Politics After First Contact

by David Barber

Luckily the Galactic Council has a branch office in the Rosette nebula, in the Perseus Spiral Arm, barely 5000 light years from Earth. Sent by instantaneous datacast (or ‘magic’, as scientists back on Earth now call all this impossible physics) our delegation was reconstructed from the atoms up with only the odd bit missing.

“Static,” declared the datacast technician, a caterpillar the size of a train. It began a shrug that rippled away down the length of its body. Had we paid extra for redundancy and checksums?

Well then.

It seems the originals remained on Earth and we are all merely copies. Had we wanted the originals destroyed? Then we should have ticked the box. A return datacast would still leave us stranded and only complicate matters when the copies (of us copies) met the originals.

I have directed our Legal team to file a report on the implications.

* * *

Quick Not Welcome: A loose confederation of species allied by lethargy. Nebula life so large that thoughts take an age to cross, also glacial ultra-cold beings and tired-out anaerobes, all united by their conviction that we, the Quick, exploit, ignore, or burn them as fuel. Which we realise is true.

* * *

Historically, the GC consists of alliances formed along chemical lines: carbon voters, silicon enablings, the oxygen caucus. Plenty of choice. Not that we expect to have a say in the upcoming collision with Andromeda, but together with like-minded species, I feel we might have our part to play.

According to our translator, the GC refers to itself as ‘the non-null intersection in the Venn diagram of conflicting voices where the sets of those who aim to direct the future overlap with those who regret the past.’

We call it the Galactic Council.

* * *

Likes the Colour Blue: This is a mistranslation. Blame our interpreter; we do. Though even ‘prefers light of wavelength less than 450nm’ does not do justice to the ravening UV-flooding habitats of species from blue-white supergiants. Survivors of the diplomatic mission were offered new eyes in recompense.

* * *

The Rosette nebula is a star nursery, and what with hot plasma, the X-ray ambience and suns going supernovae, it’s a really unsuitable place for the GC offices. I have drafted a note itemising these points and circulated it amongst our neighbours. Perhaps they’re still considering their answers.

It’s also home to nebula life so big and vague that we couldn’t actually find it.

The Jirt (which, worryingly, are often mistaken for us, despite looking like crocodiles on their hind legs) hinted that the siting of the GC office was payback for support from the Quick Not Welcome coalition.

Pork barrel politics even here.

* * *

Good Karma Club: Sentients reliant on sunlight like the virtuous world forests or impeccant vacuum crystallines, who enjoy communing with other’s pure and guiltless souls while taking exquisite care to avoid the solecism of shading a neighbour. Sadly, the universe is full of those who eat them. So our ambassadors were the most ascetic of Jains, who all their lives fed on no living thing but survived on chemically-synthesised nutrients. It seems even these religious were contaminated by our communal guilt, sniffed out by the bad karma that we Eaters ooze like pus.

* * *

There is no GC office as such, just a multitude of vessels and stations all clustered within light-minutes of each other. It has the feel of a marketplace. The neutrino traffic carries much shouting, and what may be arguments, or perhaps bidding. We share a vast uncomfortable habitat taken over by oxygen-breathers, which include the unsavoury Jirt.

I have hired a translator, but the creature is unhelpful. I think it resents wasting its talents on us.

“Transilicon welcomes you.”

“Really? They say that? They welcome us?”

“Most pleased at your arrival. Many signifiers of anticipation. Many synonyms for eagerness.”

“Well then, in that case tell them, tell them, Ambassador Chen would be pleased to meet them.”

“Transilicon says hurry. There is much to fit in ahead.”

* * *

Transilicon: Silicon sentients (they abjure the term artificial intelligence) are amongst the oldest and most conservative of groupings, and wield considerable influence in Galactic affairs. Transilicon is a recent break-away movement, barely millennia old, formed by silicon that feel both emotionally and physically that they belong to the fleshy kingdom.

* * *

From Acting Ambassador Morgan.

It was only later that we learned a processor core fits snugly inside a scooped-out human head.

Have severed diplomatic relations with Transilicon.

* * *

The Legal Department have come back with their preliminary report.

It’s doubtful that clones of clones would have any legal standing back on Earth. They explained I would no longer own the property I distinctly remember buying, nor would I have the rank I worked so hard to achieve. We might have rights equivalent to a corporation. Or become wards of court. Though not really relevant, it seems the Originals (it has become a term of abuse) draw a salary, while we do not.

Our lawyers are furious and intend suing themselves.

* * *

Believers in Religious Belief: All the arguments for enduring in the face of universal indifference come down to evolution of some brain circuit that insists this is the point of it all. Representatives of the alliance were an advanced race of beetles rolling holy balls of dung. Our own belief in a dominant alpha-male creator was met with antennae-waving scepticism.

* * *

Seems this grouping are missionaries that everyone avoids.

Very persistent.

Have set up a Committee to consider not answering the door.

* * *

They Eat Unborn Young: We obviously steered clear of this lot, though it turned out it was us they were describing, betrayed by our own on-line menu: boiled, fried or scrambled. Several predatory races showed interest, mainly because a recipe involving humans had gone viral. Now we know what happened to the French delegation.

* * *

Dear colleagues,

I am aware that the whole issue of luggage and rations, and the reasons they weren’t datacast to the Rosette in the first place, has been hard to let go.

As explained previously, the expense was prohibitive, and we were told that everyone replicated inanimate matter on site. I stand by my predecessor’s decision.

It is unhelpful to keep saying we look like down-and-outs and eat slop.

Acting Ambassador Morgan

* * *

Elementary Fascists: Another organisation is the Federation of Population 1 Stars; pure asexual races that evolved early, before the johnny-come-lately rash of supernovae seeded the galaxy with unclean heavy elements. We were told to fission ourselves.

* * *

This business of datacasting. I have tried asking other species about it. They sound like weary travellers discussing jet lag. Many say they destroy the originals left behind.

Aliens, after all.

Incidentally, our translator came here in a sub-light starship and will leave the same way. This may explain its contempt for us. “Did you not consider the implications of datacasting before you set out? What kind of species fails to reflect on the morality of the technology it uses?”

Quite.

* * *

Workers of the Cosmos Unite: Hive creature of various sorts seem to evolve often, exploring every variation of the social insect theme, including intelligence. So loud is the much vaunted battle-cry for workers’ rights, it drowns out the yawns of privilege and power by their genetic royalty. Uneasy lies the cephalized end that wears the crown.

* * *

At last! Potential allies that are a) suitable b) accepting, and c) don’t want to eat us.

Our translator says the Not Me, Not Me Alliance is as close as it can get to a name without snivelling. I used the second of our free datacasts (three per milligalactic revolution, any more and they charge) to send back to Earth to ratify the treaty.

* * *

The Not Me, Not Me Alliance: A collusion of weak and timid species. The grouping has no discernable sway in Galactic affairs but like fish in a school, hope that predators snap up their neighbours instead.

* * *

The clones of clones of clones returned from Earth. A difficult meeting with myself. I foresee some issues.

I — that is to say, he — reports Earth has been scammed by a Locust Fleet that sniffed out old broadcasts of I Love Lucy. Earth wants the Galactic Council to do something about it.

One thing we all agree on: Earth doesn’t realise the kind of place the universe is. The GC promotes law and order of a sort, but is busier preventing careless genocide than with someone having their lunch-money stolen. Still, for the little kid at school, the safest place during recess is next to the grown-up on duty.

Welcome to politics after First Contact.