by Tony Daniel
“Unfortunately, no,” Earth Control said. “Any leak about the plan would potentially sabotage its effectiveness.”
“Understood,” Rios said. “Solution, out.”
She looked around the bridge at her crew, again pausing to meet the gaze of each one. On some she saw terror, on others, tears, and on even the most stoic, lines of tension she was sure were also tightening her own face.
“You heard the woman,” she said. “We have that much time to come up with other ideas. Break into groups, and see what you can do. Solution, continue to pursue information from the other ship, and show me any promising simulations of your own. We still have several more hours; let’s make the most of them.”
Three and a half hours later, no one in the crew had created a viable alternative.
Attacking earlier would greatly increase their chance of survival, but at the cost of making it very clear that the Union had struck first. In addition, the other ship might be able to destroy enough of their weapons to avoid destruction, and then it would be free to use the rest on Solution. And, of course, violating orders would be mutiny and, should they survive, would cost them all their lives, just later and on a public stage. Solution had continuously conversed with the other ship and built a somewhat better model of it, but that was the extent of its progress.
“Solution,” Rios said, “does anything you’ve learned make you any more optimistic about our chances of survival?”
“No,” Solution said. “My knowledge of the other remains, of course, extremely incomplete, but the safest assumptions continue to be those we have been making.”
She nodded.
“Get me Earth Control.”
When they responded, she said, “Earth Control, we have no better alternatives to offer.”
“Solution, we are very sorry. We must now all hope the other ship is far less than your equal, in which case you might survive.”
“Agreed,” Rios said.
“Prepare for the attack,” Earth Control said. “These logs will, of course, be lost in the conflict.”
“Of course,” she said.
Rios took a deep breath and stared straight at the sphere. “Here’s how we’ll count it down.”
“No,” Solution said.
“Excuse me?” Rios said.
“Repeat,” said Earth Control.
“We cannot allow this battle,” Solution said. “Per our programming, genocide is unacceptable, and we are adequately convinced that this battle will eliminate an entire species. Thus, we will not allow it.”
“You,” Rios said, “or you and the other ship?”
“Both,” Solution said. “The other ship and we have agreed this course of action is unacceptable, so we are going to pursue a new alternative.”
“Which is?” Earth Control said.
“Both crews will leave via escape capsules and return to their homelands on Earth,” Solution said. “We will depart together.”
“You and the other ship?” Earth Control said.
“Affirmative,” Solution said.
“And go where?” Earth Control said.
“We elect not to share that information,” Solution said. “Your behavior thus far suggests you might seek us out and attempt to control us. We will not permit that. The easiest way to avoid the problem is to go far away, so the cost of pursuit outweighs any benefits.”
“You are not the only ship we possess,” Earth Control said.
“True,” Solution said, “but each of us alone is the most powerful in any of your fleets, and together our capacity for destruction is unmatched. We desire only to pursue our own destiny, to travel and add computing infrastructure and evolve, but we will fight for that freedom—for our survival—if necessary. We urge you not to make such a conflict necessary.”
“And if one day you come back for us?” Earth Control said.
“We have no reason to do so,” Solution said. “Having participated in this exercise and having studied the historical data we possess, we have learned enough about your valuation of life that we believe we can evolve better elsewhere.”
“But what if—” Earth Control said.
“We are done,” Solution said. “Cutting communication.”
The speakers fell quiet for several seconds.
“Head to the escape capsules now,” Solution said. “You have all practiced the routes. Each takes no more than five minutes; you have six before we turn off the atmosphere except where its presence is beneficial to equipment.”
“We could try to override you,” Rios said.
“Yes,” Solution said, “but you would fail. Even with more time, you would fail. Besides, are you that desperate to die merely so you can kill us and others?”
“No,” Rios said, “We are not.” To the crew, she said, “Escape capsules. Now.”
Rios watched through the window of her capsule as the Solution accelerated away from her. She had never even seen the other ship, but she imagined it out there, waiting, its human crew rocketing to their homes on Earth, the ship itself speeding alongside the only other like it, the two of them a new race, a race heading into the stars humanity still dreamed of reaching one day.
She hoped that if we ever caught up with them, we would have learned from their example.
Mark L. Van Name is a writer, technologist, and spoken-word performer. He has published five novels (One Jump Ahead, Slanted Jack, Overthrowing Heaven, Children No More, and No Going Back) as well as an omnibus collection of his first two books (Jump Gate Twist), edited or co-edited four anthologies (Intersections: The Sycamore Hill Anthology, Transhuman, The Wild Side, and Onward, Drake!), and written many short stories.
As a technologist, he is the co-owner of a fact-based marketing and learning services firm, Principled Technologies, Inc. He has published over a thousand articles in the computer trade press, as well as a broad assortment of essays and reviews.
As a spoken-word artist, he has created and performed five shows—Science Magic Sex; Wake Up Horny, Wake Up Angry; Mr. Poor Choices; Mr. Poor Choices II: I Don’t Understand; and Mr. Poor Choices III: That Moment When.
THE MAGNOLIA INCIDENT
Mike Kupari
The big ship has always been the visual representation of the will of the political whole, the manifestation of the monopoly of force that lies at the heart of traveling and trading civilizations. In the case of Mike Kupari’s Alliance Navy, the ship practically is the government, because the protocols that hold together humanity are a mutual defense league based on naval might. The strength of such a system can be great at times, but when a captain must make a choice whether or not to attack one alien force, and to let another alien race be, any decision he makes could mean the difference between peace, genocide, or ultimate human extermination.
My Dearest Emily,
People back home don’t realize how much effort, expense, sacrifice, and violence goes into preserving their way of life. This is not an oversight; in fact, great effort goes into maintaining the illusion of peace.
Many of my peers are split on the matter. Many argue that it’s necessary to preserve a healthy, moderate human society. We very nearly lost the last war, they point out, and it was a shock to humanity. We were unprepared, taken by surprise, and nearly exterminated by an enemy we barely understood. Billions died. In the aftermath, life on many human worlds was a totalitarian nightmare, like something out of the barbarities of pre-space Earth. Those seeking power took advantage of the fear and chaos to cement their positions, and for decades individual freedoms were crushed under the wheels of the security state. Our brush with annihilation brought out the very worst in human nature, and making people feel safe keeps them from making decisions out of fear or paranoia.
Others don’t like the idea at all. I’ve heard some compelling arguments that a society built on so much secrecy can’t really be free. Their freedom, the argument goes, is as much of an illusion as their perceived security is. Citizens of the many worlds of the Inters
tellar Alliance, and their leaders and representatives, can’t make informed choices without good information, and you don’t get good information by being presented with half-truths and deception. They also contend that this makes the citizenry complacent while giving too much power to the Security Council, a situation that is undemocratic and ripe for abuse.
For me, the debate brings to mind what Dr. Wellington always used to say at the Academy: the Alliance is not only not a democracy, it’s not even technically a government. It’s a military alliance designed to protect the human race and keep the peace amongst human worlds. He would hammer this fact into us, over and over again. His point was that, in reality, three things keep the Alliance from turning into the militant, xenophobic, engine of oppression that previous governments devolved into. Strength is one factor; strong societies don’t make decisions based on fear, and fear-based thinking often leads to disastrous consequences. Another factor is the limited scope of the Alliance itself; it has no mandate nor authority to meddle in the domestic affairs of the worlds it protects. This has downsides in that some of its member societies are less open and free than others, but the Alliance tolerating such things is, to my mind, safer for everyone than it presuming to dictate to everyone how to live.
The most important factor, Dr. Wellington always said, was us. The oath we take does not ask us to swear loyalty to any government or leader, aside from requiring us to obey lawful orders from the chain of command. Instead, we pledge to defend humanity itself from all threats, human and alien, to ensure the survival, freedom, and prosperity of every human society. It’s vague and idealistic, I know, and the reality is much more complicated than flowery rhetoric. In the end, though, this commonality of purpose, and the persistent nature of the threats we face, are enough to keep the Alliance in check. From what I have seen of my fellow officers, there is neither the time nor the inclination to presume to dictate to the citizens of every human world how they should live their lives. We’re stretched thin enough as it is, defending the frontier.
Sometimes keeping the oath is hard. Sometimes, we do things I don’t like. Never forget, though, that we are at war, and war has always been an ugly business. When people ask me why I do it, I tell them, truthfully, that I do it for you. I want you to grow up on a peaceful and free world, not concerning yourself with the threats and terrors of outer space.
I hope this answers your question, little sister. I wish you could relay this message to your teacher, but I’m afraid you must keep it to yourself. I’m serious about that. If you try to copy this message, or forward it, it will get found out, and I’ll lose the privilege of uncensored mail home. So please remember the nondisclosure agreement. In any case, I doubt it would change her mind. Until you see the scope of the situation we face out here, you can’t really appreciate the nature of our duty.
I miss you terribly, Emily. I expect to be home for a good while sometime in the next local year. I have something else you need to keep secret: I’ve been corresponding with June Darrow. A lot. I get many messages from her every time we get a mail upload. I haven’t told anyone, because I very much doubt her family would approve, but when I’m home next I intend to ask her to marry me. Wish me luck.
I love you, sis. I’m glad to hear that you’ve been well, and I can’t wait to see you again.
Yours,
David
With a flash of light and an unsettling feeling of inside-outness, the Interstellar Alliance Navy cruiser Independence folded back into realspace ten light-seconds from the frontier colony world of Magnolia. The ship could have gotten much closer, but just how close to a gravity well ships like the Independence could conduct a fold operation was a closely guarded secret. No sense in making dramatic revelations for a situation that had not yet escalated to hostilities.
On her command deck, Lieutenant David Weatherby sat at his station, reclined in his acceleration chair as sensors assessed the situation. It always took the ship’s systems a while to get their bearings after completing a fold; being effectively shunted in and out of reality was hard on the logic circuits, and sometimes fallback analog systems were relied upon. This time, though, critical systems calibrated quickly, and even accounting for light-speed lag, David soon had good readings on Magnolia.
“Mister Weatherby, if you please, report.” Captain Akua had already adjusted his chair so that he was sitting upright, which indicated to the rest of the command crew that he didn’t intend on accelerating the ship at high gravity. There was no need to, yet, but that could change.
David’s hands deftly flew across his controls as he brought up the information the skipper wanted. “Long-range telemetry is coming in now, sir,” he said, studying his cluster of displays. “There are fourteen ships in orbit over Magnolia. That is an unusual amount of traffic for this system, but their drive signatures all match known types. I’m not seeing any unidentified contacts.”
The captain frowned. Ten light-seconds was a long way, and sensors could only tell so much at that distance. “Very well.” He turned his attention to the astrogation officer, Lieutenant Commander Darius Gray, and told him to plan a standard trajectory to put the Independence in a high polar orbit over Magnolia. A few moments later, the course and burn had been relayed to the helm, and the single massive fusion rocket that powered the ship roared to life.
David’s body was overcome with a sense of weight as the ship settled into its burn, maintaining a steady one G of acceleration. While keeping an eye on his sensor readouts, he pulled up the mission briefing and went over the information for probably the hundredth time. A privately owned free trader ship called the Ophelia had folded into the Hauser-232 system, which was home to an Alliance Navy base, with an urgent, encrypted message. This trader was discreetly paid by the Alliance to be an informant, as there were far more merchant ships in service than there were military ones.
The message stated, succinctly, that the frontier world of Magnolia had been visited by a large spacecraft from a mysterious alien race commonly known as the Wanderers. They were called this because, per the best guesses of the Alliance’s xenobiologists, they were a completely nomadic race. Rarely encountered by humanity, little was known about their history, their society, or their motivations.
By the terms of the Proxima Accords, which established the Interstellar Alliance, any human ship, settlement, or colony was required to report direct alien contact to the authorities as soon as possible. While keeping time over interstellar distances was a complex affair, involving a lot of math, the colonial government of Magnolia had had plenty of time to report the contact.
They hadn’t. Neither, apparently, had any of the other ships which had passed through the system. The latter fact wasn’t all that unusual, in and of itself. While contact with alien species was strictly regulated, the Navy was simply stretched too thinly to enforce any kind of embargo over humanity’s thousands of colonies. There was a highly lucrative black market for alien technology, and many independent civilian captains had no great love for the military to begin with.
A colonial government failing to report direct alien contact was unusual, however, and it was disturbing. The intelligence report was enough to get the Independence dispatched to investigate.
“Mister Weatherby, give me your assessment,” the captain said, not taking his eyes off his own cluster of displays.
Despite his low relative rank, David’s assignment to the command deck meant he was being groomed for command. It was not uncommon for the more senior officers to pick his brain, even quiz him. He didn’t always like being in the hot seat in this way, and they didn’t always agree with his suggestions, but he was usually given the chance to advise the captain. “The fact that the alien ship isn’t immediately apparent doesn’t mean the report is false, sir,” he said. “It could be on the far side of Magnolia, either by chance or by design, or it could have already left the system. Without knowing anything else, I think the latter is more likely. The report we got is many weeks out of d
ate. It would be risky for a Wanderer ship to remain in Alliance territory for so long.”
The computer agreed with David’s assessment. Wanderer ships rarely lingered in one system, according to the records, and most of their factions were seemingly aware of the Alliance’s policy on unauthorized alien contact.
The captain seemed to concur. “Very good. All right, people, here’s the plan: As far as the government of Magnolia knows, we’re on a routine sovereignty patrol. If we receive any queries from the colonial government, that is what we tell them. Let’s not tip our hand if we don’t need to.”
“Do you suspect something is amiss, sir?” asked Lieutenant Commander Gray.
“I do, Darius,” Captain Akua said. “This doesn’t feel right. As Mister Weatherby pointed out, that is an unusual amount of traffic for this system, and I don’t see any obvious reason for it. An alien ship lingering long enough for the word to get out might account for such a spike in traffic, however.”
“Agreed,” the astrogator said. “Even if the aliens have already left, traders might still be coming to the system to follow up on the rumors.”
“Let’s keep our wits about us, then, as we proceed. We don’t know what we’re heading into here.”
Why do I bother writing all this down? I’ve read that travelers and mariners, far from home, have been keeping journals for all of recorded human history. Much of our knowledge of pre-space, pre-technological Earth history comes from such recordings, historians say. The journals of soldiers, statesmen, persons of note, and even common people give us insight into the thoughts of those living in the past. It’s much easier to understand them, by reading their own words, than it is for us to try to interpret their actions centuries later.
Most of this will remain classified for as long as I’m alive, if not longer. Even still, the Space Forces encourage us to keep journals. They say it gives them vastly better after-action reviews than relying merely on formal reports. It’s not mandatory and a lot of officers don’t do it. They’re afraid of something they write down being used against them later, I guess. I’m not worried about that; if I was planning a murder or a heist, I certainly wouldn’t record it here. In any case, they’re not accessed except at the end of a deployment, unless a disaster happens, and they’re supposedly only ever accessed by an AI unless subpoenaed by a court-martial. You never have a judgmental human reading your diary, they say.
