Dinh AaronMk

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

@Jestocost

I will have to summon the slav-team to commentate, since I don't know how much they have planned going ahead. Otherwise, Russian history besides what's in the OP would be in the Russia sheets: Saint Petersburg, Moscow, Ukraine, Archangle (since I can't remember the Russian name, get the English name), Chechnya. As far as it boils down:

Since the death of the czar, Russia has broken down politically of course. The current-most head of the Romanov dynasty is sitting in Saint Petersburg, where-as a pretender exists in Moscow and the two are competing with one another. Ukraine also took the time to break away, and is lead by a female Hetman commanding a Cossack nation of sorts. Likewise, a Socialist Republic exists in the far-north. In the intervening years the Chinese took advantage of Russia's non-existence to scoop up and annex Mongolia and Japan invaded and took Primorsky Krai and some of the surrounding areas. In the most latest history, China is in the process of invading Russia but is only in the most earliest steps and not registering on anyone's radar; only the Japanese so far have the vaguest notion something is happening.

Otherwise I got a couple kids doing a road trip through Kazakhstan on a motor bike on their way to Ethiopia of all places and that's all of Chinese things there.

And the map is abhorrently out of date because I'm a cunt and mostly rely on Feo/Moscow Player.

Now I'm sure someone will probably come in and correct me or add onto this.

Diapergate: Reflections on the Movement Twenty Years Later

Many died for diapergate.

MAHZQUEST

>Create a forum and then abandon it to kick balls

How long...

Has Mahz been in Mexico?

Dark Matters (Open)

Unclaimed system

Unnamed Planet

In the space of several days an empty island had taken on a new form. Smoothed out and sculpted to something new. A simple super-structure had been put down, the bare necessities of landing and as easy to dismantle as it was to put down. Standing over the tallest slime-covered rocks at the equator of this alien world, the landing pad was one of many that spread out a decentralized colony of landing pads and associated developments. From the Starship Liberty - from the surface a distant and hazy smudge beyond the atmosphere that slipped from the sky and returned at the speed of the day – tents had been acquired and haphazardly set out. In their cool shade counter tops and tables had been set about and alcohol served in the balmy tropical air.

It was by no means a perfect setting. The first remarks of the adventurers as they rotated on and off and on and off again was that the planet had a smell, like a moldy bathroom and a stale closet, with a tinge of salt. The primitive and primordial status of life on this planet such that nothing was really turned over. No new smells, no new experience was spread in the atmosphere. No flowers or orchids to bathe the senses in their perfume. Nor was there any other life here to give to it a smell of musk. All of it was locked under water. Given another million, billion years the conditions on the planet may develop so that there would be complex surface bound life. But for the time being what was above the tidal line were odd purple and red blossoms of fungal and lichen growth on the sea battered rocks and dotted in the sands. Nothing of which was tested to be harmful to the alien life that plodded about its sandy islands, stretching their legs for another indeterminate voyage through the interstellar void.

“So where are we going next?” a man asked, leaning on the impromptu bar. A large television screen hung over the low shelf of booze and an array of cameras on top of the monitor streamed the present drinker's back to the main ship.

“The persistent war by the Ressurectionists is creating a refugee problem.” one of the figures on the screen said, a woman reclining to the side on a couch, “At least I think so. It might be worth going over that way to relieve the pressure a bit and get civilians and dissident groups out of the way before the fascists can do anything about it.”

“Is that really our problem though?” another asked, “Isn't there someone else who can deal with it?”

“Far as I know no one has.” the same woman said, “So the opportunity's there.”

“They're a lot closer to us than the Zuukind.” Marcus chimed in. He sipped some rum and scratched the side of his nose, “So supposing we owed anything to anyone they'd be the most accessible.”

“It's not entirely out of our scope. We moved people out of the way of their crusade centuries ago.” another figure in the stream said, “Don't see why we can't again.”

“Yes but that was centuries ago. Is it really such an issue now? Let the statists duke it out. If they can't see the future might as well let them kill one another. We'll be the only ones left, the only life after their annihilation.”

“We're not talking about moving planetary government out. Just the sort caught in the middle. Those with the most to lose, at the least.”

Marcus was drawn from the conversation when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a familiar dark face around him. “Oh hey Dan.” he said, smiling.

“Ey, Marcus. About to do one last ride about the planet. I think we're starting to pack up here. You game?”

“Yeah, I was getting bored here anyways.” he said, putting down his half drunk shot of rum. Excusing himself from the table he followed the tall broad-shouldered black man out over the perpetual beach.

Parked at the frothy verge of land and sea sat a collection of small vehicles, sharp and pointed, their sides bulged out like pregnant whales in the armor shell of white poly shells. The cabins, a black enclosed space, were almost like the head of a grub. They rested on the sand, white fins struck out and burrowed in the white gray ground, the waves lapping up against them, the bodies held up from the ground by them. They sat waiting, fish like in appearance ultimately, and deadly patient.

“We're good to go, chief!” a small man said, a young child hanging out alongside him placing tools into a tool box. There was a small gaggle of people there, human, alien, man, woman, young, old. Those ready to ride out scrambled aboard the waiting hover craft and threw open the hatches and threw themselves inside. Dan did so too, and Marcus took up his own.

Inside the cabin was cool, there was the soft whisper of the air conditioning as the air inside was gently circulated, making the inside colder by fifteen degrees than it was inside. The seat, conforming to Marcus held him gently; it was as if he were floating. All around him he could hear the whine of the engines fire up and reaching to the control panel he flipped his own switches. Responding instantly the lights went on and a holographic display was projected onto the tinted windshield. Readings of power levels, engine performance, and cabin conditions were emblazoned in bright neon blue letters across the dim, dark window. As the engines warmed up, Marcus reached for a holographic dial and with the tips of his fingers turned it. The tinting of the cabin glass lessened, and the alien planet's colors were gently restored.

One by one the white flying fish lifted off from the barren beach and took off in a formation of one leading the other. Dan's lifted off, and Marcus was swift to follow pushing down on the throttle and releasing the pent up energy deep inside the craft's engines. He pulled up, and lifted off right behind Dan and headed into the sky.

They left the ground and went up to twenty meters above it. Moving swift the landmass they were encamped quickly shrunk in the rear-facing stream. The speedometer crept up. 90Kmh, 120kmh, 200kmh, 400,kmh. In the space of a minute they were beginning to geometrically increase their speed, a gentle maneuvering of the vehicles if anything. They went as high as 340m/s before safety mechanisms cut in and stopped the acceleration before they could break the sound barrier. By this point the effects of speed were at hand in the controls and as it sped along Marcus could feel the control stick wobble in his hands. His grip tightened. By this point the encampment was well beyond the horizon and the only indication it was there was a GPS signal to help navigate them back, projected through a compass in the lower-right hand corner.

Far out of sight, the group peeled apart with fliers going which ever way and essentially playing with one another. Racing low close to the waves or engaging in mock dog fights as they soared up and came down low, kissing the crowns of peaking waves.

Marcus chose to stay the course, and soon he was alone. Not truly. The speakers were alive with the chatter of the rest of the group. But it was sparse. As lively as it was, it hardly meshed together. Picking up altitude he climbed higher into the sky and looked out at the alien world below him. Expanses of water marked with interwoven tips of underwater mountain ranges beginning to break the surface. Somewhere far off there was a cloud of great black smoke, a volcano in the midst of a pyroclastic eruption. Below him, sandbars as thin as human hair drew long sweeping lines in the water down below. Here he could see the depth of the water, as its color. Vast regions were light and a misty blue. Others further off were dark and almost black. Here was the bare inundation of an entire world, almost as an atmosphere. Below it would be vast deserts, canyons, forests even of some alien kelp or seaweed. But they played above it, it barely a tenth of the entire planet. Perhaps barely a percent of it, there was so much more below the surface.

Someone spoke up, it was far different than the other chatter Marcus could overlook. “Hey guys, anyone else getting a new navigation signal?” he asked.

Puzzled, Marcus checked the map. Sure enough, a second directional arrow had been added. The former pointed back towards the island behind him. The other, somewhere towards the top and pointing to the right pointed to something else.

“I see it.” Marcus said, as the others reported in the negative. “What is it?”

“I don't know...” said the other pilot, “I don't know at all.”

If...

A fucking spook.

@Keyguyperson

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.”