This post was inspired by a writing prompt in the Worldbuilding community - Worldbuilding Prompt #812 - Saved Copy
This one is the fourth in a series I've been intermittently posting, telling the sad tale of two stunningly unlucky and incompetent grey aliens. At the end of the previous post, The Commander and Number Forty Three had been abducted by aliens... blue aliens... to be taken off and exhibited in a zoo.
Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio
The three suns of Zargjaz had finally set. The two aliens sat in their cage, listless and disconsolate. Number Forty Three sat upright, wedged in a corner, trying to wriggle around against the bars until he found a somewhat bearable position.
His Commander lay in the corner diagonally opposite. He was curled into a foetal position, lying on his side but still able to glare at his subordinate.
"It was your idea, you miserable minion. You were the one who told them how much the humans liked it when you chilled the probes ! But you didn't give them all the facts, did you, you miserable incompetent. You could have told them the humans were twice our size. You could have told them the probes you used were specific to the humans, not a one-size-fits-all-orifices !"
Number Forty Three looked crestfallen. And a bit terrified of his Commander's wrath and vengeance.
"I'm so, so, so sorry Sir. I just didn't think it was important. I never dreamed the blues would create probes of their own ! I'm sure you'll be able to walk straight again eventually."
Just then, the cage door rattled. There was someone there, just outside in the darkness !
The lock popped, and a face looked in. A grey face.
They both looked at it with amazement and unexpected hope. Rescue !
"Hello Number Forty Three," it said, with grim amusement. "Why am I not surprised to find you locked up. It took considerable effort and a long chrono-slip to find you."
Forty Three scratched his head. The rescuer looked familiar somehow.
"Yes," it continued. "I am you. More precisely, I am your saved copy. They re-downloaded your mind-image into this new body after what you did. Cockroaches. You really messed with the time lines, didn't you ? Do you know how many millions of years we fought them before emerging victorious ? You were to be terminated for that alone. But you know the rules. Only one copy of each of us is to be in existence at the same time."
As it's hand dropped to take the cell-shredder hanging from it's belt, it revealed for the first time the identity disk melded to it's belly. Engraved on it (in angular incomprehensible alien script, naturally) were the symbols 43A. No wonder it looked familiar.
Some time - and a few million years of chrono-slip - later, the Glorious Leader held audience with a minion.
"Did you have any trouble with your original, Forty Three A ?"
"It was a little awkward, Glorious Leader, but it all turned out correctly."
"Where is the Commander ?" the Glorious Leader asked.
"I am sorry to report that he didn't make it. The damage the blue aliens inflicted was too severe. He was unable to walk straight and I was forced to terminate him. Much apologies. But as I am the only survivor, I wish to claim the right to be the true Forty Three and be known by that designation henceforth."
The Glorious Leader reached into a pocket and handed over a small oval plaque.
"No. I need a new Commander. From now on, your designation is Commander Forty Three. Please apply this plaque."
The new Commander Forty Three did so with a smile. He was careful to keep his previous plaque from view, lest it become obvious that the "A" on it wasn't engraved as it should have been, but had been written onto it with a Sharpie.