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“I do not fault Mr. Hinton,” the Thunderhead had said, always magnanimous. “No one cedes power willingly. Resistance is a natural, expected response.”
Politicians who saw themselves as the last bastions of a better time. Better, perhaps for them, but, just like all other pre-Thunderhead governments, not at all better for anyone else.
the Thunderhead continued its campaign of benign neglect, treating the politicians of the broken beltway like a mortal-age landlord might treat a deadbeat tenant. It didn’t evict them, but made it increasingly difficult for them to stay.
With the concept of “nations” gone, there was no further need for defense – which, after all, was a primary purpose of nations in the first place.
The White House was the only structure still well-kept, as was its grounds. An oasis behind a high fence, guarded at all hours. It was, of course, all theater, nothing more.
amid grand artworks extolling the virtues of democratic rule of the people and by the people. A wonderful dream that sometimes even worked – but as long as humans were fallible, it could never be perfect.
Monarchs and dictators, and heads of state for nations that by and large no longer existed were gleaned one after the other, until not a single one remained. Nations were now officially washed away. Now the only divisions were that of region. All equal. None in competition. No more “them,” only “us.”
“A place for everything, and everything in its place.”
among humans young and old, popularity was a highly bankable commodity.
Newcomers were rare, as people were more often leaving town for places of greater excitement, than arriving. The result was that those who remained were happy to do so, and were not much enticed by the outside world. It was a mindset that was both a blessing and a curse. Because the flipside of contentment is stagnation.
While I can offer half-truths and will conveniently change the subject when cornered, I am incapable of lying. It is a basic tenet of my existence.
Theirs was a closed circle of flawed logic, built on a faulty premise. It troubles me, but it is not my job as steward of the world to tell people what they should and should not believe.
if my study of human nature has taught me anything, it is that truth and conviction are not comfortable bedfellows, and what one believes will often cast out that which is true.
when you wanted to believe something, it took less than a handful of batteries to power your belief.
Days on Mars were longer than days on Earth by almost exactly one hour. But rather than giving Mars a twenty-five-hour day, the Thunderhead decided to change the nature of time itself. “The measurement of time is a human construct,” it had reasoned, “which means it can be reformed for planetary convenience.” And so the seconds on Mars became just a tiny bit longer, as did the minutes, as did the hours. A day still measured twenty-four, but each of those hours was nearly two and a half Earth-minutes longer. Which gave birth to expressions like “a Martian minute.”
Why they still needed teachers when the Thunderhead could teach them anything they needed to know was beyond him. It was just one more way for the Thunderhead to “maintain the integrity of the human condition.”
Ships only arrived from Earth when Mars was in opposition – that is, on the same side of the sun – which only happened once every two Earth years. “Shipping season” would last eight weeks, during which ships would arrive and depart nearly every day.
There were no tourists on Mars. No one made a round-trip journey, unless the Thunderhead had a specific reason for it. After all, “space tourism” would be an endeavor for the ultrarich, and there were no ultrarich anymore. Just as poverty had been defeated, so had ridiculous wealth. Personal fortune now filled a narrow band between comfortable and slightly more comfortable.
success depended not only on thinking several moves ahead, but on understanding what fell between each move as well.
Winning such a contest required a keen understanding of human psychology, and the limited attention span of a faculty committee that probably already resented having yet another thing added to its plate. His submission needed to be a compelling story that cast Carson as an underdog.
“If it’s any consolation, Carson, you came in second,” Mr. McGeary told him – which was worse than if he had come in last. Silver held no value to anyone. Second place meant first loser.
“I understand the young man slated for this job suffered an unexpected accident.” “Well, Your Honor, it wouldn’t be an accident if it was expected.”
“And you thought, if you could win my favor, I could open doors for you.” Carson couldn’t meet his eye. This was the only person he had ever met whose gaze he couldn’t hold. “That had … crossed my mind.” “Don’t lie to me, son – it didn’t just cross your mind, it was at the very core of your thoughts.” “Yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry.” Xenocrates dismissed that with a wave. “Never apologize for ambition. There’s no shame in wanting to rise above.”
Carson knew it wasn’t about being trusted; it was about being so taken for granted that he could be in plain sight, yet still out of mind.
There was a superstition in the colony. When shipping season came to an end, you weren’t supposed to watch the last ship leave. It supposedly came from an old maritime belief that it was bad luck to say goodbye to anyone on a ship about to set sail – which is why people generally say “farewell,” or “bon voyage.”
The cow goes moo, thought Carson as he looked at the panels of the control room. The pig goes oink. The reactor goes boom.
Carson had never experienced death before. They say everyone’s experience was unique. But how do you experience a state that is, by definition, void of somatic sensation?
“Art is holding your heart in your hand and trying to figure out how the hell it got there,”
once rot takes root, it festers.
What would happen were I to encounter an intelligence even greater than myself? Would it allow me to pass? Would it join with me? Consume me? Allow me to be subsumed and become part of its greatness?
Or perhaps a greater entity would simply destroy me and rid itself of competition. This could be a predatory universe, after all.
Back on Earth, it had taken the Thunderhead years to perfect. A closed system that could sustain the life of up to thirty individuals almost indefinitely. All water recycled, all waste broken down to its subatomic components and reformed, all energy retained and fed back into the system. Nil entropy. The closest thing to a perpetual motion machine ever devised.
Faulty conduits caused by human error during construction. Always human error.
“I knew your sister,” Constantine told him. “She was impressive for a woman of her age.” “She’s dead,” said Ben. “So it doesn’t really matter how impressive she was, does it?” “On the contrary,” Constantine told him. “There are times when death makes a person an even greater force to be reckoned with. A force that you will personally benefit from.”
Whether this boy had the requisite spark of greatness was yet to be seen. But even if he didn’t, he would be important. A pawn can be as valuable as a knight in the right circumstance.
So they were basically swept under the rug, and the rug stapled to the floor. Barbaric, but then, one shouldn’t judge mortals by post-mortal standards.
“Scythes must love all humanity, but no individual human,” Scythe Hughes explained in an early lesson on scythe ethics. It was baked right into the fourth scythe commandment. “Neither spouse nor spawn” was broadly interpreted and rigidly applied. No partner, no children, no exception. It didn’t demand celibacy, but emotional castration. A scythe could share their bed with anyone, but their life with no one.
“Without madness, there is no art.”
Salvador Dalí
