The Learning Curve by Marcus McClure
THE LEARNING CURVE
by
M.A. McClure
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PUBLISHED BY:
The Learning Curve
Copyright © 2011 by M.A. McClure
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The Learning Curve
"Grandfather, tell me again how it all happened?" Liza was only ten, but she had heard the story hundreds of times, listening to each telling with awe as if it were the first. Her grandfather's eyes glimmered brightly as he grinned in amusement.
They say it all began with an oil spill. In truth, it began long before, with an offense here, a slight there, but the offenses seemed small, and the consequences nonexistent.
Or so we thought.
But each sewage spill, each forest cut, each nuclear meltdown added to the damage, to both the environment and our relationship with the Them--a relationship we didn't even know existed. That all changed with a lightning strike.
For months, oil had been gushing from a well deep in the great Western Ocean--back then we called it the Pacific. It was nothing new--wells had leaked many times before--but this had been damaged by an earthquake, and the flow just could not be stopped. So vigorous was the geyser that a cloud of natural gas amassed above the area.
And then the lightning struck.
The explosion was heard for hundreds of miles. Fire rained down on the platform, igniting the puddle of crude atop the ocean. The biblical prophecy of a lake of fire and brimstone suddenly sprang to life. Thousands of men were killed--not instantly, though with little time for weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth. The entire Pacific would have burned out of control but for the mysterious flying ships that arose through the flames.
The sleek aircraft drifted effortlessly over the fiery tempest. They devoured the flames, as well as the sludge bobbing amid the churning of the ironically named Pacific. Below the surface, another team of the strange ships quickly stopped the oil hemorrhaging from the Earth's deep wound. Their work done, they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.
Newscasters the world over pondered publicly: were they aliens? Were they gods? They were obviously far superior--should we be afraid? They had saved us from certain doom--should we be comforted and grateful? Before we could puzzle out these questions, a baritone voice spoke to us, from nowhere and everywhere at once, saying:
"To all those within the sound of our voice: Greetings."
The voice spoke slowly, sweetly. One could imagine it from a patient father, yet I could not help but recognize the sadness in the voice, as if this parent had to decide on his children's punishment, a task no good parent enjoys.
"We hoped the need for our intervention in your affairs would never arise; however, the catastrophic consequences of your actions have forced our hand. Our King will meet with a representative of each of your nations to discuss the future of our shared planet. We shall present ourselves at your United Nations building in three days' time, precisely three hours after the sun has risen at that site."
The initial message was broadcast simultaneously in all nations and tongues. It was repeated at noon in each time zone on subsequent days, counting down to the event. The day before the appointed meeting, the voice added the following admonition:
"Every nation must be represented. Failure to attend is not an option."
A crowd gathered outside the iron fence of the UN--dozens of reporters, hundreds of gawkers. The tension was palpable--no one knew what would happen, but everyone wanted to bear witness. As the sun broke over the horizon, the voice announced, "In three hours, we arrive." The announcement was repeated each hour, until the final declaration: "We arrive."
Before the crowd had time to gasp, before the echo of the announcement died out, a ship burst from the surface of the East River. It skimmed a scant few feet above the heads of those gathered, causing only a gentle breeze to tussle their hair. It slid over the fence and a door opened on its starboard side, giving the world our first glimpse of him.
"Salmoreli?" interjected Liza eagerly.
"Yes, Liza, King Salmoreli," her grandfather replied.
He wore a fine ceremonial robe of brilliant blue and green. The grey of his eyes flashed beneath the purple hem of the hood pulled over his head. At the time I remember I thought him kindly, though, again, a bit sad.
The ship hovered a few feet above the ground, and the King jumped--or perhaps floated, we were never sure--to the lawn below. He turned to the gathered crowd, paused for a moment, then bowed slightly in greeting before heading for the building.
He walked into the great hall, filled with more delegates than ever before. Upon his arrival silence fell, so complete that the news cameras picked up the sound of his bare feet falling on the plush carpet. All eyes followed him as he walked, unchallenged, to the podium. Once in place, light exploded across the wall behind him. A pilot whale swam through the bright portal in a personal bubble of floating water, followed by a dragon--no larger than a St. Bernard--gliding on leathery wings.
The whale swam up to the King's right while the dragon flew a single pass around the entire room. Landing to the King’s left he tipped his head back and belched a stream of fire that filled the air above their heads. When the flames died out he sat, cat-like, and glared as the King turned to address the assembly.
“Long ago, my people lived among warring island nations. We advocated peace, but our neighbors saw this as weakness and attacked. Casualties mounted on all sides, but thanks to our commitment to amity and the pursuit of knowledge, we extricated ourselves. We sank our island home to live in the serenity of the ocean’s depths, out of reach of the hostile factions above.
"Thus began your myth of Atlantis." A murmur swept through the delegates, and Salmoreli paused to allow the rumble to grow, then fade.
“For over ten millennia our nation grew and prospered. Today we number 26 billion citizens. Such growth was only possible after we learned to manage our resources, to work with the oceans around us rather than struggle against them. Then, a few hundred years ago, our neighbors once again threatened our tranquility.”
At this point the whale let out a long, plaintive moan. At first we thought it the noise of a bored animal, but when the King resumed, we realized the whale was speaking, the King merely translating.
“Avarice overtook man. Your industrial revolution contaminated food and water supplies, used resources faster than they could be replaced and decimated populations of flora and fauna. The people turned to Salmoreli.”
The whale song ceased, and King Salmoreli continued on his own. “The people petitioned us to intervene, to end the damage you continually inflict on the Earth. We told them you would grow past this ultimately self destructive phase, but with each successive disaster, our argument weakened. Eventually, we doubted our own words. After this latest disaster, we can no longer afford to wait for you to mature. We come before you today to make known our presence, to lay out our demands.”
A murmur ran through the mass of delegates. Demands were never good.
“We have only two demands, though they are far-reaching. First, you will stop contaminating: no more poisonous fumes billowing from your factories, no more sewage leaking into our oceans--no more carelessly allowing your wastes to infect our home. The damage you have done stops immediately, and the course reversed, so we may all enjoy life on this planet for millennia to come.
"Second, you will learn to live together and get along. We will not tolerate wars, nor military conflict, nor, as you are wont to call them, ‘police actions.’ Every individual is entitled to the same rights. If you learn this type of complete respect, you will never need to take arms against your neighbors. Failure to learn it will force us into action.”
At th
A murmur swept through the crowd, which King Salmoreli allowed for a brief moment before adding, “My counselor Theonar is most passionate about our duty to protect the greater Earth from the destructive actions of less than 12% of its citizens--less than 1% of its entire inhabitants. But it appears that, if we do not intervene, you will cause irreparable damage to our home.
“Atlantis, therefore, will rise. We will teach you ways to produce food and energy that will not damage or exhaust resources. During this period of change we will provide for you as a parent provides for their child. It will be a difficult transition, for of necessity some industries will become obsolete, as will some ways of thinking. Clinging to the past will only result in greater grief. If you embrace change and growth, in a few short years the quality of life will be so striking you will wonder how you managed before.”
With that, the meeting closed. Over the next few months, the Atlantians sent delegates to each nation, coordinating societal changes. Power was piped in from Atlantis. New methods of mass transit were brought up to avoid the use of gas powered vehicles. Food was provided, and everyone on Earth began learning a new way of life--I studied extraction of electrical energy from raw sewage! As King Salmoreli promised, we were provided for, but we were expected to learn new ways to contribute.
And as he promised, a few found it difficult to leave behind old ways of thinking - many in number, to be sure, but few in comparison to the population at large. Respecting every member of society proved very difficult for these few. Religious leaders riled against Atlantians, calling them “Minions from Hell sent to lead us away from the teachings of God.” We were working toward a utopian society, but some said the social liberties pushed by the Atlantians would cost us our souls--that we were choosing a short Earthly bliss instead of the eternal Celestial happiness toward which we should really be working.
Then one day, a little known Christian preacher in a small town in an unimportant state made a very big mistake: he advocated a violent uprising against Salmoreli. It was no surprise that a group of Atlantians, accompanied by a news crew, went to quell the uprising. It was also no surprise that they were greeted by an armed preacher.
"You are not welcome on my property," the preacher said, a rifle cradled carelessly in the crook of his arm, overconfident as he faced the unarmed delegates of the King.
"You have a right to your own opinion, even if it differs from ours," the Atlantian officer replied silkily. "However, we cannot allow you to preach a message of hate with a loaded weapon at your side."
It happened so fast I did not immediately understand. The lead officer stepped forward, the preacher raised his rifle and a large BANG! signaled the weapon's discharge. The Atlantian seemed unharmed, but the surprised preacher took a staggering step back and fell to the ground. Blood seeped across his shirt. The gun had somehow backfired, wounding the shooter.
"You see," the official said, "violence is not the answer. Resorting to violence, you harm only yourself." In defiant answer, the preacher's followers opened fire from within the church.
The camera crew panicked and dove for cover, but the Atlantian officials stood firmly, undaunted by the bullets whizzing past. The lead official closed his eyes, and a low, guttural chant filled the air. A moment later the other officials joined his song. The ground shook in harmony, and suddenly the church collapsed into a pile of rubble. The crooning--and the quaking--continued, and the Earth split beneath the church. Roots and vines extended from the fissure, pulling the edifice into the Earth as the trapped occupants screamed and moaned in fright. In the end, the crack sealed itself, and one would never have guessed any structure stood on that spot before.
Ending their earth-shattering song, the lead official turned to the camera crew and announced, "We are not here to change your values; you may believe and live your own lives any way you wish. But there is no room for forcing your belief system on others--there is no room for violence."
"What about the people in that church?" asked one of the reporters. The official glanced down at the dying preacher.
"What nature can no longer use, she recycles."
With that, the officials left. Afterward, tensions with the religious parties grew. Leaders of the various churches openly denounced the Atlantian movement as evidence that the Great Deceiver and come. They vehemently proclaimed the prophecies fulfilled, the time of the apocalypse at hand.
Weeks of elevated tensions crawled by and then, early one morning as Atlantian instructors arrived at the largest re-training center in North America, a series of bomb blasts leveled the complex. A few dozen instructors were injured, and two were reportedly killed. All Atlantians immediately withdrew to their underwater lands, and the remainder of the day passed in worried silence. That evening we were again addressed by the voice from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Experience has taught us we cannot permit violence to spread. One incident is an anomaly, but two is already a pattern. We will not be drawn into a long war with an ill defined enemy who will strike at us as the trapdoor spider. Nor can we disappear back into our oceans and pretend you will not continue to threaten our existence, actively or passively. We must, therefore, isolate you as a threat. We regret the need for this course of action."
"The Great Walls, Grandfather?" Liza knew the story well. "Was Salmoreli saying he didn't want to build the Great Walls?"
That is what I believe. But build them he did. The entire Earth shook for several long minutes. Giant cliffs hundreds of feet high shot from the ground to separate every land from its bordering sea, and massive walls formed around every city, every town. The Atlantians corralled us, boxed us into our own corners of the world.
"Did anyone try to climb the walls?"
Many tried, but no one has ever been successful. Most of our old machines had been dismantled, but some scientists tried to build a helicopter--a flying machine--to take us over the wall, but it, too, failed. Some tried to dig under or through the walls, but none have ever succeeded.
The door suddenly flew open, a large shadow stepped into the small room, dragging with it the sub-freezing temperatures of the dying afternoon sun. A hand shot out from under a myriad of blankets, and two dead pigeons landed on the table at the foot of Liza’s bed. "I could only catch two," a muffled voice said.
"It's ok, Mother," Liza replied. "Grandfather and I can share."
Mother reached up and pulled her head clear of the blankets she wore. "Are you telling stories about the Atlantians again, Father?" The old man shrugged and pointed to Liza.
"Grandfather," the little girl asked, "can we light a fire tonight?"
It is only September, little one. If we burn wood now we will not have any for January. The twigs we use to cook dinner will heat the room some, don't you fear. Besides, it will be warm tonight--no lower than ten degrees, I promise.
"Grandfather, do you think they hate us?" Mother snorted as she set to dressing the birds. Grandfather raised an eyebrow, but smiled as he looked at his little Liza.
I do not know, child. I imagine, if they hated us, they would have had the Earth recycle us all rather than hedge us into these cities. I believe what they have done is force us to live in the poisons we produce, rather than let them sink to the bottom of the ocean--away from us, but right on their doorstep.
"They didn't have the guts to kill us outright," Mother spat. "They left us without food, without water, without fuel. They left us to die on our own."
We have fuel--we have twigs and logs. We have food--this morning we ate berries from th
"It has been 40 years!" Mother retorted. Grandfather smiled and began to prepare the small cooking pit with just enough twigs to cook the fine meal, but not so much as to fill the air with choking smoke, or to leave them without fuel for the colder months.
And still we are learning.
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About the Author
Marcus McClure is a California native who loves to snowboard, SCUBA dive and generally goof-around. He loves to spend time with family. A physician by training, he has published scientific papers in research journals internationally, but has always loved fiction and storytelling. Writing short stories since Middle School, he incorporated creative writing classes into his academic career since his first year of college. He recently waded into the turbulent waters of the publishing world and is excited to be there.
You can read Marc's opinionated ramblings at https://marcamcclure.blogspot.com, get his schizophrenic pearls of Twitter wisdom @MarcMcClure or just simply connect with him on Facebook at https://facebook.com/marc.a.mcclure
Discover Other Titles by M.A. McClure
Marc is in the process of converting several previously unpublished but completed works into the format SmashWords requires for e-publishing. Check back in the near future for new titles!
America the Beautiful - a screenplay. Abu Muzahim is a British telecommunications executive working in Syria. While heading home for his son's graduation, he is mistakenly identified by American troops as a wanted terrorist. Extraordinary rendition ensues, leaving his loved ones with no clue to his predicament, and authorities with a political and bureaucratic mess to clean up once the mistake is discovered.
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