Insistence of Vision (32 page)

A little lagniappe…

A Retrospective by Jules Verne

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(as told to Gregory Benford and David Brin)

In reflecting back on the terrible year described in these accounts, it may come to be seen as a fulcrum in time. The pivot, indeed, of modernity.
That is if we, the thinking beings who stride under a common sun, learn to rise above ourselves.

About that single turn of an orbit, there tipped the fate of two worlds, two darkly different destinies. With the balm of three decades to heal the pain, one can perceive benefits – though bought at dear cost – in the tragic way that Mars first encountered Earth.
Indeed it may have led to a better fate for humanity than might have been, had the tripods never come.
For by uniting our genus against a shared foe, the Martians deflected those festering nationalist energies that had seemed aimed toward a Twentieth Century in which our finest tools would be used for beastly ends. Instead, the invaders forced us to join together, redirecting all ingenuity and will toward a common cause.

So we now have the world of marvels that you, dear reader, and I your humble editor, now inhabit. We blink in fulsome awe at palatial floating airships, at Cunard’s ornate tourist-submersibles, at pneumatic tubes carrying mail rapidly from town to town – while our still-muddy roads thwart the steam-buses and cable lorries – so that even in the worst winter storms we all remain linked in a united world.

And of course there are the Great Cannons of Canaveral, Sumatra, Kourou and Kenya – those behemoths of iron who regularly bellow loud enough to be heard even in distant lands, filling the sky above with useful mirror-semaphores and other delights of the modern age.

A further benefit lies in literature – in a resurgent conviction that the world is illimitable and will obey reason, so that Man can improve upon it. This is remarkable in light of the waning decades of the 19th century, which saw futuristic thinking, in the hands of Mr. Wells and others, that leaned darker in texture and implication.

So it is in a reflective mood that I enter these very words onto the clicking kinetiscope array of my
tabula rasa
– the latest of modern wonders.
It is two weeks before my hundredth birthday. Never would I have thought that I could reach the fantastical year of 1928!

My reflection is deepened further in contemplating the news received just hours ago by Hertzian wave from the first human interplanetary argonauts, scouts of the grand flotilla meant to return that “visit” we received from the red planet a generation – and an age – ago.

Mars proves, as we suspected, to be a sad, wounded place, ancient and dry.
One can well imagine why a bitter,
paranoic
way of thinking would evolve there – if I might apply a term used by the new guild of professional mentalists. Relayed carbon-stripe images of Martian cities show the canals with which they desperately sought to stave off the ravages of time.
The pictures also show structures of exquisite grace and beauty, unencumbered by Earthly gravity.

The same gravity that will make our warriors seem as titans when they land... unless the Martians finally drop their wretched, prideful silence.

They must agree to speak!
They must help bridge the mental gulf between our races, yawning as wide as the vacuum straits between our worlds – or else we shall have no choice. Our actions will be
fore-ordained and there will be an end to the makers of those fine towers.

Despite lingering wrathful unforgiveness on the part of some, it is mostly with reluctance that we ponder that genocidal option. For in learning to decipher their machines – and through dissection, their organic forms – there has grown among countless humans an unquenchable desire to fathom the inner splendor and grace of these hideous but strangely compelling beings. There are even fetishists, small in number but leaders in recent fashion,
who seek to emulate the styles, speech and even the eerie ways of thought that some interpolate from salvaged Martian records.

To be sure, many disapprove of this effort at exaggerated empathy, but with my renown I assail such intolerance. Clearly, our celestial neighbors suffer from an inflexibility that cripples them far more than it ever harmed us – millions of deaths notwithstanding. If it is possible to cure them of this mortal flaw, it will only happen if youthful, flexible humankind manages to meet them more than halfway.

If I had my way, I would save as many of the poor creatures as I could from the two-legged wrath now descending toward the red world. If need be, I would have everyone –
go Martian
– just a little.
In this, I recall what one of my own favorite characters, Captain Nemo, once said –

The true price of war is borne by mothers.

Or, in the words of my young friend and collaborator, Herbert George Wells –

Ignorance has caused more calamity than malignity.

An astronomical whole would be greater by far than the sum of our separate parts. We should not stride as conquerors, lonely in our righteous, vengeful vindication. We should not stand on the dry red plain of ashes that we have won. We should go to Mars to learn, even from the defeated.

Ponder the relations of the advanced nations of Europe and the Americas, and the vaster multitudes still enduring poverty and nescience around the rest of our troubled globe. We of the West have in a true, cultural sense, defeated the empires of ancient ignorance. They now cower in our shadow. But to gloat is to court death. For the liberated spirits of the East are rising now, and they will accept nothing less than equality, nor will the rousing minds of the great South. The Western world must reach out, here, to the rest, with the same ecumenical soulfulness and patience that I urge we’ll take across interplanetary space.

In the oblique manner of lived history, we must now grasp that it is better to contemplate eventual reconciliation, world linked to world. And so brotherhood must come, in parallel, to Mars.

– Jules Verne

Amiens, France,

October 1928

WHO WE’LL MEET

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The following tale takes some guts…

Fortitude

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The aliens seemed especially concerned over matters of
genealogy
.

“It is the only way we can be sure with whom we are dealing,” said the spokes-being for the Galactic Federation. Terran-Esperanto words emerged through a translator device affixed to the creature’s speaking vent, between purple, compound eyes. “Citizen species of the Federation will have nothing to do with you humans. Not until you can be properly introduced.”

“But
you’re
speakin’ to us, right now!” Jane Fingal protested. “You’re not makin’ bugger-all sense, mate.”

Jane was our astronomer aboard the
Straits of Magellan.
She had first spotted the wake of the N’Gorm ship as it raced by, far swifter than any Earth vessel, and it had been Jane’s idea to pulse our engines, giving off weak gravity waves to attract their attention. For several days she had labored to help solve the language problem, until a meeting could be arranged between our puny ETS survey probe and the mighty N’Gorm craft.

Still, I was surprised when Kwenzi Mobutu, the Zairean anthropologist, did not object to Jane’s presence in the docking bubble, along with our official contact team. Kwenzi seldom missed a chance to play up tension between Earth’s two greatest powers – Royal Africa and the Australian Imperium – even during this historic first encounter with a majestic alien civilization.

The alien slurped mucousy sounds into its mouthpiece, and out came more computer-generated words.

“You misunderstand. I am merely a convenience, a construct-entity, fashioned to be as much like you as possible, thereby to facilitate your evaluation. I have no name, and will return to the vats when this is done.”

Fashioned to be like us?
I must have stared. (Everyone else did.) The being in front of us was bipedal and had two arms. On top were objects and organs we had tentatively named ears and a mouth. Beyond that, he (She? It?) seemed about as alien as could be.

“Yipes!” Jane commented. “I’d hate to meet your
boss
in a dark alley, if you’re the handsomest bloke they could come up with.”

I saw Mobutu, the African aristocrat, smile. That’s when I realized why he had not vetoed Jane’s presence, but relished it.

He knows this meeting is being recorded for posterity. If she makes a fool of herself here, at the most solemn meeting of races, it could win points against Australians back home
.

“As I have tried to explain,” the alien reiterated. “You will not meet my “boss” or any other citizen entity. Not until we are satisfied that your lineage is worthy.”

While our Israeli and Tahitian xenobiologists conferred over this surprising development, our Patagonian captain stared out through the docking bubble at the Federation ship whose great flanks arched away, gleaming, in all directions. Clearly, he yearned to bring these advanced technologies home to the famed shipyards of Tierra del Fuego.

“Perhaps I can be helpful in this matter,” Kwenzi Mobutu offered confidently. “I have some small expertise. When it comes to tracking one’s family tree, I doubt any other human aboard can match my own genealogy.

His smile was a gleaming white contrast against gorgeously-perfect black skin, the sort of rich complexion that trendy people from pole to pole had been using chemicals to emulate, when we left home.

“Even before the golden placards of Abijian were discovered, my family line could be traced back to the great medieval households of Ghana. But since the recovery of those sacred records, it has been absolutely verified that my lineage goes all the way to the black pharaohs of the XXth Dynasty – an unbroken chain of four thousand years.”

Mobutu’s satisfaction faded when the alien replied with a dismissive wave.

“That interval is far too brief. Nor are we interested in the time-thread of mere individuals. Larger groups concern us.”

Jane Fingal chuckled, and Mobutu whirled on her angrily.

“Your attitude suits a mongrel nation whose ancestors were criminal transportees, and whose “emperor” is chosen at a
rugby match!”

“Hey. Our king’d whip yours any day, even half-drunk and with ‘is arse in a sling.”

“Colleagues!” I hastened to interrupt. “These are serious matters. A little decorum, if you please?”

The two shared another moment’s hot enmity, until Nechemia Meyers spoke up.

“Perhaps they refer to
cultural
continuity. If we can demonstrate that one of our social traditions has a long history, stretching back –”

“– five thousand years?” inserted Mohandas Nayyal, our linguist from Delhi Commune. “Of course the Hindi tradition, as carried by the Vedas, goes back easily that far.”

“Actually,”
Meyers continued, a bit miffed. “I was thinking more along the lines of
six
thousand –”

He cut short as the alien let out a warbling sigh, waving both “hands.”

“Once again, you misconstrue. The genealogy we seek
is
genetic, but a few thousand of your years is wholly inadequate.”

Jane muttered – “Bugger! It’s like dickering with a Pattie over the price of a bleeding iceberg... no offense, Skipper.”

The captain returned a soft smile. Patagonians are an easy-going lot, til you get down to business.

“Well then,” Mobutu resumed, nodding happily. “I think we can satisfy our alien friends, and win Federation membership, on a purely
biochemical
basis. For many years now, the Great Temple in Abijian has gathered DNA samples from every sub-race on Earth, correlating and sorting to trace out our genetic relationships. Naturally, African bloodlines were found to be the least mutated from the central line of inheritance –”

Jane groaned again, but this time Kwenzi ignored her.

“– stretching back to our fundamental common ancestor, that beautiful, dark ancestress of all human beings, the one variously called Eva, or M’tum, who dwelled on the eastern fringes of what is now the Zairean Kingdom, over
three million years ago!”

So impressive was Mobutu’s dramatic delivery that even the least sanguine of our crew felt stirred, fascinated and somewhat awed. But then the N’Gorm servant-entity vented another of its frustrated sighs.

“I perceive that I am failing in my mission to communicate with lesser beings. Please allow me to try once again.

“We in the Federation are constantly being plagued by young, upstart species, rising out of planetary nurseries and immediately yammering for attention, claiming rights of citizenship in our ancient culture. At times, it has been suggested that we should routinely sterilize such places – filthy little worlds – or at least eliminate noisy, adolescent infestations by targeting their early stages with radio-seeking drones. But the
Kutathi
, who serve as judges and law-givers in the Federation, have ruled this impermissible. There are few crimes worse than meddling in the natural progress of a nursery world. All we can do is snub the newcomers, and restrict them to their home systems until they have matured enough for decent company.

“That’s
all?”
The Captain spoke for the first time, aghast at what this meant – an end to the Earth’s bold ventures with interstellar travel. Crude our ships might be, by galactic standards, but humanity was proud of them. They were a unifying force, binding fractious nations in a common cause. It was awful to imagine that our expedition might be the last.

The translator apparently failed to convey the Captain’s sarcasm. The alien envoy-entity nodded in solemn agreement.

“Yes, that is all. So you may rejoice, in your own pathetic way, that your world is safe for you to use up or destroy any way you see fit, since that is the typical way most puerile species finish their brief lifespans. If, by some chance, you escape this fate, you will eventually be allowed to send forth your best and brightest to serve in carefully chosen roles, earning eventual acceptance on the lowest rungs of proper society.”

Jane Fingal growled. “Why you puffed-up pack of pseudo-pommie bast –”

I cut in with urgent speed. “Excuse me, but there is one thing I fail to understand. You spoke earlier of an “evaluation.” Does this mean that our fate is
not
automatic?”

The alien emissary regarded me for a long time, as if pondering whether I deserved an answer, Finally, it must have decided I was not that much lower than my crewmates, anyway. It acknowledged my query with a nod.

“There
is
an exception – if you can prove a relationship with a citizen race. To determine that possibility was the purpose of my query about species-lineage.”

“Ah, now it becomes clear,” Mohandas Nayyal said. “You want to know if we are
genetically related
to one of your high-born castes. Does this imply that those legends may be true? That star beings have descended, from time to time, to engage in sexual congress with our ancestors? By co-mingling their seed with ours, they meant to generously endow and improve our...”

He trailed off as we all saw the N’Gorm quiver. Somehow, disgust was conveyed quite efficiently across its expressive “face.”

“Please, do not be repulsive in your bizarre fantasies. The behavior you describe is beyond contemplation, even by the mentally ill. Not only is it physically and biologically absurd, but it assumes the high-born might
wish
to improve the stock of bestial nuisances. Why in the universe would they want to do such a thing?”

Ignoring the bald insult, Meyers, the exobiologist added –

“It’s unlikely for another reason. Human DNA has been probed and analyzed for three centuries. We have a pretty good idea where most of it came from. We’re creatures of the Earth, no doubt about it.”

When he saw members of the contact team glaring at him, Meyers shrugged. “Oh, it would all come out in time, anyway. Don’t you think they’d analyze any claim we made?”

“Correct,” buzzed the translator. “And we would bill you for the effort.”

“Well, I’m still confused,” claimed our Uzbecki memeticist. “You make it sound as if there is no way we could be related to one of your citizen-races, so why this grilling about our genealogy?”

“A formality, required by law. In times past, a few exceptional cases won status by showing that they possessed common genes with highborn ones.”

“And how did these commonalities come about?” Mobutu asked, still miffed over the rejection of his earlier claims.

The N’Gorm whistled yet another sigh. “Not all individuals of every species behave circumspectly. Some, of noble birth, have been known to go down to planets, seeking thrills, or testing their mettle to endure filth and heavy gravity.”

“In other words, they go slumming!” Jane Fingal laughed. “Now
those
are the only blokes I’d care to meet, in your whole damn Federation.”

I caught Jane’s eye, gesturing for restraint. She needn’t make things worse than they already were. The whole of Earth would watch recordings of what passed here today.

Nechemia Meyers shook his head. “I can see where all this is leading. When galactics go
slumming
, as Jane colorfully put it, they risk unleashing alien genes into the ecosystem of a nursery world. This is forbidden interference in the natural development of such planets. It
also
makes possible a genetic link that could prove embarrassing later, when that world spawns a star-travelling race.”

The translator buzzed gratification. “At last, I have succeeded in conveying the basic generalities. Now, before we take your ship in tow, and begin the quarantine of your wretched home system, I am required by law to offer you a chance. Do you wish formally to claim such a genetic link to one of our citizen races? Remember that we will investigate in detail, at your expense.”

A pall seemed to settle over the assembled humans. This was not as horrible as some of the worst literary fantasies about alien contact, but it was pretty bad. Apparently, the galaxy was ruled by an aristocracy of age and precedence. One that jealously guarded its status behind a veneer of hypocritical law.

“How can we
know
whether or not to make such a claim!” Kwenzi Mobutu protested. “Unless we meet your high castes for ourselves.”

“That will not happen. Not unless your claim is upheld.”

“But –”

“It hardly matters,” inserted Nechemia, glumly.

We turned and the Captain asked – “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we cannot make such a claim. The evidence refutes it. All we need is to look at the history of life on Earth.

“Consider, friends. Why did we think for so long that we were alone in the cosmos? It wasn’t just that our radio searches for intelligent life turned up nothing, decade after decade. Aliens
could
have efficient technologies that make them abandon radio, the way we gave up signal-drums. This is exactly what we found to be the case.

“No, a much stronger argument for our uniqueness lay in the sedimentary rocks of our own world.