Finally finished this personal project: an Arts and Crafts light fixture. White-cedar fence posts rough-sawn into 3″ x 3″ beams. 1″ copper bands for accents. Over all dimensions are 48″ x 36″. Four, 6′ x 9″ panel lamps in a modified Roycroft design at each intersection, fabricated with Youghiogheny Restoration glass. The wiring runs through copper pipes to junction box above the ceiling. (which is a shame as I purchased some nice, period cloth-wrapped lamp cord. But hey, at least I know it’s there) A Christmas gift for my wife, it was finally installed last night.
Today is going to be a writing day.
Method 1 – Not a movie prop.
According to Task and Purpose, AMP Suits, Mech-Warrior, and other Big Stompy Robots aren’t that far away. Just add some Chobham armor plating and a chain gun and off we go.
Let the stable still astonish:
Straw-dirt floor, dull eyes,
Dusty flanks of donkeys, oxen;
Crumbling, crooked walls;
No bed to carry that pain,
And then, the child–
Rag-wrapped, laid to cry
In a trough.
Who would have chosen this?
Who would have said,
“Yes, let the God of Heaven and Earth
Be born in this place”?
Who but the same God
Who stands in the darker, fouler rooms
Of our hearts
“Yes, let the God of Heaven and Earth
Be born in this place.”
More ‘graphs from my latest mil sf WIP, ZOMBIE SIX.
Rucker and I watched Tien Chang burn.
Not like we hadn’t seen the effects of an orbital strike before. But there’s just something about fire.
We were across the river, five kilometers away, and could still hear it roar. Buildings were torches. Signs, light posts, cars, flared like kindling. Downtown was a shimmering inferno of melting asphalt, glass, and steel. It is hard to believe those things burn like that. But they do. A city of a hundred and forty thousand people turning to cinders.
I could see flames raging higher and higher, gasping, grasping into the night sky for more air. Soon a vortex would form, pulling everything inward to the white-hot heart, and a pillar of fire would rise on scorching winds over the city center, writhing and howling like Hell’s own tornado.
“Damn,” Ricker grunted. “Admiral Sota is not fucking around.”
“No, he isn’t,” I said.
Lights flickered south of the city along the riverbank. I cranked my optical neurochems and zoomed in: a string of trucks was racing down the highway away from the blaze. Compensating for the light-wash, my tacti-comp ID’d them as Isuzu bulk haulers. Might be insurgents. Might be civilians. It didn’t matter – the evac deadline had passed twelve hours ago. The drone cordon would take them out before they got another kilometer. “The Admiral is not a ‘fuck around’ kinda guy,” I finished.
Rucker nodded absently. He had spotted the trucks too and was tracking them. “So I’m thinking the Timmies said ‘No’ to the Council’s offer of a cease-fire?”
“Word is they shot the diplomatic android first,” I explained. “Then told the rest of the negotiating team to chī shǐ back to the 18th generation. That hurt the Admiral’s feelings, so he decided to send a message.”
Rucker gave a harsh laugh. “Yeah, but Rods from God? Who’s left to hear it?”
I jerked my head south where Xuan Chang and Wen Chang, the two remaining colony cities, stood. “The Turkistan Independence leaders. I mean, nothing quite says, “Listen Up!” like hypervelocity tungsten telephone poles fired from Low Planetary Orbit, right?”
Rucker shrugged. “Well, when you care enough to send the very best….”
It was my turn to laugh. I snorted, looked back across the dark, flame-lit water. “I just hope they listen.”
Rucker shrugged, and started to walk back to our camp. “Bah. I give it two days, boss. Fleet has the entire system on lock-down. Absolutely no traffic from the moons, Belt mines, or orbitals unless it is UNE authorized and got a military escort. Meng Tian is cut off. Methinks the Tim’s glorious revolution just got strangled in the cradle.”
“Can’t argue your logic, but…” my voice trailed off. I had a feeling about this one.
Rucker spread his hands in mock surprise. “Seriously?”
He pointed across the river. “Once word of this spreads, they’ll have to come to the table. Who wants Chang Two and Three lit up like that? The Timmies may be fanatics but they’re not stupid. The Planetary Council won’t go for it. Not the U.N.E. either, not really. Crisped miners, slagged infrastructure, delayed ore shipments… bad for business all around.”
Rucker spit, shifted his Steyr-30 to the crook of his other arm. “Fifty yuan says we’ll be back on the Hephestus in forty-eight hours, cryo-ed, and zip lining our way to the UNE’s next cluster fuck.”
“From the Freezer to Hell in sixty seconds,” I intoned. “Or your money back. Guaranteed.”
“Zombie Six. That’s how we roll.” he said.
I thumped my chest plate despite the itch at the back of my mind. The Kepler solar system was effectively blockaded, Fleet Marines had landed at New Shenzhen, Tien Chang was burning. I so wanted Rucker to be right. But…
An A.I. generated, strategic, socio-psych profile can be as meticulous as it is wrong. People are spectacularly illogical. Brute truth is sometimes a kick in the head makes people give up – sometimes it just pisses them off.
I could feel the anger coming off Tien Chang in waves.
He raised one eyebrow. “You’re not taking my bet.”
“Hey, I’ll take your money,” I said. “In the meantime though, make sure our ammo and power cells are topped off. Chandra has first watch.”
“I’m not jinxing us,” I said. “I want Zombie Six to be ready in case the Timmies won’t see reason, is all.”
Rucker saluted. “Semper Gumby,” he drawled, and went back to the rest of the squad.
My other job…
Two commission pieces taking up table space right now.
Client requested the pieces to be as period authentic as possible, so they’re based on a turn of the century Arts and Crafts design, and 70% of the glass was salvaged from antique leaded glass panels. Be nice when they’re finally installed. They always look better in context.
Also working on a line of medium size suncatchers/panels for my Etsy shop.But that’s for another day.
Take care and have a good weekend.
DEUS EST MACHINA
Stem Cells, Cyber-limbs and Self-Evolution
the belief or theory that the human race can evolve beyond its current physical and mental limitations, especially by means of science and technology.
I read the simple definition above with three sets of eyes.
The Sci-Fi nerd in me gets all warm and tingly at the thought of neural nets and exo-skeletons, A.I., and cyberspace. It’s Blade Runner and Neuromancer, the Diamond Age, Broken Angels, and Deus Ex. It’s all the bright and shiny tech that boldly goes into a future where no one has gone before. It conjures all the cool things that get me to sit up and think and dream.
Next, the person who has dealt with a disability most of his life can’t help but wonder if something like medical nano-machines could repair my spine and allow me to run again. (At least handle a flight of stairs easily.) I imagine bio-tech as this amazing, miraculous breakthrough – a sort of modern, upgraded, super-charged penicillin that triumphs over diseases and genetic defects. It will correct, even reverse traumatic injury and impairments. Picture prosthetics or biologically-optimized organs and limbs that are more responsive, faster, stronger than your OEM parts. Extended lifespan, augmented intellect, light-speed connectivity and communication, whole new realms of human interaction, creative expression, and media… The possibilities are vast and mind-boggling.
Finally as a Christian, I can’t help but see a religion. A thoroughly modern, secular one, sure, but Transhumanism (a.k.a. “H+”) is indeed ‘a particular set of faith statements and worship’. From what I find from various sources online, Transhumanism is a systematic worldview with firm devotion not so much to divinity or a grand meta-narrative, but to science and self-will. Faith is in Technology, the Creed is Human Ingenuity, the Doctrine, Self-Evolution. The hitch in this post’s title is intentional: God IS the machine. Immortality will come, but only to those who upload.
It’s at the intersection of those three perspectives where things get weird for me.
Before I go further, let me say I’m not a Christian who holds Science and Religion to be antithetical. In my mind, they only ‘oppose’ each other in the same sense I have an opposable thumb: both allow me to grasp things. The two disciplines overlap in some areas and certainly inform one another, but one addresses the natural world, the other the spiritual and moral one.
As I see it, the real friction between the two stems from assumptions and conclusions made when trespassing in the other’s field. To my mind, the statement “There is no Heaven because I looked through a telescope and didn’t see it” is just as absurd as “If God had wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings.” I submit that “Directed Panspermia” – the theory aliens deliberately seeded the basics of life on Earth – requires the same leap of faith, if not more, than any chapter in Genesis.
So the issue confronting the modern devout isn’t whether to acknowledge science as ‘a systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world using observation and experiment’. Too late – Science is a thing. And let’s thank God for it. Nor is the proper response of the Pious to retreat into a ‘Luddite Alamo’ and raise bulwarks in the name of ‘Doctrinal Purity’. Church cannot, must not become an anti-intellectual enclave that implicitly disapproves of technology to advance knowledge and improve the human condition. At best, Religious people are considered anachronistic – that kind of reaction is dangerously regressive and deliberately ignorant.
If I camped out there for a second, I apologize. Anti-intellectualism in the name of God is a pet peeve of mine. And I simplified the positions, I know. The scope of this essay doesn’t permit me to dig down or expand the discussion. There isn’t time or space to layout a comprehensive, systematic comparison between a traditional Biblical worldview and secular, scientific, Post-Modern Humanism. At the end of the day I’m just a Christian geek – a believer trying to be faithful and authentic before God who also reads, enjoys, and writes Science Fiction.
But that’s the rub. As a Christian and a writer, Transhumanism challenges my understanding of the very nature of Life: What does it mean to be human? Do we have a soul? Are we indeed nothing more than self-aware meat machines, able to change, upgrade, or replace parts as desired, answerable to no one but ourselves? Or is there a critical spiritual element to existence that is inextricably linked to a transcendent reality?
Christian-wise, that right there is a deeper, more fundamental worldview question than anything Gospel-related. I have to decide if there even IS a God before I can wonder if that Jesus of Nazareth fellow had anything to do with my sin.
In my writing then, Transhumanism is the inevitable Materialistic philosophy that dominates my imagined future. It is the majority counterpoint to Religion, and most of the dramatic tension, conflict, and themes – obvious or oblique – stem from the friction between two perspectives. Any Christianity, religion, or spiritual dynamic has to be organic to the plot and serve the deeper theme without (hopefully) getting ham-fisted and didactic.
One of the impulses that drove my first novel Running Black was the belief that the only thing that restrains man’s inhumanity to man is a principled commitment to a transcendent, spiritual worldview – a perspective that conceives of a world beyond this one and holds life as a sacred gift. That is the fire-break designed to check Mankind’s tendency to exploit and commodify human life. Even with it, we don’t treat our fellow humans properly – what makes us think we won’t abuse clones or androids? Take HBO’s rebooted “Westworld” series as an illustration of what I’m talking about here. Set in the near-future, it’s a live-action, Old West theme park for the wealthy. But we’re light years from Disney World. Westworld is loaded with Deception, Torture, Rape, Theft, Killing… Apparently, technology doesn’t improve human nature so much as reveal it – which is the main issue for me.
Someone will rightly ask about the evil done in the name of traditional religion. From Crusades to Inquisitions, Pogroms to Jihads, Religion is brutally telling as well, no question. The errors are even more glaring because cruelty and ignorance strike at religion’s core principles. I submit those are human flaws, not religious ones. Mankind has a tremendous capacity to cloak prejudice and avarice in whatever’s close at hand, be that a flag, a manifesto, or a holy book.
But now I’m back at the principle conflict in the Judeo-Christian story: Imago Dei versus the Fallen Nature. God, Humanity, Sin, Redemption… In my thinking, a story’s setting and props change but the essential conflict never will: God or No? Deliberate or Accident? Mortal or Immortal? Imago Dei or Smart Meat? A hundred years from now, we might be encased in a cyber-linked, stainless steel body basking in the light of a distant star, it won’t matter. Everything flows from how we answer those questions.
It was William Faulkner who said writers must get back to “the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.” That quote has come back to me again and again since I started writing six years ago. Fiction is about entertainment and escapism, of course, but a good story is also about expression, exploring, asking questions, pushing boundaries in search of answers. In spec fiction particularly, we’re able, however clumsily, to fashion different worlds, to create another place to stand, from which we just might get another angle on Life and human condition and make some sense of it.
I’ve heard it said ‘Art with an Agenda is Propaganda’ but good art, good fiction, is ‘a lie that tells the truth.’ Now as a Christian, I believe all truth is God’s and that any facet of it, however small or oblique, ultimately points back to Him.
As a Christian who writes speculative fiction, I want to tell good stories. I want to entertain and engage. I also want to be consistent and credible, embracing the facts of modern world while holding fast to eternal truths. ‘Roots and Wings’ like the Chinese proverb says. I don’t have all the answers. My stories certainly don’t. Maybe though, in the midst of my scribbling about clones and corporations and robots and military AI, I can shed some light on those heart conflicts Faulkner mentioned or at least start asking some of the right questions.
I honestly don’t know what the future holds – I hope nano-meds for my spinal cord – but the New Testament Book of Hebrews assures me whatever happens, I don’t have to write my story alone, Jesus promises to be the ‘Author and Finisher of my faith.” I find that profoundly comforting and will do whatever I can to offer that same comfort to anyone who wants it.
FULL FAULKNER SPEECH BELOW:
Eresh’s Chimney looked like a mud castle made by a giant. A mish-mash of crude bricks, rough boulders, and hewn beams the thickness of tree trunks, the spire gnarled its way skyward, knobby, crooked, and enormous.
There was a single entrance at the ground level, two massive doors of stone. They were the color of storm clouds and seemed to take forever to open.
The sun had started its drop toward the western edge of the horizon when Levi, Gibs and Addas watched Snat delicately unwrap a leather bundle of long wire instruments and with a wink, get to work on the mechanism. “Have us in before you can say ‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.'”
Twenty minutes later, he was still fussing with it with his tools, but muttering in goblin under his breath.
Levi steeped up behind him and peered down over his shoulder as he worked. “Legend has it that lock was fashioned by Völundr himself, sort of a payback to Eresh for helping him escape an island where he’d been imprisoned. Cunning genius that he was, I’ve read the smith crafted such things looking in a mirror. That way, spying eyes would be hard pressed to understand, let alone copy the secrets of his trade. Perhaps if you imagined yourself inside the lock—”
“Credentialed in gobermouch before the Shattering, were you?” the goblin snapped. “Cause you’re a bit mouthy to have been a picklock.”
“Ah, it’s just we should gain entrance before the sun sets. While there’s still light, you see.”
“I see.” The goblin gritted his teeth, put one pointed ear against the lock plate. “If you’d quite yammering. I’m—” A grin. A soft click. “There!” He tugged gently. The massive stone door whispered open.
Snat knelt and wrapped his tools back up. “In you go,” he nodded. “While it’s still light.”
Bit of fiction today. The opening ‘graphs of my next mil-SF short.
Have a good day and enjoy Thanksgiving.
They kill you week twenty of Enhanced Tactical Training.
I mean you feel like the instructors have been trying to kill you ever since Basic, certainly during the Advanced courses in whatever branch you served before you were selected for the CRISIS Program: Rangers, SEALS, Delta, Intelligence Support… But after all that, this time it’s real.
The surgeries have long since healed. You’ve integrated with your augments and are still riding the transhuman high. (Yes, you are that fast. And strong. Your new reflexes make Olympic athletes look like they have cerebral palsy. ) You’ve gotten past the mind-fuck that is an implanted cyber-link and now appreciate just how god-like an integrated communications and tactical information network is. You’ve mastered augmented vision, micro-drone tactics, Tac-net hacking, robotics, exosuits, laser weapons, Low-G, deep water, arctic, jungle, desert, and half a dozen other extreme environments. You thought you were badass before – well now you’re officially the bastard child of Terminator and Superman. You almost feeling sorry for whoever you’re ordered to kick the shit out of.
Then one morning near the end of the course they let you sleep late, (a clue, right there) and feed you a decent breakfast. (That was your second warning) After, the instructors escort you to a part of the base you didn’t know existed, turn off your cyber-link, and put you in an elevator. Next thing you know you’re thirty stories underground standing in front of a white vault door with a sign over top that reads
And the last enemy to be destroyed is death
What the hell?
Afterwards back at the barracks, Chandra said he recognized it. A passage from the Bible, the part when Jesus Christ returns, defeats the armies of Satan, cleans up the mess and turns the Earth into the Garden of Eden. I don’t know if that means we’re part of a new world or we’re supposed to establish Paradise, or what, but we definitely fight and are always in the shit. Our team’s call sign is Zulu-6. After that the day though, we began calling ourselves ‘Zombie Six’. But I digress…
You stand there thinking about the sign, no doubt getting scanned, identified, cross-checked, and verified until finally the big white door hisses open and a pair of very polite and professional doctor-types bring you in. They strap you on a comfy operating table and hook up the usual web of electronic leads, IVs and data jacks, explaining all the while this particular procedure won’t take long. You’ll have the rest of the day to yourself afterward.
Then they kill you.
It’s a cocktail of phenobarbital, Pavulon, and potassium chloride. Death by lethal injection. You’re left to cool to room temperature for thirty minutes. Your death gets certified. Then they bring you back.
They want to get it out of the way – dying. To prove to you the augs and implants actually work, that the nano-blood, the cyber-implants kick you into CLS or ‘Critical Level Stasis’ to prevent you you completely shuffling off your mortal coil. All that bleeding-edge tech and those new and improved organs grown from your very own stem cells really do preserve your essential systems.
Not that you’re invulnerable. Massive trauma can still be fatal, as are the NBCs – nuclear, biological, chemical weapons, but your new body can take extraordinary levels of punishment. Far, far more than you imagine.
So they kill you to prove it.
This is the keystone to your training because the head shrinkers and mad scientists behind the CRISIS unit’s inception and technology convinced the generals you will be an infinitely better soldier once you’ve gotten over that marrow-deep, primate nightmare fear of death.
And more than anything else, generals want better soldiers.
They also want a return on their investment. The government dropped millions to borg your body into the ultimate killing machine – to re-make you into a true ‘Smart Weapon’. That means you get an OS upgrade to match the shiny hardware, i.e. your brain gets a major adjustment to fit your new body’s capabilities. Otherwise, all that fancy gear wired inside you will never get used to full capacity.
And believe me, the shit we’re up against, we need full capacity.
Finished edits on part one of The Shattered Worlds and decided to play around in GIMP. I like the way this turned out. I think people are going to enjoy this story.
Someone asked about ‘Dead Saints’ the other day. Well, it’s on the back burner until the election is over. It’s been a stop and go project from the beginning, with the first scenes and outline sitting on my computer for several years. The current delay is due in part by my malaise and general frustration as well as an eerie resemblance between the current political situation and several key plot points.
For example, the story’s antagonist is a corrupt politician demonically inspired to boost their career trajectory toward the White House by deliberately allowing a terrorist attack and then playing the hero in the aftermath. Evidence of this conspiracy is contained in emails thought deleted by the politician’s staff but uncovered by the protagonist while battling both natural (terrorist) and supernatural (demonic) forces in an attempt to stop the imminent terrorist threat.
And here I was, making stuff up.
Have a good weekend.