The First

by Scott Nicholson

  "But someone must decide how things are going to be done. You can't build a city with good deeds."

  Misunderstanding clouded her many eyes. "We built it with our hands."

  Grayfield was getting nowhere with his questioning. This was a delicate chore, this probing, and so far a computer did not exist that could do the job better. It was a skill that had propelled Grayfield up through the ranks of the space fleet.

  The Areopagus could easily send down fire from the spaceships, then let their machines sift the rubble. But merely crushing and sluicing wasn't satisfying enough. Wealth was also found in the souls of species, and souls could be wrung dry in search of valuable spiritual knowledge, another weapon to be added to the Areopagan arsenal. Grayfield's interest in this abstract discipline had made him a mental guerrilla, a philosophical spy.

  He tried another approach. "Well, what of crime? Stealing, for example."

  "Stealing?" Exa shook her head, causing the stalks of her eyes to wiggle.

  "Taking the property of another."

  "There is no need to take what already belongs to you."

  "Well, does your race kill? Even if only for food?"

  "Food is provided. We eat of the bread of life. We value all living things even as we do our own bodies."

  "You mean to tell me, as far as you know, one Peacehand has never slain another?"

  "We would as soon slay ourselves."

  "Then certainly you lie," Grayfield said.

  Every species Grayfield encountered had lied at one time or another, usually in their first translated sentence when they said "Pleased to meet you." Lying was a universal truth.

  "We have no reason to lie, because lying is done for gain of some kind. We already have the wealth of spirit, and the wealth of materials naturally follows."

  "Sex, then. Much evil is committed in the pursuit of lust."

  "We do not reproduce in the genetic manner you are thinking of. Our bodies have evolved to function eternally. Our physical pleasure stems solely from mental harmony. We have no desires."

  Grayfield was irritated. Such virtue could not exist among creatures of flesh and consciousness. "And hate? Not a single bad thought among any of you?"

  "That I cannot truthfully deny. We are on constant guard against such things, but, to us, it is not the thoughts themselves that are wrong. They spring unbidden, as natural as breath. It is acting upon evil thoughts that we each have the power and responsibility to avoid."

  "But how do you police those actions?"

  "It is not our place to punish. It is our place to strive for goodness, or at least avoid any evil action."

  This was maddening, Grayfield thought. They were halfway through the city and he could see the basalt dome from which they had started walking. It towered above the white stone slabs of the shiny buildings. The marble structures that lined the streets were interrupted by more of those too-high arched doorways set at intervals among the tidy squares of the other doors.

  He was about to ask about the irregular doors when his Command-implant clicked and a shipboard message filled his head: "High Command computer advises that it is time for Diplomatic Corps to reassemble."

  "Exa, would you be so kind as to escort me back to our meeting place?" Grayfield said, flashing his worn smile and extending a gentlemanly arm. "Such a beautiful creature at my side in such a beautiful city would make me feel like a god."

  "I would be honored," Exa said, hooking her blunt arm with his. All of her blue eyes sparkled, at least the six that Grayfield could see at the moment. Had she suffered, however briefly, from the sin of pride?

  "What is a god?" she asked.

  Grayfield had no answer for her.

  Back in the ship's diplomatic area, Grayfield met with the Corps' Praetor Majoris.

  Mahmallah was ecstatic, gushing on about rivers of gold, mountains of mineral wealth, tons of titanium.

  "I've seen the potential," Grayfield said. "But what do you think of them?"

  "Them?"

  "The Peacehands."

  "They give me the willies, sir, with all those eyes hanging out, watching you everywhere you go. But I see no harm in them."

  "And your impression, Lorca?"

  Lorca, who had studied anthropology, was practical yet sensitive. Unlike most of Grayfield's officers, he had been born at the front end of the Computer Generation, and was therefore a little less blinded by ambition. He rubbed a hand over his olive, close-shaven chin.

  "Sir, I've seen no evidence of discord or want among the Peacehands. They defer to each other and to us with a humility that defies logic. How could such a species survive and prosper under the laws of natural evolution, much less the rigors of social development?" Lorca asked.

  "Precisely what I was wondering myself," Grayfield answered. "And you, Hobson?"

  The mustachioed Hobson was the Conquest Officer. She spoke in a smoky, deep voice. "Any resistance would be temporary at most. I saw no military organization or even the most rudimentary hand weapon among them." She sounded disappointed.

  Mahmallah broke in, enthusiasm painting his words. "Sir, it's a cakewalk. There will be bonuses all around, maybe even a vacation among the beauties of Sector Seven. I've never seen such precious ores as these."

  "Save your ardor for furlough, Praetor."

  Mahmallah, chastened, returned to his computerized geology plots. Soon their data and reports would be sorted and efficiently analyzed by High Command, conclusions reached among the microprocessors, and viability determinations channeled back to the Areopagus. Then would come orders, from across the cold voids of space, sent by that invisible and almighty tribunal.

  Grayfield suspected that the Areopagus was only a more sophisticated computer, a futuristic Alexander the Great made of circuitry and bit-streams. But the chain of command had been drilled into him and was unbreakable. Orders were orders.

  "Lorca, I'm disturbed by their passivity. They seem willing to embrace us and welcome us without fear. And their demeanor is submissive, even though surely they sense that our interest is more than academic. The only word I can think of to describe them is 'beatific.'"

  "'Made happy through blessing,'" Lorca translated automatically. "But I observed no outward display of religion, no icons or temples, no symbols, no paraphernalia of worship."

  "Think, man," said Grayfield. "Streets of gold. Wings atrophied from lack of use. Spiritual satisfaction. Eternal bodies. Inner peace. What does that bring to mind?"

  "You mean the old Christian legend of heaven?"

  "Absolutely. It all adds up."

  "Sir, computers have proven beyond doubt that such a place could not exist. All cults have been founded on flawed data. That is why the Areopagus banned religion."

  So even the sentimental Lorca wouldn't make a leap of faith. Grayfield sighed. Better to show no more weakness. All the praetors coveted his position and were trained to seek opportunities for their own advancement. It was the spirit on which the Areopagus Space Fleet was founded.

  "So they have, Lorca. Meeting adjourned. File your reports."

  High Command seconded the motion into their ear-implants.

  Grayfield returned to his quarters, his head buzzing. In his own report, he would name the planet. It was one of the perks of his rank. He had already decided on "Angelorum Orbis." World of Angels.

  He wrestled awhile with his data, then lay on his bunk to think. All species had their belief systems. Mere physical survival was never enough. Where there was thought, there was reflection. He had studied many religions, seen forms of worship so obviously flawed that they seemed the product of mass madness. Indeed, the more outrageous the religion, the more fervent its followers were.

  Yet here was a species whose spirituality was apparently above reproach. Grayfield had been raised on the cocksure rightness of Areopagan philosophy. But did it not fall short of the glory of the Peacehands, who practiced goodness for the sake of goodness instead of goodness for the sake of reward?

&
nbsp; He filed his report, then requested another meeting with Exa, alone. There was a riddle here, and he would solve it or be damned.

  They met at the dome. Grayfield had left his Command-implant on board. He didn't want the ship's computer to record his conversations. If there were truths to be found here, Grayfield wanted to savor them alone.

  "Do you wish to take another walk, Captain?" Exa asked.

  "Please lead on."

  He was aching for another vision, itching to take in the glory and serenity of the golden land. He was rewarded with a splendid sunset, its rays gilding the city under violet skies. Grayfield wondered if this was the peace and tranquillity that had long eluded him, and if it was, how he could possess it. His eyes drank greedily as they walked in silence.

  Exa finally spoke. "Imperius Grayfield, I have told you of our people."

  "You've been very patient."

  "Now I ask you of yours."

  "We're a noble species, as well. We, too, work for a greater good, but our good is for the entire universe, not just our own species."

  "What is your 'good'? I know only of your computers and your scientific discoveries and your quest for knowledge," Exa said, her eyes fixed on his.

  "We believe life has no mysteries, only answers waiting to be found. That's what we search for."

  "That is the difference between us. We do not have to search for what we already possess."

  "And that makes you better than us?" Grayfield asked. Was this another vanity, another sin? Was a crack appearing in her sanctimonious facade?

  "There is no better or worse, only good and evil."

  Grayfield made no response.

  Exa continued, "And if you had your answers? What then?"

  A rage overtook Grayfield. He wanted to bruise her milky skin, pluck her wobbling blue eyes from her head and hurl them against the marble walls.

  He spoke through clenched teeth. "Why, I suppose we would start over. It is the nature of our species to conquer."

  "So you wish to conquer us?"

  "There are other powers at work here besides you and your people's bliss. To understand you is the will of the Areopagus. And also my will, you see."

  Exa did not see, even with eight eyes. "So it is truth you seek, and all of your sins are justified under its banner? Then truth to you must be merely another possession, another form of currency."

  "We suffer from greed. But you yourself are not free of sin. I've seen it."

  "You've seen what you wanted to see. As I told you, we are not without bad thoughts. But there is no place among us for those who act upon them."

  Grayfield looked up. He had lost his way. They were in an unfamiliar part of the city. Darkness was falling like a nylon cloak on the moonless planet. The streets were still, as if the Peacehands had been swallowed by their silent landscape.

  "But don't you tire of your ceaseless perfection?" he asked.

  "Perfection is an ideal, a way of life. For us, it is life. The alternative is too unpleasant."

  "You mean being like us with all our human failings?"

  He was incensed. He suddenly grabbed Exa around her leathery throat, pressing her just as the night was pressing down around them, as if he could squeeze her people's secrets from her. She made no move to resist, her flesh relaxing under his stranglehold. He hissed, "Tell me. You have no monetary system. How are your sins paid for?"

  Something rustled in the shadowed alleys, and sharp high whispers echoed off the marble walls. Grayfield squinted into the indigo night, then looked back at Exa's pale passive face.

  She spoke, gasping around her words, her circulatory system straining under Grayfield's assault. "Our twins. They also work...for the greater good."

  "Whose greater good?" Grayfield said between clenched teeth.

  She continued, a hoarse martyr. "They lie in wait for those who act on bad thoughts and cull them from our species. It is a mutually beneficial coexistence."

  Grayfield played her words over in his mind. Had the Peacehands' eyes evolved from paranoia? Had their smiles been carved upon them as solid as marble, lest they slip the slightest bit? Did fear drive them to their immaculate behavior?

  He looked at Exa, but he couldn't make out her face. He saw only the rapt gleam of her many eyes. She wasn't afraid of dying by his hand. He released his grip and peered into the darkness around him.

  "Our twins also hunger for knowledge. To them, new sins are tasty delicacies. And you have brought them fresh evils, ones our people could never hope to understand," she said.

  Muffled clicks on black gold streets.

  "We are indeed blessed," she said.

  Monstrous forms hovered over Grayfield, slithering towers of scaly spikes, red eyes, and glittering talons. More shapes emerged from the tall sleepy doors, dripping hunger from yawning jaws.

  Understanding dawned on Grayfield, brighter and more piercing than the light from a hundred heavens, nirvanas, and utopias. He had finally found purity and truth, his most highly valued prizes, but he would never live to savor them.

  Exa's voice whistled and clicked somewhere beside him. "You call us 'The Hands of Peace.' You may call our twins whatever you wish. It still translates as 'The Claws of Guilt.'"

  The Imperius tried to run, but it was as if his boots were gold bricks that had fused with the street. As long ebony arms slashed sideways and aimed for his guts, he knew running was futile anyway. Where could he run to escape his own evil and human heart?

  His last thought was that the Areopagus would never assimilate this planet. All future explorers would fall victim to themselves. For in the face of those who possessed humility, goodness, and perfection, Grayfield's people all suffered from the sin of envy.

  ###

  DOOMSDAY DIARY

  October 27

  Fuck you, diary.

  Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

  There.

  I've been wanting to say that. I feel a lot better now. Actually, I don't feel that much better. The meth I spiked has me kind of wired. That's why I'm writing so fast and bad. Plus, you know, with time running out and everything, who wants to sit around and write stuff?

  Me, I guess.

  Maybe it's just some screwed-up desire to leave something behind. To touch something that doesn't turn to crap in my hands.

  Except this diary is crap. Sentence fragments. Grammared wrong. Every rule in the book broke. I bet that asshole Ruggles would have a stroke if he read this. He was my Language Arts teacher the year before I dropped out.

  But Ruggles doesn't matter, just like the diary doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. One of the fringe benefits of the end of the world.

  Ah. Popped the tab on a cold one. Reneau, the bum that lives behind the shopping center, bought me a six-pack. Of course, I had to give him money so he could buy himself some wine. No skin off my nose. I ripped off Dad's wallet for a twenty.

  Reneau's pretty cool, for a fucking homeless jerk. As a matter of fact, that's one dude who's glad the end is here.

  When you ain't got nothing, you ain't got nothing to lose. Those were his exact words. Double negatives. Ruggles would be rolling over in his grave, if he was already dead.

  Fuck Ruggles.

  And fuck you, Diary.

  October 30

  Dear Diary,

  I lied.

  Way the hell back in September I promised that I'd write in you every day. But I'm as faithless as a whore.

  So sue me.

  I've missed weeks at a stretch, but hey, when you're young and doomed, it's hard to slow down long enough to sit at some desk with a pen in your hand. It's easy for you. All you got to do is lay there like a woman, all white and clean and blank.

  I'm the one who has to come up with all the deep thoughts. But I'll try to do better. Acid today. Lonnie came up with some paper blotter from somewhere. The hits had drawings of Mickey Mouse on them. Can you believe that? A drug maker with a sense of humor.

  The world could use more humor. Sa
w a guy in a business

  suit today wearing out the sidewalk on LaCroix Row, where all those fancy-assed shops are. He was carrying a sign that said, "Jesus Loves You."

  I laughed, and the guy got this weird look on his face. He stops walking and says, "What's so funny?"

  "If Jesus loves me, why am I in hell?" I say.

  Then he goes, "The end is near."

  I go, "Big woop." You'd think the guy was the first one who ever came up with that line, he was so intense about it. I was tripping pretty heavy by then.

  “Repent and be saved," he says. He had an orange stain on his collar. How the hell do you get an orange stain on your collar? I mean, gravy or lipstick or red wine, I could understand. But here I was grooving on this orange stain that was sort of shaped like an flower. Then the flower turned into a burning bush, and I started freaking a little.

  The guy was all smiles then, figuring he'd got himself in good with Jesus by setting me on the righteous path and putting the fear of God in me. But I've always had the fear of God. That's what God's all about, isn't it?

  Didn't some dude in the Bible see a burning bush out in the desert? Maybe he found some psychedelic mushrooms or something. Visions have to come from somewhere. They don't just pop out of thin air. I hope the guy with the Jesus sign is the first to fry when January One rolls around. I'd pay money to see that happen. Sleepy now. Took two Quaaludes to come down from the acid. Good old stumble biscuits.

  Nighty night.

  November 2

  That was a hell of a party.

  Halloween. Let's see, was that two or three days ago? Whatever.

  Me and Lonnie went over to Denita's. Her folks were gone. They're as rich as royalty, and they figure you can't take it with you, right? So they're jetting all over the world, trying to see it all before the big bang or whatever.

  They left the liquor cabinet stocked. I was lazy this year, I went as a bum. I traded Reneau one of my Dad's suits and five bucks for his nasty rags. I put them on, and I smelled like I'd been sleeping in a hog pen. Pretty cool.