SERENDIPITY - fiction by freon

The silver doors of the lander’s access bay slid softly to a halt, shedding a pale yellow reflection from the star we called µ-427 across the deck of our observatory ship as it orbited one of this system’s many unusual planets. Onto the gantry stepped our captain and chief observer, who we code-call Mr. “Muse” in the language of the planet below. Muse had just returned from the planet’s northern hemisphere, where it was agreed upon at the time of our arrival that the most promising specimens for study thrived. The development level of the natives had in recent g.t.u.’s reached a plateau a hair beyond the level of controlled simple chemical combustion; chemistry was in the midst of its golden age, and rudimentary world communications had been established. We were ready to leave.

Earlier, Muse had presided at a meeting to-day regarding the final phase of our mission – to anonymously usher these life forms of µ-427 into a new age of discovery, priming them for a rendezvous with the galactic civilization someday in the far-flung future.

Well, someone had to do it.

My commandant, sub-ordinate to Muse, was code-called “Bard”. Our real names were unimportant at the time, and perhaps remain that way. In the scope of this new world’s history we were but specks of dust in the eyes of its onward march to technological fruition. Without our help, however, the odds of the planet’s induction – let alone its survival as an extra-systemic entity – were in serious jeopardy. At many of our informal ‘meetings’ in the ship’s pub, Bard told me stories about prior glaring fiascoes – failures of the Galactic Guild’s original “hands-off” directives. They were tales of thousands of promising world civilizations, laid to waste by diseases that were curable by the Guild. Or simple tectonic shifts whose prevention would have been child’s play to Guild geologists.

Or war.

The ability to destroy a world by warfare is the most disgusting, said Bard, because nothing the Guild could ever do, no matter how covertly, has saved a race so paranoid, so bent on self-destruction that God himself had turned his back on them.

µ-427 was to be the first experiment in the Guild’s new, “hands-on” approach. Public outcry over the waste of such an amount of precious life throughout the galaxy had lately changed the Guild’s protocol.

“What now, then,” asked Bard, yesterday, as Muse returned from one of many scouting missions. Perhaps, as Muse had often claimed, his lollygagging with ship’s ballast like me kept him from being properly informed. (I was fortunate enough to pull barkeep duty for the conference, and so relate this story.)

“Paddy,” he called to me, as he motioned for a drink. He winked, and I poured one extra strong. “Now then, are we going to get into it, Muse?”

“What, now. Five minutes I’ve been aboard and already he’s on my back.” Muse pulled up a chair and stirred his Fennimur stew. “Ah, just as well, for time is of the essence.” He extracted a file cube and opened it. After a brief flash, a holographic image of the Space Exploration Guild banner materialized over the conference table. Shortly thereafter a brief, candid ‘news reel’ covering the history of the world below was projected into the thin air of the room, beginning with the end of µ-427’s latest ice age, and the rise of intelligent life on the planet. Thousands of years flashed by in glimpses and peeks, punctuated every now and then by meteor impacts, major geo-thermal turmoil (µ-427 was yet a very warm planet) and the occasional bio-evolutionary flush. At length the review slowed to within the last fifty g.t.u.’s of the little watery planet, and finally halted with a brief visi-dossier on warfare at sea and the rise of some tyrant on the land-heavy side. The lifespan of these small, loud bipeds was roughly one fifth that of our own, a fact which prompted Bard to joke about this race’s real significance within the Guild’s designs.

“I can see it now, Paddy. If we ever see these ‘beings’ (used loosely) walking the Guild Commons, it would be worse than dealing with the Kasparites of theta-024. Gods! Imagine having to relate with a native, his son, his grandson, and if you’re really unlucky, even his great grandson! Or are we just too slow for them?” Bard went on, comparing their methods of propagation to that of small rodents and primates.

Muse spoke again. “I think they’re ready. We’ve been watching their institutes of ‘modern’ sciences and it appears that they’re on the verge of discovering what we’ve been planning to give them, anyway. But,” he raised his goblet, “Since we’re already here, and I would hate to waste the guild’s precious R&D time, I say we move soon and at least get our names down for posterity for this… experiment.”

I came to the table to fill Muse’s cup, and caught a glimpse of a 2-d portfolio before him. Muse didn’t mind; with a crew of six, there was no need (or practical use) for secrecy. A group of four natives was depicted, separately labeled as “test subjects”. A chill of satisfaction crossed my body - four subjects meant four separate missions to the planet surface. Since Bard and Sensei, as pilots, had to remain on the observatory, that meant that I was guaranteed at least one trip planetside. I was truly ecstatic; I hadn’t been there yet.

“Four separate jobs, eh,” I piped up. Muse looked askance and shrugged.

“Nosey. Oh, well, you’d have found out today, anyway. Yes, yes, you’re hitting the ground tomorrow with me and the twins.”

I could barely contain my glee. For nearly two g.t.u.’s we’d been ‘scoping delta-mu, all this time safe in orbit over the northern geographic pole, dropping probes and listening for chance electromag transmissions. Occasionally Muse would man a lander for some up-close, but the Brothers Grimm and I had always stayed aboard, waiting for the word to go.

Bard snorted. “Lucky bastard. Hey, remember your buddy. Bring back a souvenir.” I nodded, wondering later what the commandant could possibly want.

“Back to business, men,” urged Muse. Our captain was getting around to the mission itself. “Where are the Grimm's? This is the only meeting we’ve got before the drop.”

“Oh, they’re below decks,” I said. “They’re on drill, duty-checking de-orbit specs. Something about recalibrating for the next comet.” I assured Muse that I would convey their orders afterward.

Muse downed his Fennimur and cleared his throat.

“We leave tomorrow. Your orders are explicit, and you must stay out of sight (we are a bit taller than the natives, and we have more arms). Here are the Grimms’ folders and these…” as he handed me a thin mem-plate, “… are for you.”

“Any details?”

“It’s all there. You can take the Uttajhlian. His name is Marconi or something like that. Bard gets the Jermun, Hertz. The Twins leave first, one from Inklund named Oliver Lodge; the other for a Russian called Tesla. We want them to know about trans-media communication. Start with the basics, boys.”

So, that’s it. We drop in a few minutes, and we’re as jittery as hantmuggens. Damn, but I hope this all works out.

 

~Freon runs on hamburgers and bourbon.