The Athenians never entertained the possibility that the strong, instead of exploiting the existing system, might use their power to change it—while they still can. It is not easy to do. To choose not to exploit is hard enough, but to ensure that others will follow your example when they come to power requires you to reimagine the world, upend norms, and build mechanisms that will secure a new equilibrium. Neither the weak nor the strong can do this. Only the truly powerful have a shot at bending the arc of history in this way. But the truly powerful exist as a paradox: they live in constant fear of losing their status but are somehow incapable of imagining a future in which their empire has crumbled.
~ 97 ~
Kilmer was horrified, angry, and afraid. But more than anything, he was shocked. He had certainly never tried to imagine how someone might eliminate a civilization without annihilating a race—but this was not what he would have imagined if he had.
Archidamus had made clear what the future held. But would the likes of Whitman, Strauss, Nielsen, or Druckman accept it? The Indians, the East Asians, the Europeans—and the nations of the Middle East and North Africa—all had histories that were much longer than those of the Americans. They might resist even more strongly. But would it matter? Archidamus seemed convinced that resistance would be useless. Would people still fight to the end? Or would the nations of Earth surrender after a few million—or a few hundred million—human beings were slaughtered?
Kilmer didn’t envy the position Earth’s leaders would find themselves in. They would face an impossible choice. He wasn’t even sure what advice he would give to Whitman if he were around when the time came.
It hardly mattered. It was almost irrelevant whether humans fought to the end, or not at all. Either way, human civilization was about to meet a terrible end.
Unless Kilmer did something about it.
But the only thing he could think to do was keep shaking the tree in the hope that something of value might shake loose and fall into his hands. He had to ask more questions. There had to be something he had not yet considered.
He tried again. Another question. Another angle. Another chance—no matter how small.
“Do you expect resistance from Earth?”
“Yes. But we do not expect a long war. We will quickly demonstrate that we can kill many millions of human beings without suffering casualties on our side. A few demonstrations should be enough to make the point. Guerilla resistance will likely continue for a few years, and it will be able to inflict some casualties, but it will not slow down the process to any significant degree. The loss of life on our end will be limited and acceptable.”
“And if humanity decides it will fight to the end? Will you kill us all? Isn’t that genocide? Isn’t that illegal?”
“We are not allowed to attack with the intention of genocide, but there is nothing to stop us from wiping out an alien race if it refuses to accept the alternative we are offering. But again, I do not think human beings, of even a single nation, will choose to fight to the end once they see our capabilities.”
Archidamus was probably right about how things would play out. There would be fighting, rioting, looting, vigilantism, countless attempts to skirt compliance, and much more—maybe even mass suicides—but none of these were likely to change the outcome. At best, they would add a few years to Citadel’s process.
Another dead end.
“What happens to me during this time?” Kilmer asked. “Am I returned to Earth, eventually, to have my memories erased as well? Do I at least get to say goodbye to the people I care about before you do that?”
“No. From this moment on, your path is separate from theirs. You will not see the people of Earth again, and in exchange, your memories will be spared. You will remember everything.”
“Is that my reward for playing the role you have assigned me in this show trial? What if I prefer to return to Earth, even if that means my memories will be deleted? What if I wish to be there with my friends, if only for the final moments before you destroy our civilization? Do I have that option?”
“No. You have no choice in the matter. And it is not a reward, Kilmer, but our obligation to the people of Earth. I said earlier that we never wish to repeat what was done to the Wanderers—and the genocide we committed was only one of the tragedies in that war. Do you remember what else I told you about it?”
To be remembered only by your enemies—to have no one left to tell your side of the story—is the worst imaginable fate for any people.
“I do,” said Kilmer. “So, now you hope to lessen your guilt by keeping one man alive who remembers what existed before you destroyed it all?”
“No, Kilmer. We hope to keep one historian alive who can tell the story of humanity. Your perspective on what led to human civilization’s unfortunate end—your memoirs as the last historian of planet Earth—will be read not only by the inhabitants of Citadel, but far beyond it. Your people will be remembered, not as we saw them, but as they saw themselves. That is the reason you must keep your memories. Whatever we might say about Earth and its people, nothing will be as important as what is written by Earth’s last historian. Your remembrance of Earth’s forgotten past—the good, the bad, the heroic, the tragic, the spectacular, and the mundane—will outlast us all.”
Kilmer was just starting to grapple with the gravity of what was being said to him when he forced himself to stop.
No. I can’t divert my attention to how things will play out after I fail. We’re not there yet. There must be some way out of this. But what?
“I need a few minutes, Archidamus. May I have them?”
“Of course.”
In the silent darkness of the alien vessel, Kilmer went through the questions he had listed for himself before coming to ET-1.
Why now? Why did they visit Earth at this moment in history?
Why was Earth in danger?
Why would the methods that humans had proposed not solve the problem?
Why was ET-1 being so reactive?
What did they plan to judge?
Why had they worked so hard to understand and communicate with humans?
Why did they choose Kilmer?
He had thought that an answer to even one of these questions might help him resolve the crisis. He now had answers to all the questions—he had even found Churchill’s Key—but he was no closer to a solution.
Churchill’s Key.
He flashed back to Churchill’s words.
“I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest.”
The Key was never supposed to be the answer. It was merely a reminder that interests drive behavior.
Their interests would help explain everything… even the inexplicable.
Citadel’s interest was self-preservation. Not aggrandizement, not status, not dominance, not growth, not exploration, not happiness. Survival—at all costs. Fear was why its citizens did what they did. Why they explored. Why they attacked. Why they committed genocide. Why they deleted civilizations. Why they came to Earth. Why they would do whatever they did next.
Whatever they did next…
The idea gave Kilmer pause, and he delved deeper into it. Was it profound? Maybe not profound, exactly, but it hadn’t been obvious to him. What was it that Archidamus had said?
In the absence of both fear and guilt, there is no reason for a people to question their actions.
Fear. Guilt.
All this time, Kilmer had assumed that fear would motivate Citadel to attack—and that guilt, if heaped on high enough, might get Citadel to back off. And so, Kilmer had tried to do two things: reduce Citadel’s fear by explaining that humans were not a real threat, and increase Citadel’s sense of guilt by portraying an attack on the Earth as unconscionable. If he could reduce fear on one side of the equation and increase guilt on the other side, he might convince Citadel to reverse its decision.
This strategy had been doomed from the start. You could never reduce the level of fear to zero, which was what Citadel required. And guilt—the question of right versus wrong—wasn’t even part of their decision criteria.
It would have to come down to Churchill’s Key.
It’s fear that motivates them to attack. And only fear can make them change their mind.
Not guilt. Fear.
Kilmer could already see another dead end ahead. After all, how could fear stop Citadel from attacking when human beings had no chance—zero—of winning the war? Earth-side couldn’t impose any significant costs on Citadel’s forces. There was nothing for Citadel to fear.
Don’t you dare give up…
Kilmer pushed aside the doubt. There was a dead end ahead, but he wasn’t at the end of the road yet. There might be some small alley he could duck into and still make his way around to the other side. Just keep going.
“I need more time, Archidamus,” he said after almost ten minutes of silent deliberation.
“Take your time, Kilmer. I know it’s a lot to accept.”
Kilmer wasn’t planning to use the extra time to accept anything. He was still fighting. It was the last round of the bout, and he hadn’t won a single round. There was no way to win on points. He needed a knockout.
He held his breath, as if preparing to leap into a pool, and jumped off his chair. The floor was only about three feet below where his feet had been dangling. He stumbled a bit when he landed because he had not known when the impact would occur.
Kilmer reached out in every direction and found nothing other than the chair. Then he walked forward, slowly, his hands stretched out in front of him, until he reached what felt like a wall. He moved just as cautiously in every other direction, and found another wall, a counter, and then some sort of metallic structure or piece of equipment. In all, he had carved out an area—approximately 15 feet by 20 feet in size—that was free of obstructions.
He took a moment to stretch and get rid of the stiffness. Then he walked back and forth in the space he had mapped out in the dark until he no longer had to think about how far he could move in one direction before needing to turn around. All he was missing now was a cup of coffee in his hand.
Kilmer slowed his pace and issued himself a directive. Think.
No way to convince ET-1 we have peaceful intentions.
No way to convince them we will never be a threat.
No way to eliminate all doubts in their mind.
No way to delay their decision. No wiggle room to negotiate with them.
They have only two options: either destroy human civilization or engage peacefully. No third option.
A third option would require a Consent Period. There won’t be another Consent Period for eighty years.
What else?
They don’t care about right versus wrong.
They will answer only three questions. Is there a threat? Can it be eliminated? Can genocide be avoided?
Self-preservation is the Key.
Fear… not guilt. It must be fear. Only fear will drive them away. But what could they possibly have to fear?
Kilmer again asked for more time—and then continued to pace.
There is a solution. It’s in front of you. It’s hiding, but it’s there. You just need to look more carefully.
They have strict guidelines. Only three questions to answer.
They have limited options. Destroy our civilization or engage peacefully. If only there were a third option. The problem is that they have no third option.
The problem… is that they have no third option.
They have no third option.
Suddenly, an image of Silla flashed before his eyes—their first night in the Treaty Room. And he heard her voice.
We have time.
Kilmer stopped walking. His heart was pounding. He closed his eyes and went through the logic again, slowly, disassembling the puzzle and then putting the pieces back together again to see if they still fit.
They did.
And he knew, with certainty, that this was it—his one chance. His only chance.
All or nothing. Do or die.
He opened his eyes and looked out into the darkness as he spoke.
“You’ve made a mistake, Archidamus. And it changes everything. I’m afraid you’re in a lot more trouble than you could have possibly imagined.”
~ 98 ~
“What do you mean, Kilmer? “What is the mistake?”
“You missed it, Archidamus. You missed it completely. Not because you weren’t careful, but because you weren’t looking for it. And I don’t blame you. I almost missed it myself. All this time you were trying to find some way to persuade yourself that humans wouldn’t pose a danger to Citadel. I was trying to do the same thing—to convince you that humanity would never be a threat. But we were looking for the wrong thing. I see that now. And you’re going to see it as well—soon enough.”
Kilmer interjected a pause. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. Please continue.”
“Good. Then let’s start with a pop quiz. But don’t worry, I think it will play to your strengths. Here’s the opening question: What was the first human civilization on Earth?”
“I suppose that would be Mesopotamia.”
“Why do you suppose, Archidamus? You’ve studied this. Why are you not sure?”
“Because we cannot be certain. There were other contenders around the same time.”
“That’s right, Archidamus, there were other contenders. There was Mesopotamia. There was Egypt. There was the Indus Valley. Maybe in that order—but maybe not. All between 3500 BCE and 3000 BCE. Does that sound accurate to you?”
“It does.”
“Three separate civilizations, Archidamus. Arising at roughly the same time. In three different parts of the world. Do you know what they all had in common?”
“They shared some necessary conditions. The climate. The land. The water.”
“Right. All three were in temperate climates. All had flat and fertile land that would be suitable for farming. And all three had access to rivers that could provide the fresh water necessary for agriculture. It’s what allowed them to create the first large cities. Now… do you know what they did not have in common?”
“I am not sure what you mean. There would have been many differences.”
“That’s true. Let’s get back to that question in a few minutes. Let’s talk about something else. Do you know which human civilization invented writing?”
“That is what you call a trick question, Kilmer. Writing was invented multiple times on Earth. By different civilizations. Not just the three civilizations you mentioned earlier, but also in China. It was probably invented in other places as well.”
“Right again. And how about the crossbow? Where was that invented? I’ll give you a hint. This is also a trick question.”
“I do not know where it was invented. But I assume you mean there is more than one correct answer.”
“Indeed. Variations of the crossbow were invented, independently, on four different continents. Now, let’s get back to my earlier question. The one we skipped. What don’t the three earliest civilizations have in common?”
“I think I understand the point you are making, Kilmer. One thing these civilizations did not have in common was a founder or ancestral tribe—they have no shared progenitor. The civilizations developed independently, just like the inventions you named. And I am sure there are other examples that you could have named as well.”
“There are. Too many to remember, in fact. From the discovery of oxygen and magnetism to the invention of calculus and photography. All happening, independently, in different parts of the human world. It’s really quite remarkable, Archidamus. It’s almost hard to imagine that these are mere coincidences.”
Kilmer paused—deliberately—and the silence lasted for almost twenty seconds.
“It is… difficult to imagine,” Archidamus finally conceded
, albeit with some hesitation.
“You’re beginning to see the mistake, Archidamus. And you’re beginning to understand why Citadel has a much bigger problem than you and your friends had imagined. And to make matters worse, you don’t have any way to solve it. At least not any legal way, I should say.”
Archidamus was quiet. Had he understood the implications? Was he working through the logic? Was he conferring with others?
Kilmer let the silence settle for another thirty seconds before he continued.
“You have good intentions, Archidamus. I believe that. You just got it wrong. You brought me here to help convince our audience that humans are not so dangerous after all. To somehow prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that humans of the future would not, or could not, attack Citadel. But you’ve done your homework, so you knew there was no way I could succeed. You were honest about that. You warned me I would fail.
But you still gave me a chance. You invited me here and you educated me. You answered my questions. You told me everything. You allowed me to make my case—even to scream into the darkness. You let me try, again and again, to prove that we are harmless. That we are no threat at all.
But it’s simply not true. I see that now. It would be disingenuous to say that there is no way that humans could pose a threat to you in the future. All I can say is that I hope we will not. I pray we will become a more enlightened species long before we are able to travel to alien planets. But I can’t promise you that. I can’t promise that if you leave us alone, you will be safe. And given your aversion to any such risks, that creates a big problem for us.
But we’re not the only ones with a problem, Archidamus. Citadel also has a problem. Because your rules dictate that you must answer three questions, not one.
Might human beings pose a threat in the future? Let’s agree that the answer to this first question is yes. I concede the point that we might pose a threat.
But what about the second question? Will deleting human civilization eliminate that threat?
The answer to that, I’m afraid, is a resounding no.
The Peacemaker's Code Page 34
