David Brin - Existence

Maybe. Briefly.

But that outcome wasn’t what concerned Hamish. No, what struck him was a sudden, bolt-like realization. Awed by Betsby’s innovative technique for getting a point across.

A confession is always more credible than a denial.

Hamish felt a chasm in the pit of his stomach, a cavity made up of fear. The action that he suddenly found himself contemplating would change everything. There were terrible dangers, possibly as great as the ones that Roger Betsby faced. But also potential rewards. Plus a very real chance to alter the world, something that his genre fictions-despite all their dire-warning intensity-had never achieved.

Could I actually do this? Shall I study the idea first? Working out all the pros and cons and details?

Or would that only risk losing the moment, the sheer, impulsive genius!

In fact, there was only a very narrow window of time. Worldwide economies were teetering as thousands committed suicide, tens of thousands rioted, millions stayed home from work, and billions muttered angrily at their tru-vus and tellai-screens, driven into a contagious funk by the message of the artilens. And, while regular political institutions teetered, certain cabals of planetary power dealers were getting set to make their big move. One that Hamish had striven for years to assist-

– only now he felt a new certainty-that he did not want the “solution” being offered by Tenskwatawa, or the oligarchs, after all.

“Mr. Brookeman?”

His eyelids parted. Slightly startled, Hamish looked down to see the petite lab director, half his height, Dr. Nolan, standing just a meter away.

“Mr. Brookeman, I want to repeat our apology for having preempted your reserved time with Tarsus. I’m sure you understand that fast-breaking news events get priority.”

Fast-breaking news? Well, maybe. But the question you asked the octopus-oracle was both boring and dumb. Still, he maintained a calm and friendly smile.

“I’ll tell you what,” she continued. “Why don’t we offer you time with Patmos, our parrot-prognosticator? Her record is almost as good as Tarsus’ and we can give you a substantial discount.”

Hamish nodded.

“Very well. Lead on.”

As he followed the keeper of animal auguries, Hamish considered the question he might pose-a very different one than Tenskwatawa had sent him to ask.

If I confess my crime, will it help me influence world events and bring outcomes I’ll desire?

He would have to simplify the query further, of course, and couch it as a yes-no, either-or choice for the feathered fortuneteller to pick between, opening one labeled box or the other for a tasty treat. In truth, Hamish wasn’t sure he believed in these supposed seers. Most reputable scientists scoffed at the whole idea, attributing their “track record” to statistical flukes. But as long as he was already here…

What if the answer is yes? Do I have the guts to carry out my plan?

Even if I find the courage, I’d require help to pull it off. But who? I’ll need people with technical skills, who are good at acting in secret… and quickly…

His subconscious was already ahead of him. Hamish realized this when he found his left hand absently fondling a small case in his pocket, containing a single contaict lens.

They helped me once… my mysterious benefactors… to see through the banality of the aristocrats’ club.

They said I had only to get in touch, again, if I wanted to go farther down a rabbit hole. This certainly would qualify as a leap!

But do I dare work with people I don’t even know?

Can I trust them?

Will they even go along with what I have in mind?

Would anybody?

Hamish heard a squawking sound ahead, as Dr. Nolan entered a chamber whose walls were covered with drip-veg hangings, lending the place a jungle ambiance.

“Awr. Hi Jill! Hi Jill! Hello-o-o stranger! Awk! Tall! Awk!”

Shifting her weight on a wooden perch, a gray parrot rocked eagerly, ready to get to work, building her moderate, but above-average, score in the Worldwide Predictions Market. Of course she didn’t know about any of that, nor did she care whether her tally of successful forecasts qualified as prophecy, coincidence, or statistical fluke. Perhaps (according to some) not caring might be part of the reason for it all.

Hamish spent a few minutes refining his paired, yes-no questions, writing them on two slips of paper, then inserting them behind clear labels, covering separate hatches in a wooden cabinet. Then he stood back, still clutching the little container in his pocket, breathing shallowly as his heart raced.

Am I really this credulous? This superstitious?

Of course I am. Or I would never have written so many tales about the price of hubris and ambitious pride.

Only now, shall I attempt to alter human destiny, through actions of my own? Not via stories on a screen or the pages of a novel, but in real life?

Isn’t that arrogant, in its own right?

Minutes later, he had his answer, Patmos chuttered happily, fussing her way through devouring a nut. The door she had chosen lay open behind her.

Wordlessly, with barely a nod of thanks, Hamish turned to go.

First order of business? A quiet place to slip on the contaict lens and commune with the people behind it, seeking their help to carry out a desperate, impromptu plan. A plan to rescue the world from diabolic alien invaders.

If this works, I’ll owe the inspiration to you, Roger.

Rest in peace.

Hello. My name is Hamish Brookeman, and with this statement I admit and avow to having committed a crime.

First, though, I’m told that I am the 246th most famous person on the planet. But for those of you who still don’t know who I am, here’s my bio . A lot of folks say that I’m pretty good as a story-maker, scenario-builder, vid-director, and so on. In fact, those very skills are why I was invited, some years ago, to join a conspiracy. A scheme that I once believed in-

– that I now confess to be monstrous and wrong.

In my defense, let me say the plot didn’t seem bad, at first. Those behind it appeared sincere, claiming we’d save the world! A world riven by political, military, and ethnic feuds that threatened Armageddon in dozens of ways. A world that’s withered and worn out from ecological neglect and overuse by ten billion ravenous consumers. A world where venerable traditions hang in tatters and every day brings more news of insolent technological “wonders” that might end us all.

Was it still possible to divert lemming-humanity from its doom?

The concept we came up with was simple, having been portrayed in science fiction dramas going all the way back to a classic Outer Limits episode and one of the great comic books of the 1980s.

How to get all peoples and nations to put down their petty squabbles and unite in common cause? Why, by offering them a shared enemy.

A credible external threat would provoke the goodwill and fellowship that humans always show to other members of their tribe, when confronted by dangerous outsiders. Across history, leaders used this method to rally their subjects.

But how to accomplish it? A lot of ideas that seem elegant, say in a movie, prove impossible to implement, especially by a small and secret cabal. By the time they came to me, the group had already considered the problem, long and hard. They knew better than to try anything too ornate, like forging a complete “alien spaceship,” or even the partial wreckage of one. The world’s scientists and sages would quickly discover telltale signs of Earthly origin, in every alloy and part, down to the distribution of isotopes.