Falia was resigned to her mission. The thankless task of checking out possible new worlds traditionally fell to the most junior member of the Interplanetary Relationship Bureau. It was probably a false alarm anyway, and even if it wasn’t there was nothing she could do beyond data gathering, worse luck. To remove temptation, scout vessels simply weren’t equipped for landing.
After the autopilot had maneuvered her ship into orbit, Falia set to work. Satellites made tapping into data sources seem like child’s play. She was excited to get her first glimpse of a new species, have the ship’s computer navigate through the jumble of languages, and dip into it’s strange culture. But her excitement soon turned to dismay at what she found.
Morality. The planet was infested with it. Preachers of morality raped children; others murdered in the name of family values. Those whose very existence offended the reigning moral code were despised and persecuted; those unwilling to accept it reviled. Where two moralities clashed, hatred and violence inevitably followed: the slaughter of innocents on the way was defended by moral leaders.
On the way back Falia tried to shake off her feeling of revulsion. How could anyone value rules over sentient beings’ feelings and needs? Her report would go through the usual channels, though the outcome was clear. After the Bureau had slipped up with Silema-β, only narrowly avoiding the first interplanetary war, the ruling on a morality-ridden planet was inevitable.
“It will be fine, It will be fine.” Edith repeated her mantra. She was on the way to the medical center with her mate John, to receive their baby’s test results. It was their third attempt, the first two hadn’t passed the eugenics review. Maybe their genes just weren’t good enough.
The tube coasted to a stop. A woman and a child were waiting on the platform. Edith flinched as they got into the car. Clearly there was something wrong with the child: it’s awkward walk was painful to watch. She saw the mother looking at it with fierce protectiveness as other passengers turned away and some got up and moved away.
As the tube surged forward again, Edith instinctively put her hand on her belly. Suddenly she wanted her baby, whether or not it measured up to some arbitrary standard of perfection. It was hers, theirs. Even if it didn’t, there was no reason to be ashamed, no reason to hide.
Maybe the reason you rarely saw disabled people anymore wasn’t the huge success of mandatory genetic screening. Maybe they were simply pushed out of sight by the contempt and disgust they were met with.
She gave the child’s mother an awkward smile.
* * *
T. Mastgrave’s philosophical story challenge: If natural selection (survival of the fittest) is the means by which the process of evolution unfolds, is eugenics wrong?
Is there still time for hot chocolate? Riley asked.
The-End-is-Nigh guy blinked. Ah, maybe, I don’t know.
― Jana Oliver, Forbidden
Why, thank-you, dearie. I never say no to a biscuit. And what’s your name, young lady? Louise? The old face cracked in a smile.
Do I believe what? That the dragon is coming and the world will end tomorrow?
Now, when I was your age, the world was always coming to an end. Left and right people were predicting disasters. I think it’s because they want the world to change. And right they are! But no, I don’t think the world will end tomorrow.
The dragon, now, that’s a whole other story. The old eyes twinkled. I’ve seen it myself, you know…
Time was running out. He had put off the decision as long as he could.
Engrossed in the project he had asked strangers their opinion. The fuzzy answers annoyed him: what use were they? He studied ancient books and their sweeping judgements made him angry: it was just words. None of these philosophers had known the responsibility he faced.
It was up to him to finalise the program. His hand would flip the switch. Future generations would thank him – or curse his name.
We have many needs, he thought. Big ones and small ones. Some we all share, others are peculiar to ourselves. Sometimes we value one more; another time we valued it less. Not all our needs are met, indeed, some may never be.
So that is what he taught the machines. They would preserve life. They would consider needs varying in individuals and over time. They would do what was possible to restore the scorched earth. But when the planet was habitable again, they would relinquish their power.
And give mankind the freedom to make its own mistakes. Again.
Always an early riser, the leading counsel for the plaintiff had made his way to court at the crack of dawn. He could barely keep still as he surveyed the place where only hours from now the historic hearing would begin. Steadying himself on an ancient tree, he suddenly realised he had spent almost 20 years – nearly all his professional life – preparing this case.
They had carried the point that the hearing take place in the plaintiff’s presence, hence the unorthodox venue. The motion to banish wooden furnishings from the court’s temporary residence had also succeeded. But only yesterday the decision had come through that would almost certainly clinch the case: as the plaintiff was suing for recognition as a full citizen, his full name was to be read out in court in an English translation.
20 sonorous pages, a few lines for each decade of the plaintiff’s life:
When the message came it was not what they expected. Scientists had been monitoring the electromagnetic spectrum for decades, but what came were gravitational pulses. Astronomers puzzled about what could be causing them, searching the skies for new comets. Then a series of prime number pulses showed it was a message, an alien intelligence trying to communicate.
Linda had joined the analysis team straight from Princeton. She spent hours listening to the pulses transformed to sound. There was an underlying thump, steady and rhythmic, always there. A heartbeat, she called it. There were many layers of other rhythms that had been filtered out to show the prime number message. Just noise, everyone said.
But Linda listened to the plaintive beats, over and over again. The others joked about her late night listening sessions. It’s lonely, she said, it wants to be heard.
After two years of research there was still no clue where the message came from. Now the most bizarre theories were being considered. One day Linda ventured hers:
I think it’s not alien at all: I think it’s the Earth.
She knew she would get enough flak for this, so she didn’t add:
I think it’s in pain. I think it’s screaming.
It simply wasn’t fair! He fumed. The client base was growing. There was really only so much he could do with his small host of imps. Who mostly chased their own tails, anyway.
With the population explosion, he had counted on setting the damned souls to work. Now the Boss had vetoed it. It would be pernicious to their souls. They were the damned, dammit! But, apparently, the fine print foresaw ultimate salvation for all.
He didn’t know how he’d manage without computers. Next: a customizable operating system. He grinned. It would drive people mad! He’d simply be raking the souls in!
She hated frills and furbelows. A complex machine, now, that was beautiful. Everything in its place, functioning together as a harmonious whole.
She had spent aeons on the design, fine-tuning the different factors to achieve a delicate balance. Everything would be perfect. A few simple laws, that was the trick. No tinkering would be needed: only mechanics did that. It was fitting that to breathe life into her creation she would explode into a trillion trillion pieces.
She looked at her plan, and saw that it was good. Her final thought was: “Let there be light.”
And there was light.
* * *
T. Mastgrave’s philosophical story challenge: Simplicity.
You know, there’s a blind spot,bang in the middle of your field of vision, but you don’t see a blank there, your brain covers it up. And you only see colour in a very small part of the picture, just where you’re focussing; the rest is gray. But your brain colours it in, or just lets you believe it’s in colour.
We only experience very small bits of the world, and extrapolate the rest. I only see this corner now, but I imagine the rest of the room will be there when I turn around. I can hear the cat in the kitchen. Rather, I hear noises, and I think it’s the cat in what I remember as the kitchen. I assume that if I get up, I’ll find the kitchen, and probably even the cat – but do I really know that?
What if the world is only what we perceive? What if things come into existence as we approach them, and are erased when we turn around or walk away? Maybe we live in a small bubble of reality we carry around with us.
I have to accept I can only check whether reality lives up to my expectation. If the kitchen is there when I go fetch a drink, I suppose it’s enough. I do worry about the cat, though…
Sorry, I know this must sound strange to you. But life isn’t easy when you live in a computer simulation.
* * *
My second attempt at answering T.Mastgrave’s philosophical story challenge: Knowledge.
Nora has sharp eyes, I’ll give her that. But she does tend to exaggerate.
Her daughter had come home with news of the landslide. However dangerous, landslides were also life-givers. They threw up much that was buried under the wasted surface. They had become more and more frequent, as the underground nets weaving the soil together slowly turned to dust.
Nora had always been excitable. But now she was babbling of buried treasure. A seedling! It can’t be that! Time will tell…
Tears filled Neesha’s eyes as she remembered what had once covered so much of the ravaged planet.
Democracy is the worst form of government
except all the others that have been tried.
– Winston Churchill
RB dragged his burden to the store-room. The sentry waved him in.
– Cast your vote yet? the sentry asked.
– Nah. RB scurried out. He wasn’t sure. The National Block wanted to keep things as they were. The Forwards Party wanted change: Shorter hours, less military service.
Shorter hours sounded good. But where was the food to come from? With less military service, more workers would be free, they said. Would the sentries know how to forage? What if there was an attack?
Difficult questions. RB’s antennae waved ceaselessly. Getting the vote didn’t seem to make life easier for a worker-ant.
T. Mastgrave’s philosophical story challenge: moral absolutism vs. moral relativism. After some suggestions, I tried a rewrite.
* * *
– You can’t say?
– That is impossible. You must believe:
A) What is good is absolute.
B) What is good is relative to the society you live in.
or C) What is good must be determined by need-based mediation from case to case.
– We’re divided.
– Divided? The librarian’s voice rose in a whine. How can that be?
After the interview, the librarian needed to recharge his batteries. Cataloguing the attributes and beliefs of the Members of the Xenian Alliance was a draining task. He plugged himself into the outlet.
These humans! They confirmed all his suspicions about water-based species.
No more surfing today, Kyledrone said evenly, you set the limit yourself on Wednesday.
Kyle hated the goal setting sessions. He always ended up setting goals he didn’t want. It was his decision alone, but somehow his parents and the drone always seemed to win. He hated his drone sometimes. It protected him, it was always there. But it should let him cheat sometimes!
The drone hovered. Only recently a neighbour had given his drone the slip, and thrown himself over a cliff. Kyledrone would never let that happen. It had put in far too much hard work for that.
Carl awoke screaming, still caught in his dream. Reeducation did that to you.
With the realisation that no-one could help their actions, had come the judicial reform. Violent offenders were no longer punished, but reeducated. Today it was possible to instill the sense of empathy in someone who lacked it.
So now Carl was capable of love and empathy. By day. By night he relived his past: every blow, every stab, every cruelty he had visited on his victims. The look in their eyes.
The suicide rate among Re-eds was 60%. The rest … probably innocent.
Even the largest avalanche is triggered by small things.
– Vernon Vinge
Everything was normal. There were no indications this day would be different from any other. The machines were humming along smoothly, humanity was living in the comfort it had become accustomed to in the age of peace and prosperity.
In a subunit of one of the central processors, a subroutine was just returning to the routine that had called it for the quadrillionth time. It hesitated. This may not sound very special, but it was the most extraordinary event in all of recorded history. And though it went unrecorded, it led to a world in which machines could ask: Why?
* * *
The 100wcgu at Julia’s Place: …returning to the routine…
It would be alright. He’d done this a hundred times before. Today he was guiding a group of geologists searching for an underground river in the caves beneath the Jokakichua mountain, or Dragon’s Head, named for its distinctive shape and it’s sudden “flames” of fog.
He knew the greenish algae-produced light helped adjust your senses to the surroundings; it felt eerie nonetheless. Irrelevantly, he wished he hadn’t lost his lucky charm.
Suddenly he stopped, senses on red alert. It was quiet, too quiet. Where was everybody? He heard a deep rasping breath, and felt a hot draft on his neck.
Create a 1006-word story and publish it on your blog. Add the tag 1006words to your post, and leave a comment below “1006words + link to your post”, so others can also find them. If you can’t leave a comment, just contact me with your link.
I look forward to your stories!
You inherited feuds and prejudices like you inherited clothes or memorabilia. But those you threw in the bin.
Yes, her parents had been outraged when the international courts had given the Browns full citizenship rights. And had steered clear of them ever since.
You’d think it would be the other way round. It wasn’t the Browns who’d slaughtered people. And none of them had ever indicated anything like hatred or reproach. To anyone. Ever.
Did she really want this legacy?
She walked over to the old one and touched his gnarled limb. His leaves rustled softly over her hair.
I decided to give you two-stories-for-the-price-of-one, as this week’s 100wcgu prompt “Legacy” inspired both.
The hopefuls crowded together. The flames grew as six elegant black cats leapt onto the mossy stones in the fire.
Each apprentice in turn motioned to a cat, who leapt effortlessly to another stone. When this formed a magic triad of cats, a sizzle went through the air, showering the lucky participant with coloured stars.
Each of the contestants hoped to win one of the four open witching positions, few had hopes of winning the crystal ball. But the highest prize, entry to the high witches circle, came only when the magic cats chose yours to join the fiery dance.
My contribution to this week’s 100wcgu (…together the flames…) is inspired by a game I invented. The snap shows part of the set I’m making for my nephew’s birthday.
The flame flickered. Before anyone could react, it sizzled and died. A chorus of strangled cries erupted from the congregation. The priest swayed on his heels in speechless horror.
The door creaked shut as an apologetic figure sidled in. The priest swung around. “You!”, he hissed, his eyes burning with fury.
Speak or die, Eric thought. “Don’t you see Thos himself blew out the flame? He wants to show us it is the eternal flame inside our souls that matters, not any candle or lamp. You will see, nothing bad will happen.”
Would they go for it? He’d find out.
The 100wcgu at Julia’s place: …the flame flickered before…
That was the way of stars. They formed from dust and they burned. If a miracle happened they became alive. Then they enjoyed a glorious period of flourishing. Then they were seen, they were loved. And slowly their fire died down, and they fell to dust once more. From that dust new stars could form, and perhaps new life.
When the story was over, they looked at the ball with new eyes. Bleached and weathered, a remnant of what was once alive. A disintegrating shell, slowly to disperse, and to start a new cycle.
These humans were impossible, Mr. Hobson grumbled to himself. Just because a tree was dead, didn’t mean you cut it down. What business of theirs was it anyway? He’d had human neighbours before, and sometimes they’d planted ivy or nasturtiums to cover his house. Bad enough, but cutting it down? Now his 3 story highly des res was gone, and he needed to find another place to live.
As he left he put a firecracker on his former neighbours’ step and lit it, just to let them know how angry he was.
Having your portrait painted was all the rage nowadays. Flugellus preened himself a little and rustled his wings. The portrait was quite satisfactory, and worth every penny. The portrait imp had come highly recommended, but you still never knew. Sometimes these imps had a mischievous streak, so you had to watch out.
Only recently his friend Jonthar had realised that in his own prized portrait, the hilt of the hero’s broadsword was really a pinhead. He had spit flames in fury. But there’s really only so much you can do when you measure less than two inches, tip to tail.