The ambulance that came was a shiny, white Mercedes. It was way fancier than the beat-up cars that usually took his dad to the doctor. Two paramedics, all business, moved his dad onto a bed on wheels with gear Mark had only seen in textbooks. There was some kind of portable life support thing, super advanced monitors, and medicine pumps that probably cost more than he made in a year.
His mom squeezed his hand as they wheeled his dad into the ambulance. What's going on, Mark? Why are they—
It's alright, Mom, this is good, he said. They're taking Dad somewhere better. He squeezed her hand back, feeling her swollen knuckles and thin skin. You're both going somewhere better.
She looked at him, her eyes clear for once, the confusion from her dementia gone, at least for a bit. You're not coming with us.
It wasn't a question.
I have to work, he said. I'll see you soon, I promise.
Another lie. He didn't know when he'd see them again. Or if he'd see them again.
The flight to Geneva was first class – another crazy thing in a day full of them. Mark sat in a leather seat that was probably worth more than his rent, drinking champagne he didn't even want, watching the clouds go by. The other passengers were all busy on their laptops or watching movies, chilling in that way rich people do.
He pulled out his phone and checked the news.
The footage was everywhere. The alien ship hung in space like an evil star, soaking up light instead of reflecting it. Well, it wasn't really a ship; the articles couldn't figure out what to call it. A thing. A relic. Something weird that humans couldn't understand.
They called themselves the Archivists. They said they'd been watching Earth for 60,000 years, writing stuff down and saving it. They saw humans come out of Africa, spread everywhere, and learn to talk and make tools and art. They saw us find other smart species.
And they saw what we did to them.
Their first message was simple: We are the Archivists. We keep the memories of dead smart things. We're here to see if you humans should keep living alongside the species you haven't killed yet.
No threats. No demands. Just that stone-cold message, in perfect English, Chinese, Arabic, Spanish – every important language all at once. The translation was so good it was like they understood how humans think.
Mark scrolled through news stories, opinions, and people freaking out or pretending nothing was happening. Some people thought the aliens were good guys, here to help us be better. Others thought they were here to kill us all. The UN wasn't saying anything about what was going at the trial, but stuff was leaking everywhere. There were stories about proof, about crimes humans forgot they did.
About species we offed without even knowing they were smart.
He found a video of a marine biologist who looked like she hadn't slept in days. We've known for years that dolphins have names, she said. Special whistles they use to call each other. They have different accents, like people do. We know they teach their kids, mourn when others die, and work together in ways that show they have minds like us. She stopped, her voice cracking. And we've known that navy sonar messes up their ability to talk. We've known it hurts them, makes them beach themselves, and kills them. We knew, but we kept doing it because the military mattered more than their lives.
The video ended. Mark closed his phone and stared out the window.
Sixty thousand years. The Archivists had been watching for that long. They saw everything. Every choice, every bad thing, every time humans picked what was easy over what was right.
How do you explain that? How do you stand in front of beings who saw all that and say you should be let off the hook?
Geneva was cold, and the sky was full of clouds that looked like they would snow. A car was waiting at the airport – another Mercedes, black and plain. The driver didn't say anything, just drove through streets that got quieter as they got closer to the Palais des Nations.
The UN building was a mess. Military checkpoints were everywhere, with soldiers from a bunch of countries holding guns that looked like toys compared to the ship in orbit. News trucks lined the streets, and reporters yelled questions at anyone who walked by. Mark kept his head down, let the driver show his ID, and tried not to think about the cameras filming him.
Inside, the building was buzzing. Diplomats rushed past whispering. Scientists huddled around tablets, arguing about stuff. Someone was crying in a corner, a young woman in a UN uniform, with her face in her hands while others tried to calm her down.
Dr. Okonkwo met him in a conference room on the third floor. She looked worse than she sounded on the phone – her eyes were bloodshot, her skin was pale, and she looked like she hadn't slept in days. Behind her, screens showed data: DNA, old ruins, sound waves, population numbers going down.
Your parents are settled, she said, getting right to the point. Your dad's already getting treatment. Some gene thing and stem cells. The doctors are hopeful.
Thanks. It wasn't enough to say. When do I—
Tomorrow. The trial starts tomorrow. She pointed to the screens. Tonight, you need to see what we're up against. What they know. What we can't deny.
She pulled up a picture: a cave painting, brown and black on rock. Two figures, one clearly a human, the other bigger and stronger. Between them was a circle with lines coming out of it. A sun, maybe. Or something else.
Chauvet Cave, France. 35,000 years old. We always thought humans made these. But the Archivists have found DNA – skin cells, hair – in the cave. Some of these paintings were made by Neanderthals. And this one— she zoomed in on the circle. This one was made by both. Human handprints over Neanderthal ones. They were working together. Making art together.
Mark got closer. The handprints were clear, different sizes and shapes. Working together. Talking. Hanging out.
3,000 years later, Okonkwo said, Neanderthals were gone. The DNA shows they hooked up with humans, but there was also fighting. Neanderthal bones show they were hurt by human weapons. Mass graves. Kids with their heads smashed. She pulled up more pictures, bones with marks on them showing where they were hurt. We did more than just beat them. We hunted them. the Archivists have sound recordings that show Neanderthals tried to talk to us. Tried to make peace.
How can they record—
Their stuff is so advanced, we don't even understand it. They can get info from tiny things, recreate old stuff from dead stuff. They've shown us videos, Mark. Real videos made from stuff in old rocks and bones. We've seen Neanderthals talking. We've seen them trying to talk to our people. We've seen what happened when they couldn't.
Mark felt sick. Show me.
You don't want to—
Show me.
Okonkwo paused, then pulled up a file. The screen showed grainy footage that looked like a bad dream. A valley with snow, mountains in the distance. People moving around – Neanderthals, with bigger bodies and faces. They were building something, putting stones together carefully.
Then the humans showed up. Regular humans, carrying spears. The Neanderthals saw them and raised their hands, like they wanted to be friends. One stepped forward and made sounds – speech, hard to understand, but clearly a language.
The humans attacked.
It was over fast. The Neanderthals fought back, but there were too many humans. When it was done, bodies were in the snow, and the humans were taking everything – tools, food, fur. One human stopped by a Neanderthal kid who was still alive and crying. The human raised a stone.
The video stopped.
Mark realized he wasn't breathing. When was this?
32,000 years ago. Southern France. The Archivists have hundreds of these videos. Thousands. Everything that happened between us and them. It's always the same. Neanderthals trying to talk, trying to live together. Humans killing them.
Maybe we didn't get it—
They have language experts. Neanderthal language was similar to early human language. We could have understood them. We didn't want to. Okonkwo pulled up another screen with weird sounds on it. The Archivists say we knew Neanderthals were smart, that they were people, and we killed them anyway. That we killed them all on purpose.
Mark stared at the data, his mind going a mile a minute. What's our defense? What am I supposed to say?
That we've changed. That we can see when we mess up and fix it. That we deserve another shot. She laughed, but it was sad. That we're not the same as the people who killed the Neanderthals.
But we are. Our DNA is the same as humans from 30,000 years ago.
I know. Okonkwo rubbed her eyes. That's what's hard. That's what you need to figure out. How do you tell beings who've watched us for 60,000 years that we can change when everything we've ever done says we can't?
Mark looked at the screens, at the proof of human crimes in DNA and videos and numbers. He thought about his dad, hooked up to a machine in a hospital. His mom, losing her mind. The bills, the rent, trying to stay alive.
I'll figure it out, he said.
Okonkwo watched him for a long time. The Archivists have a lawyer. Her name is Keeper Vess. She's been working on this case for 300 years. She knows every bad thing we've done, every species we've killed. She's seen it all, and she thinks we're trash. She paused. You'll meet her tomorrow. And Mark – she's not wrong. Not about any of it. Everything she says will be true. You can't prove we're innocent. You have to prove we should still be allowed to exist.
How do I do that?
I don't know. That's why we hired you.
She left him alone with the screens, the proof, and the weight of 60,000 years of human history. Mark sat in the conference room as it got dark, looking at the data, trying to find holes, anything he could use.
But it was all there. The Archivists had written everything down. Every crime, every bad thing, every time humans picked violence over understanding.
We kill what we don't understand.
His own words, from his fancy school paper. The idea he built his career on, before bills were the only thing that mattered.
Now he had to say the opposite. Had to tell the Archivists that being dummies was a good reason, that we didn't know what we were doing.
Had to lie, basically. Had to lie better than ever before.
For his dad. For his mom. For 7 billion people who didn't know they were about to be judged.
Mark pulled out his phone and called the hospital. His dad was sleeping, the nurse said. He was doing okay with the treatment. His mom was next door, also sleeping, with her medication working.
They were safe. For now.
That was all that mattered.
Mark went back to the screens and started getting ready.