Penultimate

“There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue.  There’s just stuff people do.  It’s part of the same thing.  And some of the things folks do is nice, and some ain’t nice, but that’s as far as any man got a right to say.”

             —John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

The members of the Grand Wy had two options to choose between. The decision was a profoundly important one; therefore, they listened intently, aware if they chose wrong it risked the end of their civilization. They’d tried many things, but nothing worked. The pesky vestige remained, and it required elimination. It was that dangerous. 

By any means they at last decided. This meant one of these two means to choose from. 

The Perfect Society was the nickname they’d given themselves. This was not smugness on their part—humility was deemed part of perfection. A thousand years ago they’d identified those things necessary for eradication in order to achieve the ideal society. The list was long, painfully so, but they’d invested a millennium of effort checking them off one by one. But a single imperfection remained, resistant to their single-minded perseverance.

The speech monitor worked splendidly against the vocal manifestation of The Vestige. The merest whisper, anywhere, no matter how far away the nearest human being, caused the dielectric collar to administer a slightly painful shock to remind the wearer of what they called “a dereliction of decorum.” 

The system had built into it a stronger jolt, but the last of these according to the data was dosed more than twenty years ago. Even the minor doses were rare nowadays, and there was talk of soon deactivating the monitor, a fact they took great pride in, having at last reached the point on their quest were such a wonderful thing could be considered.

But The Vestige…what good was celebration if that remained, thwarting perfection? Speech they’d beaten; but the written word seemed insuperable. They feared vocal cords were the tip of a noxious weed whose roots ran deep into the very hearts of the people. The countless other weeds were extirpated, roots and all, but that one dastardly root mocked them, threatening to reflower should they grow complacent, become foolishly satisfied with near perfection, not fully complete the long-awaited goal.    

Though they were rigorous in their methods, their society was not wantonly cruel. Only what was necessary had been the tenet adopted ten centuries prior. The aforementioned shock was meant to change behavior, not punish the wrongdoer, certainly not kill or otherwise harm.     

After a brief introduction the presenters made their cases.

One option required monitoring everything a person typed—even letters and symbols subsequently erased or not saved. Every key you pushed was recorded. An incalculable number of combinations of these were meaningless or nonthreatening, but they possessed staggering amounts of computer memory, essentially costless, and the presenters proposed that though The Vestige might be the aim, this offered a wise opportunity to prevent backsliding, maintain that which they’d spent twenty generations achieving. This gave the Grand Wy pause: Maybe the collars should be retained forever. 

False alarms were considered in the design. A default pressure was added, one that might indicate a mistake, a careless brushing glance, an error caught just in time. The backspace would take care of these manifestations, though additional scrutiny might be warranted, and the algorithm would indeed help with the decision.

The presenters assured the Grand Wy that the algorithm would infallibly determine an innocent mistake from something nefarious. As an example, they demonstrated how the first letter, if typed at a deliberative pressure, drew the algorithm’s attention, more so the next two letters because at that point there were no benign possibilities. They showed a list of words previously stricken from the vocabulary because these were fraught with danger. Better to lose words than risk perfection, they’d been told. The older members likely remembered these expunged words, but they gave no indication they rued the loss.

“Why not affix blame after the third letter?” one of the presenters asked, aware this was an obvious question and might as well be gotten out of the way. 

“We can certainly adjust things to do that if it’s the honorable members’ wish. It’s really based on the degree of due process desired. Three wouldn’t be much of a problem. One letter or two letters is also feasible…but that would require a re-expungement process.”    

Satisfied he’d peremptorily answered this inquiry, the presenters continued.            

The technology for this option had existed for centuries but not applied in so meticulous a manner. For reasons long forgotten, the Perfect Society revered freedom of expression via the written word. To date it had not been subject to oversight comparable that which the collars provided. 

They knew now that such an outdated attitude must at long last change. Perfection demanded it. They were so close.

At a signal from the algorithm, Renderers would be dispatched anywhere the deliberate entry occurred, and the penalty it was suggested would be death. 

If there was discomfort at the proposed penalty, no one acknowledged any disquietude. The presenters offered ample evidence in justification. The members of the Grand Wy nodded not in affirmation (the vote had not yet occurred), but to indicate that they fully understood the reasoning and the necessary gravity. One of the members coughed.      

At the conclusion, no questions were asked, no comments made. The leader of the Grand Wy at last spoke and assured them that consideration of such harshness demonstrated how sincere they were in their quest for an ideal society. It was the Grand Wy’s moral duty and one they would not fail.   

The other option offered a benevolent approach. Why trouble ourselves over punishment when, instead, the offending act is prevented? The members of the Grand Wy nodded at this idea, as well. There was no cough. 

Every entry point could be made to block anyone from inputting The Vestige. It didn’t matter if the person’s intent was merely to look at it before erasing; though the presenters admitted such intent was itself troubling. In essence, it would be impossible, no matter the pressure applied to the keys, to type it ever again, anywhere. 

The Grand Wy recessed for an hour to discuss the proposals. They returned to the Hearing Hall and cast their votes.  

The decision was unanimous…     

The room puzzled the archeologists. It was the size of a small warehouse on their home planet and contained what appeared to be a laboratory in which was set-up a dual experiment of some sort. The records found in the room, though thousands of years old, remained remarkably well-preserved. The room sat deep inside a mountain, the climate inside cool and dry.

The buildings of the civilization under study were mostly piles of dust and only trained scientists recognized them for what they were, that sentient beings once dwelt here. A few buildings though largely collapsed, almost unrecognizable in their condition, retained shape enough that these were clearly intelligently made structures. 

This room was invaluable for their research. Though the entry into the larger complex revealed violence of unknown origin, the “laboratory” as the archeologists called it, remained in pristine condition, except for a coating of fine dust, which they’d painstakingly removed weeks ago. 

The decipherers back at the camp poured over the records they’d found. Others examined the artifacts and machines in the laboratory. 

The laboratory contained a variety of objects; some obvious as to their use, such as cups and writing implements; the purpose of others was not obvious. Remarkably, the two computers they’d found appeared to be in functioning condition, and the technicians they’d brought worked diligently to bring them back online. A fantastical trove of potential knowledge could be theirs if they could figure out how to operate these and crack the ancient language.

Perhaps, they’d even learn the meaning of the word splashed on one wall in the laboratory. It was painted in large red letters, obviously by hand, quickly and for an unknown reason. The brightness of the paint was testament to the favorable atmosphere inside the mountain, and its preservative qualities.  

That this writing looked profoundly discordant in its present setting was a notion the archeologists told themselves they must resist if they were to maintain objectivity—never assume, especially on another world, their professors had taught them. There might be a rational explanation in the eyes of the original occupants.   

After a few weeks there was good news. The computers worked! Technicians at last stirred a purposeful hum as the machines winked to life from a millennia long slumber.

A discussion ensued about whether the computer keyboards functioned with the same utility as their own computers. Certainly, the presence of a keyboard and monitor suggested this.

The symbols on the keyboard awaited the linguists’ success. Both caution and boldness were considered…boldness won out.   

“We don’t want to accidentally denote a hidden bomb in this place,” one of the archeologists joked.

“So, what do we enter first?” asked another.

The archeologist sitting at the keyboard looked over his shoulder. “What about that word? We could see what happens.”

The other archeologists agreed. “Give it a try,” they said.

The archeologist leaned over the keyboard and typed. The first letter appeared, but beyond that, the screen would not show the other symbols. 

Before the others could stop him, he typed some different symbols, ones not contained in the word. No bomb detonated. Instead, the symbols appeared on the screen, marching in order after the first letter they’d entered. 

“Let’s try this.” He entered the second letter of the word and it appeared. The others in order also worked.

“Try the word again, from the first symbol.”

The first letter appeared, then nothing.     

“Weird. It’s not the keys. It doesn’t like that word for some reason.” They tried all the keys and were able to identify a backspace key whose symbol was duly noted. 

“We’re one ahead of the decipherers.”

For the next few minutes, the only sound in the room was the clickety-click of the keyboard. 

“I typed lots of other words with the same symbols included; so, it’s definitely not a malfunction of these specific keys.”

“Try rearranging the word.”

He did, and any arrangement except the one on the wall would appear. The second letter would not type if the first letter preceded it.   

“Why would they not want that word to come up on the screen? I mean, it’s on the wall.”

“Is it the name of their god? There were once cultures on our planet in which only high priests could utter the name of their god.”

“True. But it’s on the wall.”

“Visualization in that format may be allowed; perhaps, if put there by a priest. Maybe it’s a talisman or a reminder of probity.” 

“Or a consecrating of this place,” offered another.

On the other computer it was found that the word could be typed and would show up on the screen. This seemed to belie the holy word hypothesis.   

The technicians were called back. After several days of review, they reassured the archeologists that as far as they could tell, both machines were in perfect order.

The archeologists investigated this curious matter for weeks, but then a burial place was found ten kilometers away.

A small group of researchers remained at the laboratory. There were years of potential research in this one room, especially if the decipherers were successful. The rest of the team moved to a new camp, established near the place where bones were unearthed. 

Over time, the word painted on the wall became as familiar as a painting hung in a living room. Seen but not really seen.

New arrivals noticed it right away, invariably asked about it. The archeologists shrugged their shoulders and said they didn’t know why the ancients had painted it on the wall. The recently deciphered portions of the language didn’t contain the word, and they’d been unable to find any clues as to its meaning. The software in the computers continued to resist their codebreaking efforts.  

The new arrivals would look once again at the word, perhaps ponder it for a few moments, and then take in the other myriad interesting things the team found. They might bend over a table and examine a pen or pencil sharpener or an object whose purpose was not yet known. They marveled at the computers, which were comparable in sophistication to their own.  

All the while, in large red letters across the wall, the painted word stood watch: NIGGER.