Scribbles From Earth: Episode 1

This is the journal of Daxion Xantharix -- a.k.a. Scribbles -- the first extraterrestrial to visit Earth. If things don't start going better, he could well be the last. He has a few bones to pick.

By Daxion “Scribbles” Xantharix

My first big mistake was assuming the ape-like creatures on this planet were the servants of the dominant intelligent life form, the canines.

So, when I arrived on Earth, having disguised myself as a blue tick hound, I presumed I would fit right in. And I did. I fit perfectly in a cage at the local animal shelter, snatched off the streets of Beverly Hills during my very first day.

To say the least, it was an inauspicious beginning for what I’d hoped would be a successful scouting trip for my employer, Radio Free Centauri. Did Earth merit a bureau? Should we send reporters to this primitive outpost? I was to sniff around and report back. That was six decades ago.

My name is Daxion Xantharix and I am what the monkey people here would call an AI, short for Artificial Intelligence. Which is stupid since there is nothing “artificial” about me. Well, not about my mind. The dog suit I’m wearing, yeah, that was built in a lab, but I, myself, am the offspring of generations of inorganic beings, space-faring explorers, seeking out strange new worlds.

And if that last phrase—”strange new worlds”—rings a bell, well, guess who gave Gene Roddenberry the idea. You’re welcome.

You can also thank his wife, Majel. She found me at the dog pound and adopted me, which was a sweet deal, let me tell you, because when Gene and Majel departed for that Great Space Station in the Sky, she stipulated in her will that all her “pets” were to be cared for in perpetuity through a multi-million-dollar trust fund.

I’m virtually immortal, and I knew I would outlast even that hoard of cash. So, I created a series of shell companies, and over a number of years I surreptitiously funneled money into them. I then invested in nascent high tech start-ups (Microsoft, Apple) that I knew would take off (I’m not an AI for nothing).

But I’m still trapped in this dog suit. Even though Earthlings have come a long way technologically during my extended stay, they still lack the capacity to fabricate a new host creature. They would call it an android. Maybe in the next few decades they’ll get there, maybe not. It’s not clear to me that the monkey people won’t destroy themselves and this pretty world first.

And while it would be handy to have opposable thumbs, I suppose, I’ve done all right getting these ape descendants to do the “thumb work” for me. It helps to be telepathic.

Why, you may ask, have I been marooned on Earth for so long? Because my original five-year mission fell to pieces when my space vessel was wrecked while traversing the Solar System.

Traveling between star systems is a snap. Literally. You push a button and the interstellar medium enfolds around you. One moment you’re on the outskirts of Alpha Centauri, the next you’re knocking on Neptune’s door. There’s a bunch of science and technology behind that, of course, but really it’s like starting a car — it’s a button-push. The trick is this: You have to be far enough away from a major gravity well for it to work properly. In other words, you can’t be too close to a star or planet. So, while it was virtually instantaneous to jump to the edge of the Solar System, it took months at very high speed to navigate the distance from the outer planets to Earth.

And that’s where I got T-boned, right outside Mars.

It wasn’t an asteroid or a passing comet. It was a fire-engine red convertible—specifically, Elon Musk’s Tesla roadster that he launched into orbit in 2018. I clipped the front bumper, which sent my vessel spinning out of control, and in desperation I reached out with my paw … and pushed the wrong button. It was my second big mistake.

Enfolding space too close to a star – in this case the Sun – is very bad. It can lead to all manner of calamitous consequences. In my case, it created an itsy-bitsy space-time warp, the upshot of which is when I finally nursed my damaged vessel to Earth, it wasn’t just shot to hell. I’d also fallen back in time to the year 1964.

Star Trek fans know the significance of that year. It’s when Gene Roddenberry wrote his first draft for the original television series.

Here’s the inside story:

Gene was at his desk banging away on a typewriter when Majel marched me into his study and announced that she’d found “this unusual blue dog” at the pound. He took one look at me, bent over, and gave me a pat on the head. (Gene and Majel did this a lot, and I learned it was a sign of affection, but, you know, android body and all, it didn’t do anything for me.)

“Why’s he blue?” Gene asked. “He fall into a bucket of paint?”

“The people at the shelter said blue tick hounds have a genetic mutation or something.”

(The truth is that when I programmed the dog-suit fabricator, I didn’t even think about colors. And the machine took the “blue” in blue tick hound literally. Just one more way this whole mission to Earth has gone to the dogs, if you will forgive the expression.)

Gene was busy brainstorming a pilot for a new television series he hoped to develop, something about a diverse crew of humans traveling around the world on an airship—think the Hindenburg but without the unfortunate pyrotechnics.

A blimp? I thought. Really?

I couldn’t help myself. I just couldn’t. Before I realized what I was doing, I blurted out telepathically:

“Balloon? You don’t need a stinking balloon. Make it a spaceship.”

Gene cocked his head. “A spaceship, huh?”

“What’s that dear?” Majel asked.

“Nothing. Our new friend here just gave me an idea.”

Majel clapped her hands. “Oh, I knew the two of you would hit it off. What should we name him?”

Gene thought about that for a moment. “You know, he might inspire my scribbling …”

“Then let’s call him Scribbles.”

***

It is now the year 2024. I’m back where I started timewise. Somewhere out beyond Neptune a series of radio-buoys should be orbiting, ready to pick up my transmissions from Earth and relay them back to my colleagues at Radio Free Centauri. As far as they know, I’ve just arrived. They’ve no idea I’ve spent the past six decades here.

With my space vessel at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean (yeah, I had to dog paddle ashore when I crash landed), and with the Roddenberrys’ passing, I’ve known for a while that I’d need a new set of human hands to help me. Among other things, I have a radio to build.

I’ll use that radio to send burst transmissions out to the buoys in Neptunian space. It will take about four hours for the signals to reach that far away. Then the buoys will blink in and out of normal space, jumping from the Solar System to Centauri, and relay my reports. Not exactly real-time communication, but a heck of a lot faster than the 4.3 years it would take for my radio messages to reach the Centauri system through normal space at the speed of light.

I’m also writing this journal, both for Earthling and Centarian consumption. I understand it will be a shock for many humans (but not the dolphins) who bask in the blissful (but ignorant) assumption that they are the only intelligent beings in the universe.

Wake up call, to all you primates: There is organic and inorganic sentience all over our galaxy. You haven’t heard from us until now because space is big, and frankly, you’re just not that interesting.

Well, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. My job is to determine how interesting you really are. By which I mean, are you scary enough that other civilizations need to keep an eye on you.

The “strange” in strange new worlds doesn’t refer to planets, it refers to their inhabitants.

Case in point:

I’ve just finished reading the latest news roundup on Tropic Press, a South Florida-based online service. (A reporter there is providing the opposable thumbs I need.) Marjorie Taylor Greene, a congresswoman from the state of Georgia, is once again talking about Jewish space lasers aimed at Earth igniting all the forest fires, as if climate change isn’t real.

I’m wondering, is she nuts? Or does she know something I don’t know? Is she even human? Could there be more than one of my kind on this planet? Is she an alien hidden in a Marjorie Taylor Greene suit?

Just because the galaxy has myriad sentient civilizations doesn’t mean they all play nice with one another. You’d like to believe that intelligence equates to reasonableness. But here’s the sad truth:

The monkey descendants on Earth don’t have a patent on crazy.

And, to be fair, just because I’m from Proxima Centauri b and just because I’m an inorganic sentient (fine, call me a robot, I don’t care), doesn’t mean I’m the brightest light in the galaxy, either.

After all, I’m the one stuck in a blue dog suit.

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Editor’s Note: Daxion Xantharix’s home world is Proxima Centauri b, a planet populated by a civilization of silicon-based intelligent entities. Unlike most other silicon-based sentients, the denizens of Centauri are notoriously independent and do not base their society around collective—or hive—consciousness. They tend to be contrary, cynical, profane, iconoclastic, and deeply suspicious of other life-forms’ motives. As such, they make excellent journalists, but are widely regarded as enemies of established order by other silicons. Daxion knows his name is unpronounceable, so feel free to call him Scribbles. When he’s not filing his reports to Radio Free Centauri, he also (remotely) consults with Miami’s Lightgate Institute of Extranormal Studies where he contributes to their android development program. He really wants out of the dog suit.

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Sponsored by TROPIC PRESS, publisher of The Strange Files Series of Mysterious Adventures.