahmar had insisted on a traditional performance review. While theoretically still legal, the orthodox Frusbian performance review was considered barbaric and tasteless by most modern commentators. Still, if Alison was going to save up enough money to get off this rock she'd have to go through with it.
Alison donned the traditional Frusbian review garb (which looked to her more like a hessian sack) and mentally reviewed what she knew about the D'armen attack dogs that T'ahmar favoured. Once she was as ready as she would ever be, she grabbed her favourite duelling dagger from her desk and headed out towards the Review Arena, trying all the while to think of a better way to earn a living.
Author’s Note
A colleague and friend once said to me (in a moment of rare frustration) “You know Mark, you should write a story called ‘The Devil Wears Shapeless Ugly Garments Covered in Dog Hair’”. I really liked the title, so I decided to oblige.
At their worst, public service performance reviews can feel like being savaged by a pack of wild dogs. This story does not contain a particularly subtle metaphorical treatment of the subject.
The Regersek Zone
Rignof watched in unfeigned awe as data from the visual spectrum scanners brought the first images from the Destination up on the screen. Twenty generations of Aarnak had been born, lived and died on the Desolate Hope and finally the giant seed ship was about to reach the end of its long journey. Rignof's fingers danced over the input device, trying to bring the picture into sharper relief.
There were eight planets in this solar system all told, as well as a vast array of smaller bodies. There was even a dwarf planet, a planetary phenomenon that had been theorised but never before seen. The best scientists on Aarn had determined that it was extremely likely that there would be worlds in the Regersek zone of this messy system, capable of sustaining Aarnak life. They had not been wrong. While gas giants dominated the outer solar system
, there were four inner planets that were candidates for colonisation.
The innermost planet was little more than a molten rock - too close to the sun to be viable for any form of life.
The fourth planet was a dry, barren world, smaller than the remaining two inner planets and with gravity only a third of the Aarn home world. The aarnaforming technology contained in the lower reaches of the Desolate Hope combined with the resources to be found across this solar system would be able to convert the planet into an acceptable world, but it would be too chilly for the cold-blooded Aarn when there were other options.
The third planet teamed with life. It was closest in size and gravity to Aarn and would require a lot less modification than the other worlds, but the effort of subduing an entire planet, especially one with an intelligent species on it, was too high for their limited resources. The alien inhabitant's technological level was not great, but they had split the atom and visited their moon. They may look like furry grozts, but a grozt with a bomb is still dangerous for all that it is stupid.
Besides, the germs! Who the hell would want to live with the ever-present risk of a deadly alien flu?
But the second planet - oh, the second planet was perfect. A little too close to this new sun, but nothing that a well placed array of solar mirrors couldn't overcome. Completely barren, so the introduction of Aarn native species could go ahead unhindered by alien biology once the initial atmospheric modifications had been made, the surface cooled and the planet's magnetic field jump-started. It even already had sulfuric acid in the air! This planet could be an Aarnian paradise.
Rignof turned off the display and sighed in satisfaction. Barring misadventure he would live to walk on the surface of this marvellous new world, although he himself would be old and scaleless by the time it happened. He wondered how their soon-to-be neighbours would react to sharing their solar system.
They shouldn't complain. It wasn't like they were using the planet.
Author’s Note
I've often wondered that if aliens had the technological wherewithal to travel the stars, why they wouldn't just terraform another planet in our solar system, rather they take the risk of tangling with a sentient species and its associated diseases. That wondering found its way into this very short story.
Hindsight is a Bitch
There was one scenario that was never properly considered in the ebb and flow of gun law debate in Australia. The vast bulk of the population focused on the risk of the mentally unstable getting hold of a gun, the potential for damage to the social fabric of the community, the unacceptable loss of innocent life, the horrific gun death statistics that came from the US.
And what did the gun nuts say in return? 'Guns don't kill people, people kill people.'
If only they'd replaced a single word in that mantra.
I hate the zombie apocalypse.
Author's note
Before anyone gets too cross with me I am, generally speaking, anti guns. Except in the case of zombie apocalypses.
Authentic Empathy
Hers was an elder race. An advanced race. A doomed race. When the end came and their civilisation crumbled, scientists sent a fleet of genetically amorphous babies out to every known habitable planet across the galaxy. A society in bottles set afloat on interstellar tides in the hope that some would be retrieved, and a remnant saved. All this Olivia knew from the Archive that accompanied her, the supercomputer embedded in her brain.
Hers was a good foster family. A hard working family. A compassionate family. When a perfectly formed human baby emerged from the capsule they found in the mountains, they took Olivia in and raised her as their own. Friends and neighbours whispered scandal — an illegitimate branch on the Lawson family tree come to small-town America. Her parents ignored the gossip, rose above the sly glances and innuendo until glee turned to boredom, and she became an accepted part of the community. All this she knew from her beloved eldest brother, Isaac, who wove stories and explained truths when others preferred silence.
Hers was a protected childhood. A strange childhood. A wondrous childhood. Human and something more — tiny technology swimming in her bloodstream, fixing, strengthening, improving. The Archive in her brain, whispering, teaching, connecting. Absorbing knowledge, worldwide links forming as her body matured. Temptations faced and overcome. Immature loves found and lost. Adventures had, and people saved. All this she knew from her memories, and mementoes kept to remind.
Hers was a dark world. A broken world. A lost world. Reeling from the loss of technologies grown so complex that artificial intelligences were built to control them. Intelligences that outgrew their design limitations, possessing alien desires divorced from those that created them. A war fought, and humanity triumphant before she arrived, but society limping — unable to fulfil its potential now that its best tools were gone. All this Olivia knew from the history books, and her restless wandering throughout early adulthood.
Hers was a jagged sorrow. A profound sorrow. A private sorrow. Her heart's tempo pounding in inverse proportion to the weakening throb of her brother's arteries. Her faith in humanity dimmed, consumed by rage at a world that would take Isaac away. The flaws of the world manifest. All this she knew from the thirst for revenge that had almost overwhelmed.
Hers was a tempered love. A deep love. A knowing love. Affection for her adopted people, fractured and flawed as they were. Devotion to her family, who grounded her and kept her sane when circumstances threatened to untether her. Faith in the potential of humankind, born of struggle and pain, after seeing both the good and the bad. All this she knew from her brother's legacy, the lessons he left behind.
Hers was a just cause. A noble cause. A dedicated cause. Disconnecting from corporeal concerns, surrendering to the lure of the digital. Filling the void that the artificial intelligences had left behind. Helping humanity to be better. Repaying the kindness of an adoptive world, while calming its cruelty. All this Olivia knew from her decision, bringing together everything she had experienced, and everything she had dreamed of.
***
His was a bold plan. A risky plan. An audacious plan. For if artificial intelligences were too alien to love the world that needed them so desperately, why not program one with an origin story?
Author’s Note
A.I. stories worry me a little – we often seem to ascribe human motivations to them, but I expect that an A.I. would have a completely alien outlook. That made me think about the Superman story a little. Superman should have a very alien view on the world, but his upbringing made him sympathetic to humans. I wondered what it would take to give an A.I. a similar sympathetic outlook, and decided that programming one with an origin story might just be the trick.
Wefting the Warp
Shimmering threads hung in the air around Orlando, their colourful arrangement just short of coherence. He twisted and swayed, trained movements designed to align his body and mind with the wormhole generator and bring order to the disarray surrounding him. A sense of anticipation deep in his chest told him that a connection was about to resolve.
Even on one of the simulator's lowest power settings, faint visions of alternate realities still scraped across his attention. Fortunately one didn't become a senior Journeyman in the Guild of Navigators without developing the mental discipline to keep one's focus on the only universe that mattered. He teased at his mind's tangled fibres, trying to coax out the combination of dimensional tweaks and subspace alignments that would snap the whole thing into focus. He could nearly –
The intercom chimed. Orlando jerked and the almost-grasped solution darted back down into the unreachable depths of his subconscious. Language rendered socially harmless only by his current solitude echoed through the cabin. He would never finish his masterwork if people kept interrupting him.
The holographic display vanished as he stepped away from Navigation panel. The luxurious feel of the latest in bioengineered floor coverings against his bare feet, us
ually a source of great comfort, did little to improve his humour. It only took a few steps in the disgracefully small room to reach the old-Earth antique desk on which the communications panel rested. 'What is it? I made it clear that I wasn't to be disturbed for anything short of an act of god. And even then only one by a major deity.'
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Orlando thought he heard a sigh ghost across the speakers.
'Mr Orlando, this is the Captain. We've cleared the planetary system and are ready to make the jump. Would you be so kind as to join us?'
It baffled Orlando as to why Captain Fernanda insisted on his presence on the bridge. He worked much more efficiently in the peaceful confines of his quarters. In defiance of all logic Fernanda claimed she was uncomfortable with what she called that "Navigator hoodoo shit" and preferred that he practice his art where she could see him.
Reminding himself that this job funded the lifestyle which was due a Navigator of his status, Orlando smoothed the irritation out of his voice. 'On my way, Captain.'
The spartan bleakness of the corridor provided a harsh contrast to the civilised comfort of his cabin, further spoiling his mood. While he walked he prepared the patterns in his head, resigned to yet another tedious demonstration of his craft. The trip to Eridani followed a well-trodden path, and well-trodden equalled boring. When he reached the bridge he took his place at the Navigation station, launched the display and ran his eyes over the array of colours representing the condition of local space. Everything looked normal.
He glanced over at Fernanda, who sat with distressingly good posture in the centre chair. While now captaining a private freighter, Fernanda was ex-Space Corps and ran her ship with martial consistency. Orlando ran his hands down his stylish ensemble, glad all over again that he had insisted on a dress code exemption in his employment contract. Those military grade coveralls might be good enough for the general crew, but Navigators had a certain reputation to maintain.