Your solution to dealing with potential threats—tested though it might be on six other planets—will not work on Earth. You cannot hope to eliminate the risk posed by human beings by simply pressing reset. You can delete our civilization, but we will not come back so different. Our civilization, as you have witnessed it, with its incredible art and its horrific violence, is not the emergent outcome of a random draw from a wide array of initial conditions. We are not stuck in some tragic feedback loop. This is who we are, Archidamus. Not good. Not evil. Trying to find our way. Trying to be better. And making some progress. Moving forward shockingly fast in some ways. Advancing tragically slowly in other ways. Pretty smart. Very creative. And highly imaginative. More imaginative, in fact, than any species that Citadel has ever encountered. It’s what makes us so dangerous, you said. But that danger will not go away.
Will you be able to set us back a few thousand years with your methods? Yes, you will. So what? Do you remember what you said about our gods, Archidamus?
If your gods truly exist, I am sure they will return—no matter what we do.
I don’t know if our gods will come back—they probably will, in one form or another. But there are some things I can guarantee will return. Cities will rise again. Competition and conflict will resurface—as will developments in coordination and control. Social identities will be reborn. Wars will resume. Art will flourish. Technology will advance. Weapons will become more deadly. And the next time, Archidamus, it won’t take nearly as long.
Written language developed two thousand years earlier in some places than in others—that amount of variation isn’t going away. And the size of the human population today—it’s almost 200 times what it was in 5000 BCE. You can send us back to that date, or even farther back, but how rapid will our return be? How much faster will we innovate and discover and experiment and advance?
With so many of us on the planet—asking questions, tackling obstacles, imagining the impossible, and exploring the unknown—how much more likely is it that someone, somewhere, makes a new discovery, creates a new technology, builds a new weapon, or stumbles upon an innovation? You can run the numbers if you want, but I think you already know the answer. We will be back in the blink of a human eye.
We might be slightly better than we were the first time around, or we might be slightly worse. But what happens if we return slightly better in capabilities… but slightly worse in intentions? And what if we do it in a few hundred years—not a few thousand?
I’m not trying to scare you, Archidamus. But you should be afraid. As should everyone else who is listening to us. Because the answer to your second question—Will deleting human civilization eliminate the threat?—seems exceedingly clear. No chance in hell.
I’m not going to tell you what you should do about that, but I know what you can’t do. You can’t do the one thing that would eliminate the threat you perceive. You can’t kill us all. You’re not allowed to commit genocide. Not today, and not for at least another eighty years. When you decided not to leave us alone, you were left with only two options: destroy our civilization, or engage with us peacefully. Well, now you are down to only one option.
Once you examine the evidence for yourself, you will agree that it’s overwhelming. Deleting our history will not eliminate the threat we pose. In fact, a reset of our civilization might make matters even worse for you. If you don’t like humanity as it exists today, I strongly recommend that you not take any chances with a Version 2.0.”
Kilmer closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had nothing more to say—and nothing left to give. He could feel the adrenaline, but beneath that, he knew he was completely spent. Every part of him. And he was trembling.
This was not the argument he had come here to make. He had wanted to talk peace, not war. He had wanted to make concessions, not threats. And he had wanted to invoke goodwill, not fear. But Citadel hadn’t allowed any of that.
And so, Kilmer had washed his hands of everything he had planned, and everything he had assumed, and looked for another way. He had told Archidamus that Citadel’s only hope was to annihilate the human race entirely.
He knew it was a gamble. He was standing on the banks of the Rubicon and rolling the die. The best-case scenario was that it would postpone an attack by eighty years. By then, Earth-side might be better prepared. And who knows—maybe it would give humanity the time it needed to change its ways and prove that it wouldn’t be a threat.
We have time.
If that time was squandered, however, then when the attack finally came, it would be even more vicious than what had been planned for today.
There was also a worst-case scenario. If Kilmer had miscalculated or misunderstood—or if he had simply overplayed his hand—Citadel might find a way to authorize a genocide immediately. If so, he had just sentenced Silla and everyone else he cared about, along with billions of innocent people, to a death that they would have otherwise avoided. It would be the greatest mistake in human history.
He wasn’t sure what would come next. He was only sure that he had reached the limits of his abilities, and that he was too drained to throw even one more punch.
Kilmer dropped to his knees on the cold, metallic floor of the spacecraft. Then he took the picture of his parents out of his pocket, knowing full well that he would be unable to see their faces. He stared at it anyway, through the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him, as tears began to roll down the sides of his face.
~ 99 ~
Heirs of Herodotus by D. Kilmer.
Excerpt from Chapter 11.
Innovation, throughout human history, has been non-linear. For over 3,000 years—from the introduction of horse-drawn chariots to the invention of railroads in the 1800s—there was almost no progress in the speed at which a soldier could travel. But then, little more than a hundred years after railroads first came into use, humans were flying faster than the speed of sound and landing spacecraft on the Moon.
The pattern is not confined to technological or military progress. Monarchs ruled for millennia before giving way to the republics we suddenly take for granted. The Westphalian state system, the basis for international law, emerged only in the last 400 years—after the end of the Thirty Years’ War (1618-1648). The inhumane treatment of civilians was made illegal only after the Geneva Conventions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—even though this idea had been debated and negotiated between warring nations for thousands of years.
The future of humanity will not be a linear progression of its past—but the type of non-linearity that will emerge remains to be seen. Our progress might accelerate, stall, or reverse. Our story might go on for countless millennia—or end suddenly. Uncertainty abounds for one reason above all else: we have reached a level of scale and complexity in our societal evolution that allows us to do more and more—but control less and less.
Humanity now finds itself hosting a high-stakes competition. It is a race between technological progress and societal progress—between our ability to create and destroy, and our ability to govern, manage, and coexist. What the graph of our time in this universe will ultimately look like, when drawn by future historians, will be determined by who wins that race.
~ 100 ~
Archidamus did not provide a rebuttal—nor give a lengthy response.
“We will need some time to evaluate what you have said, Kilmer. And we will need to discuss this matter on our end. You can rest in the meantime. There is something that can be used as a mattress in one corner of the room.”
The room remained dark, but Kilmer was told how to navigate to the mattress. It was low to the ground and softer than he had expected. He sat down on it.
“Is there something we can do to make you more comfortable while you wait?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you? Just black would be fine.”
“I am sorry, Kilmer. We do not have coffee. And if I am not mistaken, it is an unhealthy choice of beverage. I would not re
commend it.”
Are you fucking serious?
“Then can I have my bag? I have some water in it.”
“Your bag is underneath the chair you were sitting on. You should be able to find it. Get some rest if you need. I will return to you in a few hours if there is an update.”
Kilmer retrieved his laptop bag and sat down on the mattress. He drank some water and took out the pen and paper. These would have been useful earlier—if there had been any light by which to see. He put the pen in his pocket and the paper on the floor next to him. Then he lay down.
He wondered what time it was. He wondered what was happening at Station Zero and in Washington. Had everyone evacuated? Was Silla still nearby? Were they meeting right now? What were they discussing? What was Silla feeling? Had he managed to keep at least one promise—to help stop the attack? Would Silla get to live out the rest of her days in peace? And what would happen to him—even in the best-case scenario?
If Citadel ever let him go—and if humanity survived—Kilmer knew exactly what he would do first. He would take Silla in his arms and not let go. At least, not until she told him it was getting awkward. He smiled at the thought. It felt like an eternity since he had seen her, or held her hand, or kissed her. But only hours had passed.
He imagined all the ways in which they might see each other again for the first time. Just outside the spacecraft? At HQ-1? At the White House? He imagined what they would say. How he would apologize for leaving the way he did. How she would forgive him. How it would feel to look into her eyes again.
A few minutes later, still thinking these thoughts, Kilmer fell asleep.
~ 101 ~
“Kilmer. Are you awake?”
Kilmer woke immediately to the sound of his name, but it took a few seconds for him to realize where he was.
He sat up. “What time is it?”
“It is 7 a.m. where we are,” answered Archidamus. “At Station Zero.”
“What did I miss? What happens now?”
“A few things, Kilmer. I will go through them quickly, as I need to return for further discussions. You have made a shocking, but compelling case. It has been thoroughly examined by many of our experts, and it has caused a lot of excitement and anxiety on Citadel—to put it mildly. This is not the situation we expected to confront. As pertains to the consequences for Earth: First, you are right that genocide is not an option. It is strictly forbidden, at least for now. Your actions will probably force us to reconsider that position, but we cannot reconsider it until the next Consent Period. Second, the experts and regulators agree that we are not likely to eliminate the threat we face by destroying human civilization—and more importantly, that there is a risk we could make matters worse. That means we cannot follow through with the planned deletion.”
“Does that mean you’ll leave us alone? For at least eighty years?”
“It is more complicated than that. Questions pertaining to our second and third guidelines have never been raised before. Those guidelines were meant to impose strict moral constraints on the actions we could consider, but because our deletion methods were always so successful, the guidelines never had any practical relevance. Over the years, they drifted into the background. We were not trying to ignore them—we simply never had a reason to examine them so carefully. This is the first time an ambassador from a targeted planet has picked apart our process in such detail and forced us to consider potential implications of those guidelines. As it turns out, the implications are quite serious here, because the very factors that make human beings so threatening to us also make it highly unlikely that our methods will eliminate the threat.
“The situation we face is unprecedented. We know what we cannot do, but there is not yet consensus on what we can do. There can be no deletion and no genocide—not yet anyway. According to one logic, the only remaining option is to engage peacefully with human beings until a new authorization is debated and issued in eighty years. But there is a different perspective as well. There are those who say that ignoring a civilization that is this dangerous—whose own ambassador has confirmed its innate violent proclivities—would be negligent in the extreme. It cannot be allowed. That something must be done.”
“What would that something be?”
“That depends on whose voice carries the day. On one end of the spectrum, it has been suggested that a delegation of ambassadors and technocrats be stationed on Earth, as guests of the human race, to monitor how things develop in the coming years. This would help reduce anxiety, build a relationship between the two planets, and serve as an early warning system if the threat posed by humans started to rise. On the other end of the spectrum, what is being proposed sounds like war and occupation.”
“I thought you only had two options: delete our civilization or engage peacefully. Where was this kind of creativity when I was begging for it?”
“I will not deny there is hypocrisy, Kilmer. I am simply reporting to you the situation.”
“And for the record, Archidamus, I never said human beings have ‘innate violent proclivities.’ That is a gross misrepresentation.”
“Technically, you are correct. But you also cannot have it both ways, Kilmer. You cannot scare the inhabitants of Citadel into changing course the way you did—through fear—and then tell them they have nothing to fear. You have managed to stop the imminent destruction of human civilization, which is truly remarkable—and perhaps even commendable—but the way you have done it has complicated matters. You should be able to understand that.”
“So, what happens now? How long before a decision is made? Do I get to participate in the discussion? Does President Whitman get a voice? Can this be negotiated now?”
“There might be a negotiation with your president when it comes to coordinating on specifics, especially if we proceed with the milder option of sending a delegation. But at this stage, there is no scope for negotiation. Citadel will decide what to do, and Earth will have to accept the decision. This will take time. A few Earth-weeks at least.”
“Is there any way I can influence the decision?”
“You will not be allowed to weigh in on this decision. Neither will your president. Like your fellow human beings, you will simply have to wait to find out what is decided.”
“Does that mean I can go home now?”
Archidamus did not respond.
“Can I leave now? You said that if I convinced Citadel not to attack, I would be allowed to go home. You said you would have no right to keep me here.”
“I remember what I said. But the circumstances were different. We did not think—”
“You didn’t think I would succeed. You were making promises you never thought you would have to keep.”
“No. We just did not think you would convince us in this way. As I said, this is a complicated situation.”
“I understand that. But what does that have to do with me? You say I’m of no more use to Citadel. And if you don’t plan to destroy humanity or delete human civilization, why can’t I go home?”
“We have no interest in keeping you here, Kilmer. Like many on Citadel, I think that you deserve to go home. But others are convinced we cannot send you back safely. You know too much about us. About our society. About our plans and our capabilities. Our way of thinking. Our fears. We cannot put you back in the hands of our enemy—not when we are still worried about a future war.”
“We are not your enemies, Archidamus. That is what people like you should be reminding your fellow citizens. We have done you no harm. Let’s not forget that fact just because things have suddenly become ‘complicated’ for Citadel. They are only complicated because Citadel’s plan to launch an unprovoked and unjust war was derailed. Somehow, I don’t feel like I should have to apologize for that.
“You have criticized my race plenty, Archidamus, but how many thousands of years has it been since your people reflected on what they have become? You can’t spend your lives categorizing everyone you meet as a future ene
my or a future friend. It causes you to do immeasurable harm. You should be finding ways to improve the social environments in which you exist—not to live in perpetual fear of them. Your people are at the height of their power, but they use this power only to destroy what they cannot control. That same strength could be used to transform relationships, to encourage cooperation where it might not otherwise take hold, and to underwrite a policy of generosity and goodwill rather than suspicion and hostility.
“I never said there would be war between our planets in the future. My only argument was that the risk of war can’t be eliminated by deleting our civilization in the way you described. I believe we can and should live as friends. I think it is not only possible, but probable that we will find a way. Why not work toward that? I’m willing to play a role in that—even if Citadel no longer cares what I think.
“If you will no longer allow me to represent Earth in my discussions with Citadel, then send me back to my people so I can represent Citadel in my discussions with Earth. Let me help bridge the divide that exists. I can help them see that there is more to your people than what we fear, and that you are not driven by greed or malice or the desire for glory. If I can’t be an ambassador from Earth, let me be an ambassador to Earth.”
“Kilmer, I agree with you. But many are convinced that returning D. Kilmer to his people is too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous? I’m a historian, Archidamus. On Earth. I have no power to do anything.”
“You have proven otherwise.”
“Okay. So, what would they have me do? How much longer do they want to keep me here? A few more weeks?”
“I don’t know, Kilmer. But it could be forever.”
Kilmer felt like he had been kicked in the chest.
He had come to ET-1 assuming he would never go back. But after his discussion with Archidamus the night before, he had allowed himself to hope. And that hope was being ripped away.
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