#especially if robert knew george well then maybe his son sam was there to thank them for bringing his brother back

[bardicious]

BRAIN IS EVAPORATING, BUT... what if the reason Chris knew Jim as Sam's brother is because Chris, being the first officer of the Enterprise with Robert April, was there to oversee Jim coming back to his family after the Tarsus event, and met Sam as a result??? And they kind of hit it off keeping in communication??

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Something I've been wondering about: If Jon comes back as a fire wight like Beric Dondarrion and unCat, will he be able to get it up? Blood won't really be flowing in his body anymore, so would his dick be powered by fire magic or something like that?

I, too, have spent a great deal of time pondering Jon Snow’s dick, Anon. 😏 Jokes aside, I will admit right off the bat that most of what I have to offer is total speculation, but over-thinking the most minor details of ASOIAF happens to be my favorite pastime, so let’s go!

Like pretty much everyone who read the quote, I was totally thrown off by the “fire wight” revelation. Here’s the quote for reference:

“..poor Beric Dondarrion, who was set up as the foreshadowing of all this, every time he’s a little less Beric. His memories are fading, he’s got all these scars, he’s becoming more and more physically hideous, because he’s not a living human being anymore. His heart isn’t beating, his blood isn’t flowing in his veins, he’s a wight, but a wight animated by fire instead of by ice.”

So, an important distinction to make here is that this quote is about Beric Dondarrion specifically, not Jon Snow.

The condition of Jon Snow’s corpse might matter

George can be very clever with how he words things. Note that he goes into Beric’s deaths, describing multiple resurrections and how he’s falling apart before stating that his heart is no longer beating. It could be that a fresh “fire wight” might still possess bodily functions—at least at first. Catelyn, too, was a very sorry looking corpse by the time she was reanimated, therefore not a great comparison, either. Especially since it’s Beric rather than Thoros who, with very little life force to lend, resurrects her.

If nothing else, Jon will be “fresh”, and his location at the Wall means the low temperatures will help preserve his body even if the resurrection takes some time. 

And speaking of the Wall… there happens to be a special lady there who could help Jon, and whose powers happen to be amplified by the magic of the Wall...

Melisandre is profoundly more powerful than Thoros of Myr

Thoros may be a red priest, but otherwise he seems to be a pretty normal human man. We get a clue about when he converted from Jaime:

“Jaime had once heard Thoros tell the king that he became a red priest because the robes hid the winestains so well.”

Relatively recently, one might guess, as most children aren’t yet drunks. Further, he was never very dedicated to his faith, even questioning it at times.

Melisandre, on the other hand...

“Melisandre had practiced her art for years beyond count, and she had paid the price. There was no one, even in her order, who had her skill at seeing the secrets half-revealed and half-concealed within the sacred flames.”

While we don’t know much about her, this confirms that she spent countless years studying her craft, and no one in her order can match her skill. And no one believes in their faith more than Melisandre. Like in the television series, it’s a safe bet that she’s actually much older than the natural human lifespan, particularly if she managed to lose count of how many years she’s studied magic.

If Melisandre is the one to resurrect Jon Snow, she might not use a ‘last kiss’ method at all, or, if she does, it could be more powerful than anything Thoros is capable of.

Unlike Beric, Jon Snow is probably the prophesied prince

Speaking of Melisandre’s ability to glimpse secrets in the flames… there’s someone she sure seems to see a lot of:

“I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow.”

“Skulls. A thousand skulls, and the bastard boy again. Jon Snow.”

“The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange.”

I know. There is some contention about who the Prince that was Promised is. Regardless of whether you agree that it’s Jon Snow, you’ve got to admit that Melisandre is seeing him in the flames for a reason. And if he’s not the prophesied prince, then perhaps his blood has something to do with it. It’s likely that, for some reason, the combination of Targaryen and Stark blood matters. At least, Rhaegar Targaryen seemed pretty convinced...

Whatever Jon Snow’s business is in Westeros… it’s unfinished. And part of that unfinished business might just involve becoming a father.

The emphasis put on Jon fathering a child is notable

Let’s go back to Jon’s first chapter ever. It opens with Jon at Robert’s feast, the author uses Jon’s eyes to describe the setting and multiple characters. And then enters Benjen Stark. This is when we really get to know Jon. When you read this passage, really consider the author’s intent here:

"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

"You are a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."

"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.

"You might, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."

Jon felt anger rise inside him. "I'm not your son!"

Benjen Stark stood up. "More's the pity." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."

Jon trembled. "I will never father a bastard," he said carefully. "Never!" He spat it out like venom.

Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes.

This is how George R.R. Martin chooses to introduce us to Jon Snow. And gods, that always hits me right in the gut. It’s absolutely supposed to. Jon’s trembling, venomous anger is palpable. You feel the deep hurt and resentment in his words, right down to his core. Jon says he doesn’t care—but the bite in his words and the tears welling in his eyes tell us otherwise.

Jon Snow easily embraces his vow of celibacy. At first. And then comes Ygritte. And after getting his first taste of love and later flirting with the idea of becoming a lord when it’s offered to him by Stannis, Jon Snow begins to imagine what it might be like to have a wife...

“I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall.”

And look what happens the moment he does dare to dream of it...

“I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister's son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly's boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We'd find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance's son and Craster's would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb.

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade.”

And the feeling transitions into an almost tangible hunger felt by his wolf, Ghost.

Speaking of Ghost…

Grab your tinfoil! ‘Cause Jon’s life might’ve already been ‘paid for’ ...By Daenerys

First… in case you didn’t know, Daenerys is probably a skinchanger:

“The slightest pressure with her legs, the lightest touch on the reins, and the filly responded. As she turned to ride back, a firepit loomed ahead, directly in her path. A daring she had never known filled Daenerys then, and she gave the filly her head.”

Basically, it goes like this:

As Daenerys wanders the Dothraki Sea in search of food after being whisked away by Drogon, she hears a wolf’s howl.

“Will (Ghost) howl for me when I'm dead, as Bran's wolf howled when he fell?”

Feeling lonely yet no less hungry, she eats some strange green berries. Her stomach begins to cramp.

“My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb.”

Unfortunately, Daenerys then experiences some horrible diarrhea. Poor girl! I don’t bring it up to be crass, but because this purge bears striking resemblance to an earthly drug called Ayahuasca—a substance that, aside from emptying your bowels, is often used as a means to ‘open your third eye’ (Just as Bran does in the crypts, and he can finally reach Jon and Ghost…)

Dany falls asleep and begins experiencing trippy dreams about her brother—perhaps even achieving contact with the other side? Then...

“When she woke, gasping, her thighs were slick with blood.”

Assuming it’s nothing more than her period, Dany begins to wonder the last time she bled—hinting that it might’ve been a little while.

“The sight of so much red frightened her. Moon blood, it's only my moon blood, but she did not remember ever having such a heavy flow.”

Maybe a bit of a stretch, I know. But… this wretched and graphic scene of Dany’s loose bowels really made me wonder what in seven hells George was thinking. I was so embarrassed for Dany that I HAD to figure out why he’d do this to her.

And my best guess is that she’s using these latent skinchanging abilities to tap into this strange connection with the “blue rose” over at the Wall of Westeros and the silent wolf who finally howled for help upon his death… And so, Dany’s miscarriage may be the death that will pay for Jon’s life.

I might’ve found some more evidence to back this claim up, this is very new ‘evidence’, so bear with me:

“Fire”, in the world of ASOIAF, often translates to “life”. As is seen here in Sam’s speech following Aemon’s death (thanks, bridge4!):

“He was the blood of the dragon, but now his fire has gone out.”

Further, according to the wiki:

“When a follower of the Lord of Light dies, priests fill their mouths with fire and breathe flame into the deceased”

In the House of the Undying, Dany receives a series of chilling prophecies, one of which happens to be about fires:

“Three fires you must light, one for life, one for death and one to love”

I know, I know. Drogo’s pyre, the Khals, etc etc. But George might be playing with double meanings here… So, if we think of fires as conceptions, this could maybe mean:

One in exchange FOR the Dragon’s lives (Life)

One in exchange FOR Jon’s resurrection (Death)

One conceived (likely with Jon) and carried to term (TO love)

Food for thought! Especially considering that, like Jon, Dany possesses the blood of Old Valyria, and these sacrifices are probably all the more powerful as a result. But even if I’m dead wrong about that prophecy, well, fire still broadly means life, which bodes well for our brooding ‘bastard’, who might just end up as a “fire wight”.

Hopefully something in this drivel has given any Jon fans reading this a little bit of faith that, despite the slight setback of death, Jon will still be able to exercise his, uh, virility when he finally meets Dany. 😅 Thanks for the ask!!

[topsolarpanels]

Know Your Enemy: Celebrating 50 Years of the Forever War

Robert Sammelin

No one drank more than the scientist. Every night, after whatever patriotic black-tie gala marriage played props at, he could be found at the hotel bar, trying to extract existential meaning from a banana colada. It was an odd drinking of option for such a serious human, but only once did he respond to our interrogations about it.

It pleases the nerve fibers, he said, all baritone to his voice, before disappearing into the chilled yellow muck again. We were in New Tulsa, debriefing after a grueling dinner with a bunch of white-haired solar energy exec. Wed been on the road for months, and morale used to go the way of the glacier. I ordered a round for the table, and we toasted to the hustle. Heroes of the nation, peddling war bonds by day, drinking like froufrous by night. Our drill instructor would not have been proud.

Maybe it wasnt New Tulsa. Maybe itd been in Charlotte after the fund-raiser with the nanofinance douchebags. Anyhow.

There were 11 of us on the bond drive, 12 if you included the JngerBot. The Forever War had just entered its sixth decade, and our politicians didnt pretend they were going to end it anymore, even during elections. They couldnt. Wed tried everything: nation-building, nation-destroying, sending terrorists and their families to the Mars penal colony, sending the rebel Young Siberians to actual Siberia. Nothing had worked. We were at war because we always had been. We were at war because we always would be. We were at war because we were at war.

Matt Gallagher

About

Matt Gallagher is the author of the novel Youngblood and the Iraq memoir Kaboom: Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War.

The government decided to celebrate the Forever Wars golden anniversary with loud, shiny bombast. We were part of that bombast. AMERICAS HEROES, TOGETHER AT LAST, ran the tagline. We were like a roving assortment act, but without name recognition or singing or sex appeal. Without anything, truly. Just pasts wiped clean with the antiseptic of narrative. So we stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our tales to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.

After the coladas, I settled the tab and excused myself. The younger veterinarians night was just beginning, but mine was nearing its end. In the queue for the teleporter to the rooms, a human about my age waited behind me. He wore a rumpled dress shirt and an overlong tie-in and a goatee on the brink of coherence.

He was looking everywhere but my hoverchair. People with legs always do that. It reminds me of the route some men used to try very hard not to look at my cleavage when I was younger. The endeavor simply underlines the fixation.

Thank you, he said. For what you did.

Thank you for your supporting, I told, a answer as hollow as it was practiced. He mustve been at the event earlier.

Cancan I tell you something?

Sure, I told. Women in military uniforms have this impact on men in dress shirts, for some reason. If youd like to.

I wanted to be a recon marine when I was a kid. He said it like it was a church confession, something hidden away in the lost rifts of his soul for decades. Did the recon workout at the gym for years, he continued. Stupid, I know.

I nodded, both because it was stupid and because I knew.

Youre a bona fide hero. The men segue was as graceful as a startled dog, but it was late. That scientist, though. Hes killing people. And not only the enemy.

I thought about “the mens” words. They were true enough. So what would you do? I asked. If you were him.

Me? The man stroked his goatee. I wouldnt even know.

Pragmatically, I told. Youre the scientist. You live in this country. The wars happening. You can perhaps aim it or not. Either style, people succumb. What do you do?

II object to the question. And to the idea. Im not him. The human voice had a quiver to it now. Not an angry quiver, either. A frightened one. I was just sayingI dont think its right. Thats all.

OK, I said. Night. It was my turning at the teleporter. I get in and went to my room. I didnt begrudge the man his opting out. We all had in some manner. Even us.

Especially us.

The Federals had discovered me at my sisters, on the porch, scrolling through a holopad article about the rabid lemur thatd killed Justin Bieber Jr. Furious George Howls With Delight! read the headline. Its always spooky when sons succumb the same way their fathers did. The past comprehend us all, eventually. Even Biebers.

I was on my seventh year of an indefinite visit, still sleeping in a bare guest room. A potted flower or framed scene would have felt like marks of permanence, somehow. Id been living in increments since high school and wasnt about to stop simply because I couldnt figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

Theywell, welived at the top of a windy mound in a suburbium of a suburbium, wedged between a stand of wild honeysuckle and a pond shaped like a swollen snout. It was green and quiet. The kind of place where big flags hung from porches with humility. I taught painting at the community center and took my nieces to soccer practice and spend my Saturday nights at the one townie bar that served ros.

The life didnt induce me happy or anything, but it could have. Maybe should have.

There were three of them. They all wore jeans and plaid shirts of differing blandness. Id have expected suits and black sunglasses, but the decay effects of after-empire were reaching and vast.

Chief Warrant Officer Valerie Speer? one said. Well, asked. I didnt look my part, either. Female veterinarians tend to cut a certain mold. A liter-sized gremlin in a gardening hat wasnt it.

They told me about the bond drive. About how it would inspire patriotism again in the hearts and minds of the person or persons. About how it would get everyday citizens invested in the wars again.( Like they ever were. I knew the history .) About how the governmental forces needed the money, how 50 years of blowing up things in strange, faraway places had taken its toll on the budget, especially since the geothermal insurgency in Blue Russia began eating away at Uncle sam foreign trade.

About how the bond drive needed a woman on it, because they had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot, and showing that heroes were as diverse as the country mattered.

I laughed. A female. I danced my metal fingers through the air. In the right sun my prosthetics could look like flesh. We werent in it. Thats why you need me.

That made the two men in jeans and plaid look down at the ground, but the woman Fed just stared at me.

Youre Valerie Speer, she said. The tone in her voice sounded so earnest it snapped. Do you know what you mean to my generation of status of women? I joined the agency because of you.

She was lying about that, I was almost sure. But shed appealed to my pride. I danced my fingers through the air again and took in all the green, all the quiet. Seven years here. Seven years that had induced me soft. Did people my age go on escapades anymore?

I requested information about financial compensation.

Heres the thing about being labeled a war hero: You either love it or hate it. Theres little space for mixed impressions. Take the scientist. Invented a drone mosquito that gives people the runs, sold it to the military, and stopped the Arabican conflict practically overnight. You cant fire a rifle when youre crapping out your brains. But some of the mosquitoes werent as specific as billed. During strafes, they bit foes and civilians alike. Which wouldnt have mattered much had we been fighting in the developed world. We werent, though. Outbreaks of dysentery and super-cholera followed, and the last UN estimate I watched numbered deaths in the tens of thousands.

The bond drive needed a woman on it. They already had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot.

The scientist had ended a war all with his mind. Yet the only thing he wanted in the world was to return to his lab, to his anonymity, and forget any of it ever happened.

The JngerBot seemed to resent the attention for other reasons. It didnt know what to induce of people, and truth be told, people didnt know what to attain of it. They could handle robots, had been dealing with them all their lives. Even the rough-and-tumble behaviour of a regular InfantryBot could be explained away. But an elite InfantryBot 5000 upgraded with the transcendental heroism and philosophical musings of decorated German World War I soldier Ernst Jnger? That caused some issues.

The anarch wages his own wars, the JngerBot said at a fund-raiser to a journalist whod would like to know whether it missed battle. Even when marching in rank and file.

Before a boxing prizefight, the JngerBot felt it necessary to remind the crowd what was what. Furrow opposing is the bloodiest, wildest, most brutal of all, it said to 70,000 drunk revelers in Vegas. Of all the wars exciting moments , none is so powerful as the session of two cyclone troop leaders between narrow trench walls. Theres no compassion there , no going back. The blood speaks from a shrill exclaim of recognition that tears itself from ones breast like a nightmare.

And then there were the children.

It told a 10 -year old with a JngerBot poster on his wall that killing an adversary would be a finer tribute. And when a bank presidents “girls ” pointed to us and asked if we were heroes, the JngerBot objected as only it could TAGEND

Heroes deeds and heroes graves, it said. Old and new you here may assure. How the Empire was created. How the Empire was preserved. It paused. We sought the death of heroes. There is no lovelier demise in the world.

The little girls face paled to glass as her father resulted her away. We all laughed about it , no one harder or longer than Dizzy. Dizzy was a walking, talking debate for breeding the remaining cis-males out of the gene pool, if only he hadnt been so pretty. Drone pilots. They think theyre so starfish because they can laser insurrectionists dead from space. And Dizzy was an superstar. He adored every minute of the bond drive, “members attention”, the parties, the hoverfloat rides, the certain type of female patriot who wanted to see the view from his hotel balcony. Beats going back to Pueblo and coaching CrossFit, hed tell, before unleashing that smile of full, fluoride shine. God, he could charm the sorcery underwear off a Mormon.

Would try, at least.

Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Maybe it was three Iraq wars ago.

Dizzy and the younger vets on the bond drive are always privateersmercenaries if youre the protest, virtual-petition kind. WarriorCorps and Foreign Legion Inc. and Armed Humanitarianism Limited and the like. I was hybrid: part contractor but also part national military, before that ran extinct during the Whig Revolt of 36. Merely Emo Carlos was old enough to have been GI from beginning to end. Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Perhaps it was three Iraq wars ago. Anyhow. We asked Emo Carlos about it over sushi, after a parade in Cleveland.

Jumped on a grenade at a checkpoint, he told, defining down his chopsticks with a shrug. Didnt go off.

We hollered and banged the table just because we could. Itd been a couple decades since anything but a bot had been close enough to a grenade to do anything like that. Even the JngerBot conveyed its admiration.

Defective? I asked.

Emo Carlos nodded. One in a million, they said.

What happened then? Dizzy asked.

The creases in Emo Carlos forehead folded into one another like papier-mch. He usually never talked about anything but drumming for his old-man punk band. Theyd served together back in the day and were known across the greater Rochester area as the Infidels. Geriatric humor.

Stood up, he said. Dusted off. Looked down. Realise Id pissed myself.

We hollered and banged the table all over again.

An elderly couple came over to us subsequently. Theyd overheard our conversation and wanted to say thank you. They said they had two grandsons in privateer training.

I know our thanks is a small thing, the spouse said. He and his wife looked so cute in their nice old-people clothes, khakis and sweaters and thick-rimmed glasses. They looked like other peoples grandparents always look. But sometimes its all those of us here can offer.

The wife nodded. Were all involved, she told. We believe that. As taxpayers, as citizens, thats how it is. Were with you.

We thanked them for thanking us and they left the restaurant.

What did she mean, Were all involved? Dizzy asked. No theyre not.

There were echoes of agreement and deliberation over what the old woman had meant, and not just about the word involved . Also about the word we .

Yo, Emo Carlos told. The table hushed. Theyre from my hour. When wars had objectives. When citizens tried to keep up. America used to be young. Thats what she meant.

Then say that, Dizzy told. Taxes? Who the fucking cares.

Emo Carlos shook his head again. He was trying to clear himself of frustrations, either with himself or with us. Then he pointed at me. Sent her to the damn moon. Supposed to save us all, putting the wars up there. Preserve the land and resources, remove civilian demises. Be tidy and simple. That was the plan.

And no one ever went back, Dizzy told. The game changed.

Well. Emo Carlos giggled. Military lesson numero uno, son, he said. No plan survives first contact.

The rest of us chuckled along with the old wisdom. Everyone but the scientist, who sat off by himself in the corner. He looked up at us with something between sadness and ferocity. It was hard to decide which.

Tidy and simple, he said. I like that.

When my nieces turn 12 and gain access to FreedomNet, they will find these three paragraphs about their aunt, etched into the digital histories forever and ever TAGEND Valerie Jade Speer( born May 2, 2011) was a chief warrant officer( air) and assault pilot in the United States Army and later the privateer organization Star Spangled Security. She was awarded the Star of Valor in 2042 for her actions during the Battle on the Moon, of which she was the only survivor . Deployed to the moon as part of the NATO coalition during the course of its South Seas dispute, Speer flew a Flying Yeager fusion helocraft during the battle, destroying five Chinese Federation space-helos and two Young Siberian cosmo-planes. Struck by an enemy dwarf ballistic, Speer crash-landed into the Titius Crater. She was thus sheltered from the amaze thermonuclear strike carried out by the Young Siberians that killed all other fighters and blew the hole in the moon now known as Putins Smile . Initially presumed dead, Speer was found during NATO recovery operations two days after the end of the combat. She lost three extremities, suffered burns over much of her body, and survived over 90 surgeries. President Natasha Obama told Speers life and narrative are a testament to the American spirit at her Star of Valor ceremony at the White House .

Words can be funny beasts. Her actions suggest some sort of agency, even control. Destroy is such a clean term for such messiness. Struck by defied my memory of it. Same with crash-landed.

Less so with lost. And suffered.

Testament. As if enduring were a selection. I did what anyone would have. There are no atheists in moon craters. And there are no fatalists in survivor wards of one.

I was thinking about that ward as I zipped up my suitcase in my sisters guest room for the bond drive. Thinking about the long stills of quiet during the nights. Guessing about being “ve called the” Burn by nurses who guessed I couldnt hear them. Supposing about the full-thickness graft done without anesthesia.

You sure about this, Val? My sister stood in the doorway. Her posture betrayed opposition. She was four years older and had always asked me questions that she already had answers for. You have options.

Shed said the same years prior, before Id left for the moon.

I am, I told both times, even though I wasnt both days. Id always detected power and resolve in ambiguity, though. Most people werent like that. My sister, for one.

Youve done more than your share, she continued, moving to the bed and putting her arm around my shoulder. So much more. I leaned my head into her and tried to hold in some of the familial warmth. Id miss it, I knew. Only sisters and nieces hug people like me. I dont think its right.

I smiled at that.

Its not, I told. But. If not me, then who?

Even running can be its own form of opting out. I didnt know that the first time. But I did the second. The last night in the guest room, as I tossed and turned in bed, I thought about that. Then I thought about the survivor ward again. And the long stills of quiet during the nights. And being “ve called the” Burn. And the graft.

Somewhere between Omaha and Tesla City, I began to realize just how different the younger vets were. It wasnt simply that they were privateers, either, or that they called adversary combatants pixels as an insult. Dizzy and his crew, they crowed about their service. Owned their superiority, then basked in it.

Do soldiers think theyre better than citizens? Of course. It has nothing to do with what did or didnt happen in their service, either. It has to do with the very notion of joining up. Americas been at war since before most of us were born. We joined because we wanted to go. Wed been told we were special from day one of boot camp, doing something the rest of our nation couldnt. Or worse, wouldnt. Too fat. Too selfish. Too lazy. Which made the realization after we got out that citizens think were beneath them all the more shocking. If theyre fat, selfish, and lazy, then whats worse than that?

We werent supposed to say any of that, though. My generation didnt, at least. We were taught that part of our service was biding quiet about it. To rise above, because thats what Jesus and George Washington and Beyonc wouldve wanted.

Thats what I did. Or tried to, at the least. Let the citizenry think what it wants, ran the logic. All part of being a republic.

Maybe we had it incorrect, though.

I wondered about that the night the protester confronted us. We were in Washington for a gala. Ordinarily “were in” ushered in through side or back door for events, but the organizers of this one had us walking in on a red carpet, through a galaxy of flashing lightings and holographic cameras.

Finally, Dizzy told, pausing to adjust his bow affiliation and lick his front teeth. The treatment we deserve.

Why the protester chose the JngerBot to cream-pie, Ill never know. By the time the uproar had reached my ears and Id floated around in my chair, the JngerBot had the young man by the throat. Request order to remove home-front adversary, it said, which was funny, and then not.

We got the young man free of the JngerBots prongs. He was reed-thin and had thick brown curls with eyes as dark and mad as the moon. I didnt know what to think about him or his pie. People didnt protest war in person anymore. It wasnt sane behavior.

Youre not heroes, he told. His terms were shaky. Its never easy coming face to face with people youve demonized. Or cockpit to cockpit. Youre tools of empire. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.

The cameras along the walkway started popping off like mortars. We all only stood there, waiting out his denunciation, because we were there to be seen and applauded , nothing else. His anger dazed me, and the others too. Not Dizzy, though.

Get bent, joker, Dizzy told, intersecting his arms for the cameras. War is bad? No shit. But it wont go forth just cause we want it to. Last month, two brigades from the same base get deployed. One goes to Kurd Mountain, saves those households from the horde. The other goes to Blue Russia, blows up some insurrectionists. Ones a humanitarian mission. The others combat. Both involve destruction.

Id never heard Dizzy speak with eloquence and passion before. He was good, and he knew it. He pressed on.

This JngerBot is a goddamn national gem. I dont know what brought you here tonight, and I dont dedicate a single fucking. We went so you dont “re going to have to”. Suck my hero balls.

The arrogance. The entitlement. The narrowness of thought. I loved it all, and I wasnt the only one. The red carpet explosion with applause. Dizzy even took a bow. But the acclaim wasnt universal.

After the protester had been escorted away and wed run inside for the gala, the scientist saw Dizzy. Dont do that again, he said. He loomed over the younger human like an angry parent. That guy is not your adversary. Neither is anyone else youve met on this stupid tour.

He aint a friend. Dizzy was trying to sound unbothered, and he leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the table. So what is he?

Only morons speak in absolutes, the scientist said.

Dizzy changed tactics. You know what he likely thinks about you? he asked. What all these people say when they think we cant hear? I had a woman tell me she didnt think we were whole human beings. Fuck her, and fuck that protester. Fuck all of them.

I wondered what the answers were to Dizzys questionwhat did people say about us? When they thought about us at all. Beyond the pomp and rite of the bond drive, we werent anything, I supposed. Just ciphers with tales people believed in, or didnt believe in, even before they heard them.

So. What. The scientists voice turned to iron as he responded to Dizzy. Thats the job. We have consequences.

Dizzy opened his mouth, but the scientist cut him off. You did . You did when you didnt “re going to have to”. Thats enough. It has to be. Then he stormed off, presumably for the hotel bar.

The scientist opted out that night. The rest of us did too, by doing the job. We stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our stories to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.

We walked back to the hotel as a group after the jamboree. We stopped in a park with green lawns and a marble fountain and joked about the protester, giggled about the scientist. The scientist had been right, but so what? What did being right have to do with anything? Dizzy had regained whatever force-out it was that sustained him and began chatting up a pair of young women who considered themselves patriots. I watched it all and thought about the ward and then my sisters home. The JngerBot came up beside me.

You managed that pie well, I told it. It didnt say anything, so I continued. Waiting for an order, I mean.

Here is our kingdom, the best use of monarchies, the best republic, the JngerBot told. Here is our garden, our happiness.

What a random thing to tell, I thought. Even for a robot. But subsequently, after considering it more, I decided otherwise.

The Fiction Issue

Tales From an Uncertain Future

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