I’ll Take Second Place

When the gods held a competition to create interesting art, our universe came in second place. First place was an instantaneous, spectacular show.

Hollow Man

As we walked the darkened streets of San Diego
we got a bit lost finding our hotel
Wandering into an unlit section of abandoned streets
a man approached us from the shadows
asking for ‘Just one dollar’

My initial fear quickly dissipated as we stood facing each other
Keeping his distance I could see he was more frightened than I
A hollow shell of a human afraid of everything in the world
‘Just one dollar’ he pleaded

I acquiesced and he silently took the dollar and left us
feeling sorry for his sad existence

Simulation Theology

The discussion around the idea that we exist in a computer simulation has been recently fueled by the publication of The Doomsday Calculation by William Poundstone and some remarks by Neil deGrasse Tyson and Elon Musk. Although it is an entertaining philosophical proposition, it has gotten too much serious attention in the scientific community.

The suggestion that our world has been created by an inaccessible, thinking entity (in this case ‘the conceptual programmer’) is functionally indistinguishable from a theological belief in a world created by a supernatural god. It has not been derived from observation or mathematical prediction and therefore objectively untestable as a scientific hypothesis.

Suggesting that everything we experience in our world is a computer simulation creates a speculative, philosophical overlay that is functionally identical to a world created by an all encompassing deity. By design, this cannot be proven or disproven because the controlling overlay manipulates every detail of our inner and outer reality and all of our actions including our thinking. A program that creates and controls everything we experience is functionally omnipotent and decision making becomes open to the theological questions of predestination and free will just as belief in an all powerful god implies. How can subservient creatures in such a system have access to the operative mind of their creator?

No matter what results are reached from the exploration of this proposition, it can always be argued that the program’s algorithm allowed or influenced those results. Any study, discussion or writing, supportive or opposed to this theory, becomes factitious. Ineffectual. Giving this speculation serious attention will be no more productive than the medieval, theological discourse to determine how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Just as past gods were the creations of the societies from which they emerged, so the insubstantial idea that we exist only in a programmed, simulated reality is the product of modern humans living in a computer-dominated society. As with other human concepts, this is an obvious derivative of the culture from which it sprang. Computers and their simulations are not the final technological development. Unforeseen future technologies will likely inspire new existential theories about the nature of our existence and these imaginative musings will also remain outside the purview of empirical analysis if similarly conceived apart from direct observation and deductive reasoning.

If such ideas gain scholarly consideration and widespread acceptance in our society, the impossibility of any definitive proof or disproof could lead to the creation of religious cults based on nuanced interpretations of this simulation theology and fervent cult followings might lead to social division, wars and even a return to a dark age that rejects real science. Also it is a moral imperative that we see others as equal entities and not as manipulated perceptions, otherwise human suffering, murder or genocide appear insignificant. Suggesting that we are a contrived computer-generated simulation implies a lack of individual free will which could make man’s attempts to improve his own life or influence the course of humanity seem futile. Our only response to this ungrounded proposition should be to acknowledge it as a theological construct and file it away among the many other speculative, philosophical constructs in human history.

By any objective measure you are my incarnate equal and as such we similarly experience our shared universe, however it was created. If our reality has been generated by a computer algorithm, an unseen god or a fortuitous series of natural phenomena, our only credible option is to proceed to examine and experience this singular, available reality; get on with the discovery, testing and understanding of our place in this grand scheme with the proven, scientific approach already at hand.

War of the Worlds 2020

 

H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds has become the apt metaphor for our times. In it the alien invaders from Mars, invincible to all of our traditional military power, are finally stopped by microscopic bacteria. That situation is not dissimilar to this oppressive Presidency having survived innumerable scandals, a two year special council investigation and impeachment without effect. But now the administration is seriously threatened (and hopefully will be similarly devastated) by this invisible virus which had been consequently disregarded by them. May we be so fortunate to experience constructive changes similar to those that H.G. Wells optimistically foretells at the end of his novel following our own societal carnage.

“… it has robbed us of that serene confidence in the future which is the most fruitful source of decadence, the gifts to human science it has brought are enormous, and it has done much to promote the conception of the commonweal of mankind.”

Antares Launch Report

NASA/Joel Kowsky

Last November I watched a rocket launch from Wallops Island, Virginia. It was an Antares rocket on a resupply mission to the International Space Station. This was my fourth attempt at seeing a rocket go into space. The first, on October 29, 2014, the Antares blew up shortly after launch. The second was a Space X launch from Florida scrubbed in the last seconds of the countdown. At that time I was with two high school friends. The uncertainties of the a launch occurring the following day and our long drive home discouraged us from extending our stay. The third was at Wallops Island with my wife and grandson. Again, launch delays and his school schedule prohibited us from staying beyond our available window. This fourth time there were two launch delays due to wind and weather. However, with only my wife, Linda, along, and both of us retired, we were free to extend our stay.

During the delay my friend, Stosh, a retired NASA employee, arranged a tour for us of the Wallops Island Flight Facility. This facility is miles from the launch site where the Antares stood waiting so there was no chance of seeing the rocket or launch pad. This is where weather balloons are routinely launched by National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) and rocket payloads are prepared among other things. On that gray, rainy and overcast day we toured the machine shop where sub-orbital sounding rockets are produced and visited an airplane hanger where a NASA P-3 Orion research aircraft was being readied to collect data for projects such as monitoring Arctic Ice.

The next day was finally dry and clearing. Stosh, unable to stay another day had to leave. Linda and I walked the Wildlife Loop at Assateague Island. It was off-season and the National Park was nearly abandoned. We detoured from the main trail loop to another trail that led to the beach. Standing near the ocean surf absent any other human presence, made us feel like intruders on a scene from past millennia. However, looking southwest, launchpad 0A could be seen in the distance where the land met the sky. Binoculars clearly resolved the seemingly diminutive Antares rocket waiting to be fueled.

After two delays, the launch window, originally scheduled for 4:49 a.m. Thursday, was now set for 4:01 a.m. Saturday morning, well before dawn. Each time the launch was rescheduled the launch time needed to be adjusted to synchronize to the shifting orbital position of the ISS. At 3:30 our alarm got us out of a cozy bed in a fog of inadequate sleep. A quick check of the countdown clock showed it still progressing with less than 30 minutes until launch. The weather was cold, clear and calm, perfect for a launch. We dressed in layers of winter clothes, our enthusiasm purposely restrained knowing that a single failure among thousands of electrical connections, control valves and sensor readouts could make all this an exercise in disappointment.

Outside we walked across the empty McDonald’s parking lot and further down the road to the bridge connecting Chincotiague with Assateague Island. We were not alone as there was a straggle of pedestrians all moving toward the same bridge, and a line of vehicles parked along the shoulder. We encountered a woman, a local resident, who joined our walk in the darkness. “And I thought birders were crazy,” she said. At the bridge there were others quietly talking who lined the pedestrian rail that faced Wallops Island. It was a sober gathering – serious, hopeful and restrained in the pre-dawn dark.

Before finding an open spot at the walkway railing I happened to look up. The constellation Orion loomed prominently dominating the lesser constellations. His sword extended with a blaze of radiant nebula visible with the naked eye. I couldn’t recall ever seeing it before with such clarity. This unanticipated gift, even if there was a launch scrub, was making the effort worthwhile.

The launch pad, rocket and tower, though miles distant, were brightly lit and visible upon the horizon. Resting the binoculars on the handrail made the image steady and made this tiny, white, protruding structure, the focus of so much planning, effort and preparation, seem present. Between time checks I used the binoculars to take in Orion and the famous nebula. No one on the bridge counted down the final seconds as I had expected. Looking through the binoculars I waited, afraid to blink. At exactly 4:01 the slender white form where all eyes were focused was silently punctuated by a flash of fire at its base.

Though expected, ignition arrived as surprising and rewarding. “There it goes.” I announced, believing that somehow the binoculars had given me a time advantage over those around me watching without optical aid.

The flash of fire quickly became a bright torch smoothly lifting the thin white finger. As it rose slowly the length of the visible flame was revealed to be greater than the length of the ship itself. Still in utter silence, it was well clear of the launch tower and beginning its arc across the sky before the air vibrated with the rumble of ignition and the continuing burn of the rocket engine.

Moving east, it arched above us, somewhat south of directly overhead. We watched as the velocity quickly increased, an alien presence among the ancient, star-marked sky. The engine’s soundtrack now contributed to the full sense of certain accomplishment.

A little past our relative crest of the arc, the flame of the first stage extinguished. I watched with the binoculars but saw no second stage burn. It seemed almost a minute before I found the light again with the binoculars narrow field of vision. I continued watching as the orange flame grew dim and became indistinguishable from the light of the dimmer stars in the sky.

It was over rather quickly, and the spectators began to break up and move toward warmer quarters. There was a greatness to the experience though I had little immediate sense of that. It is my nature to attend such events with the analytics turned off and my senses merely open and set to record. Only later after that recording is replayed does it become synthesized and meaningful among the other recorded experiences in my lifetime.

Without the starry background the launch would have been a stunning and inspirational act of man, a symbol of accomplishment through science and reason. Against the background of stars this brief effort of man is brought into perspective. Mankind has been given a natural curiosity, a drive for exploration and understanding that must be pursued for humanity to fulfill its nature. We were a witness to this moment of higher calling.

Muting the Dread

the bedside radio is off

the trump, trump, trump

of morning news silent

leaving me free

to explore the

joys of being alive

Youth’s Futile Avoidance

On the counter was ceremoniously thumped the open green bottle. A light fog drifted from the neck. We took it in fashion, throwing our heads back in a flourishing indulgence of the familiar elixir as if it contained the essence of youth. The opaque brown syrup affirmed all we believed about our place in the universe. Our self-contained eternity, our right to consume and become everything we dreamed. And to take it with us thoughtlessly into the future.

George tossed the bottle cap into the trash behind the counter. I fished in my pocket for a dime. “Don’t worry, you’re covered. Your dad’s a long time customer.” I was the only one sitting at the line of red and chrome stools, the factory lunch crowd now long gone, back at work. I took another drink, the released effervescence startling, reassuring, penetrating into my sinuses.

A year later with her husband ill and dying, his wife saw me from the curb. Leaning at the open passenger window she asked if I would go in and visit. “George would enjoy seeing you,” she said. Sitting in the car, the engine running, idling, restrained only by the closed throttle plates, I hesitated. “No ….I can’t…..right now….” I answered moving the shifter from neutral to first anxious to be away from death and obligation.

Why Humans?

There is no question that for the long term preservation of the human species it is necessary that we develop interstellar space travel. But what is the importance of preserving the human race? Why are humans so special? Is the development of interstellar travel worth the expenditure of extravagant human effort and resources? Is it only our selfish reproductive instinct that drives us to consider human interstellar colonization a long term imperative? Is the human animal form so necessary in the cosmos or is it the coincidental development of human intelligence that is the significant and seemingly scarce component in the universe that warrants preservation and perpetuation? If humanity’s sentience is unusual and scarce it may arguably be worth some great effort to propagate it beyond our solar system.

As an animal we are genetically little different from a dog or cat, even less from a chimp. We are all thinking, feeling, hungry, social, emotional mammals. The obvious mental advantage we have over the others may only be a small step toward some enhanced intelligence. It may be that we are just as incapable of appreciating our own intellectual limitations as your cat may be to understanding your financial situation. Still, in this larger celestial realm, we possess evolved sapiency and, without a higher comparison available, possibly exceptionally so. So it may be of some importance for the future of cosmic intelligence to preserve this rare and useful characteristic of humans.

Yet getting people to an extrasolar planet can be especially difficult. Our living systems have developed in a rarefied environment that makes them unsuitable for long interstellar journeys. Extrasolar planets would likely need extensive terraforming to make them suitable for human habitation. If it is only our intelligence that is important, it would be much easier to download our critical thought processes into a machine that can withstand the cold and cosmic radiation for the hundreds of years required for an interstellar space journey and then have it reproduce (manufacture) itself in a reasonably compliant planetary or lunar environment.

Yet the human animal, along with many other life forms on earth, has been shown to be resilient, adaptive and resourceful in sustaining life. Maybe some form of animal life with greater tolerance for environmental variability and yet incorporating the brain of a human would make a more suitable life form to send to other planets. A genetically engineered, reproducing animal designed for specific planetary conditions could be developed as our intelligent space traveling surrogate.

But what about human consciousness? How important in our cognitive thinking is our physical connection to the world? Is the material interface of our body with the larger world the source of our consciousness? Would it be possible to program our instinctive self preservation along with a compassionate consciousness into either a bio-engineered creature or a machine? Balancing necessary survival instincts against a benevolence towards others can be a tricky act even for fully socialized, earth bound humans. Colonizing space with living humans, who naturally incorporate our interactive mind/body complexity, may be the only way to insure the perpetuation of our adaptive, inventive intelligence while preserving a communal, higher awareness and an abiding consciousness.

Mind Your Mother’s Words

“Finish up your lompers Beck, ya don’t want to waste the good farmer’s hard work.”

Beck looked at his plate and decided to get it over fast, shoveling in two huge forkfuls of flatcakes before leaving the table. Outside, Freddy was waiting for him while aimlessly scratching in the dirt with a stick. Though they were both off for mid year break, Freddy was not from Beck’s school. He was from Riverside, but was staying with his grandmother here in Settlement for the vacation.

“Be home before dark now. Ya don’t want to eat a cold supper do ya?”

The screen door slammed behind him as he greeted Freddy on a run. “And don’t come home with wet shoes, stay outa that creek.”

“What took ya so long?

“Come on, let’s go.” They walked down to the end of the street to the dump behind the plumber’s house. After checking through the discarded sinks and water heaters, drains, faucets and tees and elbows, Freddy found a piece of iron supply pipe that he picked up. As they walked downhill through the reedy unmanaged growth Freddy swung the pipe at the wild lomp weeds. Occasionally a seed head would fly through the air.

“I’d rather die in a fiery crash than get old,” Freddy said. The hill terminated at the creek and they took up the well-worn pedestrian path that followed the creek bed downstream through the woods. “And I’ll bet you that is what will happen.”

“What a stupid bet. If you win that bet who will I pay? ” Beck answered.

“I’m gonna be a test pilot. I’m gonna test rockets and planes. Nobody will tell me where to work. I’m gonna volunteer for the most dangerous jobs.”

At one point they turned off the familiar path and moved through the undergrowth. At an uprooted tree laying on the ground they climbed on the trunk and balanced along it until a large branch blocked their way. Beck grabbed a limb and swung from the trunk to a corrugated sheet metal roof about a half meter off the ground.

Beck immediately noticed that a piece of carpet that was used for the door had been left folded back onto the roof. “Hey, some root has been in our fort!” Freddy could hear Beck talking inside “I’ll bet it’s one of those kids from the Shaw Terrace gang. Hey, they left a comic book.” Freddy stood outside the door poking at the rug with his length of pipe.

“What is it?” he asked with casual interest.

“Ranger Stong Explorer. Too bad. It got wet in here when it rained,” Beck said while trying to open it up and look at it. But the pages just fell apart for his efforts.

“Is it the one where Ranger Stong explores the equator flatlands? Ya know it’s so hot he has to wear a suit all the time with a refrigerator pack. Cause if it is, I already seen it.”

Back at the creek they stood on a granite boulder that intruded half way into the current. The narrowed passage produced a fast flowing current that caused a slow rotating eddy at their feet just beyond the ancient obstruction. “Let’s explore. Let’s follow the creek down past the woods,” Beck said. “We’ve never done that. At some point it has to join the river.”

“OK but I want to do something first.” Freddy led Beck up the wooded hill to a place that was like a miniature swamp. Water seeped from the ground soaking the soil before diffusing down a dry wash. Freddy took the piece of pipe and shoved it down into saturated soil at a steep angle, right where the cold water was arising from the ground. In a few seconds muddy water was running out of the top end of the pipe. “Wow!” said Beck. “Nice idea!” In less than a minute the water had cleared and they both took turns getting drinks by cupping their hands under the elevated end.

“That’s nice and cold,” Beck said wiping his hands on his pants. “Tastes better than the water at home.”

“Fill your belly now Ranger Beck while we have the chance, ‘cause we may not find drinking water where we’re going.” They rejoined the creek-side path below the granite boulder then followed it downstream. The path quickly grew narrower and less traveled and required walking in single file.

“If you get to be a rocket pilot would you explore the Red Moon or the Sister Moons?”

“The Red Moon for sure, if they give me a radiation-proof space suit. My dad says they have built the rocket that could fly there but nobody wants to volunteer to do it,” Freddy responded talking to the back of Beck’s head.

They followed along numerous turns in the meandering creek until they came to an elevated bridge that crossed the creek high overhead. Large concrete supports blocked the way and closely bordered the creek. Here it was not so easy to follow the creek further and the banks leading up to the road were unnaturally steep. The amplified sounds of cars randomly rumbling overhead violated the subtle and familiar sound of the flowing water and made standing at the bottom of the bridge unsettling and ominous. Since the creek was running a little below average it left a muddy strip between the creek water and the massive concrete buttress. They decided that this was the best way to continue. On a day without a defined mission this might have turned them back but today this inconvenience was not enough to deter a motivated explorer.

Emerging into the sunlight on the other side of the bridge Beck walked cautiously on one muddy sock and carried a sneaker in his hand that had been pulled off by the suction of the mud. Freddy was already sitting on the bank with his feet and sneakers hanging in the flowing current. Beck stopped and removed the other mud-engulfed sneaker and washed them both before putting them back on without the socks. Neither spoke it but they could tell that this was beginning to feel like a real adventure.

They resumed following the creek bank. Before the sounds of the traffic had completely faded they came to a chain link fence topped with barbed wire blocking their path. At this point the bank had risen forming a precipitous drop to the creek below. The fence extended just past the edge of an overhanging boulder.

“Looks like the end of the line,” Beck announced.

“I got this one,” Freddy said. He climbed onto the fence and worked his way sideways out over the creek below. At the end of the fence he swung out and around to the other side, It was then just a matter of maneuvering sideways back to the rock. “No problem,” Freddy announced back on terra firma.

Beck was reluctant to try but now as they faced each other through the interposing fence, he had little choice. It was a bit scary at first but following Freddy’s example he managed it with surprisingly little trouble and together on the other side their confidence grew having cleverly overcome yet one more difficulty. So they blithely pressed ahead and continued to forge a path through this novel, untrampled woodland.

At a second metal link fence they found a place where rains had washed out space under the wire. Just enough to crawl beneath it.

Inside this fence it continued to be mostly wild, unmanaged land until they arrived at an imposing earthen mound; a gradually sloping rock-strewn prominence that was an alluring invitation to climb. Although it was not difficult, sitting atop this prominence they felt a sense of resolution. The outward leg of the expedition was complete, they had made noteworthy discoveries and successfully achieved their objective. Here they rested, basking in self-satisfaction. “Wish we had brought along some of that spring water,” one of them said while the other silently surveyed this new vista.

As explorers they thought they had done a good job, yet they failed to appreciate the unusual qualities of this hill. That it was made of an artificial loam and almost no vegetation was growing on it. If they had been trained explorers they would have questioned the origin of this barren hillock in a verdant wood. But being boys they accepted the world and its anomalies, as so much of it was yet mysterious and unknowable.

It was Beck who noticed the extension low on the opposite side. He slid down to it finding a stone arch that formed an entrance. He called to Freddy who came down to look. “There’s a door down here.”

It was a heavy, imposing door with a makeshift wooden cover patching it. Without delay Freddy kicked at the cover with no effect. “We might get in trouble,” Beck said. Without responding Freddy found a rock that he pounded with and eventually the patch began to loosen enough that he could pull it away exposing an opening that only a boy might squeeze through.

Inside was like the chamber of a cave of roughly hemispherical shape. The floor was hard and perfectly flat though strewn with broken furniture, shards of glass containers and metal utensils. Any sound they made, their talking, walking, even their breathing was louder than any place they had ever been before. Illumination came mostly from the hole in the door but a couple of very dirty portholes provided a sickly yellow light. After kicking about and finding little of interest they noticed a second doorway in the back of the room. It was blocked by a partly open, steel door. Beck pulled on it to open it some more but could not move it as the hinges were rusted and the bottom was dragging on the floor. Together they pulled and succeeded in moving it only a little before quitting. But it was just enough to squeeze past into an unlit chamber.

As their eyes adjusted they realized they were standing on a concrete walkway between two ground level cisterns of standing water filled up almost to the level of the walkway. Their voices echoed in a way that subconsciously informed them that the dimensions of this room were much smaller than the previous. It was dank and it caused a chill both physical and emotional. The concrete path quickly terminated at a subterranean retaining wall that continued left and right into the chamber walls. When Beck raised his hands he could easily touch the ceiling, feeling a sloping curve that would terminate at the floor only a few meters further in. Freddy kneeled on the walkway and looked intently into the water in one of the cisterns. “Holy cow! Look, a skeleton rib cage under the water.” Beck tried to look but could not see anything without getting down close which he already knew he was not going to do.

“You’re crazy.”

Freddy put his hand into the water “Don’t Freddy, there might be snakes in there,” Beck implored, his voice somehow taking on an unintended resonance in this tiny, unnatural cave. But Freddy never flinched and only took Beck’s fear as a challenge to continue. “It’s a rib cage, I can feel it.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Beck said moving about nervously.

“I think I can see his head.” Freddy’s arm was in the stagnant liquid beyond his elbow as he continued feeling around in the darkened pool.

“Stop Freddy. I’m leaving now. Lets go.”

Wait a minute, I can. I can touch it.”

Beck moved to the back of the chamber until his head touched the sloping ceiling. He tried to stand still but his feet kept touching something at the end of the alcove. He stared back into the low light until he could begin to discern something, repeated patterns. Then his brain began to connect the patterns. More rib cages, many little ones piled at the back of the crypt were touching his shoes. A tangle of discarded animals long dead. Without a word to Freddy, Beck ran out into the main chamber, scurried through the hole in the door and into the sunlight. Freddy, he saw to his relief, was right behind him. “Let’s get out of here,” Beck said.

Without talking they moved instinctively back the way they had come, finding the wash under the fence and then downhill in the direction of the creek. Once at the creek bank they flopped down at the water’s edge and gathered their wits. Suddenly Beck began laughing. “I don’t even remember climbing out the hole in the door. And don’t try to tell me you weren’t scared. Did you see the all those dead whatever bodies…animals?” Freddy did not respond. Then Beck laid back on the grass and laughed again, “Holy root, what was that place?” Freddy still said nothing. After an intentional dramatic interval, Freddy finally spoke with a slow suggestive voice.

“Wanna see somethin’ cool?” Beck looked at Freddy who was looking at him, smiling knowingly.

“What are you talking about?” Beck sat bolt upright then he looked at Freddy. He saw that in his lap Freddy was cradling a muddy head dripping dirty water.

Freddy spent some time at the creek bank rinsing off his treasure that was looking cooler by the minute. “Let me see it,” Beck said.

But Freddy said, “No, you were too chicken to get it.’

Beck watched closely as Freddy washed the mud off it in the moving creek water. It might have been the head of a human from the shape of the white bony cranium, though it seemed kind of small. But as Freddy got it cleaner it became apparent that where the face should be this head had a flat and hard surface like black glass. “Wow, cool, it’s a robot head,” Freddy said

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“Keep it.”

“What will your grandma say?”

“Nothin’ I guess, ‘cause I’m not gonna tell her. I’ll hide it under my bed or in the storage cage in the basement,” Freddy said, finally setting it down on the grass while he rested his head on his drawn up knees in thought.

Beck found his chance to pick it up and look at it. “It’s like a little human in the back with an electronic screen in the front.”

Freddy stood and took it back from Beck. “Lets go.”

Once at the bridge they had little energy for more adventure and decided it might be easier to scale the slope and cross the road above rather than use the muddy creek bank again. Once at the road they hid off the shoulder listening for cars. When it finally became quiet they scurried across the road, Freddy with his treasure, checking left and right that he was not seen. However they did not look behind them. Had they done so they would not have missed a large, prominent sign.

Keep Out
Restricted Area
Government Property

After stopping for a refreshing drink at the spring they went back to their underground fort. Inside they passed the head back and forth countless times while talking and planning what to do next.

“I can’t leave it here. Those Shaw Terrace roots might find it. If I take it home my grandma will make me take it back.”

They sat in silence until Beck spoke up, “I know what to do.”

The boys emerged from the woods where it was bordered by the plumber’s dump. There they poked around among the detritus until they found a big enough box from a fancy faucet set and they slipped the head into the box. They walked up the block past the row of little porched houses that lined the street. A few little kids were playing at the curb, some old people were on their porches talking. The boys walked unnoticed past them all. They were paid no attention for carrying a cardboard box. They paused when they reached a narrow brick two-story house with a wide stone driveway. Soon it would be too late to change their minds. They turned and walked up the driveway past the house to the back yard. “Good,” Beck said. “His car is here, so he is home.” They looked warily at each other before going to the back door and knocking. The warped wooden screen door slapped the doorframe with each knock, amplifying their presence beyond their intent. There was nothing. They looked inside, past the enclosed porch into a darkened kitchen where they could hear someone stir.

“What? Who the hell is it?” complained an irritated voice.

“It’s just me, Beck, and Freddy,” Beck called in.

“Wada ya want?” the voice responded.

“We got somethin’ to show ya.”

“Keep your pants on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Freddy asked.

“Sure, he used to be a Ranger. He was stationed near one of the poles. He had to have two toes cut off from frostbite.”

An old unshaven man shuffled to the screen door. He was wearing a dull flannel shirt and pants with suspenders. His belly pushed the suspenders apart above the belt line of his pants. He had the stub of an unlit cigar in his mouth.

“What da ya want?” he said through the screen.

“We got somethin’ to show ya Mr. Dyson!”

“OK. OK, wait a minute.” He shuffled back into the kitchen. The boys heard things moving in the kitchen and a cabinet door closing before he came out into the yard.

“We want to show you in the shed.”

“Is it alive?”

“Noooa!” they said together and laughed spontaneously at such a silly question.

They walked to the back of the small yard to an unpainted, weatherworn, flat-roofed board and batten shack. Mr. Dyson fumbled with the keys, mumbling. Finally he opened the padlock and removed it from the hasp before swinging the oversized door open. Inside was a collection of clutter among which was a chainsaw, radio chassis and a clutter of paint cans, oil bottles, metal cans and jars full of screws, washers, dried paint brushes and other marginally useful miscellany. The inviting fragrance of stale, volatile hydrocarbons signaled to their brain like a pheromone that they were in a secure, familiar place. After a little shuffling of stuff the boys set the box on the workbench.

“Some junk you found on the dump?” Mr. Dyson asked. With shaky hands he twisted in a light bulb hanging from a wire before opening the flaps of the box. He looked inside the box, while the boys stood silent. There was a dramatic pause before he removed the head from the box. Mr. Dyson’s action seemed inappropriately undelicate as he wiped the head with his palm and held it near the light bulb. “It’s got the triskelion. Where did you kids ever get this?”

Freddy was quick to speak up to preempt anything Beck might say, ”We just found it in the woods.”

“Horse tomatoes.” From his back pocket Mr. Dyson thoughtlessly pulled out a curved bottle and took a drink, a habit he normally hid from the boys. “You kids been up to the government grounds?” The boys remained silent. “I’ve never seen one of these before. Almost no one alive today has. Government has tried to tamp all this down,” he said roughly handling the head on the table. “You know what you got here?” Still the boys did not answer. Mr. Dyson rummaged through a box from the shelf and brought out a small handheld light. “Good thing you brought this to me. Has anyone else seen this?” he asked turning the head so he could shine the light into the neck hole. With long needle-nosed pliers he fished out a wire that had been broken off. ”Most people in this town would not know what this was and the ones who did would have you arrested. Luckily I was an ELE Specialist First Class with the Rangers at Alpha Camp South 89. God, it was cold down there. It was too cold to ever go outside. We just tube transferred from vehicle to habitat. I don’t know why they even sent us. Only the robots could roam around and half of them never made it back.”

He cleaned the wire ends with sandpaper as he spoke. “I’m not so sure you kids are old enough to hear about what you found. Your folks might get mad at me if I tell you.”

“My folks are divorced,” Freddy said.

“We won’t tell anyone, we promise,” Beck interjected. They both raised their right hands with crossed fingers in a pledge. Mr. Dyson looked at them apparently not convinced. “Well, you’d eventually hear some version of this anyway. But this will be the closest to the truth you are likely to hear. And I’ll leave off most of the gory details.” While he talked he found a couple of batteries and some lengths of insulated wire. Taping the batteries together with black electrical tape he attached the wires to them with more tape.

“My grandmother told me about it. She said she learned it from her grandfather who claimed to have read a diary from one of the first to be raised here. Before the people were sent, there were only animal-hybrid robots, biobots, sent from Earth. The first real babies were raised by these programmed bio-genetic machines. The babies were transmitted as genetic data and incubated by special models called ‘nanny bots’. For incubation they were good, but when it came to raising babies, their coding left much to be desired. Remember an intervention from Earth would take over 22 years so nanny bots and their pre-programmed artificial intelligence had absolute control of the nursery. Grandmother called them necrobots. These first babies were sometimes killed by the bots. Maybe accidentally but maybe even intentionally.”

As he spoke the boys stood transfixed watching the head and wondering if Mr. Dyson knew what he was doing. Stripping the wire insulation and cleaning the exposed copper ends he seemed both practiced and casually automatic but his uneven dexterity raised concerns about his ability. “Hold that wire while I cut this,” he told Freddy. “It has never been confirmed or denied if the deaths were from lack of ability, unintentional neglect or that the nanny bots were programmed to eliminate problem children from the group. A little more forgiving maternal instinct and less social good in their programming might have worked out better.

“Anyway, once the first group grew up they revolted and destroyed the biobots and raised the next generation themselves. But some of the undesirable effects of that system linger culturally and the government suppression of the brutal details only prolongs the necessary reckoning and purge. We need to face the fact that we are a society based upon infanticidal robots. They think if they keep it covered up it will eventually be forgotten.”

He stopped talking as he soldered a switch onto the ends of the wires from the batteries and attached the switch to the wires coming out from the head. He toggled the switch and looked inside the head. Nothing happened. When he wiggled the wires attached to the batteries, a light flickered inside the skull.

“All right, we got something now.” He wrapped an elastic band across the ends of the batteries and a green light in the cranium flashed with a regular interval then glowed steadily inside the skull. The faceplate began to show some indistinct illumination. “Goddamn those Earth techs. Nobody builds hardware like this anymore. They might have thought that their future depended on it.” He removed his cigar stub. “If only the programmers had been this good,” he said laughing at his own dark humor which degraded into a series of coughs. The boys had grown antsy and were almost giddy trying to contain their excitement.

“You kids are looking at the face of a resurrected killer,” he said as he sat the head on its side near the edge of the workbench so the faceplate looked out at the boys. They could now see the image of vertical human lips. They were the pleasing lips of a young woman, her mouth was moving but there was no sound. Mr. Dyson tapped on the skull with his knuckles then got his air nozzle and blew into the small grouping of holes near the where human cheeks would be. Then there was some sound made, like a loose connection. A faint voice emerged which gradually grew more perceptible. The boys could hear it. They were straining, trying to make out the words.

“If this thing talks we will be the first living souls on the planet to hear her voice. The voice of a murderous nursemaid silenced for hundreds of years. The last sound heard by some poor babies about to…”

“Shuush,” Beck rudely interrupted, though intentionally undirected but obviously intended for Mr. Dyson whose hearing was no longer as acute as the boys’. “She is talking. I can hear it.”

The sound sputtered as the ancient circuits responded to the warming flow of electrons. It was a tinny sound, and not decipherable. “…fache ylong, fache ylong, fache ylong…” the boys gasped, mouths opened, eyes now mesmerized by the sensuous lips moving on the screen as they strained to decipher the garbled message.

“….fache a long do wea gonm wek….fin a lom do wese fram wek…..” The voice seemed calm and pleasant. But lip motion revealed that more words were being spoken than heard. It kept repeating, filling in more with each repetition until even Mr. Dyson could hear what was being said.

The anxious giggling suddenly stopped and the blood drained out of their faces. Any joy had now been replaced by a terror as the true horror of the message hit home.

“Finish your lompers so you don’t waste the good farmer’s work.”

A Dictatorship DIY

A Dictatorship DIY
or
Totalitarianism for Dummies

To initiate an American dictatorship, first you need a candidate to run for president who has popular appeal and name recognition. Preferably not a career politician but one who can claim outsider status and has no record to defend. An ambitious fresh face. A charismatic media personality would be perfect. He or she would require private funding as no established political party would readily fund and endorse an untested, inexperienced, loose cannon of a candidate.

His automatic name recognition will quickly propel him into a competitive position among the electorate. He will appear a firm, strident candidate. He will talk in platitudes with few details of sweeping changes that will restore the country to glory, grace and military and economic dominance. He might argue that many of the country’s problems are the result of outside nations or a social minority distinguished by nationality, religion or race. Though his popular solutions will not stand the test of considered viability, these challenges will be generally ignored by his followers who are allured by his simplistic but inspiring rhetoric.

If he gains a dedicated following and senses that he is within grasp of winning the election but inhibited by a single person or small group of people, he will be willing to use unscrupulous means to eliminate this obstacle. Besides vindictive rhetoric, these methods will include indefensible accusations, falsifying facts, planting false documents, or even mysterious assassinations. Though he would be a prime suspect for these acts, due to the obvious benefit to his aspirations, none of this will be directly traceable back to him. Reasonable doubt, in the absence of hard evidence, and the presumption of innocence will be favorable to his argument.

Once in a position of influence he will don the mantle as the representative of traditional values that had made this country great. This will also be an effective shield from any criticism as he becomes the self-appointed defender of the nation. Thus any critics of his will automatically become the forces allied against this nation.

Once achieving legal political power, he will become the personification of the nation. The first thing on his agenda will be the suppression of the independent media. Alliances with friendly media outlets along with the intimidation of opposition editors and media moguls will be essential. Threats of financial or personal ruin, litigation, incrimination or even physical threats will corral them into submission. Those that resist will be persecuted, always in the interest of the security of the country. As the figurehead of the country, criticism or threats against his actions will naturally be construed to be a criticism of the nation itself or an attack on patriotism, freedom and liberty.

Next he will begin to secretly change the leadership of the military, replacing any who question his authority with opportunistic sycophants and toadies. Trusted family and friends will be appointed to the most powerful positions in government. These individuals will be rewarded with uncommon power. He might start a separate elite force or expand the role of an existing force like the Secret Service to serve his extralegal purposes. Criticism of these institutionalized changes that consolidate power structures will be rationalized as necessary responses to real external threats. He may build personal fortresses in secret locations for his isolation and paranoia will increase with the unrest and criticism he will be receiving for these actions. Former associates will be routinely dismissed and discredited. Once power is consolidated, opposition leaders will be summarily arrested and disappeared.

As a result of this growing aggression and disregard for the law there will be an upwelling of criticism and demonstrations which the president and his supporters will infer to be traitorous attacks upon the country. The growing tide of criticism of his actions will be displayed as irrefutable evidence of attacks upon the nation by forces of evil. Opponents and critics will be portrayed as villains and traitors. He will threaten them, make charges against them and arrest the most prominent of them. Examples will be made. Their resistance and prosecution will be put on display as evidence of their guilt and association with this dangerous conspiracy. Surveillance will be easy for this government as the machinery is already conveniently in place to access and monitor the ubiquitous infrastructure of all digital communication. It will require only a tweaking to monitor conversations and expose the identities of political opponents.

Ultimately future elections will be postponed indefinitely due to the dangerous internal conflicts and the likely violence at the polls. The president may declare himself ‘president for life’ in the interest of social stability. Revolution or assassination will appear to be the only way to end this regime. Opponents will be labeled subversives and revolutionaries and will be listed and subjected to incarceration, public humiliation and disappearance. The stable society would disintegrate into violent, competing camps. A protracted and bloody conflict would likely result with a breakdown of civil society and economic upheaval and in the worst case, a modern dark age. Civil wars easily devolve into mass executions, torture, human displacement and unresolved misery. Such conflicts will have severe multi-generational consequences and may make it impossible to return to the previous healthy, peaceful and productive society.

Once begun, these secretive and incremental changes to government will make it difficult to stop the inevitable spiral to dictatorship. Destruction of independent media and a strict intolerance for the rights of the press and individual dissent is essential to perpetuating the autocracy. But beware of diligent citizens watching for and noticing the early signs of such power obsession.

Though their calls for correctness are merely the pitiful wails of frustrated losers, the future dictator must beware of those who watch and reason and try to speak clearly. They have no respect for those of us who measure success by the sum of our accumulated property, wealth or power over people. These philosophical high brows smugly prefer candidates exhibiting principled democratic leadership.

They distrust those whose of us whose unprincipled pursuit of power and personal wealth dominates our history and believe us to be precursors of a potentate. They are critical and suspicious of anyone who stealthily moves into high political office by gaming the populace without establishing the trust and cooperation of their elected peers and predecessors. But once our legal authority is established, it will be very difficult for them to wrestle away the means to dictatorship. This is not a sporting event. There is only one path to our success. We must pursue our goal of unlimited power with a monomaniacal diligence forgoing any moral integrity, competitive altruism or principled democratic precepts. The day is ours if we ruthlessly seize it.

Please consider purchasing our follow up publication Machiavelli for Dummies.