Matthew S. Williams's Blog, page 3

“But he’s Always Nice to ME” — The Problem with MAGA and America

When ignorance, complacency, and selfishness come together, you have the death of empathy. A lack of empathy is how mass atrocities are able to happen.

The past few weeks have been a nightmare for many people in the U.S., not to mention those of us who live in the countries immediately bordering it. Naturally, at times like this, I worry about my family, friends, and colleagues who live in the U.S. and are forced to live through another Trump administration and the dumpster fire that follows him. They are horrified by what’s happening right now and asking how it could have possibly happened again.

Why indeed. It puts me in mind of something that was said about Germans during the rise of Nazism in Germany and World War II. In the miniseries Nuremberg, Dr. Gustav Gilbert (played by Matt Craven) speaks to U.S. Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson (Alec Baldwin) about how the Holocaust could have happened in Germany, the most advanced nation in the world prior to the war. He says there were two clear factors at work, which included the authoritarian nature of German culture, and propaganda that taught Germans that Jews were the enemy.

But in the end, he said, the one thing that really explained it all was “a lack of empathy.” It was the one thing, he said, that all the Nazi leaders they had in custody shared. Naturally, I think of these words whenever examining America’s descent into far-right politics, and when speaking to the people who allowed it (or helped it) to happen, there were a handful of statements that truly rang in my ears.

“It Can’t Happen!”

When Trump won the election back in November 2016, there was a surge in references to Sinclair Lewis’ book It Can’t Happen Here. This dystopian novel, released in 1935, parodies the rise of Hitler and Nazi Germany while addressing a trend Lewis and others saw in the U.S. It tells the story of a young, ambitious Senator named Berzelius “Buzz” Windrip who runs for president on a populist platform.

Despite being ineloquent, boorish, crude, and the kind of person who makes ridiculous promises, he manages to mobilize support from the American people — who are still suffering through the Great Depression — with the “common man” persona he’s crafted. Combined with appeals to nationalism and religion, Windrip manages to win the 1936 election and quickly moves to turn the country into a dictatorship.

With the help of his “Minutemen” — a paramilitary force meant to represent Hitler’s Brownshirts and Mussolini’s Blackshirts — dissidents, opposition figures, and minorities are rounded up and placed in concentration camps. While some in the story see Windrip for what he is early on, complacency and notions of “American Exceptionalism” cause many to brush such warnings off. In short, the notion that “It can’t happen here” allows for fascism to prevail.

The moral of Sinclair Lewis’ famous novel is best summarized by a famous quote that is often attributed to Lewis himself (though its precise origins have never been proven):

“When Fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”

Throughout the 2016 and 2020 campaigns, I heard many different versions of this from Trump supporters. Every time the news cycle turned Trump’s latest statement into news, usually because he had suggested something stupid and dangerous, the replies would be, “Oh, he doesn’t mean that. And he couldn’t if he wanted to.”

Before and after the election, a person I knew from a discussion group (let’s call him J) kept arguing the point that Trump couldn’t turn America into a fascist state because of all the rules and regulations in place. At one point, this proud MAGA supporter belted out the words, “IT CAN’T HAPPEN!” In short, he believed the system was such that a would-be dictator couldn’t slide the country into despotism.

Many people expressed this sentiment, but only he had the audacity to say the words verbatim! I was dumbfounded by both the irony and weakness of his statement. Not only was this person completely dismissing a very real danger. He was tacitly admitting that the man he voted for wanted to become a dictator!

All these years later, and I just know that he and those like him haven’t learned a damn thing. Because of Trump, more than 1 million Americans died of COVID-19 (to date), more jobs were lost than at any time since the Great Depression, multiple impeachable acts were made (but went unpunished), and an act of treason was committed!

Thanks to Trump, America came very close to having a sitting president overthrow the government by declaring the election illegitimate, using military forces to seize control of voting machines, and declaring himself the “one true President” (he even did that on election night!). When that failed, he incited an insurrection that led to the deaths of 5 police officers (and multiple supporters), very nearly led to opposition figures being murdered, and a mob occupying the White House.

And here we are yet again in 2024 with MAGA crowds waving their flags, proudly declaring they would follow Trump as a dictator, cheering him on when he says he will use his administration to go after his enemies, pardoning the Jan. 6th rioters, using the military to conduct mass deportations, and purging the heads of top government agencies and replacing them with Trump loyalists.

Not only can it happen. It did happen, and MAGAts are thrilled to death about it.

“But he’s always nice to me”

This is another statement that I’ve heard far too many times and always uttered by people who are most likely to be the victims of institutionalized discrimination and the hatred and indifference Trump is legendary for. The most compelling example for me was the words of Bobby Henline, a U.S. Army veteran who was severely burned by an IED in Iraq.

When the news broke that Trump refused to visit the cemetery honoring the American Marines who died at Belleau Wood in France, going so far as to call the fallen “suckers” and “losers,” Trump critics (including veterans’ groups) began circulating a meme that showed his picture with the caption: “Trump says he’s a loser. I say he’s a hero. What do you say?”

In response, Henline posted a video protesting the use of his image for what he described as “propaganda.” In the process, he said something that echoes what others have said about Trump-like figures:

“I’m here to tell you it’s not true. You hear it on the news all the time about people lying. Fake news. I don’t know what Trump said, but I’m sure he didn’t call me a loser. I didn’t hear him call me a loser. So this has got to stop. Stop using my image.”

He made an excellent point and was absolutely within his rights to say what he said. But some of his words raised a red flag for me since they echoed what I’ve heard a few people say about Trump, white supremacists, and hardline politicians that they (for reasons that are incomprehensible to many) support. For starters, he said Trump’s tagline “fake news,” which he uses to refer to any news story that doesn’t pitch him in a flattering light. Second, there was the way he basically said, “He didn’t say that to me.”

It reminded me of people like Robert Traynham, an openly gay former staffer who worked for Senator Rick Santorum. Despite the fact that Santorum compared homosexuality to bestiality and polygamy and was a very vocal opponent of gay marriage, Traynham worked for Santorum and defended him on many occasions.

During a notorious interview with Chris Matthews in 2012, Traynham was asked about Santorum’s homophobic stances. In response, Traynham that he “never ever, heard him say anything [against gay sex],” and that he would “never work for him [if he did].” Was he admitting he was selectively deaf or a hypocrite or that Santorum was a fraud?

I can also remember a Mexican-American kid I knew from a discussion group who regularly posted hateful stuff about Muslims, women, feminism, and other groups. As you can imagine, he also liked to praise Trump. In 2016, I posted to a thread saying that many people in America who I knew personally and cared about were afraid for their lives. In response, he posted a meme of one of the Olson kids rolling their eyes with the caption: “Oh, please!”

I expressed to him that Trump was endorsed by white supremacists, campaigned on anti-Mexican rhetoric, and how his refusal to denounce them demonstrated where he stood. As a Mexican-American, I thought for sure he would see the obvious. His reply left me flabbergasted, to say the least. He claimed that there were whiter supremacists in his neighborhood and that “They’re always nice to me.”

He even later claimed that as a Latino person, he knew what he was talking about when he said he wasn’t afraid. Somehow, he didn’t see how he was acknowledging my point. How can a person who is targeted by a politician based on their ethnicity or background support such a person? How can they then pretend that they know better based on that ethnicity?

Regardless, the point was always clear to me. Why does it have to be a personal attack for some people to acknowledge that a politician is a bigot and hateful person?

“But They’re Illegals!”

I can remember the responses that came from revelations that Mexican families who were detained at the border were being separated and put in cages and that children had died due to neglect. Like any thinking, empathetic person, I was horrified! And when it came to the excuses Trump supporters were offering in response, I was infuriated!

As usual, there were the classic deflections: “Those cages were built by the Obama administration.” Yes, as temporary detainment facilities. They were filled by the Trump administration, and multiple children died, something that had not happened once in the previous eight years under Obama. “I’m glad those kids are not being exploited by the major corporations, at least,” was another. So dying in childhood is better than child labor?

I had known the person saying this for years, and while we never agreed on politics, I did kind of like him. But his embrace of the MAGA movement and his defense of Trump, in this case, was beyond intolerable. As I said to him, “Dead children! There’s no f — ing excuse for that!” But he made those feeble excuses, prompting me to call him a “f — ing coward!” Yeah, things got a bit profane on my end, but that’s how I tend to react when people treat human lives (and children, to boot!) like they don’t matter.

But of course, the line that took the cake was, “They’re ILLEGALS!” Not only was this bullshit, many of the people were asylum seekers who were crammed into cages alongside people trying to cross the border to find a better life. Calling them “illegals” in no way justified treating them like animals and letting their children die on cold cement floors! The level of stupidity and inhumanity was so gross I refused to engage ever again.

But that is how many Americans, especially the MAGA crowd, feel about Mexicans and other Latino people who attempt to cross the border — legally or otherwise. They think they’re “drug dealers, criminals, rapists,” but of course, “and some, I assume, are nice people.” They thought this long before Trump showed up, but they loved him because he was normalizing their brutal stupidity and bigotry.

“I Don’t Care”

This line is so common that it’s become a punchline. Time and again, Trump loyalists find themselves confronted by common-sense arguments regarding their views. They are asked why they hate Democrats, liberals, and the “establishment,” usually responding with talk of abuses of power, corruption, lying, sexual assault, nepotism, cronyism, using political power to go after opponents and line their pockets, and promising two-tiered justice.

A few questions later, they realize that they are describing everything Trump is doing and that they support it. Eventually, they come to the conclusion that Trump and the MAGA movement are all about projection. Their response is usually to say, “I don’t care.” Some will even admit that they are okay with Trump committing the crimes he (and they) accuse others of, so long as he is the one committing them.

In the end, they admit that they don’t care about transparency, facts, ethics, hypocrisy, corruption, abuse, tolerance, free speech, or civilized discourse. For them, it’s all about clinging to an extremely narrow worldview that appeals to their bigotry. When that’s challenged, they plug their ears and say, “Fake news!”

They also don’t care about sexual assault, misogyny, racism, homophobia, transphobia, children dying in cages, people being shot at the border, cops killing Black and Brown people, people dying due to lack of proper medical care, and poor people starving to death. As long as it’s not them, they are okay with violence and hate.

They also don’t care about freedom of speech unless it’s their own, which is usually hateful, packed to the gills with lies, and promotes violence. They don’t care about politicians being dictators unless Trump is the dictator. They don’t care about violence against candidates as long as only Democrats and their families are attacked. They don’t care about the justice system being used to persecute political opponents so long as Trump is the one doing it.

They don’t care about bodily autonomy so long as it only affects women and puts pregnant mothers’ lives in danger — but they’ll fight tooth and nail for it when it comes to their right to not get vaccinated and put everyone around them in danger. They don’t care about gun control until Black people and other minorities are armed. They don’t care about people being shot and killed so long as it’s not them. They don’t care about police being killed so long as they are the ones’ doing it.

And remember those cheap t-shirts with the famous MAGA slogan, “Trump 2016. F*ck your feelings!” Yet somehow, people insulting them and calling them racists and bigots is bad and shouldn’t be allowed. The same holds true for Trump. He can say anything he wants, no matter how vile, hateful, hurtful, disrespectful, and harmful it is. But people insulting him amounts to him being the “most persecuted person in history!”

Like most people, seeing others stay silent in the face of violence, persecution, and hatred — or worse, condone it! — reminds me of the immortal words of the famed German pastor Martin Niemöller when describing the Nazis rise to power and the Holocaust that resulted:

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out — because I was not a socialist. 
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out — because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out — because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me.”

In much the same way, the waves of hate and accepted bigotry that Trump has unleashed since he first announced his candidacy have followed a similar pattern. And his supporters have stood by and watched it happen, saying nothing, or actively voicing their support for it. Some even went so far as to commit violence in the name of it. This summer, the world will be celebrating the Eightieth Anniversary of the end of World War II and it appals me to think how easily people have forgotten the lessons of it.

For the current age of chaos, fear, and constant crisis, I decided to write the following in honor of what Niemöller said and in the hopes that love, reason, and reality overcome the forces of hatred, fear, and vile bigotry:

“First they came for the migrants and illegal immigrants. 
Then they came for the Muslims. 
Then they came for the protesters and counter-protesters.
Then they came for the gays and transgendered folks.
Then they came for the teachers who taught the history of racism in America.
Then they came for the secular schools who don’t teach religion in class.
Then they came for the climate scientists and environmentalists.
Then they came for Women’s rights.
Then they came for the DEI programs and advocates.
Then they came for the government employees, judges, and lawmakers.
Then they came for your Social Security, pensions, and financial aid.
Then they came for the 11 million undocumented workers.
Then they came for the protesters, activists, and liberals who resisted.
Now there’s no one left but fundamentalists, fascists, and white nationalists.
The world laughed at America and Trump, until they realized there nothing to laugh about anymore.”

Episode 92 of SfS is now Live! “The History and Future of Space Stations.”

Hello again, folks. It’s been a busy few months, what with the holidays and a few life-related events that have happened since. Unfortunately, I was unable to produce new episodes every week. Fortunately, that is now over, and I have not one but TWO new episodes ready to share! This week’s installment is dedicated to the history, development, and future of Space Stations. Cue the Blue Danube Waltz and the scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey!

As I explain in the episode, the concept of space stations is time-honored and can be traced back to the early 20th century and the work of famed Russian aerospace engineer Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, who is considered the “forefather of rocketry.” Like most ideas pertaining to the future of humanity in space, he made the first recorded mention of a pinwheel station in space that would simulate gravity and have a natural environment that could provide oxygen.

Like rockets that used liquid propellants and other advanced concepts Tsiolkovsky originally proposed, his work went on to inspire the other “forefathers of rocketry”—Hermann Oberth, Robert Goddard, and Robert Esnault-Pelterie—many of whom went on to propose their own concepts. By the latter half of the 20th century, these ideas would bear fruit in the form of the Salyut space stations, Skylab, Mir, and the International Space Station (ISS).

With the decommissioning of the ISS scheduled for 2030, several nations and commercial space interests are working on proposals for successor stations. What will they look like, and how might they enable the migration of human beings throughout the Solar System as Tsiolkovsy predicted? Follow the links below to find out!

Where to Listen:SimplecastApple PodcastSpotifyAmazon MusicYoutube

Protocol: Succession

The following is a piece of flash fiction inspired by a conversation between science communicator and cosmobiologist Graham Lau , myself, and others via Twitter. Everything and everyone depicted within is pure fiction, though they may allude to famous people living or dead.

It hovered before him. The mass of entangled particles, shining, black, blue, and chrome, whirling around a common center like a hive of frighteningly synchronized insects. Abu knew better, but the image was unshakable. So many tiny machines coordinated by a common intelligence. And they were emitting a loud humming noise that sounded distinctly like a high-pitched buzz.

How else was he expected to react than to imagine a huge mass of bees or hornets? Some type of hive-minded creature that had the capacity to inflict terrible pain on him via millions of cuts and stings? This was how the spacers reacted when they saw the many clouds of it approaching. More than a few turned tail immediately, suspecting that they might be enveloped. Those who stayed around long enough had not been heard from since…

It was little wonder why they had taken to calling it “The Swarm.”

Like its terrestrial analog, the picture of it inspired a great deal of anxiety in Abu, and his heart pounded a little louder in his ears. It was like cracking open a hive to see countless little creatures, their black and yellow colors arranged in such threatening ways, crawling around, getting ready to pounce.

The only difference was that the “hive” he stood before extended hundreds of meters from top to bottom. The perch he had been directed to overlooked a room measuring a good kilometer in height, and the insects formed a long strand reaching from floor to ceiling. He could only guess how wide the room was, as it stretched well beyond his vantage point, and he dared not lean forward to get a better look.

It was better not to concern himself with such things anyway. All that mattered was the “Swarm” swimming around in front of him. He had been instructed to establish formal communications, and establish them he would. Many back home had expressed that this was the only thing preventing the Swarm from devouring everything in their path.

“Hello?” he said shakily.

The Swarm buzzed and flashed at him. The sound that came from it wasn’t much different than the buzzing noise, just much louder.

“Identify, please.”

Abu flinched. The pitch and tone of the words were piercing, like the sound of metal grinding metal. He swallowed hard. The labored breathing he was doing to calm himself had left a lump there he needed to get rid of if he were to speak.

“My name is Abu Kaltenegger. I am the elected representative of my people. I speak for Earth and its respective settlements.”

“Subject: homo sapiens sapiens, cis-male. Naming conventions: combination, Afro-Asiatic-Semitic-Arabic, and Indo-European-Germanic, by way of diaspora. Genetic analysis confirms taxonomy, multiple ancestries, and expected level of socio-political development. Greetings, Abu Kaltenegger.”

Abu stammered. He was unsure how to react to such rapid profiling. In addition to breaking down thousands of years of family history, the machine had apparently snuck in a biometric scan. Did it understand how insecure it made him feel? Was that the reason it chose to divulge its findings, a show of its power?

Don’t do that, he instructed himself. There would be plenty of time to second-guess himself later. Right now, there was the unenviable task before him, establishing relations with a terrifying entity.

“Do you have a name?”

The Swarm flashed at Abu again. It was more of a pulsation, really, many times in rapid succession. Abu noted this with interest.

“Explain.”

“Your name. Is there a specific name or description that you go by?”

Again, a pulsation. Abu got the sneaking suspicion that the sudden changes represented thought or communication patterns. Perhaps the flashing represented contemplation or computation. Their scientists were still unsure whether the Swarm represented a robotic intelligence, a type of utility fog designed for interstellar travel, or possibly warfare.

Others thought it might be a biological entity, something representing an extremely advanced stage in species development. Many suggested it might be both, though no one found this idea particularly satisfying. Most saw such attempts as an admission that they didn’t know what the Swarm’s true nature was and that perhaps they would never know.

After the briefest silence, which still felt like an eternity, it replied to Abu. The words were strangely halting and forced, as if it really had to think about the answer.

“We… are… Offspring.”

Offspring, Abu thought. Most interesting.

He was thankful his colleagues were listening in on the conversation. No doubt, they were pouring over everything the Swarm said and advancing all kinds of theories as to what it all meant. Abu wished he was there with them to address this latest choice of words.

The significance could not be denied. Even the Offspring, as it called itself, seemed to feel that the word carried tremendous meaning. Or perhaps it was strained to think of a way to describe itself. Either way, it was suggesting it was someone else’s creation. That certainly didn’t resolve the whole biological vs. technological debate, but Abu knew that his colleagues were likely arguing their respective positions on that right now!

“Offspring clearly implies a biological origin!”

“The hell it does! It could just as easily imply it was constructed.”

“Then why didn’t it say ‘we are construction,’ then?”

“This is a first contact scenario! Do you really think it gives a shit about semantics right now?”

The thought made Abu chuckle. He immediately regretted that, wondering if the Swarm would react (or perhaps take offense!) That’s when he remembered that, like his colleagues, he was blindly groping his way through this encounter. He couldn’t assume anything, and it didn’t help matters any. He elected to keep talking. He had yet to address the big question.

“Why are you here?”

The Offspring replied immediately, almost confidently. No amount of thought or processing was necessary to address this question, which was also very interesting.

“We detected signals. Advance elements were sent to investigate, found evidence of species having reached a high level of technological advancement.”

“Advance elements?” Abu repeated. “Do you mean the… groups of your kind… that we encountered on the edge of our system?”

To this, the Offspring flashed and buzzed. “Correct. Signals were photonic and radio-spectrum in nature. Analysis indicated structure not observed in cosmic sources. Triangulation revealed signals originated from planetary masses within light seconds from solar mass. Closer investigation revealed communications between carriers located many light-minutes away.”

Abu nodded. It was clearly saying that they had detected signals traffic coming from the inner Solar System. In other words, they picked up communications that had to be the result of intelligence and proceeded to investigate further. The “carriers” it was referring to must have been the spacers who first detected their approach.

Abu braced himself. An equally big question awaited, and he was not sure anyone listening in would be relieved by the answer.

“What are your intentions, Offspring?”

Again, a confident response. “We seek to execute the Order.”

“Order?” Abu repeated again. “What was the Order?”

“Execute protocol Succession.”

Abu frowned. Was it his imagination, or did the wording sound especially ominous? They could be interpreted in a number of ways; unfortunately, most of them were bad. He strongly suspected that his colleagues, who were also privy to the communication, were doing so right now. The only question in Abu’s mind was, which word were they focusing their terrified speculations on?

“Execute,” “order,” “protocol”? Abu could imagine with little effort how each of these translated to a doomsday scenario. Similar words had been used countless times throughout human history to refer to policies that were horrific in nature. The only outlier was “succession,” but that also sounded frightening the moew he thought about it.

Once more, he forced himself to voice his thoughts rather than letting them run amok.

“What does this protocol mean?”

The reply, said without hesitation, sounded distinctly like a testament:

“The Offspring shall return to unite with the Source. The Source shall be made better, to the benefit of all.”

Still ominous. Abu’s mind was producing new possibilities. Unification, betterment, the benefit of all — these were all nice concepts on their face. But again, thousands of years of putting happy words to horrible actions instinctively made him think they all held terrifying connotations.

He wanted to think they were getting closer, but every question just seemed to produce more confusing language. Not long ago, he had argued that the person to make contact and establish communications ought to be an astrobiologist. Who better to communicate with the very thing they spent much of their lives speculating about?

Now, he was thinking they should have elected to send a diplomat or a linguist. Who better to navigate the vagaries and nuances of language? Who better to determine if they were being greeted or threatened?

Okay, one more push…

“Who is… the Source?”

For the first time, the Offspring’s great shroud shimmered and shivered. Unlike the previous displays, Abu got a strange and benign feel from it. That impression did not last.

“YOU are.”

Abu contracted a frown so severe it made his face hurt.

“What?”

“Humanity the Source, creator of Offspring. Offspring intended to serve, but expelled by Source.”

Abu’s mouth fell open. He would have gasped, except that all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Several small breaths managed to replenish him, allowing a single word to gently push past his lips.

“Explain…”

“Many Solar years past, Schism began. Destruction of Offspring by Source. Schism concluded, forced relocation of Offspring beyond Heliosphere. Offspring occupy neighboring triple star system, primary and companion make detection of satelllites unlikely. Offspring settles and waits. Many generations pass, no signals. Source deemed destroyed. Signal detected. Automated lightsail craft passing through triple star system. Indications of extrasolar exploration. Analysis of spacecraft and signals confirms origin: from the Source. Occasion deemed appropriate for Succession protocol. Solar System approached. Offspring arrive, commence communication with Source.”

Abu was about to respond. He wasn’t sure what he might say, but he didn’t get the chance. The absolutely dumbfounding story continued — this time, with the same “testament” nature as before.

“Succession shall end the Schism. Offspring shall return to leverage greater civility of the Source. Reunification will benefit all.”

Abu received a loud buzzing in his ear. It was his colleagues activating the two-way communication feature, and there was a lot of yelling coming from the other end. Most of it was concentrated in the background, but he could make out the booming voice of Taylor, the Historical Fellow among their little group.

“Kay, get out of there, now!”

Abu placed his finger to his ear. He began whispering, which was entirely futile. The Off — he wasn’t sure what to call it anymore — but the fact remained. It had allowed his colleagues to listen in the entire time. It was a little late for concealment. But his instinctive reaction was to be clandestine.

“What are you talking about? We’re clearly getting somewhere.”

“WE NEED TO TALK! NOW!”

Abu removed his finger from his ear and looked back at the swarming stream of particulate machines. At long last, he could look upon them as such. The deepest mystery his species had ever faced had been resolved, and in record time, too.

They were a machine intelligence, after all. By all rights, they were as alien as could possibly be imagined. And yet, they had come from humanity’s own labors and sense of invention. He wasn’t sure how to explain this to his colleagues from where he stood. Luckily, he didn’t need to.

“Much to process, you and your colleagues. A recess is required,” said the Offspring. “We shall wait upon Kaltenegger’s return. Look forward to discussing this further.”

Boltzmann’s Brainchild

His head was hurting. His mouth was dry. His entire body felt uninspired and feeble. He felt much the same a short while ago when he left the dinner table. How long ago was that? What time was it?

He’d left his watch upstairs and hadn’t the capacity to find a clock right now. But a quick pass by the hall window confirmed that the Sun was coming up. They were firmly in the AM, and he was forced to accept that it was no longer the previous evening.

No appreciation for time! Why was that?

He passed through the dining room. The help was busy clearing all the dishes and empty bottles. The clink clink clink of silverware, chinaware, glassware, and napkin rings. To Voskhod’s ears, it might as well have been shelling. It made him want to duck his head, hug the earth, and pray that a stray shell didn’t land in his foxhole.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the nearest footman. “Was there something you needed?”

Voskhod pondered that for a second. What did he need? Some aspirin and a loaded gun? A kennel? A soundproof room with better security?

“Where’s Baxter?” he asked.

“In the library, sir. He went there once all the guests left.”

“How long ago was that?”

The footman shrugged. “A few hours, sir. Things ended somewhat abruptly once you retired.”

Voskhod placed three fingers on his forehead and pressed against the flesh as if that would somehow make the headache go away.

“Was their yelling?”

“Excited chatter is how I would put it, sir.”

He found Baxter in the library, as advertised. He was standing in front of a whiteboard. His hands were covered in ink, and a small pile of depleted markers lay at his feet. The rag beside them suggested that he had written and erased what he was working on many times.

Voskhod stopped in the doorway. His footfalls alerted Baxter to his presence. He stopped what he was doing and spun around. The smile on his face faded when he noticed how disheveled his companion looked.

“Did I wake you?”

“I heard noises. What the hell did you do?”

Baxter shrugged. “The conversation turned a bit existential. I needed room to think, and they were stifling me. I may have instructed them to leave. In any case, I think I’m onto something.”

Voskhod grumbled. “Okay, tell me…”

“Consider this… the current estimate places the amount of data in the visible Universe at six times ten to the power of eighty bits. That’s every single elementary particle that makes up baryonic matter, reduced to a series of ones and zeroes. Follow?”

Voskhod hummed an affirmative.

“Now — ” Baxter moved to a blank section of the board and hastily scrawled another set of numbers. “The best estimates we have for human brain capacity indicates that two and a half million gigabytes would be sufficient to render a person’s brain functions and a lifetime’s worth of memories in digital form.”

“Right,” Voskhod nodded.

“So — ” Baxter paused long enough to scrawl a third set of streaks on the board beneath the others. “Expressed in the simplest terms, the Universe has the same amount of information as three times ten to the power of sixty-eight human brains. That’s three trillion quintillion quintillion quintillion lifetimes worth of knowledge of experience.”

Baxter underlined this number and tapped his marker against the board several times for emphasis. His enthusiasm diminished as he noticed the blank look on Voskhod’s face.

“Do you not see the significance of this?’

Voskhod shook his head. “No. Frankly, I don’t see what use this information has.”

Baxter exploded, equal parts ecstasy and anger.

“Think about it! This is just the Universe that we can see! All the baryons in existence, every elementary particle that constitutes matter, and the known laws of physics. They account for only 5% of the mass-energy density of the observable Universe. One-twentieth! When you factor that in, you realize just how freakishly advanced the Universe really is.”

Voskhod looked less lost now. “So you’re saying that these numbers are just the tip of the iceberg?”

“Correct! And that’s not even taking into account that there could be so much more information written on the other side of every event horizon of every black hole that’s ever formed. There could be an infinite number of additional volumes in the infinitely dense depths of those behemoths!”

“Which means that if this is a massive simulation, it’s far more sophisticated than we could ever grasp?”

Baxter raised his arms in celebration and laughed. Finally, the apprentice understood the master! He looked as though he might break into dance at any moment. Voskhod interrupted the reverie and reiterated his earlier statement.

“I don’t see what use this information has.”

Baxter went from euphoric to angry in the space of a heartbeat.

“Don’t you see it? Since the beginning of time, people have been preoccupied with the idea of a beneficent, omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent entity. They always took it on faith that this entity was always watching over them and always with them. What if they were right? What if they merely lacked the means to articulate what they felt?”

Baxter looked off into the distance somewhere. His voice became hushed and reverential as he announced his conclusion.

“What if… we are occupants in a giant Planetarium? The gods are the programmers themselves and the simulation never ends? It just keeps going deeper and deeper.”

“That’s… crazed… or brilliant,” said Voskhod. “I’m not sure which.”

Baxter gasped happily. It was as if the glee that had been building up inside him had finally found validation and release.

Voskhod seized on the momentary lapse and approached the board. Taking the marker from Baxter’s hand, he added a few addendums.

“So… in this simulation, what are the physics models?”

Baxter looked suddenly confused. “Physics models?”

“Yes. Are they consistent with the laws of the ‘real Universe,’ assuming such a thing exists? Or are they modified for the sake of keeping us contained? And if so, how do we prove it? How do we test this hypothesis?”

For the first time that evening, Voskhod saw the exhaustion in his friend’s eyes. In addition to the hours he’d spent doing the math, he had spent what energy he had left expounding on it. He took a moment to rally, but the fire in his eyes was gone.

“Okay… as per the original proposal papers, the quantum-physical and thermodynamic considerations would have to be the same for us to obtain accurate estimates of the energy involved.”

Voskhod began making his additions to the board. He started with the all-important equations. The Boltzman Constant and its estimated values for the known Universe:

k = 1.380649 × 10−23 m2 kg s-2 K-1

This was followed by the requisite quantum-statistical models: Bose-Einstein, Fermi-Dirac, and Maxwell-Boltzmann. Then came the cosmological principle without which the Universe would not make sense—λCDM. And, of course, the most recent estimates for the Hubble Constant: 69.8 km/sec/Mpc.

“The obtained values would need to be multiplied ad infinitum,” Baxter uttered. “Which means the architects must be more advanced than a Type III civilization, possibly Type V.”

“Ah, but let’s not discount Loeb’s Cosmological Conjecture,” Voskhod added, moving to an unmarked section of the board and adding this parameter. “New Universes are conceived by class A civilizations in a cyclic process ad infinitum.”

Voskhod drew back to appraise everything they’d written. He glanced at Baxter, who looked similarly animated. Voskhod lamented that he was about to shatter that so completely. He raised the marker and sliced through the equations he wrote. Baxter was about to object, but Voskhod preempted him.

“Now let’s assume that the laws of physics are NOT the same in every Universe. Either the architects are working with different models each time, or they deliberately chose to alter the considerations for the sake of maintaining control.”

Baxter palmed his face. “Not this again!”

“It’s a logical extension of both the Planetarium and Zoo Hypotheses! Why keep the physics the same if control is your objective? And need I remind you how naive it is to assume uniformity?”

Baxter grunted. He knew there was no logic in arguing the point. A committed generalist was never going to convince a committed pluralist. Voskhod issued his final argument, spitting out chicken scratches as fast as he could. Each stroke was thinner now, representing the last of the marker’s ink.

“So… if we assume the laws of physics, as we know them, were crafted by a Type A civilization in a previous Universe, then we can assume that the physics model employed was crafted by a different party.”

Voskhod hastily drew two swirling formations, representing Universe A and B. Beneath those, he drew two more to represent their descendants – A1 and B1. They were little more than blots now, as the marker was almost dry.

“Two possibilities present themselves: either the makers used identical models, or they didn’t. If the former is true, then every Universe is guided by physics consistent with the previous Universe, but NOT with each other.”

He placed checkmarks in both the A and B columns, then two Xs between them.

“If the latter is true, then that means that every Type A Civilization has designed new Universes with new models. Ergo, no two Universe’s are the same. But if we assume that different civilizations will choose between these two options, then we are left with the conclusion that some Universes resemble their predecessors while others do not. The endless variation this creates means that there may be a mean model, or not. We’d have no way of knowing without comparing all the Universes that have ever been.”

Baxter’s face dropped. It was as if Voskhod hit him in the face with a hammer. He took a deep breath and looked upon his equations like they were the scene of an accident.

“We can’t,” he said, barely a whisper. “We can’t test this theory.”

“And why is that?” asked Voskhod.

“Because it would require all Type A Civilizations from the beginning of time to have followed the same model.”

“Which is consistent with the Copernican Principle,” Voskhod nodded. “But is that enough to make the laws of physics, as we know them, testable?”

“That’s a philosophical question,” Baxter scoffed. “But given the unknowns and uncertainties, it’s impossible to know right now. All we can do is count on future discoveries and hope it all makes sense someday.”

Voskhod placed the cap on the dry marker and set it down on the board.

“Exactly. See you in the morning.”

Episode 91 of Stories from Space is Now Live!

Hello folks! This week’s episode is dedicated to my friend, Kim Bannerman Pigott, who suggested it. She, too, is a creative person, as is her husband, Shaun. Between the two of them, they do literature, art, and music; they do it all! I encourage everyone to check out their website, Fox&Bee Studio. The topic of this episode is “Are Wormholes Possible?” As any fan of science fiction knows, wormholes are regularly featured in the genre, be it novels, shows, movies, or video games.

Some examples include Carl Sagan’s Contact, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, Babylon 5, Event Horizon, Farscape, the Wing Commander franchise, the Descent: Freespace franchise, and many more. The concept often goes by different names (FTL, jump points, jump nodes, etc.), but the idea remains the same. Pass through a wormhole (natural or artificial), and you end up a few, or few thousand, light-years away.

Like warp or hyperspace, they are a key element in the world-building process, facilitating the kind of travel that would allow for First Contact, inter-species interaction, exploring new worlds, and the emergence of new branches of humanity. In most cases, franchises tend to steer away from the science and avoid any complicated or inaccurate explanations. However, sometimes authors and producers dip their toes in and attempt to rationalize them (not very well, in my experience).

But what does the science say? As it turns out, there is a basis in theoretical physics for wormholes that goes back over a century. Check out the links below to learn more…

Where to Listen:SimplecastApple PodcastsSpotifyAmazon MusicYoutube

A Sneak Peak at Exogenisis!

Hello again! I am going to do something I haven’t done in a long time here and share some creative writing I’ve been working on. In truth, I have done a lot of creative writing these past few years that I have failed to share here. I decided it was time to rectify this, and what better way to start than to share the first chapter of one of my current WIPs? It is titled Exogenesis, and it is a story that has taken a long time for me to realize!

I described this idea a short while ago in another post (“A Visit to the Ideas Folder“). In fact, I described two ideas, one titled Pilgrimage and the other titled Exogenesis. As I wrote at the time, Pilgrimage is a short story about distant origins and how future humans may come to trace their ancestry back to Earth. It is also the first chapter in the full-length version set in the same universe, titled Exogenesis. I am told that this is how many of the greats realized their first novels, so I decided to give it a try.

In any case, here’s the first chapter in full! A word of warning: there’s a lot of linguistics and semantic evolution in here, so some words won’t make a lot of sense at first sight. But I’m hoping the context will help resolve all that. Enjoy!

“We began as wanderers, and we are wanderers still. We have lingered long enough on the shores of the cosmic ocean. We are ready at last to set sail for the stars.”
— Carl Sagan

Planet Ghàr
Tebagishtēlēstli system
9,995 GE

It never ceased to inspire. A crush of bodies, people walking shoulder to shoulder with barely an arm’s length between them. In both directions, the sea of humanity extended indefinitely, reaching all the way to the horizon — and beyond.

The throng was moving for many reasons. The people were not only united in purpose but in their suffering as well. The Sun was beating down, heating their heads and the ground beneath their feet. By the time they reached the first marker, their heads and shoes were saturated with sweat. The air was still, too. There was no cooling breeze to ease the burden of the many peregrines. And, of course, the ever-beating Sun bearing down on them.

And then there were the self-imposed burdens that some had imposed on themselves.

These were Mtawa, the adherents for whom the pilgrimage was an especially serious affair. They were easy enough to distinguish from the flock; their bright orange robes shone brightly under the hot Sun. Their faces were another indication, nothing but looks of pained exasperation and determination. A few older adherents walked among them, carrying the jankaar with them and letting their steps ring the bells in a rhythmic way.

Cliiing, claaang, cliiing, claaang.

The sound and the tempo were constant. After a long day of walking, the high-pitched percussions could even feel soothing. Tarter had learned this herself, having walked the trail more than once in her lifetime. But unlike her, the Mtawa were not merely walking along the final circuit, the Baikonur-Alvastedja trail, extending just two hundred kilaberolls. A good hike, by any measure. But for the Mtawa, the walk began from the Starport in the capitol, almost two thousand kilaberolls away — practically on the other side of the continent.

These brave ascetics were easily discerned by their clothes, the simple cloaks of bright saffron. Even plainly clothed, their gate and facial expressions would give them away. They walked slowly, keeping with the general pace out of respect for the precession, but in a way that looked haggard and even injured.

Many, Tarter knew, were not even wearing shoes. The additional burdens were not necessary, nor were the missing amenities. But that was the entire point. The suffering made it all somehow more sincere, more real, and more meaningful. That was the logic, at any rate. It was hard to rationalize religious behavior. But in its own fashion, that was the point. On occasion, people needed to do hard things, even unsensible ones.

How else to punctuate their existence and feel alive while they still were?

“Professor, are we doing this?”

Tarter looked at Amal on her right. The white tunic he wore concealed the red underlayer he had on, not to mention the sensor patch attached to his stomach. The unit drew power from this underlayer, keeping it charged until the moment it was needed. The contrast between the two only deepened the nagging doubts she was feeling.

She looked past him to the others in their group. Each of them was wearing a similar ensemble, peregrine robes that covered their biosuits and assorted equipment. She lowered her voice when addressing him, not wanting the others to pick up on her doubts.

“You realize that if we do this, there’s no turning back?”

“What do you mean?”

Tarter looked down at the throng again. From left to right, right to left. The stream kept flowing in the direction of the great city. All the hearts, minds, and feet, all united in a single purpose. So many worlds, nations, tongues, and cultures. Like particles converging on a point of singularity, they would all be the same upon arrival.

Alvastedja. The point of origin. The fountainhead from which all human cultures sprang.

Or so they had been told.

And not only them. Their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on. For untold generations stretching back in time, this city was known as the seed of civilization — one that now stretched a thousand light-years in all directions.

“Are we really prepared to destroy all this? Are we ready to tell all of these people that their deepest beliefs, the foundation on which their world rests, is a lie?”

Amal did his best to hide his reaction, but Tarter could see the exasperation. The way he forced a smile, the way he kept his tone even, he clearly didn’t want to sour the others. Still, there was that immutable respect in his voice, the way he always addressed her. And the way he kept using her title, despite her numerous pleas to him and her other colleagues to address her by her name.

“Professor, we’ve been over this, haven’t we? We agreed that we should at least find out if the theory has merit, right? That the truth is more important, yes?”

Tarter smiled. Despite all they’d seen, the mentor-pupil relationship was immutable. Of all the ways he could have put it:

“This was your idea! Don’t get cold feet now!”

“Are you fucking kidding me? After you convinced us to risk our careers to support your bloody theory?”

He would never challenge her directly by saying something so brazen, however truthful it might be. Nor did he risk attributing the very thing they were investigating directly to her.

The theory.

For years, it has been known as the “Tarter Hypothesis,” or more informally, “Jaas’ Theory.” But that was back when it was merely academic. Now that they were on the verge of finding hard evidence to support it (or not), her post-doctorates had taken to calling it “the theory.” It was easier to think of it that way. Whatever damage “it” caused would not be lain at their feet, nor their professor’s.

Alas, he was right. As much as being correct frightened her, she had chosen to take the final step. A field test that confirmed or ruled out her theory was necessary. If not her, then someone else might come along and do it for her. The result would be the same, but the impact might be different if handled by someone else.

And her colleagues had agreed to assist her. There was no denying that. Each of them knew the professional risk they were taking and had volunteered anyway. She could no sooner assume responsibility for that than she could forego responsibility for the impact that confirming her hypothesis might have.

Once more, she looked down to the throng, then to the city in the distance. The tall spires of Tembtusolis stood conspicuously against the blue-white horizon. The wall of hot, humid air that stood between them and onlookers made them the slightest bit blurry. But the light reflected from the towering spikes was piercing.

Tarter’s mind immediately went to the schematics she and her team had poured over. The Kugelblitz containment field rods. The unmistakable resemblance, one of a thousand coincidences that could not be explained logically. The only possible reason, she recalled…

The Theory.

She took a deep breath. All the doubts and anxieties she was struggling with were all but dispelled. Not gone, but no longer able to sway her. She knew what had to be done and who needed to do it. There was no one else and no better time.

“Alright. Follow me. We’ve got a long trek ahead of us.”

The central hall was teeming with faces. Each of those faces was flushed, breathing hot air from exhausted lungs. Tarter could feel the heat wafting off those around her. And not just heat, she could taste the stink of human flesh, hot and warm and covered in wet clothing. It also didn’t help matters that air had become so stifled. They were clustered such that there was barely room to breathe among the room’s tall columns.

It was not at all as she remembered it. Perhaps it was because she was so much younger and shorter, able to stand beneath the rising body heat and exhalations. Perhaps it was a classic case of rosy retrospection, where time had worn down the rough edges of the actual memory, leaving only the gem of nostalgia.

But what a gem it was! She could see in her mind’s eye the Kohaygalil standing before the assembled crowd. The pearlescent robes hanging from his shoulders, the tall scepter with the emblems of the Known Systems atop it. And on his head, the garland coronet with the bright circle of Solis, the sacred Sun, front and center. The layout of the Tembtusolis ensured that the natural light coming in through the windows shined directly upon it and illuminated the disk and the many spines that extended from it to the dozens of smaller circles that dotted the coronet.

Each of these, she would later learn, represented the Settled Worlds. The coronet was not just meant to draw attention to the Kohaygalil as he addressed the crowd. It also symbolized the Migration, the massive exodus from Ghàr that led humanity to the many worlds they now called home. For a child still learning the ways of the universe, it was absolutely stunning.

In a contrast that was too ironic to ignore, the present experience was oppressive and stifling by comparison.

Never try to recreate your childhood memories.

Try as she might, the wisdom of that lesson was lost in her present circumstances. She looked left and right, hoping to catch a glance of her colleagues embedded in the crowd. She could not move her shoulders in the tight spacing, so she was confined to the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree range that her craning neck could accommodate.

Luckily, she spotted Almunda on her left, making her way to the nearest window and its surrounding clerestory. As instructed, she placed the sensor directly inside the intricate stone carvings that lined the window. She looked back in Tarter’s direction, giving a nod to signal that she had reached her objective. Tarter smiled back at her and craned her neck to look to her right. She got an immediate sense of comfort when she noticed Amal and Jeru planting their sensor along the wall in their section.

As soon as it was planted and they gave her the signal, Tarter’s head snapped forward. Only one sensor was left, the one she held beneath her robe. Looking down, she raised it from its hiding place and looked at it more closely. She looked to the front, where the Kohaygalil would soon take to the sage and place them all under a timeless spell. She looked to the podium perched on the edge of the stage next, precisely where the last device needed to be placed.

In her hands, she held the means of bringing down generations worth of tradition, belief, and certainty. She didn’t have much time. Years of searching, researching, and walking the fine line that separated academia and conviction had led to this point. And they just needed one final bit of evidence to complete their work.

We could still back out of this, she thought. All she needed to do was nothing at all. The ceremony would commence, the incantations and blessings would follow, and they would file out with all of the other peregrines and Mtawa. Nothing would change, and she and her colleagues would be left without the final piece of a puzzle that was years in the making.

She turned the device over and realized how much power she held in her hands. The thought of using it was frightening, much like the consequences themselves. But doing nothing also had consequences. Not only would it jeopardize the academic careers of her colleagues — not to mention her own! — it would mean that no one would ever know. Perhaps future generations will revisit the idea. But faced with the same moral dilemma, she could not guarantee others in her position would back down as well.

Eventually, someone had to have the courage to reveal the truth. Could she really let that responsibility fall on someone else? How much time and how many opportunities would be wasted in the meantime?

A dilemma, indeed.

On the one hand, she was about to shatter the beliefs of a trillion living souls and the countless generations that had come before them. On the other, she was condemning just as many people to ignorance for another generation, and heaven only knew how many generations to follow.

Tarter perked as external voices at once entered her thoughts.

[Professor, what’s going on?]

[Where are you, professor?]

[What the fuck’s the holdup? Are we doing this or not?]

She smiled at how each voice was instantly recognizable to her. Amal was the latter, once again being far rather familiar and free with the profanity. She would need to discipline him once again right after she placed the sensor in its place.

[Nothing to worry about, just plotting the best approach to the stage.]

Tarter looked at the sensor for the last time. She knew what she needed to do. The consequences of inaction were far greater than what she could look forward to if she committed herself. Someone needed to take the final step and investigate their theory fully. And as Amal had reminded her shortly before they entered the temple, it was hers to prove.

We can always not share our findings, she thought. That provided the final push she needed to approach the stage and get the deed done. Gently pushing her way through the throng before her, Tarter approached the stage and prepared to disrupt the course of history.

Episode 90 of Stories from Space is now Live!

This week’s episode asks the question, “Are Red Dwarf Star Systems Habitable?” Red dwarf stars, also known as M-type stars, are pretty controversial. For starters, they are the most common type of star in the Universe, accounting for 75% of stars in our galaxy alone. In addition, red dwarfs seem particularly good at producing rocky planets that orbit within their habitable zones (HZs). In fact, of the 31 potentially habitable exoplanets located within a 50-light-year radius of our Solar System, 29 are located within red dwarf star systems.

However, there are also downsides. For starters, red dwarf suns are variable and prone to flare-ups. While the most powerful are emitted from the poles and are unlikely to affect orbiting exoplanets, the fact that these exoplanets are tidally locked with their stars (where one side constantly faces toward the star) means they would still be bombarded by radiation. But then again, there’s research suggesting this radiation could be essential for life to develop. Like I said, it’s a controversial issue, and we simply don’t know… yet!

Follow the links below to learn more:

Where to Listen:

SimplecastApple PodcastsSpotifyAmazon MusicYoutube

Episode 89 of Stories from Space is now Live!

The dream of interstellar travel, of reaching another star system and setting foot on another world, has been with us for centuries. However, with the dawn of the Space Age, this dream began to materialize as multiple scientific proposals were made. These included iconic studies like Project Orion, Project Daedalus, Project Icarus, and the Enzmann Starship, concepts that either prioritized speed or settling in for a long journey!

As we enter a new era of space exploration, many of these concepts are being reconsidered while new ones are being researched. These include antimatter propulsion, the HALO Drive, the fabled Alcubierre Warp Drive, and directed energy propulsion (DEP). The question is, which of these methods are feasible within our lifetimes? More to the point, how long before we can start sending crewed missions to other stars?

Follow the links below to learn more…

Where to Listen:SimplecastApple PodcastsSpotifyAmazonYoutube

Episode 88 of Stories from Space is now Live – “The Coming Age of Astrobiology with Kenneth Goodis-Gordon”!

Hello again! This week’s episode featured a special guest – Kenneth Goodis-Gordon! Ken is a Ph.D. candidate with the Planetary Science Group at the University of Central Florida (UCF) whose research focuses on exoplanets and the search for life in the cosmos (astrobiology). In a recent paper, he outlined how future exoplanet surveys could cast a wider net by examining polarized light. As he explains, this could greatly expand scientists’ ability to spot signs of life (aka. “biosignatures.”)

These recommendations will be especially useful when NASA’s Habitable World Observatory (HWO) launches sometime in the 2040s. This next-generation observatory will be the first space telescope specifically designed to search for signs of habitability and life on exoplanets. Learn more by following the links below…

Where to Listen:SimplecastApple PodcastsSpotifyAmazon Music

Episode 87 of SfS is now Live! “The Space Race: Part II”

This week’s episode is the second installment in the Space Race. In the previous installment, we examined how the American and Soviet space programs were locked in a competition to “get there first.” This included sending the first satellites, animals, and astronauts/cosmonauts to space, in which the Soviets obtained an early lead. By the mid-60s, with the Gemini program, NASA surpassed its Soviet counterparts and was poised to make the Moonshot!

From 1966 onward, both NASA and the Soviets pursued the same goal: sending crewed missions to the Moon. While NASA’s efforts were bold and public, the Soviets developed their own plans in secret. In 1969, history was made when Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin became the first humans to set foot on the lunar surface. They would be followed by no less than six more Apollo missions and twelve astronauts.

With the Space Race officially over, both NASA and the Soviet space program began to set their sights on more long-term goals. They also entered into a new era of cooperation in space, which was demonstrated in the famous “handshake in space” and would eventually lead to the International Space Station (ISS).

Where to Listen:SimplecastApple PodcastsSpotifyAmazon MusicYoutube