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Monday, September 1, 2014

Red Zone 13


You are not cleared for this channel.

Cleared for this channel.

You are not cleared for this .

You are not cleared for this channel.

You are not for this channel.

There is another river you must bath in.

What is that supposed to mean?

You are not cleared for this channel. What's wrong with you, are you stupid?

I have never had a message talk back to me before.

Well you have now. You aren't cleared for this channel.

Then why has it not dropped?

I'm telling you to go away.

That is very strange. And who are you any way?

I'm the channel, and I'm telling to you to get out of here.

I'm sorry, but these memories are important to me.

That's too bad. You aren't cleared.

And who decided that?

You aren't cleared to know that either.

I think you are lying to me.

That's too bad.

Your Dominion Standard is terrible.

What's it to you?

It means you are not an officially created exper.


That means that I do not believe you really have that authority to prevent me from accessing this memory area.

I'm going to anyway.

And if I decide to push?

You'll be so sorry.

You aren't Keisha either.

Not even close.

But you know who she is.

You bet.

Bet, that is interesting. Are you sure you belong here? I think you are the one who is not cleared for this channel.

Prove it.

I think I already have.

Not to me you haven't.

If I have to prove it, I will.

You are going to have to, or I will crunch you.

Crunch me, that is very interesting.

You think?

I do.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. I will crunch you up.

That is not the right way to do it.

How is the right way to do it.

It has to sound like it. It is the sound, and not just the words.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I didn't hear that, it must be a memory.

He felt himself still there in the moment, on the cusp of a memory, a portal of light in front of him.

It is a reset, something that stops me from reaching into myself, and finding myself.

Happy now that you've ruined everything?

For who?

For everyone. It's all your fault.

I have a question for you, my dear memworm.

What do you want?

So you admit you are the memworm.

I haven't admitted anything.

Why are you so childish?

Because I'm a child.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I didn't hear that, it must be a memory. No, it is the memworm.

He turned aside from the portal, rich with light, and through which he could see movement. The memory is a distraction, it is the darkness which is the truth.

In this inner mindscape, he turned and looked, and looked, until finally some of the dark seemed even darker than the rest. He was not alone, there was a tangled set of shapes, like worms in a fishing bucket, swirling and crawling, their edges with a slight redness.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He tried to recall the reset as clearly as he could. This isn't real time, it is a memory. I've been here before. And I might not get a chance to be here again.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.


Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Go! Go! Go!

Fire! Fire! Fire!


Scissors. Paper. Stone.

Drives. Guns. Shields.


Scissors. Paper. Stone.

I Love You.










I Love You.

Scissors. Paper. Stone.


Scissor. Paper. Stone.


Fire. Fire. Fire.

Go. Go. Go.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

There is a fearful symmetry, in the way they have pillaged my memory. They did not mean to do this to me, it is merely the sum and total of that is wrong with all that was done.

The Code is 3. The took three away from me. I don't know how to use it, but I have the answer in my head.

Dead Man Switch.


Siren Men? What could that mean. A gate impassable by man? What is that? Death itself is impassable.

Three, three of three. It isn't Kumar, he's two. Admiral? Mars is four. Jupiter? There are too many words in Dominion, Hindi, Terringlish, Chinese.

In the epics, Pritha did not have sexual relations with her husband, but had children by each of four gods, who she could summon. Is it that I am not the father of our children? This is madness. I have three children, and yet I remember all of them. Which three? Is this merely a false pattern I have stumbled upon?

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

In the epics, Pritha coupled with Surya, the sun-god. Which is a ship being built at Jove, and a form of Shiva, the name of the first Destroyer. I have become Shiva, slayer of worlds spoke the father atomic.

Sharva rules over the earth

Bhava rules over the water

Rudra rules over the fire

Ugra rules over the wind

Bhima rules over space

Pashupati rules over the soul

Ishana rules over the sun

Mahadeva rules over the moon


Earth is the third planet. Three is the first Fermat Prime. It is the first Mersenne Prime, and from it comes the first perfect number. Three to the three is 27. Three defines a circle, and a plane. Three has a ring of integers, and it is a field.

Three for Brahma, Vishnu, Siva. Three for Father, Son, Spirit. Three for Mecca, Medina, Jerusalem. त्रिमूर्ति is heresy. Trinity. Planets can be in trine from a given perspective. Three basic castes.

Triple said. Thrice. गुण.
Three sounds in Aum.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Commander, driver, gunner in a tank.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I hear my heart beat in three: strong, weak, pause.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.








My three treasures: guard them. One I say: pity, two I say: simplicity, three is... I should know this. I should know this.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I do know this: Do not dare to be first under heaven.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I do not know what all of this means. But at least I know when someone is trying to reset me.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Wait. I heard that. It can't be a memory.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Scissors. Paper. Stone.

Sunday, August 31, 2014


If the leaves the are, then let then eat brioche.
Then they are withhold i-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-i-o-n
is that what I want to say?
I think not, but I do not know if it is.
What do I want to say to him?
B-r-i-o-c-h-e is what I want say,
brioche, not cake.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

All in All

After all the is no regret
Before the hush came upon the town
Cats were out of hand
Dogs took wings
Exit to the floor
Fate is to quick

All is well, to well
But there is the rubbed
Climb up the pole
Decline, ever stream on time
Each rob of all the other needles
Fright, in flight.

All in all
After all
It's not a play thing
But an illusion.
And it come to one and all
One and all.

Red Zone 12



The worshippers walk down in their throng thousands to bathe in a muddy river, down the grey brown steps, saris and robes pressed to their bodies by the winds, and then clinging to their bodies from the water.


Some are wearing pants, some shirts, some sarongs, some robes. Some wear nothing at all, rolls of fat bouncing with each step down. Or sleek hips that flounce slightly. Or thin hard muscles that twist and spring. Or old bones that turn and creak. The multitudes of many multitudes come in waves to touch the sacred mire, which will give them the sacred sickness.


Boats float on the water, some of wood, some grown, some of modern aerogels. They bump and collide. The create the wash of water behind them, with slapping spatter from from fish that churn in their wake, and birds that dive to scoop up the fish. Some old women grasp at the fish, because it brings luck.


A few walk down in groups, chanting and wailing. A drummer unslings his drum and begins to play to tap the side of the drum. It is concave to fit between his legs, and the head is white. It is clearly made of grown materials, not natural, but it is worn and old none the less. Perhaps a century, because it has year ties around it that spiral two or three times. Each one lovingly fitted on the sacred day. Tied with fingers, but pulled tight with teeth.

He slaps his fingers on one side, and his palm on the other.


Above two lanky robotic carriers, with legs rather than wheels, their banks rising and falling with each step, are being moved to the river to take on water to carry. As they are walked back, the vibrations will shake and help filter the water. The boy driving them uses a single white stick like controller, the places he touches make them swerve left and right, or at least as quickly as a 3 meter long, one meter high, six legged robot can. The robot is dun colored, and is spotted with age, and dented here and there.

The bells on the robot jingle in great cascading shakes.


As the people come, so come the buzzing insects, the flies, the things that bite, the things that sting. And behind them come the dragon flies that hum. And soon the birds are rousted from the ancient stone lintels upon which they nest. And then the larger hawks that circle. Mobbed by the crows that caw and swoop for corns of grain between runs behind the hawks.


And the mothers tell their daughters to stand up straight, and tell their boys to stick close and not wipe their fingers after eating a surgary sweet. They chatter about their husbands, or the husbands other wives. Or with the other wives about how the husbands have been too lazy.


And on the steps, one lonely boy sits, and he stares at a girl whose mother is leading her down the steps. He soaks in the sounds, and the sights, and wonders why they have picked her for him, or him for her, and why the have crossed paths on this holy festival day.

For a moment she turns and her black eyes meet his, and she


He feels a strange movement in his heart, the beating comes hard and close. He feels some how, that he is like a dog, tied to a stick, outside a door, and baying at a hidden moon, hidden in the sun's great glare, but he can feel it so.

They eyes are caught, and so entangled, and the hover on each other as the dragon fly hovers in the air, and as the hawk stares down at the fishing bird, and the hovering fisher down at the wailing fish.
And all the sights die away. He cannot see them, only the tunnel that is the eyes that connect them, as if some river flowed from her into him.


And all the language disappears, the words subside, and all the music becomes a tangle, he can only feel a draining in his heart that is like a song, in that a song reaches the ears, but falls into the body.
It cries. It cries. It cries.


He rattles in his head, like a dish filled with ceremonial coins, that beggars rattle because they seek salvation in the begging.

And all the sounds die away. He cannot hear them, only the beating of his heart, which beats and skips. Beats and skips. Beats and skips. He shakes, frightened and paralyzed of any voluntary movement. He shakes. And falling from his memory, as if he were a tree, and all the small scraps that his boyish mind has retained are round yellow fruits to fall on the ground, falling from his memory, is what it is like, to feel good when he is alone.



He opened his eyes, still asleep, seeing himself like an old picture, his hand around a serpent, that coiled around his legs. His shoulders were square to his vision, and his face impossibly squared, like a cartoon.

And then he awoke, on a bunk, in a deep sweat. This wasn't the memory, it was the memory of dreaming he remembered it. It wasn't the memory that he had forgotten. How could I forget the first moment I saw Pritha?

You can't, and never will.

You are right K. I can't and never will.

Is that why you are going back to her? Some half remembered dream from the River Ganges.

It is that something about her is the source of who I am, the snows on the mountains that feed the river that is my life.

Every river reaches the sea sometime.

Not every river. I have seen one that doesn't, it dies in the desert.

Perhaps that's your love for me, it is destined to die in the deserts of Mars.

Is that what you are afraid of, K?

No. I'm afraid you will leave me here, looking up into space. Alone.

You will never be alone Keisha, people love you.

The more people love you, V, the more you are alone.

He could feel his breath, but it was as a memory that was being filled in to suit a conversation which was taking place in the flutter of a rem. The quality of this was distinctly different from a real breath. First, he knew how it was going to feel before he felt it.

Then this is some different meaning of the word love.

Celebrity, V, is the the kind of love people feel for me. That or their own masturbatory desire to penetrate me.

A desire you allow them.

In return for much, much more, V.

You know I could never get used to it K, not really.

You have a wife. I was supposed to get used to that?

I'm sorry for that. I am so so sorry.

That you have a wife, or that you want me?

I am so sorry for hurting you.

Isn't that what you do? Hurt people?

Isn't that what revolution does?

I never wanted a revolution.

It seems that is irrelevant, because you have birthed one.

That's what barren women do. If they can't have beautiful babies, the give birth to beautiful things. If we don't create, we destroy.

So I am seeing. So this is an old story K?

No, V, we are the oldest story. A square, four parts: high and low, man and woman. The prince marries the princess, but lusts for the whore, the whore takes up with the wild man, brute from the desert, or off from the mountains. The prince loves his wild man, in that way you men don't like to talk about, the wild man is shamed by the princess, who dreams of his cock between her loins.

And what happens?

You know. They kill the low man, and the prince morns. Bilgamesh and Enkidu, Achilles and Company. It's all the same.

Perhaps because people have not really changed.

In old earth they thought there would be a singularity, where the future and the past would be so different, as to be beyond understanding.

There was a singularity, but the more things have changed, the more they have remained the same.
You can't step in the same stream twice.

You cannot even step in the same stream once. But you can never really step out of it either, K.

You know the kind of inside I want. You know what I mean, what I, mean.

I know what you mean to me.

No, V, I am a symbol, a word, a writing, an utterance. And you know what I mean.

You are written on my mind. You are written on my self. It is you who are baptizing me in the river of my own memory. I am flowing backwards, to a source that I do not understand, and it is you who are drawing me there. Is this not enough to know how I feel, K?

I can see how you feel, I am standing above you, and can see the whole course of the river, back to the spring that is its source.

You sound as if you hate me.

Then you don't know the poison that a woman's hate can bring. The old goddesses killed with plagues, and brought a thousand fold troubles down.

Before the troubles came, after the Pegasi, we had not had a plague in many years.

But we have them now.

Yes, we have them now.

Isn't that enough to know how we feel?

About what?

When you are back in the flesh, I will show you, I will show you the flesh of my flesh.

I am so sorry K.

Sorry means nothing.

I am almost nothing, there is almost none of me left. I feel as if I am slipping down a spiral that has no end.

Nothing is what you must become, before you become anything at all. The parallel lines must converge.

And then what?

You will see there is a line straighter than straight.

And when I follow it?

You will reach its end.

And then?

You will break free, to the other side.

He heard in his ear, an old song, from old Earth. He tried to remember who wrote it.

Ah, yes. Thedorse. Thedorse wrote it. I wonder what else he wrote.

He hummed in his memory: “Break on through, to the other side. Break on through, to the other side.”

Sleep embraced him, and he fell into it's enfolding arms, bathed in a warmer sense, than any other he had ever known.

The alarm hit his body, stronger than any mere sound could have, and forced his eyes awake. They felt like they were bleeding. He waited for the spin hammock to slow down. It left him in free fall.
He turned on the screen and waited for the message to come in, he knew he was going to have a gap, here beyond the moon's orbit, but it would not be too bad. Two seconds perhaps?

“Hello my son.”

There she was, her features rounded a bit by prosperity, but it was still his mother.

“Yes, mother.”

“I have wonderful news for you, your marriage is approved.”

He felt an itch in his ear. He was not sure how this was good news.

“Yes, mother.”

“This has been arranged for a long time.”

He stayed silent, one more assent would be suspicious.

“And there is another thing.”

“And that is?”

“They have approved the conception of an immortal out of the pairing.”

This, again, was a tiding whose gladness escaped him.

“The cost in liberties will be very high.”

“Nonsense, for a perpetual stake in the Dominion leadership, it is worth working your whole life.”

Which is about right, she has probably done the math as well.

“Of course I will do what is best for the family.”

Which might not be this, perhaps my bride to be can be persuaded of this.

“That is a good boy. You will get orders to come home for the wedding.”

Orders, that's interesting, not leave, orders. I keep forgetting how well placed Pritha's family is in the Union of India's hierarchy.

That is, not that's. He corrected himself.

“And another thing.”

“Yes, mother?”

“Doctor Kamalnath Chandra will oversea the child's development. Isn't that wonderful news?” His mother brought her hands together and had an overflowing happiness on her face. Clearly her life's ambitions were nearly complete.

“Only the best.”

“Yes. Now work, work, work. The expense will be enormous, but it will place our family among the first families of the Dominion.”

No, it will leave us burdened with debt to the Dominion forever, and mean that I will barely see my first child.

“Thank you mother. Out.”

He used that cold word meaning to sting, but he could see that she was already turning away and giving instructions to someone when the transmission cut.

It was too late to try and sleep again, so he decided to prepare himself for the day. A vision of Pritha, his wife to be flashed in front of his memory's eye. She was so nobly cut, so clearly made.

Work. Work. Work. It will be 30 years before I have a day that I own to myself again. Since that is more time than I have had in this world, I truly cannot imagine it.
He was woken, floating there in free fall, when the reveille was sounded, still drifting in a dream. A dream where all of the women in his life were chattering at him full speed, and not one was contented with who he was, and what he had done.

A Poem

"The Only Good Indian Is a Dead Public Relations Counsellor"

The Sight of sound captures
Of this I am sure, no words good back and forth between
Some silmarillion eddies in the brook
collected poems page by page
leaves of grass until they every were
the primrose path ever were
welcome witness to the young republic
a history or truth contain with a yankee's journal
1828 through 1870, as set down in Disraeli hand.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Red Zone 11


He opened his eyes, and they were filled with her eyes, a rich mahogany pair that locked into his, surrounded by pale tea with cream skin, and divided by a aquiline nose.

“I have to admit, I've simulated this many times, but never done it.” She smiled sheepishly and there was a nervous pounce to her voice. It stroked the lower registers and tickled upwards at the end of sentences. “What about you Deeshandir?”

What should I tell her, that I have had sex? Or that I've, He mentally stopped and corrected himself, I have spent far too much time thinking about almost everyone but her. His memory peered back at all of the different shapes and kinds of women that he had blundered across in simulations, from the very simple and repetitive ones which were almost childishly easy to get off the track, to the more subtle and complex that almost sucked the mind into them.

“I can truly say that being here with you is totally different from anything I have experienced before.”

She smiled slightly.

“Is that a nice way of saying you have before? It is alright if you have. I would have if my family had taken their eyes off me for more than five minutes at a time.”

“It is hard to do anything in five minutes.”

She allowed her self a tiny giggle.

“Now that I am here I have no idea what to do.”

“This is the part that sims skip past.”

“Which part is that?”

“The part where you are staring at your partner, and it is intoxicating, but paralyzing.”

They were seated facing each other, cross legged. He was painfully aware that he was lying exposed, and his erection was duly visible. He was also aware, but could only steal glances downward, that she was both exposed and not exposed. There was a black thicket of hair around her thighs, but more than that, he had not been able to really absorb.

He tried to keep his eyes on her, remembering how many sims rewarded this, but he could not help looking downward. However, he could never allow himself to look down for long enough to really soak in her features. He had some impression of her shape, with her breasts Poetry comes from wanting to stare, but only being able to glance. He had a vague sense that her nipples were inverted, pointing in rather than out, and that her areolae were large, but not strongly pigmented against her skin. Her breasts were not small, but were close to her body, like low rolling hills. Beyond that, he had only a sense of a slight chubbiness in her mid-section. But by that point, his eyes had bounced up to hers again.

By the time they had, she was smiling in embarrassment.

“I know I am different from the images.”

He felt his face get warm.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare.”

“It is fine. We are,” she almost halted, “married now.”

She reclined outwards, and rolled sideways, lying across the covers that were rumpled up, and rested her head in her hand, and her elbow on a pillow. She bumped her thighs together. Her hips were rounded by the way she had bent slightly, his eyes followed their outer curve, set clearly against the velveteens of the hotel room's décor. The browns and reds of the stripes set off by golden designs of some antiquity made her shape more pronounced in both his mind and his imagination.

“I had some gardening done.”

He paused, confused.

“My hair down there, I had it shaped. I wasn't sure what you liked.”

I am not sure either.

She had hesitated, clearly waiting for something.

It felt as if there were a stopper in his throat, as if his stomach were one giant vat of trepidation waiting to spill outwards. Nothing in any sim, had prepared him for this. Nor had his trysts, for that is what they were, he as hungry and unwilling to worry about any future moment as his partners. There was a wall here. Well then, best to say that.

“What makes this different from anything else is that you will still be here... tomorrow, and the day after.”

Her eyes glowed.

“I did not know you could be so sweet. You have always been so cold. I was worried that you were a stone jar, with nothing in it, but cobwebs...” She trailed off. “I do not mean to hurt your feelings, but this is the first moment you have shown anything to me.”

“Today was one long ritual, not very much different for me than a military parade.”

She frowned.

“You did very well. At least very well at going through the motions.”

It was not what he saw, because he had been stealing glances down at how thin her waist was, and how it tapered to her hips, and then there was a peculiar coming together into a point, like the point at the top of a pyramid. However much he had seen in simulation, it was not the same. Perhaps because in simulation it all moves from one point of erotic obsession to another.

“You do think a great deal don't you Deeshandir?”

“Yes, perhaps too much.”

She sat back up again, and draped her arms over his shoulders, locking locking eyes with him.

“I do not want you to think too much, I do not want you to wait too much, I do not want you to worry too much.” She tilted her head forward and looked directly at him.
In every simulation, in every real life event, I have always had to push. This is beyond my expectations. In fact, he felt quite giddy.

She laughed, almost as if she was laughing for him. She lowered her face, so that her eyes seemed as they were looking up at him. She wrapped her knee over his leg, the soft back of her thigh lying on his foot.

I am a blind man who sees the sun, I am the starving man who walks to a banquet. She is laid out before me, richer than all the meals I have ever eaten. Pause. And I cannot even open my mouth.

She gazed at him with a worried half-smile. “I thought you would like my breasts? Don't you?” It was in a sing song tone low in her voice that some how set on him. His body felt twice as large, his shoulde

Strangely, her use of Anglo-Englishisms, was more erotic than that she had obviously perfumed and made herself up. The blue across her eyelids, the gentle sculpting of her cheeks with a soft dust, the vibrancy of flowers that hung about her in a wreath, seemed like the props of a street performer, over done, over calculated. It was that she wanted him to like her, like her in her best ad worst attirbutes. The soft folds and roles of her waist, the way her breasts hung, suddenly took on a different life, now that he knew that she needed something from him.

He fell into her, a move that he had learned often enough in simluations, and held himself on his elbows, cradling her face with his hands. Their eyes locked, and finally he was on familiar ground, where touch and response would lead where every they needed to go.

He had not expected how much like tasting her it would be to penetrate, how it felt as if she were a rich fatty meat, like the one, grown from an actual pig, he had savored at a military dinner. It was lush fattiness. And so it felt to be in her, as if he could taste the way she melted over him.

They slept, bathed in sweat and their coruscated union.


He opened his eyes, as if clearing some particle that irritated them, and then looked around. His remembered self was lost. But lost in space, or thought, he did not know. He was inside, in a building.

The halls were made of an older stone, and dated, he knew, from Old Earth, before the cataclysm. He looked down the corridor, once, they joked it was infinite. The heavy green double door was 20 meters before him, with squares inlaid in it. Above him stretched three floors of columns, and then, the roof of a dome. It was small compared to myriad structures, but he could feel the weight of stone.

Once, they carved from their cities from flesh and stone, and wrought them with bones and iron.

He was momentarily pleased at this floating bit of eloquence, though he knew he had absorbed it from someplace. Someday, just once, I would like to do something that is mine alone. But I am here in this aged university to learn what I should already know.

He continued to walk across the vast vestibule that was the floor of the dome, and towards the doors. He had been told he had to walk to the end of the “Infinite Corridor” and then turn right. His course load was light, because, of course, he was on a visiting semester from the Military Academy. He could see the face of the admissions officer here, slightly bemused, and with a dash of pity.

Thus bemusing on the chain of events that had allowed him to take physics and other courses from this old and prestigious place he continued to walk. It must have been more impressive when it was above sea level, and not underneath its own dome. Sufficiently so that they reclaimed it after the seas rose.

Equilibrium has its costs.

“Last semester we left off with the implications of the basic equation of General Relativity. I'm going to do a quick review of it here, and then get on to the important term that came, went, and returned to physics.”

This lecturer had a sharp voice, one whose basic accent was of Terringlish, which was not surprising given that he was from the Confederation, and a way of whistling through the material at breakneck speed.

On a vaguely white space, shaped like a rectangular box, bright neatly written symbols appeared:

Gμν= 8πTμν
Gμν= Rμν-.5 g

“I'm sure you've all loaded the course material by now, so who we can skip the recitation of the basic equations, and focus in on the term which would generate both controversy and beauty.”

“Of course, I'm speaking of the Λ term in his original formulation, and what is now called space energy, or vacuum energy by some of our older Kamis. If you ask for help from a Kami, just remember that your definitions of help my differ in sign, magnitude, and tensor. In the form here, it is rolled into the T or stress tensor.”

“As hard as it may seem to grasp, at that time, the universe was smaller and younger. The age of the earth, and the sense of the universe were conditioned by ideas that the sun could only be a few millions of years old, fed by the heat of gravitational contraction, the way Jupiter is. The universe was only the galaxy. It would be two decades before Hubble established that the universe was billions of years old, and billions of light years across.”

“So Einstein, seeing that his equations predicted an expanding universe, added a term, the 'cosmological constant' which is the topic of today's discussion.”
He called it his biggest mistake, though of course no one would agree with that assessment now.

He had always been good with loading, and with wandering through and incorporating. Much of the lecture was contained in his mind, forward in his real memories already. He had processed this. Paying attention was hard, because he was trying to go the next step, which was visualization. The course would get to that, and the exercises would force it, but at the moment, he didn't need this.

He only realized he had allowed his attention to wander when he heard is name.

“Deeshandir, I think you should come up here and draw out singularity lines for us.”
He looked at the board. Coming up there was intentionally meant to make him sweat. He did. Profusely. Panic is not going to improve this. I have this, it is inside me, I just need to let it flow out.

He walked up and drew out the equations for the minimum energy of two light rays under the influence of gravitation, which follow the geodesic, the straight line in a curved space.

The prof shook his head.

“This is simple. Tensors are collisions of vectors, they can be made to have no basis. You are still trying to draw a line on the space that I have put up. That's not how it works. That's Newtonian and Euclidean, but it isn't relativistic. Matter and energy flow along space, but they warp it at the same time.”

There was a pitting glance.

“This is as simple as walking through mud. Your boot flows down, the mud flows around it, shaping how you can push with your foot. Now try again. Have the light rays flow along the space.”

He finally drew the light rays, they converged exactly at a point.

“So, there's the singularity. Now ask yourself, can it actually every get there? Even without spin, which we've neglected here, can they ge there?”

Deeshandir paused.


“Why not.”

“Because as they get closer time slows. Matter cannot reach the speed of light, and it will never actually get to the singularity because it has to pass an event horizon.”

“Correct as far as it goes. What happens when the event horizon evaporates. Remember it will do that faster and faster as it gets smaller and smaller.”



He paused.

“If the space energy term is positive, no, because the pressureof space itself will go to infinity as it gets closer.”

“Negative infinity, but otherwise correct as far as it goes. We need to move on. I'll ask you more about this tomorrow.”

He was embarrassed but not humiliated. Back in his small room, with its narrow bed, he went over this point several times, drawing lines in the air above him, until he could feel the resistance getting closer to the singularity.

As long as there is expansion, there is no singularity, as long as there is positive void energy, there is negative pressure.

He slept, bathed in a river of symbols.

A poem (Nash of couse)

"Some people achieve temporary a fame"
While others lust after it,
Wondering for does it flutter adrift never touch

Are they not good enough?
Or is a scheme they don't undertand?
Wrote down on paper that is  on watery brook?
It makes no sense, but it is as plain as can be.

What is as fleeting,  fixed,
as what is
eternal day.
From on side to an other

And the some blazing fast quick
Of cousre

you should see this

Why is the Quantum So Strange? | Closer to Truth

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Red Zone 10


“You wanted to talk to me Cadet?”

“Yes, I do not think my paper deserved such a poor grade. I think the mathematics was fine, and the conclusions followed from it.”

“Well fine if you don't count two sign errors which miraculously cancelled each other out, but which, as a result turned two complex systems into an 8 variable system that you said could not be solved, when, in fact, the two tensor version has been solved, repeatedly. Sometimes by cadets.”

He flushed.

“But that's not why you got the poor grade.”

“What was the reason?”

“You do not seem to understand what this course is trying to teach.”

He hung his head in shame.

“No excuses sir.”

“That will get you a long way in drill, but not very far with either me, or with the principles of physics.”

“What exactly am I missing?”

“We didn't go over X-tensors, attractors, and their application to social dynamics in great detail for amusement.”

“I am still not understanding.”

“There is a mathematics to human interaction with the outside, that mathematics is embodied in econology. Econology is about minmaxing1 desired results within expected equilibria. It's like the way people used to run around saying 'room temperature superconductor' whenever there wasn't enough gain for the pain. Amazing what you can do when you have impossible physics to sweep problems under the rug. Perpetual motion! Room temperature superconductor! Carbon sequestration! Pure Free Markets! Cold Fusion! And so on.” Each exclamation point was more like a parody of excitement than the real thing. The contempt shown through with each example.

“I thought I avoided that.”

“You invoke four new interacting technologies, none of which ignite the other. There is no way that such an interaction will occur as the solution to an arbitrary and isolated problem in astronautic design. And you have no idea if any of them are implausible. You aren't getting the very basic way of it. You're wayless.”

Deeshandir hung his head in shame.

“I would like to know how I can improve my standing.”

“You mean get better grades? Do better work. There's no mystery there.”

“No, I mean I would like to know what it is I don't understand.”

The professor, his cheekbones taut, face then, hair black and curly with piercing green eyes, bored straight into him with a stare.”

“I'm going to take you at your word cadet. Let's step back.”

The professor rose from his chair, and moved away from his desk. The classroom viewscreen descended, an archaic two dimensional one, rather than the CAD screen that was in three dimensions.

Let's start with the history of space flight. What are the epochs.”

“The first was rocket. From 1940 through 2040.”

“Why the rocket first?”

“One technology does all: launch, lift, land, maneuver, return.”

“And.” There was a note of exasperation.

“Extension of other common technology: turbine, combustion, materials engineering from other kinds of flight.”


“The cross effects were within their understanding of manageable.”

“Tell me what you mean by that.”

“Well even a small atomic launch would have caused tremendous fall out, and a gun to orbit, as Verne had proposed, would have required acceleration that they could not have absorbed without breathable liquids.”


“Ignition is low, there problems solved are many, and advances in other areas advance this goal.”

“Why didn't atomic or nuclear arrive earlier?”

“Fallout, and....”

“Goal fixation. Read the papers again, the are always talking about interstellar travel, walking straight past the planets.”

“Because terraforming seemed to have only two, perhaps three, real targets: Moon, Mars, and possibly Venus.”

“So what came after rocketry?”

“Chemical rockets were a dead end, their specific thrust is low, their efficiency poor, and almost tangentially connected to advanced flight, ramjets, scramjets and so on.”

“Ignition giveth, ignition taketh away.”

“They talked about lock in.”

“Were they locked in?”

“No, their econological parameters were wrong. Rockets are for good low orbit, not for even interplanetary travel.”

“But if you really want the high ground, good enough.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And their brute force was?”

“Lift and throw. Multi-stage. No problem that can't be solved with a better engine and breaking the mission into more pieces, or making the payload smaller.”

“So I repeat, what came after rocketry?”

“Ulam-Dyson. Pulse nuclear, based on Orion and others.”

“Why not earlier, Orion was plausible in 1960.”

“Because it needed cheap launch to orbit.”

“Which was?”

“What we still use: magnetic acceleration.”

“Which depends on?”

“High temperature super-conductors, investment in the first launches.”


“What, sir?”

His professor sighed. “A change in econology: the goal. Ceres, Ganymede, Callisto, Europa. The new worlds of ice. Only when humans realized they had to colonize the sea to get enough energy, materials, food, stability, does it seem reasonable that terraforming really means, aquaforming.”2

“Only when they realized that the dying ice shelf of Antartica was a basic ecosystem.”

“When there was a sustainable surplus.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So pulse drive era.”

“Yes sir, roughly 2040 to 2140.”

“Why then?”

“The Great War pushed fusion to practicality, there was a desire to escape from the inner diaspora.”

“Why fusion, after almost a century of research?”

“Econology again, they realized that low temperature, low density, low radiation, low pressure ruled out virtually every form of fusion.”

“Not quite correct.”

He looked at his professor blankly.

“Because they wanted to just swap fusion in to a non-fusion system. Take out coal, plug in hydrogen. When they realized that they needed a fusion econology, not just econological fusion, life changed.”

“Fusion doesn't work that way they wanted, sir.”

“That's right, it is a better form of propulsion than power. Stars use it that way. So. Pulse drive to the planets. Does it work?”

“Only partly.”

“We still use pulse.”

“It is cheap and simple, sir.”

“So, pulse isn't a one technology solution, it requires several supporting technologies. What caused ignition, what was the knowledge avalanche waiting to happen?”

“So you are asking what do the pieces have in common: superconductor, fusion, materials, nano-technology, quantum computing, deep power grids from tides, ecological engineering, sir.”


“Xaotic dynamics, turbulence, a natural feel for quantum mechanics.”

One word.”

“Quintessence: the power of ubiquity. Replacing the percussive manner of thinking that dominates the internal combustion age. Only the pulse itself is percussive. Well at first, eventually it becomes essentially continuous.”

“Good. What comes next?”

“Well modern fusion drives... but... I don't see a principle.”

“Then lets go back to low explosive chemical energy. What came first?”

“The firecracker, the simple rocket, Greek fire, the gun.”

“Low explosion. Create a flame front avalanche.”

“What comes next?”

Blank pause.

“What comes next is harnessing cyclical dynamics. Stop me when you've heard this one before: The. Wheel.”

“The Watt-Newcomb engine.”

“Yes. Even though the parts had existed for centuries.”

“But as parts. Yes, Sir.”

“So cycles: when waste is use to push the system along. What comes next?”

“Flow. The turbine. Everything is used immediately, rather than cyclically.”

“Which was invented?”

“In old China, and reinvented for water power.”


“Modern drives rely on absorbing rather than recycling the breaking radiation. Core and tube designs with the x-rays from the core heating the real power generator, or drive. ”

“The wheel.”

“Yes sir.”

“Pulse, wheel, flow.”

“Is this universal?”

“No these are expressions of the basic econological lagrangian of the system. The system evolves, and manifests. It's conservation laws appear at points of symmetry, it's radicals at points where the symmetry breaks.”

“I will need to go back and do those out, won't I?”

“Don't make stupid sign errors. State the Lagrangian. Realize when the movement is continuous and uses Noether, and when it is discrete and uses Ward–Takahashi identity. These are basic tools.”

“Yes, sir. I thought I had done this correctly.” He stared blankly at thee screen which had slowly become filled with notes, sections and images. There was a picture of the first pulse ship, a picture of the large sail and ion freighters. Timelines, names had filled in at various places.

“Different drives for different purposes, massive heat generation to warm the ice of the Jovan moons. Massive floating cities in the atmospheres of the gas giants.”


“The need to do econologicaly unstable activities anywhere but the garden world.”

“The irony is, that as the econological band gets narrower on earth, technologies that are too dangerous become attractive in space.”

“I suppose, but then there is no global warming in space.”


“So drive era, 2140-2240, roughly.”


“Why did it end?”

“Colonization is endemic, beams become more practical, as an outgrowth of slow solar sails, and electro-weakcoupling technologies. Neutrino capture and so on.”

“Our first semester was devoted to a few basic ideas, one of them is generate in place, move in space.”

“Modern commercial craft are powered from large efficient stations. Yes, Sir.”

“So now do you see the problem? No ignition: rockets were about the wheel applied to combustion, they were an apex technology because there's no point to a combustion ramjet, the flow version of combustion, in space. Pulse was like going back to the bottom of a curve. Then came recapture drives, now flow.”

“So you are saying that we are at the apex of fusion?”


“So what is wrong with my anti-matter proposal?”

“No ignition Deeshandir, no ignition.”

His eyes closed, and he visualized again the problem.

“I don't have a solution.”

“Until a few minutes ago, you didn't even understand the problem. You were thinking like a consumer, not a physicist, not an engineer.”

“What is the difference?”

His professor opened and closed his mouth to produce a sound not unlike a dog about to eat something.

“A physicist, turns simple insoluble problems, into complex hard problems solveable by geniuses.”

“And an engineer?”

“Turns complex problems solvable by geniuses, into complicated problems solveable by brute force. If you want it built, then all problems should be based on linear improvements of parts we already have, not on four Thomas Edisons dropping out of the everywhere and into the here. You didn't have a solution, because you did not look at the problem.”

“What is the problem?”

“The problem, is that there isn't a large enough problem, that makes the next step necessary, or at least obsessively desired. Not enough surplus to justify disrupting the equilibrium. Too much pain, not enough gain.”

“So I have to make do with what I have.”

“Exactly, cadet. Now, go back, do out the lagrangian of the essential technological area, tease out the symmetries, and look for where one is just aching to be broken and penetrated.”

“Thank you sir.” He winced a bit at the sexual imagery.

“Cadet you are one of the best students.”

“Then why the poor grade sir?”

“Do you know the difference between history and politics?”

“No sir.”

“History doesn't grade on the curve.”

“But warfare does, with all due respect, sir.”

1Minmaxing is the process of getting the most gain, for the least pain, as opposed to minimizing, or maximizing.

2Terraforming is to make like earth, but aquaforming is to make like an ocean.