Showing posts with label dystopia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dystopia. Show all posts

Thursday, April 4, 2024

We don't kill Humans.

 

We don't kill Humans.

"What?”

“The target is a hu…”

“No, no. I heard what you said. I just… what? There’s no way in the galaxy anyone could be that monumentally stupid.”

“I was lead to believe that the 'Black Hand Assassins' could kill anything.”

"You keep that name out of your thrice damned mouth around here whelp! We had to abandon that name after the bad deal with the Delpan Empire years ago.”

“I don’t care about any empire. I want you to kill a Human."

The assassin’s mandibles clicked angrily in agitation.

“We don’t take contracts to kill Humans.”

“Then I’ll just contract someone else.”

“You can try. None of the other guilds in the galaxy will take that job. And, even if you found an independent with a death wish they won’t get the job done. Not without them either dying or ratting you out.”

“You can’t really believe that Humans are un-killable.”

“I never said they were un-killable. Quite the contrary, I personally know that they are definitely mortal, but we don't take on contracts to kill them.”

“Why in all the Hells not?”

“Because the only way to kill a Human and live long enough to enjoy the money for the job is to drop a neutron bomb on them from orbit, just to be safe. Then, you grab the fastest ship you can and book it before the rest of the Humans find out what you did. After that, I suggest finding a way to another galaxy and staying there for the rest of your miserable life.”

“You’re having me on.”

“Tell me. Does the planet you come from have compulsory education?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Indulge me.”

“Yes. Ten years of basically teaching our young how to be as obedient as a Rastian drone.”

“Sounds about right for any government run public education. You learn any history lessons there?”

“Some.”

“They must not teach galactic history then. Sit, buy a round and I’ll tell you why no assassin worth their blade will take on a contract to kill a Human.”

The drinks were ordered, and the old assassin took a long drag on his before he turned to his new drinking companion.

“You remember I mentioned the Delpan Empire?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“Their empire broke after they poured too many resources into trying to tame a deathworld.”

“That deathworld is the Human cradle world. And the planet didn’t break the Delpan, the Humans did.”

“How?”

The assassin took another long drag of his beer.

The Delpan Empire used to rule this half of the galaxy. Hundreds of species and civilizations held in thrall or crushed into dust. ‘Serve or die’ that was the Delpan way.

The council that presided over what wasn’t Delpan territory back then could do little to stop the ever-churning war machine that drove Delpan expansion. They would posture and debate and even beg, but nothing they did could slow the inexorable march of the Delpan. System by system, the galaxy was falling under the rule of the Emperor.

Then, they happened upon a system that was called Sol by its inhabitants. The name wasn’t being used for any other system, so the Delpan let them keep it.

The Humans resided on the third planet in the system. Poor sods. They had just started really exploring their home system when the Delpan came knocking.

The Humans were divided into various socioeconomic groups that they called countries. This made it easier for the Delpan as the fractured nations of Humans were slow to respond, and the legions swept across the land without their next target being any wiser about their doom approaching thanks to communication jammers. Despite all these disadvantages, the Humans resisted mightily.

One galactic standard month. That’s how long it took for the Delpan to claim dominion over the planet. Most pre-FTL worlds fell within a week, but those Humans fought like demons, especially when the remaining countries finally figured out that they were being invaded. They even managed to bring the Delpan ground troops to a halt once, before reinforcements were dropped and the last bastion of resistance fell.

From there it was the usual boring administrative tedium. Splitting the new slaves into work groups and assigning them jobs that would ultimately benefit their new overlords. Many of the surviving Humans were farmers and ranchers, so the Delpan let them do what they were good at. ‘An army marches on its stomach’ I believe is the old Human saying. And the Delpan war machine was hungry indeed. A few hundred thousand were taken off-world to work in the mines elsewhere, those Humans are unnaturally strong and durable due to the high gravity of their world, so they excelled at the dangerous task of mining.

The worlds and species conquered by the Delpan usually followed a handful of events as though they were reading from the same script. First there was a year or two where the overlords and administrators would have to be very liberal with the whip until the slaves learned the new order of things. Then there’d be a few years of relative peace, followed by a period of rebellions and uprisings five to ten years after the initial conquest. Once those were beaten down there usually wasn’t enough fight left to try again so the survivors just gave up hope.

These Humans didn’t follow the script. They grudgingly fell in line a few months after the invasion was done and when the expected uprisings never happened, I imagine the Delpan were feeling pretty proud of themselves for beating the fight out of the primates.

If I only had one compliment to give the Humans, it would be this; they are natural hunters. They know how to wait patiently for the perfect time to strike.

For twenty earth-years the Humans worked and lived and bred like Cling-rats. Not that the Delpan cared how many more Humans were being born, ‘more meat for the grinder’ they would say. They would even give incentives like extra rations and special privileges if a Human female produced more than four offspring. If only the Delpan knew; the Humans weren’t breeding more workers, they were growing an army.

The Human administrators and rulers that surrendered to the Delpan were at least half fake. Puppets, sent to give the illusion of surrender while the real governments hid underground (literally in some cases) and continued to direct their forces.

Hidden training camps, night-time schools, secretly printed pamphlets about how to one day throw off the chains of oppression. Those Humans were clever in hiding it all from their overlords. Then, when the Delpan war front was dozens of systems away on their conquest of the galaxy, it was time.

The Humans’ leaders, long hidden in their secret holes, had been planning while scraps of stolen Delpan tech were being meticulously reverse engineered by their scientists. They had been gathering resources for their rebellion since they surrendered. While the Delpan had been gloating, the Humans were preparing. And now, finally ready, they made their move.

It was small at first, all rebellions are. A rogue miner refusing to work here, a rancher telling his overlord that his entire herd was wiped out by some non-existant disease there, a factory explosion over here. Larger disturbances to production soon followed.

The human country of France, with its long history of rebelling against tyrants, would riot in the streets while crying out ‘Vive la révolution!’ (don’t ask me what in the hells that means. I never bothered learning human languages). A crate of plasma rifles went missing. Then a grav-tank wouldn’t start, when they popped the hood, they found it to be completely gutted of all power and anti-grav components.

The Delpan leaders thought these problems were beneath them but still needed addressing, so they called the Black Hand Assassins and other guilds like ours to deal with the rabblerousers.

Our services cost the empire a tidy sum I can tell you. That planet of the Humans, ‘Dirt’ I think they call it, is at least three times the galactic average gravity. Every agent we sent had to be fitted with a grav-assist suit and spent a week after making planet-fall getting used to it.

At first, our agents thought that the Human rebels were ghosts. They could see the aftereffects of sabotage but never any evidence to prove who had done it. They would be patrolling streets when suddenly, the streets would empty. Before the agent could wonder where the Humans had all gone, an explosion would rock the street, sometimes taking the agent with it.

One of our agents got so angered by the death of a friend that he went to a random, completely unrelated town and started executing Humans when they couldn’t answer his questions about who was responsible. Unsurprisingly, a mob turned on him after the third execution and tore him to pieces. I can’t even blame the Delpan for not paying the death fee for that one; our contract was to stop riots, not cause them.

The contract was quickly going bad. Sure, we were killing humans like we were being paid to, with the kind of surgical precision we were known for. But what good is money if you can’t even make it off-world to spend it?

Before long we couldn’t walk on the surface of their planet without heavy escort by Delpan troops. The Humans would strike without warning and fade into the background. On the Human continent of Africa, an agent was lured onto the savanna as he was chasing one of the Human rebels, only to find himself set upon by a pack of feline predators. Those Humans had even wrangled the lesser beasts of their world into fighting! The number of agents we lost to the Humans’ canine companion species cannot easily be counted. And the less I say about the death trap the Humans call ‘Australia’, the happier I shall be.

First, one regional administration center fell silent, then another. By the time the Delpan nobles finally took notice of this new problem, the entire planet had fallen silent. And not just ‘Dirt’, but anywhere that a Human had been taken to work was showing similar signs of resistance. One can only assume that they had been fostering rebellious notions with the other slave species of the Delpan. The gods only know how they managed to communicate with each other across the void of space.

Before you say anything, yes. The Delpan did have patrol vessels meandering throughout the region to suppress just this kind of thing. But those had fallen silent too. The Humans had gotten spies aboard and either destroyed or captured the vessels. These too were sent to their scientists to be examined. And now, without Delpan supervision, the Humans uncovered the secret factories and forces they had been cultivating for years. Huge manufactories churning out components for space docks and eventually starships that the newly uncovered launch facilities hurled into orbit to the tune of several thousands of tons per day.

By the time the light response vessels made it to Human space, they were no match for the humble fleet the humans had managed to build with stolen Delpan technology.

It is no falsehood to say that the Delpan were victims of their own hubris. Every time they lost a response vessel or patrol fleet, they would just send another. They were too focused on expanding their borders to recognize the rot eating away at their empire from within. When the Delpan finally got tired enough of the cost of sending light response fleets into the area to pull a conquest fleet from the front, the Human world and the next three conquered systems in any direction had fallen silent. When the conquest fleet arrived ten systems out from Sol, they faced a fleet of not just Humans, but all of the slave species in the region.

After that victory for the Humans, the Delpan emperor must have been getting nervous. All of his fleets were halfway across the galaxy and the Humans were sat between him and his armies. An emergency call went out for all fleets to immediately recall directly to the imperial capitol and any guilds like the Black Hand were called in to assist.

By that time, we had lost almost two thirds of our guild, so we refused the call. It ultimately saved us. The Humans, after decades of clandestine operations, were well versed in ferreting out spies and saboteurs within their own ranks. Seven other assassin guilds were completely wiped out. We knew it was a fools errand no matter how much the empire was willing to pay.

While the Delpan fleet gathered in their home system, plans were made to meticulously spread out and scour the empire of the rebels. This ended up being the final nail in the coffin. You see, while the Delpan Empire consolidated and planned, the Humans spread quickly through the now enemy-free void and went to every subservient species in the empire, threw down the Delpan administrators controlling them and gathered them to the cause. Everywhere the humans went, they fanned the flames of rebellion, and the galaxy burned. The ineffective council in the part of the galaxy that had yet to be conquered by the empire had eagerly joined with the Humans in their fight.

Throughout the empire, the oppressed and enslaved were throwing off their shackles by the trillions and raising their fists in defiance. Forge worlds still churned out ships and Agri-worlds still raised crops and livestock, but for the new galactic alliance, not for the Delpan. Cut off from the supply lines that kept the Delpan Empire running, internal strife started to take hold within the Imperial forces.

Fleets of conquest went out from the imperial capitol and never made it more than a dozen systems before they were pounced upon by the Human alliance. Much like on their home world, the humans would strike like lightning and disappear into the black. Try as they did, the Delpan fleets were never quite able to pin down the humans in a fair fight.

This went on for months as the Delpan legions were slowly bled dry. Ambushes, false distress signals, EMP mines hidden in clouds of wreckage. Nothing was beneath the Humans so long as the enemy could be destroyed.

When the allied fleets finally breached Delpan prime, they found a starving and fractured fleet tearing itself to pieces. When the Human admiral hailed the fractured flotilla and the Delpan captains saw the sheer scale of the armada before them they surrendered straight away.

With the rebellion now finished, after three years of fighting, the Humans unleashed the most vicious weapon in their arsenal.

Lawyers.

They dragged the Delpan Emperor himself from his throne, and all of the Delpan nobles and administrators and lash-holders that had ever oppressed a sapient being were rounded up. And then the humans drug them through what is now our modern court system. It was far and away more civilized than Delpan court, where the accused would be brought before the emperor or a representative, charges would be read, and the accused would be shot without even the ability to defend themselves. By the time the trials were finished, the emperor had died of old age and his successor was made to right the wrongs done to the galaxy.

The Empire was broken and all that is left of the Delpan is a few systems in the far reaches of the galactic southern arm.

Many feared that the Humans would turn around and conquer the galaxy for themselves. However, within a year of the Delpan surrender, the Humans had dismantled over half of their fleet and scattered the rest around the galaxy for pirate hunting and general peacekeeping.

Our guild was extremely lucky that the Humans understood that we had broken our contract. They let us live with the promise that the Black Hand would be permanently dismantled. Those Humans whittled us down to a mere third of our number before the rebellion even left their home planet. A third! We were the top assassin guild in the galaxy and now, we are a loose unnamed group of independent agents.

“So, you see, young one, we don’t kill humans. You kill a human, and their family will hunt you down. If you kill their family, the species will hunt you down. And you had better pray they kill you, because if their lawyers get their hands on you, you’ll be lucky if your own people are forced to kill you as an apology.”

“I had no idea.”

“That is painfully obvious. I’m not usually one to pry into a customer’s business but, what did this human do to offend you anyway?”

“They insulted my broodmate.”

The assassin laughed.

“HA! Is that all? Then insult them back you moron. If it really bothered you then punch them in the face.”

“But, you said…”

“We don’t kill humans, but those crazy apes love to fight with words as well as their fists, and you’ll have a better chance of survival that way. Chances are you wouldn’t be able to physically hurt them but if you took the time to explain to them that you were offended, they may even apologize.”

“They would do that?”

“They are monsters on the field of battle and demons when they have been wronged, but they are not uncivilized. If they were, they couldn’t have rebuilt the council to what it is today. They hold the head chair position and will likely do so for generations to come. They are a firm race but fair in their adjudication.”

The assassin drained the last drops in his glass and looked balefully at the empty vessel.

“Now then, my cup is empty. Unless you wish to fill it again, I think were done here.”

Sunday, February 9, 2020

Spanish song produced by a Gringo

Verso 1
¡Me gusta la comida especiada!
¡Me gusta el queso derretido!
Quiero tacos suaves con crema agria.
¿dónde está el baño?

Coro:
Quiero beber cerveza,
¡Pero entonces tengo que ir a mear!
¡He bebido demasiada cerveza!
¡Ahora tengo que vomitar!

Versículo 2:
¡Disculpe, señorita!
¡Hay un pastor alemán en mi sopa!
No sé si quiero suicidarme,
¿O si quiero jugar a los bolos?
(Coro)

Versículo 3
¡Los demócratas son idiotas!
¡Los republicanos son idiotas!
Sigamos eligiendo a los mismos idiotas,
¡Y el cambio está destinado a ocurrir! ¿Correcto?
(Coro)

Thursday, December 5, 2019

2+2=5


Newspeak

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak(1) — was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.

Thursday, November 21, 2019

why bad thing happen Job 40:1-14

The Lord said to Job:
“Will the one who contends with the Almighty correct him?
    Let him who accuses God answer him!”
Then Job answered the Lord:
“I am unworthy—how can I reply to you?
    I put my hand over my mouth.
I spoke once, but I have no answer
    twice, but I will say no more.”
Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm:
“Brace yourself like a man;
    I will question you,
    and you shall answer me.
“Would you discredit my justice?
    Would you condemn me to justify yourself?
Do you have an arm like God’s,
    and can your voice thunder like his?
10 Then adorn yourself with glory and splendor,
    and clothe yourself in honor and majesty.
11 Unleash the fury of your wrath,
    look at all who are proud and bring them low,
12 look at all who are proud and humble them,
    crush the wicked where they stand.
13 Bury them all in the dust together;
    shroud their faces in the grave.
14 Then I myself will admit to you
    that your own right hand can save you.

Habakkuk's lament Habakkuk 1

Habakkuk 1 New International Version (NIV)

The prophecy that Habakkuk the prophet received.

Habakkuk’s Complaint

How long, Lord, must I call for help,
    but you do not listen?
Or cry out to you, “Violence!”
    but you do not save?
Why do you make me look at injustice?
    Why do you tolerate wrongdoing?
Destruction and violence are before me;
    there is strife, and conflict abounds.
Therefore the law is paralyzed,
    and justice never prevails.
The wicked hem in the righteous,
    so that justice is perverted.

The Lord’s Answer

“Look at the nations and watch—
    and be utterly amazed.
For I am going to do something in your days
    that you would not believe,
    even if you were told.
I am raising up the Babylonians,[a]
    that ruthless and impetuous people,
who sweep across the whole earth
    to seize dwellings not their own.
They are a feared and dreaded people;
    they are a law to themselves
    and promote their own honor.
Their horses are swifter than leopards,
    fiercer than wolves at dusk.
Their cavalry gallops headlong;
    their horsemen come from afar.
They fly like an eagle swooping to devour;
    they all come intent on violence.
Their hordes[b] advance like a desert wind
    and gather prisoners like sand.
10 They mock kings
    and scoff at rulers.
They laugh at all fortified cities;
    by building earthen ramps they capture them.
11 Then they sweep past like the wind and go on—
    guilty people, whose own strength is their god.”

Habakkuk’s Second Complaint

12 Lord, are you not from everlasting?
    My God, my Holy One, you[c] will never die.
You, Lord, have appointed them to execute judgment;
    you, my Rock, have ordained them to punish.
13 Your eyes are too pure to look on evil;
    you cannot tolerate wrongdoing.
Why then do you tolerate the treacherous?
    Why are you silent while the wicked
    swallow up those more righteous than themselves?
14 You have made people like the fish in the sea,
    like the sea creatures that have no ruler.
15 The wicked foe pulls all of them up with hooks,
    he catches them in his net,
he gathers them up in his dragnet;
    and so he rejoices and is glad.
16 Therefore he sacrifices to his net
    and burns incense to his dragnet,
for by his net he lives in luxury
    and enjoys the choicest food.
17 Is he to keep on emptying his net,
    destroying nations without mercy?

Владимир Набоков К России

  Владимир Набоков К России Отвяжись, я тебя умоляю! Вечер страшен, гул жизни затих. Я безпомощен. Я умираю От слепых наплываний твоих. Тот,...