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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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The impoverished imagination of neoliberal climate “solutions

This morning (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

There is only one planet in the known universe capable of sustaining human life, and it is rapidly becoming uninhabitable by humans. Clearly, this warrants bold action – but which bold action should we take?

After half a century of denial and disinformation, the business lobby has seemingly found climate religion and has joined the choir, but they have their own unique hymn: this crisis is so dire, they say, that we don't have the luxury of choosing between different ways of addressing the emergency. We have to do "all of the above" – every possible solution must be tried.

In his new book Dark PR, Grant Ennis explains that this "all of the above" strategy doesn't represent a change of heart by big business. Rather, it's part of the denial playbook that's been used to sell tobacco-cancer doubt and climate disinformation:

https://darajapress.com/publication/dark-pr-how-corporate-disinformation-harms-our-health-and-the-environment

The point of "all of the above" isn't muscular, immediate action – rather, it's a delaying tactic that creates space for "solutions" that won't work, but will generate profits. Think of how the tobacco industry used "all of the above" to sell "light" cigarettes, snuff, snus, and vaping – and delay tobacco bans, sin taxes, and business-euthanizing litigation. Today, the same playbook is used to sell EVs as an answer to the destructive legacy of the personal automobile – to the exclusion of mass transit, bikes, and 15-minute cities:

https://thewaroncars.org/2023/10/24/113-dark-pr-with-grant-ennis/

As the tobacco and car examples show, "all of the above" is never really all of the above. Pursuing "light" cigarettes to reduce cancer is incompatible with simply banning tobacco; giving everyone a personal EV is incompatible with remaking our cities for transit, cycling and walking.

When it comes to the climate emergency, "all of the above" means trying "market-based" solutions to the exclusion of directly regulating emissions, despite the poor performance of these "solutions."

The big one here is carbon offsets, which allows companies to make money by promising not to emit carbon that they would otherwise emit. The idea here is that creating a new asset class will unleash the incredible creativity of markets by harnessing the greed of elite sociopaths to the project of decarbonization, rather of the prudence of democratically accountable lawmakers.

Carbon offsets have not worked: they have been plagued by absolutely foreseeable problems that have not lessened, despite repeated attempts to mitigate them.

For starters, carbon offsets are a classic market for lemons. The cheapest way to make a carbon offset is to promise not to emit carbon you were never going to emit anyway, as when fake charities like the Nature Conservancy make millions by promising not to log forests that can't be logged because they are wildlife preserves:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/18/greshams-carbon-law/#papal-indulgences

Then there's the problem of monitoring carbon offsetting activity. Like, what happens when the forest you promise not to log burns down? If you're a carbon trader, the answer is "nothing." That burned-down forest can still be sold as if it were sequestering carbon, rather than venting it to the atmosphere in an out-of-control blaze:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/26/aggregate-demand/#murder-offsets

When you bought a plane ticket and ticked the "offset the carbon on my flight" box and paid an extra $10, I bet you thought that you were contributing to a market that incentivized a reduction in discretionary, socially useless carbon-intensive activity. But without those carbon offsets, SUVs would have all but disappeared from American roads. Carbon offsets for Tesla cars generated billions in carbon offsets for Elon Musk, and allowed SUVs to escape regulations that would otherwise have seen them pulled from the market:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat

What's more, Tesla figured out how to get double the offsets they were entitled to by pretending that they had a working battery-swap technology. This directly translated to even more SUVs on the road:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criticism_of_Tesla,_Inc.#Misuse_of_government_subsidies

Harnessing the profit motive to the planet's survivability might sound like a good idea, but it assumes that corporations can self-regulate their way to a better climate future. They cannot. Think of how Canada's logging industry was allowed to clearcut old-growth forests and replace them with "pines in lines" – evenly spaced, highly flammable, commercially useful tree-farms that now turn into raging forest fires every year:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/16/murder-offsets/#pulped-and-papered

The idea of "market-based" climate solutions is that certain harmful conduct should be disincentivized through taxes, rather than banned. This makes carbon offsets into a kind of modern Papal indulgence, which let you continue to sin, for a price. As the outstanding short video Murder Offsets so ably demonstrates, this is an inadequate, unserious and immoral response to the urgency of the issue:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

Offsets and other market-based climate measures aren't "all of the above" – they exclude other measures that have better track-records and lower costs, because those measures cut against the interests of the business lobby. Writing for the Law and Political Economy Project, Yale Law's Douglas Kysar gives some pointed examples:

https://lpeproject.org/blog/climate-change-and-the-neoliberal-imagination/

For example: carbon offsets rely on a notion called "contrafactual carbon," this being the imaginary carbon that might be omitted by a company if it wasn't participating in offsets. The number of credits a company gets is determined by the difference between its contrafactual emissions and its actual emissions.

But the "contrafactual" here comes from a business-as-usual world, one where the only limit on carbon emissions comes from corporate executives' voluntary actions – and not from regulation, direct action, or other limits on corporate conduct.

Kysar asks us to imagine a contrafactual that depends on "carbon upsets," rather than offsets – one where the limits on carbon come from "lawsuits, referenda, protests, boycotts, civil disobedience":

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/cif-green/2010/aug/29/carbon-upsets-offsets-cap-and-trade

If we're really committed to "all of the above" as baseline for calculating offsets, why not imagine a carbon world grounded in foreseeable, evidence-based reality, like the situation in Louisiana, where a planned petrochemical plant was canceled after a lawsuit over its 13.6m tons of annual carbon emissions?

https://earthjustice.org/press/2022/louisiana-court-vacates-air-permits-for-formosas-massive-petrochemical-complex-in-cancer-alley

Rather than a tradeable market in carbon offsets, we could harness the market to reward upsets. If your group wins a lawsuit that prevents 13.6m tons of carbon emissions every year, it will get 13.6 million credits for every year that plant would have run. That would certainly drive the commercial imaginations of many otherwise disinterested parties to find carbon-reduction measures. If we're going to revive dubious medieval practices like indulgences, why not champerty, too?

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

That is, if every path to a survivable planet must run through Goldman-Sachs, why not turn their devious minds to figuring out ways to make billions in tradeable credits by suing the pants off oil companies?

There are any number of measures that rise to the flimsy standards of evidence in support of offsets. Like, we're giving away $85/ton in free public money for carbon capture technologies, despite the lack of any credible path to these making a serious dent in the climate situation:

https://www.spglobal.com/commodityinsights/en/market-insights/latest-news/energy-transition/072523-ira-turbocharged-carbon-capture-tax-credit-but-challenges-persist-experts

If we're willing to fund untested longshots like carbon capture, why not measures that have far better track-records? For example, there's a pretty solid correlation between the presence of women in legislatures and on corporate boards and overall reductions in carbon. I'm the last person to suggest that the problems of capitalism can be replaced by replacing half of the old white men who run the world with women, PoCs and queers – but if we're willing to hand billions to ferkakte scheme like carbon capture, why not subsidize companies that pack their boards with women, or provide campaign subsidies to women running for office? It's quite a longshot (putting Liz Truss or Marjorie Taylor-Greene on your board or in your legislature is no way to save the planet), but it's got a better evidentiary basis than carbon capture.

There's also good evidence that correlates inequality with carbon emissions, though the causal relationship is unclear. Maybe inequality lets the wealthy control policy outcomes and tilt them towards permitting high-emission/high-profit activities. Maybe inequality reduces the social cohesion needed to make decarbonization work. Maybe inequality makes it harder for green tech to find customers. Maybe inequality leads to rich people chasing status-enhancing goods (think: private jet rides) that are extremely carbon-intensive.

Whatever the reason, there's a pretty good case that radical wealth redistribution would speed up decarbonization – any "all of the above" strategy should certainly consider this one.

Kysar's written a paper on this, entitled "Ways Not to Think About Climate Change":

https://political-theory.org/resources/Documents/Kysar.Ways%20Not%20to%20Think%20About%20Climate%20Change.pdf

It's been accepted for the upcoming American Society for Political and Legal Philosophy conference on climate change:

https://political-theory.org/13257256

It's quite a bracing read! The next time someone tells you we should hand Elon Musk billions to in exchange for making it possible to legally manufacture vast fleets of SUVs because we need to try "all of the above," send them a copy of this paper.

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/2023/10/31/carbon-upsets/#big-tradeoff

#pluralistic #neoliberalism #climate #market worship #economics #economism #there is no alternative #carbon credits #climate emergency #contrafactual carbon #carbon upsets #apologetics #murder offsets #indulgences

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ziegfieldfolliescoffeetablebook · 3 days ago

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Martha Mansfield, Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic of 1919, photographed by Alfred Cheney Johnston.

An actress since the age of 14, Martha, born in Mansfield, Ohio had appeared in Florenz Ziegfeld’s Follies of 1918-19 and the Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic of 1919, a year after making her feature film debut. Her second of five films in 1920 would give her prominence in Hollywood and become her best-known picture -- DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (1920) opposite John Barrymore. Over the next few years, signed with Selznick Pictures, she made as many as eight motion pictures per year (1923) as well as touring the vaudeville circuit.

When her contract with Selznick expired in the early part of 1923, Martha signed with Fox Film Corporation. Her first feature with Fox, SILENT COMMAND (1923), was notable for it being Bela Lugosi’s entry into the American film industry. Her second Fox film for 1923, POTASH AND PERLMUTTER, was the first release of Samuel Goldwyn’s independent production company and became so successful that it kicked off several sequels.

Martha’s third film was THE WARRENS OF VIRGINIA, a Civil War drama that shot on location in San Antonio, Texas. On November 29, 1923, nearing completion of the film, Martha was returning to her automobile when her dress, full of flimsy ruffles, caught fire from either a broken match head or a carelessly discarded match. Her leading man, Wilfred Lytell threw his overcoat over Martha, saving her face and neck from being burned. Martha’s driver, in an attempt to remove the burning clothing from her body, suffered substantial burns on his hands. The fire was extinguished but not before Martha suffered severe burns to 60 percent of her body. She was rushed to a local hospital, where she died the next day of toxemia and burns of all extremities. Martha was only 24 years old.

Actor Philip Shorey accompanied Martha’s body to her birthplace of New York, where she was interred.

It was never determined who struck the match that caused the fatal fire. Some witnesses reported seeing a match tossed into the car where Martha sat, while others said Martha was nervous and went to smoke a cigarette, accidentally dropping the match or cigarette on her dress. Martha’s mother dismissed the idea outright, saying smoking made her daughter “uncomfortable.” At her death, Martha left her mother a Liberty Bond in the amount of $22,000 and two life insurance policies worth $25,000 each.

Fox went ahead with THE WARRENS OF VIRGINIA, editing Martha’s part in the film (which was mostly completed anyhow) and released it in October of 1924. The film did mediocre business, with the exception of San Antonio, where it did well. Sadly, no prints of the film survive and it’s considered lost today. #MarthaMansfield #MidnightFrolic1919 #FricPic #Wikipedia

youtube

#Martha Mansfield #Ziegfeld Follies 1918-19 #Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic of 1919 #Selznick Pictures #Fox Film Corporation #fricpic #alfred cheney johnston #colorized #coffeetablebook #photography #my art #digital art #design #artwork #youtube #painting #Youtube

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alfredcheneyjohnsonart · 3 days ago

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Martha Mansfield, Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic of 1919, photographed by Alfred Cheney Johnston.

An actress since the age of 14, Martha had appeared in Florenz Ziegfeld’s Follies of 1918-19 and the Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic of 1919, a year after making her feature film debut. Her second of five films in 1920 would give her prominence in Hollywood and become her best-known picture -- DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (1920) opposite John Barrymore. Over the next few years, signed with Selznick Pictures, she made as many as eight motion pictures per year (1923) as well as touring the vaudeville circuit.

Actor Philip Shorey accompanied Martha’s body to her birthplace of New York, where she was interred.

youtube

#Martha Mansfield #alfred cheney johnson #Ziegfeld Midnight Frolic of 1919 #Selznick Pictures #Fox Film Corporation #John Barrymore #Ziegfeld Follies 1918-1919 #wikipedia #photography #colorized #coffeetablebook #fricpic #my art #painting #digital art #design #artwork #Youtube #silent cinema

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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Elon Musk is the richest person in the world—one of the richest in history. But Musk’s power is no longer just tied to the financial wealth derived from Tesla, X, or SpaceX. Musk, by virtue of his close relationship with President Donald Trump, has been given a sweeping mandate to influence policy across the entire U.S. government through the newly founded Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE). His life as an entrepreneur sheds important light on his work as a political actor.

Musk has often claimed that physics is at the center of his worldview: He talks about the search for natural first principles as a motivation for his actions in business and life more generally. And “first principles thinking” has become something of a mantra in Musk world. It evokes both rigor and a childlike, innocent approach to any problem, however complex.

The idea is that you’re going to break down any technological problem, whether automobiles or rockets, and you’re going to start from scratch. Then you’re going to derive whatever solution you come up with from very fundamental axioms. And in this process, nothing anyone else has done up to that point, no inherited tradition, will count. In fact, the underlying premise is clearly that all of that inherited thought and practice is bad, old, dusty baggage that we’re better off doing without and moving on from.

There are advantages to this approach, as the demonstrated success of Tesla and SpaceX can attest. But, as any competent car reviewer will tell you, there are also huge downsides. Tesla vehicles do often appear to be engineered by Martians, as though the industry did not have decades of experience in how to set up and optimize and efficiently manufacture the chassis, steering, and brakes of a modern high-performance car.

And when it comes to politics, the advantages of this “start from scratch” approach are far less clear. Musk and his DOGE team have now drawn on his habits of mind to position themselves to destroy government agencies, principally the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), and meddle with the very wiring of government in the United States, in the form of the Treasury payments system.

It’s true, of course, that you can derive inspiration for politics and ethics from analogies to physics. Think about the impact of Isaac Newton on modern political thought: the notions of equilibrium in economics, the stability of equilibria—these are ideas derived from physics analogs, mechanics more often than not. Or think about the impact of cybernetics in the early computer age. And this is even more stark when you think about engineering, a close cousin of physics. Vladimir Lenin famously defined communism as Soviet power plus the electrification of Russia. The authoritarian technocracy movement of the 1930s and ’40s drew similar inspiration from engineering. Musk’s maternal grandfather, who would later emigrate from Canada to South Africa, was involved with that movement.

The knock-on effect of these kinds of positions, analogizing physics to politics, is twofold. First, it is likely to be bad physics. Second, even if you can derive an ideology from physics-based analogies, is what you end up with really political? If politics is about argument, disagreement, the play of human emotions and ideas, then deriving one’s politics from engineering or physics analogies can never be taken at face value. Either it is political and acknowledges itself as such—but then the physics and mechanics will have to be acknowledged as no more than metaphor—or it is not politics but an authoritarian technocratic vision that actually seeks to suppress the political.

Musk’s blank-slate approach to policy was preceded by his unprecedented manner of involvement in U.S. politics in the first place. There were many ways of making a lot of money by placing bets on a Trump victory in 2024. But Musk is not just the biggest beneficiary of a discrete Trump trade. Through his donations, through X, and through his personal endorsement, he helped make it happen. He is fully vested in Trump’s political success.

What’s indisputable is that Musk has personally benefited from his political involvement. Today, Musk’s personal net worth is estimated in the $330 billion to $350 billion range; it fluctuates with the stock market, $10 billion up, $10 billion down. As recently as the summer of 2024, his assets were valued at $170 billion and back in the doldrums of 2023 at $130 billion.

What has changed in between? Nothing fundamental about the business outlook for Tesla, which is the core of Musk’s personal wealth. Tesla, in fact, has been having a tough time, as consumers are starting to reject the brand for its newfound association with Trump. The obvious explanation for the more than doubling of Musk’s huge personal wealth was the fact that Trump’s bid for the presidency was successful, Musk was his biggest donor, and he is now perhaps the man who is closest to Trump. His partnership with Trump fuses his personal interests with the country’s own.

There does not have to be any kind of malfeasance. There doesn’t even have to be any conflict of interest. What is good for Trump is good for Musk is good for America: That is how they will imagine it, and they will act accordingly. SpaceX, to name just one example, through its relentless innovation and investment, has already earned a place at the core of the U.S. space program. Trump, who created the U.S. Space Force during his first presidency, could easily expand that program and SpaceX’s place in it. And Musk will think of himself throughout as being on the right side of history.

With what, from his point of view, is a relatively trivial investment, he has demonstrated the force of his vision and is now creating facts on the ground. Arguably, the question is, why hasn’t anyone done this before? Obviously, Trump is uniquely susceptible to this kind of idiosyncratic personal influence. He loves business success. And while no one has had the resources that Musk does, there are still plenty of multi-billionaires out there. Why are their donations to the political system, why is their effort to suborn politics generally, so mealymouthed? Yes, one sees a few millions spent here or there. But Musk bought Twitter and put down $277 million on Trump and other Republicans in the 2024 election, and look at his return! It is a spectacularly successful investment.

The only obvious analogies that come to mind might be the relationship between Prime Minister Narendra Modi and Indian oligarchs such as the Ambanis. They made a truly long-term and large-scale investment in a political personality who would change the game in their favor, not just narrowly but in a much broader sense.

You could think of this “investment in politics” as proactively shaping the environment around the vision that also animates Musk’s business ventures—as an enablement of further risk-taking. Or you could think of his intervention in politics more defensively.

Is it better to sit back, stay in your lane, and enjoy your wealth, waiting for history to happen to you? Or is it better to place a serious bet and try somehow to manage the conflict? Musk has clearly opted for the latter route. Are there risks and contradictions? There obviously are. Tesla is hugely exposed in China. It is one of the firm’s largest markets and an even larger share of worldwide production.

Is there any guarantee that this won’t clash with Trump’s trade policy or the geopolitics of more hawkish members of his entourage? Absolutely not. But do you have a better chance to influence the course of events and to find pragmatic fixes that may work for your business if you are inside the administration? Of course you do. Apple, which successfully lobbied for tariff carveouts during the first Trump administration, demonstrated what could be done. Musk is going to go one better. Like Apple CEO Tim Cook, Musk has formidable contacts up and down the Chinese hierarchy. Perhaps he can find some way to square the circle. What Musk doesn’t consider an option is retreating into an imaginary position of neutrality.

There has been much discussion about how Musk’s upbringing in South Africa may account for his affinity for far-right ideology. The willingness of the Trump administration to bully the current government of South Africa over its policies on land redistribution and Black ownership is now apparent. Whether or not it is Musk pulling the strings, there is a broader group of white South Africans around Trump of whom Musk is the most powerful. It is hard to imagine that they don’t shape his views on the topic.

But at a deeper level, it is useful to consider the way in which growing up in the truly protean environment of South African politics in the 1970s and ’80s might have shaped the underlying risk-taking form of Musk’s politics—his understanding of the fungibility of constitutions and of history itself.

His formative years were spent in an environment that was in dramatic flux, with the system of apartheid buckling and apocalyptic scenarios of race war (which are still very much present in South Africa today) overshadowing political life. Everything was up for grabs. No political system could be ruled out. It was not an environment easily conducive to developing a liberal imagination. Musk’s father was reputedly liberal, although in the South African context that meant discussing multicameral parliaments to allow some measure of Black representation. According to Musk, he himself left the country to avoid conscription into the South African military, which was a pillar of apartheid.

Musk, Peter Thiel, and others in their Silicon Valley milieu have in common that they like to “think the unthinkable” about all sorts of things. It connects to the habit of thinking about politics on the basis of scientific axioms. And in a situation like that of late apartheid South Africa, when everything is subject to revision, what else do you do? You have to recur to first principles.

But Musk’s adventures in European right-wing policy suggest his motivations may be less transparent to himself than he would admit. Around the factory he built outside Berlin, he has had some uncomfortable encounters with German politics repeatedly posing resistance to his business plans. Musk is reportedly on unfriendly terms with certain parts of Berlin’s terminally hip party scene. At this point, Musk probably quite likes the idea of disrupting Germany for the sake of retribution. And when you apply first principles to that emotional math, you rapidly arrive at the conclusion that the German far right deserves strong support.

When you see him in conversation with Alice Weidel, co-leader of the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party, Musk comes across as almost naive. In terms of its program, though the AfD is commonly labeled far-right, it is not more right-wing than the Republican Party in the United States. The one difference is history—so Musk has concluded that Germans should worry less about their Nazi past.

What Musk isn’t going to do is tamely follow the example of someone such as Bill Gates, who took his immense fortune earned via Microsoft and poured it into conventional good causes such as global public health and education. Gates is a baby boomer. He cultivates conventional tastes and has a reputable collection of American art. Musk is a poorly socialized, somewhat feral computer kid of the 1970s and ’80s who, through maverick energy, has made himself the richest man in the world. Thinking outside the box is simply the only way he knows.

As for what Musk’s endgame at DOGE is, and where his political philosophy ultimately leads, it’s not clear anyone knows—including Musk himself.

Hostile audits in the form of invasions of government infrastructure and physical occupations of office buildings are not unknown in political history. In the later stages of the eurocrisis, for instance, inspectors from the so-called troika—the European Commission, the European Central Bank, and the International Monetary Fund—made visits to Greek government buildings and accessed their computers and files to make determinations about the shape of the country’s future spending.

But that took years and followed a procedure. What we have seen in the first weeks of the second Trump administration is an assault more in the style of the Jan. 6, 2021, insurrection. With a budget of $40 billion, USAID is a small part of the U.S. government machine, but it accounts for more than 20 percent of official development assistance worldwide. The destruction of that agency is like nothing we’ve ever seen in recent history in terms of governmental change.

The teams that he is using to drive change comprise a mixture of teenage engineers, staff on loan from his various businesses, and high-flying lawyers. Layoffs have hit nearly every federal agency, from the Education Department to the Small Business Administration to the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. If there is a plan they are implementing, it seems haphazard.

But there may be a strategy. Musk seems to want to break things. He may think that disrupting the U.S. government will unlock huge, undreamed-of efficiencies. He may even imagine displacing much of the government with private enterprise, as SpaceX has effectively done with NASA. But most recently, he has resorted to an ugly gardening metaphor to describe his vision:

I think we do need to delete entire agencies, as opposed to leave part of them behind. … It’s kind of like leaving a weed. If you don’t remove the roots of the weed, then it’s easy for the weed to grow back. But if you remove the roots of the weed, it doesn’t stop weeds from ever going back, but it makes it harder.

A gardener, of course, is someone who has cultivated the practical knowledge to identify weeds, to differentiate them from plants in need of tending—precisely not someone, in other words, who works according to first principles.

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dailyanarchistposts · 9 months ago

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Technology

Technology Today

The neutrality of science and technology is a myth. Science is used to legitimate power, technology to justify social control. The myth is wheeled out when technology comes under fire e.g. for causing industrial pollution or traffic congestion. Inadequate policies or under-developed technology are blamed rather than the technology itself. The solution is a “technical fix” — more of the same. The ideology of industrialisation is that modernisation, technological development and social development are the same. It is used to justify the pursuit of economic growth, with the emphasis on wealth generation rather than its distribution.

This ideology is used to suppress the potential for individualsocial emancipation offered by particular machines such as wind power technology (i.e. small scale, for local use, and community controlled), and to legitimise their use in ways that are socially and environmentally exploitative (large scale wind farms under state/private control supplying the National Grid). Technological innovation is used politically, but presented in neutral technical/scientific terms such as “increased efficiency”. A modern example might be the introduction of assembly line production techniques into the construction industry; or a ‘technical solution’ to social needs such as the development of a new transport system; or as the economic ‘rationalisation’ of out of date technologies, for instance the introduction of new print technology by Rupert Murdoch at Wapping which led to the printers’ strike of 1986/7. ‘Work improvement’ schemes such as job enrichment allow workers a say in minor decisions to divert them from key areas such as pay and productivity. Innovation is used as a threat to blackmail sections of the workforce into particular tasks: employers often threaten female machine workers that if their demands for equal pay with men are met, they will be replaced by machines.

Science has prostituted itself to its paymaster, big business, and is a dangerous partner in change. In the 1880’s Frederick Winslow Taylor invented ‘scientific management’ (now known as Taylorism). He believed all productive processes could be broken down into hundreds of individual tasks and each made more efficient through rigorous management and the use of controlling technology. A prime example is the assembly line and it is no coincidence that the great ‘success’ of Henry Ford was based on the application of Taylor’s principles to mass automobile production. What is surprising is that during the Russian Revolution, the Bolsheviks enthusiastically took up Taylorism. Lenin described it as “a combination of the refined brutality of bourgeois exploitation and a number of the greatest scientific achievements in the field of analysing the mechanical motions of work; we must systematically try it out and adapt it to our own ends.” A belief in the neutrality of technology, and that it could be controlled by the scientific and managerial elites of the ‘workers’ state, was one of the factors leading to the corruption and eventual destruction of the Russian Revolution. But Taylor’s research has since been shown to be wholly unscientific. His timed study tasks were made on an atypical worker chosen for his large size, great strength, and general stupidity. Taylorism has largely been superseded by ideas about ‘job enrichment’ at work; unfortunately, such ideas are equally unscientific.

The objectivity of the scientific method is used to mask the problems created by advanced technology and to legitimise the policies of the ruling class. The Roskill Commission was set up in 1969 to look at the siting of a third London airport. The masses of ‘expert evidence’ showed that it was less socially damaging to fly loud aircraft over working class rather than middle class areas because of the different effects on property values. Technological programmes are presented as outside the area of political debate, so only technical objections are allowed. Official enquiries into the location of motorways and nuclear power stations can discuss where they will cause the least environmental and social disturbance but not whether they are needed in the first place or whose interests they serve. Similarly, the trend is to present politics as a purely technical or managerial activity, with policies assigned measurable ‘performance targets’ but which ignore other social consequences.

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krunalsojitrablog · 9 months ago

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What is Enterprise Fleet Management?

As is revealed in today’s world business environment, any organization must manage its resources appropriately. Thus, for companies and firms having major operations related to transportation and logistics, it becomes even more essential to manage their fleets.

Now, let’s start with the basics: what does enterprise fleet management mean? Now let’s discuss this idea and figure out how it can be of great benefit to the business processes.

Understanding what is Enterprise Fleet Management

Fleet management within an enterprise could be described as a strategic approach to managing and supervising such a company's vehicle fleet. The areas include its acquisition and maintenance, driver and vehicle management, and laws governing the automobile industry. Fleet management is prospective to optimize the operating costs and enhance the safety and productivity of both fleets and their drivers.

In an enterprise environment, fleet management goes beyond tracking the vehicles; it is more about getting improved ways of running organizations. Fleet management is important irrespective of whether it involves delivery vans, trucks, or even corporate cars if the business owns a set of cars for business use.

The outcome highlights the fundamental issues of fleet management.

Vehicle Acquisition and Disposal: Picking the correct car for your fleet, beginning from procurement to the time of disposal.

Maintenance and Repair: Managing to schedule vehicles for maintenance and repairs regularly to make sure that they are in good working condition to reduce time loss.

Fuel Management: Fuel efficiency management by controlling consumption and considering these to minimize fuel expenses by using fuel-efficient driving techniques and other energy resources.

Driver Management: Incorporating training and supervision of drivers as well as planning meals nt to support safety, compliance, and efficiency among the drivers.

Compliance and Risk Management: The safety of all the used vehicles as well as the used drivers with brutal and international requirements and managing of risk exposures of operating fleets.

Here we will discuss the concept of Fleet Management Software. Inefficiently managing all these components, many businesses turn to the use of fleet management software. This is because it acts as a platform for accessing any information regarding the fleet, including real-time data and automated operations of the fleet.

Key Features of Fleet Management Software

GPS Tracking: Precise vehicle location in real-time to increase efficiency and controllers.

Maintenance Scheduling: Schedule reminders in case of preventive maintenance and repairs to avoid ‘bottlenecks Management: Proper equipment that tracks fuel usage and gives an indication of wasteful activities.

Compliance Management: Material properties garages need to comply with set safety measures as well as regulatory requirements.

Driver Performance Monitoring: Measures to monitor and measure drivers’s performance, detect their training requirements, and incentivize them over safe behavior on roads.

Why Enterprise Fleet Management is So Important

To large companies, fleet management is not only limited to planning on how to ensure that vehicles are running. It’s about being able to harness data and technology in a way that will put you ahead of the competition. Effective management of fleets is known to have numerous benefits, such as cutting costs, satisfying customers, and reducing risks involving drivers and cars, among others.

However, due to emerging issues such as global warming, companies are now focusing on the use of fleets to be environmentally friendly. This is done through the optimization of routes, timely maintenance of vehicles, and training of the drivers to ensure they are conscious of the impact they make on the environment.

Being a web-based service, the most advantageous aspect related to an FMS or a Fleet Management Software Development Service is that it can be easily and effectively utilized across the corporate fleet range.

This has led to the increasing need for the development of fleet management software to be able to meet the expanding market need. Custom software, as the name suggests, is designed to improve organizational operations to suit a company’s needs, making it more flexible than packaged software.

A fleet management software development service typically includes

Consultation and Needs Assessment: Ah, awareness of the particular requirements and objectives of your fleet. You need to hire a professional fleet management software development company.

Custom Software Development: Constructing a custom fit that incorporates into the complex structures of the organization and fits the needs of the organization perfectly.

Integration with IoT Devices: The use of Internet of Things (IoT) devices such as GPS trackers or sensors to input real-time information and data.

Ongoing Support and Maintenance: Needed to make sure the software will continue to include all the features and incorporate the latest technologies and that it will cover all current needs of the business.

Conclusion

Okay, then, Fleet management is a system that encompasses all activities that involve control of a company’s fleet of vehicles with the use of the latest technologies in software and quality practices. Fleet management is not only a good idea but a necessity for any business that depends on transportation, where proper management of the company’s fleet is critical to achieving success.

Let it be a handful of vehicles or a multitude, the appropriate strategy in fleet management as enhanced by software changes the equation, provides steps towards optimizing your operations, lowers costs, and enhances the performance of an organization. The fast advancement of technology means that the means and ways used in the implementation of the strategies by the f managers are ever-changing and therefore a very promising industry to follow.

#business growth #fleet management #fleet maintenance #enterprise software #enterprise application development #business solutions #software #trending #viralpost #viral trends

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i-am-purplexed · 2 years ago

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Scene break teaser for chapter 5!

A Full House-El: Luthorcorp’s Surprising New Business Partner.

The Edge of Tomorrow - April 16th, 2016

Article by Mike Young

History is rife with examples of companies that reached just that bit too far, people who promised just that bit too much and were unable to back up their claims. Companies that made one fatal mistake, and realized too late just how rickety their lofty towers were. Blockbuster refused to buy Netflix; Kodak refused to shift into the digital camera industry; Palm PDA’s thought that cell phones were a ‘fad’ and refused to buy into it. And, most recently; House El Incorporated has partnered with LuthorCorp.

House El Incorporated, more commonly known as ‘Elco,’ is a newer business in the tech scene. Launching late in 2012, Elco’s claim to fame is their alien outlook on the industry - literally. They broke into the scene with the Icon One, a cellular phone that has rapidly risen in popularity due to its slim size, large battery life, and processing power. The phone is quite literally decades ahead of the market, for a rather simple reason -

It uses alien technology to get there. The company’s CEO, a young woman named Kara Zor-El, is famously Kryptonian; she has founded her company on technology from beyond the stars, and aims to win the big bucks by monopolizing her hold on tech leagues beyond our development.

That would be a remarkably efficient way to climb to the top of the tech industry, if the Icon hadn’t been swiftly surrounded in scandal; its power source and method of transmission required strenuous testing before it could be introduced to the market. Testing that the phone is still going through four years later - the Icon has hit the market, but many experienced voices in the sector believe that such leaps in technology may be a bit beyond humanity’s reach.

Elco hasn’t released a new item since, apparently frightened by how seriously Earth takes the safety of its citizens. The Icon has rapidly faded from the public eye, a lack of innovation meaning newer phones have taken its spot on the stage. Now, the company is promising something entirely different: infinite energy! If that sounds a bit fantastical to you, you aren’t alone. Ms. Zor-El recently held a meeting with several automobile companies; Ford, Porsche, Toyota, and Volkswagen were all intrigued by the promise of new engines to run electric cars on - engines that could provide limitless power with no need for fuel or recharging. We spoke to one member of the Ford board of directors, who was at the meeting, and he was less than enthused by the idea.

“She’s promising something that just isn’t there,” Richard Mietz told us, at The Edge of Tomorrow. “The engine she mentions is still in the labs; I would be interested in seeing more but [Ms. Zor-El] isn’t willing to share the fine details. She wants promises and contracts, but refuses investment - I don’t think she understands how things are done here. Currently, all we know is that there may or may not be an engine, it may or may not work - and she wants people to buy it as soon as it hits the market. I’m not sold.”

Other sources in the industry say the same - Elco’s ‘Waveform Resonance Engine’ is expected to take just as long, if not longer than the Icon to verify and test before it can hit the market. With the declining sales of the Icon and Elcos lack of income, most analysts expect the company to go under within the next two years.

Luckily for them, a new company seems rather eager to jump onto the sinking ship.

---

Nothing quite like some sleezy right-leaning media to shine perspective on things, hm? Bit of a delay for this chapter as I started a new job recently, hopefully chapter 6 will come quicker.

#supercorp #ewtbu fanfic #supergirl fanfiction #kara danvers

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aayusd30 · 11 months ago

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Web Design Agency in Vashi

Pinacle Web India provides one of the best website designing services in Vashi. We provide quality websites in a shorter time frame with no bargains for quality.

Your website is like the front door to your shop. So making a good first impression on your potential customers is essential.

At Pinacle Web India, a web development company, we are a passionate bunch of web designers who love turning ideas into reality. Whether you are starting from scratch, giving your old website a new look, or want something dynamic, we’ve got you covered.

Being a website designing company, we understand the value a good website can add to a business. Here are a few reasons you should give us a chance:

Experience: We at Pinacle Web India, a web design company, have an experienced team who have plenty of experience to do a first-class job. Some of the projects we have worked on come from the following industries:

Steel and Metal

Real Estate

Immigration

Education

Pharma industry

Interior & Exterior

Computer Accessories

Marine

Automobile

Food & Agro

Electrical

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Custom Websites: We understand that every business is unique and has its own set of values. Hence, we create websites tailored to meet every business’ individual goals and requirements.

Affordability: We offer competitive prices with no compromise for quality.

On-time delivery: At Pinacle Web India, we are committed to delivering on time causing no interruptions in your venture.

Client First: We believe in clear communication and collaboration. Our designers work based on the client’s vision and turn their ideas into reality.

Maintenance and Support: Our team is always there for you to maintain and update your website, address any questions and guide you through the process.

#web design #design #web development #website

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slowd1ving · 11 months ago

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PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ ii.

THE WORLD WE KNEW (FRANK SINATRA)

"Every road we took turned to gold, But the dream was too much for you to hold." wc: 7.1k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

Stephen Steel is a brave man.

“Mr Steel, the conference is ready for you.”

It was a proclamation that littered both gazettes and newspapers alike: a subtle dig at his penchant for big ideas. Brave. No, those journalists were wrong. Stephen was stubborn, and a coward; his daughter was the brave one. Though, unlike those twittering fools, he didn’t mean bravery to be an insult. Rather, he admired Lucy’s fresh perspective in an industry where cowardice was the standard.

When she had first proposed the idea of a cross country race across America, he could already feel the printed ink on grey paper. Scathing remarks adorning comments about his character – maybe he was already growing senile – perhaps a dig at his adopted daughter, just for good measure. It was practically a given that the economist broadsheets would flock to scoff at what was undoubtedly a pipe dream. Foolhardy , they’d write, one can’t possibly hope to attain profit from this witless scheme – truly, Steel has grown rusty.

What those money-hungry sharks always failed to recognise was that Stephen didn’t do this for money. Something that never clicked for them was the beauty of watching an idea bloom into life. If it put that sparkle into Lucy’s eyes, who was he to deny her wishes? She wasn’t a fool; this idea was bold. The world’s eyes would be on this stage, and it was all his daughter’s doing. What idiot wouldn’t be proud of her? It was about the point.

The age of the horse is not over.

Amidst all the growing interest surrounding automobiles, there was a fervent desperation to catapult into the future. He could see it – had seen it – time and time again. What inventions could technology bring about ? What heights can humanity hope to reach ? It wasn’t a bad thing; innovation was the crux of mankind. In a rapidly industrialising world, though, he felt old .

Time slipped past his fingers like minuscule grains of sand.

He wasn’t one to dwell in the past; wallowing about with the dregs of tradition was left to the other members of his generation. This country had forced unbearable apparitions to plague his thoughts, to torment his dreams and reality alike. No, he really wasn’t one to stay in the past.

If it wasn’t innovation that unsettled him, what was it?

As industrialisation and capital sunk their grimy claws into humankind, community was shredded apart. Was there any to begin with ? Stephen hadn’t known community , but he could see the individualism piercing through man with every step they took to the future. This country was plagued with it.

No, he wasn’t a patriot.

He had watched people he knew from youth turn into reverent acolytes to the dirty ideal of business . He knew business intimately: watching talk of capital and money seep out his old friends like the most ardent of prayers. They had no compassion – no empathy – for others, save themselves. It settled over his skin like a layer of grease – infinitely hard to scrub off. Neighbour forsake neighbour .

Lucy, never fall prey to this beast .

This race across the continent could bring people together. All walks of life – rooting for a champion to cross the finish line. Hope . Humans and their equine companions . Could this remind people of the threads of fate intertwining them to each other? Maybe. He was almost too afraid to think it into the existence of his mind.

He wasn’t a patriot, yet America was all he’d known. Something would change with this race, wouldn’t it? The feat of crossing the continent of horseback had the potential to unite . All across the world, eyes would be trained on the glory of the victor racing against all odds – with a tool, a companion , that the wealthy viewed as primitive .

No, the age of the horse was not over.

It couldn’t be.

“Mr Steel, those reporters and sponsors might be growing a tad impatient.”

He was shaken out of his thoughts by his butler’s insistent voice. Instinctively, he sat up ramrod-straight in the armchair at the exasperated tone – a habit he could never quash, even decades after leaving the army.

“Do you want me to inform Miss Steel to join you?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Stephen stood up with a bone-deep weariness that betrayed his age. His hands shook minutely as he adjusted the green collar slung over his shoulders. “I don’t want my daughter to be present should things get heated.”

Stephen Steel is a cowardly man , he mused. The furthest thing from brave .

. 　⁺ ✦

San Diego beach was awfully quiet. It had been late in the afternoon when you finally meandered your way to the coast, after walking in circles and getting fooled by the street signs (not one, but thrice ). Finally, a local had taken pity on your pathetically despondent face and kindly pointed you in the right direction.

By now, the sun was hanging low in the sky, and a pleasant chill eased over you; instead of being sticky and overheated, you were now sticky and covered in cold sweat. This sucks , you thought as you dug your shoes into the sand by your drooping backpack.There was no sensation you loathed more than the itch of clothes plastered to your skin (save for maybe the feeling of nothing ).

Almost unconsciously, your eyes roved over the shoreline: not a soul was present, not even a stray seagull circling the sky above. Wind hissed in your ears, and the insistent lapping of waves against sand was the accompanying melody. It was empty , yet the floating head still hadn’t appeared into your field of view.

Whatever , you scowled. You suck anyway . Instead of worrying about where that Annoying Prick had disappeared off to, you turned your attention to the discarded newspaper nearby. With any luck, it would give you information on the Steel Ball Run that your friend had so graciously withheld.

The Daily Bee , you read. Issue 257. Your hands grasped your personal gold mine; by some miracle, it hadn’t gotten soaked by the spray of water nearby (though it was severely rumpled, as if someone had tossed it in a fit of rage).

“ Ridiculous race across America announced ?” you mouthed along, practically choking with how greedily your eyes scanned the letters. Bingo . The ink was slightly smudged – like it had been veritably ripped from the printing press – but that didn’t matter. You had a paper treasure trove in your clutches.

“ The infamous promoter, Stephen Steel, declared yesterday his plans to establish a cross-country race on horseback. Spanning lengthways over America, it has been dubbed the ‘Steel Ball Run’. Already, it faces criticism from rival promoters and citizens alike – I can imagine,” you paused to swat away a fly that was getting too close for comfort, before continuing your fascinating perusal. “ However, Steel insists that America needs this reminder of ‘pioneering spirit’. Certainly, it has never been done before in the history of mankind. Will he- turn to page six to read more .”

You set the newspaper on your lap as you thumbed your temple. Of course they’d put the concrete information later in the goddamn issue. Irritably, you turned the pages until you reached it.

“ -manage to appease the opposition? The grand cost of the race is in the hundreds of millions, with the prize money for the champion being fifty million dollars ,” your eyes almost bugged out of your head. Fifty million.. Already, you could hear a stampede of entrants flocking to prove their worth. “ Entrance fee is $1200. The start date is 10 AM, September 25th 1890, on the beach of San Diego. Second place- alright, that’s plenty.”

Neatly, you folded the newspaper in two and set it down. There was a lot to mull over. San Diego beach . That was here, right? Your gaze traced over to where the sand winked out on the horizon – it was hard to picture the coast being filled with horses when it was presently so barren.

Entrance fee . Any cash you had was still in your truck, you realised mournfully. Although, you doubted you’d get very far with modern money. Sure, you could probably pawn off some of the equipment in your pack, but you’d still be short by a couple hundred bucks. A job . With a pang of loss, you thought back to your internship with Dr Ferdinand. And with a pang of annoyance, you thought about the absence of your floating buddy.

Where the hell was it?

Exhaustedly, you tipped your head back and leant on your palms in the warm sand. The steady beat of your tattoo resounded in your left arm and lulled you into a lazy stupor; you’d never wished for the comfort of your bed this hard in your life.

When you really focused, you could feel the familiar surge of energy tugging and twisting at your innards. And it was annoying : much like the uncomfortable feeling of indigestion, or the sound of that irritating head. Wait . You furrowed your brow, and shut your eyes determinedly.

Like it or not, you could feel the cords twined around you – and they tied you to that head. Each of your limbs, your very soul was inexorably bonded to that thing : marionette and puppet master.

( Who is the puppet ?)

Something instinctive twisted within your gut; just as naturally as breathing, you let the sensation ebb and flow over you. Your left palm grew colder: a testament that you were doing something right. Inhale . Salt burned your tongue. Exhale . The air pressure grew heavier. You could feel the presence manifesting before you – like something was unfurling against your sternum.

Your eyes flew open.

There, bobbing through the air before you once again, was that Hideous Apparition. Automatically, your face settled into a healthy scowl.

“Hi again,” it wheedled. If that ugly mug had eyelashes, you were sure they’d be fluttering in some attempt to gain favour with you. “Long time no see-”

“Nice try,” you interrupted. You were really, really irritated now. “Great job, disappearing like that after I just got dropped in the middle of nowhere. Super convenient. It’s really making me want to help you.”

“ You were the one who hid me away,” it replied petulantly. Your eye twitched. “But then you summoned me again just now!”

“So now you’re blaming me?” you snapped. “ Thank you for explaining your weird shit before you tossed me into that wormhole.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” it cajoled. You decidedly missed the period of time where the inflection of its voice was flat and impersonal; this mockery of an apologetic tone simply added insult to injury. “I can explain right now, I promise! I’ll even tell you my name to make me easier to summon.”

“ Great ,” you hoped every syllable absolutely dripped scathingly. A small, traitorous – scientific , you insisted – part of you was trembling with earnest curiosity. You were finally getting answers. And you had the ability to summon this thing: suggesting a modicum of control over it. Your fingers twitched with excitement. Obviously, you’d experiment (and maybe, maybe you’d be able to use that Question of Time ability to return home).

“I’m you,” it began, before promptly staring at you to really punt the message inwards. You grimaced, but didn’t open your mouth to refute it. “Or more accurately, the manifestation of your fighting spirit.”

“What fighting spirit? I’m a lab intern !” you wailed despairingly. Not only were you somehow related to that ghastly thing, but now you were expected to fight on top of that?

“Look, I know this isn’t the most ideal situation,” it tried to pacify you, but that irritating attempt at a soothing voice from a floating head was only repulsive. “But the Devil’s Palm chose you for this.”

“Question of Time: take me back,” you clasped your hands together in fervent prayer. You could feel the head’s exasperation buzz across your neurons. The familiar pull of the wormhole didn’t appear. Even the tattoo didn’t hum with extra vitality.

“That’s just not gonna work,” it sighed. “This is the destination, and your objective is here.”

“If I prevent the President from taking the corpse – is it an actual corpse – will I be able to go home?”

“I’d think so,” it replied thoughtfully, spinning in the air as if it were cycling back through its thoughts. “Like, I’m new to this, but that sounds like it would work. And yes, it is an actual corpse.”

“Right,” your shoulders drooped. Neither morbid curiosity nor hope stirred any interest within you; exhaustion had long since taken command of your body. “And I have to enter the race? Can’t I just track the President down outside the race?”

“No can do,” those clock eyes distorted slightly in a sympathetic squeeze. “The race is your best bet to get closer without suspicion, as well as finding the corpse before he does.”

“But I have to buy a whole horse , and pay the entrance fee, and get equipment and provisions,” you mumbled, covering your face with your hands. Against your cheek, the tattoo pulsed with something akin to a comforting hum. “Plus survive here for a good two months. A horse !”

“We’ll find you a job,” it came out slightly muffled due to your hunched shoulders pressed against your ears, but you appreciated the assurance nonetheless. Silence settled briefly, before you peeked through your fingers; the head was quietly watching you with an expression that seemed to be a cousin to concern.

“Who are you?”

The question escaped out of your lips before it had a chance to become a fully-fledged thought. Curiosity had begun to flare up against the dampening fatigue that soaked through every cell in your body.

Despite the haze of the unknown clouding your conscious mind, that impossible familiarity kept tugging your gut. You knew what that head was: somewhere in the deepest recesses of instinct . Even now, your mouth formed something that might’ve been a name – yet it was impossible to know. Your tongue felt leaden, as if you were just learning how to speak.

“My name is Depeche Mode.”

And it was true ; just as soundly as you knew the earth beneath your feet, you knew that name. Depeche Mode , you called out, and something answered within your very soul.

[ I’m here. ]

“I’m a fragment of you,” Depeche Mode continued, as if it hadn’t just resonated with your internal monologue. “I’m a tool , that you yourself created.”

A rather faulty tool of you .

[Shut up.]

“So what can you do?” you settled your chin on your forearms and leaned forwards. “Other than, y’know, kidnapping hapless interns for weird schemes?”

“Technically, you kidnapped yourself by foolishly wandering into the Devil’s Palm and awakening me, and by extension, you ,” it retorted snippily. “Let’s not point fingers here.”

You closed your mouth.

“Look at your palm – right hand, right hand , idiot.”

Not wanting to get head-butted by an irate Depeche Mode, you twisted your palm round. Nothing. You flipped it over – still nothing.

“Hey,” you looked up. “There’s no-”

Then, you felt it. That familiar prickling sensation, that familiar heat was beginning to emerge from your very bones – and right into the meat of your palm. Straight lines plastered themselves under your watchful gaze; those bold lines (interrupted only by the decorative friezes embellishing them) were so unlike the fragile lines of the other tattoo that you were quite taken aback.

“Okay, a rectangle with decoration, cool,” you uttered, deadpan. Although, you had to admit, the swirling patterns crawling up your wrists were pretty decent for something that wasn’t your choice. “You secretly a tattoo artist or something?”

“It’s not a rectangle,” it scowled. You could feel its simmering vexation threatening to spill over. “It’s a slot machine.”

“That’s even more bizarre!” you threw up your hands in exasperation. There really was no winning, but the glower you received prompted you to cease any further remarks.

“With two numbers,” it challenged, practically daring you to say something.

That’s stupid as hell , you thought. Two numbers ?

“ And a five minute cooldown after it’s used,” it replied icily. You swallowed nervously. “The pocket watch on your left palm will show the time remaining.”

Sounds great !

“Think of it starting up,” it instructed. You peered intently at your palm: feeling those blocky lines brand themselves in your mind’s eye. This was not intuitive. Depeche Mode was practically breathing down your neck with how intensely it scrutinised you.

“Look away,” you snapped after a minute of no luck. That empty stare was making you nervous , or at the very least, irritable .

“Relax your muscles, and imagine pushing the button to that slot machine,” you could feel it twirl away from view, and you heaved a sigh of relief. “ Feel the spin of it.”

“ Feel the spin ,” you muttered. Of course that thing had added a silly little riddle as a garnish to its advice. Focus . You inhaled, then shakily visualised a big, red button. Shiny, stereotypical - the one that screamed ‘don’t press this doomsday button or else’.

You slammed down on it.

Immediately, something clicked . Your heart skipped a beat. Beneath your widened gaze, numbers and symbols were spinning within that rectangle splayed out on your palm. If you really focused, you could even hear phantom whirring and chiming, as if you had wandered into some haunted casino.

Just as suddenly as it began, the spin came to a grinding halt. There, framed by that embellished rectangle, was the number 1: proudly emblazoned and complete with a decorative syringe sketched inside the ink.

A syringe , you pondered. What could that possibly -

[Activating: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]

“What the-” your incredulity was cut off with even more incredulity as Depeche Mode poofed into existence before you. Something was different .

Your eyes roamed over the brand new floating hands that accompanied that dismembered head. And in its grasp, in its grasp , was a cartoonishly over-sized syringe. Depeche Mode was currently tapping it against its palm menacingly like a goddamn baseball bat . You eyed it nervously.

“You’re not going to bludgeon my brains out, right?” you queried with an uneasy smile. “ Right ?”

“Of course not!” that cheery, yet somehow still monotone, denial had you break into a light – light – sweat. “You got injured, didn’t you?”

Those lacquered lips had yet to open. Why, why the hell did your soul have to form this horror movie extra?

“Yeah, uhh,” your eyes darted to your arms to check out the shallow scrapes that appeared after each time you got shit out of that wormhole thing. Did you want to be honest? Did you really trust that thing?

“Relax,” that smug tone was not helping its case. “Personal Jesus can quickly heal you!”

Before you could even react, Depeche Mode grasped the plunger with those two hands, raised it, and struck you with that huge needle. You let out a rather embarrassing yelp, but it passed through you . It felt warm , like you were swimming through some amniotic fluid. Against your will, you felt your shoulders relax. Beneath your disbelieving eyes, those cuts and scrapes were rapidly clotting and vanishing . Even your sore shoulder had eased up.

“As you can see, Personal Jesus rejects injury someone has taken – unless the body has already accepted it as the natural state ,” Depeche Mode rattled off robotically, as if it hadn’t almost given you heart palpitations.

“Like a scar, or something like that?” you rasped. Your mind was still hazed from the shock and abrupt warmth.

“Precisely. If the body is already rejecting it, this ability helps it out, and if it’s already deemed ‘healed’ by the body, you can’t do shit about it. Like if it’s a fresh amputation, you could reattach the leg, but if not… well,” it waved the syringe nonchalantly, and you fought the urge to flinch. “Any other questions?”

You squinted, and something finally seemed to register in your brain. Perched precariously on that shiny, bald head was a… nurse hat? No, surely your own ability wouldn’t wear something as tasteless as a goddamn Halloween costume .

You wouldn’t ask. You wouldn’t . Not when the two of you were getting on so swimmingly .

“ Uhh ,” you began intelligently, desperately fighting the urge to poke fun. “When the five minute cooldown is up, does that ridiculous get-up disappear?”

Way to go .

“Watch it,” it threatened, though there was barely any malice in its voice anymore. “But no, not unless you want it to go. But you’re stuck with this form for those five minutes. Unless, of course, you want to make me disappear – but that cooldown will remain.”

Looking down at your left palm, you noticed that the analogue watch face had been replaced with a digital timer. The countdown , you figured.

“You’ll be able to feel it when the countdown reaches zero,” Depeche Mode added helpfully.

“Why is there a countdown and this half-chance thing in the first place?”

It wasn’t like your question was particularly astounding or radical , but Depeche Mode was silent nonetheless. Unlike the comfortable lull in conversation that happened naturally, this quiet was plagued with an unsettling hesitance.

“Well,” it began, though there was a note of something you’d never heard in its voice before. Wariness . An abject caution that, while not deeply discomfiting, disturbed you nonetheless. “Quid pro quo, this for that – you sacrifice something, you end up stronger for it. It’s a limitation that allows you to transcend other limits.”

While it made sense, the quick explanation nagged at you. There was more to it that Depeche Mode was leaving out. You knew it, and you knew it knew that. It couldn’t conceal it any more than you could conceal your thoughts. It was you , but you were lying to yourself . Implausible, ludicrous, but true . It left a bitter taste in your mouth, but you couldn’t bring yourself to push the issue further.

It’s a warning .

You dropped it. In your ears, you could hear the pleasant chime of the countdown finishing, and you turned away. Turned away from your ability, turned away from the water, and turned away from acknowledging the persisting unease that wrenched at your gut.

Quid pro quo .

What would you get for sacrificing your life?

“Right,” your voice rang out. Fragile. Shaky. You pressed your lips together briefly. “What’s the other form you’ve got?”

“We don’t have time for that, unfortunately,” it replied apologetically, but you felt the double blow of dejection nonetheless. You fought back the water clouding your vision and looked at the fabric of your fatigues twisting under your clenched fists. Depeche Mode was right ; it was already evening and you hadn’t even found shelter yet, let alone a meal to sate your hollow stomach. Still, your heart smarted with a dull ache that just wouldn’t go away.

“Right,” your agreement was barely there. In fact, it was a mere jape at affirmation: a petulant, childish plea went unspoken beneath the cover of the syllable. I don’t want to . If you could, you’d rest in the sand forever and let the sun bleach your bones to dust. If you could, you’d let the sea wash you away, and maybe you’d wake up in a better place.

If you could, you would’ve never been born in the first place.

. 　⁺ ✦

Twilight was currently coaxing the sky to shed its orange coat for a purple one. Those melancholy paint strokes of prussian blue streaking the sky only added to the pensiveness in your own heart. Even the cicadas, with their mournful – painfully familiar – song, were quieter than usual.

You fought the urge to cry.

Not here , not when there were the lively sounds of bustling humanity behind those saloon doors, and in the warm light bathing the porch: laughter, the clink of glasses, and incessant chatter that grasped at your heart and refused to let go. People , but not from life as you knew it. People , whose general history you ascertained and whose future you had the potential to change with your actions. People , who were just as alien to you as you were to them.

Your backpack was significantly lighter, but your leaden heart more than made up for the difference in weight.

Minutes prior, you’d quietly and grimly sold off a good chunk of the equipment to the pawnshop located in the seedy side-street across from this inn. They were impersonal relics, yet they were remnants from your time; the painful feeling of childish possessiveness had wracked you, and your hands were shaky as you set the items down.

$470 . That was the final numerical value assigned to the shattered fragments of your past. Your future . Dr Ferdinand’s old mirror light microscope ( that good old-fashioned thing , she’d called it) – gone. Diya’s favourite soil pH-meter ( the only one that didn’t act up constantly , she’d quipped) – sold . Even your old hand-lens, gifted to you by an old teacher – given away for money by your own grimy hands.

You’d taken the coins and bills in that clipped, resigned manner that was slowly becoming more and more familiar.

Survival , some rational part of you had begged yourself to accept. It’s just survival . Yet the irrational feelings grasping your heart with gnarled fingers begged to differ. Traitor , they whispered. You didn’t really care about Dr Ferdinand or Diya . They’d never do this .

All you were left with were some binoculars and those cursed plastic containers of sand. You felt utterly defeated, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to throw them away. Sure, that search for samples had started all this, but those were still from home .

You wanted to cry. Here, standing in the very outskirts of people , you’d never felt more isolated.

[You can do it.]

It was quiet – hell, barely even there – but you could hear the tremors of Depeche Mode’s encouragement vibrating through your sternum.

Yeah .

If Depeche Mode’s thought was quiet, yours was crossing the line into silence.

Steeling yourself, you shouldered your too-light backpack and pushed open the saloon doors. The toasty air that wrapped around you only served to further magnify the exhaustion and all-consuming hunger you were feeling. You fought the urge to sink onto the polished timber of the floor and sleep .

Only a few eyes turned your way when you stumbled in, though they were probably more preoccupied with the draught of cold air that was let in rather than you. Probably. Hopefully. Trying not to draw any more attention to yourself, you slunk into a booth in the back and hunched into the soft seat.

Tiredly, you contemplated pressing your cheek to the honey-grained wood table in front of you. A short nap would be good, and everything would work itself out, right? Unfortunately, at that moment, your stomach gurgled in misery; once again, you were reminded of how your last meal had been around eight hours ago.

“Hiya,” a voice chirped to your right, and you looked up to see a fleshy blob with a toothy grin beaming right at you. You blinked, and that fleshy blob in front of you emerged into a sunburned, freckled kid of around ten with dark brown pigtails. “I’m Dolly. Is there anything you’d like to eat or drink?”

“Uhh, sure,” you responded, wracking your brain for a suitable answer as to not screw yourself over at the first encounter with a person from the past. Stew . Stew was good, right? “Stew?”

“No, I’m Dolly,” her grin didn’t disappear, but rather grew even more smug. Your brows lowered in exhaustion and mild exasperation. “Just kidding! Uncle Vinnie made a fresh batch yesterday, and it’s got a bunch of potatoes and venison inside. Whiskey or ale?”

You fought back the urge to frown at the choices presented to you, but then you remembered that you were in pre-prohibition America, and the only water available was likely contaminated with bacteria you’d rather stay ignorant of. The taste of alcohol wasn’t particularly pleasant, but you didn’t have the time nor the energy to attempt making potable water. “Is there any mead?”

“Sure is!” she responded enthusiastically. “We’ve got strawberry, pear, and even some blackberry .”

Her voice dropped conspiratorially as she rattled off the other beverages available, including some European vintages for the posh visitors , as she put it.

“I’ll take a cup of strawberry mead, and a bowl of stew,” you quenched a yawn valiantly as you responded. You barely registered handing her three dollars and her skipping off to the counter on the other side of the room. Propping your head up on your forearm, you watched as a tall, gruff old man ladled a bowl of soup and cup of mead up. Perhaps that was the famed Uncle Vinnie you’d heard so much about.

[You should try ask him for a job.]

Maybe , you considered, noting the lack of other servers besides Dolly. The other patrons weren’t exactly the most amicable chums you’d ever seen, but they looked to be regulars – judging by the familiarity with which they talked to the man behind the counter. Looking around, you spotted the faded newspaper hanging beside you in a simple wooden frame.

Within its yellowed pages, you could make out the letters of The Daily Bee , with what appeared to be a photo of the younger version of the man behind the counter, standing beside the building. The owner, maybe , you mused, before skimming over the article written below.

Vincent Cosgrove, pictured above, recently opened his restaurant and inn, Jamie’s House on May 14th, 1881. Named after his late brother -

You were interrupted by the sound of something knocking against wood, and you turned to see Dolly carefully setting your food and drink down – brows scrunched with concentration and tongue sticking out as she made sure not to spill it. “Your meal!”

“Thanks, kid,” you nodded your head in a polite bow, but she didn’t turn around and leave like you thought she would. Rather, she waited expectantly for something.

“You gotta try the stew,” she explained earnestly, pointing to her uncle. “So I can tell Uncle if you like it!”

“Right,” you picked up your spoon hesitantly and scooped a chunk of potato into your mouth. It wasn’t particularly amazing or revolutionary, but the rich sauce and tuber were filling , so much so that you could feel your stomach gurgle in some delight. “Ith gooth.”

“Really? I’ll tell him you liked it,” she chattered, then promptly scampered off to the counter once again.

It wasn’t much, but the cosy atmosphere – coupled with the warm food – were lulling you into a murky stupor. Dutifully, you chewed the savoury game meat; paired with the garlic and caramelised onions present in the sauce, it practically tasted like life itself. You tore off a chunk of the bread roll gratis, and shovelled it into your mouth right after. No, you really weren’t one for manners right now, not with a ravenous stomach and the pragmatic need for sleep.

Raising the tankard to your lips, you eyed the cloudy, dull pink liquid inside. Cautiously, you inhaled; the vinous aroma mingled with the fruity notes, and you could almost taste the heavy scent of honey already. You took a hesitant sip. It was smooth , and it washed over your tongue with an ease that you hadn’t expected. Sure, the strawberries were a lot more syrup-like and it was different , but it was something . You swilled down the drink, leaving only a swallow for after your meal.

Lazily, you used the last of your bread to mop up the remaining gravy and onions; the wooden bowl of stew had been finished remarkably fast, even for your standards of quick eating. As you thoughtfully chewed at the roll slathered in fragrant onions, you turned to watch your potential employer.

He was gaunt, you observed: lined with decades upon decades of life. Harsh steel-grey formed thick waves atop his head and thin eyebrows, which seemed to be permanently stuck in a deep scowl. Despite the staunchly unapproachable appearance, the comments he yelled at patrons had them roaring with guffaws that practically shook the entire inn. For a brief moment, that furrowed expression unfolded into a minuscule smile. Just a small one, but a smile nonetheless.

You felt a brief glimmer of hope.

With your spoon carefully placed in your bowl, and the now-empty tankard grasped in your hand, you stood up and slung your pack over your shoulder. No time like the present . You swallowed dryly, feeling several eyes swivel your way at the scrape of your chair.

It was wildly disconcerting.

Although, you did look out of place, with those cargoes and a T-shirt that looked like it had been dug up along with the fossils. In the recesses of your mind, you could feel Depeche Mode snicker at your astute observation. Shut it , you grumbled, you’ve got no room to poke fun at my clothes .

Still, it was only with relief and a hint of trepidation that you finally set your empty bowl and tankard down on the honey coloured wood of the counter. Those cherry-red barstools dotting the perimeter secluded this area with a seemingly invisible barrier that you had nothing but appreciation for.

Here, the lights were brighter; several wall sconces flaunted their amber luminescence behind carefully decorated glass. The glow flooding your eyes felt more accusatory than welcoming. Judgement day . You took a deep breath. The aroma of tobacco faintly curled through the air.

“Can I help you, kid?”

You started as the booming voice of the owner sounded in front of you; it took an embarrassingly long time for you to realise you were still gripping onto the tankard and bowl with all the life within you. Sheepishly, you pried your fingers away.

“Mr Cosgrove, sir?” you began. It was with hesitance that you met his heavy gaze, but he paused in picking up your empty dishes regardless. Now or never .

“Ain’t no one who calls me that unless they need something or they’re cityfolk,” he eyed you wearily, and you felt your resolve crumble much too rapidly.

[ Do it, coward .]

You gritted your teeth and steeled yourself. Get straight to the point . If you’d learnt anything from your observations and years of life, it was to match your wavelength to somebody else’s. And in this case, it was some gruff old man who appreciated bluntness. I’d like to be hired , you attempted in your head. Was that too direct? Would he see that as city entitlement? A minuscule furrow appeared in your brow.

“Are you hiring?”

Perfect. It was polite, but showed the heart of the matter. His brows rose slightly in surprise. You watched with bated breath as he looked you up and down: taking in the fatigues, the modern hiking sort of backpack, and lingering on the tattoos that extended up your forearms.

“You ain’t a convict or outlaw or anything?” he looked at you dead in the eye as he asked – it was clear he was trying to gauge whether you were lying or not. Still, it was a pretty pointless question to ask – a hardened criminal wouldn’t tell the truth either.

“No, sir,” you replied evenly. “Just not from around these parts.”

“You literate, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” a spark of hope flared within. You could see the cogs turning in his head - in his eyes, your standing had just increased. Hell yeah .

“Well,” he started appraisingly, and you could feel in your bones the glory of a small victory. “We’ll be closing in about a half-hour, so sit tight ‘till then.”

“Thank you, sir,” you fought the urge to break out into a grin. He waved it off dismissively.

“None of that pandering,” he shook his head in good-natured disappointment. “Call me Vincent.”

[ You’re in. ]

. 　⁺ ✦

What was with these offices looking like they had been last used in the Jurassic era?

Sure, it wasn’t like you were expecting something pristine for a backwater town like this, but the dust swimming about in the glow of the oil lamps was only rivalled by that in Dr Ferdinand’s office. Everywhere you looked there was paper: piles overflowing from the floor-to-ceiling walnut cabinets, thick stacks lounging on the desk to your right, and perhaps most interestingly, mounds of childish pencil drawings on the coffee table in front of you. You scrutinised them while you waited for Vincent to clear the seat opposite from any remaining debris – maybe they were that kid’s rough attempts?

“Sorry about the mess,” he confessed abruptly, looking around as if he were taking in the jungle of white upon cream sheaths of card littering the space for the first time. “I go here once a week to check the accounts - the rest of the time it’s a storeroom for all these contracts and invoices.”

“No worries,” you thumbed at the clock tattoo idly while he sat down in the leather armchair opposite your couch. 21:48 . It wasn’t particularly late by your standards, but you stifled a yawn nonetheless.

“As it stands, I’ve a vacancy after our last bartender left for our competitor,” he scowled. His hands knitted together, and he leaned forward. “Damn city branches come here for the thrill of the Steel Ball Run, setting up shop for twittering tourists. Leeches, the lot of them.”

“Right,” your mouth was dry. Vincent picked up on your hesitance and shifted in his seat.

“Well? Spit it out, kid,” the lines by his eyes deepened as he frowned at you. “What sorta job are you looking for?”

“A temporary one, but I can fill in the position of bartender,” you blurted out. Two months. You had two months to scrounge up whatever cash you could. Your blood ran cold as he looked at you appraisingly – had you screwed up by telling the truth?

[With your small coffee shop experience? Really?]

Shut it , you replied. Doubt the bartending here’s more complicated .

“At least you’re honest,” he responded. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost? “How temporary are we talking?”

“Around two months,” you admitted. If he found out you were only taking the job to make up the cash for the race, would he turn you away? Your mouth was dry. After all you’d trudged through today, after this murky amalgamation of problems building and building onto your weary shoulders, would you be forced into turning away from these goalposts?

“Ah.”

His answer was flat. Impersonal. What the hell did that syllable conceal? Even his face, usually set into a stone mask of disapproval, was impassive . It was impossible to read what he was thinking at that moment. You braced yourself for failure.

“Well,” he reached over to grab a clean sheet of paper from the table, but frowned when there were only the scribbles of a child on the top layer. Sighing, he grabbed a random sheet and flipped it over. Within a few seconds, he had jotted down several bullet points with one of the crayons lying around. “That gives me some time to find a replacement for you anyway.”

[ Way to go .]

“Besides,” he continued. His eyes met yours in a knowing gaze – too knowingly. “You’ve got a race to enter, don’t you?”

“How’d you know?” you spluttered incredulously. Was he secretly a mind reader?

“Please,” Vincent snorted derisively. “Two months from now is September, and you’re not from these waters. It don’t take a genius to work it out, kid. You entering for the money offered?”

Right . You were suddenly hit with the pang of loss; even in the midst of this success, your heart ached to be back home. Sure, if you were someone else, you’d enter for the sheer mountain of cash being offered. But you weren’t someone else.

“No, not really,” your voice was hesitant. Puny. “It’s my only chance of getting home.”

Without preamble, he reached over and clapped a calloused hand on your hunched shoulder. It almost knocked you into the coffee table, but the clumsy attempt at comfort was somewhat, well, comforting .

“I’m sure you’ll get there,” he reassured in that same gruff tone. “It’s a better goal than the prize money at least.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“Bunch of bigwigs entering, like Diego Brando and Mountain Tim,” he continued tactlessly. “No way you’d bag first, in any case.”

. 　⁺ ✦

At long last, you had a room. Well, it wasn’t technically yours – rather, it was a spare kept for any workers. Walls, a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe; that was good enough. It even had a window!

There, pinned on the walnut-coloured wardrobe, was the red crayon outline of your work. Works. Bartending five days a week, Sunday and Monday off work. Cleaning bar and any paperwork during mornings – rest of morning off, bartending during the late afternoon and evening. $250 weekly wage . Odd jobs for bonus . It was doable. No, actually, the mishmash of duties reminded you all too much of Dr Ferdinand’s assortment of tasks for you.

You sank onto the creaky bed and leant against the dark green wall. As you shifted, something dug into your hip. With trembling anticipation, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. Could you contact somebody? Was there any way to leave a mark for the future? Your shaking fingers could barely press the power button. Greedily, you could only stare at your screen, but only your reflection answered.

Dead .

With a thud, your phone was tossed into your backpack.

Inhale . Exhale . You were tired . Weariness sunk its ghostly claws into you and refused to leave. Futile. Futile, futile, futile, futile . Who were you kidding ? You’d probably get kicked by a horse and die at the beginning. Why the hell were you chosen?

You weren’t a hero.

Any composure you had was rapidly unravelling. As if the very ocean pressed above you, the torrent of today’s misfortunes crashed against you, and there was no one else to bear the brunt of it. Your body heaved with choking sobs; there was only the piercing taste of salt to keep you grounded in reality, and barely even that.

Depeche Mode was silent.

It hurt. It hurt , and there was nothing you could do about it. The weeping trail of tears marring your face wouldn’t turn back time – turn it forward , until all you could do was laugh this off as a fitful dream. Hope deteriorated. Reality was altered and rewoven around you; your understanding of what was true was fundamentally skewed on its axis. It was something straight out of a 70s sci-fi novel Dr Ferdinand pretended she didn’t keep in her office: something too putridly laughable and distorted to be believable. Irony and ill-fate meshed together clumsily until they were one. Exhaustion wracked your body; it was the only feeling that forced you to curl onto your side.

Quietly, you slipped into a dreamless, restless slumber.

. 　⁺ ✦

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