Imagine if. . .

We could capture one of those rare iron/nickle asteroids and guide it into orbit around the Moon.


Why the Moon?  Let's not risk the off chance of a missed orbit around our home Earth and a global disaster.


Why the rare iron/nickle asteroid?  In recovering the bounty of metals and chemicals, an even more valuable orbital resource will be gained - real estate.  Tunnels and chambers left from mining would be converted to living space for the next generation of astronauts.


And why the asteroid at all?  Right now it costs  something like $50,000/lb to put stuff into orbit.  In addition to the huge cost, there are extreme limitations to how much can go up at a time.


The International Space Station took 10 years and many billions of dollars so far, and remains incomplete.  Having all that structural material already in orbit will allow the next space station to be much larger, MUCH cheaper, and to actually get finished.


This isn't impossible science fiction rambling.  NASA recently landed a craft on an asteroid for extended research purposes.  It would take little more effort to include a thorium powered ion engine on the next asteroid lander and begin using space resources to advance Man's presence in orbit.


The question is, then, what will be the color scheme on that next space station: Uncle Sam red, white, and blue, or Shushu Mao yellow and red?

Simply Un-hackable

How do you beat hackers?  Move fast.  Hackers need time to steal the code of an operating system, study it for weakness, write code to exploit that weakness.  To make an OS unhackable all you need to do is replace it daily with a new version.


It's the specific ordering of tasks that makes an operating system vulnerable.  Once the hacker knows this order, finding a way in is only a matter of time and study.  If we shuffled that order, rearranged the code, and changed the locks every day, that kind of hacking becomes obsolete.


A new operating system daily?  Sounds a bit crazy, but I think not impossible.  Computer programs in general are like Legos - there are as many ways to snap together a shape as there are people.  In this way coding is still regarded to be as much art as science.  


But what if we applied scientific brute force to the art?  Computers are really good at crunching numbers, allowing such applications as searching all possible routes from place A to place B to find the optimal route.  Similarly, if we 'shuffled' the essential bits of OS code and let a supercomputer search all possibilities to find the new optimal computer coding "path," we'd have a brand new OS every day.


Of course, this means a computer program to write the computer program, but it's far, far easier to protect one computer system than millions.  No wireless connections, no portable data devices and no network connections keeps all hackers at bay.  


There would be more to this, though.  The High Security Operating System would need a 'hardwired' input system, one that could not be changed or tampered with.  This input shell would boot up from Dedicated Read-Only Memory; tampering would require someone physically breaking in and replacing the DROM chip.


At first the HSOS written by computer would be simple, more for robotics or cellphones than accounting firms.  The military would likely be the top customer; present military robotic systems are necessarily hampered by crude-but-unhackable control systems.  Later on, perhaps, Microsoft would sell HSOS daily replacement service for $20 a month.


Wait, computers writing computer programs.  Hello, Skynet?

Think Before Opening

Folks over at the US Office of Naval Research have announced development of a material as strong as aluminum, dense as steel, and high explosive.


Apparently this is intended to enhance the effectiveness of missiles.  Much of a missile's weight is structure to hold together warhead, motor, and guidance systems.  If this structure is also explosive, the boom factor goes way up.  Brilliant idea; missiles get smaller and cheaper but remain as effective as previous missiles.


Another plan is to replace shell casings, for use in 'no ejection' firearms.  Clever idea; one of the most failure prone systems in a firearm is the ejection system.


Less clever is the idea of an explosive structural material that could replace metal parts in luggage, prosthetics, jewelry, cellphones, pens, hairpins, eyeglasses, keys, batteries - in other words, hundreds of items a terrorist could slip onto an airplane.


Or worse, replacement parts for vehicles and machines.  Practically every machine has aluminum parts or cases. With a bit of planning and work, practically every critical system from power grids to internets could be rigged to self-destruct on command.


Worst idea?  Opening mouth and announcing this discovery to the world at large.  

The Shape of Martians

Will humans colonize Mars? A better question might be ‘when we go, what will be the shape of Earth colonist Martians?’ Conditions on Mars Colony will be less than optimal for humans, to put it mildly. Temperatures and atmospheric pressures will be lethally low, exposure to unfiltered sunlight high, and despite hi-tech survival doo-dads, there will be considerable physical labor in every day duties. Furthermore, long periods out of reach of Mother Earth, and a lifestyle "under pressure" within the colony structure demands personalities resistant to cabin fever. Okay, you guessed it: Eskimos.

Short, dark, and muscular, these Amerinds live half a year or more indoors and are not prone to cabin fever. Short and round holds heat better than tall and skinny, and with the natural advantages of dark UV- resistant skin and insulating subcutaneous fatty layers, they would require much less protection from the extreme conditions than most of humanity. And isn't touching space helmet visors for private greetings a lot like Eskimo kisses?

Much of the basic problem of Mars is the deadly low temperatures. Useful gasses and liquids are trapped as ice, and life-giving weather is suppressed. Terraformation plans to pollute the atmosphere to retain more heat, or smack icy asteroids into Mar’s surface might work, but wouldn't it be better if Mars simply absorbed more of the energy old Sol gives? If polar surface temperatures were raised just a few degrees, CO2 and other goodies would begin to form a natural greenhouse effect, and a few degrees at the equator would stir the mix and further warm the poles. Have you guessed? Tattoos, of course, very good.

Coating key areas of the Martian surface with dark, solar absorptive material could be the answer to cheap, effective terraformation of Mars. Fine carbon ash could be spread a number of ways: remotely by bomb, or burning flares, or even special Rovers. These tattoos might be the only thing about early Martian colonization that actually makes money – how much would Pepsi pay to have its logo tattooed on the Face of Mars?

All this colonization and commercialization leads naturally to another question: will there be law?  Star Trek has it’s prime directives, for instance, and many Terrestrial interests would like to influence the laws of Colony Mars. If colonization must be backed by governments or corporations, "prime directives" will reflect the needs of mission success, not ethics or morals. If private colonization is possible, personal survival and success will likely outweigh any mandated prime directive. Unless, of course, someone wants to foot the bill for the Space Rangers, those square-jawed keepers of law and order.

Seriously, though, there will be such a need out there – at least as much as we need it down here. Greedy corporations, corrupt government officials, and civilian criminals dictate the need for a mythical lawman – invulnerable, incorruptible, yet sensible and understanding. Impossible? No. Remotely piloted vehicles are here now; a virtually tele-operated police officer will be soon. Thanks to an electro-mechanical body, threats and violence would be useless, or maybe a ticketable offense. Bribes and other influence would be wasted, since the officer's every word and action would be recorded. The really best part is that the officers would not have to qualify in height, strength, and other physical ways necessary to do a cop's job safely today, but could be tested instead for honesty, empathy, ethics, and other mental/emotional qualifications. "One riot, one ranger" might soon become "one planet, one Ranger" and my Eskimo Martian tattooers might have R2-D2 for a sheriff.

I went too far there, didn't I?

Unspoken

Unspoken


"Oh, hey, glad to see ya," I said over the traffic noise.
"Yeah, been a while," she said with a bright smile.  "How're you doing?"


So you know, I didn't really go out of my way to cross your path. . . not far out of my way, anyway.  


"You're really looking good.  Lost some weight?"


What a moron I am.  You might think at my advanced age. . .


"Aw, thanks for noticing.  I've been working hard since the divorce," she says with a subtle hair-flip.


Sure, I can talk to you like a person, like you're a smart, nice person.  Then I hear that and look at your cleavage and that male part of all men that's always on the make says, "hey, she's built, think we got a chance?"  


"C'mon, I've always noticed you.  Sorry to hear about that, though."


Now, I'm still trying to carry on the conversation even as I feel the skid begin.  My internal critic says something like, "We're twice her weight and age, what the hell do you think?"


"No, it was for the best," she said, then lowered her voice.  "Honestly, I'm glad to be single again."


If I'm lucky, this is where my conversational vehicle spins out and crashes.  I stutter or simply stop in mid-sentence as I struggle to regain control.


"Wow, I. . ."


If I'm not lucky, Mr. Male Ego says, "oh, yeah?  Well, watch this!"  What comes out of my mouth at this point has never been good.  


". . . I'm glad too, y'know?  Busy tonight?"


Let the trainwreck begin.

Not much cooler than. . .

Not much cooler than. . .


'Living Fossil' Discovered In Pacific Ocean.  Of course it isn't a chunk-of-rock-fossil.  The term was coined by Darwin (THAT Darwin) refering to a species that is practically unchanged over geologic eras.  This recent find was a tiny eel in a deep sea cave near Palau, and was appropriately named Protoanguilla palau.  Basically, we've discovered a dinosaur.  


Thorium Powered Cars: A Million Miles Without Refuelling.  In the 1950s thorium was researched as a power source for mega-bombers.  The concept was dropped, maybe because folks wanted uranium for nuclear bombs more than thorium for cheap power back then.  Thorium only emits alpha radiation, which is weak enough that it can't penetrate human skin, much less the container for a reactor.  A single gram of thorium equals the energy of 7,500 gallons of gasoline and it's as common as lead and far more abundant than uranium in the Earth's crust. The U.S. Geological Survey estimates that the U.S. has reserves of 440,900 tons of thorium.  Using new techniques, Laser Power Systems in Connecticut wants to build a 400lb thorium powered generator that will power a car 'til the wheels fall off.


Life on Mars? Fossil Find Shows It's Possible.  Recent findings suggests early Earth life was sulphur-based.  Micro-organisms metabolized sulphur rather than oxygen for energy, which supports the idea that similar life forms could exist on other planets where oxygen levels are low or non-existent.  Fossils in Australia and say their microscopic discovery is convincing evidence that cells and bacteria were able to thrive in an oxygen-free world more than 3.4 billion years ago.


Diamond Particles Found in Candle Flames, Scottish Scientists Say.  You thought candles were romantic, but never knew why, right?  Turns out nano-particles of diamond are formed by the millions in the center of a candle's flame.  In fact, several other special forms of carbon were found there as well.  Dr. Wuzong Zhou, from the University of St. Andrews in eastern Scotland, began the study of candle flames when a friend from another university pointed out during a discussion that science didn't know what was going on in a candle's flame.


I love being here, now.  Don't you?

Great Plan, NASA

Just a few weeks ago, NASA retired the American space shuttle program.  No more shuttle launches.  They knew this was coming for years, so had plenty of time to come up with an alternate plan to maintain America's ability to reach orbit.  After all, important satellites need adjusting and replacing, and there are people on the International Space Station that need a few things, like air and water and food.


So, what was the long anticipated plan to replace the shuttles?  Don't. Just don't.  The Russians can take over.  And without government competition, NASA claimed private companies would race to develop a commercial orbital system.  In short, NASA's plan was to abandon the crewmen on the ISS and leave America with no way to reach space.


Today Russia crashed the supply mission to the ISS.  Officials were quick to say that the ISS doesn't really need the supply mission and all is well. Last week some media carried the story that essential work was continuing on the New Mexico Spaceport; a quick check reveals they've almost built a hanger.  Even if we had a commercial orbital launcher ready, which we don't, there's no pad to launch it.


How's that plan workin' for ya, there, NASA?

Time to Say 'Wow.'

Viruses are presently the greatest risk of global disaster.  Bacteria are dangerous, even deadly, but most all can be treated with antibiotics.  With other considerations, like the speed of bacterial reproduction, it is unlikely any bacterial infection could endanger the entire world.


Viruses are different, and not just because there are no general antiviral drugs.  They don't actually reproduce; instead they hijack a victim's living cell to manufacture copies.  This destroys the cell and original virus, but releases thousands of new viruses into the victim. This frightening infection speed is what makes a virus so incredibly dangerous.  


The good news is that the human immune system 'remembers' and fights previously suffered viral infections, which is how vaccines work.  The bad news is a new virus meets no defense.  Humans are a single mutation away from annihilation.


Until now.  Lincoln Laboratory's Chemical, Biological, and Nanoscale Technologies Group recently announced a new drug that attacks the virus where it is most exposed - as it hijacks the host cell.  The attack is as brutal as it is effective, forcing infected cells to self-destruct, taking the virus with it.


Initial testing in mice has proven extremely effective and soon should advance closer to human tests.  For the first time in human history, we may soon be able to cure the common cold virus.


Wow. 8)

Mini Rants, vol. 2

Wow, is there any better idea than a pretty blonde woman taking a vacation to Aruba?  Of course!  Break up with your boyfriend, go with a man you met online, and let him take out $1.5 million in travel insurance first.  What could possibly go wrong?  


2,200.  That's the estimated number of civilians slaughtered by the Syrian military. . . so far.  Just a few hundred more were killed in the 9/11 attacks, and we went to war in 3 countries over that.  Why in the heck aren't we helping defend them?


The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and... well, that's it. Mr. Buffett, really rich guy, admitted he believes that the really rich underpay their fair share of taxes.  Harvey Golub, former CEO of American Express, (another really rich guy), said Hey, be fair, ya gotta tax everyone else more, too, and the government should have to prove it needs my money first, and anyway I earned it, so it's mine!  


With gas prices sky high, people are trying to save money and drive less.  To help them with that, some state governments are working on raising gas taxes.  States claim they can't take care of the roads we're not driving on because gasoline tax income is down.  Really?  And the answer is more taxes?  Which will put even more citizens off the road, raise transportation expenses, which will raise all kinds of prices AT THE STORE WE CAN'T AFFORD TO DRIVE TO.


On a cheerier note, Oh Those French!  A clothing company is marketing sexy 'loungerie' for 6 year old children.  Apparently the advertising campaign includes photos of little girls in bras, panties, and 'loungerie' in sexy poses.  I couldn't tell you just how sexy it all was, because I was afraid I might get arrested on child porn charges.


And Qaddafi, Gaddafi, whatever -- don't let me get started!


Thank goodness the world is a far better place than all this crazyness makes it look. 8)

Two Plus Eight Equals Forgotten?

Two years ago 3 young Americans were on a hiking vacation in Kurdistan.  At a tourist village some local residents recommended a trail they should try.  What a surprise that the Americans were arrested by Iranian soldiers who just HAPPENED to be patrolling this recreational hiking trail.


The Iranians say the 3 Americans had crossed the border carrying spy equipment - cameras, recorders, and women's rights literature.  Maybe they did cross the border, or maybe an Iranian operative in that little Kurdistan village saw an opportunity and made a phone call.  One of the men was a journalist living in Damascus with his fiance, who was a teacher, writer, and activist for women's rights.  The third was a teacher and journalist friend visiting from the States.  All were graduates of Berkeley.  All were perfect patsies for Iran.


They were imprisoned to await trial and there they stayed for a year.  The suffering was enough to drive the woman to illness, and she was released for humanitarian reasons. . . and a half million dollar cash bail.  Another year passed with hardly a headline on the still-imprisoned men, but finally the trial ended.  They were found guilty of illegal entry and cooperating with American intelligence service.  The sentence was 8 more years in prison for each.


Iran has milked this situation in the Mid-East press for 2 years, portraying the young men as steely-eyed spies and the woman as a lying, promiscuous bail-jumper.  Every UN action against them, every sanction by America, every accusation of nuclear bomb making has been cast as only revenge for Iran's righteous defense against Western spying.


I feel sickened by America's abandonment of those men.  Sure, wrong place/wrong time, but why have a State Department at all if not to fix things like this.  With the anniversary of 9/11 coming up the matter, to me, becomes all the sharper.  What is the limit of American's suffering beyond which our government will stand up and say 'no more.'  Must we lose thousands before we act?  


I say 'no.'  Stand up, America, and tell those running for election that those young men must come home to get your vote.  Tell them no donations until those men are home!


Tell them we are the Citizens of America and whoever messes with one of us gets the rest on your ass.

Guns and Profits

Revolution is spreading in the Middle East.  It can only benefit the rest of the world if the old guard is tossed out.  So why are we letting Syria and Iran put brakes to the train to freedom?  Who would complain if we busted Syria and Iran back to the stone age?


Apparently us.  Not me, of course.  I personally feel any jerk who starts slaughtering innocents in the name of stability should be assassinated.  By us I mean American military armaments corporations.  They don't sell anything directly to Syria or Iran, but they sell a LOT to everyone around them.  With the Cold War long over and China happy to avoid a shooting war when they can take their sweet time and eventually buy America, only the Middle East is left to 'defend' against.  


Syria and Iran buy lots of Russian guns and rockets and war planes and tanks and everything else evil regimes need to control the populace and frighten the neighbors.  Remove the threat of nuclear Iran and Syria dealing weapons to every terrorist in the region, and profits will go down.


I fear that the American military/industrial complex is conducting a War on Peace.

Sexual Strategy and Close Encounters


So a question needs to be answered; when Mankind (and Womankind) meet extraterrestrials, will sex be a topic that, ahem. . . arises?


I believe it was the mighty Asimov who proposed that alien visitors, besides being impossible because the rules of our local universe forbid the trip, would be either shockingly like us, or unfathomably different. Our shape and gross structure are dictated by much more than random evolution – gravity, atmosphere, ecology, and more helped form us. We'll likely resemble and understand the alien from similar eco-background, and most would be, since life seems most likely to be successful on planets like ours. Other life would come from situations so rare and weird that we may not even be able to communicate base concepts, much less fornicate. Heck, we might not even recognize each other as life forms. 


I'm going to make some initial statements about the importance of sex that ya'll may not agree with – just keep your shirt on and bear with me:  1) Among sexual species, sexual success is the one best way to survive, 2) we humans are one of the most sexual species on Earth, and 3) sexual success strategies are common, powerful, and important. 


Sexual species must procreate to survive. Big teeth, long lived, great speed – whatever a species does well, it must also pass this to the next generation sexually. If there are no babies, the species will die, no matter what other consideration; and any tendency to not breed will simply be left out of the next generation. Flipside – any tendency to desire and enjoy sex will be passed on to the next generation. In fact, any behavior resulting in sex is likely to be passed down to the next generations via instinct or social education. An example of instinctual human sexual behavior is the male tendency to seek slender, youthful females – young, healthy mate means many healthy babies. An example of social sexual behavior is monogamy – one female with one male gives the widest genetic diversity with the largest number of babies. Both examples seek success via sex.


Thanks to our brain, we humans have one of the largest sexual organ to body mass ratios among sexual species – a relatively large part of us is made for lovin' (and breeding). Furthermore, we are one of the few species blessed (or cursed) with no breeding cycle – women can have sex at will or desire without awaiting "heat" or season, and men are sexually responsive even without female stimulation (nuff said on that).  This all makes us humans probably the most sexual species on the planet, if not in the galaxy. 


Sexual strategies are behaviors that promote sex and successful procreation. For instance, we’ve been tribal a lot longer than not, so to avoid inbreeding the desire to seek mates outside the tribe is a powerful sexual motivator.  This means that someone who looks different from your friends and family is often attractive and fair sexual game. Success is a good sexual strategy, so long as the success is obvious enough to show potential mates that offspring will benefit – fame, power, prowess, and wealth are all powerful aphrodisiacs.  Promiscuity is a tried and true successful sex strategy – promiscuous males have more offspring, and promiscuous females insure that their babies benefit from varied genetics, and often have more support for pregnancy and child-rearing. Sexual wanderlust is built into all of us to some degree – a desire to sexually  wander geographically, socially, and financially. I'm not making this up and I'm not saying these are the best parts of us – just the facts.


We like sex, we want sex, we're good at sex, sex is possibly the biggest drive in our lives. Any alien with a brain cell and a sexual organ will probably figure this out within the first 15 minutes of serious study – the time it takes to begin the next round of commercials on his abducted TV. Further study of popular entertainment, illicit porn, and classical mythology/theology will tell our inquisitive alien that despite widely talked about morals, humans will consider sex with demons, angels, gods, animals, and inanimate objects, not to mention sex with each other in wildly unprocreative positions and groups. Scary, I bet. 


Imagine then that this craft full of aliens shows up, having traveled far, with limited crew (and limited sexual opportunity). These horny interplanetary sailors would become instantly famous, social, and potentially wealthy. I think we'll understand each other, don't you? 


Whew, I need a cigarette. Was it good for you? 

Under Pressure

Since Man stood up and hunted his way to the peak of the food chain, Mother Earth has not supplied him the environmental impetus to improve.  No predator, no storm, no earthquake, no disaster short of global sterilization can put pressure enough on our physical evolution to make a difference.  This is not to say things don't change; societies, governments, and economies are constantly evolving to meet the needs of Man.  But only the most pervasive, stubborn, and deadly of environmental forces can change the true face of Man.

That would be us.

We have evolved into the position of being our own enemy, our own predator.  Finding even the smallest example of external adaptive pressure is difficult. Villages in India that are ravaged by tigers and local disasters are hardly out of the stone age, and the tigers are still losing.  In the short term, we are not forced to adapt physically to environmental pressure; instead, we develop a tool, pass a law, or some other sociological adaptation.  It is a situation we unconsciously recognize, but simply don't acknowledge often, if ever.  What we must adapt to is growing technology, shrinking space, longer lives, and faster pace; we need to adapt to living in concrete hives while remaining human.  These evolutionary pressures come from within society and each of us.

This isn't an entirely healthy situation.  For instance, large cities are arguably an example of a geographically isolated population.  Like the Galapagos Islands, the central urbanized areas of the world are isolated microcosms of evolution.  Survival strategies are developed that have no basis in the larger ecosystem of our Earth, social traits take hold that would normally be culled by predatory or environmental pressure.  Freed of normal restraints and bereft of normal sustenance, humans are experimenting with survival in our man-made desert islands.  As we well know, these adaptations could be non-survival traits when confronted by the wider ecosystem around them.  From such situations mass extinctions have occurred.

It isn't an entirely unhealthy situation, either; the alternatives are fairly grim. There could be no evolutionary pressure at all, simply a long, smooth slide to degeneration, devolution, and oblivion.  In that case, Canus Sapiens could be digging up our remains millenia hence and wondering what could have possibly taken down the hominids that touched the moon; perhaps they'd be theorizing about killer asteroids or nuclear wars.  The opposite alternative is something arises that challenges the human race for that top spot in spite of our technological prowess, our ability to plan and cooperate, and our down-and-dirty ruthlessness.  The nature of that unknown, unstoppable 'something' would be the essence of nightmare and slasher movies.  Perhaps that helps explain the popularity of horror in book and film; the pressure to look over our shoulder for the next predator is a lot older than our present ecological enthronement.  

The pressure has costs.  Some people internalize the struggle, becoming predatory monsters.  Some internalize the plight, and become passive victims.  Some few stand aside and decry the process.  Most just forge ahead, blindly, stubbornly, humanly facing the challenge of evolutionary pressure.  Despite it all, we seem to be working out so far.  Is it chance that when our self-struggle is most extreme, our accomplishments are greatest?

Can you feel the pressure?

Carried Away

I've slacked off the last 3 days, yup.  There are tons of crazy and interesting things to write about, but I didn't.  Instead, Google+ added games to their new social networking gig and I was sucked in.


Still I could have made the time to write, and in fact I did write, but not here.  A fellow writer on Google+ shouted out for RPG game design help and I was sucked in.


Games.  I started playing D&D in 1975.  If you don't really know what Dungeons and Dragons is, you might not really care either.  Role Playing Games (RPGs) are not everyone's cup of tea.  


If you've played Clue, you have an idea of what RPGs are all about.  It isn't just about rolling dice, though dice are usually involved.  Players are presented with problems and must use their wits to guide their characters to a solution.


So it becomes a story of adventure with players controlling the characters, bending the plot to their own goals, facing down danger to reach the exciting conclusion.  That's the attraction of RPGs - not just reading about a hero's journey, but making it yourself.


Like a cat attracted to dangling yarn, I couldn't resist jumping at the opportunities.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Gun of the Future

Imagine, if you will kind reader, an upgrade of the venerable firearm.  Since the first musket engineers have worked to refine the design.  Step by step Kentucky rifles have become the modern assault weapons; complex machines hundreds of times more powerful and useful on the battlefield than those ancestral guns.  However, complexity can drive up cost and drive down reliability.  


Metal Storm might change all that.  Their patented idea is to stack all the bullets in the barrel, right where they need to be.  No magazine, no bolt, no reciever, no return spring, no ejection pin - none of the machinery to move bullets into the barrel.  Instead an array of tubes that are gun barrels and bullet storage are attached to a stock.  A computer in the stock controls which bullet fires next.  Yes, it sounds crazy, but it works:

Each barrel only fires a few rounds before being replaced, so there is no expensive steel barrel that must last for thousands of rounds.  Each Barrel/Magazine Cluster (BMC) will be made of steel-strong composite.  Shoot until empty, then replace and shoot some more.  Below is an image I made in Google Sketchup of a possible 20-shot 12ga Metal Storm shotgun.  

4 barrels, 5 shots per barrel, and the whole gun is lighter than a loaded 7-shot standard shotgun.  Shoot 20 times, break it open, toss the BMC, and put in another.  This same system would work with every bullet from .22 to 40mm grenade.  You wouldn't even need to change guns, just drop in a different BMC.


Now imagine a Taser in a shotgun shell.  The XREP is just that, a fully contained Taser designed to be fired from a 12ga shotgun.  Effective out to 50 yards, the XREP downs the target for 20 seconds, more than long enough for officers to take the perpetrator into custody.

Officers could now shoot first in dangerous situations, knowing the nonlethal XREP will give all involved a moment to think.  Suicide by cop might never happen again, riots be quelled without injuries, and innocent citizens will survive an errant shot.


Sometimes the future really is better.

Mailing Madness

      Lindsey moved behind the counter, slid his cash drawer into the register, and turned on his retail system.  It was almost 8:30 am on Monday morning at the Village Branch Post Office, and Lindsey felt apprehensive.
      Mondays in Los Angeles were always monster-crazy, especially on a hot day like this one was bound to be.  Four years he’d been a window clerk and during that time he’d seen some wild stuff go down in the lobby.  Most had happened on a Monday.  
      Trying not to focus on the crowd lined up all the way to the front door of the lobby, he checked the touch screen, straightened his tie.  The sound of shuffling feet, muted conversation, and the rushing traffic on Wilshire Boulevard competed with the rumble of equipment and buzz of voices from the workroom floor behind him.  Lindsey noticed the new bundles of Priority shipping boxes stacked in the supply rack and squatted to cut the straps with his box knife.
      "Morning, Lindsey," Jane said from behind him.  He looked up at the petite clerk.
      "Happy Monday," he replied with a grin.  She laughed and strolled back to the workroom floor with a tray of letters, looking back over her shoulder to make sure Lindsey was watching her.     
      The register pinged finally, telling Lindsey it had finished setting itself up.  Box knife back in his hip pocket, he entered his password with a few taps on the chilly touch screen.  The time readout on the screen showed one minute left to open, but Lindsey decided there was no reason to delay any longer.  Ignoring a prickle of dread he pushed the button that raised the steel security grill. 
      As the mechanism hummed and clattered he straightened his tie once more, turned the ‘This Window Closed’ sign around to ‘Open’.  The crowd shifted uneasily, shuffling into tighter alignment through the winding path of gleaming brass poles and white plastic chains.  He could hear the other windows opening to his left, the noise almost drowned out by the increased noise level from the lobby.
      "I can help you here," he said, smiled at the woman who was first in line.  She had dark hair casually gathered on the top of her head.  Standard Hollywood issue sunglasses hid her eyes, and a garden of bangs and stray locks framed her face.  She walked purposefully, with self-conscious indifference.  Yes, her attitude said to Lindsey, you’re watching me, but I’ve had that all my life.  She was a pretty girl but something else drew his attention, something undefined.  Something creepy.  Just another customer, Lindsey chided himself.
      "I need to mail this, please," she said, her voice businesslike and impersonal.  She placed a parcel already wrapped in heavily stained brown paper on the counter.  He reached to take it, but she snatched it back before his hand got close.  "I need a priority box."
      "Yes, ma’am," he said, trying to keep his professional smile from turning into a grimace.  Here we go, he thought, first damned one.  Well, let’s see how she likes it back.  Lindsey pulled a cardboard Priority mailer from the rack beside him and snapped it into shape.  "Here you go, ma’am."
      "Thank you," she said flatly as she reached for the box, but he didn’t release it to her.
      "Ma’am, I’m sorry, but security rules say we need to check the contents of any mailing weighing more than sixteen ounces.  Would you mind unwrapping it, please?"  Lindsey held on to the box, smiling but firm.  You could have avoided this, lady, he thought; all you had to do was let me have it.  She hesitated, looking down at the parcel, then back at Lindsey.
      "Of course," she said with obvious reluctance.  She let go of the box and took a step back from the window, forcing another glaring customer to step around her.  With the same care Lindsey expected a snake charmer to handle his performers, she unfolded the paper until a black, leather-bound book was exposed.  She never touched the book, holding it up for his inspection by grasping the deep spine with the stained wrapper as a glove.  Lindsey caught a whiff of must and rot; suspicion prickled his scalp.
      "Would you open it, ma’am?"  His eyes flicked to the line of impatient people behind her, and he recognized a face; Crazy Willy Parks was next in line.  Crazy Willy was a street person who got his mail general delivery at Village Station.  It hadn’t been too long ago that Crazy Willy had got into a scuffle over where the end of the line was with one of the rich folks from up in the Hills.  Lindsey almost groaned out loud and quickly looked back at his customer.  She was still standing there holding up the book.  
      "It’s a collector’s item, I don’t want to open it."  
      "Ma’am," he snapped with rising frustration, "I need to see inside, please."  I’m gonna transfer to the carrier side, he thought; no way dogs and rain are this bad.
      She hesitated a second more then nodded curtly.  Her sunglasses aimed like gun muzzles into Lindsey’s face as she slowly turned the book sideways.  Instead of gaping open and flopping limply over, the book seemed to leisurely riffle itself through the pages, briefly exposing each one.  
      Lindsey was transfixed with fear.  He saw no page clearly or completely, but what was inscribed there scared him so badly that he simply froze, unable to even look away.  Each letter writhed with sick meaning, every illustration clawed for his sanity.  Malevolence and menace projected from the book with such strength that Lindsey reflexively held his breath, trying to deny even contact with shared air. 
      Then she snapped it up and closed.  As the covers popped shut a slip of paper fell out and fluttered downward.  A young man walking past the service windows to the post office box section saw the object fall despite the cell phone at his ear.   He stopped and turned toward the woman at Lindsey’s window.  
      "Hey, lady . . . " was as far as he got; Crazy Willy surged into him.
      "No cuts!" yelled Crazy Willy, and shoved the young man hard.  The cell phone spun away and the man staggered into the woman, knocking her stumbling forward.  Instead of trying to catch herself, she raised the book out of harms way with both hands and smashed face first into the counter’s stainless-steel edge.  Her head snapped back and she went down, leaving a crescent of red on the steel.  The book arced across the counter.  Lindsey’s hands flew up, a reflexive gesture to fend off something deadly; he couldn’t have intentionally touched the book any more than he could have held his hands in a roaring fire. 
      The book tumbled into his grasp. 
      Pandemonium spun around Lindsey.  Several people struggled to restrain Crazy Willy, who was screaming bloody murder between spitting and clawing.  Others from the crowd were hooting and jeering, pushing forward to see the action.  A few were even trying to get over the chains and through the melee to reach the fallen woman.  Scott at the next window was braying over and over for security.
      Lindsey was aware of it all, every detail, a montage of reality snapshots.  His fear transformed the instant he touched the book, transcended into a glittering, faceted purpose.  For a frozen second he let his senses roam.  The flying pieces from the shattered cell phone opened plastic petals against the polished marble of the lobby floor.  Spittle from misshapen mouths spun in diamond arcs, sounds echoed from glass and stone and steel in a choir of chaos.  He focused on Crazy Willy’s face, just visible through the forest of tangling arms.  Crazy Willy rolled his eyes and looked back at Lindsey, the only normalcy in roiling madness.
      "It’s up to you," he said clearly, "you’re the only one, boy."  Lindsey nodded in response.  He already knew.
      Space and time melded together again.  The woman-thing rose up in front of Lindsey, her ruined mouth gaping with fangs, tentacle tongues writhing.  Absurdly skewed sunglasses revealed eyes of mottled gray slitted with gold.  Lindsey was prepared; his hand came from his back pocket with the box knife blade thumbed all the way out.  He slashed the razored steel at inhuman eyes, swiped at its throat as it dodged his first cut.   
      Unhurt, the monster stumbled back from Lindsey’s attack and pitched into the hands of the rescuers.  Without hesitation, Lindsey rolled over the counter, landed in a crouch beside it.  Though shaking from reluctance to touch the monster, he hooked the blade behind the thing’s left knee and ripped upwards.  Something hotter than human blood burned his fingers.  
      Hope that slows her down enough, Lindsey thought as he ran for the exit with the book tucked under one arm, slashing at any hand that reached to slow him.


One week later.
      “Doctor, are you certain –“
      “Please don’t say anything.  Please?  Thank you.”  The voice became monotone.  "Lindsey, can you hear me?"
      Lindsey nodded.  What a stupid question, he thought.  The flowers were in a glass bowl placed in the center of a bright white tablecloth, with the arrangement spilling over the edges of the bowl.  Lacy leaves framed the arrangement, and a spray of blood-red spikes provided a central accent.  The flowers were the only important thing right now.
      "Good.  Lindsey, I want you to keep concentrating on the flowers.  Focus on the flowers while I ask you a few questions.  Okay?"
      Lindsey nodded again.  They were fresh flowers, not fake plastic or silk. I recognize roses, he thought, but the other leaves and stalks and berries might as well be from another planet.  He could see murky water in the squat, globular glass vase, and a glimpse of twisted, tentacular roots.  He started to sweat.
      "Good.  Lindsey, I want you to help me remember what happened last week on Monday.  Can you?"
      Lindsey’s nod barely moved his head.  He studied the flowers harder.  Even the roses seemed to have an unearthly tint, mottled and stained with grey.   
      "Okay.  Lindsey, you were at work Monday morning, weren’t you?"
      Lindsey’s heart began to race and a drop of sweat tickled down the back of his neck.  He couldn’t imagine what was wrong with such a normal thing as an arrangement of flowers, but he was beginning to think that something would have to be done.
      "Lindsey?  Can you help me remember?  Can you help me remember what happened when you opened your window?"
      He could hardly hear the questions now over the thunder of his heart.  Though his eyes vibrated to the pulse, he concentrated on watching the flowers.  Something stirred the water in the vase, something pale and evil caressed the inside of the dirty glass.  With that, calmness and certainty came to Lindsey.  It was up to him to do something.  He nodded to himself.
      "Good, good.  Focus now, Lindsey.  Can you help me remember the woman?"
      Lindsey stood up.

One week later.
      Scott locked his cash drawer into the register, powered up the system, and turned back to face Jane, ignoring the crowded lobby.
      "Yeah, they found him down on a beach, just off Old Malibu Drive, y’know?  Dancing around naked, yelling about burning books and that he was the only one or something.  Man."
      "Isn’t that Topanga State Park?"  Jane squinted in thought.
      "Yup."  Scott nodded, glanced at the touch screen waiting for his password.  "He was in the park, burning his car, right in the middle of summer.  Wonder he didn’t start another wildfire.  Damn."
      "I still can’t believe it," said Jane.  "I think that woman had something to do with it."  Her voice was firm with conviction.
      "Yeah, well, she got outta here and they never found her or nothing."  He tapped his password in, pressed the button to open the cage without facing the lobby.  "Listen to this.”  Scott lowered his voice, leaned conspiratorially toward Jane.  “His lawyer had ‘em hypnotize him, y’know?  Tried to find out what happened, but Lindsey went nuts, smashed up the guy’s office, almost got away again.  Now they’ll never let him out of the psych ward.  Man."  Scott shook his head, saw Postmaster MacNamara standing in his office door, watching.  MacNamara tapped his watch, raised his eyebrows.  Flustered, Scott turned back to the lobby.  "Well, I gotta get started, I guess."
      Jane nodded.  "Yeah, me too.  Need to finish the box section.  Take it easy."  She sauntered back to the workroom floor.
      Scott faced the window and the crowded lobby.  Mondays suck, he thought.  He spun the sign around to ‘Open’.
      "Who’s next?"  He watched a good-looking girl with dark hair march toward him, carrying a flat, rectangular parcel tight under her arm.  Well, maybe this Monday won’t be so bad after all, he thought.
      "I want to mail this, please, in one of your boxes."
      "Sure thing, miss."  He snapped open a Priority mailer box, held it out for her to slide the parcel in, and sealed it up.  She addressed the box with a Massachusetts address written in an odd script then smiled at him as he keyed the transaction.  
      Her teeth were sharpened to points. Damn, all the freaks end up in L.A., he thought.
      "Will that be cash or credit card?"


The End

Oh Good Grief (the mini-rants)

Oh, Good Grief (the mini rants).


Okay, I'm a little pissed at President Obama.  I'm hoping he's got some hidden cards in the Capital Hill economic game -- something brave, smart, and executive.  I worry that he doesn't.  What do I see in the headlines, though?  Michelle Bachmann wins Iowa.  Really?  Considering she was only running against a handful of Republican zombies, are we really surprised?


We aren't even out of Iraq yet and "Iraqi President Jalal Talabani sought to reassure his Syrian counterpart Bashar al-Assad that Iraq stands firmly behind Syrian stability."  More?  This support comes at the demand of. . . wait for it. . . Iran!  Maybe we should just load up the troops from Iraq and Afghanistan, shoot our way through Syria, Libya, and Palestine, then put them on planes in Tel Aviv and send them home. Iran couldn't resist trying to take over the entire Muslim world and the Middle East would be busy killing each other for the next 20 years.


Why would people have prayer meetings for rain?  Because they know there's a better chance of God helping them than their government.  Why would the Governor of Texas have a prayer meeting for rain?  Because it's cheaper than building reservior dams, replacing leaky water mains, requiring rain cisterns, and investing in desalination plants.  Oh, and it's a way to get more political attention for your Presidential run.


So you're young, unemployed, British, and Jersey Shore is on break.  How to relieve the boredom?  Riot, of course.  In true Clockwork Orange fashion, ultraviolence is the new happy-happy.  Who does London turn to for help?  Former Boston, New York and Los Angeles police chief, Bill Bratton.  Oh, yeah, that's who I'd want, the fella who gave us Rodney King and a zero tolerance policy.  The guy can't keep a job; how's he gonna keep the peace?


In closing, watch this video and just TRY to not say Oh My God:

Fair Warning

by Matt Champine, Chris Qualls, et al




Breaker, breaker, hope ya'll can hear me on this thing.  Left a little somthin' in orbit the tech geeks ought to love.  Won't be too long 'til this party really gets started, so wish me luck.  Oh, Charlie Mike.  That's how ya'll say continue mission, right?  Buck out.


*     *     *


Report:  Suitability of Local Contact on 2102-Gran 3 (Local name: Earth)
Date: 1.87314.220 GR
From: Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
To:  Chief Xenosociologist U. Bauth
CC: Sector Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod


Gran 3's dominant species is at a critical point in their social development (and dangerous given their level of technology, and curious nature). The current social structure is based on territorial boundaries and differences in ideas on governmental structure, as well as on the existence and nature of a mythical supreme being.  War is a way of life for them. 


While socially and ideologically primitive, the inhabitants of Gran 3 have a relatively advanced technology.  Thorium reactors, EM mass drivers, and intra-solar spacecraft are some of their achievements. This makes them a bit of a wild card in regards to the question of first contact. There could be many possible outcomes from making contact, from being greeted with open arms to being blown from their skies by NUCLEAR WEAPONS (Which they have in large numbers).  


Our rather simple-minded native research subject confirms our observations, even volunteering to remain in exile from his own world so we don't have to risk another landing for his return.  Such selfless behavior gives me hope for these humans. 


It is therefore my recommendation that no first contact communications be initiated at this time.  However close observation should be maintained in the event an intervention becomes necessary.  While not yet ready for contact, the inhabitants of Gran 3 have many unique qualities to add to the richness of the galactic community. 


I am forwarding the full formal findings report for verification and archive.  After wrapping up the current observation runs and performing some repairs (communications and computation sections have become glitchy), we are happily heading back to civilization.


In Service to the Republic
Trianec Gelnir 


*     *     *


Report: We must conquer this planet!
Date: 1.87314.221 GR 
From: Sector Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod 
To: Quadrant Operations Command
Attn: Senior General A. Mauryon


Sir;


According to this report the denizens of this backward planet may be strange and destructive, but the planet is rich!  If the planet was appropriately mined it would solve several resource shortages (Thorium for one) on Prime!  Not to mention the place is an ocean paradise!


Their calculi (they call it "math")  is base ten, there is no primary language, and no global government – silly and barbaric, I'm sure you'll agree.  While I admit they are dangerously war-like, what defense they might mount will be clumsy and disorganized.


On another strange note, a popular hobby among them is to ingest various addictive poisons!  This seems to prove that these people crave their own deaths.  We could easily fill those wishes and benefit the Republic. 


This planet's very existence is insulting!  For the Glory of the Republic!


SubGen. P. Puqlod 


*     *     *


Report:  Communications Intercept


     URGENT
Date: 1.87314.224 GR
From: Sector 5.32 Signals Intelligence Section
To: Sector Fleet Command
CC: Quadrant Operations Command
Sector Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod
Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
     URGENT


Signal received and recorded this date.  Signal source suspected: Gran-3.  


Signal was broadcast in most recent Fleet cypher-scramble.  SigInt concludes Gran-3 natives have acquired operational frequencies and broken Fleet codes.  Recommend all codes in Sector be changed, and all Fleet signals use Fleet SecComNet or beamcast instead of broadcast.  


Decoded transmission and translated transcript attached.


SubLt. Lyno Curq


--TRANSMISSION BEGINS-- 




Your problem is, fellas, that you've just run into the nastiest, meanest, least tolerant race in the galaxy--us humans. The NICEST thing we're likely to do to ya'll is kill nearly every last one of you, and put the rest on some godforsaken reservation to sicken and die. 


Hell, even if you were to fight us to a standstill, it'll never be over. We'll constantly plan for "our defense," forcing you to spend more and more to keep up. Our people will complain, and blame you, and your people will suffer, and blame you. You just can't win--if you blink, we'll be all over you; if you're friendly, we'll take advantage of you; if you attack, we'll use that as an excuse to nuke you. 


To make a long story short, your only chance is to outrun us and hope we want what you left behind more that we want YOU. 


Bye for now. 


--TRANSMISSION ENDS--


*     *     *


Report: War!
Date: 1.87314.225 GR
From: Sector 5.32 Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod
To: Quadrant Operations Command
Attn: Senior General A. Mauryon


The indigenous species of the planet are beyond all hope! They have blatantly declared war upon us! Their erratic behavior cannot be modified, and they continuously express their destructive tendencies. Their so-called "society" is no more than a limited constraining of their animalistic behavior! 


Request the use of Fleet mass drivers to bombard Gran-3. They must be eradicated!  If the War Committee won't get off its collective ass and approve preemptive action, we can leak intel to the natives about those xeno-whatever-they-are people, then use their rescue as an excuse to invade and encapsulate the native's minds into computer simulations!  Then we can absorb any culture or usefulness these animals have in a safe and controlled manner. 


Commencing training maneuvers to ensure our ships are in place when your orders reach me.  For the Glory of the Republic!


*     *     *


Report:  Communications Intercept


     URGENT
Date: 1.87314.227 GR
From: Sector 5.32 Signals Intelligence Section
To: Sector Fleet Command
CC: Quadrant Operations Command
Sector Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod
Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
     URGENT


Signal received and recorded this date.  Signal source unverified but appears to originate from Gran-3.  


Signal was intercepted over Fleet Secure Communications Network.  SigInt concludes Gran-3 natives have acquired hardware and software to access FSecComNet.  Recommend all classified Fleet signals use hardcopy couriers until FSecComNet breach can be identified and patched.


Decoded transmission and translated transcript attached.


SLt. Lyno Curq


--TRANSMISSION BEGINS--  


Let's get down to brass tacks. Ya'll got no idea how far we've infiltrated your little conspiracy, do you? A large fraction of your returning xenosociologist teams have been cyborg infiltraters, patriots altered surgically and cybernetically to pass as one of ya'll. Inside each one is a crude, old-fashioned thermonuclear device. I reckon you know by now just how ruthlessly we will use these walking weapons to destroy your government, culture, and public trust...if something happens to us, that is. 


On the other hand, our High-orbit Ultraviolet Bevawat Battle Laser Emitter (H.U.B.B.L.E.) Satellite is operational, and ready to defend us from any and all incoming threats. 


Do they play poker where ya'll come from? In Stud Poker, each player has cards turned up for all to see, but one card left face down, 'in the hole.' In a misplaced attempt at fair play I revealed some or our cards. Now you've seen the rest. 


Except for that pesky hole card. 


Don't feel bad...it's not your fault that you aren't mentally up to challenge the human race. This is what we do best. Ya'll still have that chance to outrun us, at least for now. But if you want to stay and fight, that's okay, cause we dearly love a good fight. 


--TRANSMISSION ENDS--


*     *     *


Report: Need some help
Date: 1.87314.229 GR
From: Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
To:  Chief Xenosociologist U. Bauth


Sir, something quite extraordinary is taking place.  The local Sector Adjutant, SubGen Puqlod, has just ordered full mobilization of the Sector Fleet, including our research vessel.  Due to safety and security issues (or so says General Puqlod) all my staff has been confined to quarters under armed guard.  He is a rather impulsive and dislikeable fellow, but this seems quite excessive.


If you could get us off the ship before we become involved in some kind of war, I would deeply appreciate it.


In Service to the Republic
Trianec Gelnir


*     *     *


Report: Orders
Date: 1.87314.230 GR
From: Senior General A. Mauryon
To: Sector 5.32 Operations Command
Attn: Sub General P. Puqlod


1: Do not attack Gran 3 until I so order.
2: Continue Sector Maneuvers.
3: Dispatch a scout to Gran 3.
4: Transfer Dr. Gelnir and team via courier to your Sector HQ and hold them somewhere we can afford to have blown up.

Peevey, get me some eyes out there.  Gran 3 may be more dangerous than either of us realize. FtGotR.


*     *     *


Report: Thank you, sir.
Date: 1.87314.233 GR
From: Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
To:  Chief Xenosociologist U. Bauth


Thank you, sir.  We are out of lock-up and heading home.  SubGen Puqlod even allowed us to bring along irreplacable samples and data from Gran 3.  Our only real loss was our native research subject, Jonas.  He seems to have wandered off and simply cannot be found.  The poor fellow may have inadvertantly stepped out an airlock.


First we stop at Sector HQ for some sort of debrief, then back to civilization.  We are ready to get out of this mess.


In Service to the Republic
Trianec Gelnir


*     *     *


Report:  Communications Intercept


     URGENT
Date: 1.87314.234 GR
From: Sector 5.32 Signals Intelligence Section
To: Sector Fleet Command
CC: Quadrant Operations Command
Sector Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod
Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
     URGENT


Signal received and recorded this date.  Signal source unverified but appears to originate from Gran-3.  


Signal was intercepted over Fleet Secure Communications Network.  SigInt has failed to find any breach in FSecComNet.  We conclude Gran-3 may have technology matching or exceeding our own.  Recommend shutting down FSecComNet and all communications be restricted to short range tightbeam or courior.


Decoded transmission and translated transcript attached.


SLt. Lyno Curq


--TRANSMISSION BEGINS--  


Fair warning, ya'll.  One more move toward our solar system and you get a bloody nose.  Not that we humans ain't ready-n-eager to jump into this fight with both feet, but it just seems unsportin' to fry a bunch of dumb-ass sailors who don't have a clue what's about to happen.


As for locking up our agents, we appreciate their transportation to Sector HQ.  That Puqlod is a darn helpful fella.  And thanks for that scout ship.


--TRANSMISSION ENDS--


*     *     *


SECTOR TASK FORCE 
ACTION ORDERS FOLLOW
codekey b52m


Report: Action order for Strike Group
Date: 1.87314.234 GR
From: Sub General P. Puqlod
To: Commander Benscht
CC: Quadrant Operations Command


Situation:  Scout vessel RSS-92 lost in vicinity of Gran-3.
Mission:  Search and Rescue of RSS-92.


Commander, the honor of the Republic has been stained by these barbarians!  I want you to show them no mercy in this operation.  Take this opportunity to show them the strength of the Republic.  Spare no gun and take no prisoners!  The rest of Sector Task Force will stand ready to back you up.


For the Glory of the Republic!
SubGen. Puv Puqlod


*     *     *


Report: Confused
Date: 1.87314.235 GR
From: Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
To:  Chief Xenosociologist U. Bauth


Chief, I am completely baffled.  First we're in custody, then being shipped home, then back into lock up again, and THEN kicked out in front of Sector HQ without our luggage.  I've hired a local taxi service to get us to the spaceport so we can escape this madness.    


The only good thing is we have found Jonas, the native subject from Gran-3. Apparently he became confused and boarded the wrong ship when that idiot Puqlod first grabbed the team.  Amazing that he finally found us. 


In Service to the Republic
Trianec Gelnir


*     *     *


Report:  Communications Intercept


     URGENT
Date: 1.87314.236 GR
From: Sector 5.32 Signals Intelligence Section
To: Sector Fleet Command
CC: Quadrant Operations Command
Sector Military Adjutant Sub General P. Puqlod
Sub Chief Xenosociologist T. Gelnir
     URGENT


Signal received and recorded this date.  Signal source unverified, appears to have originated from Sector HQ.


Signal was intercepted over Fleet Secure Communications Network via Command Override.  SigInt can offer no conclusion except possible treason.  Investigation ongoing.


Decoded transmission and translated transcript attached.


SLt. Lyno Curq


--TRANSMISSION BEGINS--  


Apparently ya'll alien yahoos ain't got a lick of sense.  We could have wiped out your whole damn fleet, but cooler heads prevailed this time and just one ship got toasted.  Still, it was a shame all those sailors had to die like that.  


The good news is we're gonna give ya'll one last chance to improve your game before we come after ya.  We're moving our planet somewhere far away with plenty of resources.  I reckon we'll be back in a couple of decades for the showdown.  Hope ya'll are ready.


Oh, you can pick up that scout crew where Gran-3 used to be.  Send just one rescue craft or we start this war early.  Don't say we never gave ya nothing.     


--TRANSMISSION ENDS--


*     *     *


Report: Orders
Date: 1.87314.236 GR
From: Senior General A. Mauryon
To: Sector 5.32 Operations Command
Attn: Sub General P. Puqlod 


1. Pull back my fleet.
2. Finish S&R for my cruiser you got blown up.
3. Get a ship out there to pick up my scout crew.
4. Report personally to my office ASAP.


I have it on good authority you disobeyed my previous orders.  Worse than that, Intelligence Section is hinting about you causing some kind of major security breach.  Bring along your full logs, and you might want to bring a lawyer, too.  Sorry, Peevey, but I'm not going down for treason with you.


*     *     *


Breaker, breaker for Earth Defense Command, Jonas Buck here.  Mission accomplished.  Sending along some more tech specs to help catch up to them aliens.  Ya'll should stay away from Gliese 581 when you test those new spaceships - that's where I told their computers to think Earth used to be.  Guess those hacker geeks really did know what was what. 


That was the good news.  The bad news is ya'll can keep that pardon; I've decided to stay.  Every one of these aliens is a sheep ready to be sheared.  I'm gonna con these folks for everything I can and buy the rest.  Suppose I should thank ya'll for the opportunity.


Fair warning; don't use that shiny, new quantum radio I stole for ya'll to turn me in.  On Earth I'm just another con-man, but here I might end up king, and ya'll DON'T want to be on the wrong side of the king, if you know what I mean.  


The End




Note:  The first parts of this story were written long ago by multiple authors during a forum exchange.  I saved the collaborative posts and finally have cleaned them up and finished it out as a story.  

Drug Rant

We are buying scorpion antivenom FROM MEXICO!  Why?  American drug companies don't want to mess with a product that only a few hundred Americans might need each year!  After all, where's the billion dollar profit in that?

The wholesale price on the drug is $3,500 a dose, and requires 3 doses, so costs the hospital nearly $10,000 for a full course of treatment.  Considering aspirin costs $5 a pair at most hospitals, the price to desperate, dying patients will be more like $50,000.

Which is not the real point of this rant.  We're buying a lifesaving drug from Mexico.  Is this the state of American drug companies?  Drug companies in the (arguably) most powerful nation on Earth should make every possible drug to promote our health and well-being.  Considering the massive profits American drug companies pull in, helping the whole world shouldn't be out of reach.  So what's going on?

Shady business is what's going on.  Of the drugs still made in America, 80% of the ingredients to make and package them are imported, mostly from India and China.  Our very health is in the hands of foreign suppliers.  Could it get worse?

Yes.  American drug companies are simply not producing some important drugs, resulting in dangerous, even deadly shortages.  Health care providers are forced to use more expensive and/or less effective alternatives.  The result is cancers untreated, pain unmanaged, and even some deaths due to incorrect doses of unfamiliar alternate drugs.

American drug companies have become our enemy, putting profit ahead of patients.  Like many other corporations, the leadership of our drug companies have decided to loot America.  Upper management is getting richer while we suffer.  CEOs are becoming billionaires while we die.  How long must this go on?

Until we declare War on the Looting of America.  Criminally greedy businessmen are taking advantage of all the rest of America.  They are bending capitalism to the breaking point to get richer and richer.  We need to jail these evildoers, nationalize any company that by policy or action hurts Americans, and confiscate the riches of anyone involved with harming us.

Or let things go on as is until the Citizens of America are forced to rise up and take action themselves.  Crazy?  Sure, but history shows that if Citizens are ignored, hanging ropes and guillotines will eventually come out.  Let's hope our government is paying attention.

Insurance Rant

Insurance.  On the face of it, this cooperative method to share the costs of accidents and illness seems a good idea.  Get 1,000 people to pay into a pool and use the group funds to pay the bills of those unfortunate few who will surely suffer a fire or car wreck or heart attack.  Communism in its finest expression.


As it turns out, capitalists shouldn't run communistic endeavors.  The money we 'donate' to the pool has become payments to huge corporations dedicated to never giving any back.  'Local agents' are shills without influence or use beyond passing our money up the pyramid.  'Friendly service' is only friendly as long as the customer doesn't need service.


The natural disaster that causes the most monetary loss each year is flood.  As it turns out, most insurance companies won't insure against flood.  Live on the coast?  They don't offer hurricane insurance, either.  Should we get really sick, medical insurance will will cry 'catastrophic limit.'  If we lose our car to an accident, car insurance won't pay enough to replace it.  Insurance in all it's myriad forms has become a scam, a con game, a gamble only the house can win.


Insurance companies are quite aware of their crimes.  They spend huge amounts of our money to influence and downright buy politicians to protect themselves.  The best example is our President's 2009 attempt to bring health care to every American, giving citizens an option for private medical insurance.  Insurance and medical companies spent about half a billion dollars that year to influence congress and other politicos to stop public health care.  


Is there a need for insurance?  Yes.  Do we need insurance companies?  No.  Insurance is a socialist concept, allowing people to share their daily risks so that bad luck won't completely ruin victims.  The idea needs reengineering.  For instance, a national acturial database should allow nationwide rates instead of the confusing array of rates insurance companies use now.  Perhaps, since humans can't avoid living near water (farming, shipping, fishing, etc.), flood and hurricane insurance should be automatic (if a little extra cost) and the payouts spread nationally.


Will insurance reform come anytime soon?  I wouldn't bet on it.

War on the Looting of America

Here is how Americans are rewarded for bailing out the auto industry.  We let GM and other American car companies overcharge us, dodge their fair tax share, take our jobs out of the country, and then they choose China to be their partner in the future?


General Motors Helping to Design City of the Future...in China


I can think of no better argument for nationalization of a corporation than this.  We are at war with China, a global war of economics.  China holds more American debt than everyone but American citizens.  China actively pursues a state supported computer hacking campaign against the USA to gain economic and strategic advantages.  China backs our enemies economically and militarily.  China woos and recruits manufacturing jobs away fom the USA, directly harming our economy.  China takes advantage of the tariff imbalance with the USA to depress American markets.


The worst part is that the soulless corporations of America are eager to help with our destruction, and this action by GM is an undeniable example.  Programs like unemployment insurance, food banks, and prescription co-pays were cancelled or underfunded so our government could 'save' GM and others from bankruptcy.  We literally took money from the unemployed, food from our citizens, and healthcare from the elderly to bail out GM.


GM isn't the only corporate criminal in America, but teaming up with China is unbelievably brazen.  It might even be interpreted as an act of war, but is at least immoral, trampling the trust of employees and all of America.  Our government should recognize the offense to our citizens and step in, as we did in Libya.  


President Obama should declare a War on the Looting of America, take over GM, and jail all executives while Congress decides what to do with them.  Everyone involved should lose everything if investigations find they are planning policy that harms Americans.  GM should then forever remain a government entity.  What's the worst that could happen, bankruptcy?  Been there, done that.  Obama is looking for jobs for veterans?  There ya go!


Okay, it sounds a bit extreme, I know, but Citizen America needs to send a message to Corporate America -- we are not only a labor force or a market share; we made Corporate America what it is, saved them from themselves, and we will take back what is ours if necessary.  We of Citizen America will not allow Corporate America to impoverish our citizens, aid our enemies, hold our economy hostage, and try to destroy the United States.


Usually I'd try and close on a lighter note, but I can't this time.  Do me a favor and give this blog entry a +1 if you're mad, too.

Sunrunners (Finale)

Chapter 5
“. . . finally resolving the political ambiguity of Lunar Base . . . ”
        excerpt: “Manned Space: A Study of Sociological Development, Introduction”

      We hurried to the main airlock just in time to meet the soldiers.  Thankfully, my limp was mostly gone.  The inner door gimbaled open, and a young lieutenant stepped out of the airlock first, his armored spacesuit jarringly out of place.  We stood blocking the way, and he had to stop halfway out.  The rest of his squad stood at ease behind him.
      “Excuse me,” he snapped.
      “Certainly,” I said, “but sorry to see you go so soon.”
      He raised his eyebrows at that.  After a moment of thought and a deep breath, he tried again.
      “Excuse me, sir, but I need to see the Administrator.”
      “Ah, I see.  I can arrange for you to see prisoners.”  I watched his eyebrows climb another notch.
      “Prisoners?”
      “Prisoners.  Most of the former administration is being held on various charges, including attempted murder.  We’re hoping to convene a proper court next sunset.”  I’d been surprised how easy it had been to just walk in and kidnap the bosses at gunpoint.  Two more of Alan’s thugs had surrendered, too.  It was becoming clear most of company management had not been involved with Alan’s operations.  Then again, they were all slavers in my eyes.
      “Well, who is running Lunar Base, then?”  The poor officer seemed bemused.
      “Let me make introductions.  This is Frans Gould, Luna City mayor; I’m Sheriff Lagger, and this is Deputy Sheriff Lagger.”  I stuck my hand out.  “You are . . . ?”
      “Lieutenant Shaw, sir.”  He shook my hand out of reflex, but he was looking at Patty.
      “G’day, Ron,” she said, “been keepin’ up your Jiu Jitsu practice?”  He shook her hand with a small bow.
      “Yes ma’am, but I doubt I could take you yet.”  He released her hand and turned back to me.  “You got a good deputy there, sir.”
      “She’s some kinda wife, too.”
      “You married Patty the Python?  Congratulations.”  Several of the soldiers snickered.
      “Uhm.  I guess so.  Anyway, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Ron?”  I rolled my eyes at the Python.  She appeared very innocent.
      He straightened himself up, trying to regain his sense of purpose.  “Sir, I have been ordered to ascertain why Lunar Base Corporation has stopped supplying Glenn Space Facility, and to restart those supplies ASAP.”  Sounded like they’d finally named the space station.  The first thing we’d done after our coup was shut down the big rail launcher.  We had been ignoring daily calls from the space station since then.
      I shook my head.  “Well, there’s your problem, right there.  This is Luna City now.  Lunar Base Corporation is out of business.”  That set him back a step.  He turned to his communications man.  They tried fruitlessly to contact the space station for several minutes.  Finally, Lieutenant Shaw turned back to me.
      “Sir, I need to use your Com Room, please?”
      “Sure, no problem.  Just hand over your firearms. We don’t allow guns in the city limits.”
      “Oh, for Chrissake,” blurted out one of the soldiers.  Shaw spun on his heel and stared at the offending soldier.  The soldier looked down, and Shaw turned back to us.
      “What’s to keep us from just marching down there?”  He let anger harshen his voice.
      “Me and the Python, that’s our job.  You may want to reconsider that, though.”  I smiled.
      “Why?”
      I turned to Frans.  “I’ll let Mayor Gould explain that.  Sir?”
      Frans stepped up and shook Shaw’s hand.  “Son, I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this.  Will you give an old man two minutes to try and straighten this out?”
      “Sure, Mayor.  Go ahead.”  Shaw glanced back at his squad.  “Peeps, record this.”  The young soldier bearing the com set adjusted some controls.
      “Yes sir, recording.”
      “Great.  Good thinking, son.  Let me get right to it. Lunar Base is no longer owned by Lunar Base Corporation and hasn’t been associated with any Earth government for quite a while, which raises the question: under whose jurisdiction do we fall?  Are we now our own country, or are we territory of one of the original coalition countries?  If you step through that door with your guns, you are setting an irrevocable precedent.  Either you will be a military force illegally invading a free and independent country, or you will be willfully breaking the laws of the municipality of Luna City.  Either you start a war here, or you go to jail here.”  The same loudmouthed soldier guffawed.  Lieutenant Shaw winced, but stood firm, silently pondering what Frans had said.  We all waited.
      “Uh, sir?  Are we still recording?”
      Shaw closed his eyes for a long moment.  “Did I order you to stop recording, Peeps?”
      “No, sir!”
      “I didn’t think so.”  Shaw turned to his men.  “Sergeant.  Form the men up.”
      “Yessir.”  The men exchanged salutes.  Shaw turned back to us.
      “Excuse us.”  He stepped back and closed the airlock.
      As soon as the door closed, Frans laughed and turned to face us.
      “I do believe Lieutenant Shaw is destined for great things.”
      “Ronnie’s a bright cookie,” agreed Patty.  “We’re lucky it was him they sent down.”
      “Patty the Python?”  She shrugged at me.  I had to kiss her to wipe the smirk off her face.   I saw some heads stick around the corner of the corridor; people couldn’t resist the urge to peek.  I flashed them an ‘OK’ and waved them back.  It was less than two minutes before the airlock door reopened.  Finals were over, time to see our grades.
      Lieutenant Shaw stepped through the door, seeming a little older now.  One of his men closed and locked it behind him.  The exit cycle immediately started.  Shaw cleared his throat.
      “Mr. Gould, I’ve sent my men back to the lander.  I’m sure you understand that I can’t authorize the surrender of their weapons.”
      “A good decision, Lieutenant Shaw.  What about yourself?”  Frans pointed at Shaw’s sidearm.
      “Sir, this pistol is a part of my uniform, as an officer and a gentleman.  It is also a symbol of my military authority, much as Sheriff, uh, Lagger’s sidearm is a symbol of his civil authority.  I hope you will recognize and accept this?”
      “Well said, son. No.”  Frans crossed his arms.  Shaw didn’t seem surprised at the refusal.  “Son, when do you wear your sidearm?”
      “Sir?”
      “Do you wear your sidearm when you are off duty, lieutenant?  When you are performing your normal duties on your base?  Or do you only wear it when invading your neighbors?”
      Shaw looked over at Patty.
      “Is the Mayor here some kin to you, too?”
      “My grandfather,” she said with pride.
      “I knew it.  Mr. Gould, if I surrender my sidearm to you, will you let me contact my superiors with your communications equipment?”
      “Certainly.  Peter?”  Frans turned to nod at me, barely controlling a grin.
      I pulled a receipt book from my shirt pocket, flipped to the right page, and handed it to Shaw.
      “Just sign at the bottom.  The pink copy is yours.  Come by my office anytime to pick it up.”  He carefully filled out the receipt, removed his copy, and handed me the book, followed by his pistol.
      “Mr. Gould, will you come with me?”  Shaw gave a crooked smile.  “I’m sure there will be some questions I can’t answer without your help.”
      “Glad to, my boy.  Will you still need Pete to arrange the visitation with the prisoners?”
      “No, sir.  I’d rather not get involved with that.  Speaking my own opinion, I’m sure they are just where they belong.”  He winked at me and Patty.  “After you, sir.”  They walked away from us, already deep in conversation.  I grabbed Patty’s hand and we watched until they turned out of sight.  It seemed important.

Epilogue
      “Patty is pregnant again, and the doctors think the new dietary supplements will prevent another miscarriage.  We have every hope you’ll be grandparents by Christmas.  Yes, Mom, I'm still working on my thesis; I figure when time comes to retire and settle down somewhere it would be nice to be called Doctor Lagger rather than 'that old Looney.'   Dad, the boom is well and truly started.  There are a few working sites now that are quite similar to this one, the original that Frans Gould and Ray Davis discovered.  We named it Daviston, after Ray.  Politics seems to agree with Frans; we just celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday.  Then, of course, he had to race off to an important meeting with the U.N. team.  Alan’s appeals are just about gone, and we are pushing for extradition.  The moon’s first murderer should have to pay on the moon.  The rotten thing is that the people who ordered Alan may get away.”
      “The new transceivers and satellites let me talk straight to ham operators on earth and I'm not wasting time watching the furnaces.  Dad, a Chinese boy named Liu downloaded his design for an asteroid belt 'rover' to me, and I'm searching the markets for components.  If I can put it together, I’ll need you to sponsor him to Luna City.  If he can cut it up here, then we may try Out There . . .”
        excerpt: “VoiceLetter to Parents, August 8, 2039”

        The End