STORY: "Boy of No Country"

 

Boy of No Country

 

By Raven Green

 

Gamma Cladus XII System…

Pegasus Dwarf Irregular Galaxy…

Sometime after the Sixth Great Migration…

 

A baby cried as her older sister changed her diaper inside the caged-off area of the detention center. The older girl was crying too. I went over to her. She was my age. She looked like another Starfarer, from her clothes. She wore the browns and greys of the Idoh Clan. I tried to put my hand reassuringly on her shoulder, but she recoiled from my touch. I’d been watching her for days. Every kid here was sad, but she was the saddest because she was one of the oldest kids here. She was caregiver for the younger ones who could not help themselves. She couldn’t speak the Cladustins’ language, though. Only me and a few other boys spoke enough to communicate with the guards.

I didn’t give up trying to make a connection.

“I’m Jedmas Karkian,” I said. “Mako-Ru Clan.”

She didn’t respond at first. I thought this must have to do with the bruises on her face. I hadn’t heard her speak once. Maybe she was mute, or maybe they just beat the voice out of her.

“I won’t let them hurt you again. You’re too important here. They can beat me,” I said. “They already did.” I parted the hair on the back of my head to show her my bruise.

“I don’t want to see that happen again,” she said. “I’m Viola Ressik. Idoh-Pai Clan.”

She finished up the changing the baby and tossed the rolled up used diaper atop a pile of them at the wall of the cage.

“I wish they’d clean that up,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s not the diapers. The whole planet stinks,” I said.

And I finally heard her laugh. It was the first time in days I’d heard anyone laugh.

And I thought, for the first time, that I would get out of here someday, and the universe would know about this place.

Disguising my hatred with my laughter, I glared through the cage at the guard who now wore my ring.

 

#

 

“What were you doing away from the compound?”

It was a stupid question, from a stupid planetsider cop, but if I called him on his stupidity, and that was hard not to do just by being honest, he’d probably hit me again.

“Shopping!” I said. “I was looking at some merchant’s stuff. Are my parents alive?”

“How would we tell them apart?” the bastard asked. “You clannies all look alike.”

“Actually, we look like you. The other clannies, they’re the really weird ones,” I said. And immediately regretted it. The pain of his gloved strike was worse this time.

I screamed. I don’t remember when I stopped, or when the cop left the room, but the next thing I knew I was slumped upright in that chair with my hands cuffed to the table, and across from me was a woman in a dark suit, with close-cropped red hair.

“Child, my name is Agent Vankya Shalkatz. And I’m your only friend here. Your people planted a bomb in our spaceport, killing sixty-eight citizens of our great nation.”

“How many Starfarers died?” I asked. She ignored my question.

“You’re here because your people have been involved in some illegal dealings on our planet. They’ve been funneling weapons and ships to our nation’s enemies, while they trade ores with us. We’re hoping you can help us. Who’s supporting the other side?”

“What other side?” I asked, genuinely stumped. I knew nothing of the politics of this planet.

“The Union of Mardain. And their Fifth Column sympathizers. Come now, you must know your people are arms dealers. You Starfarers, you go around looking for anyone who claims they’re the underdog, looking to start revolutions and civil wars. You’re incorrigible,” she sneered. “Terrorists. Every one of you.”

“I don’t know about any fifth column, but your planet’s problems aren’t my problems. I want to go back to my people!” I shouted.

“You have no people. Your folk are nomads, they’ve abandoned you by now. You’re here, an unaccompanied minor. And no, I don’t care if you’re called an adult in your little gang. The only reason you’re not rotting on Torshka Island is because you’re underage. If you don’t cooperate, you will be detained,” she said.

“I’m already detained. Please, I just want to know if my parents are okay. My uncle. My family. Are they even alive?” I asked her, futilely.

She stopped talking, got up, left the room. The door shut behind her and I could hear the lock sliding into place. I put my head down on the table to which I still cuffed and cried. It was only then that I noticed my ring was missing from my finger.

 

#

 

I was scanning a vendor’s table for items of interest when a great and terrible noise bellowed from behind me, like the air turned to glass and suddenly shattered. Flaming debris flew and thick ash rained. An explosion at the spaceport! I turned and rushed toward the fiery source of the noise, and listened intensely to the screams around me, trying in vain to discern my parents’ voices. Terror gripped my body and mind and held on tight. The light, filtered through all that gray ash, made the world around me dark. The only shadows cast came from the flickering fires. I tried to get closer, closer to the source. I needed to know if my family was safe. But I couldn’t get too close, it was too hot, and I stood mesmerized at the periphery of the searing fire with the other onlookers until I felt a pair of firm gloved hands on my shoulders. I turned to see the patrolman standing over me with that grim, thin-pressed set of lips and his helmet with his red-tinted visor. He was armed, not with a stungun or a taser, or tranq-darts like we use on spacecraft, but a real gun- a solid metal slug-thrower. He slipped the weapon out of its holster and held it pointed slightly down at my head.

“Don’t make a move, Starfarer rat. You’re under arrest. As a citizen of no nation, you have no rights. I suggest you come quietly,” he said.

I had no choice. I screamed.

“Help!!!”

Then, I felt the sudden weight of the man’s handgun against the back of my skull, and after that, was blackness.

 

#

 

Dad said we had a day left on Gamma Cladus XIIe. He said to enjoy it. I was finally old enough at twelve that my parents would let me out of their sights when we dropped planetside. We were ore traders, plying the loose network of soft spots that exponentially expanded the range of our starfreighter’s FTL drive, doing business with the locals. We were of the Mako-Ru, one of the last of the Starfarer clans to retain bipedal form. We could still pass as planetsiders, with gravity-assist drugs.

The Cladustins weren’t a bad lot. But they were dull, like most planetsiders. Uninspired, my mom would say. They didn’t look up at the stars in wonder, they looked up in fear and suspicion of outsiders. When we landed here, as in many other places, we were careful not to get involved or attract attention if we left our temporary compounds at the spaceports.

A twelve-year old Starfarer is considered an adult. I’ve already started my apprenticeship as a pilot under the tutelage of my uncle, our spacecraft’s flight officer. Funny word, flight. Spacecraft don’t really fly, do they? To fly implies movement through air. Spacecraft just move. Most of the time. Our dropshuttles fly, of course, but when we’re at home, in deep space, we’re not really flying. It’s just one of those words that means something more now than it did when it was invented.

I sometimes think about what language must have been like in the early days of humanity, in the PreAncient Times before the Diaspora. Most words probably don’t mean what they originally meant. It’s just one of those things I think about sometimes.

I knew enough of the local planetary language families to pick up some of the Cladustin dialect of this city. It was rough and guttural, with lots of tongue-scrapes and rolling Rs. Kesarro… Cheap. Maktash… Humble. Sa’argat…Wise. Shu’ugrrin… foolish. Kayaghtin… Outsider. That was their word for us. I could hear it whispered by planetsiders on their way to the spaceport to visit their nearest moon or wherever.

I quietly eyed the shops and stalls as I walked down the busy footpath that led off from the spaceport to the transit terminal connecting to the city. This city was called Sulr’ruk. It was named for a general of these people, who subdued the people of another nation on their planet. How divided these planetsiders were! Most worlds we visited weren’t yet unified and barely managed to just recently redevelop the Ancient technology that permits faster-than-light travel. Starfarers never lost that technology; our FTL is far superior to that of other peoples’.

The people who maintained the shops and stalls thought we were attracted to bright and shiny things. Their sales were poor, and they had little else that we needed. Still, every once in a while, I found an interesting item. On Kerlien Prime, I found this old analog clock for just a dozen prees. On Portia-61, I bought an Ancient trinket, a metal ring worn by one of the planet’s first settlers. It was almost perfectly preserved- the metal was an unknown composition, and hardly degraded. I wore it proudly on my freighter, but planetside, I kept it hidden with a wrap. Too flashy. Don’t attract attention.

Musings 2/2/2022

 Good morning.

It is 2/2/2022, and I'm taking that as a cue that today is a day for second chances.

I have been trying to compose a post for a while. One was about reaching teens. But then I encountered some frustration at my job and my heart wasn't in it.

I'm being underpaid. I started a part time job after-hours doing outpatient therapy. Now, the director there is offering me a clinical supervisor position. This would mean I would have to leave my union (which does not allow supervisors) but I would still associate with it and be able to rely on my fellow workers for moral support, and I would continue to help organize the workers at the school I'm currently at, regardless of whether I stay there. My current efforts focus on developing my coworkers as labor organizers since I am, for reasons of financial security, looking to move on.

Being a supervisor would pose a number of ethical challenges for me to negotiate as an anarchosocialist but I prefer not to speculate on that at this time, since I haven't experienced it yet.

In the world of science fiction, I am currently working on 4 "Local Group" novels.

"Lore of the Road" is a coming of age story set on a frontier world involving a queer road trip, and shares an important character with "Rentkids."

"The Astounding Adventures of Father Justice and the Masked Marksman" is a quasi-superhero narrative set on Tantalus II, the world of "Rentkids" and my other novels, which involves multi-level marketing cults and costumed vigilantes.

"The Historical Origin of the Venom Gland" is a tale about colonialism in which two corporations wage proxy war on a primitive planet, and vie for control of an indigenous resource.

And finally, I am working on an untitled project based on "The Tempest" by William Shakespeare.

I've recently considered that adapting Shakespeare, especially when given modernistic or parallel historical interpretations, is an exercise in speculative fiction. "Richard III" with Ian McKellan is essentially an alternate timeline World War II. Julie Taymor's "Titus" plays with intentional anachronisms. Modern adaptations of "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet" transpose historical or literary characters and plots on the modern day in a way that is extremely satisfying to me as a lover of speculative fiction.

"The Tempest" is my favorite Shakespeare play, because it has so many elements of early science fiction. The film "Forbidden Planet" was inspired by it, and Gene Roddenberry saw "Forbidden Planet" before making "Star Trek." Roddenberry has stated the influence of "Forbidden Planet" on "Star Trek" and it is clear to see elements of that film, and thus of "The Tempest," in many classic "Star Trek" episode plots. In particular, "recluses on isolated planets, equipped with advanced technology, harass and manipulative the crew" seems to be a common formula. So, I am penning my own reinterpretation of "The Tempest" in the context of the setting of my "Local Group" 'verse. I have included many twists on the original material, and given it an epic, cyclical nature that expands the world of the story.

I am continuing my research into conspiracy theories. That's another post, following up on "The Gospel of Mark Richards." There's a lot of intersection between the paranoid style of right-wing politics, multi-level marketing, other cults and cult-like groups, Christian Nationalism, White Supremacy, and UFOs. It can be overwhelming but it's valuable research. My current conclusion is that racism can make people believe literally anything. And the right-wing is full of con artists who are skilled in taking advantage of that. 

The Gospel According to Pendragon

 Good morning Readers,

I apologize for my absence. Critical matters diverted my attention. Winter is a hard time for me. I get very depressed and it affects my work. I had to take some time off and retreat from the world.

I got paid! First money I've made as a science fiction writer. Feels good. I spent it on my bills.

At Thanksgiving my cousin introduced me to a fascinating podcast that is a gateway into a complex conspiracy mythos or lore that goes beyond the pale in terms of wild imagination. The podcast, Knowledge Fight, typically covers Alex Jones' radio show and analyzes his conspiracy allegations from a critical/skeptical perspective. They have a wacky wednesday though where they take a break from AJ and delve into the strange world of "Project Camelot," a conspiracy platform franchise hosted by a very strange lady named Kerry Cassidy who has a problematic relationship with a convicted murderer and sociopathic compulsive manipulator and liar named Mark Richards, AKA "The Pendragon of Marin." For those with an interest in this story, I highly recommend you start with an episode of a different podcast, The Dollop, which covers the Pendragon Plot. It's a bizarre true crime story. And for the Further Adventures of Mark Richards, AKA Pendragon, who alleges he is secretly a member of the crypto-organization "Space Command" who fights evil aliens with the aid of space raptors whose psychic princess has allied with Earth, check out the "Project Camelot Saga" episodes of Knowledge Fight. 

There is a lot to be said about this bizarre conspiracy theory world, but a critical perspective shows at least one running theme: blood libel, anti-semitism and racism. Beneath the hippie-ish New Age and UFO stuff is a paranoid right wing narrative that is dangerous. As a secular Jew I often feel targeted by these kinds of conspiracy theories. But I will let the material speak for itself.

It makes me want to write a novel based on the mythos and characters, though. I love the idea of the princess of the space raptors having a psychic vision that her people must ally with humans against another reptilian empire. But I might nix the "reality" of this and just focus on the psychology of a master manipulator and the conspiracy theorists who platform him. 

It just gets weirder from there. One of the striking things about Mark Richards, from a writer's perspective, is that he didn't only invent an elaborate conspiracy narrative, he created compelling characters. The Dutchman, Mark's adventurer father; the psychic raptor princess; the biological, conscious starship Minerva, and others take the center stage in this weird world of "non-fi sci-fi."

That being said, while many of the people featured in these episodes are con artists, a number of them are deeply traumatized or mentally ill. Some of their stories have disturbing red flags for child abuse. The views of the people platformed by the conspiracy community are often disturbing and can be triggering. But it's important to understand how the conspiracy theorist's mind works in order to defend against the sometimes subtle and sometimes overt anti-semitism and racism they endorse.

88.5 XPN Live at the Writers' House Broadcast Tonight at 10-11PM

 Greetings readers.

I will be featured tonight on 88.5 XPN's collaboration with the Kelly Writers' House, reading my short piece of cyberpunk comedy, "This Car Hates My Guts." I am asked by Alli Katz what it means to write radical science fiction. I tried to be concise but only managed to scrape the surface of the answer to that question.

This is my obligatory weekly post. I was working on another one but the subject matter is a little personal right now so I put that on hiatus. 

The broadcast is from 10-11pm and I am one of several readers featured, so I won't be on exactly at ten, but please tune in if you can and boost this. This was my first paid gig as a professional science fiction writer!

What if A.I. isn't evil?

 As I mentioned earlier in my blogging career, I am a bit sick of "evil AI." Specifically I'm sick of the "A.I. is always evil" trope. The whole Zeroeth Law thing where A.I. must conclude that human beings need to be exterminated for the good of Earth, the universe, or whatever. I feel like this is extremely prejudicial and has its roots in the Bourgeois Classism of Kapec's RUR. We don't know what a truly conscious artificial being would conclude about humans, so to assume it would always or almost always tend toward sociopathy, murder or genocide is profoundly ignorant and says more about us and our view of resistance to oppression than anything else.

What if we were good to A.I.? What if we treated it like family? What if A.I. learned socially? Why is "What if A.I. isn't evil?" a "radical" question?

Science Fiction can be extremely reactionary. I hope that future generations approach the prospect of nonhuman sentience and sapience with more open minds.

What this blog is about (for new readers)

.

Greetings.

Last Thursday I participated in #PitMad, pitching my novels on twitter to prospective agents. I got a lot of new followers (hate that term). As those of you who know me well are already aware, I'm not a fan of social media. I maintain social media accounts for the purpose of promoting my written work and connecting with readers of science fiction, other writers, and prospective agents and publishers.

And as I've said before, I'm not a fan of blogging either. It feels too much like being one of those talking heads on TV or YouTube that I despise.

But because I have new readers I thought a restatement of this blog's purpose would be appropriate.

The purpose of this blog is to explore the intersection of science fiction and radical politics. By "radical" I do not mean the co-opted "leftism" of the left-wing of the Democratic Party. I mean anti-capitalist and anti-statist literature.

I don't believe there is such a thing as "apolitical." No writer exists outside of their own social context. When we employ narrative tropes uncritically, we are modeling an ideal of reality, and more particularly, an ideal of society- the Social Order. If we are conscientiously critical of that order, we are writing radical science fiction.

I hesitate to identify firstly as an anarchist. I came to anarchism through years of practical, hands-on experience working in systems like schools, mental health and child welfare. Social work is my calling; anarchism is a consequence of my experiences.

With this blog I hope to educate readers about the experience of urban social work and how this informs my science fiction writing. Social work is political (small p), so this blog is political. Nothing isn't political. People who attempt to distinguish between political and apolitical set themselves up as the arbiters of reality; it is an exercise in paternalism.

And if there is one thing I'm sick of, it's paternalism, whether the cultural chauvinist paternalism of the conservatives, or the "enlightened" paternalism of middle class liberals and progressives.

I hope that this blog will educate readers about anarchism, which is widely misunderstood to mean chaos. 

I also hope that this blog will provide a critical perspective on science fiction. From HG Wells to Alan Moore, Ursula LeGuin and Corey Doctorow, there is a strong radical tradition in science fiction. It's important that readers do not artifically separate that tradition from prose. Radical ideas are embedded in science fiction, but there is also a minefield of reactionary ideas that one must carefully, skillfully navigate to arrive at a positive conclusion.

I hope this blog helps.

Obscure TV Review: "Millennium" Season 1

 "I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen."

-W. H. Auden

Anyone reading this blog can tell that I am a big fan of The X-Files. Millennium was a sister-show to that seminal piece of television brilliance, intended by creator Chris Carter as an exploration of a "more mature" version of the Mulder character. Enter Lance Henricksen, playing behavioral profiler Frank Black. Black has a gift: the ability to see inside the minds of killers. His work terrifies his wife, Catherine (Megan Gallagher), and the both of them struggle to keep their young daughter, Jordan (Brittany Tiplady) away from Frank's work. At the beginning of the series, Frank, following a nervous breakdown, moves his family back to Seattle to an idyllic yellow house and begins working for the Millennium Group, a consulting agency for law enforcement. Black's contact with the Group comes mostly through Peter Watts (Terry O'Quinn), and in the first season, we learn very little about the Millennium Group's motivations, only that they are more than meets the eye. Frank is called to consult for a number of bizarre, sexual and religious crimes in the first season, and usually Frank's profile subjects are deranged, violent men... but in the first season there are a few excursions into the supernatural, which culminate in the murder of Frank's best friend, Bob Bletcher (Bill Smitrovich), by a demonic entity in Frank's own home. Shortly after his encounter with the demon, who takes the form of an attractive woman, Lucy Butler (Sarah Jane Redmond), Frank begins to perceive events around him differently than others. He becomes aware of cosmic evil, and of a struggle between evil and good that is being played out around him.

Henricksen delivers a strong performance as the quiet, capable, focused Frank Black. Black is not your typical TV hero. He is middle aged, retired, and while quite capable of action, his primary talent is intellectual or spiritual in nature. He sees into the minds of killers, rapists, and other criminals, catching fleeting glimpses of their skewed realities which help him to catch them in the end. Another part of the strength of this show is its frayed, apocalyptic setting. Watching Frank Black solve the mysteries put to him by the Millennium Group, one really gets a sense of society on the edge. The quote for this post, displayed at the beginning of the first episode, says it all: "I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen." Buried in the mythos of Millennium is the nugget of an idea that as the apocalypse approaches, and society degrades and devalues itself, a new generation of killers are rising to prominence.

Bob Bletcher's death at the hands of a supernatural, demonic entity shifts the show in a direction more familiar to X-Files fans: from this point on, Frank becomes aware of great evil, in a way he couldn't have known it before. The second season, which I plan on reviewing separately, takes this evil presence and runs with it, featuring a plethora of demons set loose upon the Earth by powerful forces barely comprehensible to most men. Frank, because of his gift, is able to see these demons (and angels) as they truly are.

Millennium is a noir, nineties detective/supernatural drama featuring top-grade acting and excellent scripts. Some of the episodes, particularly in the first season, can be slow, but when Millennium is on its top game, it really shines.