#Tucson crash

[jessica-marie-baumgartner]

This is insane

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Too big to care

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in BOSTON with Randall "XKCD" Munroe (Apr 11), then PROVIDENCE (Apr 12), and beyond!

Remember the first time you used Google search? It was like magic. After years of progressively worsening search quality from Altavista and Yahoo, Google was literally stunning, a gateway to the very best things on the internet.

Today, Google has a 90% search market-share. They got it the hard way: they cheated. Google spends tens of billions of dollars on payola in order to ensure that they are the default search engine behind every search box you encounter on every device, every service and every website:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

Not coincidentally, Google's search is getting progressively, monotonically worse. It is a cesspool of botshit, spam, scams, and nonsense. Important resources that I never bothered to bookmark because I could find them with a quick Google search no longer show up in the first ten screens of results:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

Even after all that payola, Google is still absurdly profitable. They have so much money, they were able to do a $80 billion stock buyback. Just a few months later, Google fired 12,000 skilled technical workers. Essentially, Google is saying that they don't need to spend money on quality, because we're all locked into using Google search. It's cheaper to buy the default search box everywhere in the world than it is to make a product that is so good that even if we tried another search engine, we'd still prefer Google.

This is enshittification. Google is shifting value away from end users (searchers) and business customers (advertisers, publishers and merchants) to itself:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/05/the-map-is-not-the-territory/#apor-locksmith

And here's the thing: there are search engines out there that are so good that if you just try them, you'll get that same feeling you got the first time you tried Google.

When I was in Tucson last month on my book-tour for my new novel The Bezzle, I crashed with my pals Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden. I've know them since I was a teenager (Patrick is my editor).

We were sitting in his living room on our laptops – just like old times! – and Patrick asked me if I'd tried Kagi, a new search-engine.

Teresa chimed in, extolling the advanced search features, the "lenses" that surfaced specific kinds of resources on the web.

I hadn't even heard of Kagi, but the Nielsen Haydens are among the most effective researchers I know – both in their professional editorial lives and in their many obsessive hobbies. If it was good enough for them…

I tried it. It was magic.

No, seriously. All those things Google couldn't find anymore? Top of the search pile. Queries that generated pages of spam in Google results? Fucking pristine on Kagi – the right answers, over and over again.

That was before I started playing with Kagi's lenses and other bells and whistles, which elevated the search experience from "magic" to sorcerous.

The catch is that Kagi costs money – after 100 queries, they want you to cough up $10/month ($14 for a couple or $20 for a family with up to six accounts, and some kid-specific features):

https://kagi.com/settings?p=billing_plan&plan=family

I immediately bought a family plan. I've been using it for a month. I've basically stopped using Google search altogether.

Kagi just let me get a lot more done, and I assumed that they were some kind of wildly capitalized startup that was running their own crawl and and their own data-centers. But this morning, I read Jason Koebler's 404 Media report on his own experiences using it:

https://www.404media.co/friendship-ended-with-google-now-kagi-is-my-best-friend/

Koebler's piece contained a key detail that I'd somehow missed:

When you search on Kagi, the service makes a series of “anonymized API calls to traditional search indexes like Google, Yandex, Mojeek, and Brave,” as well as a handful of other specialized search engines, Wikimedia Commons, Flickr, etc. Kagi then combines this with its own web index and news index (for news searches) to build the results pages that you see. So, essentially, you are getting some mix of Google search results combined with results from other indexes.

In other words: Kagi is a heavily customized, anonymized front-end to Google.

The implications of this are stunning. It means that Google's enshittified search-results are a choice. Those ad-strewn, sub-Altavista, spam-drowned search pages are a feature, not a bug. Google prefers those results to Kagi, because Google makes more money out of shit than they would out of delivering a good product:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/4/2/24117976/best-printer-2024-home-use-office-use-labels-school-homework

No wonder Google spends a whole-ass Twitter every year to make sure you never try a rival search engine. Bottom line: they ran the numbers and figured out their most profitable course of action is to enshittify their flagship product and bribe their "competitors" like Apple and Samsung so that you never try another search engine and have another one of those magic moments that sent all those Jeeves-askin' Yahooers to Google a quarter-century ago.

One of my favorite TV comedy bits is Lily Tomlin as Ernestine the AT&T operator; Tomlin would do these pitches for the Bell System and end every ad with "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the phone company":

https://snltranscripts.jt.org/76/76aphonecompany.phtml

Speaking of TV comedy: this week saw FTC chair Lina Khan appear on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. It was amazing:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaDTiWaYfcM

The coverage of Khan's appearance has focused on Stewart's revelation that when he was doing a show on Apple TV, the company prohibited him from interviewing her (presumably because of her hostility to tech monopolies):

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/apple-got-caught-censoring-its-own

But for me, the big moment came when Khan described tech monopolists as "too big to care."

What a phrase!

Since the subprime crisis, we're all familiar with businesses being "too big to fail" and "too big to jail." But "too big to care?" Oof, that got me right in the feels.

Because that's what it feels like to use enshittified Google. That's what it feels like to discover that Kagi – the good search engine – is mostly Google with the weights adjusted to serve users, not shareholders.

Google used to care. They cared because they were worried about competitors and regulators. They cared because their workers made them care:

https://www.vox.com/future-perfect/2019/4/4/18295933/google-cancels-ai-ethics-board

Google doesn't care anymore. They don't have to. They're the search company.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

[usafphantom2]

Where are the SR 71’s today?

They are all on display in America with one exception. #962 is at Duxford, Great Britain. this SR-71 was the one that was the most frequently stationed in Great Britain It’s a permanent loan from the United States to Great Britain with our thanks.

Arizona

#17951 flew on March 5, 1965, and served as a test bird throughout its career. It is currently displayed at the Pima Air Museum, Tucson, AZ.

California

California is home to more SR-71 aircraft than any other state. It houses six of them, listed below:

•SR-71A #17955 - AFFTC Museum, Edwards AFB, CA.

•SR-71A #17960 - Castle Air Museum near Atwater, CA.

•SR-71A #17963 - Beale AFB, CA.

•SR-71A #17973 - Blackbird Airpark, Palmdale, CA.

•SR-71A #17975 - March Field Museum, March AFB, CA.

•SR-71A #17980 - NASA's Dryden Flight Research Center as #844.

Florida

In Florida, specifically at the USAF Armament Museum, Eglin AFB, FL, the SR-71A #61-7959, also known as the "Big Tail," is on display. This nickname dates to 1975, when it was chosen as the platform for a new series of sensors placed in an extension towards the rear of the aircraft . The last flight of this aircraft took place on October 29, 1976

Georgia

At the Museum of Aviation, Robins AFB, GA, the Blackbird SR-71A #17958 is on display. According to various records, on July 28, 1976, this example facilitated a human being (pilot captain Eldon W. Joersz and major RSO George T. Morgan Jr.) to reach the highest speed ever aboard an aircraft.

Kansas

SR-71A #17961 accumulated 1601 flight hours until February 2, 1977, the date of its last flight. It is currently on display between a Northrop T-38 Talon advanced trainer and a life-size replica of the Space Shuttle at the Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center, Hutchinson, KS

Louisiana

At the 8th Air Force Museum, Barksdale AFB, LA, the SR-71A #17967 is on display, one of two examples reactivated in 1995 for USAF service before the program was canceled in 1998. Over the years, this aircraft accumulated more than 2700 flight hours.

Texas

At the USAF History and Traditions Museum, Lackland AFB, TX, is SR-71A #17979, which was used as a reconnaissance aircraft during Operation Giant Reach in the Egyptian-Israeli war.

Michigan

Two trainer variants were built, denoted SR-71Bs. One crashed on approach to Beale AFB on January 11, 1968, while the other, SR-71B #17956, is displayed at the Kalamazoo Aviation History Museum in Kalamazoo, MI. This SR-71 has more flight hours than any other Blackbird, nearly 4000, and is believed to have been photographed more times than any other.

Nebraska

At the Strategic Air and Space Museum near Ashland, NE, SR-71A #17964 is on display. Its first flight took place in 1966, and the last in 1990, when it was delivered to Offutt AFB, NE, to be permanently exhibited

Ohio

The first operational ( Jerry O’Malley and Ed Payne) mission of an SR-71 was carried out by SR-71A #17976 before concluding its career with about 3000 flight hours. It is among the first SR-71s to be permanently exhibited and best preserved. It is displayed at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, Wright-Patterson AFB, OH.

Oregon

Below the right wing of Howard Hughes' H-4 Hercules at the Evergreen Aviation Museum in McMinnville, OR, is the most complete and accurate SR-71, SR-71A #17971, which has accumulated over 3500 flight hours.

Utah

As mentioned, after January 11, 1968, when half of the SR-71 trainer fleet was lost due to the crash of #17957, a replacement trainer was built, designated SR-71C #17981. This aircraft is currently on display at the Hill Aerospace Museum, Hill AFB, UT. Irregular maintenance procedures and aftermarket construction caused constant yaw of the aircraft; therefore, the SR-71C was used on a limited basis between 1969-1976.

Virginia

The state of Virginia hosts two SR-71s:

•SR-71A #17968 is displayed at the Science Museum in Richmond, VA. 2. The #972 at Udvar-Hazy

Chantilly,

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[kimyadawson]

It’s Bandcamp Friday! Bandcamp waives their cut today so it’s a great day to support musicians!

https://kimyadawson1.bandcamp.com/music

I’m excited to announce that crew and knee socks are back in stock AND the knee socks stretch to 21” before the design gets weird! The text has been moved to the foot on these because it works better that way with the enhanced stretch-ability.

And I heard you and have added black shirts to the preorder options. Shirts are available from youth xs (2/4) up to a 7x!

There are also copies of the remastered Remember That I Love You album (red vinyl) and pin packs available!

https://kimyadawson1.bandcamp.com/merch

This Sunday Clyde and I are heading out on a little tour! New shows have been added! Here are the dates:

Monday Oct 9

Kimya Dawson

Your Heart Breaks

Car Crash Hearts

7pm

$20 suggested donation no advanced tickets

All ages

At the Tri Co-ops (outside)

530 Regan Hall Cir

Davis, CA

Masks strongly encouraged

Wednesday October 11

Kimya Dawson

Your Heart Breaks

$20

at TBA SECRET OUTDOOR LOCATION in Phoenix, AZ

Doors at 7:00pm / Show at 8:00pm

All Ages

Masks strongly encouraged

https://www.thetrunkspace.com/product/10-11-2023-kimya-dawson/260

Friday October 13

Kimya Dawson

Michael Hurley

Kinky Friedman

Growling Old Men

at Welcome Home Festival

Kerrville, TX

https://kerrvillefolkfestival.ticketspice.com/welcome-home-fest-2023

Saturday August 14

Kimya Dawson

Your Heart Breaks

Hamell on Trial

Graham Wilkinson

at The Museum of Human Achievement (outside) Austin, TX $20

Parking lot opens at 3:30, music starts at 4pm

All ages are welcome but it’s not a show specifically for kids.

Bring something to sit on. Masking is encouraged.

https://withfriends.co/event/16741456/kimya_dawson_your_heart_breaks_hamell_on_trial_and_graham_wilkinson

Monday October 16th

Kimya Dawson

Your Heart Breaks

Mega Ran

at The Splinter Collective (outside)

Tucson, AZ

7pm, All ages

Masks encouraged

https://givebutter.com/kimya

Tuesday October 17th

Kimya Dawson

Your Heart Breaks

and more

at Taylor Junction (outside)

Joshua Tree, CA

Details TBA

Wednesday October 18th Kimya Dawson

Your Heart Breaks

Rymodee

Practicing Sincerity (solo set)

Outside at SubRosa

Santa Cruz, CA

Doors 6pm

All Ages

$20 suggested donation (no advance ticket sales)

No vampires turned away for lack of funds.

[ralfmaximus]

Here's the complete list of DHS flagged search terms. Don't use any of these on social media to avoid having the 3-letter agencies express interest in your activities!

DHS & Other Agencies

Department of Homeland Security (DHS)

Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA)

Coast Guard (USCG)

Customs and Border Protection (CBP)

Border Patrol

Secret Service (USSS)

National Operations Center (NOC)

Homeland Defense

Immigration Customs Enforcement (ICE)

Agent

Task Force

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)

Fusion Center

Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA)

Secure Border Initiative (SBI)

Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI)

Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms (ATF)

U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (CIS)

Federal Air Marshal Service (FAMS)

Transportation Security Administration (TSA)

Air Marshal

Federal Aviation Administration (FAA)

National Guard

Red Cross

United Nations (UN)

Domestic Security

Assassination

Attack

Domestic security

Drill

Exercise

Cops

Law enforcement

Authorities

Disaster assistance

Disaster management

DNDO (Domestic Nuclear Detection Office)

National preparedness

Mitigation

Prevention

Response

Recovery

Dirty Bomb

Domestic nuclear detection

Emergency management

Emergency response

First responder

Homeland security

Maritime domain awareness (MDA)

National preparedness initiative

Militia

Shooting

Shots fired

Evacuation

Deaths

Hostage

Explosion (explosive)

Police

Disaster medical assistance team (DMAT)

Organized crime

Gangs

National security

State of emergency

Security

Breach

Threat

Standoff

SWAT

Screening

Lockdown

Bomb (squad or threat)

Crash

Looting

Riot

Emergency Landing

Pipe bomb

Incident

Facility

HAZMAT & Nuclear

Hazmat

Nuclear

Chemical Spill

Suspicious package/device

Toxic

National laboratory

Nuclear facility

Nuclear threat

Cloud

Plume

Radiation

Radioactive

Leak

Biological infection (or event)

Chemical

Chemical burn

Biological

Epidemic

Hazardous

Hazardous material incident

Industrial spill

Infection

Powder (white)

Gas

Spillover

Anthrax

Blister agent

Exposure

Burn

Nerve agent

Ricin

Sarin

North Korea

Health Concern + H1N1

Outbreak

Contamination

Exposure

Virus

Evacuation

Bacteria

Recall

Ebola

Food Poisoning

Foot and Mouth (FMD)

H5N1

Avian

Flu

Salmonella

Small Pox

Plague

Human to human

Human to ANIMAL

Influenza

Center for Disease Control (CDC)

Drug Administration (FDA)

Public Health

Toxic

Agro Terror

Tuberculosis (TB)

Agriculture

Listeria

Symptoms

Mutation

Resistant

Antiviral

Wave

Pandemic

Infection

Water/air borne

Sick

Swine

Pork

Strain

Quarantine

H1N1

Vaccine

Tamiflu

Norvo Virus

Epidemic

World Health Organization (WHO and components)

Viral Hemorrhagic Fever

E. Coli

Infrastructure Security

Infrastructure security

Airport

CIKR (Critical Infrastructure & Key Resources)

AMTRAK

Collapse

Computer infrastructure

Communications infrastructure

Telecommunications

Critical infrastructure

National infrastructure

Metro

WMATA

Airplane (and derivatives)

Chemical fire

Subway

BART

MARTA

Port Authority

NBIC (National Biosurveillance Integration Center)

Transportation security

Grid

Power

Smart

Body scanner

Electric

Failure or outage

Black out

Brown out

Port

Dock

Bridge

Canceled

Delays

Service disruption

Power lines

Southwest Border Violence

Drug cartel

Violence

Gang

Drug

Narcotics

Cocaine

Marijuana

Heroin

Border

Mexico

Cartel

Southwest

Juarez

Sinaloa

Tijuana

Torreon

Yuma

Tucson

Decapitated

U.S. Consulate

Consular

El Paso

Fort Hancock

San Diego

Ciudad Juarez

Nogales

Sonora

Colombia

Mara salvatrucha

MS13 or MS-13

Drug war

Mexican army

Methamphetamine

Cartel de Golfo

Gulf Cartel

La Familia

Reynose

Nuevo Leon

Narcos

Narco banners (Spanish equivalents)

Los Zetas

Shootout

Execution

Gunfight

Trafficking

Kidnap

Calderon

Reyosa

Bust

Tamaulipas

Meth Lab

Drug trade

Illegal immigrants

Smuggling (smugglers)

Matamoros

Michoacana

Guzman

Arellano-Felix

Beltran-Leyva

Barrio Azteca

Artistics Assassins

Mexicles

New Federation

Terrorism

Terrorism

Al Queda (all spellings)

Terror

Attack

Iraq

Afghanistan

Iran

Pakistan

Agro

Environmental terrorist

Eco terrorism

Conventional weapon

Target

Weapons grade

Dirty bomb

Enriched

Nuclear

Chemical weapon

Biological weapon

Ammonium nitrate

Improvised explosive device

IED (Improvised Explosive Device)

Abu Sayyaf

Hamas

FARC (Armed Revolutionary Forces Colombia)

IRA (Irish Republican Army)

ETA (Euskadi ta Askatasuna)

Basque Separatists

Hezbollah

Tamil Tiger

PLF (Palestine Liberation Front)

PLO (Palestine Libration Organization)

Car bomb

Jihad

Taliban

Weapons cache

Suicide bomber

Suicide attack

Suspicious substance

AQAP (Al Qaeda Arabian Peninsula)

AQIM (Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb)

TTP (Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan)

Yemen

Pirates

Extremism

Somalia

Nigeria

Radicals

Al-Shabaab

Home grown

Plot

Nationalist

Recruitment

Fundamentalism

Islamist

Weather/Disaster/Emergency

Emergency

Hurricane

Tornado

Twister

Tsunami

Earthquake

Tremor

Flood

Storm

Crest

Temblor

Extreme weather

Forest fire

Brush fire

Ice

Stranded/Stuck

Help

Hail

Wildfire

Tsunami Warning Center

Magnitude

Avalanche

Typhoon

Shelter-in-place

Disaster

Snow

Blizzard

Sleet

Mud slide or Mudslide

Erosion

Power outage

Brown out

Warning

Watch

Lightening

Aid

Relief

Closure

Interstate

Burst

Emergency Broadcast System

Cyber Security

Cyber security

Botnet

DDOS (dedicated denial of service)

Denial of service

Malware

Virus

Trojan

Keylogger

Cyber Command

2600

Spammer

Phishing

Rootkit

Phreaking

Cain and abel

Brute forcing

Mysql injection

Cyber attack

Cyber terror

Hacker

China

Conficker

Worm

Scammers

Social media

SOCIAL MEDIA?!

[breserker]

Jackrabbit and the Beast - Chapter 1

Magical realism murder mystery set in Tucson, AZ, steeped in the mixed culture and beliefs of the protagonist, Jerónimo Velasquez, or Vel. Purchase the full ebook on my ko-fi Print version TBA (in the works)

Laura was dead and his hand was up her best friend’s shirt. Or perhaps it would be better to say his girlfriend was dead and his hand was up their mutual friend’s shirt. Or perhaps it was all mush anyway because he didn’t remember getting there and he wouldn’t remember leaving either.

It was exactly one month since her funeral. Vel had been counting the days, though not because he was calculating when it would be appropriate to move in on his dead girlfriend’s best friend. He was simply counting. Counting because time passed by like sludge and yet every time he blinked it would be a week later. Four blinks meant a month, and at the end of those four blinks he was in Shoua’s apartment with a bottle of beer clutched clumsily in his hand. Shoua had been nursing her own drink, and that wine clashed with the beer in his breath when they sloppily kissed. Sloppy, yes. Desperate and hard. He missed Laura.

A lot.

Six years ago Laura, in her nigh-divine consistency to mistake left and right, had stepped into the path of his bicycle. The result of the crash had left her with a pinched cut on her leg and a sprained ankle. There were bruises on his legs from trying to quickly untangle himself from the bike, but he hardly remembered them. He remembered helping her to the side, joking that it would’ve been funnier if he had left a cartoonish tire print on her skin instead, and she laughed at that. A day later her bruises looked just so, and for reasons he didn’t quite understand she suggested a date. On that date Vel had teased her for asking him out at all, and Laura’s response expressed a loving interest in coincidence. That charmed him.

Now she was dead, and in the wake of the funeral he was remembering more and more details of that day; reliving it until the angle of the sun was perfect, the exact type of bright warmth, the sounds of their shoes scuffing the pavement. The unique sensation of hearing her voice for the first time, not knowing and yet somehow predicting he’d hear it again and again in different tones and pitches. From groggy sick croaks to impassioned lilts, her voice sank in his mind. Similarly, her blue eyes, her straw-blonde hair, the particular temperature of her waist under his hand, the quirks of her words, the flexibility of her beliefs, over and over again he remembered her. All the while, Shoua moved with him on the couch with equal measures of listlessness and despair.

If Laura could see them now, she wouldn’t believe it. To call Vel and Shoua mutual friends was not quite a lie, but not quite a truth either. They existed comfortably in their own spaces, hurling cheery insults and annoyances at one another. Vel enjoyed getting under her skin, Shoua enjoyed being angry about it, and vice versa. Laura was their fulcrum, and without her it, well. It was mush. Filthy, shameful, pained mush.

Suddenly Shoua wriggled in a way that broke the rhythm. Vel shifted his long arm first to adjust, then reluctantly to pull away and let her free. She slipped from under him and hurried herself to the bathroom. He heard the distinct click of the lock, a sound that hit him in the head.

He had fucked up, and he had fucked up bad. Shoua let him in because he was half-drunk with sorrow anyway, and really he shouldn’t have come here because on top of Laura she was dealing with a break-up. Hell, it might’ve been because of Laura’s death. It might’ve been because Vel had become such a distant, hollow mess that Shoua took up much of his part at the funeral. Break-ups happened over lesser burdens.

So who was he, anyway, to barge in like this and cry on her couch moments before kissing and fondling thoughtlessly? Well. No taking it back. No taking it back, no taking Laura back, no taking six years of his life back. With great effort Vel pushed himself up, dragging his long limbs until he was curled drunkenly on the opposite end of the couch. Pathetically, his dick still throbbed. Through hoarse, weak laughs, Vel briefly thought he should just take care of it there in Shoua’s living room. Fuck it, right? He’d already gone this far. What was just a little bit more? Nothing mattered.

Graciously through the power of depression, he did nothing but push his eyes into the crook of his elbow hard enough to keep the tears squeezed thin.

Softly the lock clicked again and Shoua emerged, though she stood at the threshold between hallway and living room and did not enter again. She was short, extremely so, a mere four-foot-ten if she wasn’t wearing her boots. He had never in his life felt like she could tower over him, but when he pulled his face out of his arm and glanced over, she could’ve been his height. Taller. Impossibly tall, from so far away.

“I’m…sorry, Vel,” her voice was meek, and it gutted him. He’d rather hear her shout and swear, “Maybe if…,”

She paused, thinking and thinking hard. Black lipstick disappeared into her mouth and reappeared with pink toothmarks underneath, “It’s…weird, right.” she said it like a statement and a question at the same time, “It’s weird.”

He looked away to the coffee table where his near-empty beer bottle stood next to her cleared out wine glass. It was weird. Yet it still hurt to hear and it sounded like Shoua was all too aware of that.

Vel made a noise that was hard to describe, but at least it sounded like him. At least he had that, because he had to re-measure himself in Laura’s absence. What made it worse was that there was no returning to who he was six years prior, and no moving forward without acknowledging Laura had been there in the first place. He stood up to go home for chrissakes—the home they had bought together two years prior. Since her death he got flashes of anxiety; the mortgage, the ownership, life insurance, all things to be dealt with later. Later. Later, after this. Hopefully never.

He wobbled on his feet. It was so hard to go home.

“Vel,” Shoua had finally re-entered the living room, “How much have you had tonight?”

Vel grunted, “Not that much.”

Shoua raised an eyebrow as he caught his balance against the coffee table, clinking the glasses on it. He grimaced.

“Are you sure?” she pressed.

“Yes.” Really, the alcohol wasn’t the problem here.

Suddenly Shoua grabbed his arm. The beads around his wrist clacked as she sharply tugged to assert her authority. Her voice too had turned sharp, and he felt a pang of emotion swell in his chest. This was what he needed, Shoua acting normal, no different, like nothing had happened at all.

“Vel.” the hard edges of her voice hit and he felt himself on the verge of crying, “I’m serious. I don’t—I don’t want another funeral so…so soon.”

“I’m fine, Boots.” he croaked. The use of his nickname for her had its intended effect, and Shoua slowly let go of him. He shook his wrist to hear the beads clack again, bobbed his head as if nodding (but really to keep the tears at bay), and swallowed hard, “Um. Uh…,”

For once, she was patient, even though her arms were crossed.

“Thanks. Y’know.”

Shoua opened her mouth to reply, but when nothing came out she closed it again. The last detail he noticed was that she readjusted her grip on her arms, tighter, as if she was trying not to shake.

Vel opened the door and stepped out from her basement apartment into the cooling desert air. He could feel Shoua’s eyes at his back, calculating and vigilant. A spike of defiance kept him upright from the familiarity of fighting back against her. However he did it, he managed to keep Shoua’s concerns well enough at bay to get into his old sedan, start the engine, swallow down the tears, and back out of the apartment driveway.

Tucson at night swept by as he drove. Glowing oranges blurred in his vision. It’s fine. He knew the way home by heart by now. Many times picking Laura up after a night out with Shoua, many times driving back after failing to plan the funeral. Vel put his hand at the top of the wheel as he dug out a cigarette. He had picked it up as a rebellious habit in high school, making his tía rave endlessly in Spanish about how terrible it was. After he moved out the habit slid off, and after Laura he had quit all together.

Vel pulled the lighter he had stolen from the same tía’s end table and lit the cigarette. The smoke coupled with the night air calmed him. No, it didn’t really. But it took the mush and defined it with edges, and that was enough to keep him going a little while longer. He thumbed the leather case the lighter was in, well worn by both his and he supposed his tía’s hand over the years. An embossed eagle wreathed with flowers still pressed against his restless thumb.

He turned into his driveway and forgot how he got there, as he had known he would. Things sloughed to the floor as he moved through the house, shoes, socks, shirt. Even his wooden jewelry he tossed carelessly on the bathroom counter, pitching himself over the sink like he was in pain.

The mirror greeted him horribly. His droopy eyes were sunken in dark circles even though all he could remember of the past several days was sleeping. For half a second he saw a pale hand in his peripherals, reaching to brush the sparse, prickly stubble on his jaw. Laura would remark something about how terrible he looked, how he needed rest, but before he fell into the fantasy a frustrated anger boiled in him. He had been resting. He had been doing nothing but resting. The result was this strange creature in front of him. This strange creature with a vacant space at his chest, with no blonde head of hair to rest his chin upon. She had been the perfect height for that. His nose was big and stuck out, all the better to nuzzle her with in the morning.

Vel wiped his thumb against where his lips were on the mirror, then in a moment struck with shame realized he was trying to wipe smudges of Shoua’s black lipstick off his face. The shame became brutalized, and the next moments went by in a frenzy. Sink water hissing, hands rubbing harsh, then washcloth, more water, more abrasion—his chapped lips were not pleased with him.

When it was all said and done, there was still a vacancy beneath his chin. He dropped his gaze to the streaks of lipstick now in the washcloth, and a related kind of shame swelled in him. His eyes hurt, stung, then felt overly warm. He should, he wished he could apologize to Shoua.

Instead he slumped on his side of the bed, turned, grasped at nothing, and because of Shoua he thought about the raw act of kissing. About how this bed had become home more than the house itself, a place to bury his smile in Laura. His dick recovered its hardness and Vel bit his dry lips. It took longer, so much longer, and at one point he had stopped all together because his face was buried in her pillow to cry. But eventually he spent himself over her side of the bed, and eventually he fell asleep.

***

His phone rang. Mercifully he had long ago changed the ring tone to something generic and wooden, far from emotional associations. But he still groaned. After a few failed attempts to retrieve it he pressed the screen to his ear and grunted in place of words.

“Vel. I need you at a scene.”

Chrissake. It was the lieutenant—Lieu, as he called her. No-nonsense, called him for consultations on tricky and untoward cases where her stalwart basic approaches turned up nothing. Vel scowled into the pillow and scrunched his eyes so tight he saw spots.

“You weren’t up? It’s almost noon.” her voice was curt and emotionless—it would’ve downright been accusatory had he not known the lieutenant for so long he could recognize the concern. Concern from her, of course, only came in word choice. But it was concern nonetheless.

“Can’t you call in someone else?” he complained. He’d like to say it was his attempt at a joke. There was no one else to call if Lieu was calling him. But seriously, for real, he wished for once there had been someone, anyone else. There probably was, but, much as she wouldn’t admit it, Lieu had a soft spot for him. The line went silent save for the milling of officers in the background.

“…No.” she was not impressed, and she did not laugh.

Vel sighed, “Fine. Where?”

If they were trying to conceal the crime scene from the trailhead they weren’t doing a very good job, but then Lieu had said it’d be easy to find. Like, you know, barring the cop cars that didn’t want to get more dust and rock scratches than usual on their SUVs. There was an officer up front before the start of the perimeter to turn people away, and Vel, in the V-neck he wore the day before with unwashed jeans, approached him thoughtlessly. To make matters worse, he had a backpack slung over one shoulder. Saying that the officer eyed him suspiciously would be a deeply softened lie.

“This is a crime scene. No civilians past this point.”

No ‘sir’, no greetings. Vel planted his feet a bit hard at a distance that should’ve been safe but with his height and limbs it wasn’t. He tried neutrality, “Can you tell Lieutenant K that Vel is here?”

The officer was unimpressed, “Lieutenant who?”

Annoyance gurgled in his gut. He should’ve slept in, more, longer. Stayed inside, “Kulasiewicz. Tell her I’m here.”

“Can’t do that until you give me your name.”

“Vel.”

“Don’t play smug with me.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, “Velasquez.” The officer didn’t budge. Vel grew tart, “Jerónimo Velasquez. Let me through.”

The officer didn’t acknowledge him as he took his time scribbling down his name in his notebook. Vel pursed his lips, then tipped forward in his cowboy boots.

“No, man. N then M, Jerónimo.”

The officer snapped his notebook shut and snarled up at Vel, “I could have you arrested for prying into a police investigation if you want to play games,”

“Well can you at least spell my name right? Don’t want to arrest the wrong guy now, officer,”

“Final warning. Don’t play smug, or I’ll—,”

“Officer Johnson,” Vel felt tension release as Lieu climbed up over the rocky ridge. She brushed herself off as she talked, hair in a tight bun and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, “Thank you for notifying me that our consultant arrived.”

He had not, but the look on his face was furious. Vel allowed himself a lopsided, very smug smile, and was surprised with how easy it had been to do.

“And Vel, can you try to be nice?”

“I am nice. I play nice.” he protested in a flat tone. Lieu sighed. He thought of a million more things to say; that it’s not my fault that I prod your officers until they snap, it’s his fault he started it mom, is it because I’m brown? But all fell by the wayside, shriveled before they left his tongue. Her head was perked as though she expected more from him too, but at his strange silence simply led him to the body.

Lieu was a stern woman, with hair that grayed on the top as it stayed a sandy brown beneath. He had first met her a little over a decade ago when he was still in high school. It was not…the easiest time to think about, but he couldn’t deny that Lieu covered for him when she had no reason to. She had come off as a strict, by-the-numbers, hard evidence type, so the fact that she had any faith to place at all—much less in him—was baffling. Lieu took facts at face value and never shared anything vulnerable if she believed it to be self-evident anyways—which it almost always was to her. How, in the storm of her ruthlessness, she had decided that he was a viable hire for consultation would remain forever a mystery. Vel was nosy in more ways than one, but Lieu was locked up so tight even he couldn’t weasel his way in.

“This is the fourth of its kind. Female, young, multiple blunt cuts to the front of the body likely from an axe—,”

Vel winced, but continued following Lieu as she spoke.

“—dumped sometime last night, found by hikers this morning as they were going up the trail. We’ve already questioned and sent them home, and they didn’t say anything that we can’t already see. Time of death over a day ago, but hasn’t been exposed to the elements until recent.”

She paused, something Vel didn’t notice until she took up what he should’ve said in the interim.

“So, she wasn’t killed here, that is certain. What’s left of her blood already pooled at the bottom; she was stored in likely the same position as she was found.”

There she was, laying face up in the desert. Her body was skewed around the rocks. Glazed, open eyes stared up at the sun, baked still and expressionless. The face was untouched and her clothes were still on, but the farther down her body the less it mattered. Lieu’s voice retained its hardened edge, albeit with a solemn respect.

“No signs of sexual assault, but with the state of her lower half we should wait for what the coroner says.”

“Uh-huh,” Vel finally said, dropping his backpack to the ground, “And you called me because…you don’t know where to go, right.”

She sighed and even that sounded curt, “Right. No strange stuff.” Vel nodded and rifled through his bag. Dowsing rod wouldn’t work, there’s no blood to trail. No strange stuff should’ve been easy but that meant he had less to latch onto. He shouldn’t complain, it usually wasn’t a big deal at all, but he felt like he had to. He felt like he should, that he was owed to complain. Vel didn’t realize that Lieu was carefully scrutinizing him until she said, “You look bad, Vel.”

“Love you too, Lieu,” he grunted, swallowing a rock in his throat when the first word came back around to haunt him.

“Are you hungover?”

“Had a couple of drinks. Drove fine.”

“Are you high?”

He looked up in indignant surprise. What the hell sort of question was that? Hallucinogens did not mix well with him and she knew it. Even if he wasn’t on deck to take a job, it made him anxious in very unfun ways no matter the strain. He had explained this to her many times before, but her expression was stone-still and serious.

She repeated herself as an explanation, “You look bad, Vel. Did you look in the mirror before you left?”

He rubbed his face and gazed into his bag as if he could see himself in it. Well, he could take note of how he felt; his eyes were tired and strained, so perhaps they were reddened too. His head felt a little woozy—perhaps he was hungover but it felt no different than a recent day where he hadn’t drunk anything. Did that mean his gait was unbalanced too? Already he was trying to write it off as you don’t have limbs like tree branches you wouldn’t know how hard it is to keep upright, but Lieu rarely, if ever, minced words. So she was probably right.

No wonder the harsh scrutiny from the officer at the perimeter.

“…Perhaps you should go—,”

“I’m fine.” he interrupted, rubbing his hands on his knees and looking in the general direction—but just past—the body.

“Vel,”

“Hey I need to get out,” he rushed the words, “Need to. Pay bills and eat and get out and get back to work and—,”

“I agree,” she said it, and said it in such a way that his heart wrenched. She hadn’t called him out here for help. She called him out here because it was her way of trying to get him back in the saddle, “But maybe not for this case.”

She looked where he was looking, but almost certainly she was setting her gaze on the body in full, “I’m sorry, Vel.”

It was Lieu. All she saw was a girl killed by an axe murderer. Perhaps it had crossed her mind that the blood, the cuts, the wounds were localized in the same area as Laura’s. But because Laura was torn up, shredded by some brutish wild animal, it was different in her mind. This girl was murdered. Laura was simply killed.

Granted, he shouldn’t have said yes. He should’ve put his foot down and stayed home in the sheets he had dirtied, wallowing. But Lieu, for as much as this was her gesture to help him, didn’t call without reason. They really were stuck, enough that she could suggest bringing him in. Vel remained motionless, the body blurring in favor of the rocks in his vision. Lieu told him to leave again.

An idea perked in his head and he shook it and grabbed the dowsing rod. Maybe it would work, just not in the way he had first figured. With Lieu’s voice behind him, he gingerly crawled to the poor girl without acknowledgment.

“Hey, you get your pics already?” he asked the photographer. Vel didn’t exactly know the names of the lackeys Lieu carried around, but this wasn’t his first crime scene. Some recognized him, and he vaguely knew them in turn. The photographer merely nodded, tossed him a pair of gloves, and gestured for him to do his thing.

His thing was different every time, but it didn’t matter. Vel knelt near the girl in what would’ve surely been a pool of her blood had it been the actual place she died. Lieu’s voice had stopped, but he felt her standing a respectable distance behind him, watching.

Alright. Alright.

“Hey there sunshine,” Vel cooed to the frozen face, “I’d like to borrow some of your blood for a sec, if that’s alright.” He started digging a hole to the side that was narrow enough to push a pole into. Shoring up its foundation with rocks, he pulled the dowsing rod out of his backpack.

“I won’t have to go deep,” he promised while nudging a wound farther open. It was difficult, the skin had already lost its elasticity. Vel grimaced, biting his lips and blinking rapidly. Bodies were never particularly easy to deal with on an emotional level, but all of his walls and doors were broken right now; there was no retreating to a space in his mind that could detach. She was around Vel’s age, late twenties, put together enough to likely have a significant other or maybe even a family. Maybe she had a degree, or was just about to finish one, or had gone to work right out of school. No, degree was more likely, there were less signs of hard labor on her than he would expect otherwise. He swallowed hard. Rigor mortis had already begun to break down into secondary relaxation, but he didn’t want to shove things in where they didn’t belong. He was no coroner.

Still, he managed himself enough to dip the dowsing rod into her belly, wind it up like a q-tip, and pull away.

“There, done for now,” Vel promised, then apologized twice. One, “I’m so sorry”, in gratitude for allowing his intrusion. Then another, slower, “I’m so sorry” for this having happened at all.

Vel popped the dowsing rod on top of the pole he stuck in the ground, tested it for its looseness, and let it sit as he examined the body further. Lieu remained behind him, quiet.

“Lieu, you caught this right?” Vel called over his shoulder as he raised the girl’s hand by his fingertips, “Car grease?”

“Yes. But no car or identification yet.”

Huh. There wasn’t a lot of grease, maybe just enough that she was checking the engine or poking around the dipsticks. Whatever it had been, she had not had enough time to wipe it off. But generally when checking a car for trouble the backside would be exposed, not the front. Either she was attacked in between checking and finishing up or she was interrupted.

The dowsing rod jerked. Vel looked over. It remained still, jerked again, then slowly moved in a quarter of an arc. The bottom half that rested on the pole nudged forward as if being pulled by something. It slacked. It pulled forward again then turned left. Once it was reoriented it was pulled forward again. The pull loosened, then stopped. Vel waited a few moments. The dowsing rod then pulled, slowed, turned, pulled again.

“Vel?” Lieu asked for an explanation. He tapped his leg anxiously and pulled out his phone. When the rod stopped again he hit the timer. After nearly eighty seconds, it moved. Frowning, he stared at the number.

Lieu stepped forward and he scratched the barbed stubble on his jaw, “Got good news for you. Think I figured out where she was murdered,”

“Where?” Lieu said, “How?”

“Well, there’s bad news too. She was murdered in a car or a truck or something,” he gestured to the still moving dowsing rod, “One that’s working perfectly fine. Probably going out for lunch.”

What Lieu didn’t need to know was that this had not exactly gone as he had planned. All he had wanted and hoped to get from the dowsing rod was the general direction of where she was murdered which—technically it gave him. On one hand it was better than telling Lieu that way and pointing with utmost lunacy as though he did anything but trust a stiff breeze. On the other, it was going to be hell tracking down a moving target.

“So uh,” Vel croaked, standing up and brushing himself off, “Good luck with that.”

***

Support me by purchasing the book

[metalheadsforblacklivesmatter]

Everyone is talking about the Ohio train derailment but no one is talking about the fact there has been 4 other trains carrying Toxic Chemicals crashed in the past two weeks.

That's

Enoree, South Carolina

Splendora, Texas

Tucson, Arizona

East Palestine, Ohio

Detroit, Michigan (this one didn't leak and chemicals but still. It was carrying toxic chemicals)

All in the span of a couple weeks.

Why?

A rule was passed under President Barack Obama that made it a requirement for trains carrying hazardous flammable materials to have ECP brakes, but this was rescinded in 2017 by the Trump administration.

...

"Would ECP brakes have reduced the severity of this accident? Yes," Ditmeyer said.

This was talking about the Ohio incident specifically but point still stands.

-fae

[lily-higginson-writing]

TW: SA, Abusive Family, Homelessness

Leaving

“You threw a knife at me!”

My voice cracks as my mouth hangs open in astonishment.

“No, I threw it at the car!”

My fathers response is somehow both incredibly wrathful and incredibly casual, as if cars are simply where you throw knives, and I’m the one in the wrong for not recognizing that fact.

There were about a billion different thoughts running through my head at that point, but the one that won out was “I’m getting out of here.”

As soon as I stepped foot on the threshold of the garage, I heard him coming up behind me, and I felt his hands on my back shoving me out.

Like most times like this, I couldn't turn and face him, so I just kept walking.

I spent the next week crashing on couches, I did spend one night on the street, and decided it wasn't for me, so I found some guy off grindr who’d let me stay over a night or two and get crossed in exchange for some road head. Of course, as soon as I was out of it, he took it farther than that, but I’m not sure what I was expecting, I still smell him sometimes when I’m waking up from a particularly bad nightmare.

At the time, I wasn’t sure what I’d do, I needed to survive until the end of summer, but at the moment that seemed like a distant prospect.

If it wasn’t for my best friend Jameson, it would have been. He took me in after a week, and gave me a place to stay over the summer.

That’s why a week later I was back at the garage, this time though, my dad was gone, we pulled up in Jameson’s 1998 Toyota Corolla, the thing almost died in the parking lot, but he kept it running while I grabbed my fishing gear and a tool box.

In retrospect, I most regret not grabbing my retainer.

We peeled out of there as best as that shitty 4 banger could, and went back to his house.

The rest of the summer was a lot of weed, a cool fishing trip, and just us kind of vibing.

I worked at a sketchy car wash, and blew everything I made on Magic the Gathering cards.

My “family” held a going away party for me at the beginning of August, and my uncle let me drive to the airport in his car, I said goodbye to everyone, and hopped on a plane headed towards Arizona.

I remember stepping off at Tucson International, and it kind of hit me that “oh shit, I’m 2500 miles from everyone and everything I’d ever known, then again, maybe that’s for the better.”

[girlinlotsoffandoms]

day eight - presumed dead

notes: welcome to day eight of febwhump. This one’s gonna hurt guys, sorry

TW for plane crash

part two will be posted tomorrow!

read on AO3 or below

“Text me your flight information. Maybe we’ll swing by, pick you up in 81,”

Kelly laughed sarcastically. “Oh, the O’Hare arrivals area is going to love that.”

“Fineeee,” Stella drawled, playfully. “Guess you’ll have to Uber like a normal person.”

“The horror.” Kelly’s laugh was genuine this time. “Just sent my flight info. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

… … …

It had been a quiet day for 51, and Stella hoped it stayed that way. A quiet shift meant she’d get off on time and would get to go home to her husband all the sooner.

Kelly had texted her when he made it through security and he texted her a few hours later that they’d be boarding soon. She’d texted back a “see you soon♥" with a smile on her face. Stella couldn’t wait for her husband to get home. It had been a long two weeks and, while it was significantly better than Kelly’s time in Alabama, it was two weeks too long for Stella. Even with constant texts and daily phone calls, she missed her husband something fierce. 

Violet had caught her smirk. “That Severide? He on his way home?”

“Yeah! ATF caught the guy and Kelly was able to wrap up his part of the case. His flight’s boarding in a few and in…” Stella checked the time on her phone. “Four-ish hours he’ll be back in Chicago.”

That had been two hours and a few calls ago and now they were all in the common room relaxing until dinner was ready. The TV had been playing in the background all day, providing a little ambiance and background noise for the room, but no one was really paying attention to whatever was on the screen. 

At least that was until Gibson looked up from the grill and caught sight of the breaking news story scrolling across the screen. “Whoa Mouch, turn up the volume.”

Mouch grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, seeing the BREAKING NEWS banner flash across the screen. The newscaster's voice filled the room.

“If you’re just tuning in, breaking news out of Kansas after an American Airlines flight crash landed into a field just a few miles west of the Eisenhower National Airport where it was attempting to make an emergency landing. American Airlines flight 3804 was traveling to Chicago from Tucson, Arizona and was halfway through the 4 hour flight when the pilots reported a mechanical engine failure. Emergency services are on the scene but there’s no word on the status of the 240 passengers and 8 crew members who were on board. We will continue to update as more information becomes available.”

The rest of the broadcast faded away as the crew of 51 stared at the TV in shock. 

“Tuscon to Chicago?” Ritter asked quietly. “Is that…?”

Stella scrambled to grab her phone and pull up her text conversation with Kelly. She found the flight information he sent her, then double and triple checked the message as if she hadn’t committed it to memory. Stella swallowed hard and her hands began to shake. “That’s Kelly’s flight.”

  … … …

The next hour seemed impossibly long. As soon as the news broke Boden called Headquarters and stood 51 down. Until they knew more information, none of his firefighters were going to be able to focus on the job.

Stella, Cruz, and a few other members of 51 tried calling Kelly, desperately hoping he’d answer their call. At first, Kelly’s phone would ring but it didn’t take long before his phone started going straight to voicemail.

That was the first time Stella cried.

Another news report had come across the TV. The FAA and NTSB had started their investigations into the crash and emergency crews were still searching for survivors though sadly, none had been found yet.

Pictures and footage from the crash site had made their way onto social media and the images were devastating. Surviving a crash like that would’ve taken a miracle.

And oh how the members of Firehouse 51 were desperately hoping for one.

… … …

It was only half an hour later when they realized their miracle wasn’t coming.

Stella’s phone rang, an unknown number from Texas, and she hesitated for just a moment before she answered. On the other end of the line was a frazzled yet sorrowful American Airlines agent who confirmed everyone’s greatest fear—Kelly’s name was on the flight manifest and his boarding pass had been scanned.

A guttural sob bubbled out of Stella and her phone clattered to the floor below. Brett and Violet immediately wrapped her in a hug.

No one needed her to repeat what the caller had said; Stella’s reaction told them all they needed to know.

Kelly Severide was dead.  

There wasn’t a dry eye in the firehouse. Stella was inconsolable and others weren’t that far behind. None of them could believe what had happened; none of them could believe their friend and teammate, their leader, was dead. 

How were they supposed to get through this? How were they supposed to help Stella through this unimaginable loss? Would they get through it?

No one had any answers.

… … …

It took a while, but Stella’s sobs eventually stopped, her sadness and grief gave way to shock. She sat numbly at the table, surrounded by her team, a steady stream of tears rolling down her cheeks.

Brett had offered her a sedative, something light so she could get some rest, but Stella refused. She didn’t need to sleep—she wouldn’t be able to even if she needed to. She had to stay awake and stay by her phone, just in case.

There was still part of her hoping for that miracle.

There was still part of her that didn’t believe Kelly was dead.

She’d know if he was, she’d feel it.

And she was right.

Her phone rang from it’s spot on the table, another unknown number flashing across her screen. She answered on speakerphone, too emotionally spent to pick up the phone. “Hello?”

A familiar voice flitted through the speaker, instantly energizing everyone in the room. “Stella.”

[mudwerks]

(via Report: Driver in Tucson semi-truck crash, chemical spill impaired)

A semi-truck driver who crashed on Interstate 10 in February leading to a nitric acid spill that closed the highway and disrupted lives of people across Tucson’s southeast side, had a blood alcohol level nearly 8 times the legal limit, a toxicology report from the Pima County Office of the Medical Examiner shows.

The driver, 54-year-old Ricky Immel, died after his rig carrying about 18,200 kilograms of nitric acid on I-10 crashed near Kolb Road on Feb. 14. In Arizona, the legal BAC for commercial drivers is .04%. That means with a BAC of 0.312, Immel was nearly eight times above the state’s legal limit, according to the report.

drunk driving a rig full of NITRIC ACID!

[douglasfur365]

No. 8 @Slut4horchata 2023

Over the years I’ve been asked about doing some Halloween shoots and being totally honest they just don’t appeal to me. But when @slut4horchata posted a reel from a few years back looking to do something similar I reached out. I was inspired. Within just a couple of days we were meeting up in downtown Tucson. Overall this was mostly a video shoot, where we came up with interesting shots and then filmed it with the hope that we would have enough interesting material to put a couple of reels together. It was so much fun shooting this laughing, and just doing whatever goofy or interesting idea came into our heads. In general I’ve learned when I’ve shot enough or when I need just a bit more. That shot with the candles was the result of a really amazing gentleman from the Historic Bates Manor who saw us shooting in the parking lot and was gracious enough to let us briefly crash a wedding the was occurring inside, if I hadn’t felt I needed maybe one or two more shots we never would have got this.

[veritasrose]

Also if anyone heard about the chemical spill in Tucson, we are okay. We are about 2-3 miles away from it. Apparently a truck of nitric acid crashed on the freeway and it spilled and also started a diesel fire. And we have 50mph winds today. We are outside the shelter in place zone but are still suggested to stay inside for the next few days and limit pets being outdoors too. I think the fire is contained now and it is supposed to rain tonight so that will help.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Neal Stephenson’s “Polostan”

NEXT WEEKEND (Novem<p>placeholder </p>ber 8-10), I'll be in TUCSON, AZ: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Science fiction isn't collection of tropes, nor is it a literary style, nor is it a marketing category. It can encompass all of these, but what sf really is, is an outlook.

At the core of sf is an approach to technology (and, sometimes, science): sf treats technology as a kind of crux that the rest of the tale revolves around. The Bechdel test invites us to notice that in most fiction, stories revolve around men – that it's rare for two or more non-male characters to interact with one another, and if they do, that interaction is triggered by a man.

The sftnal version of this would go something like this: "a story gets increasingly stfnal to the extent that interactions among characters either directly relate to a technology, or are triggered by the consequences of such a relation, or fears, plans or aspirations for same."

(Note that this implies that science fiction is a spectrum: things can be more or less science fictional, and that gradient reflects the centrality of a technology to the narrative.)

No one's work demonstrates this better than Neal Stephenson. Stephenson's work covers a lot of settings and storytelling modes. His debut, The Big U, was a contemporary novel lampooning academic life. Then came Zodiac, another contemporary novel, but one where science – in this case, extremely toxic polychlorinated biphenyls – take center stage. Then came his cyberpunk classic, Snow Crash, which was unambiguously (and gloriously) science fiction.

A couple of books later, we got Cryptonomicon, a finance novel that treated money as a technology, and, notably, did so across both a near-future setting and the historic setting of WWII. In addition to being a cracking novel, Cryptonomicon is exciting in that it treats the technological endeavors of the past in exactly the same way as it does the imaginary technological endeavors of the future. Here's Stephenson fusing his contemporary sensibilities with his deep interests in history, and approaching historical fiction as an sf writer, doing the sftnal thing to gadgets and ideas that have been around for more than two generations.

Stephenson's next novel was Quicksilver, the first book of the massive "System of the World" trilogy, in which the extremely historical events of Newton and Leibniz's quest to discover "the calculus" are given a sweeping, world-spanning sftnal treatment. As "system of the world" suggests, Stephenson uses this sftnal trick to situate a scientific advancement in the context of a global, contingent, complex system that it both grows out of an defines. This is the pure water of science fiction, applied entirely to real seventeenth century events, and it's definitive proof that sf isn't a trope, a style or a category – but rather, it is a way of framing and understanding the world.

You can think of Stephenson's career up to this point as a series of experiments in applying the stfnal lens to events that are progressively less historical (and, with The Diamond Age, events that are atemporal inasmuch as the book is set in a futuristic revival of the Victorian Age). Experiments that range over contemporary settings, and then contemporary settings blended with historical settings, then a deep historical sf trilogy.

(It's rather exciting that these books came out right as William Gibson was entering his own "predicting the present" decade, where he exclusively published sf about the recent past, a prelude to a series of sf novels set in a future so far from our present that the characters literally have no record of which events led up to their own circumstances):

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/10/28/the-peripheral-william-gibson-vs-william-gibson/

Having proved how successful an historical sf novel could be, Stephenson then bopped around with a lot of stfnal historical ideas, from the "transmedia" 12th century setting of the Mongoliad to a madcap time-travel book (The Rise and Fall of DODO). Stephenson's work since then have been pretty straightforwardly sftnal, which means that he's a little overdue for a return to historical sf.

That's where Polostan comes in, the just-published inaugural volume of a new interwar series about the birth of atomic science:

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/polostan-neal-stephenson

Critics and even the publisher have called this a "spy novel" or a "historical novel" but it is neither of those. What Polostan is, is a science fiction novel, about spies in an historical setting. This isn't to say that Stephenson tramples on, or ignores spy tropes: this is absolutely a first-rate spy novel. Nor does Stephenson skimp on the lush, gorgeously realized and painstakingly researched detail you'd want from an historical novel (Stephenson has long enjoyed a fruitful collaboration with the brilliant researcher Lisa Gold, whom we can thank for much of the historical detail across his body of work).

But the overarching sensibility of this work is a world full of people who revolve around technology. You'd be hard-pressed to list more than a handful of actions taken by the characters that aren't driven by technology, and most of the dialog either concerns technology, or the actions that characters have taken in relation to technology. It's unmistakably and indelibly a science fiction novel.

It's great.

Polostan raises the curtain on the story of Dawn Rae Bjornberg, AKA Aurora Maximovna Artemyeva, whose upbringing is split between the American West in the early 20th century and the Leningrad of revolutionary Russia (her parents are an American anarchist and a Ukrainian Communist who meet when her father travels to America as a Communist agitator). Aurora's parents' marriage does not survive their sojourn to the USSR, and eventually Aurora and her father end up back in the States, after her father is tasked with radicalizing the veterans of the Bonus Army that occupied DC, demanding the military benefits they'd been promised:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonus_Army

After the efforts of Communist organizers in the Bonus Army were mercilessly crushed by George S Patton, Aurora ends up living in a Communist commune in Chicago, where she falls into a job selling comfortable shoes to the footsore women who visit the Century of Progress, as the 1933 World's Fair was known:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Century_of_Progress

At the Century of Progress, Aurora sits at the junction where many global currents are mixing: she is there when Mussolini's air armada lands on Lake Michigan to the cheers of thronged fascist sympathizers; and also when Neils Bohr lectures on the newly discovered – and still controversial – neutron. She is also exposed to her first boyfriend, a young physicist from New York, who greatly expands her interest in nuclear physics and also impregnates her.

This latter turn in her life sends Aurora back into the American west, where, after a complex series of misadventures and derring-do, she embarks on a career as a tommy gun-toting bank robber, part of an armed gang of her cowboy shirttail cousins.

All of this culminates in her return sojourn to the Soviet Union, where she first falls under suspicion of being an American spy, and then her recruitment as a Soviet spy.

Also: she plays a lot of polo. Like, on a horse.

This isn't just an unmistakably sftnal novel, it's also an unmistakably Stephensonian novel: embroidered, discursive, and brilliantly expositional:

https://maryrobinettekowal.com/journal/my-favorite-bit/my-favorite-bit-cory-doctorow-talks-about-the-bezzle/

It is funny, it is interesting, it is even daffy in places. It's sometimes absolutely horrifying. It skips around in time like a subatomic particle bouncing around in a theoretical physics model. It creates and resolves all manner of little subplots in most satisfying ways, but also ultimately exists just to tee up the main action, which will come in future volumes. It's a curtain raiser, and like any good opening number, it hooks you for what is to come.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/04/bomb-light/#nukular

[usafphantom2]

B-1B Named Rage Brought Out Of Mothballs To Fly Once Again

Previously placed in long-term storage, the bomber is now flying again, with only two B-1B attrition replacements left at the boneyard.

Posted on Jul 20, 2024 12:55 PM EDT

Recently retired Lancer Rage takes to the skies above Davis–Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona

Cayden Smith

After three years at the boneyard, a B-1B Lancer, nicknamed Rage, has been resurrected and is flying once more. The re-appearance of the aircraft comes as the Air Force’s B-1B bombers look to be in the twilight of their service career.

Aviation photographer Cayden Smith recently pictured B-1B Rage, with the serial number 86-0115, flying at Davis–Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona. The 309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group (AMARG), located at the base, manages the Pentagon’s adjacent aircraft boneyard in Tucson.

B-1B Rage pictured flying at Davis–Monthan Air Force Base. Cayden Smith

Cayden Smith

Rage was one of 17 B-1Bs retired in 2021 which ended up at the boneyard. This was to help consolidate the B-1 fleet from 62 to 45 aircraft to help improve overall readiness rates and cut costs before completion of the type’s replacement, the B-21 Stealth Raider.

Moreover, Rage was just one of four B-1Bs placed into what’s known as Type 2000 (reclaimable) storage. Essentially, as we have explained before, this means the aircraft are maintained in a fashion that makes it easier and quicker for them to return to service should the need arise, due to any potential future combat losses or accidents. Type 2000 storage is one step down from Type 1000 “inviolate storage,” which prohibits any part of the aircraft from being removed. Yet even in this type of storage, it can still take months to get aircraft ready to resume their operational duties.

Rage pictured flying at Davis–Monthan Air Force Base. Cayden Smith

It seems highly likely that the bomber has been restored to operational readiness to replace the B-1 that crashed at Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota earlier in January this year. As part of the aftermentioned consolidation of the B-1B fleet in 2021, there are strict legal requirements set by Congress for the service to maintain a fleet of 45 B-1Bs.

The remains of the B-1B after the aircraft came to rest adjacent to the runway at Ellsworth, in satellite imagery dated January 6, 2024. PHOTO © 2024 PLANET LABS INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION

The B-1 fleet has seen its fair share of incidents and accidents over recent years, alongside general readiness issues. Notably, in 2021, an issue with the augmenter fuel pump filter housing led to a fleet-wide grounding.

This is not the first time we’ve seen a recently retired B-1B come back from Tucson to replace another due to an accident occurring.

In April this year, a B-1B nicknamed Lancelot — also retired in Type 2000 storage — was flown to Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma, to complete the regeneration process before joining the Air Fleet. This was in order for it to replace another aircraft that was written off after a catastrophic engine fire during routine maintenance at Dyess Air Force Base, Texas, in 2022.

Lancelot pictured earlier this year. U.S. Air Force photo by Clayton Cummins

Parts of B-1Bs have also been removed from the boneyard for various non-flying test purposes, too.

Other bombers have also been removed from the Bone Yard and placed back into service. In May 2019, the B-52 Wise Guy, serial number 60-0034 touched down at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana to replace another one of the bombers that crashed and burned at Andersen Air Force Base, Guam, three years before. Before that, the B-52 Ghost Rider, serial 61-0007, returned to service at Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota, in February 2015 to replace a B-52 written off after an electrical fire broke out during routine maintenance in 2014.

While the size of the B-1 fleet has significantly downsized in recent years, the Air Force still values the Lancer. Efforts have been made to extend the life of the bombers prior to the introduction of the B-21, including flight envelope restrictions having been placed on the fleet, as well as systems and potential weapons upgrades.

A B-1B during a Bomber Task Force mission over the Pacific Ocean, June 25, 2022. U.S. Air Force photo by Master Sgt. Nicholas Priest U.S. Air Force photo by Master Sgt. Nicholas Priest

The mission-set of the B-1B has also shifted back primarily to long-range strike after years of providing close air support and strike support for counter insurgency operations during the Global War On Terror. These extremely long sorties — which can last nearly 40 hours — point to the kinds of operations the service likely expects to conduct with its new B-21.

Moreover, the type is also prized due to its load-carrying capabilities, including the potential carriage of larger weapons and possibly hypersonic cruise missiles. The B-1B’s ability to carry many stealthy cruise missiles over great distances is already extremely relevant to a potential fight in the Pacific against China. These include the ability to fire Long-Range Anti-Ship Missiles (LRASMs), allowing the B-1B to target entire floatillas over great distances.

With this in mind, the B-1 fleet — now including Rage — will still be put to good use until it eventually faces retirement for good, but it is a bit concerning that two of just four attrition reserve airframes are already regenerated back to the relatively tiny fleet.

Hat tip: thanks to aviation photographer Cayden Smith for allowing us to use his pictures of Rage in this article.

Contact the author: oliver@thewarzone.com

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 285: Thursday October 12, 2023 - "Mulligan"

I kept this image close at mind today as I hustled through an endless To Do list that had me setting alarms, managing time, and getting it all done including school drop-off, a full work day that included a webinar presentation, a therapy session with my first run in with EDMR, and packing the car with all the things needed for all 3 of us, for a weekned away up in the woods - a 4 hour drive away. I clicked off the things hour by hour until it was finally time to brave the rush hour traffic towards Phoenix to get Audrie. Good full mood - grateful heart - I am doing all the things and at the end of it, the finish line, a nice cold Mother Road pint will be waiting for me up in Flagstaff......

Now of course roadtripping with a toddler is so very different than my old rambler cowboy days going solo where I could just pull my door shut in Tucson, blink, and be pulling up to the brewery. Everything is harder now, as Dad - even rambling. And the stress and anxiousness eroded me away until finally, end of the day, I was crashing alone in my Motel 6 bed, because my attitude stunk so bad that Audrie and William stayed in the other bed. No trophy pint. I did all the things, but left nothing in there for me and I broke down again.

And so, after a day of hiking in the woods on Friday, instead of plowing in my work office, it became very clear to me, that the universe still owed me that pint for as diligently as I mustered life together forgetting only one small thing (the connector from the coleman stove to the gas that would cost us hot breakfast Friday morning - oh I was steaming about that!). It was a day late, but we chose to stay in Flagstaff until late and get to Mother Road where we enjoyed the people and the fire, and the tots. I got a chance to be myself and energetic and have fun out of the house. I got that pint Id been thinking about all day, the day before as I plowed and I enjoyed it even more. Then had a few more. A local gave me wooden nickel for a free one, while another let William make out with his dog. One couple offered to let us just crash at their house. Friendly place. Always my kind of place. Its just took me longer to get here.

Song: Aaron Ross - Catch A Glimpse

Quote: There is no need to internalize the chaos. It will still exist without you. ~Buddy Wakefield

[sibyl-of-space]

dude i am having one of those nights that by all means could be one of the worst nights ever but... it’s actually been a blast.

so yesterday i flew back home after visiting a friend (actually, friends plural, it turns out) in Tucson. i timed my flight so that i would get back like a solid hour and a half before the last train, because delays happen and i wanted to make sure i would be able to catch the train home and not get stranded at the airport.

as luck would have it, my flight decided to get delayed by approximately an hour and forty minutes, A.K.A. just long enough for the last train to depart pretty much right as i was picking up my checked luggage. this left me with several options:

- take a series of night buses and get home in probably 3 hours, extremely exhausted and stressed out (i know it is stressful because i have done it before) - call an uber/lyft and spend $50 gambling that i don’t get someone with one of those horrible air fresheneres that makes me feel sick. also would have to install the ride share app. basically a pain. - just fuckin stay overnight at the airport and get on the first train in the morning

for reasons known only to my weird brain and the gods above, the third option was orders of magnitudes more appealing to me than the others.

so.... this brings us to now, at 3:45am, where i am going on 4 hours chilling at a pretty abandoned and very closed airport food court (save for the ~6 other people sleeping/chilling in booths around me who i suspect also missed the last train). I’m paranoid so I don’t want to sleep, even though honestly everyone else here is definitely in the same boat and I don’t think my stuff would get stolen. I mean I would guard the belongings of these random strangers with my life at this point. But it’s just good to be safe, yknow.

Instead, I have gone absolutely insane and just absolutely CRUSHED a SHITLOAD of code I’ve been meaning to do for my Amadeus game demo. I completely re-did the entire interactibles mechanic to make it more scale-able. I made the prologue scene completely playable with either point-and-click OR keyboard, including how the text progresses, which involved basically re-doing how text progression works. I made new code that helps handle special game events so I can do more things without cheating via Unity buttons. I have been GETTING SHIT DONE.

I don’t know *why* being exhausted and low on sleep and stuck in a random ass closed airport food court is making me so productive, but I’ve been on FIRE. I’ve been hosting a one-person hackathon over here. This is the most productive I’ve been since the global game jam ended. I am solving problems while delirious that I could not tackle while completely alert. Probably because I’m too tired to give a shit about maybe breaking something. Anyway, holy shit.

So anyway: this could have sucked. But instead it kind of ruled. It’s got sleepover energy up in here. The coffee shop nearby is finally going to open around 4 and that will give me the kick needed to make it the rest of the way until the trains start back up and I can get home and crash. #springbreakvibes