A Linux login waited with patient cursor flashes for his authentication. Janus obliged and fired up the communications module and found the waiting call. He slipped on a headset that had been specially accommodated to the way his skull was misshapen around his missing ears and patched the call through. Really, Janus could have taken the call from anywhere on the station, but he loathed using the implants speakers and mikes too much.

"Flynn, this is Janus." Janus said.

A baritone voice boomed through the line. "Have those files finished uploading yet?" Flynn was a mammoth man who would not have looked out of place on a viking longship a thousand years ago, spinning an axe around his hands and wearing nothing but self-killed and skinned furs and hides. He also was not a man who wasted words.

"The last one is finishing up now." Janus said. "Looks like a set of five of tarred archives, that right?"

Flynn grunted. "Un-tar the first one, and take a look, there are a couple spreadsheets for readability, but all the source data is in there in case you want to look at it too."

"There's an mpeg video too." Janus said. "What's that all about?"

"Open the first spreadsheet in there first." Flynn said. "It's the one called fsdd_9310001."

"It's open." Janus said. "What am I looking at?"

"Radio telescope data on Epsilon Eridani." Flynn said. "Arecibo took a look at it after some amateur data got bounced around the pipeline enough to throw some interest towards it."

"Why?" Janus asked. Over the decades, Epsilon Eridani had been one of the most studied stars in the sky. It was close and bright enough to be easily seen by the naked eye, and similar enough to the sun that it had been a prime target of planet hunters and SETI for as long as the technology had been there.

"Arecibo picked up a bunch of radio data that was not there before." Flynn said and paused for a moment to take a deep breath. "It's patterned, Janus. No doubt about it. No need to run the data sets through any transforms to pull out the patterns, it's clear to the naked eye."

Janus squinted and started to run down the numbers. Huge spikes in activity abounded in the 6.8, 10.7 and 24 gigahertz frequency ranges. "That's microwave." Janus said. "Why would microwave radiation spikes be coming out of Epsilon Eridani? Any history of anything like this?"

I decided to post something a bit different this week for Burning Violin. As you may have noticed due to the addition to the right side of the page, my first novel is in print and for sale on Amazon (amongst several other online retailers). Here's what I said about it a few months back when I announced that it was available on the Kindle electronically:

It's a very dark and very funny cross between The Gulag Archipelago and Heinlein's Tunnel in the Sky. It's not a terrifically long book, but I think that it's a good read, and being the author, who would know better than I? Besides, my mom said it was a beautiful story, and she's utterly objective. When I finished the first draft of my first attempt at a novel and let my mom read it, her response was "well it's okay, but it just doesn't seem like a real book." After years of drinking and darkness, and several more manuscripts, this one gets her seal of approval.

So, I've included the first few pages of the novel below, to give a bit of the flavor of the novel. Enjoy, and remember that if you buy two copies, you can read the novel in stereo, and with six copies you can read in surround-vision.


Chapter One: The Real World

A peaceful society cannot contain violent elements. Such anti-socials consume the very fabric of society and must be excised with the same precision as the scalpel that cuts out a tumor.
-Hegemonicon, Vol. XXI

They say that the winners write the history books and that's why the good guys always win if you read the party line. But think about that for a moment. Every winner throughout history has had one thing in common. Not ideology. Not philosophy. Not morality. Not righteousness. The winner of every war was the side that was the better killer. Imagine the sociopathy of a society that could manage to conquer the world.
-Underground Diaries, a Collection

1.

Europe went to war, as it is apt to do a few times each century. East fought west since north and south had less of a quarrel. Fifty million men faced off across the imaginary lines arcing from Mediterranean to Baltic, tracing bloody boundaries over rivers and hills, highways and cities. A few men on each side were zealots, a few pacifists, but most just wanted to stay alive until the end. Politics made no impression on the ancient steppe as it swallowed another generation whole, the latest meal for the rich black soil.

The fighting spread through the mountains and streets until it raged or simmered or bubbled up the whole world over. In time, of course, there was a winner, stumbling alone across the finish line, arms too tired even to raise in triumph. No grand last battle, no determined final stand, just the survivors gradually acknowledging that it was over.

They trickled back to their lives, to the real world, and found the loved ones that remained, or at the very least found their way back to familiar environs: the Irish pub down the street, the little league field on fourth and Stevenson, the book store behind the 7/11. Most of these veterans disappeared in the first wave, picked up at night in their homes, the furtive knock on the door the commonality in Berlin, Chicago, Sao Paulo, Melbourne.

A Great Society arose from the ashes, promising an end to war, and end to need. It destroyed many of the old structures that had caused such division. It had the terrible vision and calculation necessary to break down the old in order to build the new. Can't make an omelet without killing a few people. War was impossible now. One leadership maintained order around the globe, the slightest disorder treated as a challenge to law itself.

The people slept now under watchful eyes, as if society's parents had returned after some millennia. Our long global nightmare was finally over.

2.

The dog was going to die and knew it. He had that distant and sad look in his eyes that let everyone know that the fighting part was done, now was the part for finding a cave away from the eyes of the pack and laying his head down on his paws for one last long sleep. Doug knew it, and although he was the sort of veterinarian to be a little too sunny sometimes with his prognosis - optimism not delusion, he insisted to himself - he had made it more than clear to the owner.

The owner was the problem.

"Petey's going to be fine, you'll see doc, you'll see." The owner was saying, not for the first time.

Doug shook his head and tried to pull Mr. Anderson's hands away from Petey's fur where they dug painful furrows that Petey was too kind to protest. "Mr. Anderson, we've been through this. Petey's organs are shutting down. There's nothing we can do to fix this. He is old, he's had a good life, but there's not any more we can do."

Mr. Anderson shook his head some more and Doug sighed silently. Doug left the exam room through the sliding wooden door and disappeared into the small maze of equipment and stacked boxes to emerge through the back door of reception.

"Is Petey the last one we've got today?" Doug asked the receptionist.

Roberta was the kind of thin twenty-year old who would be a hundred pounds overweight once her teenage metabolism finally ground to a halt. She gulped at her ubiquitous Diet Coke and continued playing minesweeper. Doug grimaced as she lost the game, lifting his hand to stop her a moment too late. She immediately opened a new game and clicked randomly until she lost again. Doug wondered, not for the first time, if she even knew that the game had rules other than luck. An economy sized bag of Cheetos disgorged half its puffs across the desk and onto Petey's paperwork. One pink ear-bud headphone dangled over Roberta's shoulder, blaring some remixed club electronica in tinny tones.

Doug began to ask again, thinking she hadn't heard, but Roberta nodded impatiently and yanked out Petey's stack of paperwork from underneath the Cheetos, handing it to him without noticing either the crusty fingerprints she left or the glare that Doug leveled at her back.

"Next mutt's tomorrow at ten, Dr. B," Roberta called out as if he were in the next zip code. "Robbie, I think." She crammed half a dozen puffs past her teeth and bit down with a rumbling crunch while she started minesweeper and lost again.

"Bobbie," Doug corrected, but Roberta only shrugged.

Mr. Anderson entered reception with Petey in tow, who walked with an awkward gait that alternated between standing and bolting forward two or three steps while his legs held out. Deterioration of the brain stem due to complications from an old injury had given Petey the shakes and the steroids didn't do much to help. Petey looked up at Doug, grinning through his panting - it was chronic at this point - and waited for the treat Doug had been tossing to him on his way out for the last six years. Doug obliged and winced as Petey's legs collapsed under him as he lunged forward for the treat, his jaw bouncing hard off the tile and the treat skittering away to safety under a cabinet. Roberta finished another game of minesweeper and then handed Mr. Anderson a sheet of paper.

"That will be two hundred fifty-seven dollars, will you be paying with cash or credit?" Roberta asked in a squirt of words that left her mouth almost as one syllable.

Mr. Anderson stared at her for a moment, and then seemed to find some iron in his spine. "Two hundred fifty bucks? You didn't do anything. You just told me my dog is going to die. What the hell did you do for two hundred and fifty bucks?"

"Sir," Roberta started, but Doug brought a quick hand down on her shoulder.

"Mr. Anderson, it's the listed expense. It's not something I can do anything about, as you know." Doug said and frowned. "If it was up to me, there'd be no charge, but you know I can't do that."

"Should report you," Mr. Anderson ranted. "That's what I should do. Let them know that you're racketeering in here. Turning a profit on the people's backs, that's what you're doing. Be in the next black van, you would."

Doug held up his hands, not quite panicking but feeling it rumbling up anyway. "Mr. Anderson. I swear to you, I have never charged you anything but the legal requirements. I'm a good Hegemonist just like you. A party man for ten years next week." He said the last with pride and a smile. "Why don't you just swipe your card and take Petey home. Give him some hamburger if he'll eat. Take care of your dog."

Mr. Anderson nodded, paused, asked "are you sure you can't do anything?" one more time and then sighed and waved his right index finger over the scanner mounted on the desk. It beeped, churned away for a long minute like an old man trying to remember whether he had grandkids or not and finally beeped twice to confirm the transaction had gone through. He pulled Petey through the door and disappeared into the grey afternoon. Doug sighed.

"Roberta, can you make the arrangements so that Petey can be disposed of if Mr. Anderson calls back and needs the service?" Doug asked.

"Sure thing, Dr. B," Rebecca said and made no move to minimize minesweeper.

Doug sighed again and went out into the little lobby across from Roberta's desk. He examined the bulletin board, just looking for something to distract his eyes. Rattlesnake vaccines, puppy training classes at the park down the street, order forms for indestructible rubber toys and anti-coprophagia tablets (now in wintermint!) lined the wall, just the normal vet clinic bulletin board kit. A photograph of the First Citizen printed en masse on high gloss and distributed with all such kits stared down at Doug, beaming and proud and defiant, with that wrinkling around his eyes that a legion of designers had probably decided implied a fatherly affection. First among equals! Doug pushed a spare pushpin through Joseph Steel's right eye and felt a little thrill of misbehavior. He cleared his throat, pulled the pin out and stuck it back in the wall. He caught Roberta looking at him.

"Damned kids," Doug muttered. "Don't have anything better to do than vandalize public property."

"Hey Dr. B," Roberta said in her nice voice. It was different from her indifferent normal voice because it meant she wanted something. "Have you thought about hiring on my friend Susie part time like we talked about?"

"I don't have the money," Doug said. "I told you that."

Roberta shrugged. "Well, I enter all the billing, and we're doing really good lately, all this income, and," she added the dramatic sigh, "all this work to do, I think we need the help."

"Roberta, we're barely scraping by, you know that," Doug said. "I'm lucky I haven't had to cut back your hours." He regretted it as soon as he said it, and Roberta's face hardened.

"Well, I wouldn't want you to have to cut back your hours, of course." She snapped. "I have rights, you know."

"Yes, yes, I know, Roberta, believe me I know." Doug excused himself to his office in the back and collapsed into a chair to sigh. He could not find a glass, so he filled a beaker to the brim from a bottle of delightful merlot that was flown in from France each week. Doug had six stashed beneath his desk.

He toasted the black and white candid photo of a dog running on the beach, "Rough day here Sam, how's heaven treating you?" Doug asked his long dead dog and drained the two hundred milliliter beaker. "Because this world bites."

Doug frowned in honest wonder. "Now why would I say that?"

Janus paused a beat, still didn't understand what Charlie was talking about and then strode back the way he had come to his quarters. He entered his Spartan quarters on the leeward side of the station, where a large window showed him a view of Earth's crescent in the distance. North America was clearly visible on the right side of the panorama, the line of darkness neatly bisecting the Pacific just east of Hawaii. Only a few of the permanent crew ranked private quarters, most everyone else sharing with someone on the opposite side of the sleep schedule so that their time in the room was private if not the room itself.

A bed that more closely resembled a sleeping bag hung on the wall opposite the window, and to its right bolts held a stainless steel desk stationary against another wall. Cubby holes lined the walls in place of shelves, which were just about useless in zero-g unless used in conjunction with velcro or tape. Glass doors covered the holes, so that anything within could only manage to float within the constraints of the hole itself. Janus had very few personal items and mementos, but what he had were locked away in the cubbies. His eyes caught the oversized hole between desk and bed where he stored the two-dozen or so leather bound journals that he wrote in on a regular basis. It was the only truly right-brained exercise that appealed to Janus, and he passed into that mediation at least a few times each week, losing himself in the thoughts as they committed themselves to the pages. Every event of significance to him was recorded in those volumes, a private testament of his life. Janus reached for the pouch around his waist - pockets tended to be as bad for escaping floaters as everything else in orbit - and felt the familiar weight of the special zero-g pen he kept with him at all times. The implement of his mediation was a reassurance even under the worst stresses of the station.

Computer systems and monitors were built into the walls so that the only potentially free-floating items in the quarters would be personal effects, furniture, and the occasional odd tool. Most of the wall above the desk was an in-wall LCD that at the moment displayed only the gray shade of standby mode. Janus pulled himself down into the leather executive chair that would not have looked out of place in any office on earth except for the fact that the wheels had been coated with the same micro-suction cups that lined his feet so that the chair would stay on the floor even if rolled around. His hands reached absently down and cinched the seatbelt around his waist, to keep him from floating off the chair or even gradually pushing himself up and out of it by the pressure of his elbows on the desk. A keyboard velcroed to the top of the desk along with a trackball - computer mice were too much bother in zero-g - provided access to the systems buried in the walls and networked to entire earth-moon system. Narrow-beamed satellites around the moon and earth connected all of the lunar and orbital installations to the earth-side internet and each other, although there was a two to three second delay on either end of a connection simply due to the fact that the best broadband could not actually exceed the speed of light. Janus smiled and touched the trackball to wake up the computer. Sneaking past that speed limit is why we're up here anyway.

"Well, they're just slick looking buckets of bolts." Charlie said, catching himself on the side of the station and managing only to end up upside-down relative to Janus. "No worries anymore. After the Uprising we programmed them to love us all, so there's no danger anymore, right?" It was a gross oversimplification, Charlie knew as well as Janus did, but Janus did not point that out.

"Love and hate are faces on the same coin." Janus said in a voice only a hair above a whisper. "But a being that can feel one can feel both. I think sometimes that beings who can feel the extremes of one are even more likely to feel the extreme of the other. I saw things you cannot imagine in the Uprising Charlie." He shuddered. "You say that they are now only capable of love, while I can tell you first hand that they are capable of hate."

"You know Doc, you're really depressing sometimes." Charlie said. He waved a hand out at the huge spacecraft hanging outside the station's windows. "Remember, that would not be possible without them. We would be ears from completion still if not for the excellence of the tools, which we have deployed." He put all the sentence's emphasis on 'tools'.

A chime sounded then in Janus' ear, a buzzing on the microscopic speaker embedded deep in what remained of both ear canals. Charlie cocked his head at Janus. "Somebody buzz you?"

Janus nodded. "Just a minute." He sub-vocalized an affirmative and his ears connected with the caller. Only the station could contact him that way, and it was reserved for emergencies, being as it was a rather unpleasant sensation no matter how often it happened. The flat voice of the station's Director of Operations, Natalia Cadence filled his ears.

"Doctor Janus." Cadence said. "Sorry for the intrusion, but you were not responding on the usual intercoms."

"That's because I wasn't there." Janus said, with a touch of irritation he did not bother to hide.

"If you'd just carry your badge, we could always reach you." Cadence said, firing the first familiar salvo of the old argument.

Janus did not feel like rehashing it again. "What is it Cadence?"

Cadence cleared her throat, taken a bit aback by his abruptness. "Farside is uploading a set of files for your eyes only to our servers. Flynn's on the line for you about whatever it is."

"Can this wait until after I finish up with Weiss?" Janus asked. He liked to finish one thing at a time before moving on, knowing it gave him the reputation for being something of an old fogie with others on the station, but not caring much one way or the other.

"Didn't sound like it."

"Right." Janus said. "Forward it to the console in my quarters, I'll be there in a minute."

Janus shut off the connection and found Charlie waiting for him with a patience normally well-hidden by his cultivated front of ADD. "Cadence got a bug up her ass again?"

"There's a priority call I need to take." Janus said. "I'll find you afterwards to finish the summary."

"Right-o boss." Charlie said. "Have fun, but watch those 900 numbers. They bill them back to your salary and the roaming charges are a bitch when you call from orbit."

"Kozlowski's division has twice the failure rate of anyone else, that's a personnel problem, not a technical one." Janus growled. "I'm not a superstitious man, but the intangibles add up in these situations. For immeasurable reasons, some people keep machines up and some people don't. We don't have the luxury of supporting the other side of the bell curve on this project."

"It'll cost twenty years of his salary to bring up a replacement." Charlie said.

"Yes, but we have there are no constraints on our monetary expenditures only on the resources we physically have on hand. If we can spend a billion dollars to maximize those resources it makes no difference to me. We have a deadline we have to hit." Janus said.

"And why's it so pressing that we hit it?" Charlie asked. There was iron underneath the flippancy, which was why Janus tolerated him, perhaps even liked him on some guttural level. Charlie played the fool, but it was as much an illusion as artificial skin would be stretched across Janus' metal frame. Every outward sign of Charlie pointed towards buffoonery, yet when the situation called for it, he was as insightful and intelligent as any man Janus had ever met. And as cold. Janus thought. Despite the jovial exterior, Janus thought Charlie the more mechanical of them, a ruthless machine at the core, driven to ends regardless of means. He played the jester because it was logical. The façade gave him slack that would disappear if people saw the real him and pulled away.

"If we do not have a goal, we're not really alive." Janus said.

Charlie laughed. "Feeling philosophical this morning are we?"

As they passed one of the broad windows that lined the station, Janus spotted a sight which was still unnerving even after all this time of adjustment in orbit. A human figure pulled itself along outside of the window on a strut that jutted out from this side of the station. It acted oblivious to the hard radiation and cold vacuum surrounding it. It was a senti of course, people could not be outside without spacesuits, not if they wanted to survive anyway. Janus felt an involuntary frown growing on his face at the presence of the senti. They stayed out of sight for the most part, bunked up in quarters inaccessible from the interior of the station, but they outnumbered the humans a hundred to one up here. Pack them in like sardines and bring the things up a hundred at a time instead of a half dozen like us. Don't need food, don't need air. Don't need much of anything.

Charlie caught Janus' cold stare and smacked him on the shoulder, shaking his hand in painful response as it bounced off of steel instead of flesh. "Cool out Doc." Charle said, rubbing his hand and wincing. "They're a tool, nothing more. They might look like people, and I know it's weird and all, and god knows you have your own deep-seeded issues, but you've got to just see them as tools."

"Tools do not think, Charlie." Janus said in a voice so hard that Charlie took a step back, incidentally sending himself into a slow spin. "Tools do not hate."

Janus lurched down the corridor with a semblance of a limp that was an affectation rather than a genuine ailment. He liked the semi-mechanical feeling that jerking walk lent to his gait. The irony of the feeling did not evade Janus, his body was almost entirely cybernetic at this point, metals and plastics enveloping what little flesh remained. Vat-grown semi-organic eyes stared out from titanium sockets housed in a burnished steel skull piece. Overalls covered most of his body, which allowed him to work easier with people. Nothing remained to be modest of in social circles, but the sight of the twisted artifice of his body had been known to make stomachs turn. Janus could have opted for the illusion of humanity to be layered over his body, the technology was certainly there, but he preferred the stark truth to be out in the open. Only two things remained wholly untouched by the fires, which had torched the rest of his body at the end of the sentient revolt four years ago. His brain had survived almost intact even as his skull fractured and melted. Trauma had wreaked havoc on his memories, but his faculties and skills remained intact. Delicate, almost feminine hands were the other remnant of his past. Welding gloves, they had told him afterwards. For whatever reason, he had been wearing welding gloves when it all went down, leaving his hands almost untouched as the fires swept the rest of his body. Janus held one up and examined it, with admiration for the exquisite details of pores and veins that had never been truly faked by the developers of artificial skins.

"Nice hands, Jeeves." Charlie said, trailing behind him. "Who's your manicurist? Mine's worth shit."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah, Jeeves?"

"You talk entirely too much." Janus said and continued walking.

"Shucks, doc, you're going to make me blush." Charlie said. "Ready for the run down?"

Janus twirled two fingers in the air, indicating Charlie should get on with it.

"Check your panties, Jeeves, they're in a bunch." Charlie said and launched into the daily summary. Most of this, Janus could read much faster in the reports posted onto the intranet, but the human element missing there reduced comprehension and effectiveness. The back and forth of human interplay crystallized the concepts and drove solutions faster than individual work. It was a sort of definition of sentience itself, Janus reflected. Take two computers and make them work together and the result was twice as fast as them taken individually, take two conscious minds though and the result was much more than that. Sentient minds - Janus did not limit this to human minds despite his almost sociopathic prejudices on the subject - networked exponentially not linearly.

"Work on the secondary drive is two weeks behind schedule at this point." Charlie was saying. "The foreman insists everything is going as planned, but failures on the robots is making progress difficult. He's requesting more bots to get it ramped back up to schedule."

"Tell him that there aren't any more bots." Janus said. "Tell him he got the last reserves last week, and if he doesn't get it up to speed with his existing resources, he'll be replaced by someone who can."

"Little harsh, eh boss?" Charlie asked.

"Violence can only be concealed by a lie, and the lie can only be maintained by violence. Any man who has once proclaimed violence as his method is inevitably forced to take the lie as his principle." -Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

My step daughter asked once what stopped people from hurting other people. The law, the police, the easy responses spurt out, but one who doesn't know better can see the flaw in the answer. They only do something, anything, after the violence is done. They are hovering swords, not protecting walls. Morality? If someone wants to hurt you, he's already reconciled his violence with whatever morality he holds. So what keeps them from doing violence? Nothing. Nothing but the threat of violence.

It's a cold realization when it firsts comes to us. We get used to it over the years, get used to the terrible and constant vulnerability of life without parents. We get used to it because rough men stand in the night ready to do violence on our behalf.

That idea of violence is uncomfortable with our civilized sensibilities of the modern world. We reject violence as a tool of state or individuals, we reject it as a determinant of morality. Might does not make right. And yet our armies are scattered across the globe. But you see we need those soldiers, because although we are righteous, the others are not.

The great lie at the heart of all states is that other people are not the same as us. It is the excuse for violence, the rationalization that makes it possible to wield a weapon in the first place: it's okay to kill them, they would do the same to us, they're different than us. It's the foundation of every atrocity small or large throughout history. The lie that the others are different. And once that lie is used to justify violence, it can't be relinquished. The ends become the means, and violence must be called down not just for the reason of the lie, but in defense of the lie.

"Anyone who clings to the historically untrue -- and thoroughly immoral -- doctrine that 'violence never solves anything' I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and of the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms." -Robert Heinlein

Chimpanzees form hunting bands that patrol their territory, viciously bludgeon to death trespassing chimps from other tribes. Wolf packs seize and defend swathes of land from each other, territory waxing and waning with the fortune of the pack. But the fighting is never pitched, always a sure thing. The attackers strike with either overwhelming force or not at all. The defenders retreat quickly if outmatched. It's violence, but it's not war, not as we understand it.

Besides humans, only ants fight wars. A million drones ripping each other apart limb for limb for naught but a few square feet of territory. I saw this once, a dead stump in the backyard that had long housed legions of little black ants that I'd watch as a child for hours on end. One day, a swarm of red ants invaded, hordes more ants than I'd ever seen. Giant black soldiers came out to defend, hulking tanks amongst the normal drones in their thousands. Tides flowed back and forth in red and black, the detritus of heads and limbs torn asunder by the wake of the waves of attacking bodies. Why would they go through such hell? Why would they die for it, for a few square feet?

It is because they do not sacrifice anything. They are all genetic neuters. Nothing dies with them. By defending their queen, they defend their own genes. Their deaths mean as little to their legacy as our discarded nail clippings mean to ours.

Other animals do not fight to the death because they carry their own genetic legacy. They cannot die for anything but their own children. Mating behavior is all ritual so that the ability to fight can be demonstrated without risk. When a scratch can kill from infection, unnecessary violence must be ritualized. Nature is full of infinite displays of faux violence, always stopping short of true harm.

But humans are unique. We fight wars, dying like ants by the millions, our genetic legacy withering in the pools of blood. By defending our nation, our religion, our way of life, we defend our ideologies, our memes. Our deaths mean little so long as our ideas live on. Memes make humanity ants instead of mammals, our individual attributes do not matter, we are irrelevant to the tribe.

So war is the human condition, the thing that separates us from animals. Violence, suffering, agony inflicted en masse. But it is also the antithesis of what we think civilization is founded on, it is the necessary evil that allows the greater good.

"The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." -Martin Luther King

Violence is always the worst that can be done. You can't do more, and in a way you can't do less. That is why war will never go away, because it is always the ultimate resort, the final line. There can't be another line, and you can't remove its capacity to be crossed except by changing fundamentally the way we think as human beings. The greatest capacity for human good, the willingness to die for a cause is the opposite side of the coin from the willingness to do violence. If people weren't willing to die for a cause, killing to prevent the cause would not be such a rational resort.

The horror of war cannot be contextualized. Violence doesn't become any less horrifying when it's done for a good cause. A knife slipped inch by agonizing inch into a man's heart is not less terrible to behold because it is for democracy on a battlefield instead of in the torture den of a serial killer. Horror knows no context.

The great crime of violence is not what it does to the victim though, it is what it does to the killer. A child soldier is forced into combat, loaded up with guns, drugs and alcohol, in more danger from his own side than from the nominal enemy. At what point is he culpable? When he burns, rapes and opens throats with a smile and a joke, is he guilty when he is eight? Twelve? Sixteen? Eighteen? We can't draw such an arbitrary line, because guilt cannot be contextualized either. He is both an innocent and a murderer. He doesn't cross from one to another at some point. All murderers are also innocents and all innocents are also murderers. We contain within us the seeds for both ultimate evil and ultimate good, but exist as both at the same time. We are evil and unredeemable even as we are good and innocent. It's the duality of man: love and hate, heroes and monsters, good and evil.

Morality isn't a scale, our goods don't balance our evils and produce some net of our quality of being. We are simultaneously everything evil and everything good that we have ever done. And here is the real rub: the same is true even if we were forced, even if we were compelled to either good or evil against our will. Our actions are who we are. A man who slits another man's throat is a killer whether he did so gleefully or with a gun to his head. This is not judgmental, an attempt to equate the moral culpability of the two, to establish stark black and white morality. Rather, this is an attempt to understand that rationality and morality must be considered separately for either to be understood. Murder committed under duress may be the only rational choice, but that does not make it the only moral choice.

Following orders has been rejected as a defense for atrocity. We declare that the soldiers should have refused their orders, even if it meant their own lives. We insist that individuals have responsibility to a higher law than their own survival. Morality divorced from immediate rationality. That's the teaching of every religion since Christ, and the first thing rationalized away by human institutions. The godhead tells us not to kill, and our leaders, secular or not, add the endless litany of exceptions that all derive from that fundamental lie that others are different.

History has a very dark sense of humor. Gandhi preached nonviolence while the panzers swept Europe clean and the ashes of the Jews floated into the clouds. He said that the Jews should have offered themselves willingly. That they should have bared their own throats. That the horror would have caused the Germans to revolt, would have ended the war. He was an optimist. He believed that however evil the world, men within it could be redeemed. Gandhi's philosophy only works if men are fundamentally good. If they are fundamentally corruptible though, it leads to the destruction of everything we have built. He failed to see that the Jews by and large did not resist, lambs to the slaughter, and yet the ovens still burned. The Germans did not revolt, did not refuse the orders. Only Allied guns by the millions stopped the horror. Rejecting the lie of the other is a suicide pact unless the other side can be convinced as well.

So are we helpless then, doomed to either endless violence or bowing to evil?

We don't behave like mammals, we behave like ants. It's the dark side of sentience. Our species replaced the preeminence of genes with the ascendancy of memes and exploded out of the savannah like a virus. A billion years of evolution surpassed by ten thousand years of sentience, our towers and art and beauty charged by the same force that arrays us by the millions to savage our brothers. The very thing that makes us great is the thing that makes us horrible. Life does not exist without violence, sentience does not exist without war.

That damnation is also what gives us hope, because we've made a jump before, we've changed everything that made us what we were, became something more, something both better and worse.

"At no time has the world been without war. Not in seven or ten or twenty thousand years. Neither the wisest of leaders, nor the noblest of kings, nor yet the Church -- none of them has been able to stop it. And don't succumb to the facile belief that wars will be stopped by hotheaded socialists. Or that rational and just wars can be sorted out from the rest. There will always be thousands of thousands to whom even such a war will be senseless and unjustified. Quite simply, no state can live without war, that is one of the state's essential functions. ... War is the price we pay for living in a state. Before you can abolish war you will have to abolish all states. But that is unthinkable until the propensity to violence and evil is rooted out of human beings. The state was created to protect us from evil. In ordinary life thousands of bad impulses, from a thousand foci of evil, move chaotically, randomly, against the vulnerable. The state is called upon to check these impulses -- but it generates others of its own, still more powerful, and this time one-directional. At times it throws them all in a single direction -- and that is war." - Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Chapter Three - Orbital Madness


Doctor Lawrence Janus walked down the corridors of the living module of the International Space Station floating at the equilibrium point between Earth and the moon. Artificial feet with microscopic suction cups derived mechanically from those on the feet of geckos allowed him a semblance of earth-normal activity. Most of his crewmates preferred to just take the advantages of zero-g with the disadvantages. A reasonable man adapted to zero-g when confronted with its ineluctable lack of pull.

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world. The unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man." Janus said to himself. He knew the quote was perfect, as if he had just looked it up on the web and read it from a screen. One of his strengths was a photographic memory that bordered on the absurd. It was also a curse of sorts, since the memory of his wife and children never faded, no matter how many years and tears flowed by.

Janus stopped to peer out a porthole at the swarms of robotic workers skittering over the surface of the Centuarion, which hung like a bunch of tumorous grapes from a half dozen support struts arcing out from the main body of the station. A sharp terminator line ran along the surface of the ship-in-progress where the sun's reach stopped at a particular contour. Spotlights lit the darkness like feeble lightning bugs for the benefit of the few human workers plying the surface in their bulky suits.

"Of course, by the same token, all disaster depends on the unreasonable man as well." Janus muttered, although it was not a mutter so much as his normal voice with the volume turned down. The lack of natural jaw and tongue, even if their replacements were of the highest grade construct, made true muttering and the joy of slurring and twisting every syllable a subtlety beyond his grasp.

"Doctor Janus! Top of the mornin' to you guvna!" A faux British voice called to him from further down the corridor.

"You are not British, if that's the accent you think you feign, and it is most definitely not the morning." Janus said in the rumbling tone that he had tuned his vocal systems to growl instead of the default mild American voice.

Charlie Weiss was a jolly little fat man who drove Janus just about mad. Charlie topped two-hundred fifty pounds on a good day on Earth, but of course in orbit he weighed nothing. "Only diet that ever worked for me." He was fond of declaring. Charlie eschewed the battleship gray uniform overalls of the station for rumpled and coffee stained button-down shirts and khakis. A badly creased silk tie floated in the air next to him, an item of clothing if any that had no value whatsoever outside of a gravity well, following behind Charlie's movements at all times like a leash with an invisible holder.

"Being British is a state of mind, as is morning." Charlie insisted.
Trinan never found out about this room. Crow had never told her while she was alive because he thought that her jokes about a killer might have been too close to reality. What else could this place be for? Crow wondered as he poked at files full of notes. An eccentric sort of wine cellar? After she died, he had built the workshop. It felt homey down here in the dark, away from questioning eyes of friends. Those were the eyes that would wonder if Crow had gone off the deep end entirely.

Pictures, framed and loose, littered the desk and the walls of the room. Trinan stared back from every picture, with smiles, distracted looks, irritation at being bothered by the camera. She stood alone in some, lay next to Crow in others. A series of moments of her life stared back at Crow, a cacophony of memory, every time he took his seat in this room.

The computer speakers rippled to life with the push of a button. "Hi honey, how was your day?" Crow slammed his pinky and forefinger into the left control key and the X to cancel out of the process.

"The voice is right." He muttered. "But the words aren't quite right." If there was a childhood memory of hers he knew, Crow had fed it into the AI, a painstaking process of describing life to the artificial. He spent hours lecturing it on the time they had spent together, every memory however trivial. Crow's fingers flew across the keyboard, tweaking minutia.

"Hey babe, how was your day?" Trinan's voice asked Crow. He blinked at the genuine tone.

"Not bad. Long. Boring. The usual." Crow said. "You?"

The screen indicated that Trinan shrugged. "Nothing much happened."

"I love you Trinan." Crow said.

"Love ya too babe." The speakers said. Crow smiled and killed the simulation again.

He jumped up out of his chair and ran a lingering hand over the frame of a metal cabinet. Crow sighed and pulled open the door, finding himself face to face with an almost perfect replica of his wife's face. It did not look quite right because it was not moving with life. He glanced back to the computer. "Soon I think, soon."

Crow's eyes rose above the computer to a poster he had hung above the tunnel's outlet. Frankenstein's monster stared back at him. Crow had to let out a laugh. "Well, I don't think that she'll go on a killing spree, but at least all of her bolts are on the inside."

Crow worked until an hour before dawn, only slipping away down the tunnel once he could no longer keep his head from clanking down against the keyboard. He looked in on Nan and saw the bot had plugged itself properly into the outlets in the guest bedroom. Alexander still slept in peace and Crow watched for a few moments, leaning against the door jamb.

The basement seemed warmer once he reached its depths, where the floursecents coated everything in a bright though somehow cold, bluish light. A pool table nestled among the boxes of old and rotting memories, its green velvet tinged almost to gray with dust. An old couch served now as a seat for more boxes, facing a television Crow had not touched in years. The place felt dead but also comfortable, like pictures of a friend who passed on decades ago. Crow glanced only in passing at the discarded belongings and moved deep into the basement, between columns of stacked boxes to a back corner hidden in shadows. Carved woodwork descended from the ceiling to wrap like vines around a large picture mounted right into the wall itself.

It was an oil painting that though peeling in a few spots, was intact and haunting. A boy, no more than seven or eight, sat at the bottom of a deep crevice, illuminated only by a shaft of light from above. The color of the painting was a gradient, from pure white at the top, to black at the bottom, with the boy sitting in between. If one looked long enough, the picture snapped into focus and it became apparent that the shaft of light was the hand of an angel reaching down to the boy from above, while the darkness was the twisted hand of a demon reaching from below. The boy sat in the classic pose of the thinker, staring off in a level gaze perpendicular to the shaft of light. A reddish haze filled the picture at the boy's level, a shade that reminded Crow of the time he had been caught in the woods during a not-so-distant forest fire. A glow of heat and ash. A brass plate mounted at both the bottom and top of the painting contained the engraved name of the painting, the single word "Man".

The painting had given Trinan the creeps, but since she hadn't figured out a way to unmount it, they simply stacked boxes in front of it. Crow had managed to unmount it later that same week, but on reflection had decided that would only freak out Trinan more.

He reached both above and below the painting to release hidden catches that had to be pinched at the same time. The painting rolled back on its wood mount to reveal a tunnel, no more than two feet in diameter, stretching back into the darkness. The first time crawling through, with a flashlight that had refused to stay lit despite numerous smacks, Crow had nearly pissed his pants. Now, it had become old hat. He slid through the thirty feet of smooth stone, with a hand reaching forward for the inevitable ledge. The light of the basement was nothing but a distant glow behind him. The light at the end of the tunnel, he muttered to himself.

Crow reached out into the darkness and found another lamp string, this one connected to powerful and warm halogens that came to silent life. A circular room, twenty feet across and characterized by the same rough stone as the stairwell met Crow at the end of the tunnel. Computers filled his workshop, along with scatterings of parts scavenged from his cybernetics labs. Whiteboards hung on hooks hammered into the rockface, a cacophony of outlines and figures screaming forth in blue, red and black. Crow sagged into an old leather chair that had just barely fit into the tunnel in pieces. The flatpanel came alive at the touch of a mouse, and Crow began musing through notes and half-remembered ideas jotted down over the last couple of months, a refresher before jumping ahead.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Buy My Book

What is this Place?

A place for the assorted ramblings and fiction of Steven Lloyd Wilson, but to be more specific:
  • Burning Violin: A weekly column, posted every Friday.
  • Singed Couplets: Shorter and more informal pieces put up semi-irregularly with highly unpredicatable frequency.
  • A Fire in Their Eyes: A science fiction novel about the rise of artificial intelligence in the near future. The rough equivalent of 2 print pages is published Mon, Tue, Wed, Thu each week.
  • Katorga: A science fiction novel crossing Heinlein with Solzhenitsyn. Available for purchase in either trade paperback or for the Kindle. If you buy it, I get to eat this week.

Follow us on Facebook