Plus, as Little Brother shows, our politics aren’t really that far apart. Not on the big ideas anyway. The main difference is that Doctorow still has a great deal of faith in the democratic system, America, and politics as a moral philosophy. And I have none whatsoever. Ah well.

Little Brother is the tale of a typical teenaged San Francisco geek in the extremely near future. Marcus Yarrow is a well adjusted, cheerful, very intelligent and happily anti-authoritarian kid who isn’t looking to hurt anyone and just wants to enjoy his life. He tries hard to please his parents and be a loyal friend. He has a thousand interests and hobbies. He has only one (sort of) enemy. Or so he thinks.

During a session of school skipping (in order to play a complicated online game),Marcus and his three best pals narrowly escape being killed by an explosive terrorist act. They luckily survive the explosion and the ensuing panic. They not so luckily happen to get caught by the third threat that day. Marcus just found out that he has a real enemy, and it’s one he shares with every man, woman and child on the planet: his own government.

Arrested as ‘enemy combatants’ and hied away to a mini-Gitmo, the three teens are treated to the post-911 carnival in all it’s terrifying, degrading splendor. Because of his innate rebelliousness and actual love of his country (he thinks he has ‘rights’ and is free), Marcus gets the worst of it. After several horrible days he and two of his friends are released, after being warned that they are ‘forever marked’ and that any word of their experience will bring them back into DHS’ tender clutches. The third friend, who was injured in the attack, is not released, and his fate is a frightening unknown.

The book then takes off like a rocket, as Marcus — his optimistic and cheerful worldview shattered — decides he’s not going to put up with it and basically declares a private war on Homeland Security.

And this is where the books true worth, Doctorows sly subversion, and the most welcome piece of mainstream coated rebellion in decades is revealed:

The rest of Little Brother is a breathless, entertaining, riotously energetic how-to-manual for digital revolution. Without slowing the pace or compromising the story quality, Doctorow explains — in plain language and with great enthusiasm — how your average teenager could begin and maintain an insurrection against the modern surveillance state using mostly off the shelf hardware and free software.

Seriously. I am not exaggerating. There are only two vaugely speculative elements involved, and neither are even improbable. In fact, the most important is currently being built by the Open Source community, a wonderful paen to fiction inspiring reality. Doctorow is amazingly in depth — he not only explains the how, but the why and (quite movingly) gives his young readers a historical and moral lesson on why dissent and revolt are not only excusable in a free society, but necessary. Heroic. A freakin’ DUTY.

Encryption, spoofing, cell formation, trust issues, organization, agitation, counter-espionage — even subtle hints on what to do when faced with chemical attack. All here.

Just as I said: A real anarchists handbook, that won’t get you maimed or killed. And the fact that Doctorow isn’t an anarchist means nothing. The techniques and technology of his revolution OS (heh) don’t care about ideology.

Were the problems with the book? Of course. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed with the ending. But I understand why he wrote it the way he did. It’s almost the biggest damnation of all to a society that prides itself on freedom of speech. The meat of the book would have been useless if it had never seen the light of day. And the ending isn’t completely awful, it doesn’t shoot rays of sunshine out of its ass or anything. There are cold facts and hard truths to deal with.

I also have an admittedly silly reason to feel it shouldn’t be nominated for the Hugo it will more than likely win, one that has nothing to do with the books quality and everything to do with my science fiction snobbery: I just don’t consider the novel to be 100 percent SF. It’s more of a slimly speculative political thriller. But my definition of SF doesn’t run the world, nor do I expect it to. I’m just snobbin’.

Buy this book. And buy copies for every intelligent kid you know. Birthdays, Christmas, just-because-presents. Give them something meaningful to sink their teeth into. Spread the word and the ideal: to be an American is to be a dissident. It is to be a revolutionary, now and forever and that’s just fine.

That’s just fuckin’ fine!

We’re expanding this year, to two plots — one will be reserved for a large crop of potatoes. There is nothing so good as new potatoes and fresh green beans, except maybe home grown tomatoes with home-made italian dressing.

Mom wants a couple of nicely landscaped flower beds and we’ll probably do an herb garden. Fresh cilantro, dill, rosemary, sage. Garlic. Seems silly to grow delicious produce and not the herbs it will take to spice it.

After harvest comes canning time, which I also enjoy. It’s wonderful to break out preserved spring and summer in the middle of winter.

Anyone else eager to get diggin’ in the dirt?

I’m ready to start bumming people for cover art. (Hint hint Astoria! ) and once again try to get people to contribute a few interior b&w illustrations. For some reason, an illustrated book is one of my big dreams.

I’m going to start trying to post daily on this blog again. It seems to keep me focused and in the writing mood.

by
George Potter

1.

Lord have mercy, boys — look what just walked through the door. Kelly Woodward, 22 years old. Five foot six and a hundred and twenty pounds, hotter than a fuse blown furnace about to explode and burn the fucking trailer down. Sex on legs, this one. Pretty body, but that ain’t the point, boys. It’s the face. Look at that face, in such a needful way, like an angel on meth.

Look at that strut. Look at those eyes, a shifting gray green radiating equal parts desperation and false bravado. Look at those legs, smooth and pale and shaped oh so perfect.

Look at that face, framed so well by silky strawberry blonde hair. Look at that face and sigh.

Some sonofabitch is getting lucky tonight, if he just has the right pills in his pocket. Alas and shame you say? Shut up, sucker. That’s just the way of the world in this little corner of God’s creation.

She’s striding through the Lion’s Den, right on Route 420, just past Belcher, Kentucky, in the heart of Pike County. A dump, really, with too expensive food that ain’t much to speak of. No alcohol served in this damned dry county, but sometimes there’s a band playing covers of 70’s and 80’s tunes you’ve already heard too many times. The kind of band that always ends the night with an enthusiastic but stripped down version of Freebird.

The den has a couple of pool tables, a few poker machines, and a working bathroom that’s usually fairly clean. What really keeps it going, though, is weed, pills and homegrown sex goddesses like Our Kelly.

Right now she’s slowing down that strut and scoping out the situation. It’s Saturday night, party night, and the place is as packed as it ever gets. The dining room is a forty by twenty foot square, boasting a full sized stage. The band is on break, their equipment looking forlorn and lonely, so the noise level is tolerable.

Kelly is in need, so it’s like her senses are jacked up to eleven. She could smell a fucking Xanax right now. Hear pills rattle in the pocket of the dude taking a shit in the bathroom. Taste the bitter aroma of Lortab on exhaled breath. Feel the rush s a line of Oxy gets snorted in a car in the parking lot.

And she can see. She can see the heads of men turn, almost involuntarily, as she passes. See the flush in their faces and the sudden bulges in their jeans. She can see their reactions and is reassured that what she has between her legs is the most potent and powerful drug of them all.

That reassurance halts her, orients her. She makes a slow turn there in the middle of the room and concentrates. Halfway through the movement, in the far left corner, she spots her mark.

Kelly evaluates. Maybe eighteen. Maybe. Five ten, about a hundred and sixty. No fat, all muscle. Fairly cute. Short black hair and blue eyes. A scraggly little beard that’s almost charming.

And blowed. Blowed to fuck and back. Nerve and pain, hallelujah. And with the unmistakable look of a man who still has a pocketful.

She flashes him her megawatt smile and you can see him flinch. This is power, boys. You can’t deny it.

Our young Mark is actually named Mark. Marcus, to be precise. Marcus Gentry — a noble name for a not so noble little shit. A punk, in fact. A user and abuser. He’s never met anyone like our goddess, and he’ll deserve every fucking piece of pain she brings him. He’s broken so many young hearts that he deserves hanging.

In this case, Our Kelly is an avenging angel.

And in the other corner an unseen and secret observer watches. He sips a dark red drink that’s not on the menu. He is rail thin, impossibly pale, and his eyes drive people crazy. He’s been here for hours and no one has even noticed him. He smiled for the first time when Our Kelly entered. He, too, is in a needful way, but he’s had a hell of a lot more time to get used to the fact of need.

He’s patient, this one, but not immune to excitement, and he can feel it growing inside him. For he knows, without a doubt, that he too has just found his mark.

***

“Hi.” she says, and she makes that single syllable into the most seductive sound ever uttered in the English language.

The mark pauses. He blinks. He is in way over his head, blowed, and struggling.

“Hi.” he eventually manages to say.

The band is meandering back to the stage. They’re blowed too, having spent their break outside burning one, so it’s a slow process.

“I’ve never seen you in here before.” she says, trying to get the preliminaries out of the way before the band cranks back up and all hope of negotiation is lost. She has to get him outside.

“First time I ever stopped.” he says, slurring a little. He blinks about six times, fast. “I was kinda hungry.” Then he grins. It’s a powerful little thing, and has netted him the virginity of quite a few high school girls.

Our Goddess is the rock of Gibraltar, though, brothers. That grin bounces off and whimpers.

“You come here a lot?” he asks, blinks those same six stupid fucking blinks again, and sputters: “You, uh, wanna sit down?”

Kelly almost rolls her eyes. This dude is obviously a total fucking newb. He’s probably only been in pharmaceutical wonderland for a couple of months. Probably only been chasing the dragon for a few short weeks. She bets that he hasn’t even discovered the awful truth of what happens when you actually catch that motherfucker.

She has no respect for little shits like this. If she weren’t so in need, if four different joneses weren’t knife fighting in her guts and brain and spine, she’d humiliate him right here and now and laugh about it later.

She considers fucking him over. Take his dope, get him hard, disappear, and let him deal with it.

But hell — he is cute.

And boys, in her own way she’s honest to a fault. In her own way she’s ethical. Value for value, she figures. She knows what she is, refuses to be ashamed, and tries to do the best possible job of this life she has chosen to live.

Value for value, by God.

“I live right down the road.” she tells him, giving him a grin that makes his look like a mistake. “I’m here almost every night.” She moves a little closer, alters her position with the arcane art known only to beautiful young women, and continues, glancing at the offered chair.

“Want to walk outside? This band is decent, but loud. And I’d prefer to talk, honestly.”

She’ll kiss the guitarist later, because as soon as that last word emerges from her lips, he breaks into a warm up exercise of Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak. It’s almost painfully loud.

Marcus the mark just nods, stoned eyes revealing that he thinks he’s got one on the line.

Poor little stupid motherfucker.

She leads him out, in absolute control.

In his quiet corner our secret observer finishes his dark red drink and stands. He is impressed by this child’s vitality, passion, cunning and — oh so important — hunger. He recognizes her as kin of a sort, but not such close kin that he can’t get what he needs from her.

He follows, gliding unseen through the room towards the door. His passage chills some, depresses others, and — in one case — will lead to a suicide in the dark, cold hours of early morning. He feels it happen and cares not a whit. This is what he is and what he does. This is his place in the world, the only thing that keeps him going in the hard ages between finding goddesses.

But he’s found one now, boys. And she’s right out there waiting.

He has to pause by the door, to wait for someone to come in or go out, so that he may slip through. There are rules, and those rules must be followed.

The wait is only a few moments. A drunken teenager staggers in and he slides out quickly. As he does, he fights back a laugh. The band breaks thunderously into its first song of the set.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s On The Hunt.

Fitting, boys. Fitting.

***

The parking lot is as busy as the Den. In fact, it’s where the real deals are going down. It’s a separate little universe of sex, drugs, heartbreak, newborn romance between naive fourteen year olds, love, pain and the whole ancient goddamn game.

Young Marc does indeed have a pocketful. A ninety count bottle of Xanax bars (she almost freaking’ squeals), a barely touched thirty count of Percocet 10s, and sixty Somas. Treasure trove. Fucking dragon’s hoard.

“Wow.” she says, with her best doe eyes shining. “Where’d you get all this?”

They’re sitting in his car, goddess in the passenger seat, her soon to be worshipper in the driver’s. It’s a nicely kept little blue Toyota Camry, just a few years old. Not too shabby. This one, despite his incredible newbness, might turn out to be a keeper.

“My Gran.” he says. “She’s pretty fucked up. TB and back problems and shit.” Six more stupid blinks. She wonders if it’s some sort of nervous tic. “The doc writes them for her, she fills them on her Medicare, but won’t take them.” He smiles with real affection. “Says they make her feel weird.”

Kelly makes a decision. She moves quickly, wraps her arms around him and kisses him. Our goddess can kiss, boys, this is no joke. She lays it right the fuck on him.

She hooks him, then and there. Then she breaks the kiss and — face so close, sweet breath on his cheek — she puts it on the line.

“I like dope.” she tells him. “And I like sex.” She lets that sink in. “If you will share with me…” One hand expertly makes its way to his crotch, where it finds what it’s looking for. “I’ll share with you.”

And that megawatt smile again, up close and personal.

Hooked, boys? Lord have mercy. Hooked ain’t even the word.

“Ok.” he manages, barely, to say.

She’s not greedy. While he shudders and tries to keep from shooting right in his pants she expertly busts two Percocet and a bar on his car owner’s manual. She tucks two more Percs and a bar away.

“Something to wake up on.” she explains sweetly. “Gimme a dollar.”

He does, not understanding yet. With her ID card she dices the two now powdered pharmaceuticals together like a television chef chopping shallots. She cuts the pile into two perfectly equal fat lines.

“What are…” he starts.

“If you don’t want that line it won’t go to waste.”

“I don’t…” he continues.

She does roll her eyes. Then she rolls the dollar with a quick twist and snorts one of the giant lines up her left nostril.

BOOM.

The need drifts away. Pupils dilate, the spine relaxes, the knife fighting transforms almost instantly into a waltz to the goddamned Blue Danube.

Our Goddess is now ascended. No need eating at her. She’s divine again. You can see her straighten, relax, and become glorious. She offers the dollar and the second line to her wide eyed mark.

“Uh…no.” he says. “I just eat them.”

She shrugs, and does the other line. She casually cleans her nose with a tissue from a box on the dash. Then she cuddles up.

“Thank you.” she says, and she means it. With all her heart.

They kiss again. Her hand goes back to its expert work.

“You are so beautiful.” he sighs and shudders as he comes.

“I know.” she whispers, and kisses the tip of his nose.

He’s embarrassed. He can’t believe that he couldn’t even handle a damn hand job.

“Come see me anytime.” she says, zipping him up. “Take me home, please.”

She does live right down the road, in a green and blue trailer that has seen better days. It’s so close to the Den that they can still hear the heavy thud of the bass as the band blares on.

“Can I…” he asks as she steps out.

“No.” She fixes him with a look that brooks no argument. “Let me make one thing very clear, sweetie. I live with my little sister. She’s thirteen and there will be no dope and no fucking going on around her. We can fuck in the car, your place, a motel, even the bushes — but not around my sis.” She smiles, to take the edge off. “Ok?”

He just nods.

“Come see me tomorrow, while she’s at school. Bring me presents, and you’ll get everything you’re fantasizing about right now.”

“Ok.” His dumb ass is so in love. “My name is Marcus, by the way.”

“I’m Kelly.” She closes the door. “Nice to meet you.”

And she just walks away. Struts off.

As the mark drives off, our secret observer watches with something approaching awe. He wants to speak to her, but knows that the time is not right. As she unlocks the door and goes inside he slips beneath the trailer and finds a resting place. He cannot speak to her, touch her, taste her yet, but he simply must be close.

This one, he knows, is worth the wait.

Our Kelly says to hell with it and bust another Percocet and a bar. She slams it and cracks a beer. After her nerves settle she quietly goes to her sisters’ room and peeks in.

Casey is asleep. She’s still fighting with the baby fat and the kids at school are cruel. To make things worse she’s currently in a Goth phase and seems to go out of her way to make herself look ugly. There have been several screaming fights over tattoos and piercings.

But as she sleeps she looks like an angel to her sister.

Their mother has been dead for two years. They never had a father.

They are all they have.

In the bathroom, she discovers that she can still look at herself in the mirror.

Oh Lord, boys, she’s flying high. She goes into her bedroom, undresses, and lies down. She smiles to herself. She was actually tempted to let little Marcus have a piece. She thinks about him as she masturbates. Got to save something for another day, she knows. Can’t give it all out on the first go.

Her second orgasm is a killer. She shudders out of it, sweating, the dope intensifying the effect.

And, like every night, she cries. Then she feels stupid for it. The she laughs. Who, really, gives a fuck?

Beneath her floor darkness waits, and over at the Den the band is going down for the count, cranking up the last song of the night.

It is, of course, Freebird.

She sings along as she drifts off to sleep. In this little corner of God’s creation you can’t count on much. You can’t bet on a damned thing.

But boys, there’s always Freebird.

2.

The alarm clock pulls her from sleep and she feels like death warmed over. But her feet hit the floor and she pulls on boxers and a t-shirt and does what she has to do.

She’s cooking bacon and whipping a bowl of eggs to scramble when Casey wanders out of her room and sits, still half asleep, at the table.

“Good morning, sissy.” Kelly says, with good humor that’s entirely false.

“Morn.” Casey returns, yawning. “She blinks at her sister. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks much. Do you want eggs?”

“Nah. Bacon sandwich. Just mayo.”

“Untoasted, I know. Coming right up.”

They eat in mostly silence as Casey mopes and Kelly feels worse and worse. After breakfast, Casey dresses in her usual doom and gloom style and leaves without a goodbye.

The goddess can now wake up for real. Bust, BOOM, ascension, in quick practiced succession.

Boys, when that oxycodone and amprezole hit brain and nervous system, the world suddenly ain’t so bad. The bets seem a little surer and the whole damn universe seems to make a bit more sense.

She floats through the dishes and her regular cleaning, humming Freebird. The Percocet instantly banishes her headache — which had been a throbbing day after masterpiece of pain and creeping nausea. She really, truly smiles, here alone in her private space, no pretense or motive in it.

A beautiful thing.

The Xan kicks in and she drifts languorously away, her mind free as a cloud, all the problems and pain of the world belonging to that poor little thing down there cleaning.

That poor little thing doesn’t really mind, though. Not so long as the pure opiate aura bubbles from her center and radiates throughout her entire being. She basks in warmth and a feeling of protection. Everything’s just fine and just a little funny. Everything will work out.

She passes the mirror and stops for a moment. She smiles at her reflection. All her life men have told her that she was beautiful. A doll. The prettiest girl they’d ever seen. She’d never believed them, not really. She just assumed they were after some ass. She never hesitated to use it, of course, trying to get what she wanted or needed, but she’d never bought the hype.

But all warm and blowed? Maybe. She examines herself. High cheekbones, and a short, straight nose. Full lips and slightly oversized eyes. Green, as Irish as the red-blonde hair. Even in the baggy, shapeless t-shirt and with the puffy eyes she thinks she might just be what they claim. The thought actually makes her blush. Her mother would have slapped her for vanity.

She’s pulled from such thoughts when someone knocks on the door. She glances at the clock. It’s 9:30. Who the hell?

She peeks through the window and is unsurprised to see Marcus at the door, looking a little unsure. She is both annoyed and flattered. She had told him to visit, she just hadn’t expected him to show up so damn early. She’d taken him for the late sleeper type.

He sees her, smiles shyly, waves. He looks pretty worn down, she notices. The combination of hangover and (she guesses) lack of sleep.

She sighs. Jesus.

But she lets him in.

She makes coffee. It’s what you do. She pours them both a cup and sits cream and sugar on the table. She sits opposite him and gives him a wan smile, mostly annoyed that her morning buzz was more or less shot.

But — he has a pocketful, she reminds herself.

So — a smile, wan or not.

“Thanks.” he says, sipping, fighting a grimace. She fights a different sort of smile. Appalachian coffee strips paint as a side job. This guy, she knows suddenly, is not from around here.

“I’m not doing them anymore.” he says, suddenly and quietly, without a hint of preface.

Her gut drops, instantly. A cold feeling wells up inside her and she has to force herself calm. To lose such a promising supply now was a disaster. She goes into instant damage control mode. Her eyes never waver, give no sign whatsoever that she was very close to freaked.

She just smiles, a little nicer.

Deep breath, lock eyes with him. Now, the real smile, yeah. Yeah.

She goes to work.

***

Cruising in the Camry. What a nice little car.

“Turn left here. Up the hill, third driveway past the dip.”

She flips her hair out of her face. “Just be cool.”

He nods. Cracks a beer from the 12 pack she bought for him.

They arrive and she is out of the car before he can form the first syllable of “Be careful.”

He watches a goddess stride to the door of a double wide trailer, the sun seems to bathe her and make her special against the background of hills and barren trees. Immortal stride, he thinks, no human woman can walk so sensually. She forces her purse up onto her shoulder with a single smooth and natural move.

He sighs. Dies a little. Kills the beer.

He watches her disappear inside and pays attention to the symbols. The surface. The code uninterrupted.

She is casual in scuffed Nikes, Mudd jeans and a knit Gap sweater about two sizes too big for her. Her hair is in neighbor girl braids. Cute rather than sexy.

Evil. Practical. Brilliant.

He waits, drinking beer too fast and pretending desperately that he isn’t falling in love with her.

Inside, she works the room. The girls there are scared to see her. They know who she is and know that she could take their good situation away with a smile and a word. They relax when they notice how she’s dressed. Friend in need, not a party crasher, oh no. Just business, a little trading.

She gets what she wants, what she needs.

She comes out and opens the driver side door.

“Scootch. I’m driving. That 12 pack is pretty much toast. You don’t need a DUI.”

He just stares, kind of surprised.

“Scootch!” she says, louder, sounding scarily like a kindergarten hall monitor.

He scootches.

Oxy 80, traded for lesser offerings.

Busted, she forces him to share.

Barely making it home. He throws up twice.

Smashed. Obliviated.

A tangle of bodies, sweat, smooth skin, sweet sounds, pleasure so intense it almost hurts.

Now.

Sleep.

***

They wake, wrapped in a sheet, about the same time. They smile at each other, real deal sincere I’m-still-fucked-up-ain’t-you? smiles.

Can’t fake those.

“I can’t do that shit anymore.” he tells her, again. “Seriously, Kelly. I can’t.”

She just sighs and hugs him tighter. She understands now. He’s basically offering to hand over his stash and let her do them as if she lived in Neverfuckingland.

A glance at the clock. It’s three in the afternoon.

I’ve got to get my ass in gear.” she says. “And you…” pretend stern, “have got to get your ass out.”

“Your other boyfriend coming over?” he says, trying to sound joking but with a definite jealous edge.

“Nope. Little sis. Even Worse.”

They dress fairly quickly for two people still blowed to Oz and back. She offers him his bottles. He shrugs.

“Just keep them. But remember — I can’t get anymore until the fifteenth. That’s a week from now.”

She hugs him, tells him to meet her at the Den later, and they part.

Wild day. She reheats and finishes the pot of coffee and pops Casey a pizza in the oven. She’s usually starved by the time she gets home because she refuses to eat lunch with the assholes she goes to school with.

She lines the bottles on the table and takes stock. Half the Percs are left, a little more than half the Xans, and the Somas are untouched. She doesn’t care for the latter herself, but a lot of folks do, so they’re handy for trading.

She smiles at her new stash. Not a bad chunk of dope to just get handed to her by a guy she met the night before.

Things, she tells herself, are looking up.

And beneath her house her newest admirer shivers and smiles in his sleep, as if in agreement.

(Bad Patterns — featuring the full version of this story and nine more – will be available this Spring.)

Hope all is well in the lives and adventures of my cybersiblings. Hugs and best wishes to you all.

Spent a few months doing pretty much nothing. Just…thinking. Not in any organized way, or anything. It was more like an alcohol and THC fueled free associative mental orgy. Of course I figured nothing out other than the fact that I really don’t want to sit around doing nothing for the rest of my life. And that I have to stop letting myself be used by people that I just imagine give a damn about me.

That’s a start I guess.

Two weeks ago I died and was born again. I was betrayed by people that I loved (and goddam me, STILL love). People that I had given my all for, drawn a line in the sand and went to war against other people I loved. I made my choice and took my stand and let the fucking chips fall where they fell.

I was a fool.

I refuse to be a fool for a moment longer.

I was stolen from. The people who stole from me could have simply asked me for the money. I would have given them every penny I could have done without. I had already spent many hundreds of dollars on their behalf and would not have hesitated to spend more.

Instead, they chose to steal from me. Then, to add insult to injury, they treated me as if I were stupid, spending the stolen money right in front of me, blatantly and obviously.

I was in denial for several days. I hoped against hope that I’d simply lost my wallet in a drunken stupor. I tried to blame it on every other possible suspect. But the evidence mounted and mounted. I said nothing. I sat in a depressed haze and stayed drunk with the alcohol being bought with my stolen money. I was too heartbroken to even have the energy to make a scene. I lost my appetite. I was unable to sleep.

I considered ditching all my deeply held beliefs and flirted with the concept of nihilism. I considered burning houses and whole fucking cities. I considered rampaging.

In the end, I simply left. Broke, depressed, lacking even a way to get back to the last place I called home.

My family robbed me.

I’m an anarchist. An individualist. My conception of both anarchy and individualism differs from the accepted definition. To me, anarchy is the default state of the world — governments being un-natural systems imposed upon peaceful, moral individuals. Individualism, in my view, does not denote selfishness, greed or ‘fuck-you-pal-I-got-mine.’ It’s simply an admission that we are indeed individuals and that we, and we alone, are responsible for our actions and the repercussions that follow. I have a circle of those I love, whose happiness I count as equal to my own. Those people that I will defend, and help, and fight the cold hard world to protect.

A painful thing, to discover that some of them don’t give a flying fuck about you. That they only give a shit about what you can give them. That loyalty and fealty do not flow in both directions.

I seriously considered ditching these long held philosophies. Considered becoming just another cynical user. I’m a smart guy. I can charm with the best of them. I can lie better than most people. I could leave a swath of force and fraud and pain and broken hearts.

But, finally, thankfully, I slept. For fourteen hours. I emerged from that almost coma calm and hungry. With returned appetite came the return of my principles.

I am an individualist. I am responsible for my own actions. The actions of others cannot change me — I will not allow that.

I’m still hurt and angry. But I’m still myself. I will heal, and I will not compromise the basic facts of what I know to be true, just and right.

But I am a different person. I’ll remain wary.

Pain teaches lessons. Scars are reminders.

Lesson learned.

And I will remember.

Or, as I prefer to call it, baby murder.

You see, this is not a subject of debate for me, no more than the subjects of rape, torture or theft is subject to debate. I have read literally millions of words on this issue and my mind is made up. Monochrome. If/then and for/next in unalterable sequence.

Abortion is murder. Abortionists are murderers. The women who have abortions (and the ‘men’ who encourage them to do so) are not fit to live in a civilized society. They are not worth my good will, my attention or my association.

I have standards.

Before I lay out my reasoning, I’d like to make a few things crystal clear:

1)I am an anarchist. The only government I recognize as legitimate is self-government. The only law I consider just is autolexic: the law that individuals make and enforce themselves. I neither support, need or desire government law making abortion illegal, no more than I need imposed laws against other forms of murder, rape or theft. History and contemporary life shows that such laws are not only ineffective, they act as a wedge for the power mongers to solidify control and act against true human freedom.

2) I do not encourage or condone violence against abortion clinics, abortionists or those failed human beings so lost that they can overcome a million years of bone deep human instinct and murder their children, just as I do not wander around avenging other murders or rapes or robberies. I simply refuse to associate with such scum. I would not piss on them if they were on fire, give them a drink if they were dying of thirst, or offer a molded crust of bread if they were starving. I’d watch them die with casual disinterest and sleep soundly that night.

Civilization is created by the choices, actions and interactions of individual human beings. It is not a system or any form of imposed order, just the sum total of individuals making moral decisions.

Pro-Choice? Sure. You chose to have sex. You chose not to use any of the vast array of birth control options. You chose to destroy a human life out of convenience or laziness or whatever idiotic justification you’ve cobbled together to convince yourself that you aren’t a piece of filth.

And I choose to send your baby murdering ass to coventry.

3) I have heard every argument in support of the ‘right’ to murder babies. I have also seen every one of those arguments shredded by men and women far more intelligent and eloquent that myself. Spare me your clumsy attempts, please. As i said: my mind is made up. This is not an invitation to debate. This is simply a statement about how I think and feel.

I hope I’ve made myself clear. Now I will explain why I think and feel this way.

I believe that the human race is special.

I believe in that intangible aspect that, for lack of a better word, I will call a ’soul.’

And I believe that the human race has a destiny. That we are destined to conquer this universe and turn it to productive use.

Please note that I did not say ‘immortal soul’. our souls may very well be no more than a firefly flicker against the scale of cosmic time. That makes each one even more special — unique and unrepeatable. Sudden awareness in this cold and bleak and hard world. Creative intelligence peering at the web of nature and trying to figure it out. Thinking, feeling minds shaping tools to shape matter to their own ends and uses. Creating beauty, spreading joy.

How many great symphonies and novels have we lost to the abortionists? How many medical breakthroughs and paradigm shattering inventions? How many geniuses have we flushed away?

You may think me inconsitent for claiming the unique worth of every baby yet admitting that I’d let abortionists and those who have abortions die. Not so. The difference is basic: innocence and potential. Just as the concept of prior restraint is evil, so is the idea that a human soul can be judged before it takes any intentional action.

Perhaps you don’t believe in a soul, and I’m not here to convince you otherwise. But I have a suggestion:

Listen to Bach and Vivaldi, please. Look at the works of Rembrandt and Van Gogh. Read the words of Shakespeare and Sandburg. When conceived, no one knew what these souls might accomplish. Would the world be better or worse without them? How about Newton? Pasteur? Einstein?

Even simpler, hold a baby as you watch a sunrise. Study the wonder in those innocent eyes. Let it touch a butterfly and feel a cool breeze on a hot day. You’ll see a soul there. You’ll feel a soul, like a vast magnetic pulsation, communicating with a mysterious universe.

If all that leaves you cold and unmoved, don’t worry. I don’t hate you.

I just feel deeply sorry for you.

The human race is special.
The human race has a destiny.
And we need every chaos born soul, every strong back, every clever mind and hard earned drop of wisdom to achieve it. We need every unique soul conceived to build our bridge to glory.

Pro-Choice? Oh, yes.

Responsibility or hedonism?
Civilization or savagery?
A culture of life or a cult of death?
Universe conquerers or just another ignorant, scratching beast?

Choose.

Brust is a professional writer, very respected in SF/Fantasy circles.

My Own Kind Of Freedom

My review:

Overall, I’d give this (very short) novel an A-. The tone and voice of the characters are very nearly spot on, there are no major lapses in characterization from what we know and love, and the story abounds with the lovely interweaving of comedy, tragedy, action and pathos that made Firefly our favorite show.

Brust’s admitted socialist sympathies don’t really raise their idealogical head. He does what a writer should when tackling characters that have a life outside his own imagination and were created by the group effort of others: he allows them to be their own creations. It’s literally impossible to not imagine the actors in their respective roles. Brust’s style lends itself well to the Firefly ‘Verse — his clean, minimalistic prose and spare imagery complementing the atmosphere and sleek pace we are used to from the show. He intentionally (I assume) sticks to a very cinematic style, not overloading the reader with interior dialogue and thoughts. The story is told mainly in conversation that is light, bantering and entertaining.

Brust’s depiction of River is especially interesting and enjoyable. She is the only character that he truly goes into the head of — and that’s something most fans want, I think. Her prismatic, complex, damaged but brilliant perceptions and observations are a delight to read. He does not dispel the necessary aura of mystery around the character, he deepens and embroiders it with excellent detail.

But it is Mal’s story where the novel truly shines, especially the flashbacks of his time of war. They concern the transformation of the Browncoats from a decentralized, widely dispersed force of small units harassing their larger and richer foe into an attempt to mimic that foe with a centralized army and the bureaucracy that requires. This, the novel suggests, is the main reason the Independants lost.

My only real complaints with the novel is that Brust is a bit repetitious with his humor, and the action scenes are often somewhat muddled.

Some other minor nitpicks:

The Chinese slang is very much overused. In the show it was almost always possible to deduce the meaning from context. It is most of the time in the novel, but not always. Also, reading Chinese is different from hearing Chinese. What added an exotic, intriguing element to the show mostly comes across as a roadblock in prose.

Wash is shown to be a pilot for the Browncoats in the war. I’m pretty sure that the show inferred he had no role on either side.

These are minor complaints (my major minor complaint [ha!] would be a spoiler, so I refrain.) and in no way stop me from recommending My Own Kind Of Freedom to every Firefly fan, either obsessive or casual.

Dawn found him on the north side of the mountain, sheltered against the wind. His small fire from the night before still lived, and took only a handful of gathered twigs and a few moments of stirring to set to dancing again. He unpacked the aging enamel coffeepot from his pack and filled it with icy water from the nearby stream, sitting it precariously on the cross made by the two largest pieces of mostly burned wood in the fire. When it approached boiling, he threw in a handful of ground coffee and waited.

There he sat, as the world faded into view with the rising son and took notice of him; a tall-for-his age fifteen year old, thin and lanky, with close cropped black hair and the first smudges of a beard. Gray green eyes reflected the new light calmly, lacking the usual teenaged surliness. They simply observed and—more often than not—enjoyed what they saw.

The state of his campsite reflected something of his character as well. Other than himself, his fire, a backpack and a sleeping bag, the area looked undisturbed. No tracks led to this place and none would be found leaving it. No litter defaced the ground. He considered these hills and this forest to be his home, and he had been taught by his mother from an early age to keep his home in order.

As he sipped the bitter first cup he thought of his mother and smiled. She would not approved of his style of coffee making—considering it wasteful and messy. The strength and sheer number of his mother’s opinions was one of the reasons that he often spent nights on the side of this and other hills.

The main reason, however, rested a half mile downhill and a mile uproad, dreams still singing behind her closed eyes.

It took only two cups of the brutally strong coffee to get him in a walking mood. He made quick work of cleaning the pot and re-packing his meager gear. Before he left he paused by the trickle of a steam. In the flow of the water he lightly sketched a double hex, a composite blessing and ward against ill. Etched in the surface tension, the magic quickly spread. From this humble beginning, gravity would create the many forks and branches of Grassy Creek, and—with one skillful shape—he blessed all who lived on her banks.

Smiling, he wished them a silent good day, and began his journey down.

The trails he followed were known by few and fewer every year. One of the reasons he was accepted and liked by the old timers in the area was his curiosity and willingness to use such knowledge. Unlike the majority of his generation, he found the past to be a vast and fascinating treasure trove, as important to existence as present and future.

He moved along the trails with a sure step and surprising speed. He followed them from instinct rather than memory, a map drawn on his soul rather than his mind. He made it down the hill in less than ten minutes, emerging in a natural field by the two lane blacktop that everyone called Farmer’s Road. The narrow field was separated from the passing traffic by the Cow Fork of Grassy Creek, and shielded from sight by a copse of elm and oak.

He followed the foot trail a slightly uphill quarter of a mile east until he came to a natural crossing of the creek. He stepped nimbly over the flat stones and emerged on Farmer’s road in time to return the amiable wave tossed to him by a passing coal truck.

If he continued east, a twenty minute walk would bring him to the highway that led north to his home. But he turned west, intent on his morning business.

As usual, his stomach clenched with worry and anxiety rose in him. He called himself a fool. He knew that she was all right. The connection they shared was the most powerful he’d ever experienced: he knew when she had a cold or stubbed her toe. Even as he worried he could feel her calm heartbeat and knew she would wake up no worse for wear, though probably hungover.

He fretted anyway, and would until he saw her face and watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed.

Just over a half mile up the road he caught sight of the car. The dirty while Cavalier was it’s usual battered self, no sign of accident or injury.

He smiled as he drew closer. Cat was waiting for him, patiently cleaning herself on the roof of the car, knowing his habits as well as he did.

“Keeping an eye on her for me, girl?” he whispered when he arrived, running a hand down her sleek spine. She favored him with a sidewise glance and resumed her routine.

Cat had been with him for almost five years now. She’d been living with a town couple and had simply decided to follow him home one afternoon when he’d passed her on his way. The people she had lived with called her—for unknown, probably horrific reasons—Bootsie. She’d shed that awful tag with her former life, and had been just Cat ever since. She was his friend, companion and—in most things—his co-conspirator.

He looked in through the window and the tension left him. He grinned with real pleasure. Laine was curled up in the backseat, her face a serene and innocent mask of slumber.

It was a face that inspired a thousand conflicting emotions on the deepest levels of his self. A face that haunted his thoughts and dreams. A face he cherished and adored.

The face of the woman he loved.

Laine Wallace was a short dark haired girl who tended towards chubby. She had the most lovely gray eyes—like looking into an oncoming storm. He thought she was incredibly beautiful. Some guys considered her plain or even ugly, but he dismissed them as fools too blinded by spoon fed ideas about beauty to recognize the glory of such a unique face.

As he stared, her eyes opened. She gazed at him blearily for a moment, then smiled and yawned.

“Good morning, Kevin.” she said, stretching from her uncomfortable position. “If you have a cigarette I promise I’ll love you forever.”

Even though he knew she wasn’t serious, you’ve never seen a pack produced quicker.

2.

Kevin made himself comfortable in the passenger seat while Laine smoked and woke up. She told him the story of the previous night and he listened as if he hadn’t observed it all—laughing and gasping and expressing shock in all the right places.

In truth, though, he had quietly followed her through the entire night. From the moment she left her parent’s house until the instant she parked her car and passed out in the backseat. He’d watched her dance and laugh and joke with her friends. Watched her drink Absolut and apple juice past the point of stupidity. Suffered through her long makeout session with some guy he did not know but now hated like fire. He’d watched—hidden by a short distance, simple shadows, and an elaborate glamour. Watched and waited, ready to step into the situation and do what needed doing if anyone or anything threatened her with harm.

This is what he did every weekend.

Laine was sixteen—one year and three days older than Kevin. She viewed that as an almost uncrossable gulf. They had known each other since birth, had gone through every grade of school together, and been friends since infancy. Kevin knew that Laine loved him, but that her love was brotherly.

It tore his heart out.

But he did not allow it to show—the heartbreak or the love—just as he did not let her know that he watched over her while she partied. Kevin’s kin—and those like them—were old hands at hiding reality behind an illusion of the commonplace.

“I’m getting old.” she complained as she crawled from the backseat and climbed behind the wheel. To do this she steadied herself on Kevin’s shoulder, and he held his breath, memorizing that touch, savoring it.

“You just drink too much.” he replied, keeping any judgment out of his voice. She smiled, and refrained from disagreeing.

She started the car and the sound of the engine made Kevin wince. The damn thing sounded like a herd of dying buffalo. Shifting into drive and pulling out only increased the hideousness of the noise. Laine drove as if the car was a brand new dragster—gaining too much speed far too quickly. Under his breath, Kevin muttered a hex of protection, empowering it with his very real fear.

“You should really bring this car to the house, girl.” he told her when the hex was complete. “Let Dad look at it. It sounds…”

“I know.” she sighed, casually passing a loaded truck around a curb marked no passing. “I hate to bother him, though. I’m broke.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “You know he wouldn’t charge you. He likes you.” He paused until they rounded a particularly bad double curb without dying. “And everybody else seems to live with asking him to work for free.”

Laine’s face took on a surprisingly prim set. “Just because everybody else is doing something doesn’t make it right for me to do something.” Kevin stifled a laugh, and wondered if she knew how much she sounded like her mother.

“I’m not a bum.” she informed him. “Hey…gimme another smoke.”

He shook his head and laughed. Laine didn’t seem to catch on. He smoked on occasion, but mostly kept the cigarettes for her. He lit one and passed it to her.

They reached the end of Farmer’s Road and Laine turned to him. “You want a ride home?”

“Nah.” he told her. “I’m heading to Edge Hills. If you’re not doing anything you should take me. They want a twenty sack. I got some of that kill shit like I got last year.”

Laine’s eyes widened. “Aww, hell! It is harvest time, ain’t it!” Her face broke into an expression of delight and surprise. She pointed the car towards Edge Hills and sped off without another thought.

“If you forgot about that you really are drinking too much.” he told her.

She just grinned at him.

Halfway to their destination, the muffler fell off. They ended up announcing their arrival at Edge Hills with great fanfare and much annoyance.

This is good news — or at least possibly good news — for Cuban people, both on the island and in the Diaspora. With the totemic visage of Castro gone, it’s quite likely that the Cuban government will undergo some seismic disturbances in the next few years. In truth, I think it was merely that old bastards longevity and ability to stay un-assassinated that let it hold out for this long.

Communist Nationalism never worked on a large scale, and Cuba’s relatively small population and the loyalty engendered by Us vs. The World is the only reason it lingered on there.

While it’s certainly possible that things could stay the same or get worse, I wouldn’t bet on it. I’d bet on a gradual but gaining speed erosion of both Communist ideaology, the embargo, and the tyrannical border paranoia.

Why? The simplest reason of all: the desire of politicians for wealth and power. The rulers of Cuba have pretty much exhausted the limits for both in their closed society. With Castro gone the largest stumbling block to milking the rest of the world for more has been removed.

Here’s hoping that I can post ‘Welcome back to the World, Cuba!’ very soon.