The Year of the Fruit Cake Read online

  This time I was sitting with my friends, talking about—of all things—terrorists. A small bit of knowledge came to me and I wish it had not.

  I’m not an observer. I’ve never been an anthropologist. That was yet another of these foul artificial mindgames they’ve been playing on me.

  I’m not a natural non-participant in this business of quasi-colonisation. I’m not on this planet to document charming cultural quirks. All those things were done before I ever learned that humanity existed. Those few anthropologists who remain are just polishing the silver. Earth has been pretty well-documented. So many years of documentations. From the 1940s until now.

  We’re coming out into the open for a reason. And me, I’m part of the reason. A hidden part. Hidden from almost everyone for so very many reasons.

  I’m not an anthropologist. I’ve never been an anthropologist.

  I’m the bloody Judge and, if necessary, the fucking executioner.

  I did not expect this.

  I can’t do my job until I’ve sorted out the impediments. The impediments include my people saying: “There are no problems with your body. This is normal. Don’t worry.”

  If I don’t sort this out, then I’ll execute myself or murder everyone on this godforsaken planet by mistake.

  The options are appalling. There is no negotiation, no way of making those two choices less stark.

  There is no third choice.

  Judgement is bleak. No matter how much one examines it, it’s bleak. Someone has to suffer. Mostly, it’s the inhabitants of a planet because the Judgement is so very personal in nature. Judgement is described as dispassionate and fair, but it’s the polar opposite.

  Choice One is for the Judge to go home. That’s the most common choice Judges make. Humans are preserved in zoos and for experimental purposes, but their planet is freed from them. They are, after Judgement, regarded as a potentially dangerous and definitely inferior species.

  The second choice is for the Judge to stay. It’s the only way humans are permitted to go on living outside a zoo. It means I die a natural death as a human. I put my life on the line and lose one hundred and fifty years of it to present irrefutable proof that humanity is neither dangerous nor vermin. Humans may continue as they are now, but only if I agree to immolate myself on their behalf. I may never communicate home. My family clan, my friends, all my past and all my possessions are lost to me. I am considered corrupted beyond rehabilitation.

  That’s the very best of the options for this godforsaken planet.

  Choice One, that other option, is complete destruction. This will make Earth a forsaken planet in an almost literal way. English sometimes has words that are apt.

  If this is a forsaken planet. I don’t know yet. I assume that Earth will be destroyed because every time I appear for downloading, I miss everyone and everything with more pain than pleasure. The dice are loaded against Earth due to how we manage Memory.

  Everything I thought and everything I believed is tangled and confused. The Memories and the human body and the whole stupid process make even less sense to me now than they did a few months ago when I understood everything.

  How can someone make Judgement from a base like this? And why was a Judge sent to Earth at this point, anyway?

  It’s an appalling system. It has appalling effects. And I can’t do anything to fix it.

  I’m caught up in the cycle of Judgement, and there are only two paths I’m permitted to take. One leads to the extinction of humans. If I decided that everyone on this planet is to die, I could return home and put in a plea for reforms to the system. The other leads to humans continuing, but my Judgement will then be Judged in its own right. Every single time this has happened, the Judgement has been seen as biasing the Judge and rendering them unfit to live in a family clan.

  Let me try pulling it all together. If I let Earth live, I’ll never be permitted to go home. Ever. And my home planet will continue to murder other species, never realising that the whole system is corrupt beyond belief. If Earth is innocent, other planets die. And I die.

  It doesn’t matter how many different ways I find of saying this, neither outcome is wise or kind or sane.

  Why the fuck did they do this to me? How can I judge when I hurt, inside and out? At least before I was judging without knowing I was judging, if one can call that a better position. Now I want to die for my own reasons, to stop the goddammed undercover pain.

  My legs hurt from being swollen due to the medication I’m on because of the latest hospital trek. Sore legs are not a good enough reason to Judge. It hurts a bit to walk; that is no excuse for murdering billions. I can’t favour the other legs, for there are no other legs to favour. I’m bipedal and limited, and have remembered that life is much easier when one can rest one’s legs a bit. The constant pain from this or that, the constant nag of a body that is perpetually in change and yet not really changing at all—it’s wearing me down. Every minute of every day.

  “Wait until you reach menopause,” I’m told, “things will improve”, but in the interim I have constant discomfort and near-constant pain, and my judgement is impaired and my life a mess. I confuse my body with my role.

  They should have noted these problems before they reached this stage of proceedings. There are a lot of things They should have noted. Right now, I know precisely which species needs a Judgement and it’s not humanity.

  What the fuck am I supposed to do?

  Step One—sort myself out (maybe this is possible);

  Step Two—sort Them out (I have no idea how);

  Step Three—sort humanity out (this is possible and I know how to do it, but God, I wish both weren’t true).

  Humans—be afraid of this middle-aged woman. Middle-aged woman—remember who you are long enough to do the job. And do it well. Do not sacrifice the world because today you have cramp. Especially do not die unless you intend to. In fact, above all, do not die.

  Not dying is an option. There is a failsafe to save my life. I wouldn’t be here without a failsafe. Our gallant interplanetary services would never be able to persuade the authorities to sacrifice the eminent and wise people to be Judges if there wasn’t a failsafe.

  I just have to remember that there is a failsafe. That’s the first memory they wiped. That’s one of the things that fails to find a niche in my memory and stay safe. My get-out-of-jail-free card. And I’m not ready to die. I have gender shifts to experience before I’m ready to move on. I have family roles to serve. I have duties to society and social action to take. My cycle of life isn’t even close to complete.

  How dare they say that my life is a small and fragile thing? It’s fragile now, thanks to them. But it never was small. Never.

  If I die as a human and I have not passed my hundredth birth­day (it seemed a good number, I was told in briefing—Why was I briefed and then the briefing deleted? And why is all the tech work failing—they tell me with apologies it’s not done that way intentionally, but they can’t fix it—those are big consequences for such a poorly-executed piece of work and they didn’t mean to give me the damn memories originally and could I please not tell anyone for it would end their careers), all humanity dies with me.

  I understood the logic originally, but now it seems a bit parlous. My death is another Judgement on humans, when that death could be accidental or through my body failing. We didn’t allow properly for human frailty. They didn’t allow nearly enough for our errors. The failsafe would be sufficient. The simple failsafe. I shall remember it long enough to run a test when I’m next in the machine room. I can claim the health stuff as an excuse.

  Yes, that’s it. Let me get out of this mess before it gets worse.

  It would be ironic if I died due to our fault and all humans were obliterated. If it doesn’t come from me at all and it’s not due to humans having a fucked-up set of societies. Humans being a fucked-up
species. Ironic, for it’s due to an anthropologist being caught in the same drop as me and being confused with me. Irony isn’t sufficient in this instance.

  Also, damn these legs.

  All of this will be documented, but I only see what I’m noting now. I can’t get any more of my memory back this way, and I can’t get it back by writing on a computer, for that would breach security. And we’re fucked if the mindwipe wins again.

  Fucked.

  Fucked.

  Fucked.

  When my mindwipe takes over next time round, we’ll be even more fucked, for there won’t even be the memory of a failsafe.

  I damn well hope I remember to read my notes next time I forget.

  The Observer’s Notes

  “Today is the Day.” Capitals were essential this morning, just as they’re essential now. I have found my dignity and lost any desire to put quotes in my diary. No bad language. Just an accounting.

  My mood fights with my fatigue at this point, but I have to write today up, otherwise I might do the Groundhog Day thing. Some days I remember most things, and some days I know I don’t remember most things, and my confidence remains sparkly high whichever is true. That’s why this brand-new old-fashioned handwritten diary has a lock. It feels stupid, but if I have a tiny child’s key on my keychain, then, if worst comes to worst, I can see it and think “I had to do something.” I didn’t have to bother with that this morning, thank goodness. I woke up thinking about it. But tonight is different. Tonight I get to write on page one of my new secret diary. Aren’t I lucky?

  I need a new sarcasm pen. This ballpoint just doesn’t cut it. And tonight, I want to be sarcasm personified. I’m too tired, at this precise moment. My eyes droop and my fingers want to put the pen down and…I should just get on with this. It was such a bad day.

  I’ve already told me, myself and I that this is an important entry and that I need to remember today so I have to write it down, no matter how much I’d rather not. Let me just get the thing done.

  Today was the day I found a solution for the problem of Judging Humans. I must have found it before, but I’ve never found it (as far as I know) on a day when I could act on it. My people are good managers. We assume that things can go wrong. Judgement can be aborted if the Judge thinks it essential. There is hell to pay, but it can be done.

  This is what I’d dedicated my day to: cancelling the heat death of the universe…or at least the early decease of many humans. Being willing to pay that hell, in the interest of aborting an impossibly-set-up situation.

  When I first woke up, what I thought about was the man lying next to me, as one does. I felt roseate and sleepy and warm and very happy. Then I said “Good morning,” and then I thought I’ve forgotten something. I felt a trickle of doubt. I looked at my wonderful sticky notes and saw the word “failsafe”, and it all came flooding back.

  I was appalled.

  My husband thinks that the failsafe notes everywhere are for my failing memory. He’s very good at helping me find ways of remembering things. The burden on him gets lighter as I remember more. His shoulders are no longer sloped over, protecting himself from the world, since he no longer carries as much of the burden that was protecting me. That’s another reason for this diary. Take more responsibility for my own memory. And stop having to hide so much behind that fake car accident.

  I don’t want to write today’s entry in this new diary. I really don’t.

  I remember thinking Thank God I remembered. We can now all get out of this mess. And then I looked across at Himself and thought “I wish…” Saving everyone meant sacrificing my love.

  I am conflicted and there’s no way around that. Not compromised: I still put everything ahead of my personal relationships. Definitely conflicted, however.

  If today was about action, tonight is about rambling. It brings a nice balance to my strange life. Leanne would love it. Janet would suggest I cut to the chase. Except I don’t want to.

  I went to my “medical appointment” this morning, as planned. Walked through the first door and the green arc and felt not nearly as much memory returning as once it did, for I was already so much myself. This was a relief. I can do so much more with my time in that white room if I don’t have to spend forever remembering the name of my cat. And my time in that white room was limited (long enough, but limited) and I wasn’t sure how to do what I planned to do. It’s not like programming, which is much easier: it’s a matter of finding the right device, which, with my carefully layered memory, is one of those simple things that’s no longer simple at all.

  I sat down near the control panels for a few minutes, to orient myself. I spent the time looking at every single object in the room. All the screens and the buttons. They’re mostly touchscreens, so that humans can’t find out interesting things about us if they break into our facilities—this is how the techs’ words come to my anxious ears. The buttons aren’t labelled, for the same reasons as the screens being what they are. Linked to our two species, specifically. Not visible by humans, etc etc etc.

  Today the techs were pretty quiet. They chatted about “Normal uplift—she just came in for an extra one because she’s one of the nervous ones.” “Oh,” someone else said, and then the talk turned to all the usual gossip about celebrities and argument about what material to request from…

  This description is not useful. Let me just move on.

  The screens come on when I enter the room. It’s automatic. I could check to see which screen I needed, or if it was the candy-striped button on the left. I rather thought it was the candy-striped button on the left, but I didn’t have any recollection of briefing, and I wasn’t going to be stupid and ask the techs.

  Just when it looked as if things could get problematic, the central screen flickered and showed me what every single screen did and what every button and lever did and how to use each and every damn one of them. I’d not noticed this before, because it was proximity-triggered. Failsafe number one, in fact. Good management. And I was right about the candy-cane button. All I had to do was push it firmly three times.

  I pressed it. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  Nothing happened. None of the screens changed. Nothing.

  I tried again. Nothing.

  Eventually the door opened for the next room and I did my extra uplift and everything was normal there, too. It shouldn’t have been. The failsafe should have triggered a beacon that would reach back home. It can’t be turned off (so that emergencies don’t lead to problems), but it’s visible so that techs could begin the necessary work to withdraw personnel.

  The failsafe should have caused a commotion. It didn’t.

  I couldn’t swear and lose my temper (which is why I’m so apparently calm now) because without the failsafe, the situation is different. Greatly different. In a very bad way.

  I really should swear at myself here, in the safety of my diary. I can’t. I feel as if I’m banging my head against a radioactive wall.

  I needed to protect myself this afternoon. I had to give the techs something in uplift, to hide what I really came for. The failsafe not working made them a source of concern. Suddenly, their lack of concern was worrying. And I had to put off that worry, because the failsafe had failed.

  My mind turned to the morning, and I thought romantic thoughts. No sex, just pleasant warmth about the love of my life. I may have thought other things, but my focus was on waking up happy.

  Everything was so normal that when I emerged, my engagement ring was gone. They were so concerned with selling my possessions to reflect my reports, that they didn’t even notice I’d pressed the damn button. Which meant, of course, that the damn button didn’t work. Which I knew, but it was good to see it confirmed.

  I want to grind my teeth and give in to despair, because my most precious possession had been stolen by those damn techs and…the failsafe failed.

&nbs
p; I had to tell my husband I lost it on the street. We spent the whole evening with torches, hunting for it. Naturally, it was nowhere to be found.

  “At least I still have you,” I joked.

  He sighed. “I’d rather you had the ring as well.”

  “So would I,” I said. “For so many reasons.”

  He didn’t know how close he’d come to losing me. And to losing his safety from evil aliens. The failsafe would have instantly taken us out of Earth and set up an inquiry into why it was needed. Without it, Earth was doomed to be Judged. Still. By me.

  And I don’t know if the failsafe was broken, or if was intentionally disengaged. I need to act as if it was intentional. I need to assume that my vague feelings about the untrustworthiness of our cousins-in-space are accurate.

  This scares me.

  Notes towards an

  Understanding of the Problem

  Mostly, I’ve reported on uplift and Download in their own reports. They produce different results to all our other collect­ion techniques, and to combine them with this set of reports would be like adding a random number generator to a fixed equation. The results would be interesting, but hardly useful.

  One uplift point needs to be carried over here, however, for it shows something buried deep, and that something says so much about Diana and her reasons for acting.

  On the day she tried the failsafe, she uplifted thoughts about her dead child. The visuals were couched as if her child were human. I find it sad that she regained the memory of losing her child, but that she will never remember hatching the egg in her quiet burrow. Oddly, she remembers the child’s frills, but translates them into garments. Grooming garments is a very cold task compared with grooming the frills of one’s own offspring.

  The strongest and longest image from that uplift is this half-memory and this profound emotion. Also the feeling that this was a mistake, that she should have called up something less important. You can see her trying to call up less important emotions and failing. Instead, she called up her marriage.