The alien paused. “In fact, our member species have all been declining in population for millions of years, despite medical technologies that have led to extraordinarily long lifespans. All are extremely comfortable, but bored. Unmotivated would be an understatement.”
What he said made sense to me. On Earth, the populations of third world countries were skyrocketing. But in many of the more comfortable, affluent countries populations weren’t growing at all, or were even in decline. If that was happening to our own ultra-aggressive, ultra-expansionist species, I could see how impossible it would be to maintain population levels for a docile, lethargic species.
Nari issued a heavy sigh, which I knew was just the translator’s interpretation of whatever equivalent utterance he had actually made. “We realized about a hundred thousand years ago that while wolf species are inevitably destined for extinction, so are sheep species. It’s only a matter of time. It might take hundreds of thousands of years, or it might take millions. We’ve been in a state of cultural and technological stasis for eons already. We’re old, in decline, tired. And while we each have representatives in twenty-one other solar systems, these populations have also been gradually falling.
“In short, we’re drifting toward extinction from sheer boredom and loss of will to endure. Loss of interest in having offspring. Our extinction will be as gradual as was our technological development, but it will happen.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Tessa solemnly. “It seems the universe is unforgiving on both ends of the spectrum.”
“It seems that way,” replied Nari. “Which brings me to the importance of humanity. The Galactic Federation has been on the lookout for an ultra-aggressive wolf species since our own eventual demise became clear. We identified a few in our neck of the galaxy over the past hundred thousand years, but we got to them too late. By the time we could reach them, they had already self-destructed.”
“Why the interest?” asked Tessa. “To gain insight into the nature of drive and ambition?”
“No,” replied Nari, shaking his fleshy, holographic head. “To save such a species from extinction.”
“A sheep wanting to save a wolf?” I said skeptically. “Doesn’t sound very wise.”
“It may not be,” agreed Nari. “But many believe it’s the only way to save ourselves. Because if we can save such a species—humanity, for example—you can help the Federation drive our collective science to the next level. Provide a shot of vitality. You can jolt us out of our malaise—and then blaze a path to transcendence for all of us to follow.”
Nari paused. “In short,” he finished, “we’re here to save humanity so you can take the reins. So you can provide the leadership that the twenty-two members of the Galactic Federation so desperately need.”
17
I shook my head in disbelief. It seemed like some kind of cosmic joke. A galactic coalition, wielding technology we could only dream of, betting their futures that a violent but talented child could be coaxed to grow up and lead them out of the proverbial wilderness.
All wolf and sheep species were headed to eventual extinction, but the Galactics had found a cheat. They would save us from our extinction so we could save them from theirs. A sort of perfect intergalactic symbiosis. I couldn’t decide if it was elegant, or just ironic.
“So you found humanity,” I said. “The wolf species you think you need. Before we destroyed ourselves.”
“That’s right,” said Nari. “About fifteen thousand years ago.”
“Incredible,” whispered Tessa beside me.
“For most of this time,” continued Nari, “we sent automated UAVs and probes to watch the planet and observe your progress. This was our first chance to follow a wolf species as it progressed from a primitive culture to the point of developing WMDs.
“Even given everything we had surmised about wolf species, your dazzling speed of ascent took us by surprise. The progress you’ve made in the last fifteen thousand years has been truly breathtaking, with the most adept member of our Galactic Federation having taken fifty times as long to achieve the same.
“In any case, the probes watched, and sent us periodic reports. Reports heavily sanitized by AI filters.”
“Sanitized?” said Tessa. “What does that mean?”
“Your species is so . . . violent. Capable of atrocities we can barely comprehend. Gifted beyond our wildest hopes, but brutal. For sheep species like the members of the Federation, this was too much to take. We don’t have the stomach for it. So we got sanitized reports from the AI, which spared us from having to witness the endless cruelties you inflicted on each other. Even the written descriptions were heavily watered down.”
“And yet here you are now,” I pointed out. “As active observers.”
“Yes. We had no choice. You were moving so blindingly fast, we couldn’t risk once again arriving on the scene too late to intervene. So we arrived from the Rho home system in the ark Brad told you about almost five hundred years ago. And we’ve been here ever since.”
“What about your squeamishness?” I asked.
“We still filter what we see,” replied the alien. “And we had thousands of years to prepare.”
“Prepare how?” asked Tessa.
“First, everyone on this mission was selected because they’re the most aggressive and ambitious members of their kind. Still more timid, pacifistic, and squeamish than the most sheep-like member of your species, but considered to be wolves in ours.
“Then, genetic engineering techniques developed over millennia were used to bolster these tendencies further. Enough that we can consider human barbarities, and even view lessor acts of violence, without becoming permanently traumatized. Enough that we aren’t cowering, cringing doormats paralyzed into inaction by a threatening look.”
Yikes. The Galactics were even more docile than I had imagined. When even their most hostile representatives had to be genetically bolstered to withstand a watered-down version of humanity, that was really telling.