I am Doctor Tachiko Fuchida, and I apologize if I seem to be rushing but I wish to start you all off by introducing you to a very specialized and confusing piece of jargon that is central to this course. It is a technical term that is often thrown around with little care towards its meaning or implications and the very essence of this course lies in coaxing out its true essence and dealing with the consequences from and to it that results from changes made to it.
The word is ‘reality’.
Such a simple word, isn’t it? Derived like so many others from Latin to describe something in the state of being real. But like so many conceptual words, its deeper meaning is one that is actually much harder to pin down than many think it is. In the end the vast majority of us don’t even raise a question about it and cede the field of inquiry over its nature entirely. We think we have too many other questions pressing on us that are more important, and why should we contest the collective interpretation of empirical evidence that defines ‘reality’ which we—as a species—have painstakingly gathered for so long? That would be crazy, wouldn’t it?
The answer is simple. Yes it would be, but we do it because we can. No, we do it because we must. Because it was and is, to steal a turn of phrase from Oppenheimer, an organic necessity. Because if you are a scientist you believe that it is good to find out what reality is, even if you must court that which seems unreal to do so. If you are a scientist you believe it is good to turn over to mankind at large the greatest possible power to control the world and deal with it according to their own lights and values.
I, personally, assume we do not live in the best of all possible worlds. That may be a matter of opinion, we can discuss that more in-depth later. But even if we do, for the purposes of this discussion we would still have to hope that mankind grows to ask the important questions about reality through our questioning it. Because even in the best of all possible worlds we still encounter the stumbling block of reality itself. Such an inconvenience this reality thing, wouldn’t you say? So, we are left with nothing but the hope that our questions will be listened to.
You all have, no doubt, encountered the divergence of opinion between myself and others as to how reality works in previous courses. You have already heard some of my questions. So, I will make this slightly more simple for you. I will, temporarily, remove some of the reflection and doubt from the curriculum so you may first grow into the questioning itself and bring up your own questions. After all, one must walk before they can run, no? The trick—and that is what it is, make no mistake about that it is nothing even close to an explanation—lies in my nickname for this course. It is a trick Earth’s stolid scientific community has rather resoundingly rejected, and I am bound by university policy to remind you all that my personal statements and beliefs do not reflect the opinions or beliefs of the Physics Department or Gefjon University.
With those preliminaries out of the way, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to welcome you to Dirac-Exploitation Physics and Quantum Instability. Or, as I prefer to call it, ‘Intro to Magic’. You may wish to leave if you value a future career in serious academia.
-Tachiko Fuchida introducing herself to an Advanced Physics class on Beowulf, 2088.
Her Grand Temple
K’Tarrain (Planet of the People of K’Tar)
December 27, 2310
“What do these People of the Changing Powers understand but force? They are only content when they are warring, if not with us then among themselves. Have you all forgotten what sorry state we first found them in?”
High Bishop Muros K’Lakulin paused so that he could run his eyes across the entirety of the Synod around him. In contrast to the larger, and significantly more chaotic, councils which drew from across K’Tarr space, this one was populated by a bare fourteen individuals. He had time enough in his usage of The Silence-Between-Speech to pause on every one of them without an awkwardly lengthy delay. What the pause told him did not look positive.
They were afraid. Perhaps not overtly, but their actions bespoke the truth of their feelings. The humans had driven a spike of fear and panic into the ancient Halls of the K’Tar with what they had done in the closing days of the war. Throughout the conflict Muros had believed his initial call for a Crusade in Her Name against the species was justified. Their usage of the Changing Powers had turned that belief into stone certainty.
It had brought him many allies on the Synod as well. But others it had driven away, or pushed into the dreadfully heathen clutches of overthought and excess caution. He was no closer to influencing Her people’s policy than he had been. Were Muros a greedy or self-serving man the continued retreat of power so close to his reach might have aggravated him. In truth he was only aggravated by the threat to his species and to the K’Tar that it allowed to continue.
“We have attempted your way. It did nothing for the K’Tar but bring violence back on Her Servants. These People of the Changing Powers used force against us because we first used it against them at Mazarin. Please share what it is you think will make us more successful if we listen to you again?”
Muros didn’t allow himself to sniff his dislike for the words. Aduro S’Linas was one of the oldest members of the Synod, and also one of those with the greatest love for using verbal tricks and traps against those he disagreed with. Muros was in no mood to put up with such foolishness.
“I was not listened to previously. We stopped after Mazarin. We crippled them and then rose and snored at our own accomplishment without actually completing the task we had set out to do, just as now we sit here and endlessly talk as they build more of their blasphemous weapons to wield against us in the coming years. We should have converted them when we had the chance.”
“You would have us descend once again into the barbarity and destructiveness the K’Tar saved us from? I had thought more deeply of your devotion than that.” Aduro said.
This time Muros did sniff, as did the half-dozen members of the Synod firmly on his side. There were coughs and twitches of disapproval from a handful more as well. Before he could rebuke the old katith, however, a third party intervened.
“High Bishop S’Linas, it would be best to refrain from questioning any’s devotion on a matter of opinion such as this.” The caretaker at the end of the table said, some of his first words since the meeting had begun. They were not his last, and Muros was robbed of any advantage he may have been able to build from his opponent’s embarrassing slip.
“In truth, this line of discussion is largely irrelevant until it is possible to determine the K’Tar’s Will on the matter. Go in peace now, brothers and sisters, and may the K’Tar’s words reach your ears.” It was a somewhat heavy-handed dismissal, but the caretaker was of the older generation and shared a genial relation, if not always an opinion, with S’Linas. Beyond that, there were more neutral objectives as well. One of the caretaker’s duties was to prevent any extreme conflicts from fracturing the Synod.
“Bishop K’Lakulin?”
Muros turned to the voice. One of the younger Deacon Observers who’d been seated near him was standing at a decidedly nervous angle and awkwardly rubbing at his nose. Muros tried to draw up his name from memory, but there were dozens of the Observers in the Synod’s Hall, he just could not keep track of them all. The striped robes and complete lack of incense on him belied he was quite junior, however. No surprise he was nervous, to interrupt a High Bishop!
“I hear?” Muros said patiently, idly curious what would draw such a junior member of the Synod forward to him.
The nervousness became more pronounced as the Deacon transitioned into the common language of the People of the Changing Powers. “We now know and shall soon show.”
Muros sniffed appreciatively at the phrase. “Deacon, you have traveled far. Please, join me for a walk.”
Governmental Hub 1-A
Geostationary orbit over Earth
January 4, 2311
“Gentlemen,” Mikael Arasa began, making a careful point to focus on the single Neodog in the room. Minister of Veterans’ Health Development Tyrson was sensitive about any hint of prejudice against him. Such would normally not concern Arasa especially, but the creature was silently and powerfully supported by a significant minority of Beowulf’s corporate medical guilds—The ones who took the silly charter drawn up for them two-hundred years earlier seriously at least. Arasa couldn’t afford to make him, and more importantly his backers, into an enemy.
“Ladies, I didn’t just intend my pledge to restore normalcy as a campaign tactic. We need to bring back something that at least resembles a functioning peacetime economy, for the sake of the Confederation itself. We’re still almost entirely dependent on the military providing infrastructural orders and rebuilding programs. Beowulf hasn’t built a new hospital since the end of last year, and that was the Veteran’s Center we commissioned!”
Supreme Admiral Ivanov and the much less human-looking Minister of Veterans’ Health Development shared an uncomfortable glance. Ivanov coughed slightly, “Grand Marshal, we did propose the construction of the Neodog facility on Beowulf.”
Tyrson snorted, the noise producing a rumbling deep in the creature’s chest that made it sound much more like a growl, “And as I told you at the time, none of us wish to be dragged back to some clinic on Beowulf for any reason.”
“It’s a hospital specifically designed for—“ Ivanov began, only to silence himself when Arasa held up a hand. Ivanov was career Confederation military, serving since the Internecine Wars themselves. It would have been more surprising if his reaction hadn’t been instantaneous and absolute. Tyrson didn’t look as willing to go along with the abrupt end of the conversation, but didn’t comment.
“This sounds like it has already been discussed, and it does little to change the point of my statement, Supreme Admiral. That the military had to propose the idea itself is the worrying part. We are six years removed from the end of the war, and yet we are still operating as if every economic decision has to be processed and approved through the War Planning Board! We need civilian projects, spearheaded and proposed by civilian contractors, and paid for by something other than emergency military funding.”
A large but strangely quiet-looking woman at the end of the table leaned forward. Jolie Chappapaderong was a carryover from the previous administration for the simple reason that Arasa had not considered her posting worth changing. Colonization was not a pressing issue for the Confederation at the moment, and considering how astoundingly poorly her office had handled the lost colony situation back in the 2880s there was little reason to upset the apple-cart in that withering department of the government. There were a good deal of political allies any such move would anger, anyways. Her post would disappear from lack of use in a matter of years, and Arasa had time.
“If I may suggest, Prime Minister, a potential way of alleviating that feeling? People are still worried that things might collapse. Many people, many civilians in particular, have spent their entire lives dominated by either the Internecine Wars or the so-called ‘War of Human Liberation’.” There was an almost physical wince from most of the table at the older, more propagandistic, term for the Human-K’Tarr War.
“People are still worried. One can publicize the downsizing of the military as much as they like, but it’s more of an expected matter accompanying the end of a war that dragged on too long rather than the symbolic gesture that is needed to shake them out of the decades-long rut of drudgery they’ve fallen into.”
Arasa was taken aback. He hadn’t expected such an appraisal from Chappapaderong, hadn’t expected much of anything from her if he was to be honest. She was rather commonly cited as a political appointee, managing the ever-shrinking Department of Colonization primarily for the benefit of her Antifederalist allies in the broader Confederation government.
Politics. It always came back to politics.
“What precisely would you suggest, Minister?” Arasa prodded when the silence after her words went on a bit too long. It seemed like no one else had expected any words to be spoken by the woman either. Arasa surreptitiously glanced to his side. Ivanov was scratching his chin, but seemed to be considering her words. Interesting.
“I would suggest a symbolic gesture. Something large enough to demonstrate the changing situation of the Confederation without requiring we use our military as the impetus. I’d suggest tossing out the executive moratorium on new colonization efforts, and doing so as publicly and dramatically as you can. Dump a hardcopy out an airlock, perhaps?”
Arasa blinked as the large and overly muscled woman giggled softly. She was serious? She was serious. He supposed that it made sense, from a certain perspective. But she wasn’t fully briefed on the whole scope of Confederation activities and operations, so it was understandable she wouldn’t understand why her idea wasn’t going to come about anytime in the immediate future.
Ivanov swooped in to save him from any embarrassing explanations or political gamesmanship. Arasa never had liked the double-speak and misleading required, even if he indulged in it constantly.
“I’m afraid that’s a military impossibility at the moment Minister. With the toll our Naval fleet has taken these last years just from mothballing older vessels we’d be hard-pressed to provide any protection or law for new colonial ventures. Besides that, some seventy percent of the ships we’ve kept in service still need to be cycled through for MDD refits and calibrations within the next year-and-a-half. Diverting yards away from those critical tasks in favor of colony-ship construction would be problematic, at best. Even as it is our patrols on the border of the Neutral Zone are going to do nothing but get weaker every month until we can catch-up on the maintenance situation. Delaying that further would put Confederation Citizens and Civilians in harm’s way.”
The debate would go on, but with that phrase, the decision was already made. The best course of action for the Confederacy and its people had already been decided upon. Arasa regretted the necessity of the harsh slap-down delivered by his underling, but it was necessary for the good of every man, woman and child within the Confederation and beyond. One day, in time, she would understand. One day all of them would understand, and they would thank him.
Merchant Hub 7, Bay F
Geostationary orbit over Schwarzwald
January 11, 2311
“Oh I will never understand this bullshit! Not if I live to the heat-death of the universe itself and absorb every bit of knowledge produced between now and then! “ Tai Fuczkiewicz cursed, sliding out from her place below the still-broken environmental coil and rolling to her feet. The woman looked nothing like her physical age in Earth-years, but sometimes she definitely felt like it. That feeling got particularly bad when she was faced with obstinate machinery, like she was currently. She never had been all that machine-minded. She’d always preferred the more abstract realm of thoughts. That was what made her such an accomplished pilot and a profitable trader, at least in her own estimation. Unfortunately, when one was the only crewmember on a starship, even the captain could be forced to get her hands dirty with maintenance work.
“I’ve replaced your gaskets, sealed the leak, and lowered your power intake to the right levels, so why aren’t you working! You. Should. Be. Working!” Tai punctuated her last words with swift kicks onto the outer casing of the environmental coil. The things were designed to take all kinds of abuse, so there was little risk of her damaging it any further, and it definitely made her feel better.
Her frustration only increased when the readout in front of the coil went from a dull, unpowered grey into a blinking yellow test-pattern as it accepted power once again. The frustration boiled over into a monosyllabic expression of outrage when the test-pattern disappeared and the readout displayed green across the board. The ship was just being a mean-spirited asshole to her, that was all there was to it. That was the only explanation. The machine just didn’t like her and refused to operate the way it was supposed to! It was ridiculous.
“I ought to have just let them send you to the scrappers at the end of the war.” She muttered to the ship as she cleaned her hands off against her work overalls. She wasn’t serious though. If she were going to sell Cannonball she’d have done it already and spared herself untold amounts of labor and frustration putting up with and trying to fix its personality quirks. Which was exactly what the minor faults were at this point. Ships got old enough and they started to show signs of age just like people. In this case, the environmental coils liked to leak and operate under-capacity almost constantly. Not even close to being anywhere near dangerous, since the ship was designed for holding more than a hundred and she rarely went out with more than twenty, but it was still annoying.
Tai sighed and ran one still-greasy hand through her hair. The dirt never bothered her, but she did get frustrated when things didn’t work as they were supposed to. Which had made the last three decades of her life rather problematic, if she were to be honest. But there was no helping that. All the things that had broken on her over the last years were just the breaks, and she’d done what she could to stitch them together again into something that at least resembled a working order. Staring at the jerry-rigged environmental coils, she tried not to dwell on just how messy that ‘working order’ was. At least it worked, right? She’d been living through catastrophe after disaster for so long that things ‘working’ were a decided step up from where they had been before.
It would stop working again. She knew that for a fact. But for now? It worked. That was enough. Until she could get the time and energy to tear things apart more and find out what was really wrong.
Tai glanced at the old-fashioned holographic chronometer display on the back of her palm as she scratched at an itch. Unlike most starship captains, Tai didn’t have an implant of any kind to call up the time on. She’d never seen the need and Cannonball had built-in computers to handle anything she ever might need. She hadn’t even needed those yet, so what help would a computer in her cortex be?
What the chronometer told her invited another curse. She’d been at it longer than she thought, and her new hires were slated to be arriving in mere minutes. There was no time for a shower, not that Tai probably would have taken one anyways. Instead, Tai merely rubbed the grease and dirt around slightly on her hands with a small cloth she had for exactly that purpose. It was the Neutral Zone, after all. There wasn’t anybody dudding up in the nines like they might for a Beowulfian soirée. Practicality was the name of the game out here.
Biting her lip slightly, Tai cast one last simmering look at the environmental coil and then stalked off. If she knew the ship—and she’d been working on it so long she definitely knew it—the thing would be broken again within six or seven months for no discernable reason. But that would be six or seven months of trading and carefree sailing, so it was worth it. There was little else she could do except perhaps sell the old girl, faulty coils and all, and that was something she could never bring herself to do.
It helped that selling Cannonball wouldn’t be worth it. Even if the new owners would give her money up-front, their disappointment would probably lead to a bounty getting put on her head. Tai enjoyed not having anyone in the Zone trying to violently murder her or put a collar around her neck so she could be sold to the highest bidder.
She sighed. Broken things needed to be fixed, there just never seemed to be enough hours in the day. She would get to it, in time. But after the Wars she’d just—still—needed…
Tai shook herself out of the familiar line of thought and began to stretch out the kinks in her back as she ambled through the cargo-bay towards the exit that lead onto the station. Her security for the trip to Gamrey would be showing up on the dock of the station at any moment now.
Not that she or her cargo actually needed security for the trip to Gamrey. But still, appearances were important.
