Brax’ Folly
Brax DLXIV the Benevolent of the Melanpur System is quietly descending on a column of perfectly-aligned particles into the atmosphere of the planet he knows as 185920-3. A member of a contextually-challenged though logically-brilliant subspecies, he and his people are aware of 12 distinct alien civilizations outside of their home system.
Brax has never been able to maintain a familial relationship. His last partner, Arbren, legally separated from him with these parting word, “You don’t understand anything!” Brax felt nothing for her except pity. He was a genius and could prove it with a simple catalog of his achievements in physics and mathematics.
For a long time following this last separation, Brax was trying to determine the cause of a sickness which resulted in lethargy and a lack of interest in his academic work. He had taken to watching the live-feeds of the quantum monitors they had long-ago placed around the 12 civilizations. One world in particular intrigued him with its illogical actions, non-linear growth, and seemingly random behaviors. He observed this civilization with the same fascination with which he had once observed Arbren.
Their recent adventures in jumping into space upon trails of refined, combusted fossils amused him to no end. They certainly lacked nothing when it came to bravery. Shortly after they had managed to propel one of their canisters around their sole moon, he was enjoying some of sales pitches he had recently discovered on their “VHF” spectrum. Most of the time they confused him, but he loved their creativity.
Suddenly his heart sank and he stood rigid in front of his display. He cut the live feed and played back the previous segment once, then again, then again. Hours later he sat slumped in disbelief. He had observed wars and conflicts among each of the alien populations and had come to tolerate their flawed, grim logic. This, however, was something different. How could any sentient species spread the congealed puree of their infants upon other living infants? He felt a physical pressure behind his eyes as he contemplated this awful spectacle.
In dismay he reached out to his colleagues. They gathered in solemn council and quickly arrived at a unanimous conclusion. A civilization that could so heartlessly create and sell this “Baby Oil” should not be allowed to propagate.
Planet 185920-3 has orbited it’s star 30 times since this fateful decision. Brax and his companions have assembled an armada of 8 ships unlike any other his civilization has ever produced. They contain the means to sterilize this planet down to the nanobe level. Nothing will ever grow here again if they complete this mission.
First, however, Brax wants to confirm with his own local senses that such a product exists. With the other 7 ships of the armada cloaked and in stationary orbit beyond the planet’s moon, Brax maneuvers his craft directly over an empty field near a supply outlet from which the aliens appear to obtain the widest variety of goods. As his ship has been masked on every spectrum this race is able to observe, there is no disturbance as it touches down on the surface. In full human costume, he passes through the cloaking field and heads for the entrance to the outlet.
He takes no note of the young females dressed in green clothing outside the entrance. He has a singular task and is not interested in looking at the creatures he may eradicate this day. The inside of the outlet is bright and colorful. The variety of products is greater than he ever imagined. Up and down the densely packed aisles he maneuvers, careful to avoid physical or eye-to-eye contact. Half-way through the outlet, his mind tends towards optimism. Maybe the product was discontinued, he reasons. Or maybe it was never real, but just a manifestation of this species’ incomprehensible humor.
Optimism flees his mind as he walks through an aisle of products that seem to be designed for other species of this planet. “Dog Food”, “Cat Food”, “Bird Food”. Each container brightly displays each species happily consuming their own kind. “It’s worse than we imagined,” he transmits to his companions. He continues his walk, hoping beyond hope to find a reason not to do what he knows he must do. His heart sinks as he reaches the aisle of infant supplies. Here, in the same colorful manner as the dog food, is displayed an infant consuming “Baby Food”. He feels the pressure grow behind his eyes. There, not 2 sections further, lies the product that triggered his sad mission. “Baby oil”. Pictured on the packaging is a female, obviously the parent of this unassuming child. Instead of nurturing the infant with the love it deserves, this female is rubbing the ill-conceived oil into its skin. The pressure spikes as he transmits these images back to his ship, and he has to pause for a minute while it dies down.
He doesn’t bother to close his transmission as he heads back to the entrance. Let his companions see and hear the last of what he observes of this doomed race. On the way out, his disgust and hope war with one another. He can’t help himself as he looks down upon the little females dressed in their green. “Would you like to buy some cookies?” one of them asks him. Her innocent smile melts his heart and he manages to reply “Sure, how much are they?” “Five dollars!” she says smiling at him and then at her mother standing by her side. As he reaches for the fake leather pouch known here as a wallet, his eyes take in the writing on the boxes and then on the sign on the table. “Wha.., what are these cookies called?” he asks. “Girl Scout cookies of course,” is her sobering answer. Brax stammers, feeling the pressure mount, “And, and what are you?”
“I’m a Girl Scout!”
The young girl screams as yellow fluid pours from Brax’ eye sockets, nostrils, and ears. He collapses in a shapeless heap on the ground as the yellow fluid seeps out. The gasps of the crowd that has gathered are transmitted still across Brax’ equipment, but no one hears them. All throughout the armada, formless shapes shrink to the ground as the yellow life leaves their bodies.
Across quantum space skeleton crews travel to retrieve the armada. No trace can be left behind for the indigenous population to stumble upon. Specialized robots retrieve monitors as well as Brax’ remains. Silently they return home. Out of respect, there is very little discussion of the incident. The less logical, but more understanding members Brax’ species know what happened. Though it is humorous on some levels, it would be disrespectful to allow jokes to be made of this. The history books will contain only the essential facts of what happened on 185920-3. The respect of his race will protect his memory. But no one will ever forget Brax’ folly.