I will talk about it here, briefly, instead of exploring it. That will suffice.
At that meeting, she said, “We need a way of knowing who can talk about what and when. We need something simple, so that we never have to worry about having to negotiate and explain.”
“You sound as if you have a solution,” said Diana.
Antoinette pulled ten scarves from her bag. Filmy scarves, not big. Five colours, two shades for each.
“Pick a pair,” she instructed. “A colour.”
“I bags purple,” said Trina who was, that day, Goth-girl again.
“Blue,” said Janet, firmly.
“Not yellow?” asked Leanne, surprised.
“With my complexion?”
“I never thought of that,” confessed Leanne. “I don’t worry too much about clothes.”
“I’ll have any,” said Diana. “I love them all.”
“Then I might take the red one, for it’s one of my favourite colours,” said Antoinette. “And it works with my skin colour.”
“Complexion,” said Janet, still being firm. “For we’re ladies here today.”
“Why are we ladies here today?” asked Trina dutifully.
“We all have scarves and handbags.”
And indeed they did, for somehow the yellow and green scarves had been allocated while they spoke.
“I love these,” said Diana, her fingers running through the fineness. “Could you explain what they’re for?”
“If something big goes wrong and you don’t want to talk about it, you wear the darker shade. If you just don’t want to talk about personal things, but there’s nothing big behind it, you wear the lighter one.”
“Simple,” said Diana.
“And exquisite,” said Trina.
Antoinette is my favourite of the five women. If I were to meet a human, it would be she.
The woman’s slow voice...
was counting again
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, fifty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two.
If everything goes wrong for me and right for Earth, if I’m still here when I’m seventy-two, I get a new hip. The lizards say so. Or they would, if they read their own documents.
My new hip is listed for me along with a great number of other things over which they have no control. I mean, a carrot cake for my birthday? The arthritis can be set to happen and appointments booked without humans knowing they’ve been interfered with. We’ve done all these things before, since computers started being used. More than that is impossible. The minds of these lizards are borked. Completely and ineradicably cactus. They live in their own fantasy alternate Earth, where they are the tiny gods of carrot cake.
This makes me wonder—why do they plan to this extent?
I don’t think there was ever confusion. I think they planned to cover up. This is evidence of that planning.
Once upon a time I knew a great deal. Once upon a time I heard about lizardly doings back home. One of the many things the Memories hide.
What I knew then and finally remember now is that there was a group that had infiltrated everywhere, and that wanted to destroy our planetary exploration scheme. The easiest way to destroy it would be to murder a Judge and to make it look as if the Judge had died naturally. Not just any Judge. A Judge who was a known voice on the needs of other worlds. Which I am. Or I was.
A natural death would mean something on Earth, earlier than the right time, with the evidence of a long planned life stretched out to prove that the Judge had made the impossible choice and that the planet would survive. That single event could cause significant change.
In human terms, my planetary compeers want me to be their martyr.
Setting up a full equation and calculating everything necessary for my full existence would demonstrate that my life was cut short. Carrot cake, I think, comes about because the lizards do not understand story. They don’t want to leave anything open to chance and they have a working script developed by the anthropologist and it covers a life like mine. This suggests the anthropologists are involved in some way, for one has to know humans to create a human life in this way, where equations are not the whole story.
It might not sufficiently look like a full life unless it is a full life in that respect, given the popularity of Earth currently. And they only know full lives from the records and anthropologists. I rather like it that the specific nature of Earthen lives defeats them.
All this I know because…I used to be a powerful person. I was the one who argued that we needed new paradigms. I had so much power. Now, I hardly even have a memory.
When are they likely to try to murder me? That’s the question. I would say after my seventieth birthday, given the shape of their narratives.
Having both stories and sums makes me far more powerful than they are. I may not be what I once was, but I’m still more powerful than they are.
I need to remember this. Making me human was a mistake for them. Not talking to me about the system that needed changing was an even bigger mistake. For I could do that: it was within my power. Unless they did, and I refused to do exactly what they wanted in precisely the manner they desired, and this was revenge. Who the hell knows?
On the normal timeline, I die a day before my hundredth birthday. I die in hospital. In my reality, I have to be dead before or after the last event recorded in my timeline. Anything earlier and anything later wouldn’t challenge our system.
Two different deaths for two different outcomes.
And the third outcome is, of course, going home. It’s the obvious choice, after all. To live normally. To challenge the system from within, accepting the sacrifice of Earth to do so. If I live long enough, that’s an option. With murderers plotting my demise to make their political point, it might be another outcome I can’t access.
I shall explore. I shall ponder. I shall plan.
I have time to think, and time to prepare. I also need to decide if I want to live. If I’m right and my husband is dead much sooner, maybe I don’t want to die on Earth. Maybe I’m wasting my time even thinking about accepting the death they’re throwing at me.
If I want Earth to survive, though, I’ll have to make my Judgement clear. And if Earth is to die, I’ll have to make my Judgement clear. I cannot let the lizards interfere.
I am of my people, and I might play with the notion of flexibility from time to time; I refuse to be forced into it by changed memories and misrepresented tasks and the games of renegade lizards.
It’s very fortunate I never reported that the conditioning was breaking down so very much. They know I have Memory glitches. They have no idea how self-aware I am. It means I have space left. I can’t do a great deal with that space, but I must be able to do something.
Notes towards an
Understanding of the Problem
“Leonard Cohen is dead,” said Trina.
“Good reason to wear black.”
“Hallelujah is my song,” Diana said. “It’s the one that reflects my heart, with the breaking and the numinous and the flawed and the very human life I’m connected to. So many ways I read the lyrics and they’re so very seldom triumphant and they’re always me.”
There was a silence
for a moment. It was a lot of observation from someone who didn’t often speak. Diana was more an observer than someone who told the group truths about hurts, and this one was a deep truth.
It said so much about the tragedy that was her marriage. All the women know that she loved him beyond anything and that for him, the marriage had become a thing of usefulness only. It showed clearly even to me, from their collected statements, even if I’d not had access to the downloads. So Diana knew. She knew that she was in love and yet a mere convenience or maybe a necessary burden. Her status shifted back and forth, but at her end, she loved.
“My song,” Trina ran with the meme to break the mood, “is from Babymetal.”
“What?” Janet was very tangled.
“A band. Japanese. A very good band, death metal crossed with daft and cute.”
“That’s an interesting thing. I thought you’d have a folksong, maybe. My song’s that. Black is the Colour of My True Love’s Hair. A particular version. Bleak and beautiful. A bit Gothic. I thought you’d choose something like that.”
“Mine is a bit like that. Just…not quite. The song itself is arcane, boppy and complicated—just like me,” said Trina. The others laughed.
“So true,” said Leanne, and paused to think. “I don’t have a song,” she admitted.
“Yes you do,” said Trina. “Magia.”
“What?”
“It’s the theme tune from an anime, and it’s exactly you. Complex, a bit dark, but with so much hope and strength.”
“Mine’s not dark,” said Antoinette. “It’s full of future. It’s about renewing vows, dissolving problems, starting over. Also, it has the best melody I’ve heard anywhere, anytime.”
“What’s it called?” asked Trina.
“I’ve no idea how to pronounce it,” admitted Antoinette. “I’ve got it on my phone, though. I can play it for you. It’s pretty ancient.”
“I need to hear all this music,” said Diana, “Who else has their music on their phone?”
Antoinette played her deep liturgical melody, then Trina found them the Babymetal song, then six versions of Hallelujah, the precise version of Black is the Colour, and the very best version of Magia. They also managed to annoy the people at the next table.
The Observer’s Notes
I want.
Je veux. J’ai besoin. Grand besoin. Je désire. Je veux.
Alles. All. Everything.
For specifics beyond me. Tomorrow is beyond me.
I need. I am desperate.
Je veux. J’ai besoin. Grand besoin. Je désire. Je veux.
I want.
The woman’s slow voice...
was counting again
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, fifty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six.
The timeline says that when I am seventy-six, I shall have a heart operation.
Thank you for that, timeline. You have given me so many hospital visits and so many crises and so many fears. It’s a stupidity, for how are the lizards going to prove that I’ve died unexpectedly when so much goes wrong with this human body? Humans are fallible, after all. I could be killed in hospital by mistake, especially if there are (as sometimes there are) slight errors in the human body I inhabit.
Someone loves their planning more than they love their outcomes. Either that, or…
Ah, I think I have it.
We have more than one force operating. This is so much the way we do things, isn’t it? Where a simple equation would work, those in power sit back and let it work. In the meantime, this group and that enter like thieves in the night and tinker. They add something here and subtract something there and the result is beyond anything stupid. There is no term for this result in English.
How can I unpick the mess?
I know about one group. My illnesses go against their need, and the illnesses are in my timeline.
There’s nothing of use to them in my mind being raddled, however. Part of this is lazy tech. My Judy Garland Memory is simply that. Laziness. Corruption.
There’s so much evidence for corruption. The possessions that disappear each Download. The lizards are corrupt and they corrupt me. And we all know about the corruption in the system. Only a few of us have had the power to do anything about it. So that makes sense, too.
What doesn’t make sense is any others playing active interference in my work and in my life not allowing for it. Either stupidity in all groups or laziness by everyone or maybe a feeling that famous people serve a kind of alien comeuppance given the opportunity. Equations are supposed to help resolve emotions by quantifying them and allowing them to be understood. Equations are sometimes a rip-roaring failure.
Heresy. Blasphemy. That sentence was both. It is, nevertheless, true. Equations can fail.
What a mess.
I see possible space for me in this. Something that might work within our system and might prevent the lizards from murdering me and stealing my right to decide. And that might get me the political result I want.
I want a quite specific political outcome, after all. This time on Earth has convinced me it’s the best for everyone. Speaking in human terms, I want to see the Empire dismantled. We don’t think it’s an empire. We have no description of empire. Explaining empires is easy in story-based culture, and almost impossible for us or for lizards.
The fools made a big mistake in sending me to Earth and giving me access to human ideas and human stories.
I didn’t want to give Judgement until it was nearly stolen from me. Now I refuse to question my right and I refuse to step down from my responsibility. Earth will be Judged. All humanity may well die.
My heart may break, but that’s not relevant. My heart is human these days, anyhow. It’s prone to breaking.
If I can find a way, my people, too, will be Judged.
Notes towards an
Understanding of the Problem
“Humans can settle Mars, it appears.” Trina was full of wonder and joy. Everyone else was less impressed. They were, however, open to talking about anything. No-one wore scarves that day. The flowers shone defiantly gold against the black café table.
“Someone allocating humans an official Martian tartan doesn’t mean we can settle Mars.”
“If I were an alien, I’d come here, first. More interesting people,” said Diana.
The others duly laughed.
This reminds me of a note in Diana’s filing system. She wrote her own observations (I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before—they’re brief and impersonal, but they’re her own), and she wrote down aphorisms or sayings (thousands of them, some attached to observations and some proudly alone), she kept a tally of news and annotated it as “Yay Earth!” and “Why do you do these things, you fools?” and she wrote anecdotes that didn’t mean anything. Or, should I say, rather, didn’t relate to other aspects of her notes. Mostly these were small stories from social media. Sometimes they were stories she was told at social events. She always writes down where the stories come from. This one, for instance, is from a visit to Melbourne. I’ll tell it here as an example of her little stories.
Mostly, I have no idea what to do with them, but it�
��s important to know those stories exist. It’s important to know the news clippings and comments also exist, but they’ve been dealt with in such great depth and so much detail in the Problem of Earth series that I’ll leave well alone here. They were everyone’s first port of call, in fact, when the events were first discussed. They were crunched into the original set of equations, along with her note and those aphorisms. The anecdotes haven’t been discussed anywhere, yet.
Just one will do. They really don’t have much to say. This one has a small implication, which is why I’ve selected it.
The meaning can come later—let’s tell the anecdote first. This near-meaningless little tale has been authenticated to the best of my ability. It wasn’t difficult. One of my people found an online reference to it where the granddaughter of the inventor told a friend.
Humans have very low levels of evidence for the most part. Everyday activity passes wistfully without clear Documentation. It would be difficult to prove that one ate breakfast ten days before, so low is their level of Documentation compared with ours. Although they work towards better Documentation, they’re not even close to civilisation yet. This is one reason why they live at the whim of such a strange thing as story.
I find it interesting that my subject doesn’t talk about this more. In fact, she seldom discusses it at all.
Interesting, but not problematic. It would only be problematic if she were on trial for her work as an anthropologist. She isn’t. She was a failure at that because she was barely trained and it was not the task she was supposed to be doing. In other words, it’s evidence of an entirely different aspect of the situation where she was set up for failure. I suspect that she might not have been the right person to set up for failure. She doesn’t have any history of failure.
Nor does she have a history of fruitcake. Or she didn’t.
The Year of the Fruit Cake Page 20