#AND THAT POINT I HADNT EVEN READ THE NOVELS YET BUT SOMEHOW I WAS RIGHT
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genuinely so funny how every single time the clip where kano turns into haruka gets posted in the harutaka bot at least a few ppl will qrt saying WHAT WAS HIS PROBLEM
#i remember there was a mekakucity actors crack yt video THAT I WAS NEVER ABLE TO FIND AGAIN IT'S PROB BEEN DELETED#that had that scene with the you're the jerk of the week song#dude the kano hate that went around after episode 7. CRAZY#proud to say i loved kano since the beginning. no one had to convince me. AND my favorite character is ENE#WHO HE'S REALLY REALLY MEAN TO#i was seeing the vision since day 1#and i was 13 i had like no reason to be reading into it that muchbut i was like nah.... he's projecting onto her...#AND THAT POINT I HADNT EVEN READ THE NOVELS YET BUT SOMEHOW I WAS RIGHT#but idc i've always liked him. i've been actually the one to convince other ppl to like kano#kagevinnie
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Thursday, December 13, 1979
2 PM on a cold, rainy afternoon. I felt good today even though I didnt sleep very well last night. But I got out of the house this morning at 7 AM and drove to the Junction; because of the LIRR strike, theres no alternate parking.
Getting a seat on the train, I arrived at SVA around 8:30 AM. I entertained my class by reading them my own stories and Crad Kilodneys, and when they enjoyed them, I felt good about it.
On Tuesday were having a party; I can do the final grades this weekend, and then Ill be free of responsibilities.
Theres much to dislike about this city, yet I feel an overwhelming affectionate loyalty to New York. I cant imagine any other place making me feel this good.
I guess its like the old house in Brooklyn: I miss it terribly. I imagine coming home in the middle of the day, walking in to the hustle and bustle of Maud cleaning, Mom putting away groceries, Jonny working out to loud music in the basement.
Sometimes I feel like looking back six months and wondering how it got to be this way. If Mom and Dad hadnt moved, I probably would have gone to Albany; I wonder how I would have liked it.
There are moments I cant believe Im living alone in New York City in 1979. It definitely feels like the end of the decade. The Iranian crisis seems to drag on monstrously, as if the hostages will never be released.
What if Im going to die with the decade? I think Id die happy. I accomplished a lot more than I ever thought I would. If I die, Ill be leaving something behind: a book, lots of stories, my diaries, memories of a lot of people.
Lets just put it this way: Im prepared to die, but Im also prepared to live. God knows what my world will be like in another ten years, but Im certain its going to be an interesting time.
Perhaps many people would say I lived a sheltered life, that Ive missed so much and at times I feel that, too but on the whole (are we getting really banal here?), Ive enjoyed myself enormously.
Maybe one day Ill look back on this particular time with nostalgia, the way I now look upon my undergraduate days. I can always talk about the time I lived like a pauper in Rockaway, just on the verge of success.
I finished reading The Glittering Prizes; I loved it and identified like mad with its protagonist, Adam Morris, the writer who finally makes it and yet doesnt make it.
One day I may be pretty rich, and I predict I wont be happier at that time than I
Dont get me wrong: Im still very scared about the future. But somehow, at least right now, it doesnt matter so much what happens to me.
Monday, December 17, 1979
9 PM. Its so cold I cant think of anything else. Theres absolutely no heat and the wind-chill factor is six below zero. I dont know how Im going to get through the night.
I have on thermal underwear and a bathrobe, and Im under three blankets and a heating pad. The wind is racing through my apartment. Even my diary is as cold as ice. God knows how Ill sleep tonight.
All I can think about it is that in a week Ill be in Florida. I feel miserable right now, unable to enjoy even the good things that happened today. Ironically, they passed a rent fuel-pass-along increase today; Ill be damned if Im going to pay it.
Damn landlords! They suck. How many people all over New York must be freezing like I am because of their landlords stupid greed. I just want to get out of New York.
Today I definitely decided that I must be out of here as soon as I can. Ill take any job out of town, and if I dont get one, Ill move in with my parents. Living alone in New York sucks.
Hell, today I was videotaped for a PBS documentary, was invited to read my fiction at the University of Louisvilles Annual Conference on 20th Century Literature, got a letter from John Gardner praising me for my writing, found a press release from Taplinger containing great quotes from reviews, and got a letter from Susan Fromberg Schaeffer telling me to hang on.
Can I hang on? Not much longer. Im wildly unhappy.
I suppose thats narcissism. Maybe Im wrong. I probably am. Still, I know what it feels like to go to bed cold and to feel as though life isnt worth living. My problem is that I know that life is worth living: I see people who lead satisfying and comfortable lives, but Im just not among them.
People like Roger Weisberg, the PBS producer, or Gregory Jackson, the host of the program who interviewed me: theyve made it. They can take time out
But they dont live the lives that more unfortunate people do. They ride taxis and dont have to wait an hour for a subway to get from Columbus Circle to Washington Square, the way I did.
I hope my interview does some good, but I doubt it will, for there will always be greedy people like Fabrikant making money off others misery. Fabrikant was evil; my landlord is evil; they are banal, but then you know Hannah Arendt.
Someday, if I survive, a lot of good is going to come out of this pain. Still, on the whole, it would be better not to have to go through this.
Hell, this is not the diary entry I wanted to write. I would have liked to give detailed descriptions of my day with the TV crew of From Back Wards to Back Streetsand write about my feelings about the nice mail I got today.
But the mail uppermost in my mind are the bills. Im almost to the point where I cant think about art because my necessities arent provided for.
Tuesday, December 18, 1979
The heat finally did come on late last night and I did sleep fairly well. This morning I found I had a flat tire, so I took the subway to school: four different trains in the rush hour, and I was still half an hour late to SVA. We had a so-so party; most of my class went to a better one next door. I showed up with my fly open, which sort of set the mood for the day.
It was freezing again. When I got home, I called the AAA, and when they came, they inflated my tire, and I went to buy a new one: another $57 gone.
The toilet stopped up, and Tom, the Irish handyman, came up and fixed it. He said my bed was in bad spot between the two windows, and so we moved it. After Tom left, I rearranged the other furniture for half an hour, but finally I think Ive got it the way I want it. It does feel warmer this way.
At SVA, I handed in my grades, and so for the next six weeks I am a free man! Ive decided not to do the textbook job, as it just isnt worth the hassles to be paid so little.
The item was called The Wrath of Fred, and referred to me as playful prankster Richard Grayson. (I like that, I must admit.) It was about Silverman and NBCs peacock getting their feathers ruffled by my joke about drafting him for President.
It was quite sympathetic to me, who was portrayed as a nice pract
On Saturday, Marie told her that Melvin mentioned reading about me and seeing my book in the window of the Waldenbooks on Wall Street. Among people who know me, Im sure, Im being talked about.
Susan Schaeffer wrote that with your writing ability and genius for publicity, youll make it. Pack a box lunch. Besides, she said, I should get some satisfaction knowing that every success I have just makes Baumbach madder.
I do like Susan. Shes recommending me to Yaddo and MacDowell.
And did The Conference on 20th Century Literature in Louisville wants me to read Nice Weather, Arent We. I think its worth it for me to go. Ill
Mom and Dad said theyll pay for my fare, and there should be a small honorarium. I just want to go to a place where Ill be treated with respect, so Ill go to Louisville at the end of February and hope it will be a good experience.
Wednesday, December 19, 1979
10 PM. Last night I finished Scott Sommers Nearings Grace and was very impressed with it. Its a novel that worked totally for me; it was quite moving.
Moving the bed was the smartest thing I ever did, as I didnt freeze last night and slept well. It felt luxurious to lie in bed all morning, especially on a snowy day like today. I spent the morning in my underwear, cleaning, exercising, taking care of correspondence, watching game shows, and just enjoying my freedom.
Too bad about the snow, but I didnt really have to go anywhere. About three or four inches fell, and it was slippery, so I decided not to drive and went to Kings Plaza by bus.
Back home, I did the laundry, read the papers, made dinner. When Mom called, I managed to sound less depressed than I had during our last conversation. In five days Ill be in Florida for what will be both a homecoming and a visit.
Ive been living on my own for two months now, a fact which still amazes me at odd moments. Today, for example, I was putting a new roll of paper towels in the thingamajig in the kitchen when it suddenly struck me: I have my own apartment.
Friends are very important; I feel closer to Alice and Avis and Ronna, all of whom I talked to today, than I do to any member of my family. Yet theres something in a family that friends cant duplicate.
Gee, Im starting to get nervous about flying. Last Saturdays anx
Especially after the past few days, I need a warmer climate, and I need a respite in order to marshal my resources for what I dont know, but Ive gone through so many changes that I need to rest up and take stock.
1979 has been the year I finally took risks. My book was published, and I became something of a celebrity. I moved out on my own. My parents moved to Florida. I began therapy again. I taught another six college classes and earned more money than I ever had though not enough, certainly, for me to support myself comfortably.
Will I ever stop being so frightened? I feel a need to shiver, to be held by someone wholl tell me that its all going to be all right. How about my trying it myself? Richie, everythings going to be all right.
(Convincing?)
Thursday, December 20, 1979
4 PM. It will be dark soon. This is a very strange time in my life; I feel as though Im going through new experiences all the time. Now that Im free of school, I have time to reflect on all the changes.
Ive been annoyed by the artificial parts of my body in need of repair: my capped tooth and my left contact lens. But I want to postpone work on t
Maybe Im placing too much hope on this trip. Twenty-five days in Florida is not going to change my life. In a month, Ill be back here and there still will be two months of winter to get through and Ill have a hectic schedule teaching, and no doubt Ill be miserable again.
I dont have much to look forward to. But slowly my life is changing. The accumulation of publicity is working. Every day I meet someone or hear of a third person whos seen my name in the papers.
Last night Pete Cherches said that Bruce Chadwick exclaimed that Id gone out of kilter because my name is in the Post every other day.
Is there any point in it? I think so. The point is I need an escape hatch from a dull, impoverished existence. Im aware that my playful prankster activities are moronic, but they do seem to have value in the eyes of the media and hence the public.
That Ive become a minor celebrity is actually a sad commentary on the times: people are so starved for gossip, trivia and weirdness.
But writing, after all, is the important thing. Today my story, Douglas,
But Im finished with that stage of my career. I need to go on to something new. I know Ive been saying that for a year and a half, and in all that time, Ive written almost nothing. Yet I am a writer, and eventually Ill find what needs writing about.
Last night I called Ronna to say goodbye. She said that Susan and Evan saw the two copies of Hitler in Waldenbooks at Kings Plaza and looked through them (of course they didnt buy).
Evan told Ronna that she should get a good libel lawyer. What an asshole he is: he and Susan are little people living little lives. Susan must hate me
As Crad Kilodney says, You should take satisfaction where it comes because theres not much of it around.
So I have no money, but I did fulfill my dreams. I know this must sound pompous Im sure Ronna would say it does but I dont care anymore. After all, this is my diary.
This morning when he phoned, Josh said hes sending out rsums again. What a drag. I cant take this adjunct business for another year; forgive me, Father, if I think Im too good for it.
Tomorrows the shortest day of the year, but then the days start to become longer, and in Florida it gets dark later. The driving wasnt too hazardous
Since neither Marc nor Avis can drive me to the airport, I guess Ill have to take a cab: The guy whos driven everyone to the airport all these years finally gets to go somewhere on a plane himself and theres nobody to take me.
My Wizard Owl air freshener is staring at me questioningly.
* 11:30 PM. What is it that impels us to live? The cockroach that kept escaping me today had whatever it is. And I, for the moment, have it, too.
I’ve just trudged up the block: a desolate winter landscape of dirty snow and ice melted and refrozen. Yet I looked up, and surprisingly, the stars were out, very bright and numerous. Orion’s belt looked so sharp, I felt it was
This evening I went to dinner at my grandparents’. Their kindly questions, as usual, had obvious answers: When you put the laundry in the machine, did you put in detergent, too? When you made eggs, did you clean the skillet? God bless them.
Grandpa Herb will be 76 today, in a few minutes, when it’s the shortest day of the year and the start of winter. On Monday night, my grandparents will have been married fifty years.
When I returned from my grandparents, I decided to do some phoning. I reached Elihu just as he was going out. Scott Sommer hasnt been home for days. Gary wasnt in, nor was Mikey.
I decided to call Evie Wagner; I had passed the old block today when I went to Deutsch Pharmacy to get myself enough Triavils to last me through Florida.
To pass the time, I called Mrs. Judson. Wayne answered and said he had to wake up his mother anyway.
Mrs. Judson told me theyve extended her unemployment benefits, and in January the government will begin retraining her, perhaps as a keypu
The leather industry in this country is dying; Mrs. Judsons boss had to go out of business.
Maybe it will come back one day, she said. Who would imagine that at 56, Im going to learn something new?
We had a great conversation, and then I put in my lenses and drove into Brooklyn for the wake, which was in a giant funeral parlor on Bay Parkway.
Lou and Ev
Her father-in-law died on Tuesday night, a week after an apparently successful hip operation. Mr. Bisogno lay in the open coffin, his hands folded around a rosary; he looked very serene.
Jerry seemed very upset, of course. But he was gracious enough to introduce me to his sister-in-law Louise, the playwright who eit
Shes a lovely woman, slim with blonde frizzed hair, green eyes and age lines that show character.
She told me how she and her husband began by taking teleplay writing courses at The New School.
Louise has been working as a social studies teacher in Westchester, but now CBS has offered her a job writing a long form story for their soaps. She wants to make the sho
Herb Brodkin wanted her play on abortion and euthanasia, and theyre working on a deal for it to appear on a TV network.
Louise told me that at her age, she feels she has to make up for lost time. But I think she must have more discipline than young writers; moreover, shes suffered and survived I can see that in her face.
I was so taken with her that I stayed until the funeral parlor closed.
Then me who knows Brooklyn like the back of his hand got abs
Still, I loved driving around Brooklyn on a (now) winter night. It made me feel .
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Know Your Enemy: Celebrating 50 Years of the Forever War
Robert Sammelin
No one drank more than the scientist. Every night, after whatever patriotic black-tie gala marriage played props at, he could be found at the hotel bar, trying to extract existential meaning from a banana colada. It was an odd drinking of option for such a serious human, but only once did he respond to our interrogations about it.
It pleases the nerve fibers, he said, all baritone to his voice, before disappearing into the chilled yellow muck again. We were in New Tulsa, debriefing after a grueling dinner with a bunch of white-haired solar energy exec. Wed been on the road for months, and morale used to go the way of the glacier. I ordered a round for the table, and we toasted to the hustle. Heroes of the nation, peddling war bonds by day, drinking like froufrous by night. Our drill instructor would not have been proud.
Maybe it wasnt New Tulsa. Maybe itd been in Charlotte after the fund-raiser with the nanofinance douchebags. Anyhow.
There were 11 of us on the bond drive, 12 if you included the JngerBot. The Forever War had just entered its sixth decade, and our politicians didnt pretend they were going to end it anymore, even during elections. They couldnt. Wed tried everything: nation-building, nation-destroying, sending terrorists and their families to the Mars penal colony, sending the rebel Young Siberians to actual Siberia. Nothing had worked. We were at war because we always had been. We were at war because we always would be. We were at war because we were at war.
Matt Gallagher
About
Matt Gallagher is the author of the novel Youngblood and the Iraq memoir Kaboom: Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War.
The government decided to celebrate the Forever Wars golden anniversary with loud, shiny bombast. We were part of that bombast. AMERICAS HEROES, TOGETHER AT LAST, ran the tagline. We were like a roving assortment act, but without name recognition or singing or sex appeal. Without anything, truly. Just pasts wiped clean with the antiseptic of narrative. So we stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our tales to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.
After the coladas, I settled the tab and excused myself. The younger veterinarians night was just beginning, but mine was nearing its end. In the queue for the teleporter to the rooms, a human about my age waited behind me. He wore a rumpled dress shirt and an overlong tie-in and a goatee on the brink of coherence.
He was looking everywhere but my hoverchair. People with legs always do that. It reminds me of the route some men used to try very hard not to look at my cleavage when I was younger. The endeavor simply underlines the fixation.
Thank you, he said. For what you did.
Thank you for your supporting, I told, a answer as hollow as it was practiced. He mustve been at the event earlier.
Cancan I tell you something?
Sure, I told. Women in military uniforms have this impact on men in dress shirts, for some reason. If youd like to.
I wanted to be a recon marine when I was a kid. He said it like it was a church confession, something hidden away in the lost rifts of his soul for decades. Did the recon workout at the gym for years, he continued. Stupid, I know.
I nodded, both because it was stupid and because I knew.
Youre a bona fide hero. The men segue was as graceful as a startled dog, but it was late. That scientist, though. Hes killing people. And not only the enemy.
I thought about “the mens” words. They were true enough. So what would you do? I asked. If you were him.
Me? The man stroked his goatee. I wouldnt even know.
Pragmatically, I told. Youre the scientist. You live in this country. The wars happening. You can perhaps aim it or not. Either style, people succumb. What do you do?
II object to the question. And to the idea. Im not him. The human voice had a quiver to it now. Not an angry quiver, either. A frightened one. I was just sayingI dont think its right. Thats all.
OK, I said. Night. It was my turning at the teleporter. I get in and went to my room. I didnt begrudge the man his opting out. We all had in some manner. Even us.
Especially us.
The Federals had discovered me at my sisters, on the porch, scrolling through a holopad article about the rabid lemur thatd killed Justin Bieber Jr. Furious George Howls With Delight! read the headline. Its always spooky when sons succumb the same way their fathers did. The past comprehend us all, eventually. Even Biebers.
I was on my seventh year of an indefinite visit, still sleeping in a bare guest room. A potted flower or framed scene would have felt like marks of permanence, somehow. Id been living in increments since high school and wasnt about to stop simply because I couldnt figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
Theywell, welived at the top of a windy mound in a suburbium of a suburbium, wedged between a stand of wild honeysuckle and a pond shaped like a swollen snout. It was green and quiet. The kind of place where big flags hung from porches with humility. I taught painting at the community center and took my nieces to soccer practice and spend my Saturday nights at the one townie bar that served ros.
The life didnt induce me happy or anything, but it could have. Maybe should have.
There were three of them. They all wore jeans and plaid shirts of differing blandness. Id have expected suits and black sunglasses, but the decay effects of after-empire were reaching and vast.
Chief Warrant Officer Valerie Speer? one said. Well, asked. I didnt look my part, either. Female veterinarians tend to cut a certain mold. A liter-sized gremlin in a gardening hat wasnt it.
They told me about the bond drive. About how it would inspire patriotism again in the hearts and minds of the person or persons. About how it would get everyday citizens invested in the wars again.( Like they ever were. I knew the history .) About how the governmental forces needed the money, how 50 years of blowing up things in strange, faraway places had taken its toll on the budget, especially since the geothermal insurgency in Blue Russia began eating away at Uncle sam foreign trade.
About how the bond drive needed a woman on it, because they had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot, and showing that heroes were as diverse as the country mattered.
I laughed. A female. I danced my metal fingers through the air. In the right sun my prosthetics could look like flesh. We werent in it. Thats why you need me.
That made the two men in jeans and plaid look down at the ground, but the woman Fed just stared at me.
Youre Valerie Speer, she said. The tone in her voice sounded so earnest it snapped. Do you know what you mean to my generation of status of women? I joined the agency because of you.
She was lying about that, I was almost sure. But shed appealed to my pride. I danced my fingers through the air again and took in all the green, all the quiet. Seven years here. Seven years that had induced me soft. Did people my age go on escapades anymore?
I requested information about financial compensation.
Heres the thing about being labeled a war hero: You either love it or hate it. Theres little space for mixed impressions. Take the scientist. Invented a drone mosquito that gives people the runs, sold it to the military, and stopped the Arabican conflict practically overnight. You cant fire a rifle when youre crapping out your brains. But some of the mosquitoes werent as specific as billed. During strafes, they bit foes and civilians alike. Which wouldnt have mattered much had we been fighting in the developed world. We werent, though. Outbreaks of dysentery and super-cholera followed, and the last UN estimate I watched numbered deaths in the tens of thousands.
The bond drive needed a woman on it. They already had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot.
The scientist had ended a war all with his mind. Yet the only thing he wanted in the world was to return to his lab, to his anonymity, and forget any of it ever happened.
The JngerBot seemed to resent the attention for other reasons. It didnt know what to induce of people, and truth be told, people didnt know what to attain of it. They could handle robots, had been dealing with them all their lives. Even the rough-and-tumble behaviour of a regular InfantryBot could be explained away. But an elite InfantryBot 5000 upgraded with the transcendental heroism and philosophical musings of decorated German World War I soldier Ernst Jnger? That caused some issues.
The anarch wages his own wars, the JngerBot said at a fund-raiser to a journalist whod would like to know whether it missed battle. Even when marching in rank and file.
Before a boxing prizefight, the JngerBot felt it necessary to remind the crowd what was what. Furrow opposing is the bloodiest, wildest, most brutal of all, it said to 70,000 drunk revelers in Vegas. Of all the wars exciting moments , none is so powerful as the session of two cyclone troop leaders between narrow trench walls. Theres no compassion there , no going back. The blood speaks from a shrill exclaim of recognition that tears itself from ones breast like a nightmare.
And then there were the children.
It told a 10 -year old with a JngerBot poster on his wall that killing an adversary would be a finer tribute. And when a bank presidents “girls ” pointed to us and asked if we were heroes, the JngerBot objected as only it could TAGEND
Heroes deeds and heroes graves, it said. Old and new you here may assure. How the Empire was created. How the Empire was preserved. It paused. We sought the death of heroes. There is no lovelier demise in the world.
The little girls face paled to glass as her father resulted her away. We all laughed about it , no one harder or longer than Dizzy. Dizzy was a walking, talking debate for breeding the remaining cis-males out of the gene pool, if only he hadnt been so pretty. Drone pilots. They think theyre so starfish because they can laser insurrectionists dead from space. And Dizzy was an superstar. He adored every minute of the bond drive, “members attention”, the parties, the hoverfloat rides, the certain type of female patriot who wanted to see the view from his hotel balcony. Beats going back to Pueblo and coaching CrossFit, hed tell, before unleashing that smile of full, fluoride shine. God, he could charm the sorcery underwear off a Mormon.
Would try, at least.
Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Maybe it was three Iraq wars ago.
Dizzy and the younger vets on the bond drive are always privateersmercenaries if youre the protest, virtual-petition kind. WarriorCorps and Foreign Legion Inc. and Armed Humanitarianism Limited and the like. I was hybrid: part contractor but also part national military, before that ran extinct during the Whig Revolt of 36. Merely Emo Carlos was old enough to have been GI from beginning to end. Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Perhaps it was three Iraq wars ago. Anyhow. We asked Emo Carlos about it over sushi, after a parade in Cleveland.
Jumped on a grenade at a checkpoint, he told, defining down his chopsticks with a shrug. Didnt go off.
We hollered and banged the table just because we could. Itd been a couple decades since anything but a bot had been close enough to a grenade to do anything like that. Even the JngerBot conveyed its admiration.
Defective? I asked.
Emo Carlos nodded. One in a million, they said.
What happened then? Dizzy asked.
The creases in Emo Carlos forehead folded into one another like papier-mch. He usually never talked about anything but drumming for his old-man punk band. Theyd served together back in the day and were known across the greater Rochester area as the Infidels. Geriatric humor.
Stood up, he said. Dusted off. Looked down. Realise Id pissed myself.
We hollered and banged the table all over again.
An elderly couple came over to us subsequently. Theyd overheard our conversation and wanted to say thank you. They said they had two grandsons in privateer training.
I know our thanks is a small thing, the spouse said. He and his wife looked so cute in their nice old-people clothes, khakis and sweaters and thick-rimmed glasses. They looked like other peoples grandparents always look. But sometimes its all those of us here can offer.
The wife nodded. Were all involved, she told. We believe that. As taxpayers, as citizens, thats how it is. Were with you.
We thanked them for thanking us and they left the restaurant.
What did she mean, Were all involved? Dizzy asked. No theyre not.
There were echoes of agreement and deliberation over what the old woman had meant, and not just about the word involved . Also about the word we .
Yo, Emo Carlos told. The table hushed. Theyre from my hour. When wars had objectives. When citizens tried to keep up. America used to be young. Thats what she meant.
Then say that, Dizzy told. Taxes? Who the fucking cares.
Emo Carlos shook his head again. He was trying to clear himself of frustrations, either with himself or with us. Then he pointed at me. Sent her to the damn moon. Supposed to save us all, putting the wars up there. Preserve the land and resources, remove civilian demises. Be tidy and simple. That was the plan.
And no one ever went back, Dizzy told. The game changed.
Well. Emo Carlos giggled. Military lesson numero uno, son, he said. No plan survives first contact.
The rest of us chuckled along with the old wisdom. Everyone but the scientist, who sat off by himself in the corner. He looked up at us with something between sadness and ferocity. It was hard to decide which.
Tidy and simple, he said. I like that.
When my nieces turn 12 and gain access to FreedomNet, they will find these three paragraphs about their aunt, etched into the digital histories forever and ever TAGEND Valerie Jade Speer( born May 2, 2011) was a chief warrant officer( air) and assault pilot in the United States Army and later the privateer organization Star Spangled Security. She was awarded the Star of Valor in 2042 for her actions during the Battle on the Moon, of which she was the only survivor . Deployed to the moon as part of the NATO coalition during the course of its South Seas dispute, Speer flew a Flying Yeager fusion helocraft during the battle, destroying five Chinese Federation space-helos and two Young Siberian cosmo-planes. Struck by an enemy dwarf ballistic, Speer crash-landed into the Titius Crater. She was thus sheltered from the amaze thermonuclear strike carried out by the Young Siberians that killed all other fighters and blew the hole in the moon now known as Putins Smile . Initially presumed dead, Speer was found during NATO recovery operations two days after the end of the combat. She lost three extremities, suffered burns over much of her body, and survived over 90 surgeries. President Natasha Obama told Speers life and narrative are a testament to the American spirit at her Star of Valor ceremony at the White House .
Words can be funny beasts. Her actions suggest some sort of agency, even control. Destroy is such a clean term for such messiness. Struck by defied my memory of it. Same with crash-landed.
Less so with lost. And suffered.
Testament. As if enduring were a selection. I did what anyone would have. There are no atheists in moon craters. And there are no fatalists in survivor wards of one.
I was thinking about that ward as I zipped up my suitcase in my sisters guest room for the bond drive. Thinking about the long stills of quiet during the nights. Guessing about being “ve called the” Burn by nurses who guessed I couldnt hear them. Supposing about the full-thickness graft done without anesthesia.
You sure about this, Val? My sister stood in the doorway. Her posture betrayed opposition. She was four years older and had always asked me questions that she already had answers for. You have options.
Shed said the same years prior, before Id left for the moon.
I am, I told both times, even though I wasnt both days. Id always detected power and resolve in ambiguity, though. Most people werent like that. My sister, for one.
Youve done more than your share, she continued, moving to the bed and putting her arm around my shoulder. So much more. I leaned my head into her and tried to hold in some of the familial warmth. Id miss it, I knew. Only sisters and nieces hug people like me. I dont think its right.
I smiled at that.
Its not, I told. But. If not me, then who?
Even running can be its own form of opting out. I didnt know that the first time. But I did the second. The last night in the guest room, as I tossed and turned in bed, I thought about that. Then I thought about the survivor ward again. And the long stills of quiet during the nights. And being “ve called the” Burn. And the graft.
Somewhere between Omaha and Tesla City, I began to realize just how different the younger vets were. It wasnt simply that they were privateers, either, or that they called adversary combatants pixels as an insult. Dizzy and his crew, they crowed about their service. Owned their superiority, then basked in it.
Do soldiers think theyre better than citizens? Of course. It has nothing to do with what did or didnt happen in their service, either. It has to do with the very notion of joining up. Americas been at war since before most of us were born. We joined because we wanted to go. Wed been told we were special from day one of boot camp, doing something the rest of our nation couldnt. Or worse, wouldnt. Too fat. Too selfish. Too lazy. Which made the realization after we got out that citizens think were beneath them all the more shocking. If theyre fat, selfish, and lazy, then whats worse than that?
We werent supposed to say any of that, though. My generation didnt, at least. We were taught that part of our service was biding quiet about it. To rise above, because thats what Jesus and George Washington and Beyonc wouldve wanted.
Thats what I did. Or tried to, at the least. Let the citizenry think what it wants, ran the logic. All part of being a republic.
Maybe we had it incorrect, though.
I wondered about that the night the protester confronted us. We were in Washington for a gala. Ordinarily “were in” ushered in through side or back door for events, but the organizers of this one had us walking in on a red carpet, through a galaxy of flashing lightings and holographic cameras.
Finally, Dizzy told, pausing to adjust his bow affiliation and lick his front teeth. The treatment we deserve.
Why the protester chose the JngerBot to cream-pie, Ill never know. By the time the uproar had reached my ears and Id floated around in my chair, the JngerBot had the young man by the throat. Request order to remove home-front adversary, it said, which was funny, and then not.
We got the young man free of the JngerBots prongs. He was reed-thin and had thick brown curls with eyes as dark and mad as the moon. I didnt know what to think about him or his pie. People didnt protest war in person anymore. It wasnt sane behavior.
Youre not heroes, he told. His terms were shaky. Its never easy coming face to face with people youve demonized. Or cockpit to cockpit. Youre tools of empire. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.
The cameras along the walkway started popping off like mortars. We all only stood there, waiting out his denunciation, because we were there to be seen and applauded , nothing else. His anger dazed me, and the others too. Not Dizzy, though.
Get bent, joker, Dizzy told, intersecting his arms for the cameras. War is bad? No shit. But it wont go forth just cause we want it to. Last month, two brigades from the same base get deployed. One goes to Kurd Mountain, saves those households from the horde. The other goes to Blue Russia, blows up some insurrectionists. Ones a humanitarian mission. The others combat. Both involve destruction.
Id never heard Dizzy speak with eloquence and passion before. He was good, and he knew it. He pressed on.
This JngerBot is a goddamn national gem. I dont know what brought you here tonight, and I dont dedicate a single fucking. We went so you dont “re going to have to”. Suck my hero balls.
The arrogance. The entitlement. The narrowness of thought. I loved it all, and I wasnt the only one. The red carpet explosion with applause. Dizzy even took a bow. But the acclaim wasnt universal.
After the protester had been escorted away and wed run inside for the gala, the scientist saw Dizzy. Dont do that again, he said. He loomed over the younger human like an angry parent. That guy is not your adversary. Neither is anyone else youve met on this stupid tour.
He aint a friend. Dizzy was trying to sound unbothered, and he leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the table. So what is he?
Only morons speak in absolutes, the scientist said.
Dizzy changed tactics. You know what he likely thinks about you? he asked. What all these people say when they think we cant hear? I had a woman tell me she didnt think we were whole human beings. Fuck her, and fuck that protester. Fuck all of them.
I wondered what the answers were to Dizzys questionwhat did people say about us? When they thought about us at all. Beyond the pomp and rite of the bond drive, we werent anything, I supposed. Just ciphers with tales people believed in, or didnt believe in, even before they heard them.
So. What. The scientists voice turned to iron as he responded to Dizzy. Thats the job. We have consequences.
Dizzy opened his mouth, but the scientist cut him off. You did . You did when you didnt “re going to have to”. Thats enough. It has to be. Then he stormed off, presumably for the hotel bar.
The scientist opted out that night. The rest of us did too, by doing the job. We stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our stories to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.
We walked back to the hotel as a group after the jamboree. We stopped in a park with green lawns and a marble fountain and joked about the protester, giggled about the scientist. The scientist had been right, but so what? What did being right have to do with anything? Dizzy had regained whatever force-out it was that sustained him and began chatting up a pair of young women who considered themselves patriots. I watched it all and thought about the ward and then my sisters home. The JngerBot came up beside me.
You managed that pie well, I told it. It didnt say anything, so I continued. Waiting for an order, I mean.
Here is our kingdom, the best use of monarchies, the best republic, the JngerBot told. Here is our garden, our happiness.
What a random thing to tell, I thought. Even for a robot. But subsequently, after considering it more, I decided otherwise.
The Fiction Issue
Tales From an Uncertain Future
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