A Revisionist History of Earth, from a Purely Martian Perspective

by Al Simmons 

First, they digitized all the books and records, and then a war wiped out the digits and incinerated the few paperbound books that remained.  A thousand years later, officials started hiring people like me to recall history.  Remember history?  

The first histories of Earth were written on cave walls and broad bare-faced mountainsides.  Today, stories are written on grains of sand, the sad evidence of how our world has shrunk.  

My first creative non-fiction attempt at imagining history on the page went something like this: Peace, war, peace, war, peace, war.  I was born.  Sold a million copies.  

I followed up with War and Peace, a sequel.  

History repeats, though sequels generally disappoint.  

My literary success came with a certain amount of small market gravitas that withered over too short a time, unfortunately.  Those waning positive aspects of my limited acclaim affected me more than I might have imagined, despite my initial overwhelmingly positive and rave reviews.  

But the truly underlying and sad truth is that no one really cares about the Earth anymore.  It’s just the Earth, though critics liked my stories.  So, I thought maybe I should forget about Earth and write a history of Mars instead, if Mars only had a history worth telling.  

I’m an Earth-Moon man, born and raised, and where I’ve spent my entire life.  Every planet in the solar system has a moon, and some have many, and every one of those moons has a name except ours.  Why is that?  Something should be done.  I’m calling on the powers that be.  

If we insist our moon is named simply ‘moon,’ then shouldn’t ‘moon’ be a proper noun with a capital M, like Mars?  Currently, the moon isn’t capitalized, which suggests the moon lacks a proper name.  I suggest we give it one.  Suggestions, anyone?  We have Mother Earth.  How about Father Moon?  Or Grandfather Moon, since the moon is so old and gray.  Male or female, which shall it be?  I should think any small market god or goddess name would do.  Or will the moon require a myth to precede a proper name?  Something to think about.  Another book, perhaps?  The History of the Moon?

I prefer dome life to the underground.  I need a sky to inspire me, even if it’s fake.  I’m a dome baby through and through.  Dome life is me.  

I once knew a Martian girl, and she had green skin, too.  No kidding.  She had neon green bright Martian eyes and fried green hair to match, as was the fashion, she said.  I assumed she meant on Mars.  She was studying on a full scholarship at The Lunar Institute here for a year.  Brilliant girl.  She said she grew up on an avocado farm growing Martian Green avocados.  She specified that ‘Martian Green’ was their own planetary shade of green.  I was surprised their avocados weren’t red.  

She was a history major and shared with me her theory for writing history, in her experience.  She said, “Process is everything, so you need to develop a repeatable protocol.  Here’s what I suggest: How to write a good history, by me.  Before you begin each day’s work, stop for a second and think of me.”  She paused for a moment to smile at me after she said that, and of course, she had my attention.  “And then, eat an avocado, preferably on toast, and then start writing whatever pops into your head, because there were so many billions of people alive back then, on Earth, whatever you write probably happened to somebody.”  

She based her theory on what she termed “Martian Wisdom.”  

Lately, I’ve been thinking about her theory and thought I’d give it a try.  So, this morning, I sat on my balcony with my notebook, a cup of coffee, and an avocado smoothie in hand for breakfast, rather than on toast.  

I stared out into the glittering, crystal pale blue domed sky, took a sip of my avocado, banana, and blueberry smoothie with pea protein powder, and considered my first entry for a new work based on Earth's history.  Yes, I’m back to Earth history.  They’re still buying, so I’m still trying.  I thought this time I’d begin on Day One, in the Year One, with the birth of civilization on the planet.  

I titled my new book, The History of Earth from a Purely Martian Perspective, according to Paul Moonman, my literary nom de plume.  And started writing.  

On Day One, in the Year One, Earth Time, the City of Rome, capital of the known universe, woke to the alarming news blasting across every media feed in the city and surrounding countryside.  Two Roman legions have disappeared.  Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome, rose in a fit of rage from his royal bed as mighty and great as to rattle the pillars of an empire.  The emperor was not one to entertain bad news.  

“Where are my eagles?” he screamed and hollered, demanding to know.  

Tension filled every alley, street, avenue, and roadway.  Slaves were mercilessly whipped bloody for no reason at all.  Every TV station, electronic billboard, and newsfeed in the empire ran with the story, with nonstop video support showing the emperor wildly upset.   All of Rome was in an uproar.  Caesar sent two full legions to quell the uprising in the Teutoberg Forest area of Germany, and they hadn’t heard a word back from them since.  What happened to Caesar’s centurions and legionnaires?  10,000 men.  Where did they go?  Roman armies don’t just vanish.  Not even satellite surveillance showed any hint or sign of them. 

The Emperor sent a small contingency of trusted investigators.  Two weeks later, they reported back that both missing legions disappeared without a trace.  Was it possible they were ambushed and routed in battle?  They didn’t think so.  Two full Roman legions would surely have left signs behind where a major battle was staged and fought.  There might be survivors.  

The Roman army was the best-trained, best-armed professional army in the world, and legions didn’t just vanish into thin air.  Nor does a trusted commander go weeks without reporting back to headquarters.  This was not how the Roman army functioned.  Augustus Caesar was rightfully upset.  

Captain Amis Ott, Galactic Tactical Command, aboard the C-Class Destroyer, Starship Destiny, knew exactly where the Roman soldiers were.  He stood before his cadre of casually dressed officers in the briefing room with new orders from central command in his battle-tested hand.  

“Okay, listen up.  We’ve got orders.  This just came down from headquarters.  It says, beginning immediately, all furloughs have been suspended.  Details to follow.  In the meantime, don’t eat the Romans.”

“What the heck!?” came the outcry, like a sudden rage of daggers and discontent echoing off the walls back and forth amidst the chaos from multiple angry voices in the rising heat, followed by the expected letdown and common groans like a mountain of misery moving in the small meeting room from the attending group of ranking military sportsmen who thought they were on furlough, a little R&R.

“I’m sorry, guys, but that’s what it says.  Details to follow,” Amis Ott said to his best lieutenants, who had gathered for their morning briefing.  The crew was vacationing together on a company-sponsored hunting and fishing trip.  

“Then what are we supposed to do with them?” questioned Ott’s First Lieutenant Zog.  “We may be on furlough, or were, and just out for sport, but this ship is still a destroyer, a warship, not a troop carrier.  Do we have food on board to feed an army?  Any idea what Romans eat?  And who’s doing the cooking?  Better yet, where will that take place?” 

“We’ll find out in due time what the plan is.  But our furloughs have been suspended, and we are no longer on vacation.  Something must be up.  Orders to follow.  So, we follow orders, got that, Zog?  Don’t eat the Romans, OK?  That’s your order.  You got that?  Probe them if you like.  Just don’t eat any.  Gas them down, put them on ice, and keep them in storage.  Maybe they’re toxic and headquarters wants to test them first, or maybe they want to make dog food out of them.”

“Or more likely, they want to keep our catch for themselves, maybe to feature at their annual summer cookout.  BBQ Romans, anyone?  Something they can feature and advertise to help sell tickets,” said a lieutenant calling out from the crowd.

“Aye, aye,” said a chorus gathered in the tight briefing room.  

“You could be right,” said Ott.  “I wouldn’t know.  I’m also not here to play politics.  But let’s not take anything for granted.  Test them for toxicity and see if something comes up.  Follow protocol.  Let’s give them a proper inspection.”  

Captain Ott nodded to his First Lieutenant, Zog, and continued.  “We don’t want to subject any of your sensitive bellies to tainted meat, now do we, Zog?  Unless someone is volunteering to be our taste tester?  Anyone?”  Ott scanned the small room.  “No?  No volunteers?  OK, then let’s just cool the campfires and wait until the Romans pass quality control inspection and the results are cleared with headquarters.”

“You’re no fun,” groaned the ravenous First Lieutenant Zog, the decorated attack team leader and grim reaper of the corps.  He started humming the popular Navy recruitment song every galactic sailor knew from the day he signed on to be a mariner.  “JOIN THE NAVY, SEE NEW WORLDS, MEET INTERESTING PEOPLE, AND EAT THEM.”  

And then, Zog lost it and tore into his commanding officer.  “So, what exactly are you saying, Cap? The deal's off?  Inspect them?  Don’t eat them?  What kind of mission?  I thought this was a hunting trip.  Ain’t that what you told us?  Isn’t that what you sold us on?  I thought this was supposed to be a fun way to spend our furlough time.  Take a vacation together, see the galaxy, have a BBQ, and sample new meat.  Heck, I could have stayed home with the wife and kids and taken them fishing.  You asked for volunteers.  So, what’s the deal?  I don’t remember volunteering for a new mission.  If we’re back to work want double pay.”

“Quit complaining, Zog,” Ott repeated, not looking to mince words with his guys this early in the day, and besides, orders were orders, and his hands were tied.  There was nothing he could do.  “Don’t eat them.  That’s an order.”

“What if we’re hungry?”

“Eat your own.”

“Yeah, kiss my bloody hemorrhoids,” Zog whispered submissively beneath his breath.  

Captain Ott turned an angry eye at Zog.  “You got that, Zog?” Captain Amis Ott said, demanding an answer.  

“Roger that,” replied a disappointed First Lieutenant Zog.  

“They can be poisonous.  Don’t eat them,” Captain Ott repeated.  “OK, dismissed.”  

The crew saluted the captain and left for their assigned stations, those who had some, to begin the day’s operational descent.  The captain read the orders again to himself.  “Don’t eat the Romans.”  

Captain Amis Ott shared his crew’s disappointment.  He was as hungry as any of his men and as eager to sink his teeth into his share of the meat.  It had been days since his men last ate in preparation for their planned feast.  So, what the heck was with headquarters, anyway?  We were on furlough, on a hunting trip, he thought.  Fish and big game hunting were prescribed in best practices for maintaining company harmony and coherence.  Recruiting was down.  How did this help?

Ott crumpled the new orders in his hand and slammed his massive fist of instructions down on his desk with a feeling of utter contempt and disgust.  Bad for morale, he thought.  Headquarters knows that.  Animals hunt animals to eat.  Fuck dog food… unless Romans are poisonous, like certain kinds of mushrooms.  Nobody likes tainted meat.  Romans kinda look like mushrooms with those silly helmets they wore.  

Ott read over the information he was given about the Roman army and their legionnaires to study as many possible targets before the company outing, highlighting the way Romans dressed for battle in combat fatigues cut from strips of leather and forged metal for armor.  He thought maybe the cheap metal they used gave them lead poisoning.  Still, if the command already knew the soldiers had lead poisoning, then why not warn us ahead of time, rather than order us to round them up and keep them?  We’d have to freeze them in storage bags and tow them back to base, he thought.  We could always test them here if they suspected anything out of the ordinary, so what the heck?  

He thought about how Roman infantry units marched long distances on foot, often in battle formation, while baking their brains inside of oven-like steel-strapped helmets, rather than offloading infantry from armored personnel carriers after taking them to the front like most modern armies.  

He considered the possibility that the Roman centurions and legionnaires intentionally baked their brains beneath a brutal sun en route to battle as an aid to them in combat.  Odd breed, Romans, overcoming fear by baking their brains, rather than taking drugs in the face of imminent death.  Or were these Romans living in a pre-drug era and practicing a war ritual characteristic of this particular sub-sect of the species?  A warrior ethos?  Perhaps. 

Did baked brains make for a better warrior?  Possibly.  He could see the benefits, as long as you avoided over-baking and still knew what you were doing.  He figured there must be a science to the practice because you didn’t want to bake your brains too much.  A burnt brain was a dead brain, and won’t get you far, and could hardly be relied on.  Good for cannon fodder, perhaps. 

All Captain Ott knew of Romans was limited to the information given him in his pre-mission hunting trip notes on Roman infantry, basically listing known battle tactics and weaponry, but also heralding their victory success rates in battle.  Roman legions seldom lost.  

Amis Ott jotted a thought down that he later entered as a footnote into his mission report, mentioning the observed Roman pre-battle ritual of baking your brains while marching in formation into battle as a likely possibility for their continued success, but at the dubious high cost of contrition and tainted meat.  

And then, Ott had another thought.  An elite Roman infantry member might be required to self-poison as a fail-safe defense mechanism should they be captured, butchered, and served afterward as refreshments during victory celebrations by an enemy force.  

Captain Ott was still preoccupied with the idea of tainted meat and knew his conclusions were limited to mere speculation without knowledge of local customs, but reassured himself he’d know more in good time once their lab test results came in.  

But still, until then, orders were orders.  Don’t eat the goddamn Romans.  

Amis Ott was an avid sportsman, besides being a military man, and was aware that there was bigger game on Planet Earth than Roman legionnaires.  

He brought up the latest edition of The Hunting and Fishing Guide to The Galaxy on his computer screen, scrolled down the index until he found Earth, and was surprised to see how much wildlife there was on the planet.  Planet Earth had an A+ Rating, and now he knew why.  

Amis Ott scanned through all the available information and made up his mind.  Their oceans were thick with wildlife, fish, and mammals.  He chose to focus on the largest marine mammals for their blubber.  He loved open-pit BBQ’d sea blubber.  Let’s do whales, he thought.  

Just the thought of fresh, juicy, BBQ blubber steaks made his mouth water.  A killer whale or two, or even a single blue whale, should satisfy the entire crew.  Light the BBQ pit.  Let’s go harpooning.  He’d order an ocean scan and send a fishing battalion down and save the day.  He slapped his desktop, confirming his decision, and left to inform his crew.