Kepler-186f

Written for Like the Prose 2021

Slightly further out in the highly charted and urban end of the Western spiral arm of the Galaxy, the Orion-Cygnus arm to be precise, lies a small (and very much regarded by the people of Earth) red dwarf sun. Orbiting this at a distance of 0.4 times that of Earth’s radius to the sun is a relatively significant little red dwarf planet, called Kepler-186f, whose squidlike-descended life forms are so incredibly advanced that they skipped right through the whole digital-watch phase and moved straight into the fourth evolution of social hierarchy (humans are on the second); in which there are many evolutionary social differences, but the relevant one here is the realisation that it’s actually ok to not be on time to events, that time itself is an illusion, and that you might as well enjoy the little time you have in life without worrying about whether Uncle Droople will be on time for the occasion where the new Keplerian is immersed in a salty grass juice to symbolise their rebirth as a Keplerian likely to live; this tradition following a millenia of existence in which the survival rates of younger Keplerian life was slightly volatile.

If exoplanetary social scholars were to study the history of Keplerian society, they would remark that one of the main reasons for the higher relative success of Keplerian social advancement was that the discovery of water filtration predated the discovery of alcohol by several centuries. As such, over these centuries of industrial, political and cultural revolutions, every leader, politician, philosopher, artist and general decision-maker was stone cold sober; not a single decision made inebriated, and not a single bad reaction that could have been averted had the person who decided about whether or not to declare war not had a hangover. As such, when alcohol was discovered by accident (a scientist was trying to invent penicillin, but he forgot to clean his experimental combination of fruit, sugar and heat and when he came back, noticed that the bacteria in his microscope were swaying and singing bacterial sea shanties), it’s status was limited to a few casual hobbyists among Keplerians who met up in small rooms to sample different types of decaying fruit syrups and enjoy the pleasing lull experienced by their consumption. As the rest of this story is set in one such small room we should come up with a name for it. Unfortunately, it has no direct translation to any Earth languages, we shall call it a ‘bar’ for simplicity, but in truth, describing it as such is as useful as comparing the feelings an Earth pig has when it enjoys the contents of its trough to that of humans in the tea rooms of the Savoy hotel in London — consumption is happening joyfully, but with such different rules, customs, social expectations, biology, chemistry, history and the general it-ness of it, that the word barely covers the meaning.

In a ‘bar’ in one of the more populated cities on Kepler-186f, a Keplerian sits on a ‘bar-stool’ (again, it’s like comparing apples and orangutangs, work with me here), a Gloogsberrycohol in a puddle is in front of them, their left frond ingester is preparing the puddle for digestion and their second-right communicator-frond is resting on the ‘bar’ twitching, a typical Keplerian social cue that their existence is in a heightened moment of distress and that they would welcome attention, but that no one is socially obligated to attend to them and that it is completely normal and natural for people to want to enjoy their own life rather than attend to the troubles of others, but if they would spare a moment to support them through their moment of distress, that would be very much appreciated. A ‘barman’ (I mean, that’s so wrong, but I can’t be bothered to explain it now), sidled up to the Keplerian sitting on the ‘bar-stool’ and twitched their upper communicator frond, a standard acceptance symbol of the request the Keplerian had made. The following is the closest human equivalent of their interchange, by which I mean of course, that it was nothing like this:

“What’s up?”, said the ‘barman’.

“Oh, you know, love is complicated”, responded the Keplerian.

The ‘barman’ did the Keplerian equivalent of nodding. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

“I mean, you try and you try and you try, but where does it get you?”

“I don’t know,” answered the barman, honestly.

“What do you think I should do?”

The barman considered the question and responded thoughtfully.

“Well, you’ve got to continue existing, make sure you communicate, and accept your position in life. Remember that you have to make your life-decisions. ‘No point waiting for Uncle Droople’, as they say.”

The Keplerian looked up at the ‘barman’ with a new resolve in his occipital receptors, which in this species was where food was digested.

“Thank you,” he said, “I will.”

The Keplerian stood up and got on with his life. This was the only such time a conversation like this ever happened or would ever happen on the planet.