Earth Seven

by Steve M

  “Thank you,” she replied. “Now stop there before you risk your own recertification,” she said with a smile.

  “And very good to see you again,” said Eflin, stepping up and shaking Wingut’s hand.

  “I remember that class. Wonderful topic, terrible lecturer. Hipplop was his name,” said Eflin.

  “It was, it was,” replied Wingut excitedly. “With the warm sunshine in the room and his boring old voice, I often found myself dreaming.”

  “Me too,” said Eflin.

  “I liked him very much. He was a very good educator. Just had a boring voice,” replied Indira.

  “Please let me introduce a friend. Professor Wipley Necker. He’s from the Literature Department. “

  “Good to meet you,” said Eflin, shaking the hand of the tall, slender man.

  “It’s my pleasure,” replied Professor Necker.

  “And mine,” said Indira, extending her hand.

  “Necker will be underwriting the transportation cost of our mission.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Professor Necker with almost a cringe as he looked at Wingut.

  “It’s not as simple as you think,” replied Wingut. “I’d better let you explain it to them.”

  “Right. OK. Where to start? Got it. OK. On Earth 7 there is a man named Ip. At this time he is one of the greatest living storytellers in the galaxy.”

  “How do you know this? Satellites?” asked Indira.

  “Yes,” replied Professor Necker.

  Satellites that orbit quarantine planets are no meekly equipped little round balls. They can listen to everything and watch everything. And they do. But most often no one is interested in listening to everything, so it comes down to listening by keyword or interest area.

  “He has started telling a series of stories about the collapse of the Stultus Dynasty. The dramatic plot of the stories and the word choice is remarkable. It’s lyrical, meaningful, often profound.”

  “I had no idea,” replied Eflin.

  “And I’m going to extract him,” said Professor Necker enthusiastically with the wild-eyed look of a child who has just been handed a loaded gun for the first time.

  “But he’s in quarantine,” replied Indira.

  “He’s got a dispensation. Dean Midge. She is particularly fond of the Stultus Dynasty stories,” replied Wingut. “We wrote it into the escalation procedures for Earth 7 about five hundred revs ago. He’s to be extracted and revered.”

  “Revered, indeed,” said Professor Necker. “He doesn’t even know he has been translated into hundreds of dialects. He doesn’t even know we exist. The most celebrated person in literature and he doesn’t even know any of it.”

  “But for right now we have other more mundane aspects to consider,” replied Wingut.

  “Such as?” asked Indira.

  “Minton Mining.”

  “What about them?” asked Eflin.

  “They managed to knock the asteroid belt from its usual position in the Earth 7 solar system. We can’t rely on the maps until it is re-charted.”

  “So how do we get through it?” asked Indira.

  “We don’t,” replied Wingut. “We come underneath it. Use our eyes to navigate the last gap.”

  “Is it dangerous?” asked Professor Necker.

  “Not if we are careful,” replied Wingut.

  There was a knock at the door of Wingut’s office. They all turned to see Professor Trill standing in the doorway.

  “What’s he doing here?” Eflin asked in a less-than-polite tone.

  “He’s got the people,” replied Wingut.

  “But they aren’t historians. They haven’t been through our training,” replied Eflin.

  “I think you will be surprised,” said Trill with a smug look of self-confidence.

  “Is this some sort of departmental rivalry?” asked Professor Necker.

  “Yes,” replied Indira.

  “We have one too. It’s with the Chemistry Department.”

  “Really?” asked Trill. “Please tell me about it.”

  “Yes. Ever since they stopped letting us edit their papers for them. All because Professor Knotmead revised one of them with a very intricate rhyming scheme. It was brilliant. The rhythm and pacing was superb. Still, they have never forgiven us for that. Those bastards.”

  “Those bastards,” Trill repeated.

  “OK. Let’s go see Dean Midge,” said Wingut.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Tanit walked into Tomasco’s office expecting to be placed under arrest. She wasn’t.

  “Glad you came to your senses,” said Tomasco.

  “Eventually I do the right thing,” she replied.

  “Tracking indicated you were orbiting a quarantined planet. I assume that it was something to do with the historian you are dating,” he said with a disappointed tone.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve wiped the tracking records and will move the cruiser to a maintenance bay and get the rest of the evidence deleted. A major service event should do it.”

  Just over two hundred revs ago Tomasco and Tanit got drunk together at the Einstein Awards ceremony. It was during one of the most boring award acceptance speeches in recent history that Tomasco leaned over to Tanit and whispered in her ear. It was a simple message: “I LOVE YOU.”

  Since that time Tanit had been very cautious in her interactions with Tomasco, despite his very profuse apology the next day. Now she kept it all business. No jokes. No smiles. Nothing except work. And Tomasco, being polite and very embarrassed, let her dictate the new terms of their relationship. Still, you and I both know, as do both of them, that his drunken admission was sincere.

  “Thank you,” said Tanit. “I’ll pay for any damages.”

  “I’ll take it for a flight tonight and let it pick up some dings and ice cones,” said Tomasco.

  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this.”

  “Have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

  “How about tomorrow night? I really need to rest tonight.”

  “Wonderful,” he said with a smile.

  On the walk back to her apartment, Tanit started crying.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  It was one of the smaller temples of the Cult of Ceros. It had been cleaned of bodies, but the bloodstains were still noticeable if one looked carefully. It was well built and had marble used for flooring throughout.

  “What did they give you to eat?” asked one of the guards.

  “Roasted vegetables and meat,” replied another of the group of ten guards with Koven in the temple.

  “I got chicken and rice. It was not as good as yours,” complained the first man.

  “Because they don’t like you,” replied the other man.

  “Nobody likes you,” replied another man. “I certainly don’t. You think you are better than the rest of us because they gave you the knowledge with their machine.”

  “OK. It’s true. I got the knowledge. But they didn’t give it to me, I took it. They were pissed at first. But it doesn’t make me any better. I want all of you to get it done too.”

  “I don’t know if I want to. It won’t make me any richer,” said a man to the nodding heads of others.

  “But you’re wrong. Your whole life will be richer because you will understand many things. Ask the space man here,” said the guard, pointing at Koven.

  “What about it?” asked the other guard.

  “I’ve never been without the knowledge, so I can’t tell you that it is better having over not having it. But I can deduce that it seems more logical to have the knowledge than not. The knowledge might prevent a catastrophic screw up.”

  “Star man makes sense,” replied the guard.

  “But getting this knowledge, does it make everyone an asshole?”

  “It shouldn’t,” replied Koven.

  “Wait a minute. I’m not an asshole,” complained the other guard. “Now
that I understand things, I don’t want to go get drunk with the rest of you. It’s not healthy.”

  “But its fun,” said one of the guards.

  “But I know what it does to my body. It is a poison.”

  “Then it is a poison that I gladly drink. If it weren’t for drink, I would have killed my brother long ago. Evil little prick.”

  “I have a sister the same,” replied another guard.

  “It’s drink that keeps them safe,” replied the guard with the evil brother.

  Some conversations don’t change over time or space.

  “Enough,” said the oldest man in the group. He looked at Koven.

  “And you. You’re to be protected. That’s all. So shut up and remember you are the prisoner here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Let’s look at the history of a historian. Specifically, Dean Midge. It was a long time ago when she lost her brother, Aldus. He too was a historian just like his sister and their parents. While she was off building version 3.0 of the probability engine locked into her introverted solitude of thoughts about criterion weighting, her brother was locked in a battle with the Shuns, an angry species from Ansop Lesser that believed that the universe was made by a turtle or perhaps pulled in a cart behind a turtle or some other such nonsense.

  Normally this sort of thing can easily be treated by evidence. Knowledge is inoculation. However, the Shun religious doctrine required proselytizing and conversion, by force if necessary. You can see that this sort of thing is headed for a rather significant ending. And it was this that caused Aldus Midge to perish at the Battle of Inske (the capital city of Ansop Lesser.)

  Since that time, psychologists have determined that the cause of the problem was the name of the planet, Ansop Lesser. Specifically, the “Lesser” part of the name. Apparently, the male of the species found it to be processed subconsciously as a humiliation, implying the male sexual organ of this species, which had a striking resemblance to a fruit fly, was inadequate for the task. Biologists proved that their half-inch genitalia was sufficient for the task of reproduction. Just not enough for their partners to enjoy it very much.

  But after the full report was implemented, Ansop Lesser was renamed to Ansop Huge and everything returned to normal.

  Dean Midge was devastated when Aldus died. They had never been close and wouldn’t ever be. Her parents had always asked Midge to look after her brother. But she didn’t. Never once called him. Never once invited him over for dinner. None of it. So when he died, it hit her harder than she imagined. The deeply introverted Midge did what most introverts would do: hide in her work.

  If you ever want to see the largest collection of introverts in your life, stop by any history department. It’s possible for extroverts to get through, but it’s a small minority. But the big names in history? Mostly extroverts. Self-promoting jerks.

  Dean Midge and Prof. Longley were in Longley’s office with the door closed. In the waiting area just outside of the office sat Wingut, Indira, Eflin, Trill, and Necker.

  They all spent fifty tox in a meeting together where Wingut laid out the facts regarding the History Department’s failure to protect one of its own. Prof. Longley sat with his arms folded across his chest and a very angry look on his face. This was dangerous, as every historian knew that losing your temper increased the probability of saying something that could cost them their license by 22 percent. When Dean Midge asked Prof. Longley to confirm that he agreed with the facts, he hesitated for a long time, almost spoke, thought better of it, and finally nodded his agreement.

  Then he began his rebuttal. It could best be summarized as a rather vicious attack against the personality of Professors Wingut and Trill.

  Longley was no slouch when it came to argument. He began with a series of questions for Wingut of a personal nature. During this he established that Wingut had long been attracted to Indira, while at university and still to this day. As he answered Longley’s questions truthfully, with the object of his desires sitting less than one maatar from him, Wingut wished he could find a hole in the ground and crawl in.

  Finally Dean Midge cut off Longley in his questioning by saying Wingut’s motivations were irrelevant and that the ad homonym attack could easily be brought up at Longley’s next certification as breach of the truth by shading.

  Now they sat outside the office as Dean Midge and Longley had a private word. They occasionally heard Prof. Longley raise his voice. It all ended abruptly with the sound of breaking glass. Longley’s office door flew open and he stormed out. “Screw you,” he said as he passed Wingut. Dean Midge appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you okay?” asked Wingut.

  “Yes. The only casualty was the Herodotus award.”

  “Are we good to go?” Asked Prof. Trill.

  Dean Midge nodded. Professor Trill started grinning. He raised his communication bracelet near his mouth.

  “Muncie, we’re a go. Get them all in the cruiser.” Prof. Trill was silent for a moment before speaking again.

  “Yes, it’s ours. Thank you, Muncie, it’s kind of you to say so.”

  “Them all” turned out to be twenty-five sociologists fully trained in combat and weapons. They were a rowdy bunch of men and women. Trill smiled as they cheered him and shook his hand when they boarded the cruiser.

  “The curse if finally lifted,” said one of them.

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Trill.

  “Who are these old geezers?” asked one of the sociologists. His question was met with a smart slap to the back of his head.

  “Ow. Why did you do that?”

  “Lack of respect,” replied Trill. Then Trill introduced everyone.

  The captain of the cruiser was a man named Erlog.

  “Get us out of here,” said Trill.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Erlog.

  “Are the satellites on board?” asked Trill.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wiping the memory of an entire planet can be done quickly with satellites purposely built for the task.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Professor Trill was standing in the bridge of the cruiser. Some might say he was posing, as if a painter was putting onto canvas a historic moment of significance. His chin was elevated. It was a historic moment, mostly in his mind. He was the one that finally turned it around. He moved his comms bracelet to his mouth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. I’ll give it to you as simply as I can. You are not to kill the natives. We retrieve the historian and the writer. We take all of the tech and then we leave. If we can’t take it, we destroy it. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” came a chorus of voices of young men and women.

  “Allor the magnificent, or whatever they call him. He’s the key. We capture the king and control the entire board.”

  “Remember when we used to do that on assignments?” said Eflin with a smile to Indira.

  “My stomach would always get in knots,” replied Wingut.

  “Really? Mine too,” replied Eflin.

  “My first mission was delayed for almost twenty tox because I was in the toilet with cramps,” said Wingut.

  “I threw up the first time I killed,” said Indira. “And cried.”

  “I cried too,” said Eflin.

  “Once we are on the planet, I am the only person with kill authority. The only one, girls and boys. Do you understand me?” Trill said with a sneer.

  “Sir, yes sir,” came the chorus back to Trill’s smiling face.

  “Sir, should we go in shielded?” asked one of the men on the team.

  “No.”

  “What about the quarantine?” the man asked in reply.

  “That is a wholly owned construct of the History department. Besides, we’re going to wipe them. And don’t forget we will help this planet move towards meeting contact criteria once the culling is over,” replied Trill.

  Please permit me to interrupt for just a moment to point out that when the entire population wake up without any memory a
nd in a state much like a newborn baby, well, as you can imagine, survival rates will be rather slim. 92 percent will die. Any variance is down to the curiosity of those who wake up in the farming community.

  “Captain. Please have the satellite systems start scanning for unununtrium,” said Trill.

  “Yes, sir,” the man with the deep voice replied.

  Unununtrium is a rare metal that is not naturally occurring in the universe. However, it is included in most advanced propulsion devices, electronic books, and bacterial suppositories. It is made from the death of its parent material, unununcrium, which only lives milliseconds before collapsing into unununtrium, a material with exceptional conductive and data-storage properties as well as being exceptionally badass in its attitude towards most problems associated with ingesting dirty water. The transformation from one element to another results in a rather loud popping sound, which scientists refer to as “unununfarting.”

  “Sending to your screen, sir,” replied the captain.

  “I’d like to see that,” said Wingut.

  “Me too,” said Indira.

  “Likewise,” said Eflin.

  “Give it to everyone,” said Trill in an annoyed tone. He then bent one of his legs slightly like a girl in front of a camera. “OK. We’ve got a concentration. That’s where we go.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the captain.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly meet me at the airlock. A new era beckons,” said Trill. He stood in the doorway of the bridge in a dramatic stance.

  The tricky thing about an airlock is nothing at all. One big button. Still, as he stood in front of everyone in the airlock, Professor Trill forgot the most basic thing and ran towards the control panel on the hall, smacked the button hard with the palm of his hand, and then dove out of the spaceship without having activated his personal transportation device. He immediately recognized this problem as he emerged into the upper atmosphere over Earth 7, which happens to be devoid of oxygen, a necessary component for human life.

  Most people would desperately turn on their PPS and their personal transportation device. But Professor Trill is not most people. He forgot about the personal protection suit entirely and spent all of his effort in activating his personal transportation device as he floated aimlessly away from the cruiser.