It was a slice of history right out of a clear blue sky. Like a star hanging from a bloom. Sunlight on polished metal. The canopy red and white. High up and far away out over the sunbaked fields.
‘What is that boss?’
Sam is a bright kid. He is going to be a master one day. Maybe take over the shop. I would like to see that happen.
‘That is not going to get your new panel fitted, Sam, so get back to work. We need to fit and finish by the end of next week, so you need to focus.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
Sam, not at all content, hustles back into the shade of the barn where the body shell for the new car is taking shape.
The capsule is some five miles out and drifting away from town. That’s the only good news about the visitor.
I look at the old clock over the barn door, ancient clockwork thing but well made. Once it was an old town hall clock. I reckon I have about six hours.
I shade my eyes against the noon sun to get a better look. I have only seen pictures before but I know what it is. And yes, it is trouble.
Sam is clamping his finished panel to the shell prior to welding when the phone goes. I was out by an hour. The sun is low. Shadows deep and long. As much heat now from the earth as from the sky. It could be a real peaceful time of day.
Sam takes the call and hands the phone to me with a grin.
‘It's Miss Sue-Anne, Boss. Sounds antsy...’
I take the phone. Sue-Anne has good hearing.
‘...teach you some manners you little dog, and don't go expecting to get served any time... oh, hi, Tom. You need to beat some respect into that little brat, and use one of your big hammers.’
Sue-Anne runs the bar in town. She is old and vinegary with a big bark but an even bigger heart. There is more than the usual noise in the background.
‘What's up, Sue?’
‘Are you going deaf, Tom Ridley?’ Sue-Anne snaps, and maybe she holds the phone towards the hubbub because there is definitely a ruckus going on in the bar and above the general row one high-pitched female voice shrieking fit to scare the devil.
‘I need Sheriff Tom,’ Sue-Anne pleads. ‘Get yourself down here.’
I hand the phone back to Sam.
‘Can I get you your star, Boss?’ He is still young enough to think trouble is exciting.
‘I think I can manage that myself, Sam. But you can get the cruiser round the front.’
‘With the lights?’ You have to forgive the boy, it's a very quiet town. I like it that way.
‘It's just a bar fight, Sam, not the end of the world.’
Since the Trauma, everyone has two or more jobs. Because I am six-two and don't fuss much in a crisis and have always been straight with everyone, I get to be the Sheriff as well as town mechanic. That was not a job I ever wanted, but the town ganged up on me one day and said I had to be because they had a vote on it, and damn me but Qota confirmed my Qota ID had been updated to reflect my additional role. I asked if I had a veto because it was me everyone was assigning as the law, but the constitution is pretty clear on civic duties, so no, I didn't have a veto. Everyone was real nice and said they were proud to have me as the town Sheriff and it would be real disappointing if I stepped down, and Mary and some of the other women told me how they would feel safe at night knowing I was there, shamelessly playing on my pride and twanging at my ego and sense of duty all at the same time. I don't know why I am explaining all this to you. I am the only sucker they could think of who would say yes, and I did. So it's all my fault in the end.
The Sheriff’s star is all beat up. A piece of brass that looks as if a truck had run over it once because it is flatter than it should be. It made me wonder how flat its original owner had been, but the star was pre Qota and so there is nothing on chain to tell anyone its history. Pre-Trauma.
It's heavy and there's a number engraved on the front just under Sheriff. There used to be a lot of Sheriffs if that number is true. There is also a Colt sitting beside the badge, but it's empty and I see no need to look for bullets. Nobody post-Trauma wants to see more killing, and if any of the Traumed tribes come our way, well we have the militia drones for that. There’s whine out front and a scuff of tires on gravel which tells me Sam enjoys driving the cruiser way too much. And damn if the entire barn doesn't fill with blue and red light bouncing off the new car shell and the near-finished coupe for the Johnsons.
Haven is only twenty minutes from the barn where I live and build cars. That's what I really like doing, building machines that move. I've got a good business. People travel to find me to order what they need or want. You never know who is going to walk into the barn. Sometimes it's a farmer wanting something tough and powerful, sometimes it's someone who wants to show some style. The economy is recovering, real slow but it's growing again. So there is room for more of the latter now, and I love crafting works of art that move. And the network is growing. Haven is on chain with maybe twenty other cooperatives, so we can share what we make with more folk and they do the same for us. All on chain, of course. On Qota.
Haven is a small town. Small enough and far away enough to have survived the Trauma with minimal damage, not like the big towns or the hellscapes that the cities became. I am not sure about the Bright. Sure they took out the Oli and gave the survivors a chance, but I don't see anything other than self-interest in the Bright. They left us for Pluto and built their empire out there in the dark and cold, never gave us any help at all, never even tried to help us rebuild after the Trauma. No, they didn't start the wars, the Oli did that, but some say the Oli had cause. After all, they built the Bright in the first place.
I say the world is better off without either of them. We are better on our own. Being human. That's my view and I'm sticking to it.
Haven cooperative is a main street with a handful of side streets and a scatter of local farms. Main street is closing down this time of day, except for Sue-Anne’s place, the Lazy Rustler, and Dino's Diner and a handful of pop-up street food outlets trying their luck from the back of old vans. These old vans don't move but they do change hands kind of quick as people learn the difference between cooking for fun and feeding people as a business, which is hard work. I park the cruiser up outside The Lazy and head into the noise.
On one side of the bar there is this crowd of mostly men all scared or angry. On the other side is this itty-bitty wild-haired girl in a space suit. She is screaming fit to bust a lung. Not one word intelligible. I look at the crowd of mostly men and I can't help but be embarrassed for them. The girl is barely five foot and built like a sparrow. The silver suit she is wearing is way too big for her, creased and folded at the arms to free her hands, rumpled legs, and the helmet lying on the floor would be big on me. In their defence, space girl is kinda loud.
‘HEY YOU!’ Yes, that's me hollering.
Space girl whirls round. She is cute in a red-faced wild-eyed kind of way.
‘Thank you for your attention, Ma'am. Now would you mind telling me what you are doing in my town scaring all these poor folk and just what planet are you from?’
Her arm shot out with a finger like a bayonet pointing at Sue-Anne.
‘That bitch took my gold and won't give me any change!’ she yells.
Which took me back a bit.
‘Well, if you will let these poor frightened folk get back to their food and drink, I am sure we can get this straightened out. Right, Sue-Anne?’
‘I didn't want the damn gold in the first place, Tom. What the hell am I to do with gold?’
Sue-Anne replies and points to a small gold shape sitting on the bar top.
‘But I need food, I need to eat, I paid you for food and I am starving and she wouldn't take my money!’ This tirade ends in an even louder shriek as space girl launches herself at Sue-Anne and Abraham Jones takes a head butt to the face as he intercepts the charge.
‘Damn bitch,’ he bubbles through a flood of blood from his nose, so now of course I have to arrest the harpy, which proves as easy as wrestling a baby gator in a silver bag.
The next day I drive space girl out to her capsule. It is on its side, the chute still attached, so it has been dragged a few hundred yards from where it had landed. It is a big machine; from the open hatch I can see there are seats for six people.
‘You were the only one to get out?’
She nods. She looks even skinnier in the jeans and blouse Sue Anne has given her.
‘I had to.’
‘Sounds to me like there is more to it than that. You gonna tell me or not?’
She doesn’t answer. I spin her round and take off the cuffs.
‘Go get your gold.’
She looks wild-eyed again.
‘I told you. We don't have need for gold. What's yours is yours. Go get it.’
‘But you will take it.’
‘Dammit, girl. Did Sue-Anne want your gold last night? Did she want it this morning?’
Space girl shakes her head.
‘And you got fed and watered, right?’
Space girl sulky nods.
‘We don't want your damn gold. It's worthless here.’
‘But I am rich.’
‘I don't know what that means.’
‘You are lying. You are trying to trick me.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because I am rich. So you can steal all my gold.’
Crazy as a cat in a sack.
‘How many Oli are left up there?’ I ask her.
Space girl gives me this dead-eyed glare.
‘And how long have they got? I assume the orbit is decaying.’
Same cold glare. Crazy and bad. Oli bad.
‘How did you escape the Bright?’
‘We had one of them.’
‘Onboard? You took a Bright hostage?’
‘It was war.’
‘You are too young to remember that.’
And she laughs at me.
‘I am older than you. You will die before I do.’
I'd heard the rumours of course. Nephilim. Their bodies changed to live forever. Some Salamander Hydra DNA hack. Mad, bad and eternal. I guess I must have sighed. She laughs at me again.
‘We are returning. We will take back what is ours.’
You will understand, I didn't have a choice…
So what was going to be a one off piece about the Trauma and the Bright which took form in a short story here …
is slowly gaining its own momentum as a series. I have literally no idea where this is going but I have decided to roll with it for Sci-Friday. The Trauma and the Bright are the result of two speculations of mine. One my perspective on why AGI will turn out to be very different from what we fear which you can find here …
And the other perspective explored in an entire series of post’s on the design of an alternative post apocalypse economy which starts here.
It is entirely possible this may end up being a book some time.
Let’s see how it goes.
Steve Kelsey. London 6/02/2025
This is good !!