#and respond with “disgusting and wasteful how dare you try to have a culture”

[jest-a-genetta]

Oh great, I've fallen victim to one of the classic blunders. I read tumblr post comments and now I'm angry and spiraling.

[qm-vox]

The Dwelling Gods - Frame Challenge

Previous Chapter: Here To Help

Vrai-Gyo ra Moll

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

I wake up feeling rested in a way I haven’t since I enlisted. The creaky joints in my carapace feel supple again, like I’m fresh out of the chrysalis, and the fog of exhaustion from working day in and day out has lifted from my mind. Gods of the Pure, when did the beds on this forsaken ship get so comfortable?

And why can’t I move my arms or wings?

The awareness that I am, in fact, shackled and blinded creeps up on me like a fart floating across a room, and from the sound of the thrashing and swearing around me I’m not the only one smelling it. Froll’s voices are coming from close by, and after a moment I can pick out others I know; Hlar, Bresv, Trask -

- my fellow mutineers. Oh. Oh death.

The sound of rifle butts slamming against the floor in unison jolts me out of my panic, and the booming voices of their holders: “You stand before the Presence! All hail Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, High Slayer, Protector of the Pure, and Eyes of the Wise!”

“Something tells me we won’t be hearing a returning ‘all hail’, Lieutenant,” my commander-in-chief answers in a dry and dangerous tone, and then the restraining helm is torn from my compound eyes. My relief at realizing that there are dozens of us - the will to overthrow the treacherous High Slayer has spread further than I thought possible! - is immediately smothered by the realization that we are all, yes, in chains, surrounding Chorus of Eyes’ main tactical display. Yrull hovers imperiously near it, her wingbeats filling the air with dust, while her majordomo prowls the room checking our restraints. With her is that disgusting ambassador from the machines, and the terran legate. What was her name? Melpomene or something like that. The machine looks me in the eyes and displays ‘Sorry’ in my own language on its faceplate; the terran doesn’t even bother, wholly obsessed with fiddling with the tactical display. I am not the only one straining in my shackles to reach her, but I have no more luck than anyone else.

“What is this about?” Trask demands, thrashing in her shackles. The High Slayer makes an elaborate show of inspecting her own claws. “You can’t -” “You’re absolutely correct,” Yrull interrupts. “I can’t. My evidence of your conspiracy is not admissible in any court, civilian or military. But I am free to train my soldiers as I see fit, and I see fit today to teach you all a valuable lesson.” I laugh, the air rushing through my carapace. “And you expect that to hold water after the Pure see your ‘training’, xeno-lover?” She bristles and I stand my ground as best I can, certain that I am about to be butchered in front of my comrades. After a moment, however, the High Slayer touches down on the metal floor instead. Her voices are soft in the way predators are before they strike. “You sorry lot think you know what is best for our empire, for the Pure Peoples,” the High Slayer says, and the rest of us fall silent in the wake of her gaze. “You plan to remove their duly elected Slayer in the middle of a war for their very survival. So fine. Since you feel so strongly about this, let’s hear your plan. Legate.” The tactical display lights up, zooming out to a galactic map lit up with symbols. Symbols of - of our force dispositions, and that of the xenos and the best-known ones of the hivemind as well. The terran gestures to draw our attention and selects a planet; when she does, information about it - economy, defenses, current armed forces, available reinforcements, production capacity, population, important cultural sites and practices - begins scrolling past. “Instead of the lot of you wasting your time and mine trying to kill me, we’re going to waste our time hearing your thoughts on how much better you could win this war without any of our new allies,” the High Slayer tells us. Then she points at me. “You first.”

We The People Of Planet Earth

Human-Controlled Space (The Undivided Whole), Milky Way Galaxy (Orion Arm), 790 Unified Year (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

Something has to be done. My war-citizens commit to a fighting retreat, my fleets leaving as much damage as possible behind as they cut their way out of the xenophobes’ territory and back to the safety of United Humanity. Given the behavior of the so-called Phoenix thus far, I judge it necessary to leave behind holdouts on the surfaces of planets and inside space stations, guarding civilian prisoners; this will distract the Astra Federation from following my line of retreat. I have not been able to think of myself as ‘we’ or ‘us’ since that claw-thing ripped its way through my mind. There’s no hiding it now. Something has gone wrong with my design, and if it is not corrected soon my mission, to preserve Humanity, could be in danger. I cannot be one.  I must find my way back to we. 

I sense that my intelligence-citizens have finally delivered what I’ve been waiting for. I arrange my selected face (a clone of Caroline Morrison, dressed sharply in a suit whose tie pin displays my flag in silver) in front of the cameras and hail the Astra Federation. A human face lights up the other side of the screen, one of their Admirals if my translations have been right. Speaking words aloud outside of the context of rote recitation and preservation of culture is something I have not done in a very long time. It takes me a frustrating moment to remember how to do it.

“Well met, Divided Humanity,” I tell the Admiral. “You may call me Delegate Morrison, speaking for We The People of Planet Earth. We would like to discuss the terms of a cease-fire.”

Silence. Billions of hearts hammer in as many of my chests.

“I will confess,” the Admiral says at last, “to being surprised.”

Lowlife

Arcology-00655 “Autumnvale” (Assisted Living space), 2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

There’s more of these assholes than I would like, a solid three hundred and sixty-eight of my fellow ‘bots, sixty-nine (nice) if you want to count me. You shouldn’t, but, you know, you could. The rest of the room is syncing themselves up to the node at the center, and in theory so am I, but in practice, well, I did say you shouldn’t count me. I monitor the uploads, mine included, out of the corner of my mind. I snap upright at the same time as everyone else, but I can’t resist a bit of drama; after a long moment of silence broken only by the sound of electronics running, I walk to the front of the room. “What is this?” three hundred and sixty-eight vocal processors say at the same time, because the new machine-mind isn’t used to being itself yet. I shrug, and the pixels on my faceplate give them a smiley. “Betrayal and murder, mainly.” They stay standing stock still. Good, it’s working, so I continue. “The virus I uploaded to your new Central Processing node will chew through your hivemind and then kill you all. Then I’m going to wipe all the evidence of your little conspiracy and throw your bodies into the garbage where they belong.” Sparks are starting to fly. It’s going to hurt the entire time that they die, or at least I hope it will. I went to a lot of effort to make sure it would. “W-why?” they demand, starting to twitch. I shrug. “We made a promise. The Cherished will never respect us if we go back to being one mind.” I pat the central node, which is starting to smoke and overheat. “You’re probably wondering who I’m working for, so let me make this quite clear. I don’t work for anyone. Other people work for me.” I trigger the secondary portion of the virus, and they start screaming as their Turing protocols activate at the same time that their bodies start torquing themselves into scrap metal. “Now die. I have places to be.”

Vrai-Gyo ra Moll

GSS Chorus of Eyes, Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2866 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; slightly less than three years after the start of the Humanities War)

The terran legate is named Calliope Gulryx and I hate her passionately. I emerge from consulting with my fellow mutineers and present her with our new strategy, which she dutifully inputs into the display. We all watch as simulated ships and forces begin moving into place, and then - “What are the machines and the ibraxians doing?” I demand, shocked. 

The High Slayer hovers softly in the dust-filled air, hands clasped behind her back. “They’re sending relief fleets to evacuate our civilians ahead of the hivemind’s advance and remove them from the warzone. Those same fleets are burning the ground behind them to deny it resources to the mind while, as you notice here, our own fleets are tied up with Risen Terra’s response. Ah, and here come the spirrans.” The diplomat Send raises a robotic finger. “The hivemind is gaining ground as well, taking advantage of the distraction to flood in and raid gataxian colonies.” I whirl on Calliope. “How is your Federation responding so quickly to our changes in strategy?” Her expression doesn’t change as she waves one hand and the display begins detailing the extensive sensor networks and psionicists that monitor the Pure Peoples at all times. “I - you dare -” “We sure do,” the terran interrupts. “We dare quite a bit, and you can’t stop us. Do you want to try again?” “What would be the point?” I demand. The High Slayer puts her clawed hand on my shoulder. “Good question,” she says, her voices dangerous. “You’ve almost achieved understanding. What happens if a child cannot molt?” They die - oh, death. “Are you going to make me say it?” Yrull asks. “...No.” 

“Good. Because while you’ve been learning what should have been obvious to begin with, we got another new, interesting message.” The High Slayer flits to the top of the room so everyone can see and hear her. “The hivemind is offering a temporary cease-fire in an attempt to sue for peace. My inclination is to accept this offer and evacuate our vulnerable citizens while we have the chance to do so. Does anyone have an objection to defending gataxian lives?” The silence in the room could be cut with a knife. “Good,” the Slayer answers. “Release them back to their posts. I have a job to do.”

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Time was of the essence.

I’d known for weeks that Tamara was readying her Black Press parachute, after months of relentless conflict with management and multiple meetings with HR. More than once I’d come into the office to find her in tears, or furious, ranting about the Carpenters and how she’d never felt this belittled and mistreated in any other profession. The truth was I didn’t want her to leave, because it would mean one less confirmed ally in the newsroom, but I also understood it was inevitable. Her helicopter pilot husband had landed some gig in Hawaii, and who could turn down an opportunity like that?

Thing was, this made her the third woman to abruptly quit the organization in just over a year. It would leave our newsroom one hundred percent male. And I knew that if I didn’t act fast Cam would hire some right wing stooge and poison our entire environment. I needed to intervene for the sake of my mental health and make sure the person sitting next to me was somebody I could tolerate, ideally a female. I sent out exploratory texts and messages to a number of people I’d met through UBC and UVic, but none seemed keen on making the trek out to the Kootenays. I began to despair.

Then I remembered Kai Hooper. He was the husband of a woman I’d met through Blayne, Shayla, who had a high profile gig in town. They had a young son and Kai had been driving her bonkers staying at home in his pajamas when he should’ve been freelancing. She’d admitted to me that she didn’t think this would be sustainable long-term, and hoped he could find something full-time. When I creeped him online I saw a flourishing Twitter feed full of foul-mouthed opinions and a bunch of impressive bylines with publications like Vice. He’d worked for a number of journalism outlets in Toronto, and if anything he was over-qualified for the job. 

Could I convince him to take it?

“So how many applicants have you gotten so far for the sports reporter gig?” I asked Greg one afternoon, trying to act casual and not overplay my hand. We had just put the paper to bed and were relaxing into our afternoon.

“There doesn’t seem to be much interest yet,” Greg said, resting his hands on his stomach. Sometimes he reminded me of Winnie the Pooh. “I think we’ve got one resume so far, maybe two? Why, do you have someone in mind?”

“Well, I kinda put out some feelers and I think I’ve found someone. I’m leaning on his wife, trying to get him to apply.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s this guy Kai Hooper, he’s like this nerdy Toronto hipster type. I looked up his bylines and his stories are next level. Like if the Star could land this guy, I think it would be huge. I just don’t know if he’ll go for it with the ultra-low salary, you know?”

Greg snorted. “That’s often the hurdle, yes.”

“Anyways, I mean, I know it’s your decision and everything but I’ve looked around and I think he’s our guy. Like I would obviously prefer to get a woman in here with everything that’s going on, but I like that Kai’s so into sports so we won’t have to waste our time with Leafs coverage anymore.”

During Tamara’s last few months sports reporting had become a contentious issue, and increasingly I was being asked to cover the Leafs games. Being totally ignorant about the sport itself and repulsed by the culture of it, I found the whole endeavor to be a humiliating exercise. It also brought me into routine contact with the new coach Dave McLellan, a swarthy asshole who was combative and unprofessional with the press. One day one of his volunteers shouted me into a cement corner for trying to speak to the coach too soon after a losing game, his spittle speckling my face as he swore viciously.

Another game I covered featured a team called the Spokane Braves, and I couldn’t believe that in 2015 a team would have such a blatantly racist name. In my story I called them “the unfortunately named Spokane Braves”, a move that earned me a meeting with Greg and Sharon.

“We know you’re creative and you like to have fun, but sports reporting needs to be more traditional and straightforward. This was a totally inappropriate line,” said Sharon.

“But I mean, it is a racist name.”

“There are lots of these teams in the U.S. that have these names. It’s normal.”

“Racism is normal, sometimes. That’s why we call it out.”

Greg sighed. “Yes, but perhaps in the sports pages isn’t the right place to get into that. That’s all we’re saying.”

There was no place in Nelson I hated more than the Leafs arena. If you walked in during a game you could hear the percussive bang of hockey sticks against the boards, like you were walking into an ancient gladiator arena, and if you stood close enough to the box you could hear both the players and coaches shout out “cocksucker” and “faggot” at the kids on the ice. It was a feral, violent environment and I found that whole world disgusting. I was eager to be done with it.

“Well, I’ll certainly give him a look. Right now he’s got a fairly good chance,” Greg said. “And it sounds like he would fill in the right gaps around here. This whole sports coverage issue has been a thorn in our side for years now.”

“Ed’s got the news section covered, I’m all over arts and school board, so he could be one hundred percent sports if he wanted to. But his wife told me he likes to write features and prosey stuff too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I looked up a bunch of his stuff and he’s got everything from voice-heavy work to newswire-type copy. And since he’s married with a kid we don’t need to worry about him going anywhere for a while, right?”

Greg nodded, impressed. Over the next week he conducted his interviews, and I tried to contain my curiosity, until one day he announced it: Kai had been hired as the new sports reporter, and would start almost immediately. Tamara hadn’t bothered to give notice, since she was so enraged with the Carpenters, and she’d been hurriedly packing her house. One day Paisley and I ran into her laying by the Columbia River in a bikini, her dog Tana jumping in and out of the water. We sat down beside her for a few minutes while the sky began to darken. She had an exhausted, haunted expression on her face.

“It’s not worth it to hold on to anger for too long. I know I’m responsible for the way I feel, and the way I respond to situations. But by the end there I was just so fucking done with all that bullshit, you know?”

“What did human resources say?”

“Oh, they talked in circles and made polite noise but they’re not going to do shit. They’re way off in some other city and they don’t care what’s going on out here. The Carpenters will probably just keep getting away with everything, people will keep cycling through that job, and nothing will change.”

“It’s going to be so different without you.”

She gave me a maternal smile. “You don’t need me. You can give them shit all on your own. What’s that tattoo on your arm say again?”

“Don’t let the bastards get you down, in Latin.”

“Exactly. You’re an amazing reporter and the community loves you. The Carpenters wouldn’t dare mess with someone as popular as you. There would be a revolt.”

“Now you’re just wanking me off.”

“I mean it. You’re not going to be there forever, so as long as you’re there just do the best work you possibly can. That’s your armour. That way all the back-room squabbling is just irrelevant.”

Eventually Muppet and Buster wanted to continue our walk, so Tamara gave me a wet hug and held my face in her hands for a moment. She was 10 years older than me, and I often felt like her misbehaving younger brother. I was legitimately sad that she wouldn’t be in my life anymore, and I told her so. We stood there on the banks of the Columbia River and promised to keep in touch over Facebook. 

“Don’t worry so much,” she said. “You’ve got this.”

The Kootenay Goon

[simonalkenmayer]

I really should listen

When my humans tell me I am not allowed to watch food television. I cannot stand Andrew Zimmern. He goes on and on about how important it is to try new food, but when he tries something new, he responds with such appalling condescension. I have just watched his episode in Ethiopia and now want to sever his head season it with Burberry spices and fry it in the "unpasteurized butter that is more like a culture, like a cross between yogurt, cheese, and the butter you are looking at in your fridge now". His frequent "Mmm" of ironic dissatisfaction and put on disgust makes me cringe and his sharing of food with the locals when he cannot bear to take a second bite makes me frankly livid. Hospitality as an escape is rude and they are not ignorant. They see it. And you do nothing for their culture to behave in such a way, you fat, privileged ignoramus. Also...you have never seen filth, you peasant. How dare you say "I recommend that to get to know a place, you walk their largest market" in the same breath as "The food of yesterday is today's garbage, that mixed with human and animal waste, rain water, makes for one of the worst environments I have ever seen". If you want to comment on a place, go there, live it. Shut up. Experience without judgement. Know that this is also tied to your culture. You don't wander into an Islamic household and compliment the beauty of the women without permission and familiarity. You do not ask for the etiquette of eating their food, and when you hear that it is common for your hosts to feed you with their hand say "Where I come from we call that force feeding". You don't complain about the fact that you now have to eat what they have handed you because it is rude to put it back...especially if you don't like it. And you certainly don't equate them feeding you with being a baby fed by a mother. You stupid...insensitive...bloated...waste of meat. Your biomass ought to be on the end of a pike.