Manish Malhotra in jail. Photograph by Vatsal Bhatt
by J. W. Wood
Manish Malhotra knew he was going to die.
One of three Presiding Judges at the World Court, it fell to him to confirm an immediate order for global lockdown from the World Parliament – but he would refuse. Parliament had gone too far this time.
Set up in 2107 to eliminate the old, corrupt national assemblies, it was now showing similar traits to those crooked talking-shops it was meant to replace: megalomania and disregard for the will of the people. Manish knew he had to make a stand: and he was ready to die for it.
***
As the hypersonic coasted in from sub-orbital flight, Manish saw fields of vegetables approaching at Mach 5, stretching like green sheets around the Limpopo river. The retrothrusters kicked in and deceleration began 80,000 feet above the Earth’s surface, the faint curve of atmosphere visible against the deep azure of space.
Manish watched Zimbabwe’s rich farmlands resolve into focus. The seat of the World Parliament these last seventy-five years, Zimbabwe needed sophisticated agriculture to feed the 37 million people who’d flocked to its capital, Harare, following the desertification of Europe and America.
Manish released his grip on the arms of his seat as the retro-thrusters’ roar abated. He peered out the window as the Hypersonic hovered above Roy Welensky Spaceport. Normally he didn’t drink, but he could use a Martini or three right now . He hated travelling hypersonic.
As the passenger bridge extended to the Hyper’s nosecone, Manish reflected on lockdown. Parliament claimed it was necessary to stop the Quantum Pirates, a shadowy, poorly-understood group that had threatened democracy for years by turning hacking and cyber-piracy into an art form.
They’d grown so powerful they managed to infiltrate the media and justice systems. Just yesterday they scrambled the World Court’s data banks: murderers, thieves and rapists released from robo-prisons around the world, from Beijing to New York, Berlin to Buenos Aires.
As crime exploded and chaos threatened, hard-line religious groups began to proclaim the end of the world. Such paranoid theories were given extra fuel by yesterday’s discovery, via remote telescopes stationed beyond Mars, of an unknown object hurtling through the Oort Cloud. Some media commentators wanted to dismiss this object as an ignis fatuus, a will o’ the wisp. An irrelevance. But Manish knew better.
Manish watched Zimbabwe’s rich farmlands resolve into focus. Credit AI generated
Manish had agreed to meet James Witzland, Presiding Officer of the World Parliament, at the Sheraton Hotel in Garfield Todd square. He’d known James since College and never liked him. Manish wondered what Witzland was like now he was a big-shot – still a devious shit, probably.
Manish spotted his old nemesis as soon as he walked into the bar. James hadn’t changed: the same crew-cut, now gone steel-grey. The same arrogant smile – and those round tortoise-shell glasses. Such an affectation now corrective eye gels cost peanuts.
“James! We meet again, like Livingston and Stanley three centuries ago. How are you?”
James stood up from the table. They shook hands, Manish feeling James’ ice-cold grip. James indicated the transparent tablet computer next to his Martini.
“The news looks pretty desperate, huh? Parliament prorogued. And the Aliens are coming! Anyway, I’m drinking a Martini. Want one?”
With James, it was always time for a drink. Even as a student, the first thing James wanted was a Martini. Then a steak. Then a cigar.
“Tanqueray Ten Martini on the rocks with a twist.”
The android behind the bar served up Manish’s drink in a flash, condensation trickling down the side of the glass. James waved a hand over his tablet and a CNN headline appeared: QP Emergency: World Parliament to approve lockdown.
Except they won’t, because I won’t let them, thought Manish. Opinion columns on James’s tablet screen claimed lockdown was unworkable and unconstitutional. The end of Global Democracy as we know it. Others said it was necessary, because of that mystery object. Because of data security. And, you know, reasons. Manish decided to fight shy of confrontation:
“So they’ve infiltrated the news outlets.”
“Right. Whoever “they” are.”
James drained his Martini, popped the olive in his mouth and motioned at the bar droid for another drink.
“Well, what are you going to do about it, Mr. Presiding Officer?”
“You tell me – O World Court Judge. Let’s face it: I’ve been hacked. How else would the QPs know I was going to propose lockdown? They’re trying to disrupt it.”
“Maybe they just got lucky?”
James snorted and picked up his fresh drink. As he raised the glass, his tablet blipped. Breaking news. He checked the screen.
“That object in the Oort cloud? Vector analysis says it’s heading straight here.” James took off his glasses. “Let’s hope the aliens like us. Especially since they’re doing one-tenth the speed of light – fastest ever recorded. Not just a friendly hello, right?”
Manish looked down at the tablet, then took a long pull at his martini.
“Maybe it’s fake news. That kind of emergency would prevent Parliament maintaining the rule of law. The oldest trick in the book – create anarchy and fear, disrupt process.”
James ran a hand through his grey crew-cut.
“Do you really mean that? Come on, Manish. Will you vote for lockdown or not?”
Manish knocked back his Martini in a swallow.
“It would be highly unethical for me to comment on judicial matters.”
“Yes it would.”
Witzland paused, then tossed his drink back and set his glass on the bar with a heavy thunk.
“It’s getting late and we’re up early tomorrow. See you at the other kind of bar, brother!”
Manish looked down at the tablet, then took a long pull at his martini. Photograph by Liv Rae on Pexels.com
Overnight, crime mushroomed to epidemic proportions in major cities on Earth, not to mention the Mars and Moon colonies. Rape, theft and murder exploded after the Quantum Pirates opened the prisons and freed every convict in the solar system.
The media continued reports on the unknown object, which had now passed Pluto. It would reach Earth in hours. Religious leaders hosted mass pray-ins; the freaks and kooks prepared for the first true contact, physical contact, with aliens in recorded history. Inside the World Parliament, James Witzland stepped up to the speakers’ podium to face a packed chamber. His words would be simulcast to the Earth, Moon and Mars across multiple media platforms.
As a judge, Manish sat behind the podium with his fellow judges – one from the North American province, the other from Oceana. From the raised daïs behind the podium, Manish watched Witzland address Parliament:
“The Quantum Pirates have infested global democracy with poison. Their theft and data disruption has destroyed the very fabric of our society…”
He sounded the complete professional as he read out his proposal: a total world-wide lockdown, enforced by police and military until society suppressed the Quantum Pirates. Despite James’ masterful performance, the first question – from the President of Azerbaijan, a 22nd century technology superpower – was blunt:
“There’s not much point killing the QPs if we all die when that object gets here. What matters more – holocaust, or some ragged crooks robbing our data?”
He would say that, reflected Manish. Azerbaijan had gotten rich by hosting every corrupt data farm and bot racket for the last 100 years. The Parliament’s Chairman – at a hundred and fifty years old, just a boy when the internet was invented – rose to his feet.
“We’ve prepared thermonuclear weapons to strike at this mystery object. Latest intel says it’s passed Neptune. The Honourable President must control himself. We cannot fire until it comes out of the Asteroid Belt in ninety minutes. And as to the QPs and their criminal activity – I’d hardly call the disruption of the world’s prison services a minor misdemeanour.”
Witzland looked around the chamber:
“Thank you, Chair, for your wise words and invitation to control myself. As soon as the judges approve this motion, we’ll lock the planet down. I’m using my privilege to halt any further prisoner releases throughout the solar system. We must prevent society’s collapse.”
The chamber erupted in riot. Deputies mauled and rucked as Manish and his fellow judges headed into their ante-room to vote. Witzland yelled at Manish from his place in the flowing scrum:
“Manish! Do the right thing! Vote yes to lockdown!”
Manish shook his head.
“You’re losing it. The problem isn’t the Quantum Pirates. It’s too much technology, too much control. Computers malfunction. We need to trust people – not treat them like cattle.”
“Wrong!”, shouted Witzland. “People ARE systems. You know what to do. Do it! Vote YES!”
Manish stepped into the ante-room. The other two judges were already in the voting booths. All he had to do was press a button…
Grand Hall de Justice de Palais de La Paix à La Haye. Photograph Lybil BER, Wikimedia Commons
Outside, Parliament’s forecourt teemed with protesters locked in a face-off with officers and androids from the Zimbabwe Republic Police and Zimbabwean Army. The protesters campaigned with flatscreen banners reading DOWN WITH ROBOT-DESPOTS in eight of the world’s ten remaining languages.
The vote for lockdown passed by two to one. Only Manish voted against. As he exited Parliament under police protection, a loud cheer rose from the crowd. Protestors began chanting his name – “Mal-hot-ra! Mal-hot-ra!”
Manish heard James Witzland’s voice through the ring of police officers and droids surrounding him.
“See that? Oven-ready protest. It’s the QPs. Having disrupted society, they want to destroy democracy. Get their paid-for goons out on the street to protest against the only possible course of action. The only thing that can save us. I know you tried to stop us, Manish!”
Manish and his police escort pushed to the kerbside where their transporter floated among a phalanx of high-end MagLev limousines. Police androids, or Polidroids, stood in front of the human protesters and their flags, symbols and signs: WORLD COURT NO ACCOUNT! QP OWN PARLIAMENT!
Manish lost sight of Witzland, engulfed by the crowd. He was close to his limousine, close to escape. A steel fist grabbed his bicep. He found himself looking into the eyes – the scanners – of a Polidroid. One allegedly built to protect him.
“Malhotra? Malhotra Manish, born 18th April 2036?”
Manish nodded. “Yes. I am a World Court Judge. I need to” –
“You are under arrest”, the Polidroid parroted. “You have the right to remain silent. To contact a legal representative. Anything you say may be used against you…”
As his rights were read, a steel belt snaked out of the Polidroid to encircle his waist. He, a judge of the world’s legal system, was being tossed in jail for no reason.
The “object.” That. It’s coming through the asteroid belt. Photograph by Jill Burrow on Pexels.com
Manish sat in the cell at Harare Central Prison. He waited for something to happen. For something to eat. For news of the object speeding towards Earth that might already be here.
Hours passed before the top half of the titanium door to his cell slid down and a face appeared. A guard wearing the Zimbabwe Republic Police uniform. Human or droid? Manish looked into the hazel irises for that tell-tale hint of gold that said “android” – nothing.
“You want some food?”
“Where’s Witzland? What have you done with him?”
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s safe.”
The guard sniffed the air and laughed.
“Funny – the whites built this prison 250 years ago. They hanged my great-grandfather for sedition in the 1950s. Now a lawyer sits here, held against his will for unspecified reasons. Just like old times, right?”
The guard cackled and slapped the thighs of his olive uniform.
Manish ignored him. “What about the object?”
“The what? Oh. The “object.” That. It’s coming through the asteroid belt. If it gets through, we’ll smash it with an old nuke from Mars Orbital. Now let me get you some food – your honour.”
Minutes later, the guard presented Manish with a plate of Zimbabwean sadza, vegetables and meat bones. A vegetarian, Manish ate the sadza and vegetables, pushing the meat to one side. Then he stretched out on his bed and slept.
the guard presented Manish with a plate of Zimbabwean sadza. Photograph Chen Hualin
When he awoke, his cell door was open wide. Sunlight flooded in – he must have slept for hours. He stood up and stepped towards the door. As he did so, a figure filled the doorframe – James Witzland, wolfish features split by a grin.
“Manish. So they locked you up.”
“Yes they did. You OK, James?”
“Never better. In fact, with do-gooders like you in prison, I slept like a baby. We got you all. Quite the ruse, huh?”
“What?”
Two guards entered the cell with James, each packing a laser pistol.
“You know. The whole Quantum Pirates thing. We’d set the rumours running over the internet a few years ago. Built up resentment in the outlying districts of the Mars and Moon colonies. Even used some of that old deepfake technology from a hundred years back to mock up robberies and murders. Give the conspiracy theorists a field day. Meanwhile we concentrated power in the hands of the Executive while no-one noticed.”
James put a hand on the smooth white cell wall.
“Then we released the criminals to create chaos. Take out anyone with the intelligence or guts to make a difference. Now we’ve got control, we’ll hunt the prisoners down and re-jail them or kill them. No more elections. No more idiots getting in the way.”
“And the object? Was that fake too? Another distraction?”
Witzland grimaced.
“Actually, that’s real.” A pause: Witzland ran his hand over his scalp. “I can tell you because we’re going to kill you. The object is now in Earth orbit. We’ve tried to blast it three times – no use. It just jumps out of the way. It defies physics. And I mean quantum physics too – not just Newtonian. This thing makes every other ship look like a Stone Age club.”
Manish saw an ugly look in James’ eyes and for a moment Manish thought his old friend turned enemy was a droid. But all doubt disappeared when Witzland spoke:
“That object is almost in range of our plasma cannons. It won’t survive. And neither will you. Dissenting scum like you are being dealt with tight across God’s green Earth. Not that there’s a God, of course.”
James gestured to the guards, who seized Manish and led him from his cell.
3I/ATLAS, Deep Random Survey in Chile. Photograph by K Ly
Out in the prison yard, they bound Manish hand and foot. The guards shoved him up against the wall, turned round and marched ten feet, then turned to face him with weapons raised. The sun blazed overhead, and Manish thought of the generations of freedom fighters who met an unjust end in this courtyard. Now he would be joining them.
Leaning against the ancient wooden door-frame that led from the prison to the yard, James lit a cigarette and inhaled, watching the guards as they raised their laser pistols at Manish’s tied and bound body. Witzland breathed out, cigarette smoke billowing from his mouth as he spoke:
“One last thing: you may ask what happens if we don’t destroy that object. What happens if it’s here to kill us. Well, the answer is: we don’t care. If Earth gets destroyed, we’ll move operations to Mars. Humanity is so sloppy and undisciplined: we might as well start again.”
Witzland dropped his cigarette, grinding it out under his heel. Then he turned to the guards.
“Fire at will.”
Manish closed his eyes and readied himself for the inevitable. He heard a high-pitched whine. Then felt the world move from black to white and back again like a colour-negative image.
When he opened his eyes, the prison yard was dark. The two guards were trying to fire, fingers clicking uselessly at their triggers. Witzland stood frozen in the doorframe across the yard, eyes looking upwards.
Huge white tubers snaked down through the air. The daytime sky turned black. Motionless in his bonds, Manish watched as the tubers dropped to the ground at locations across Harare like thick silken ropes, luminous in this fresh nighttime forced on the city, this darkness at noon.
This is it – the first true contact, after centuries of skirting around. Decades of mutual suspicion, and allowing alien craft to fly through our airspace. Now, at last, they had arrived.
Manish looked up to see a thick beam of white light descending. Inside, the light was hollow and he saw tiny stars rushing downwards inside. When the stars hit the floor of the prison yard they grew up, wobbling and shivering like snakes, taking on vaguely human shapes. After a while, the tube of light disappeared and one of the forms, its features indistinguishable and glowing dull yellow, spoke:
“Be not affrayd. We cume to helpe.”
Its voice echoed, its accent fantastic, the sibilant letters slicing, the vowels long and strange, as if from the Middle Ages.
“Ye habe much yet to lerne. We will $ave yu fram yur $elfs”
As the first figure spoke, two others took hold of the guards’ weapons and threw them to the ground. The guards seemed paralysed, as did Witzland, his arms glued to the doorframe he’d been leaning against when the aliens appeared.
The two dull-yellow forms released Manish’s hands and feet from their bonds.
“Ye mote tell them. All of them.”
“Tell who? Tell them what?”
Manish felt the alien smile, though its features remained indistinct.
“Yu $hale schole thys woruld. Teach them not ju$t right u$e of techne: that you cnawe. But u$ing ryght technologies. U$e this Erthe a$ your computer. Tree$ talk. Anymals haf language. The $e$ons $peke as mankynd doe$. So li$ten to theyr logick. Treat Nature a$ your ma$chyne. We will $how you.”
And those alien forms laid hands on Manish, and raised him until he floated with them a few feet above the walls of the prison yard. Manish saw that thick silky light beam down again from the sky and felt it enwrap him along with the yellow figures who held him up. Then the four of them ascended, the collapsed bodies of the two guards and James Witzland receding below them.
As they climbed into the sky, ropes of light were rising from all over Southern Africa, all over the world: the trails of the righteous ascending to learn from our alien benefactors.
J. W. Wood is the author of five books of poems, a novel and a collection of short fiction published with AN Editions. His work has appeared in The Poetry Review, London Magazine, TLS, etc., and has been shortlisted or nominated for several awards, including the T. S. Eliot Prize for Poetry and the Bridport Prize. J. W. Wood is the Humour and Satire Editor at Ars Notoria. A dual citizen of the UK and Canada, he is the recipient of awards from the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council.
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