First surprise of the weekend: Sunderland isn't, in fact, a completely disgusting hell-hole (though they might want to work on their road markings a bit).
Second surprise: we've all been conned. Well, me, mainly. Apparently all it takes is any iteration of four chords, and I'm there. The number of songs in this list that I can't help singing along to when I hear them is embarrassing.
h/t to Dr Tit, who has done very well finding some awesome videos without being murdered in his bed by marauding Mackems.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Nothing Says Goodbye Like A Shoe To The Face
Maybe this is a bit petty, but if so, it's entirely in keeping with the 43rd President's temper-tantrum approach to running the Executive branch.
Can You Murder A Cylon?
So, our American cousins are doubtlessly revelling in last night's Big Reveal in Battlestar Galactica, smug in the knowledge that their British cousins have to wait until Tuesday to finally get the answers we've been waiting for for so long.
Well nuts to them, that's what I say. If I can't be a part of their amazing revelations, I'll just obsess over something else instead. Jacob over at Television Without Pity seems to have a bee in his bonnet about the willingness of the Colonials to just execute every Cylon they come across. Yes, he argues, the Cylons did wipe out the Colonies, so a certain degree of rabid hatred is to be expected, but treating the Cylons as just machines instead of sentient entities in their own right is what got us here in the first place.
It's an excellent point, one of many excellent points Jacob includes in his re-caps (though re-cap might not be the right term, since many of them take longer to read than it would to re-watch the episode which they describe). On the other hand, though, there's a danger in assuming that the skin-jobs are exactly like us. I don't want to give too much away (some of my readers are still way behind on Galactica), but his reference to the unsanctioned shooting of a Cylon prisoner as "murder" seems to miss the point somewhat. How can it be murder if the victim is alive and unharmed hours later?
In fact, what exactly is it? If we take the assumption (which I think is what Jacob means) that we should consider a skin-job as having the right to be treated the same as any human under Colonial law, then what exactly is the specific crime committed by someone who shoots them in the chest?
Obviously, Colonial law is unlikely to be identical to British law, but one can imagine they would share many similarities. With that in mind, I decided to phone SpaceSquid Senior, expert in all things legal, and demand to know how we should prosecute. Since I can't tape a conversation over the phone, I instead wrote questions out in advance, put them to him, and then summarise the responses.
Based on this, then, it seems at least plausible that the prosecution would be leery of attempting to pin a murder charge on the perpetrator (my own opinion would be that it was very likely, but then this isn't my territory). On the other hand, GBH would definitely stick, since there's no requirement that the wounds be permanent, only that they reach a given level of seriousness. It is presumably unquestionable that a wound that ends up killing you is ipso facto life-threatening. SSS gave me five years as a ball-park figure for the punishment for GBH, maybe out in two and a half with good behaviour. This, then, would seem a reasonable punishment, under our current law, for killing a Cylon (meaning Jacob is entirely right that the character in question got off very lightly, but not so likely as he believes).
An important caveat to all that is that killing a Cylon outside of range of a resurrection facility would still be murder. Crucially, though, the law measures action, not intent, so whether or not the crime is described as murder depends on whether the victim is within range, not whether either victim or perpetrator believed themselves to be within range.
SSS did point out that a new law would be required for killing a Cylon whilst within resurrection range, something that lies between GBH and killing a person. I'm not so sure about the latter part. Certainly, shooting a Cylon in the back of the head seems less of a crime than, say, beating them to a pulp and leaving them to die only for them to be found and healed. A thorough examination of that point, though, would have to consider the difference between damage and suffering, and maybe some thought into the psychological after-effects of the various different hypothetical scenarios.
[1] Dad doesn't follow Galactica, but I suspect if he did he'd also point out that suicide is a mortal sin amongst the Cylons, and thus the fact that they are known to kill their current bodies to save themselves suffering means they cannot consider downloading to involve death at any stage.
Well nuts to them, that's what I say. If I can't be a part of their amazing revelations, I'll just obsess over something else instead. Jacob over at Television Without Pity seems to have a bee in his bonnet about the willingness of the Colonials to just execute every Cylon they come across. Yes, he argues, the Cylons did wipe out the Colonies, so a certain degree of rabid hatred is to be expected, but treating the Cylons as just machines instead of sentient entities in their own right is what got us here in the first place.
It's an excellent point, one of many excellent points Jacob includes in his re-caps (though re-cap might not be the right term, since many of them take longer to read than it would to re-watch the episode which they describe). On the other hand, though, there's a danger in assuming that the skin-jobs are exactly like us. I don't want to give too much away (some of my readers are still way behind on Galactica), but his reference to the unsanctioned shooting of a Cylon prisoner as "murder" seems to miss the point somewhat. How can it be murder if the victim is alive and unharmed hours later?
In fact, what exactly is it? If we take the assumption (which I think is what Jacob means) that we should consider a skin-job as having the right to be treated the same as any human under Colonial law, then what exactly is the specific crime committed by someone who shoots them in the chest?
Obviously, Colonial law is unlikely to be identical to British law, but one can imagine they would share many similarities. With that in mind, I decided to phone SpaceSquid Senior, expert in all things legal, and demand to know how we should prosecute. Since I can't tape a conversation over the phone, I instead wrote questions out in advance, put them to him, and then summarise the responses.
Q. What's the difference between assault, battery, actual bodily harm (ABH) and grievous bodily harm (GBH)?
A. Assault simply requires the victim is placed in fear of imminent attack (though you can get away with including a conditional: "I'd kill you if it wasn't a Sunday"). Battery goes into actual physical contact. ABH and GBH are gradations on that. ABH is getting into the realm of bruising and that sort of thing. By GBH you're into "malicious wounding", or "life-threatening".
Q. Do any of them have a requirement that the damage be lasting, or even that it takes a given amount of time for healing to take place?
A. Absolutely not. You can be entirely healed by the time someone is brought to trial, or even arrested, for the crime of damaging you.
Q. How would you prosecute or defend a trial in which someone had been killed, only to be reborn in an identical body 24 hours later?
A. Obviously were such a thing to be possible the law would be very quickly re-written, but in the first instance, as prosecutor I would argue that the crime was complete from the moment the victim died. Later events are irrelevant. I'd defend by questioning whether the victim could be considered to have died, any more than someone on life-support for twenty-four hours without the ability to beat their own heart can be considered dead. [1]
Based on this, then, it seems at least plausible that the prosecution would be leery of attempting to pin a murder charge on the perpetrator (my own opinion would be that it was very likely, but then this isn't my territory). On the other hand, GBH would definitely stick, since there's no requirement that the wounds be permanent, only that they reach a given level of seriousness. It is presumably unquestionable that a wound that ends up killing you is ipso facto life-threatening. SSS gave me five years as a ball-park figure for the punishment for GBH, maybe out in two and a half with good behaviour. This, then, would seem a reasonable punishment, under our current law, for killing a Cylon (meaning Jacob is entirely right that the character in question got off very lightly, but not so likely as he believes).
An important caveat to all that is that killing a Cylon outside of range of a resurrection facility would still be murder. Crucially, though, the law measures action, not intent, so whether or not the crime is described as murder depends on whether the victim is within range, not whether either victim or perpetrator believed themselves to be within range.
SSS did point out that a new law would be required for killing a Cylon whilst within resurrection range, something that lies between GBH and killing a person. I'm not so sure about the latter part. Certainly, shooting a Cylon in the back of the head seems less of a crime than, say, beating them to a pulp and leaving them to die only for them to be found and healed. A thorough examination of that point, though, would have to consider the difference between damage and suffering, and maybe some thought into the psychological after-effects of the various different hypothetical scenarios.
[1] Dad doesn't follow Galactica, but I suspect if he did he'd also point out that suicide is a mortal sin amongst the Cylons, and thus the fact that they are known to kill their current bodies to save themselves suffering means they cannot consider downloading to involve death at any stage.
Friday, 16 January 2009
Friday Warhammer Blogging
It's always been a plan of mine to paint up a Bretonnian army in the heraldry of one of the major houses from George R R Martin's A Song Of Ice And Fire. Ultimately I decided that Stark and Martell are too far north and south respectively for the Bretonnians to really fit; Greyjoy too Viking-y, and Targaryen too, well, dead (though the idea of putting together Daenerys' tattered khalasar might make for an interesting project).
That leaves us with Arryn, Baratheon, Lannister, Tully and Tyrell. I eventually plumped for Tully, partially because their banner men are arguably the best described in the novels outside of the Northmen, and partially because the Lannisters are too irritating, the Arryns too meek, and the Tyrells too obsessed with plants.
So far, having begun this project exactly one year ago today (thanks to some useful birthday presents from Cocklick, Dr. L and DB), I've managed to paint all of two knights in between finishing my Blood Angels, continuing my Tau and Red Corsairs forces, and painting the occasional Strike Cruiser. Here they are below. Once again, I'm still learning how to use this digital camera so that things don't immediately turn out shit.
Here we have the battle standard bearer of the Tully army. The knight himself is from House Mallister. I lightened the purple somewhat (dark purple is a pain to paint), but the silver eagle came out quite well. Obviously, the banner he is holding belongs to House Tully itself.
This is the army's musician, a Vance from Atranta. The shield proved too tapered to include the green dragons and white towers, but they appear on the sides of the barding instead. [1]
[1] There's almost certainly a technical term less vague than "the sides", but I can't remember it right now. Come to think of it, is "barding" even the right word. Christ, how do historical re-enactors cope will all this crap?
Thursday, 15 January 2009
Commanding The Kingfisher (Part 1)
15th March, 2291
Keigh’s first feeling was that it was beautiful. The second was guilt, sudden and crushing. Perhaps the average seven year old could be forgiven for admiring such a costly spectacle, but she was hardly the average seven year old. She was entirely aware how many had died to create the image before her.
And it was all her fault.
“Drives at zero, hopper at… zero,” Vinga reported from Scanning. “She’s toast.”
That much was obvious. Explosions continued to punch flames through the stricken vessel’s blood-red hull; flames which faded instantly in the surrounding vacuum. The crippled ship was given an almost stately aura by the fires as it span slowly into the abyss of Helioshea’s gravity well.
“Keep delta off,” Hennis ordered from just behind Keigh, “We don’t want any ‘pedes jumping us.”
Keigh hardly heard him. She was still staring intently at her handiwork, trying not to consider the cost, or the implications. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly tired. Another headache was forming in the front of her skull. She asked whether she could take a nap. The Voice said she could.
“I’m going for a nap,” she announced, too loudly. “Mr Hennis, you have the bridge.”
The bridge crew were well-trained and disciplined, but even so, Keigh could feel the wash of relief that swept the room. It was almost as powerful as the wave of fear that accompanied her every arrival.
Hennis cleared his throat. “What about the enemy, sir?”
Keigh afforded the trading junk one last glance as it continued its final convulsions. She listened as the Voice told her the words it wanted her to say.
”They can burn just as well without me.”
In her dreams, the Voice had a face. It was the face of her father.
They were walking, as they so often did, through an endless meadow. The air was thick with butterfly clouds and the scent of flowers.
“You did very well today,” her father said warmly. “I was so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” Keigh said dutifully, hoping to hide how she felt, to screw up and force down her uncertainty. But she had never been able to fool her father, even when he had still been alive.
“What’s wrong, darling?” her father asked. He wasn’t looking at her, and he had a funny tone in his voice.
“Nothing!” she said, a little too quickly. “Nothing. It’s just… when I,… when I killed all those people-”
"Not people!” her father interrupted sharply. “Not people! The R’Dokken are nothing but animals. After what they’ve done to me. To us. We have to kill them; to keep everyone safe. To keep you safe. You know that.”
“Yes, Daddy. But… but none of them can laugh or run and play with their Mummy and Daddy anymore, and that’s because of me. Couldn’t we stop? Couldn’t we-“
“NO!”
Her father’s blow knocked her to the ground. Daffodils broke her fall, but her head was boiling with pain. She felt her father bend over her and grab the top of her t-shirt. Viciously, he wrenched to her feet. He raised his arm again, his face warped by fury. Keigh squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the strike.
It felt that the moment stretched on forever; her father’s breath hot and ragged against her face.
Then he let her go.
Cautiously, she opened her eyes. He had stopped looking at her again; his attention was fixed in the distance.
“You have a lot to learn, and a long way to go”, he said, all anger, all emotion gone from his voice.
“I think you had better go on alone.”
15th March
“You requested assistance,” Flopsy announced in its dead, mechanical monotone.
Jessa gritted her teeth and forced her eyes to stare straight at the hated machine’s face.
“I did. We got a micro-breach in the cargo hold. I want the area clear of people, which leaves you on clean-up duty.”
The robot stood silent, pondering. Please, Jessa thought, please don’t wake Her to check.
“The alarms did not sound,” Flopsy eventually stated.
“I know that,” Jessa said, allowing a little irritation to creep into her voice, “You need to sort that out too.”
The machine considered another moment. Jessa tried not to let fear leak into her expression. She knew how risky this all was. Navbots were by no stretch of the imagination particularly smart (their mastery of equations of motion notwithstanding), but if Flopsy figured out the absurdity of the Chief Medical Officer directing it in routine maintenance, she might very well end up exceptionally dead in the near future.
There was a faint whine as the robot started its engine, swivelled on its tracks, and left the room. As it departed it nearly collided with Second Officer Harlan Summer. No, First Officer now, she corrected herself. Ever since what happened to Jaime.
Striding into the cramped rec-room, Harlan glanced at the vidcam in the corner of the room, nodding sharply as he watched it pan away to inspect the dilapidated pool table.
“Was that the one that did for Jaime?” he asked, jerking his thumb back at the departed navbot.
Jessa nodded. “You can tell by the fairings. There’s still a little dried blood there.”
Harlan didn’t reply. Instead he limped across to the table, and sat down opposite his wife, sighing slightly as he took the weight off his injured leg. Scooping the deck of cards from the metal table, he began to deal Woody for three. A game of cards to cover a coup d’etat. How twentieth century of them.
A moment later, they were joined by their co-conspirator Geiss. His face was filled with his trademark grin, born of arrogance and egotism; but Jessa caught his furtive glance at the vidcam as he swaggered in.
He sat and scooped up his cards in one fluid motion. Squinting at his cards, he sighed.
“Shit, Harlan. Six years on this wreck and you still can’t deal a decent fucking hand.”
Screwing up his face, he took another look at his cards.”Nope, still shit. So, who’s bidding?”
Jessa opened her mouth to answer, but Geiss’ raised finger stopped her. He was staring intently at the camera in the corner. As it looked away once more, he leapt from his seat, and slapped something small atop the surveillance device.
“How long do we…” another raised finger cut Harlan off. Geiss returned to the table, and fished around in his pocket. Eventually he retrieved three metallic discs, each a little larger than a coin, and several centimetres thick. Geiss proceeded to place the objects beneath each of their chairs. A sharp stamp on the floor set all three off vibrating fiercely, almost flipping themselves them off the deck with the force of their exertions.
“Right. We can talk now. But quietly.” Geiss said with a theatrical whisper, holding a finger to his lips and grinning with self-satisfaction.
“How long do we have?” Harlan repeated, trying to fix his attention on Geiss, the vidcam, and the convulsing discs all at the same time.
The first nodded at the second. “We’ve got a loop now; the three of us sat here playing cards. I can keep it on indefinitely, but the longer we are, the more suspicious it’ll look. The sound’ll help, though.”
“What sound?” Jessa asked, confused, “And what’s with the Amazing Dancing Pennies?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” said Geiss, in a tone that made it clear that watch he actually meant was “I was hoping you’d notice how clever I am”. “The vidcam’s aren’t the only little trick up our good captain’s sleeve to keep us all in line. There’s the navvies, obviously. Which reminds me; you did get rid of Flopsy, I presume?”
Jessa nodded. Much as it made her sick to admit it, it had been a stroke of genius on Geiss’ part to order one of the external maintenance nanobots to self destruct, and cause a microscopic hull breach. Geiss had said the real problem had been ensuring that the breach was placed in a sufficiently awkward position to tie Flopsy up for long enough. Then, with Mopsy busy running calculations for the hop from Helioshea, and Cottontail guarding Keigh, they were safe enough. In theory, anyway.
“So what else is she using?” Harlan asked guardedly. Geiss flashed him the very smuggest of grins.
“Before the Kingfisher was refitted after first contact, she was just your common-or-garden orehauler. Juno to Proxima run.”
“Voynich ore?” Harlan asked, a strange look on his face. Geiss nodded, and reactivated his grin.
“So?” asked Jessa, “So what?”
“Voynich ore is ridiculously unstable. You kick it; it blows your foot off. Your foot if you’re lucky.”
“Can we just finish with Junior History of Geology and someone explain what the hell it is I’m missing?”
No grin this time, Geiss may have recognised how close he was coming to receiving a chair to the face. “If you want to transport vibration-sensitive unstable materials, you need to make damn sure the ship doesn’t have anything that might cause any tremors. And you’d have to come up with a way to make sure that if something does go off, you can track it down fucking fast.”
“This whole ship is wired with pressure sensors.”
Jessa was stunned. “Could they… could they actually pick up what we say?”
Geiss shrugged. “It would explain what happened to Jaime, wouldn’t it?”
It would indeed. From what Jessa could tell, Jaime had waited until security was at its lightest before punching out a guard and attempting to wreck the Navcore. The goon had definitely been unconscious, she had checked, and anyway she suspected that he had been in on the plan, and Jaime had just laid him out for the sake of deniability. Despite all that, She had found out, and Jaime had been summarily executed by Flopsy. Most of him was floating outside in the void, but it was possible that part of him remained aboard ship. There had been so many pieces.
“So how do these discs help?” asked Harlan.
“They’re pocket conversations,” announced Geiss proudly. “I took our voice-prints and used them to write a little theatre. Right now I’m explaining the gory details of the evening Jessa and I got busy when you were on night-duty last month. You’re not taking it well.””I would imagine not,” Harlan said icily.
Geiss shrugged in a distinctly unapologetic fashion.
“I needed something loud enough to cover us.” He winked at Jessa. “I considered the act itself, but the discs only have a running time of half an hour.”
“Very restrained. And you have our voice files; how disturbing.” Harlan glanced at his watch. “But perhaps we should move on. We gathered from your cryptic note that you might have something of a plan.”
“Indeed I do.” Geiss sat back and placed his hands behind his head. “Which one of you is up for a spacewalk?”
5th March
There is no such thing as a routine stop at a R’Dokken Starport, but the plan had been to approximate one as closely as possible.
The phrase “Starport” fitted the R’Dokken Starport rather better than the Terran equivalent. A gigantic sphere of water, several miles in diameter; kept in place by a thick husk of ice and the gravity of the port itself; a ball of buildings four miles across in the exact centre of the space-borne ocean.
“Pretty,” Jessa had observed on approach.
Gabe hadn’t heard. He was staring intently at the screen, as if trying to penetrate the ice with his gaze, to see what lay beneath.
“Halve our speed, Ryugi,” Gabe said from his chair. “We don’t want to come in too fast. Right?”
The question was aimed at Davis, the Kingfisher’s xenocol officer. A new breed of servicemen spawned from first contact eleven years ago, the XCO held responsibility for ensuring any encounter with the R’Dokken ran as smoothly as possible. Given the dearth of information on the aliens, Jessa always considered that Davis’ efforts were more or less just shots in the dark. With a water pistol.
Like many of his rank, Davis was a Diplomatic Core dropout, and as such was a war zone to conflicting superiority and inferiority complexes, a battle he concealed with blazing displays of arrogance and self-satisfaction.
“This installation is maintained by Kellarealm R’Dokken,” he said knowingly. His tone put Jessa in mind of one of the Navbots, only with a bigger nose. “The Kellarealm xenocs are as renowned for their bloodthirstiness as they are for their tapestries.”
Tapestries? What, was the guy reading from cue cards?
“If these ‘pedes are so trigger-happy, what makes XI think our people are still alive?” she asked her captain, making a subtle but noticeable display of ignoring Davis entirely.
Gabe shrugged. “I imagine Xenoc-Intel are just as clueless as we are. But Kellarealm won’t be too popular with us or their peers if Callum and his mob are delivered as tampered mail.”
Jessa didn’t like to think how the R’Dokken might “tamper” with somebody.
The Starport began to expand less quickly as the Kingfisher slackened pace. Even so, it was only a few moments before the ship was close enough for Jessa to make out the gaping maw of ice that granted access to the shadowed interior. Two colossal cannons flanked the ice-rimmed lake, their massive barrels swivelling ponderously as they tracked the human craft.
“We’re picking up a signal,” Gallagher reported from Comms. He cocked his head as he listened to the translator-mangled message. “It’s our flight path once we’re submerged. Plus a threat if we deviate.”
“The threat being?” Gabe asked.
Gallagher shrugged. “The usual.”
The captain grinned. “Dismemberment and consumption? It’s rapidly becoming cliché.”
He didn’t seem at all worried. Jessa, on the other hand, was quite convinced that they would never make it out alive.
15th March
“How does the defendant plead?” asked Cottontail in its precise, invariant voice. Keigh knew someone was supposed to say that, she had seen it in a really old film once. She wasn’t sure who was meant to say it, or why, but it had to be said when somebody was on trial.
The somebody today was Firstgrade Helm Officer Ryugi. The charge was mutiny (the Voice had had to tell her what the word “mutiny” meant, along with “charge”), and for such a serious crime, Keigh had made absolutely sure that everything was just the way it should be. Ryugi stood in a wooden frame, haphazardly assembled from various pieces of furniture once found in the crew quarters. The jury stood beside Judge Cottontail. Keigh had thought a jury should have more than one member, but The Voice had told her Mopsy would be fine on her own. Prosecutor Flopsy and the Council for the Defence (a short, balding technician named Styve) completed the tableau.
“Not guilty,” said Ryugi softly. Given the stakes, Keigh thought he was being very calm. If it were her, she might’ve cried.
“Prosecution?” asked Cottontail. Flopsy rumbled forward.
“I call my first witness: Fourthgrade Maintenance Operatives Velba and Chaig.”
Weren’t witnesses called one at a time? Keigh couldn’t remember; she suspected it didn’t matter.
Velba and Chaig walked onto the bridge, followed by a pair of security guards, ensuring they reached the stand.
From this point on, Keigh didn’t really know what to do. She let the Voice take control of the navbots completely, and simply tried to avoid watching. Putting on trials was fun, but the end part could be really upsetting.
“Gentlemen,” Flopsy intoned, “Are you loyal to the captain of the Kingfisher?” Both men nodded their assent.
That isn’t right, is it? thought Keigh, isn’t there supposed to be an oath or something? But the Voice ignored her, it just went on.
“You stand here today because one amongst the crew attempted to subvert that loyalty. Correct?”
More nods, and grunts of agreement.
“Who was the perpetrator of this crime?”
Chaig nodded at Ryugi.
“You fuck!” came the response. Mopsy moved between accusers and accused to prevent the latter from launching an attack on the former. Both Chaig and Velba were staring fixedly at the floor.
“We find the defendant guilty,” Mopsy said.
“With loyalty comes reward,” stated the judge. “Operatives, you are hereby granted access to your quarters once again.”
The two men didn’t seem satisfied by this. Keigh would have thought they’d be glad for a chance for a shower. No-one but the robots had been into the crew quarters since Keigh became captain, and a week of accumulated sweat and grime had made standing near anyone else a distinctly stinky experience.
“Firstgrade Helm Officer Ryugi,” Keigh found herself saying, “You have been found guilty of mutiny. The sentence is death. It is captain’s prerogative to choose the method of execution.”
Keigh didn’t understand why the Voice made her say such things, rather than just using the navbots. She hated doing it, and despite all the effort she made to hide it, the Voice knew it full well.
As she opened her mouth to pronounce sentence, Ryugi made a dash for freedom. Automatically, Chaig moved to block his path. All this accomplished was to provide Ryugi with a focus for his rage. A savage blow to the throat left Chaig writhing on the floor. Ryugi feinted left and leapt right to dodge Flopsy, and for a moment it seemed he would escape. What he intended to do once “free”, Keigh had no idea; she could observe and control everything on the ship, bow to stern. There was little chance of hiding, and none whatsoever of escape.
It didn’t matter. As Ryugi flashed past, Mopsy caught him a glancing, almost contemptuous blow across Ryugi’s temple with one huge fist. The effect was extraordinary, Ryugi simply crumpled into a ball, and fell. His limp form skidded a few centimetres across the bridge’s cold, metal floor before stopping. Blood trickled from his head.
Chaig was writhing on the floor, gasping desperately. The sight made Keigh feel sick, it reminded her too much of how her father died. She felt exhaustion looming once again. “I want to go to bed,” she stated. “Mr Summers, you have the bridge.”
Harlan was staring at Ryugi, who was slowly attempting to stand. It was clear from Harlan’s face that he wanted to help.
“Mr Summers?” she repeated. Harlan reluctantly shifted his gaze. “Yes, captain.”
Keigh turned to go.
“A moment please, captain,” said Cottontail, “You still need to pass sentence.”
Keigh stiffened. Perhaps she could just go. Perhaps she didn’t have to say anything. She could just go to bed and fall asleep and wait for everything to be different in the morning.
But she knew that wasn’t true. She forced herself to relate the words she was given by the Voice. When it was satisfied, she almost ran from the bridge. She only just got the door closed in time to block the scream as Flopsy folded Ryugi neatly in half.
Keigh’s first feeling was that it was beautiful. The second was guilt, sudden and crushing. Perhaps the average seven year old could be forgiven for admiring such a costly spectacle, but she was hardly the average seven year old. She was entirely aware how many had died to create the image before her.
And it was all her fault.
“Drives at zero, hopper at… zero,” Vinga reported from Scanning. “She’s toast.”
That much was obvious. Explosions continued to punch flames through the stricken vessel’s blood-red hull; flames which faded instantly in the surrounding vacuum. The crippled ship was given an almost stately aura by the fires as it span slowly into the abyss of Helioshea’s gravity well.
“Keep delta off,” Hennis ordered from just behind Keigh, “We don’t want any ‘pedes jumping us.”
Keigh hardly heard him. She was still staring intently at her handiwork, trying not to consider the cost, or the implications. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly tired. Another headache was forming in the front of her skull. She asked whether she could take a nap. The Voice said she could.
“I’m going for a nap,” she announced, too loudly. “Mr Hennis, you have the bridge.”
The bridge crew were well-trained and disciplined, but even so, Keigh could feel the wash of relief that swept the room. It was almost as powerful as the wave of fear that accompanied her every arrival.
Hennis cleared his throat. “What about the enemy, sir?”
Keigh afforded the trading junk one last glance as it continued its final convulsions. She listened as the Voice told her the words it wanted her to say.
”They can burn just as well without me.”
In her dreams, the Voice had a face. It was the face of her father.
They were walking, as they so often did, through an endless meadow. The air was thick with butterfly clouds and the scent of flowers.
“You did very well today,” her father said warmly. “I was so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” Keigh said dutifully, hoping to hide how she felt, to screw up and force down her uncertainty. But she had never been able to fool her father, even when he had still been alive.
“What’s wrong, darling?” her father asked. He wasn’t looking at her, and he had a funny tone in his voice.
“Nothing!” she said, a little too quickly. “Nothing. It’s just… when I,… when I killed all those people-”
"Not people!” her father interrupted sharply. “Not people! The R’Dokken are nothing but animals. After what they’ve done to me. To us. We have to kill them; to keep everyone safe. To keep you safe. You know that.”
“Yes, Daddy. But… but none of them can laugh or run and play with their Mummy and Daddy anymore, and that’s because of me. Couldn’t we stop? Couldn’t we-“
“NO!”
Her father’s blow knocked her to the ground. Daffodils broke her fall, but her head was boiling with pain. She felt her father bend over her and grab the top of her t-shirt. Viciously, he wrenched to her feet. He raised his arm again, his face warped by fury. Keigh squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the strike.
It felt that the moment stretched on forever; her father’s breath hot and ragged against her face.
Then he let her go.
Cautiously, she opened her eyes. He had stopped looking at her again; his attention was fixed in the distance.
“You have a lot to learn, and a long way to go”, he said, all anger, all emotion gone from his voice.
“I think you had better go on alone.”
15th March
“You requested assistance,” Flopsy announced in its dead, mechanical monotone.
Jessa gritted her teeth and forced her eyes to stare straight at the hated machine’s face.
“I did. We got a micro-breach in the cargo hold. I want the area clear of people, which leaves you on clean-up duty.”
The robot stood silent, pondering. Please, Jessa thought, please don’t wake Her to check.
“The alarms did not sound,” Flopsy eventually stated.
“I know that,” Jessa said, allowing a little irritation to creep into her voice, “You need to sort that out too.”
The machine considered another moment. Jessa tried not to let fear leak into her expression. She knew how risky this all was. Navbots were by no stretch of the imagination particularly smart (their mastery of equations of motion notwithstanding), but if Flopsy figured out the absurdity of the Chief Medical Officer directing it in routine maintenance, she might very well end up exceptionally dead in the near future.
There was a faint whine as the robot started its engine, swivelled on its tracks, and left the room. As it departed it nearly collided with Second Officer Harlan Summer. No, First Officer now, she corrected herself. Ever since what happened to Jaime.
Striding into the cramped rec-room, Harlan glanced at the vidcam in the corner of the room, nodding sharply as he watched it pan away to inspect the dilapidated pool table.
“Was that the one that did for Jaime?” he asked, jerking his thumb back at the departed navbot.
Jessa nodded. “You can tell by the fairings. There’s still a little dried blood there.”
Harlan didn’t reply. Instead he limped across to the table, and sat down opposite his wife, sighing slightly as he took the weight off his injured leg. Scooping the deck of cards from the metal table, he began to deal Woody for three. A game of cards to cover a coup d’etat. How twentieth century of them.
A moment later, they were joined by their co-conspirator Geiss. His face was filled with his trademark grin, born of arrogance and egotism; but Jessa caught his furtive glance at the vidcam as he swaggered in.
He sat and scooped up his cards in one fluid motion. Squinting at his cards, he sighed.
“Shit, Harlan. Six years on this wreck and you still can’t deal a decent fucking hand.”
Screwing up his face, he took another look at his cards.”Nope, still shit. So, who’s bidding?”
Jessa opened her mouth to answer, but Geiss’ raised finger stopped her. He was staring intently at the camera in the corner. As it looked away once more, he leapt from his seat, and slapped something small atop the surveillance device.
“How long do we…” another raised finger cut Harlan off. Geiss returned to the table, and fished around in his pocket. Eventually he retrieved three metallic discs, each a little larger than a coin, and several centimetres thick. Geiss proceeded to place the objects beneath each of their chairs. A sharp stamp on the floor set all three off vibrating fiercely, almost flipping themselves them off the deck with the force of their exertions.
“Right. We can talk now. But quietly.” Geiss said with a theatrical whisper, holding a finger to his lips and grinning with self-satisfaction.
“How long do we have?” Harlan repeated, trying to fix his attention on Geiss, the vidcam, and the convulsing discs all at the same time.
The first nodded at the second. “We’ve got a loop now; the three of us sat here playing cards. I can keep it on indefinitely, but the longer we are, the more suspicious it’ll look. The sound’ll help, though.”
“What sound?” Jessa asked, confused, “And what’s with the Amazing Dancing Pennies?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” said Geiss, in a tone that made it clear that watch he actually meant was “I was hoping you’d notice how clever I am”. “The vidcam’s aren’t the only little trick up our good captain’s sleeve to keep us all in line. There’s the navvies, obviously. Which reminds me; you did get rid of Flopsy, I presume?”
Jessa nodded. Much as it made her sick to admit it, it had been a stroke of genius on Geiss’ part to order one of the external maintenance nanobots to self destruct, and cause a microscopic hull breach. Geiss had said the real problem had been ensuring that the breach was placed in a sufficiently awkward position to tie Flopsy up for long enough. Then, with Mopsy busy running calculations for the hop from Helioshea, and Cottontail guarding Keigh, they were safe enough. In theory, anyway.
“So what else is she using?” Harlan asked guardedly. Geiss flashed him the very smuggest of grins.
“Before the Kingfisher was refitted after first contact, she was just your common-or-garden orehauler. Juno to Proxima run.”
“Voynich ore?” Harlan asked, a strange look on his face. Geiss nodded, and reactivated his grin.
“So?” asked Jessa, “So what?”
“Voynich ore is ridiculously unstable. You kick it; it blows your foot off. Your foot if you’re lucky.”
“Can we just finish with Junior History of Geology and someone explain what the hell it is I’m missing?”
No grin this time, Geiss may have recognised how close he was coming to receiving a chair to the face. “If you want to transport vibration-sensitive unstable materials, you need to make damn sure the ship doesn’t have anything that might cause any tremors. And you’d have to come up with a way to make sure that if something does go off, you can track it down fucking fast.”
“This whole ship is wired with pressure sensors.”
Jessa was stunned. “Could they… could they actually pick up what we say?”
Geiss shrugged. “It would explain what happened to Jaime, wouldn’t it?”
It would indeed. From what Jessa could tell, Jaime had waited until security was at its lightest before punching out a guard and attempting to wreck the Navcore. The goon had definitely been unconscious, she had checked, and anyway she suspected that he had been in on the plan, and Jaime had just laid him out for the sake of deniability. Despite all that, She had found out, and Jaime had been summarily executed by Flopsy. Most of him was floating outside in the void, but it was possible that part of him remained aboard ship. There had been so many pieces.
“So how do these discs help?” asked Harlan.
“They’re pocket conversations,” announced Geiss proudly. “I took our voice-prints and used them to write a little theatre. Right now I’m explaining the gory details of the evening Jessa and I got busy when you were on night-duty last month. You’re not taking it well.””I would imagine not,” Harlan said icily.
Geiss shrugged in a distinctly unapologetic fashion.
“I needed something loud enough to cover us.” He winked at Jessa. “I considered the act itself, but the discs only have a running time of half an hour.”
“Very restrained. And you have our voice files; how disturbing.” Harlan glanced at his watch. “But perhaps we should move on. We gathered from your cryptic note that you might have something of a plan.”
“Indeed I do.” Geiss sat back and placed his hands behind his head. “Which one of you is up for a spacewalk?”
5th March
There is no such thing as a routine stop at a R’Dokken Starport, but the plan had been to approximate one as closely as possible.
The phrase “Starport” fitted the R’Dokken Starport rather better than the Terran equivalent. A gigantic sphere of water, several miles in diameter; kept in place by a thick husk of ice and the gravity of the port itself; a ball of buildings four miles across in the exact centre of the space-borne ocean.
“Pretty,” Jessa had observed on approach.
Gabe hadn’t heard. He was staring intently at the screen, as if trying to penetrate the ice with his gaze, to see what lay beneath.
“Halve our speed, Ryugi,” Gabe said from his chair. “We don’t want to come in too fast. Right?”
The question was aimed at Davis, the Kingfisher’s xenocol officer. A new breed of servicemen spawned from first contact eleven years ago, the XCO held responsibility for ensuring any encounter with the R’Dokken ran as smoothly as possible. Given the dearth of information on the aliens, Jessa always considered that Davis’ efforts were more or less just shots in the dark. With a water pistol.
Like many of his rank, Davis was a Diplomatic Core dropout, and as such was a war zone to conflicting superiority and inferiority complexes, a battle he concealed with blazing displays of arrogance and self-satisfaction.
“This installation is maintained by Kellarealm R’Dokken,” he said knowingly. His tone put Jessa in mind of one of the Navbots, only with a bigger nose. “The Kellarealm xenocs are as renowned for their bloodthirstiness as they are for their tapestries.”
Tapestries? What, was the guy reading from cue cards?
“If these ‘pedes are so trigger-happy, what makes XI think our people are still alive?” she asked her captain, making a subtle but noticeable display of ignoring Davis entirely.
Gabe shrugged. “I imagine Xenoc-Intel are just as clueless as we are. But Kellarealm won’t be too popular with us or their peers if Callum and his mob are delivered as tampered mail.”
Jessa didn’t like to think how the R’Dokken might “tamper” with somebody.
The Starport began to expand less quickly as the Kingfisher slackened pace. Even so, it was only a few moments before the ship was close enough for Jessa to make out the gaping maw of ice that granted access to the shadowed interior. Two colossal cannons flanked the ice-rimmed lake, their massive barrels swivelling ponderously as they tracked the human craft.
“We’re picking up a signal,” Gallagher reported from Comms. He cocked his head as he listened to the translator-mangled message. “It’s our flight path once we’re submerged. Plus a threat if we deviate.”
“The threat being?” Gabe asked.
Gallagher shrugged. “The usual.”
The captain grinned. “Dismemberment and consumption? It’s rapidly becoming cliché.”
He didn’t seem at all worried. Jessa, on the other hand, was quite convinced that they would never make it out alive.
15th March
“How does the defendant plead?” asked Cottontail in its precise, invariant voice. Keigh knew someone was supposed to say that, she had seen it in a really old film once. She wasn’t sure who was meant to say it, or why, but it had to be said when somebody was on trial.
The somebody today was Firstgrade Helm Officer Ryugi. The charge was mutiny (the Voice had had to tell her what the word “mutiny” meant, along with “charge”), and for such a serious crime, Keigh had made absolutely sure that everything was just the way it should be. Ryugi stood in a wooden frame, haphazardly assembled from various pieces of furniture once found in the crew quarters. The jury stood beside Judge Cottontail. Keigh had thought a jury should have more than one member, but The Voice had told her Mopsy would be fine on her own. Prosecutor Flopsy and the Council for the Defence (a short, balding technician named Styve) completed the tableau.
“Not guilty,” said Ryugi softly. Given the stakes, Keigh thought he was being very calm. If it were her, she might’ve cried.
“Prosecution?” asked Cottontail. Flopsy rumbled forward.
“I call my first witness: Fourthgrade Maintenance Operatives Velba and Chaig.”
Weren’t witnesses called one at a time? Keigh couldn’t remember; she suspected it didn’t matter.
Velba and Chaig walked onto the bridge, followed by a pair of security guards, ensuring they reached the stand.
From this point on, Keigh didn’t really know what to do. She let the Voice take control of the navbots completely, and simply tried to avoid watching. Putting on trials was fun, but the end part could be really upsetting.
“Gentlemen,” Flopsy intoned, “Are you loyal to the captain of the Kingfisher?” Both men nodded their assent.
That isn’t right, is it? thought Keigh, isn’t there supposed to be an oath or something? But the Voice ignored her, it just went on.
“You stand here today because one amongst the crew attempted to subvert that loyalty. Correct?”
More nods, and grunts of agreement.
“Who was the perpetrator of this crime?”
Chaig nodded at Ryugi.
“You fuck!” came the response. Mopsy moved between accusers and accused to prevent the latter from launching an attack on the former. Both Chaig and Velba were staring fixedly at the floor.
“We find the defendant guilty,” Mopsy said.
“With loyalty comes reward,” stated the judge. “Operatives, you are hereby granted access to your quarters once again.”
The two men didn’t seem satisfied by this. Keigh would have thought they’d be glad for a chance for a shower. No-one but the robots had been into the crew quarters since Keigh became captain, and a week of accumulated sweat and grime had made standing near anyone else a distinctly stinky experience.
“Firstgrade Helm Officer Ryugi,” Keigh found herself saying, “You have been found guilty of mutiny. The sentence is death. It is captain’s prerogative to choose the method of execution.”
Keigh didn’t understand why the Voice made her say such things, rather than just using the navbots. She hated doing it, and despite all the effort she made to hide it, the Voice knew it full well.
As she opened her mouth to pronounce sentence, Ryugi made a dash for freedom. Automatically, Chaig moved to block his path. All this accomplished was to provide Ryugi with a focus for his rage. A savage blow to the throat left Chaig writhing on the floor. Ryugi feinted left and leapt right to dodge Flopsy, and for a moment it seemed he would escape. What he intended to do once “free”, Keigh had no idea; she could observe and control everything on the ship, bow to stern. There was little chance of hiding, and none whatsoever of escape.
It didn’t matter. As Ryugi flashed past, Mopsy caught him a glancing, almost contemptuous blow across Ryugi’s temple with one huge fist. The effect was extraordinary, Ryugi simply crumpled into a ball, and fell. His limp form skidded a few centimetres across the bridge’s cold, metal floor before stopping. Blood trickled from his head.
Chaig was writhing on the floor, gasping desperately. The sight made Keigh feel sick, it reminded her too much of how her father died. She felt exhaustion looming once again. “I want to go to bed,” she stated. “Mr Summers, you have the bridge.”
Harlan was staring at Ryugi, who was slowly attempting to stand. It was clear from Harlan’s face that he wanted to help.
“Mr Summers?” she repeated. Harlan reluctantly shifted his gaze. “Yes, captain.”
Keigh turned to go.
“A moment please, captain,” said Cottontail, “You still need to pass sentence.”
Keigh stiffened. Perhaps she could just go. Perhaps she didn’t have to say anything. She could just go to bed and fall asleep and wait for everything to be different in the morning.
But she knew that wasn’t true. She forced herself to relate the words she was given by the Voice. When it was satisfied, she almost ran from the bridge. She only just got the door closed in time to block the scream as Flopsy folded Ryugi neatly in half.
So Damn Old
Right, I am old as Hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!
Well, I guess I am, but at the very least it's my birthday and I'll post what I want to. With that in mind, some whiny white boy music from a band that needs a bit more exposure: The Answering Machine.
Also, following a discussion with a friend not so long ago, and since I'm about to get a free copy of the sequel printed (God bless you, NaNoWriMo), I've finally bended to (almost no) pressure and decided to start putting up my novella on these here pages. Anyone with an allergy to spectacularly mediocre sci-fi is advised to look away... now!
Well, I guess I am, but at the very least it's my birthday and I'll post what I want to. With that in mind, some whiny white boy music from a band that needs a bit more exposure: The Answering Machine.
Also, following a discussion with a friend not so long ago, and since I'm about to get a free copy of the sequel printed (God bless you, NaNoWriMo), I've finally bended to (almost no) pressure and decided to start putting up my novella on these here pages. Anyone with an allergy to spectacularly mediocre sci-fi is advised to look away... now!
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
SpaceSquid vs. The X-Men #13: Prodigal Son
Vulcan is a slave. Stolen from Earth with his father, inside his mother, by an alien space craft. Cut from a dead womb by an insane alien emperor. Force-grown in a vat and pressed into service at a Shi'ar outpost on Earth. His master there is Davan Shakari. We might also call him Vulcan's father. After all, everything he learns about life is gifted to him in that prison; obedience without understanding. Escaping, ultimately, with his life but not his memories, he is accepted into the care of Moira MacTaggert. He calls himself Gabriel, but that is not who he is. He calls himself free, but that is not what he is. Slaves do not become free simply because they are separated from their masters. Sons do not become adults simply because they are separated from their fathers.Vulcan is separated from both his fathers. Vulcan is a slave.
But then, how can he ever become anything else? Fathers demand obedience, but the good ones teach duty, too. Obedience without duty can only be instilled and enforced by punishment and pain and fear. The constant stimulation of the reptile brain, to prevent the higher consciousness from questioning, or reasoning an escape. This is what Gabriel is, a slave, following orders without understanding them. Even after his escape from the Shi'ar, his memories mercifully repressed, he is still a slave. How could he not be? To remove slavery from Gabriel would be to remove his entire self. His memories may have gone, or been lost, or deliberately discarded, but the bedrock remains. As long as he can still walk, or talk, or fight, or scream at the world, he can still access pieces of what he once was. And all he once was or will be is a slave.
This is why he went to Krakoa. Why he accepted his place in Xavier's hastily assembled emergency squad: four teenagers hoping they could succeed where six others with far more experience had failed so quickly they didn't even have the time to feel their fall. Obedience, not duty. He was called to work for Xavier, and he did so without question. Xavier became his third father. As a result of which, fully one half of the four friends he had in the world were brutally killed, and he was left to rot inside a hole inside an island inside infinite nothingness.
Not surprisingly, he is furious. He manipulates energy, channels it, augments it. The energy generated by his anger is something he has had years to throw into a loop of positive feedback. Every iteration makes him stronger, makes him more furious. By the time the resulting wave of power from M-Day reaches him, he has channeled and re-channeled the energy so many times that it's all he can see, all he holds. His only card.
The prodigal son returns to Earth, and the only father he knows that he has. Like all prodigal sons, this one has failed his father. But his father failed him, too, taught him obedience without duty, and then forgot him. Forced others to forget him, as it turns out. Cyclops cannot play the role of outraged older brother in this fucked-up parable, because he has been denied his part by his father. Gabriel means to see that the scales are righted, and that he receives his fatted calf. He will be remembered.
The pathos of Gabriel's story, the overarching tragedy of his life that informs and is informed by every lesser tragedy, is that he goes about seeking justice in the most unjust manner possible. He has no duty, no understanding, simply a desire to make his father pay. Now once more he has a choice, and chooses to be a slave; this time to his anger. Anger doesn't understand. It demands obedience. In service to that anger, Gabriel murders Banshee. A fellow former X-Man, a title Gabriel once believed to be what he wanted most. A lover to the only woman Gabriel could plausibly call mother. Banshee dies a hero. He too has a choice, to flee the aeroplane Gabriel is attempting to destroy, or try to save it; to use his shredded vocal chords one last time to keep innocents alive. He embraces duty, because he understands it. He would say that he had no other choice, but that is a lie. The truth is that he had no other right choice.
The plane is destroyed anyway. Men and women and children die in flames. Gabriel doesn't notice. He simply moves on to his next target. Anger doesn't understand.
Ultimately, Vulcan achieves his goal, but at a greater price than he expects. Demanding Marvel Girl help Xavier telepathically unearth the truth to Scott and the X-Men, Gabriel is remembered, but he also remembers. Remembers Shakari and the prison. Remembers Emperor D'Ken and the blood of the womb and of his dead mother. Gaining his revenge on Xavier is now far less important than vengeance against the insane ruler of the Shi'ar. One moment Gabriel stands poised to kill Xavier, the next he is in deep space, heading for the Emperor with the speed of light, and of anger.
He is so caught up in his visions of justice that he fails to notice the truth of what Xavier has shown the others. Gabriel could have left Krakoa with his brother, seen him and his team safely home. Planned their next strike more carefully. Gathered greater numbers. Already it seems clear that the island is too strong for them.
He doesn't, of course. Slavery is obedience without understanding. His master and his father have given him his orders. He returns to the jungle with his team, to prove himself an X-Man, and moments later Sway is dead, and Petra is dead, and Darwin is missing, and he is trapped. The failure is his. His duty was to protect his team, but he never learned what duty was. He is still a child, separated from his parents.
He makes this point to himself as he rots in a Shi'ar jail, one eye taken from him by the Imperial Guard who subdued him for daring to threaten their emperor. His remaining eye turns inward, seeing himself as a child, berating him.
"They're right about you," he tells himself, "You know that? You're just a widdle baby".
Helpless, Gabriel demands himself shut the Hell up. Not a particularly sensible sentence to write, but sense has long since left the building. "... You're finally a fifteen-year-old. Though, mature-wise, I'm thinking closer to thirteen."
He is a child, separated from all his fathers.
The knife is twisted.
"Is that what you really are? Just some weak little kid who thought he was all grown up?"
Gabriel knows the truth. Like his fathers, he is no fool. Like his brothers, he is broken, and he knows it.
Gabriel is like his brothers in many other ways, and different in still more. That's what brothers are, all oscillation and destructive interference. No two brothers, or three, are the same. No two brothers, or three, have the same father. To Scott, Charles Xavier is truth and Christopher Summers is a disappointment. To Alex, Xavier is the measure of his failings, and Summers is an enigma. To Gabriel, Xavier and manipulation and Summers is an enemy. To all of them, to all of us, fathers are all these things, and more, and less.
Eventually, children grow up. Scott learns to question Xavier and accept Summers. Alex learns to measure his own worth, and to understand his father's motivations. Gabriel rebels, though, refuses to grow up even once he knows he has to. Charles remains the manipulator, responsible for every choice Vulcan makes. Summers remains the enemy, right up to the very moment when Vulcan breaks him, light-years from home, and throws his corpse beside the body of Emperor D'Ken, to lie bloody and pointless in front of the M'Kraan crystal that began it all. Summers dies on a rocky world no-one should ever want. But Gabriel wants it. He wants it all. He wants Deathbird as his bride, and through her the Empire. Rather than reach for maturity, he reaches for power, because he thinks power is anathema to helplessness and helplessness is for slaves.
He is wrong. Power and freedom are not the same thing. Gabriel is powerful and helpless. Helpless to keep the Shi'ar rebelling against his rule. Helpless against the attacking Scy'ar Tal. Helpless against his own ossified view of the universe; the certainty that others are to blame, that every atrocity he commits can be laid at someone else's door, and that another atrocity is needed in revenge.
Vulcan is a slave.
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