Dinh AaronMk

If...

What is moral is decreed by the gods or God, then if he/they had ever decreed the opposite then that would be moral. So what is morality?

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Siberia

Yerofeysky

Wu Hong sat on a log at the side of the road. Nearby Ju Gan stood in the shade of a tree, smoking a cigarette. His rifle hung slung across his chest and he rested his hands on it. Looking around, things appeared eerily calm, empty. A few villagers went on their ways passed the Chinese soldiers who found themselves in the past couple days loitering around in the village. Orders had been sparse, and command silent. The only standing issue to them was to hold tight and remain in the village. Ostensibly Long company would be catching up in the next few days, surveying and staking their way through the wilderness of the Russian far-east to help made that final connection with them. For now, without armor, without heavy artillery, or any mechanized support of any kind they were on their own, a few hundred men to a few hundred Russians.

Passing down the street a small patrol of men walked by, acting more casual than security like. They held their wool caps in their hands, and their padded coats worn open at the chest. A gang of children followed close behind, practically nipping at their heels in excitement and wonder for the strange soldier men who wandered through their hamlet. They looked poor, a little dirt, a little worn down, their shirts and trousers worn through and wearing a layer of caked dirt.

“Still no phones?” Ju Gan said to the men as they passed, knowing what the answer was. Everyone did, it was the first thing they found out. As well as with the electricity.

The men shook their head. “Company commander I guess sent some men down the rail road to follow the electrical lines too. Looks like some time ago a storm had knocked over the electrical poles.” the patrol leader said, joining Gan in the shade, “Only the rail road got cleared, and the roads out of town. But one way or another these folk are isolated.”

“Damn.” Gan said, puffing on his cigarette.

“I heard from down the chain that even so, it's kind of been that way for a while. Or on and off. Nothing really works here, except the trains; and the cossacks use that.”

“Fucking hell. What's the update on Long?” he asked.

“I don't know. Maybe half way here? Could be about anywhere, but no one has told me anything exact. Not exact.”

“We're going to be here for a while I take it.”

The other soldier nodded, and looked around. “Place gives me the creeps. Like someone's watching.” he said, turning to leave.

As they walked down the road Gan turned to Hong, “So, how are you liking war?” he asked.

Hong looked up at him with an unfamiliar bizarre curiosity. “It's, ah- now what I was expecting.” he said.

“Not I either.” Gan said with a long sigh, “I had hoped once to be a part of the Tibet invasion, but that never happened. Now here we are, at war but we haven't seen any action.”

“Mhm...” Hong nodded.

“If things are this easy, say we have one good battle. We'll be at the Urals by Dongzhi.”

Hong nodded along. But truth be told, he didn't want to think about it. Crossing the Urals would mean crossing into Europe, and into Russia's heartland. He could see as well as any of them they were in Russia's backwater.

“Come on, let's take a walk.” Gan said, putting out his cigarette on the tree trunk and pitching the butt aside. He walked off down the street, following the foot steps of the other patrol.

The streets of the village were all dirt. In places, raised corduroy sidewalks offered a way out of the dirt streets, which may presumably turn to mud during spring time thaws. And throughout the community, the houses were space so far apart each had in their backyards rich full gardens, behind leaning and sagging wooden fences, tied together by strips of rusted iron wire.

Hong looked at the homes they passed. Despite many being gray, built of weather worn and tested logs from the surrounding wilderness some had been painted over, though over the years the brightly colored paints needed to coat and finish them must have become hard to find, as much of them were beginning to chip and peel back from the homes themselves. Pigs and chickens rooted around in the dry streets and in the shade of the trees and the tall grasses.

Walking towards the creek they stopped. Older women stood at the shoreline and laboriously bent over the waters, washing blouses and trousers, and underwear and shirts. “I was sort of hoping there'd be cute girls here.” he said distantly, looking up into the hills on the other side of town, “But the young flowers have all gone.” Hong didn't have anything to say.

The community straddled either side of the small creek that bisected it. A small wooden bridge was the only crossing between the two halves and much the same dominated the other side. There was a homestead with an orchard in the back, and between the full green boughs of the trees the bright reds and yellows of apples hung ripening on the branches, in their shade a handful of pigs scavenged for the over ripened apples and those that had fallen into the clover.

“Fuck this shit.” Gan complained, turning and walking the other way. But in the distance Hong could see something. It was distant, barely visibly before the underbrush on a hill the other side of town. But in the sunlight cast along the edge of the trees he thought he could see a figure at the edge of the treeline, dark and silhouetted against the underbrush. He looked to be wearing a hat, or a helmet, or a mask. He – it – was all in black.

Before Gan could get away Hong asked, “Sergeant, comrade... What do the cossacks wear?”

“What do you mean?” asked Gan, turning back to him.

“What do they wear, what's their uniform?” Hong asked, he turned back to the hill but the figure that had been there was gone. But he couldn't help but feel as if he had been seen.

“Grey coat with a big fur cap, I think.” Gan told him, “Or Russian field uniforms. I haven't seen them yet though, we haven't. Why?”

“Just... Wondering.” a hesitant Hong said, under his breath.

China

Mohe County

“What's the status on the search for the pilot?” the radio asked.

“He hasn't been located, but he has been spotted.” Man Wu said, he sat leaning over in a chair, again in the communications tent. On the other end of the receiver was one of the junior command officers, taking a regular debriefing of an evolving situation. He hadn't contacted them, but had come looking for him, “Last seen he was in the river about a kilometer and a half away from the camp. A boat crew and patrols have been sent out to comb the forests. Based on his movements he actually passed into China, so unless we have to cross again I'm not worried about our men wandering into Japanese territory following him for the time being. Over.”

“Copy that. I don't imagine our pilot has any supplies on him, I take it?” the other officer asked, “Over.”

“No, I don't believe so. I can't imagine the Japanese sent him out here to camp so it's not likely he would have anything on him. So this may slow him down, if he has to eat. You think that? Over.”

“That's our basic assumption here in command. If he doesn't eat he may slow down. Or he'll stop and forage or find food some other way. The pursuit won't be direct. He's not entirely lost yet. Furthermore, he doesn't know the land. Command still has confidence, we only encourage you to try harder.

“And also, have you retrieved the crashed airplane yet? Over.”

“We have, it's in our custody and it's being packed so we can ship it back. Over.”

“Good. But we should probably discuss other things. What's the situation with our mission? Has it been set back?” the radio asked. “Over.”

“We haven't been set back at all. Clearing crews are maybe about ten to twelve kilometers in. The parts and supplies to build a more permanent bridge have arrived, so soon we'll begin laying the road. We're moving ahead on schedule and we'll be able to connect to the forward groups shortly. Over.”

“Copy that, so there has been little to no disruption? Over.”

“Appears not. The Japanese weren't here to disrupt it seems. To observe, perhaps. But until we have that pilot we can not be sure. Over.”

“Then we don't have anything to talk about further. Keep up the good work. Over and out.” the other officer said unceremoniously, and hung up. Man Wu whiped his brow and stepped out of the tent. The northern sun was sharp in his eyes and he squinted back against the strong daylight. Turning his sight north he rested his gaze on the foundations of the span across the Amur.

It was by no means a complicated feat. The river wasn't the Yellow River, and its flow was gentle and stately. Its dark waters flowing at a comfortable and genial pace, not very deep, though neither was it shallow. The pontoon bridge that presently connected China and Russia was at either end flanked by steel beams set into the earth and the day time flash of sparks and stars blinked into and out of existence as engineers with welding torches fixed additional spans and struts into place.

Kazakhstan

They were up by early morning with the demands of the old man. Words spoken in a language neither of them understood. Rising out of their slumber between woolen and hide blankets, Guo and Chao staggered to their feet. They stumbled through putting on their pants and their clothes before they stepped out into the freezing cold night. After sleeping under blankets, it hit them impossibly hard, like stepping into a steel door. They shivered and wrapped their arms around themselves, the coats they were given helped but in the dead of morning, before the sun even rose, and with a northern breeze it all felt out of time for a mid-summer's morning.

They walked out between the yurts of a camp, being joined by the other men and the young boys of the family band. Some of them still looked sidelong at them. Others had warmed, and treated them to the hospitality of neighbors. And as with the yurt they had abandoned, the warm smell of smoldering dung-fueled fires crackled in the inside and the smell of buttery cooking floated out the door as mothers and grandmothers began the work of preparing breakfast. For them though, this immediate luxury wasn't for them as the followed the rest out to the pens where the goats were kept.

It was here the men split. Some went off to horses, and mounting rode off to graze the horse herd on the open steppe. For the likes of Chao and Guo they shuffled to the goats, low and stubborn they milled about in a paddock of metal posts driven into the ground and wired together to make a impromptu fence. All the same, many of the goats were secured to the fence itself directly for security. Mixed among them were the sheep, themselves waiting to eventually be let to graze in the open steppe. Shuffling in with the animals they went about their work.

Pulling out leather sacks they approached the nannies of the herd.

Squatting down at the side of one, Chao ran his hand along her side, betting the doe as she turned a head to sniff and investigate the man squatting alongside her. “Don't you fucking bite me.” he grumbled under his breath as he gently pushed her head away. She bleated in response, but held still as he lay the stiff leather pouch down under her udders. Grabbing a teat, he began milking.

The milk squirted out, uneven at first. Chao had never milked an animal in his life, and his uneven grip and rhythm made it difficult to begin. But as he went along he had gotten into the beat, and soon he was filling the pouch with warm goat's milk. A distance off Guo was doing the same.

“Never thought I'd find myself milking goats.” Guo complained.

“It's not entirely unexpected.” Chao reminded him, “We had to stop and work our way through China to get some stuff, directions. You really don't think we would've tried this on our way through here, did you?”

“Yeah but- shit Chao. We could herd the horses. We got a motorcycle!”

“I don't think that's what they're made for.”

“But, still.”

“They probably don't appreciate it if we did try.” added Chao.

The stream stopped, and the goat became stubborn. Before she could begin moving Chao pulled out the container of milk before she could walk away and turn it over. Stubbornly she tried to leave early, resisting Chao's initial attempt to stop her before the leather sack could be withdrawn. Be fore a hoof connected, it was gone and he moved to the next one.

This one turned and began to try and nibble on the coat loaned to him. Making repeated attempts at it, he pushed her head away before settling into the tedium of competing against her, and her teets.

“What do you think about the old man?” Guo asked, slightly further away.

“He seems OK enough.” Chao responded.

“What do you mean? Can you understand him? Because I sure can't, he could be doing anything with us.”

“Well we can still leave at any time.” Chao answered him, “Or at least we got the bike and a full tank of gas at the least. So we can leave. Besides, how else are we going to get through here?”

“I'm just worried something will happen.”

“We have a lot of ground to cover. We're likely going to have to put our faith in other people we don't know or can't really communicate to. We're going to have to start at some point.”

“That might be true, but, well- you know. Do any of us know what's going on? Have you seen how they gather around the radio sometimes? It doesn't seem like anything good is happening. What if we end up in that situation?”

“Well, then we do. And we keep going.”

“I really don't like how you're so easy with this, so casual. I don't know if you're thinking about it as much.”

“I think about it plenty.” said Chao, brushing away the goat's head and moving along. Guo rose among a cloud of sheep, which startled and shot away the moment he rose.

“But, well. Some of these people have guns.”

“Your dad had a gun.” Guo pointed out.

“Yeah, a Japanese relic from the war! It's not like he had any bullets for it.”

“He still had one, didn't he?”

“Yeah, right. There's a wide difference between a gun with bullets and without!”

“How do you know he didn't have any? He could have. I know my uncle kept his hidden.”

“Damn it, Chao. You're not making it any easy.”

Chao held his arms out to his side and declared, “What choice do we have?”

Guo sighed uncomfortably, and went back to work.

Dragon Diaries

Li Chao
July 20th, 1960. The year of the metal rat.

We've been riding along, following the river for the better part of several days. We've found no breaks in it and the terrain is rough. Out of fear of loosing site of it in the great steppe we elected to follow it close instead of heading out into the steppe itself to find flatter ground. We've been moving slow as a result.

We're starting to run low on food and Guo is getting upset. We've been able to find a few things along the river side to help us along but the sparsity of anything out here has made it difficult. There are often grasses for miles, but it's also all rocks and dirt. There's a barren dryness to this land not unlike the desserts I believe, or the Chinese interior. If there were more mountains and valleys I would however be more willing to call it that, but there is nothing. It's beginning to dampen my expectations.

However, fate and luck would have it our journey west didn't end in failure. Before we could get into our last can of gas we ran into the local Kazakhs. We came on a herdsman and his family, or clan, or banner. However you want to say it. We rode across him as he and his sons or brothers were tending to their herds of horses at the river. There was a tense moment when guns were drawn. Guo and I both were terrified, but the situation de-escalated.

Unfortunately, our Arabic was either too poor or their grasp of it equally as bad as ours and trying to speak with them came down to a long session of pantomime. I felt like I was in school again, it was not enjoyable.

Anyways, I think we've been given the option to stay with them for some time. It was hard to figure out. But in exchange for being kept sheltered and fed as a way south is sought after we help tend their livestock and do the chores. I can't say if any of them have anything planned that would be bad for us. But I feel like I can have faith in it. I can't quite tell, but I think Guo might be uncertain, or afraid. We will just need to wait and see.

In the time being, we rest and work, like the days traveling through China. And perhaps we can pick up some Kazakh. By no means do I hope to speak it, but that I can learn a few words to help us.

What is......

... a man?

Dark Matters (Open)

Starship Liberty

The shuttles

In the great windows of the rotating decks the crew of the ship could see the planet before them. A great – if small – ball of blue, with thin brush strokes of land speckled across great oceans and from the great blue sapphire seas trails of ancient mountains. Here and there the sea dropped lower, and from orbit around the unknown world it was known that in those darker waters the crust dropped deep into dark, strange trenches and abysses. Capping the world was ice, thick and brilliant in the purity of its white. Curious, enraptured, and awed by the foreign earth world those who were interested in going down to it listened to the radio as the survey crews voted to deploy to the world their drones. As the swarm of silver robots left the engineering deck and fell down to the planet the clock was ticking until they had the information they needed to confirm their visit to the world below.

The interstellar, warp cruise had come on its newest destination in orbit around a foreign star; but all was foreign and strange to the life on board the Starship Liberty.

Seated in one of the shuttles bound to head to the foreign world, Marcus sat strapped into his seat. The weightlessness of engineering as familiar as it had been. He felt the hair on his head rise and hold itself up right in the void of gravity. Next to him sat Sal, she held the restraints that held her in, her wild hair for once in a rare while held back by a cap. The shuttle was filling and finding their places the men, women, and aliens that had been collected by them waited for launch. All that was needed was a final piece of data by a drone. In so-far, the planet's profile turned up healthy for humans with an atmosphere rich with oxygen was an algeanated sea.

“Ah! Rā-Kålêm! I thought you had not made plans?” a man on the shuttle said, as a wirey avian looking alien came in, gingerly pushing off from the wall and navigating the most gentle of care through the middle of the shuttle. While he was covered shoulder to feet with what looked like feathers, and they fell from his exposed arms like the sleeve's on a monk's jacket his face was far from being like a bird, leathery and sagging, his cheeks and face dropping in exaggerated hanging jowls like the beard of a turkey.

“I had not made plans, that does not mean I would not be coming.” the creature said to his friend. There was a seat next to him, so he sat down.

“Well that is nice to hear. So, what are you expecting as we get down there?” his friend said.

“That too I do not intend to interest.” Rā-Kålêm stated succinctly.

“Well, what reason do you have to go down there, the planet?” his friend asked him. Despite the directness of the question it was not meant as insult. Marcus could see that much from the conversation as he watched it and listened in. He looked over and noticed that Sal likewise was paying attention.

“I thought you agreed that reason is the greatest thing to posses, so what is acting without reason?”

“Reason for doing utilitarian things, I was speaking of it as it applies to such acts as constructing a space ship, or performing inventory, or any of the creative or mechanical pursuits one takes. Less so for anything or everything someone can or could do. It is not that I have no reason to go down to this planet, nor that I had any plans. But that now being here, I have the inspiration and the want to go down. While I have no reason, I also have no reason to leave if I want to. To act in any event, is to act on a passion. Passion is the rationality of action, and thus the reason that an individual does the thing, or is with the other.”

“But there are things done with reason. You do not simply do whichever. I don't walk on ceilings because I will it.”

“No you don't, because that is limited by the universal rules. Though by perspective someone might say we walk the ceiling of Liberty, though it acts as a floor. What are you trying to get at?” Rā-Kålêm asked.

“I suppose what I am trying to say, is that to do a thing, to act on what you want to do – I suppose. That requires some thought, a plan.”

“It does, but in so far as to the next step.”

“But what if you are prevented?” asked the man.

“Then I might suppose that really, I can not go do the thing. That in the end it doesn't matter, and I can try something else. Where as I suppose had I made so much effort to go to the thing, or do the act, and had invested so much in it; I would find myself in some frustration had I found that after all I would not be able to go, or do.”

The shuttle had filled and there was a dull thud and the sound of the catch sealing. There was a moment of tension as the shuttle began to rumble. It hummed and rumbled, raising in intensity as a tiger ready to bounce. The walls of the shuttle had windows, small and narrow but Marcus could look between the the two conversing subjects to the window outside and watch as the shuttle bay's walls began to move. With a sudden jolt the craft was ejected, and the slow crawl of the pipes and plates rocketed from view and outside and beyond there was a small armada of space craft leaving the Liberty. Contrasted against it, in the warm glow of an alien sun the many small ships were dwarfed against the immensity and girth of the Starship Liberty.

“Suppose though I had set up strong plans ahead of time,” Rā-Kålêm continued, unperturbed by the launching of their shuttle, “I had decided that specific things would happen at specific times and there would be specific things about these times, places, and objects. That I would have made the most scientific, well engineered plan for a day, an event, or a goal.”

“This sounds like a good thing.” the man said.

“Is it really though, is what I'm proposing. Do you make plans to breath? For your heart to breath? How about when and how you will digest your meal?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You see, this is ultimately what it comes down to. That while the rational ability to do a thing is good, that doing things to improve the quality of life is too, that recognizing there are things outside of one's control and should be left to be carried out organically is the best of all options. Take for instance our voyage down below.” Rā-Kålêm finally acknowledging that they had left the Liberty. “There need not really ever be a plan to go there, and that just that we could. The option is there to take on passionate free will. There need not be any crunching of numbers or in depth statistical analysis. We have no accounts to keep on it. Had something as casual as this been done in the formality of an institutional will to bring something of it, then we would worry about what it is we should bring, how we are to control certain factors. The better organic way to live in situations such as these is to simply go do it, and build on top of it as it comes.”

“You speak of not needing to make calculations. This sounds to me as if no decision should be educated. If taken that way, it sounds to me that- that no matter where it is you're going or what you're doing. You should ignore any implication.”

“No, I don't think so. A few moments ago I talked about not walking on ceilings. Because the theoretical option to do something is present doesn't mean it is possible, or should be done. If it makes you happy, I guess I concede some rational thought and planning is needed. But this simply evolves as an outcome of spontaneous inspiration. A case where you say to yourself: there is a thing I can do, and I will need or not need this. So, you go and do it. Self preservation will require some knowledge or intuition on something you're to do ahead of time, so at the very least you can be basically prepared. Beyond this, I would contend that any additional planning is unnecessary, as it can trap you in a predefined cell.”

“Let me get this straight. What you're saying is that to have too strict a plan is bad, that doing things as they come to you, knowing what you need to know about it, is a good thing?” Marcus asked, interjecting himself into the conversation. Such a notion of life was familiar to him, “In the end, take what you will and do with it as you want?”

Rā-Kålêm bowed his hand and smiled the best way he could, “That is the... 'gist', as you will.”

“Suppose someone is writing a story. How much license do you believe they should take in setting up strict controls?” the other man asked, looking between Rā-Kålêm and Marcus searching for an answer.

“I suppose only as much as someone would consider needed to do the thing.” laughed Rā-Kålêm, “What is it you are thinking?”

“I'm only trying to broaden the scope, see how far it goes.”

“Well then, what does a story entail?” Rā-Kålêm inquired.

“Well, a character, a goal, or antagonist, a beginning, a middle, and an end.” the man said.

“But, does it really need either?” Rā-Kålêm asked, “could a story not be written with a character and a chain of circumstances?”

“Well, this is the way I know about it.” the man said, rather sheepishly.

“You might, but it doesn't mean it's the only structure. We might call all of life a story, it has its characters but none with clearly defined roles within your proposed simple structure. Life itself is not yet complete, and what is it humans have? Syndicated movies? Television novels? When broadcast in your systems, are they ever complete?”

“Sometimes they are.”

“Well regardless, are there those that are still called stories when there is no advertised or prepared end? Or the end is not yet broadcast?”

“I mean sure, yes. It happens.”

“Then I would call them stories without end, or yet without end. So we do not need to worry about end. And if we do not worry about end then we do not need to worry about direction. We can worry about direction, how it might concern our characters. Yet I have also heard of societies which will concern themselves with purely location, I am sure you humans have that too at times. Here the characters as individuals are merely something like passers by, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then a story might be written on the notion of a single location. The story of one planet, a star, or even a Starship. Its characters – its actors – are merely circumstances aboard it. So would this negate the need of characters, in the sense of individuals?”

“I suppose so.”

“And what of histories, anthologies of groups whether – I'm going to use your terms – anthropological or xenopological? Can a species be a character? A nation?”

“I suppose in some sense they may. Though there are some that act more or less collective or individual.”

“Yet they act in groups, by group nature, and thus serve as a collective character. Especially if they are enough to be written of, to write of themselves, or of others?”

“If we suppose that only society can write of society, or that the only focus on stories are those in society?”

“Yet it seems for what I've watched or read that is what the subject is. The character is little more than subject. Even non-social subjects take on the form of character in some way. A planet or a star becomes like a god, deified to have a defined identity behind bland molecular structure.”

“So then, how do we approach this as a plan?”

“Do we need a plan? Do we need tightly ascribed roles, attitudes, or conditions to approach specific things, subjects? Elements?”

“I suppose, perhaps. If writing a history, research must be done. Evidence found and interpreted. This would be like making a plan and a structure for the thing to be written. Much in the same when writing a fantasy. You decide on the subject, the world, and what is in it. Then you need to know where you go.”

“Yes, that sounds right. But what do you feel about spending too much time on that?”

“I take it that maybe the effort isn't well placed.”

“Yes, that sounds right. Might it burn up the inspiration for the story before it is written?”

“It may as well, I say.”

“Then you may as well write it, and not worry too much about the rest. Give yourself the bones, and interpret those.”

Is this...?

Hider

RIP Todd Howard thread

Choose a Theme Song for the User Above

Dark Matters (Open)

“Starship Liberty radio, coming to you live from Communications.” a smooth voice said in the man's ears, as he drifted in space. An immense expanse, shimmering with a multitude of pins of light. Just a few hundred yards away, a black shape loomed among the stars. Flickering guidance lights shone and slowly pulsed across its profile, giving warning to no ship in-particular. They were cruising just short of leaving interstellar space for the system of a singular star. Hanging in perpetual free fall, he was poised towards the anonymous star, one of billions, one of thousands close by. At the distance they were, beyond its reach its light was little stronger than that of its more distant counterparts, some alive, many possibly dead.

The Starship Liberty - its long silhouetted mass a blight against the stars behind it - was by comparison to others, a medium sized ship. Some generations dated, but not without work having been done on it. It featured a forward-facing observations dock, a glorified dome of thick reinforced glass in several layers. The engine bays at the rear with the airdocks and great thrusters capable of swallowing comets pulsed a dull blue. Sandwiched between these two points, spun the rest of the ship. A long barrel that gently moved around a central axis. The guiding lights here moved with it, and to add more light a multitude of windows pressed against mountains and valleys of infrastructure were its windows, shining a pure silver glow.

Before the drifting man, tethered by a long cable to the airdocks floated balls of ice. In their glimmer they caught and refracted the many sources of light. Pure iridescent crystals, broken only by a few bubbles of trapped air. But those imperfections did not mire the brilliance of the light captured, but enhanced it as through the many sources were bent and refracted in many different ways so the entire spectrum was represented. As the one before him drifted up between he and the starship it captured the difference between the dark shadows and the light of the windows and he could see the broken bands of blue on black, and red on white bands that formed between the margins of light and dark. With a unrelenting, and unrestricted smack the ball of ice was shot away through space, towards the distant nameless star, trailing behind it a tail of stars.

The bat, stout and made of aluminum was gripped firmly in his gloved hand, double secured with a wound leather strap that wrapped around his suited wrist and bound tight. There would be no way it would leave his hands the same way there would be no way he would leave the Starship. Neither would be surrendered to the immense gulf of oppressive emptiness, where time and space both slowed and grew distant. But these balls of ice would go there. Like all the primordial matter, it would return to the harsh vacuum and someday – perhaps in a million years – mix themselves with some planet, some asteroid, some moon, or cloud of turbid matter. As the last one become a mere mote in the darkness, and disappeared from view he produced another.

“I got lined up for you next hour of enjoyment another set of music. Nothing new has come up, though I have been told we are entering our new vacation's heliosphere. Marcus Xhu, I'd recommend you come back in.” the voice on the radio said, breaking the meditative state.

The radio DJ silently flipped off and seamlessly passed onto music. In his ears Marcus heard the singing, torch-bearing lyrics of “Time is a Relevant”. He dumped the rest of his ice and let it all free into the interstellar medium. There was a control panel on his wrist, built into his suit. A white slab of metal and plastic with large buttons, spaced accessibly for the thick gloves of the space suit. Humming along to the upbeat ¾ signature song he reeled himself in.

His boots connected first with the starship's airdock and with a magnetic clunk audible through his suit he connected. Without the luxury of gravity, there was little to ground him otherwise. Once in, the airlock door closed and the room was pressurized. Air rushed in first as a whisper, than a roar until he was told he could move ahead and remove his helmet. He did so, and breathed the subtle acrid smell of recycled air. Compared to what was in reserve for the suits, it was only slightly better. He discarded the space suit into its locker, where in its weightless environment it floated as a bright red ghost behind wire mesh. Freed from the magnetic boots, Marcus Xhu kicked off into the ship and floated effortlessly through.

“How was your trip?” asked a crewman as they passed each other, headed different ways.

“Fine.” Marcus called back, pulling himself over a corner marked by a bundle of cables.

All the cavernous halls were wound with numerous pipes, wires, and vents. The air smelled slightly of ozone and all about regions of the wall were covered in a delicate looking reflective foil. All truth be told, there was no floor or no ceiling, all was wall in the weightlessness of engineering. Somewhere distant, the low hum of engines rumbled through all the walls.

Connecting into the main central axis, he found himself in an immense tubular structure. Grandiose, it stretched on for over a kilometer. Its length supported and reinforced by a system of beams, and the entire space had enough room to be a large high way. And in it teams of men, women, and aliens skirted up and down the long shaft, or across it. Either as a shortcut into one part of the ship from another, or to move large containers the size of trucks, in the relative weightlessness of the heart of the ship's gravitational production it was relatively easy to move anything heavy.

Space regularly along it were large elevator shafts, large enough to be freight elevators. He joined in with a couple who were latching a small crate to a platform, and together they descended. The air was full of humming as the elevator moved. Holding onto the handrails Marcus felt the gravity return, he was slowly lowered the further they went until it became absolute and regular. His feet planted against the metal of the deck. The couple laughed awkwardly, it was a hard process to get used to.

The freight elevator stopped, and the door opened to the inner chambers of the starship. The other two moved to hoist their crate onto a dolly, and Marcus stepped out into the hall.

An impressive and spacious area greeted him. Several stories high, the vaulted ceiling of the Starship Liberty was a shifting panorama of a mural of space, of other worlds, or of the old Earth. He looked up to watch the spectacle of the invisible gasses of a nebula, as seen in the false imagining of scientific imaging turn and shift in patterns in the ceiling projection until it became a blue sky, complete with clouds. Birds, real, flittered along at the top of the ceiling and along with the commotion of life across all ranges and the radio music their bird song joined to create a complete orchestra for life.

Hanging against the walls higher up, a series of walkways formed long balconies and verandas that made a high-street, which was bridged across to the other-side. Potted plants, survivors from Earth and Human colonies and of alien fauna compatible with them grew and hung from plant pots. There was a fresh spring-time smell in the air, the flowers were blooming, nurtured along by the lights, which served as replacement to the light of the sun and other stars.

At ground floor, as with the upper balconies were computer terminals set into the wall. He approached one and idly searched the messages. There was a concert to be played in the next forty-minutes in the auditorium of Deck 10. The Painters League was to meet in the next thirty hours in the observation dock to render the alien worlds – if there were any – into paintings, any style they chose. An open debate was ongoing in the auditorium of Deck 12, which would be broadcast as well on Communications Channel 3, the topic: the present condition of the galactic political landscape.

He scratched the side of his face and thought for a moment. “What is Sal up to?” he thought to himself, and leaned in.

His fingers moved across the onscreen keyboard as he logged in. Submitting his request he waited, the screen went black and he looked at the reflection of himself.

Tall, skinny, not the most handsome man; he was the sort who thought of himself as average. Not one to be upset with himself, or over confident. His nose he felt was too big, a misshapen door knob. His eyes were narrow, a sort of tell tale of his ancestors somewhere hundreds of generations down the line. His black hair was unkempt, a result of the helmet more than anything. He wore it long and it wrapped around his ears. He compulsively combed his fingers through it to straighten out his hair as the system confirmed his personal log in. Everything he needed or wanted from a computer appeared on screen.

---

The sign on the door said “Dreamer 12-3”. Pulling open the door, he stepped into a dimly lit chamber. Arranged in rows down a short alley sat banks of pods. Amber lights in the floors illuminated the pods. As the door shut behind Marcus the sound of the rest of the ship died away, leaving behind an empty sound, like the soft rustling of static or the constant breath of a soft breeze. Every so often there would be a muffled bubbling to break the silence, before returning again to the sepulcher silence.

As he walked passed them he reached out his hands and gently touched each, feeling the pulsating lukewarmth radiating from within. Each pod was long and smooth, like a grain of rice. And printed at the tip of each was a number. 1. 2. 3. He stopped at eight and gently tapped his knuckles on it. He sat down to wait.

He lay his head back against the pod and was about to close his eyes to rest when a noise disturbed the silence and he leaned forward and looked. A few feet down a pod had opened and in the darkened light a figure sat up. Tall, lanky, and covered in wet dripping fur. With clawed hands he worked on some straps around a head piece covering his eyes and ears and detached it, on a cable it was slowly wound back into the pod. Groaning the alien rubbed his eyes and looked around, removing a pair of gloves on his hands and saw Marcus. “Hey, Marcus” he intoned dryly. Wiping water from the bottom of his chin with a rag.

“Daro.” Marcus said, “How's it going?”

“Ah, another bloody day.” said Daro, getting out of the pod. He was mostly naked except for a pair of tightly fit trunks. Haunched over he went about drying off his back, “What I don't do fer art though.” he added, half-complaining and half laughing.

“What is it? A new project?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah, wouldn't'cha believe some damn cunts around here want a simulation on Earth's final moments?” Daro said, turning to face Marcus again and smiling with a mouth full of uneven teeth. “Blimey, tell me that ain't masochism.”

“Maybe some people are just nostalgic?” Marcus asked. He felt his chest tighten. It had been centuries ago, so long it wasn't important. But he felt hurt that somewhere out there had been a home especially for them, where they had come from, and against the backdrop of the university it had simply ceased to be. He was aware the star it orbited was still there, the system tacitly existed. But Earth itself wasn't.

“That ain't no fuckin' nostalgia.” Daro sneered bitterly, perhaps sorrowfully. Marcus could empathize with him. “Ah well, all the same. It's got a bunch of us goin'. I was just testin' a new rendering algorith. It'll be a lot more data heavy than the others. Fuckin' humans, you're all a buncha dags though.”

Marcus smiled and laughed. “Anyways, what'cha in for?” asked Daro.

“Come to see what Sal's up to.” Marcus said, tapping the back of his head against the pod for emphasis.

“Ah yes, I seens the Sallers come in and take a bench. She was going in to some concert thinger, event. Woodstock or some shit. But see: that's the thing people aughta like. None'a these homeworlds dying shit.”

Marcus smiled, “Oh?”

“Yeah.” replied Daro, “See what we got here,” he began, raising a long finger to point at the numerous pods, “He over there is at performance of some Beethoven fellow. She there just to Athens golden age. He to the landing on your old moon! She the first landing on Mars. There is much better to experience again, but why the loss of something so great?”

“Maybe it'll be something like closure? To finally put an end to Earth's story.”

Daro dismissively waved his hand. “Whatever.”

Something moved behind Marcus' head and he turned and looked up. A hatch on the pod was opening, and he moved aside to get out of the way. With a hiss the door swung open. With a pop it sprung open all the way. “I'll have to fix that someday.” Daro said, whipping his hands on a towel as he turned and walked away. Sitting up from the pod, dressed in a bathing suit, was a woman. She detached the head set and crossed her arms over he knees.

“Who'd you see?” Marcus asked.

“Oh, a whole lot.” the woman said, with a smile, “Arlo Guthrie, Joan Baez, Jefferson Airplane, The Doors.”

“You ever heard of them before?” he asked.

She laughed and shook her head, “No, not really. But now I have.” she swung her legs out of the pod and asked, “How was your space walk? Hit a hole in one?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, “It was fine.” he answered. “You hungry?”

“I am, and I was wondering if you would ask.” she answered. She grabbed a towel from the ground nearby and wiped away the water, “Let me get something on and I'll follow you out. Lower station, the Starlit Cafe?”

“Sounds good to me.” Marcus said, would be about as good as any.

She gave him a smile and slid out of the pod, wrapping the towel around her. “I'll see you there.” she said.

---

The centerpiece of the cafe was a small tree, a lime tree. Its rich green fruits weighed heavy on the branches and every so often a woman dressed casually would reach up and pick one from the over hanging branches and take it to be juiced, sliced, or otherwise used for some dish. The Starlit Cafe featured a soft red coloring over all, with the edges of the counter or table trimmed in white chrome. Alongside the table Marcus had picked out an inclined window connected the floor with the wall and looked out at the expanse of space. The star lit backdrop panned slowly by as the airship's core made its rotations. The table was for two, and between them and the window was a railing, less for protection and more for convenience sake; it made something nice to lean on.

On the table were the basket for the condiments, mustard, ketchup, and a variety of spicy alien pastes. There were also an odd collection of real paper books scattered there, with a stack of paper-thin digital menus. Marcus was scanning through the list of things the Starlit Cafe offered as Sally took a seat across from him.

Sally Voutis, taller than Marcus. Her black hair was almost always a nest of lively curled hair. She never wore it back in a bun, or a pony tail, or any way but as-was. Marcus found her smile infectious, and when she smile at him he smiled back. “I just wanted a sandwich or something, what are you thinking?” she asked.

“I had my eyes on the lime shrimp. With rice.” Marcus said.

“Oh, that's good.” she said. She looked up at him. Her eyes were a dark green that shone bright in the warm lighting of the cafe. A contrast to Marcus' dull brown-gray eyes.

“You want tea?” asked Marcus.

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Then it's settled.” said Marcus, going through the menu and putting in the orders. He turned to look back outside. There were not-to-distant flashes of light just outside the thick plated windows. Smaller asteroids, comets, and the left over debris from a system's formation were sparking against the ship's shielding. This was the outer most rogue material. It wouldn't be more than a few moments until they passed through the heliopause.

“So, what are you thinking?” Sally asked, leaning on the table. She too looked out the window.

“Oh, nothing. Just waiting to see when we break through.” he responded.

“Really? Is that all? How long did you spend out on your space walk? An hour? Two hours? Couldn't see it coming?” she teased.

“And how long were you in that pod?” Marcus asked, “Wasn't that festival a few days long?”

“They're called Dreamers for a reason.” she laughed, “Besides, it's not like I can jump between moments.”

“Anyways, I was talking to Daro before you got up.” Marcus said, “Apparently he's trying to help out making something involving Earth's last moments.”

“Really? That's spooky.” Sal said.

“That's what I said to him, he's not fond of it at all but doing it because it's his art. Someone wants it done.”

“It wouldn't hardly surprise me. There's some nasty moments in the library. But, this I take it is what happens when there's an endeavor to catalog and accurately reconstruct history. Earth is gone, the memories are all we got left. Short of rebuilding Earth one-to-one, virtual reality is the best I suppose we get for its history, and everything else.”

“Isn't that all just escapist though?”

“Escapist? You bring it up every time we talk about this.” Marcus laughed, “But really though, is playing base ball with whatever you have on hand in open space any different from what I do?” she asked.

“I am though being a part of the universe.” Marcus said.

“Oh please.” Sal laughed, “How about not now?” she added rolling her eyes.

“OK then, so you thought about heading to Observation as we close in on the system?”

“I'm not interested.” Sal said, “I'll certainly go and look when or if we find a planet to land on. But I'm not partial on being in free fall and watching. I was interested in the debate, but is that too late?”

“I don't think so. Marcus said.”

“Then later, I guess.” said Sal. It was her turn to stare out at the passage of space.

After a long moment of silence, Marcus asked, “What are you thinking?”

“Oh you, shut up!” Sal laughed.

You're in a well-lit alleyway when suddenly you can hear footsteps of the avatar below you. What do you do?

Go on my way.

Dark Matters (Open)

Hider

Name:

Free Association

Brief Description:

“You can have your cake, and eat it too.”
- A Free Associate, probably.
The Free Association is a collection of loosely affiliated ships crews and stations scattered throughout the galaxy. Founded on the fundamental beliefs in direct democracy and rejecting private industrial ownership and what could be declared unjust hierarchy they are very much Anarchists united in an institutional understanding of the merits of and practice of mutual aid.

Claim:

“Fuck territory, there's two-hundred-fifty-billion stars in the galaxy.”
-A Free Associate, probably.
They ostensibly don't believe in territory or the ownership of territory. They don't expect any respect of their own territory, because they do not claim any. Neither will they expect themselves to respect others. That which only matters to them is the presence of communities, and an average planet with even the smallest colony implies to them a space to stop, rest, study, and have fun.

To their credit though the Free Association collectively owns a number of free-drifting space stations scattered around. These space stations, referred to as “Stockpiles” are primarily utilized by the associate crews and communities to form into collective assemblies as contingents of the broader organization, as well as to off load raw material and collectibles as well as to take on anything they might need, or any persons that would join.

Government:

“I don't even have to be governed, if I don't want to. I think.”
A Free Associate, probably.
The Association is ruled largely by voluntary direct democracy. Or given crew social dynamics, it may be less than voluntary. In any case, crews, contingents, the broad Associative Congress operate on the principle of direct democracy or democratic representation. The scope of which on the smallest level can vary, with ship's crews electing a captain with the authority as such, or electing a captain as a figure head or a joke, or not at all and instead filling in their roles as needed as decided as comfortable among the crew.

Given that the association abolished private means to owning industry, much of the stature between individuals is not determined by individual wealth, man – and alien – maintains wealth proportional to their ability to produce it by themselves for themselves and many necessities – food, water, maintaining the station or ship – is a collective effort by all, the rewards of which freely given access to for the work and assistance given. On this paradigm, any sort of leadership in whichever field is determined more by the individual's personal merit.

History:

“And firstly: fuck the Emperor.”
- A Free Associate, probably.
Formed after humanity went interstellar, the origins of the Free Association come down to a rejection of the centralization of authority, and the backwards relationship that mankind took with its own productive capabilities. Citing automation, the readiness of available information in the quantum leaps in digital communication, and the resource rich worlds mankind was settling, the original fore-bearers who would form the Free Association argued that if there was any time in which utopia might be achieved, it was damn close then. Starting first as effective pirates, actively dismissing and ignoring private or government claims to planets, moons, asteroids, claims on a planet, and so on they went about taking what they needed or wanted from regions of human space or planets where no one would be poorly effected. While it never disturbed the colonists nor did they seek to injure anyone, their presence as squatters riled the human elite and ruling class who began citing long lists of grievances and damages their own mining was causing on their claims. As a response, the government sanctioned the Free Association and sought to arrest them.

Instead of resisting, they left.

Possessing ships they claimed large enough to meet their needs – many early captains using their own interstellar freighters or seizing them – they voyaged further into deep space, avoiding conflict where needed and contacting alien species at the fore of human kind's expansion across space. While humans still considered them outlaws, the growing diversity and scope of the Free Association as they took on and invited into their family the disaffected and fleeing turned them into a complicated matter. As well as the Free Association' shifting nature and self-imaging, at times bearing no marks and at others marking themselves with the color black. As such, while they were considered terrorists many associates again managed to enter into, associate with, and interact with the growing empire of the humans. Their price being any achievement they may lay credit to was often ignored.

While humanity grew and then fell apart, the Free Associates loitered on the periphery exchanging blows when needed or throwing assistance when decided. The war with the religious radicals often brought many into their association and in more than a few cases they became the neutral third party to protect the refugees or ferry them far outside the conflict zone.

Since then, they have abided by their own philosophy. Namely that the galaxy – let alone the universe – is large. There's more than enough for anyone, and it's unethical to turn it into a monopoly.

Military:

“In space, no one knows you're armed.”
-A Free Associate, probably.
Barring any intent to do anything with it, by saturation of weapons the Association may be the most well armed. There is a weapon for nearly any individual associate and many of their craft have been outfitted with defensive weapons, including the Stockpiles. It is natural to expect, that as interstellar nomads, that not any place they will visit will be necessarily inviting, and even their old enemies, those claimants to man kind's empire may not view them peacefully. All the same, the common doctrine is to move out of the way than engage.

Religion/Culture:

“Who needs God when you got the quark.”
- A Free Associate, probably.
Being a collection of odds and ends across socio-economic class and race, a consistent culture has become tough to pin down. And with access to tools like real-time translation or even implants to wire these directly into the parts of the brain responsible to interpreting speech or text the boundaries between language have never been thinner for the Free Associates. While religious practice is respected as an individual thing, it is not imposed collectively and it's expected that prayers are made private. The general image then is that the Free Associates are radically agnostic if not at times seemingly atheist.

Demographics (Species):

“My best friend has the mouth of a toad.”
- A Free Associate, probably.
Anyone and everyone can come and go, but mostly come. It's a free association.

Characters:

This is the kind of bullshit I write about in IC.

Relations:

“Fuck the Emperor.”

Habitation:

Anywhere