Planet H-13
By Brian C. Mahon
I’m not going to miss them.
“Superficially, it does not appear planetary equilibrium is lost. Surface topography shows the obvious signs of technological creep extending from each major population center, but it otherwise looks nearly the same. If simply looking at it was all that was expected of a Curator, Seneschal, then perhaps a simple ‘Satisfactory – monitoring continues’ report to the Remediary Council would be legitimate.”
“And we could let them continue,” intoned the satin voice from behind.
“Yes. That would permit them to continue, Seneschal,” I offer quietly, staring at rotating water and air quality reports, land mass conversions, and extinction rates.
“Is that the moral thing to do, Curator?”
I search seven thousand years of mixed mental collages of isolated star-flight, arguments in dust storms, trace interactions with drifters of times long past.
There is no consensus on morality. Only a mitigation of suffering.
Biometric trendlines hold static across twenty holographic projections before me. The data founded my conviction. My answer is the same as the last time I stood at the console. However, offering an immediate answer would be inappropriate. I shouldn’t.
Maybe to prompt my response, the Seneschal continues, “Per the Council’s recent revision to the Creed, indicators of true sentience are no longer included in the algorithms evaluating species. Transitioning species no longer have the negative impacts of their existence devalued relative to non-transitioning species.”
“I am aware. I read the new Curator’s Creed. I understand that harm is harm, and death is death.” I sigh. “It is the moral thing to do.”
“It is time to execute, Curator.”
I agree. However… “When the Council revised the Creed, Seneschal, how much weight was the rate of transition given? To me, it seems important to consider the rate of progress, not just static markers of progress.”
I select the list of threatened species and monitor their population numbers. Steady, steady, declining, declining, declining…
“The Council, in this one’s opinion, did not adequately release their reasoning. What is known is from my being at some of those deliberations. They concluded that the assessment of a transitioning species ability to arrest its self-destructive behavior before the irreversibility of their negative biosphere impacts provides the greater benefit. Therefore, a more acceptable course.”
“As opposed to witnessing the damage become irreversible and then leveraging a decision?”
“Yes.”
Are we crossing a line? “Seneschal. That is what I do not understand. This is my thirteenth iteration, ninth with the Council’s help. Why this change? Isn’t it rash to predictively assess danger before they demonstrate it? I… I have no love for them anymore, yet this decision.” I exhale, speaking slowly as I try to find voice to concern, “It seems this change is robbing them of the most remote chances of success. How is it known that the algorithms are correct?”
“How do we know the offenders have the right to commit suffering on others? You yourself described the world Chance as one of ‘intellectually rational violence’, correct?”
I purse my lips and nod. “Yes. That world was different,” I reply, the name still painfully unspeakable. “That was my, or my predecessor’s, first. It was our failure.” The words slip from my mouth more sullenly than I intended. I turn my head to look at the Seneschal from the corner of my eye. “Still, this is a determination made on the basis that we know, absolutely, the damage is irreversible. Consider the original Deliverance plan, or its successors in the Seed Ships. Those were desperate acts–“
“Some may call them selfish, driven by instinctual survival.”
“Yes, perhaps, but then we are prescribing intentions to emergent behaviors without the benefit of inherent, in situ understanding of those intentions.”
“This is why the Council uses proxy data of the majority populace’s behavior, to infer those intentions.”
“Is inference enough?” I ask, turning around to face the Seneschal.
“I will consider your question.” The Seneschal’s six golden eyes blink languidly from its dais above. It curls its purple fingers together, always a precursor to its ponderances. “Answer this, friend. Had there been no transitioning species, yet there was one which managed to break equilibrium, would you eliminate it to preserve the rest of your creation?”
I sigh in anticipation of the query’s end goal. “Yes. You know I would.”
“Then what is the purpose in hesitating to eliminate one that is equally destructive to all under their influence?”
A pause to breathe deeply, to quell passion. “Because eliminating them before they’ve proven themselves a… a catastrophe is to rob them of hope. Hope can be the impetus. It provides a goal, a target, something intangible but not imperceptible to work toward.”
“Fundamentally, there may be a problem with your position.”
“Which is?”
“Hope is still an emotion. Many biologically advanced, non-technological species can have hope. Council research has proven it is an indulgence of transitioning species to assume their emotions are unique. Hope is unlike the primordial emotions of greed and lust. Hope can often strictly be irrational.”
“Irrational because it doesn’t meet the Council’s criteria?”
“Curator,” it said with a conciliatory tone, “I only use that word using the Council’s strict definition. After all, if an emotion cannot pass the first discriminator of being based on observable fact, it faces a difficult argument for being rational.
To your question, is inference enough? One inferred datum is never sufficient. As a function of calculated risk, a preponderance of evidence without an equitable weight of significant, quality counterevidence may certainly be enough. It is the risk to the unaware, the innocent, and the unoffending which must always be considered.”
Having no rebuttal, I turn back around to face the control console and video feed of planet H-13. “Seneschal, I want to reinforce that my questions are not placeholders for doubt. I simply do not understand why the Council suddenly changed the discriminator of what makes a colony viable. Social evolution requires achieving goals. If they don’t know there is a goal to achieve or at least a result to avoid, then we are only one degree away from natural evolution. This entire project was not originally designed to mimic natural evolution,” I slow, deliberately delivering, “It is supposed to be artificial and accelerated.”
“Yes, Curator. I agree. This one does not dispute the design. However, perhaps we differ in what we perceive as the acceptable extent of forced acceleration required to achieve that end. Even within the Council’s guidelines, the slightest misbalance may throw a nascent civilization into irrecoverable collapse. Please, friend, if our discussion gives you pause, adjourn to think on this further. Protocol leaves the responsibility of decision with the Curator.”
The line between day and night sweeps over the surface, their star’s retreating light bath being replaced with a rolling cascade of artificer’s light to ward off the black dark. I place my hands on the control console, trace my fingertips across the safety unlock, look up again at the biometrics. Is it a mark of self-mastery or self-indulgence to feel justified in this course of action? Have I considered all the relevant data to form this decision, or are my hands moved by biases from previous failures that I’m inclined to pre-damning them?
“Curator, would you like to withhold decision until you may provide Council another assessment?” The Seneschal’s voice lingers over each syllable; a peace offering, an opportunity.
My hands lock in place on the console. Irrecoverable action imminent.
The moral thing to do.
Words spoken in orbital safety separate a civilization from death’s shroud. Before the Seneschal arrived for this moment, I watched them. Watched them fight each other, watched them kill for trinkets held only temporarily, watched some starve while others flaunted greed and selfishness. I watched them specialize in individualistic survival and dabble in half-hearted networked coordination. I twisted and raged from above in exasperation as they failed to think on the scales extending beyond the two-generation limit. My mind was made up long ago. Perhaps I felt a need to voice my last gasps of doubt.
Should I be concerned I consider this to be an action of feeling?
This is moral.
“Seneschal, Curator H-13 requests permission to halt the destruction of Planet H-13’s biosphere. Cause: Failure of Planet H-13’s first transitioning species to self-contain. Suspected contributor one: Species geographic expansion exceeded capacity for sentience-guided self-containment. Suspected contributor two: Propagation rate of species sub-populations incapable of consciously overriding emotional impulses far exceeded propagation rates of those who could. Justification of elimination: Intervention required to prevent further elimination of Planet H-13 cohabitating species, as measured by species categorization, gross non-transitioning population numbers, and gross non-transitioning species biomass. Further, action is required to prevent subsequent collapse of reliant species not already under direct duress.”
“When you reviewed the planet’s biometrics, had you already made up your mind?” The Seneschal’s smooth tone stiffened, lofting each spoken vowel.
It is time to play our parts. I won’t miss them.
“Yes. The biometrics alone convinced me.”
“Do you yet understand which variables led them to this end-state?”
No. I am chasing the ghosts of sinners long gone.
“I have screened suspected variables for either removal or adjustment. Simulations will start once we return to Council. I’ll have a draft proposal for their review after we’ve executed termination.”
“Then you have my permission.”
Another failure. I fail again.
I crack my knuckles, run my fingers through my hair, and exhale softly through my nose. I see my reflection in the panel. Two brown eyes. Black eyebrows. So very much like them. “Enabling Diagynis, Seneschal.”
“Very well, Curator.”
The ship floats a miniature of its holographic avatar over the control console. Momentarily it steals my attention from the planet’s biometrics. I continue the act, announcing, “The Curator of Planet H-13 has representative Council authority to eliminate the transitioning hominid species. Diagynis, validate voice authority of both Curator and Seneschal. The Curator requests termination.”
“The Seneschal concurs with the Curator’s decision.” The hologram changed color and shape – voice authorization confirmed.
“Diagynis, execute termination protocol for the species identifiable by my gene code.” A needle rises from the control console. Without hesitation, I push my thumb until its point penetrates. A drop of blood is siphoned into the needle’s tube, and the intron-coded termination signal routed for planetary dispersal. It will be swift. It will be merciful. Neural apoptosis on a planetary scale.
I withdraw my thumb and approach my seat next to the Seneschal.
Chance was where I born, bred to bear the sins of my children and my line. I atone by my will alone.
“How do you feel, Curator?”
Was it possible to not grimace? “Like we were never meant to redeem ourselves. This is not my first world. This is not my second. I was made for this purpose, remade myself over three lifetimes! After all we ever attempted, this. This!” Locked behind my own eyes, I feel the emotions, the fists hammering down on the armrests, hear my voice rising, “Every time! I have no more- there are no more Seed Ships to continue this… this apostasy of self-continuation! We are dead! My people, my species, my home, my… my- “
The Seneschal wraps four elongated fingers around my neck, gently. “True sentience is the rarest of all gifts. Pause. Breathe. Find yourself in there and understand. This tested the strength of your mind’s control, of your control. What you achieve with every iteration takes you closer to success and justifies the Council’s continued faith in your goal.” The thin mouth in its elongated face quivers to a smile, and I touch my hand to my heart in response. Gratitude was another emotion, a rational one thankfully.
“Thank you. I also thank the Council for helping me continue this mission I was genetically programmed to complete. With the Council’s help, I will make another iteration. As I live, I will try. For humanity’s sake, I will try. At least,” I murmur, “once this is over, the unabated suffering will end. We’ll have fulfilled the First Oath.”
“Let not one civilization be the cause of misery upon others.”
A new screen opens before us. Six bar graphs detailing a total and contributing percentages across five continents. I watch the numbers tick lower and lower. Another iteration purged for the pursuit of a perfected species.
It was the moral thing to do.
Propagation and expansion drove the ancestral world’s digital Deliverance. Escape and survival launched the Seed Ships. Reviving the hopeful dead drove Curatorship.
One continent reads zero.
It was the only thing I can do.
Another continent indicates zero surviving. The bar graph tracking the main continent continues to plummet.
I understand their reasoning, after all. I/we/they were dangerous. The Remediary Council rallied to revive those we destroyed. Preventing future pogroms was their task.
“Main continent, zero. Termination complete.”
The Seneschal stands, its role complete, to leave me in the company of silence and regret in the white emptiness of Diagynis’s command observatory.
It is the only permissible thing to do.
THE END
Author Bio: Brian C. Mahon is a writer from Chesapeake, Virginia.