Cleo’s ASP…
[Note: In spite of my lists of what-ifs and other data I use to create stories for you, sometimes I just wake up in the middle of the night with a story idea. Who knows? I might eventually turn this one into a novella or novel, although it’s really short in its present form. Enjoy!]
Cleo’s ASP
Steven M. Moore
Copyright 2014
Dargon signed off from the remote feed to the planet’s huge satellite and faced his assistant.
“There’s evidence they made it to that huge moon, but, for some reason, after that they just hunkered down until all hell broke loose.” He stretched. “The fossil record isn’t of long duration. You’d think they went through an atomic holocaust because it happened so quickly.”
“Maybe not so quickly,” said J’Rin. “There are strata, as you know.”
“Not many. Doesn’t change the fact that they failed to explore the solar system and beyond.” A figure appeared silhouetted in the opening to his tent. “Yes, Tilsook?”
Tilsook was one of the students. Unlike J’Rin, who often commanded some of the digging teams, Tilsook and others provided muscle. And the patience, he thought. Working in the digs often required careful and tedious sifting through piles and piles of debris. The story of an ancient civilization was unraveled from the minutia. True, there were huge structures left by this one. Some were clearly bridges at one time. Others were huge dwellings of some kind. But inside the crumbled walls of smaller dwellings, one found the real clues.
“Sorry to interrupt, Master Dargon,” said Tilsook, “but we’ve found an important artifact.” He held up a sealed plastic bag in one gloved claw, a computer memory cube in another. “A hand-written record. I ran it through the translator software.”
“The neural network of the translator is still digesting new data,” said J’Rin. “That translation can’t be complete.”
It was a warning Tilsook already knew, of course. Dargon smiled, touching his long tongue to his snout. His assistant was putting the student in his rightful place, establishing the pecking order. He sighed. After all these millennia, everything’s still the same….
***
That night, after forming a triad and fertilizing one of the ovulating females in his research pod, Dargon relaxed in his hammock and began to read the translation Tilsook had provided. They would refine it over time, but it was an important find. They had already discovered that it was a log written by an ET named Cleopatra Fedorov. He imagined how it might sound—the translator had attempted a phonetic rendering but had also included graphic representations of two different ways the ETs had written it. These people had far too many alphabets and languages. No wonder they failed to survive.
He slowly attempted to make the sounds come alive, guessing that the accents would come on the first syllables. Why names with two components? Why not three? They’d never know, of course. Thousands of years had passed since that two-component name was uttered.
To make things more complicated, this ET shortened its name to Cleo most of the time when referring to itself—one component. It had labored on something called The Anti-Senescence Project, which it often wrote in shorthand as ASP, followed by LOL—he had seen that in other writings but had no idea what it meant. Does anti-sensescence mean what I think it means? Or, did the translation fail here? He shuddered.
As he read on, the invaluable nature of the document became clearer. It was an important key to how a civilization had died. Tomorrow, I’ll have to commend Tilsook. He did well. Gaps in the translation were indicated, and the computer’s best guess was included. For now, he read on….
***
“I’d always been fascinated by life, death, and mortality. I lost my parents at an early age in [vehicle disaster? war-time event?], so death seemed to be looking over my shoulder [?]. I didn’t want to die. I loved life and hated death. I wanted to live forever. I didn’t believe any of that [confusion?] we call [rituals? sacred acts?]. When people die, their [being? minds? inner cores?] fade into oblivion, either rapidly, like in the case of my parents, or slowly, as in [?]. I didn’t want any of it. Therefore, I made a vow to destroy death.”
There followed some blank pages and then many pages of formulas—he assumed they described chemical formulas and measures. Their scientists would have happy times trying to decipher them. Some were scratched out; others corrected. Final forms appeared in boxes with wavy-lined borders. This ET was a scientist. Could it be that these ETs discovered things we don’t even know?
“The [?] body’s cells lose the capacity to reproduce as we age. That was the only clue I needed. I was [promoted? ascended? rewarded?] at 16 [a count of how long the creature had been alive measured in revolutions around this star?] and joined the Institute of Biogenetics [?] in 2092 [contradicts previous number, because the planet was certainly more than 2092 units old]. I worked for [this might be measured in the original units] until I discovered the drug [mixture? combination?] I called it the anti-senescence [?]. We tried it, with success, on [lower functioning ETs?]. [?] trials were also successful.”
His thoughts returned to his last question. How could they know things we don’t if they never even explored their own solar system? But a strange, ancestral feeling of danger coursed through his veins. Am I endangering us here? But curiosity won. He read on….
***
“Final tests successful! The [an organization?] approved the general [release? distribution? give-away?].”
There were more pages of data and formulas. Dargon skipped forward.
“Oh my [religious symbol? curse?]. What have I done? The riots have become so widespread and violent! They have destroyed Vatican City [a place where their gods live?] along with [?].”
There were spatters of something—now brown with age—on the pages now.
“There are mass suicides in the cities now. Everyone wants to die. Why? Why? Why? Must [research? investigate?].”
More data. Then…
“Reports are in from South American [scientists there?]. Consensus is that people do not want to live forever. They feel trapped in life now. They want death. The [?] was a mistake!”
The rest of the pages were singed on the edges. The log had barely escaped being consumed in flames.
Dargon scratched his head. Indeed, who wants to live forever? He was old and tired—didn’t he deserve that sweet oblivion where he was allowed to return his constituent atoms to mingle with those of the known Universe? Curious!
But now they knew. The ETs had discovered how to live forever, or, at least as long as their planet was habitable. But knowing that had made them psychotic and suicidal. Moreover, giving up the adventure of spaceflight made their planet into a prison.
You have to get your priorities straight!
***
[I hope you enjoyed another of Steve’s Shorts. Other short speculative fiction can be found in Pasodobles in a Quantum Stringscape.]
MJM diary entry for April, 2014: So, Agency X is my nemesis. Are they stupid enough to spring me from Hazelton? They say they will….
***
In libris libertas…
