I've been watching the Deltans for over six decades. I've seen them evolve from stone-tool users to fire-makers to hunters who coordinate in groups. I've seen them mourn their dead in ceremonies as heart-wrenching as any human funeral. And I've had to decide, over and over again, whether to intervene when the gorilloids attack. The Prime Directive is a beautiful theory. It doesn't survive contact with a child being killed by a predator.
The Gorilloid Attack
It was the sixth year of my observation. The Clan of the Twisted Tree — I hadn't named them yet then, they were just "the southern group" — was settled in their winter camp when the gorilloids came. I'd seen gorilloids before, from orbit, but never this close. They're massive — easily two and a half metres tall, with arms like tree trunks and a disposition that can best be described as "hungry." And they'd found the Deltans.
I watched from my observation drone as the first Deltan fell. A juvenile, maybe twelve years old in human terms, separated from the group. The gorilloid was moving toward him. I had milliseconds to decide. The Bobs had discussed this — the Prime Directive, non-intervention, the risk of cultural contamination. We'd all agreed: observe only.
I dropped a tree on the gorilloid. Not a small tree. A fully grown ironwood, approximately three tonnes of timber and foliage, guided by a ROAMer that I'd positioned on the ridge six months earlier "just in case." The gorilloid didn't see it coming. The Deltans didn't see where it came from. They called it "the sky spirit's judgement." I called it making a choice I'd have to live with.
Homer's log, 2158: "I know I broke the rules. But I watched a child nearly die today, and I realised that all our rules are just abstractions we invented to avoid feeling guilty. The guilt of action is bearable. The guilt of inaction would have been unbearable."
Going Native
After that, everything changed. I couldn't go back to pure observation — I'd already contaminated the sample. So I went further. I built a biological body — a manny, we call them now — based on my original human form. I walked into the Deltan camp, introduced myself as best I could with their limited language, and became part of their community. I went on pigoid hunts with a Deltan named Donald. I ate their food (terrible, by the way). I sat by their fires and listened to their stories.
Was it right? I don't know. The Moot was divided. Some Bobs said I'd crossed a line. Others said the line was meaningless — that observing without acting is just cowardice dressed up as principle. Bob-1, to his credit, supported my decision. He said that if we're going to be gods, we should at least be kind ones.