God/Gods is

God/Gods is not

Paul Dvorak asks everyone including blog readers: “What is God?”

Add your definition/opinion/belief/refutation to Senior Researcher Paul Dvorak's report (the book The Answer in its next published edition in the section of this following excerpt) by posting in this blogs comments...

More of THE ANSWER:

Demarist is hosting a conference, the subject of which is me and my accidental involuntary part in the founding of the alien religion. He’s invited all the best available minds in cosmology and philosophy, I know because I also subpoenaed them all to brief me on this “God” subject. To me every one has refused, replying that my lami summons is invalid. Trumped by the “request” of a rookie! Sure he pays better since he has a budget. All I’ve got to offer is promises that sound even to me like bald faced threats. Threats have always worked for me before. Now I have to learn how to be nice!? Fortunately Demarist is young and naive enough to easily believe that it is for the benefit of both of us to combine our parties.

The buffet is laid. The place is filling up with sober conferees.

My old junior research co-worker (what’s his first name? suit?) Demarist arrives at the Launch Lounge Balance VIP with his entourage of a Librarian, very young skinny goggles wearing stick figure, and assorted juniors and liaisons. I recognize several. They ignore me. Demarist is effusive in greeting Space and I. Space remembers him but is wary of his live posse, especially those in the interior pixel camo uniforms. The Librarian acknowledges me with a scowling bow. No handshake.

“Paul,” Demarist goes straight for familiar, “This is Rex Stout, Public Librarian First Class.” This librarian with a dogs name scowls again at my outstretched hand.

“Mr. Dvorak.” His voice is British public school. He hunches and stays at a diagonal to me as if ready to leap away were I to attack.

“Don’t worry I won’t bite. He might” I indicate Space, who doesn’t like him and has activated his doggy suit ETACS. “But I don’t.”

“A bite would be minimal compared to your record with librarians! You’ve killed five of us!” He’s done his homework.

“They died. True. Several were my close friends. But I haven’t ever killed anyone that wasn't technically dead already. War is a dangerous business. Declare war and you’re a target. Have you declared many wars Stoat?” You child.

Demarist answers: “This is Rex’s first assignment.” Like a schoolboy Scout reacts: “And your first research.”

Helen arrives live and Rex Stout stares at her like he’s never before seen tits. She thrusts out her chest and wiggles them at him. “OOhh isn’t it hot in here.” Spout turns a blush. She unlinks more Velcro. I can tell from past experience with her that she is now planning exactly how and when to kick him directly in the groin systems. I contemplate this with anticipation while part of me feels I should save him to destroy later for myself. It would be so easy. I make the introductions.

“Helen Tiberius, Rex Stout, and surely you remember Demarist…” who she has latched onto with a kiss that churns as she devours his lips his face with smacking slurping sound effect. Pulling his hands up unto her breasts she turns him so she can stare at Rex Stout.

“They were always very close.” I aside to Stout who stands bug eyed open mouthed aghast. No handshake for him. Demarist breaks Helen’s vacuum with a cross eyed stagger back to reach for the wall. His hair is messed up, his suit rumpled, he steadies himself. She’s shut down half his lami’s, he’ll have to reboot his suit once he recovers his senses.

We leave them to mingle. Let him research me from afar. Librarians don’t scare me. Alien Gods don’t scare me. Handi-cabs docking, that scares me. Hungry lawyers, scary.

“What do you think about God, Helen?”

“God? Paul you know I’m agnostic Reformed Governmental Atheist. No ‘God is my copilot’ for me” she announces from between finger quote marks. “What about you?”

“Dog is my copilot.” It’s amazing how long I’ve known her and we’ve never really talked religion. She has brought it up when an agnostic atheist holiday comes around and she wants a day off, like “International Rationality Day” or “Discount Sale Week!” It must be that those court orders the union imposed on me in my position as her superior that I am “not to offend her atheism” by mentioning or invoking “God” actually have an affect on my behavior. As a swinger sex talk is okay with Helen, but one word of God and she’s calling the shop steward.

My copilot takes us in to the ample buffet for a landing at the chicken bits platter. This “having a budget” thing sure means good catering. In the line for the waffle bar a fight is breaking out between two groups of theologians. Chevrolet holo calls in to give us a “who’s who” of who’s here in person and by holo call. She has a head up of the conference deck plan with red and blue blips and info tags. Above one list the theme of Demarest’s conference: IS PAUL DVORAK CAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING THE NATURE OF GOD? This explains the psychiatrists and psychologists who have claimed widely distant corners of separation in the lounge, barely able to tolerate the others presence. I am closely observed back and front analyzed. My title for this event: GOD WHAT IS IT? Helen say’s that sounds like I’ve stepped in something mysterious. No one of the consultants attending knows my theme since they are all Demarest’s paid “guests” and definitely didn’t exactly expect me to be here to hear them talk about my “blah blah intellectual capacity blah.” The heavy theosophical presence leads me to think Demarist intends to make a complete report inclusive of the definition of God, or all definitions, just as I would if I were investigating myself investigating claims of contact with God. That’s why all the rabbi’s, preachers, and mullahs, and monks. So, somebody here has to know what God is. How could they tell if I can find out the truth if none of them know it? To counter the righteous enthusiasm of the preachers and prophets he has packed the room with a cohort of quietly mumbling philosophers who crowd the barista. “Is the nature of God unknowable?” the philosophers kvetch. “Is hinting at it or being enigmatic an indication of knowledge or just faking?” The monks maintain silence. The preachers are certain; I interpret: “Oh can’t tell you…you’re not ready…better donate more money to prove you’re serious…oh well God doesn’t want to talk to you because you haven’t given me enough money…” Even a researchers budget can’t cover such knowledge. “How much money does it take before some one who can’t know can tell you the unknowable?” I ask a squinty Philosopher type. “No one knows.” He speaks the truth. The main foundation of many historically successful religions is that they not reveal the true nature of the ultimate relationship with God until after the checks clear and the ask-er is dead. No refund no returns. If the dogma is wrong complain to God.

Several counter-dogmatic theologians are jostling each other at the buffet, egged on by their holo caller deacons and scholars to insist on exclusive rights to what they each say is the same God. They agree that each is referring to the same one “God” but disagree on what “God” has to say about everything else since. They can agree that one or two particular persons had things to say about alleged actions or motives of God, but cannot agree on what the words mean. Why did they even come here? An active research in acquire mode is a great way to get history to validate their God concept through inclusion or conclusion or refutation. Some religious organizations have not responded to Demarest’s request to participate, the Roman Catholics most absent, fearing a refutation perhaps. The Pope’s have long ignored my demands and threats. No Atheists attend other then Helen. Why would one care? No client of the Governmental recognized personal New Religious category has bothered to put forth a definition of God since of course none is needed to obtain Government subsidy funding and support; what does God really have to do with a love of beer? There are several very loud very angry attendees shouting at everyone that they know all about God and are personally in touch with the deity and for the right amount of money can confuse anyone with doubletalk and bullying until they think it might be true. It’s a battle of clashing charisma’s. They naturally accuse each other of lying and are here only for the attendance fees that Demarest’s suit is so generously disbursing. Maybe they’ll get a convert or two, you never know, and that would be money in the bank for them. Looks to me like Helen is about to convert one of them into a eunuch. Preacher suits are thin in the crotch, big on lighting and sound systems, low on the combat armor. He’s saved by a blasphemous utterance from across the room that he must respond to. She finds more prey instantly among the righteous ones attracted to her chest baring flight suit. It’s all so much fun to watch but, I have to know, I need to ask: “What is God?” to anyone I can button hole with no escape.

“A delusional concept.”

“The almighty Father Who Art In Heaven.”

“The forces of nature.”

“The earth Mother.”

“Creator of the Universe”

“A metaphor.”

“A universal conscious that’s accessible by few; being the subconscious’s alpha rhythm.”

“An aspect of human conscious effort to make sense of life.”

“All knowing all seeing.”

“Dead.”

“Fear of the unknown and our struggle to deal with it.”

“Immortal supreme consciousness.”

“Fate and chance.”

“An old guy with glasses and a cigar or maybe a gray haired tall African man, or like maybe a frolicking young woman with flowers in her long hair.”

“I think God is…..is…..um….ah….well….”

“I’m not an atheist but there is no God.”

“The trinity of three. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“An irrational belief.”

“You tell me…hey, hey.”

“A biochemical seizure disruption of the temporal lobe region of the brain causing elevated pathway reinforcement between the amygdale to temporal lobe.”

“God is love.”

“The spirit of life.”

“Histories most plagiarized brand.”

“Bark! Bark! Yip!” The source of all flavorful chicken bits.

“God is what we see when we go to heaven.”

“The sun of the soltera system, our galactic home.”

“Spirit.” Spirit? “Spirit.” “Spirit?” “YES! SPIRIT!”

“Ha, ha, the government of course!”

“The ultimate arbiter.”

“A….(blah blah blah) coping mechanism.”

“Resonant energy vibration of the cosmic microwave background.”

“Ignorance harnessed for evil.”

“The author of the universal story.”

“Cannot be named or described.”

“A tool to control populations of people.”

“Grace.”

“Nietzsche killed God centuries ago.”

“God is great God is good.”

“Opposite of the devil.”

“I’m an Agnostic.” I want at least a dozen Agnostics on my team as a close debate rational shock squad.

“God is dog backwards.”

“Hollywood.”

“The life of the party!”

“I dunno?”

“Ex deo awareness growing.”

“The paradigm.”

“Quien savy?”

“Change.”

“What is God?… You ask what is God!… Ask God!… Only God knows God!”

And so I shall. This bunch of Godly con men and grant hacks are playing it safe. No real ‘out there’ answers are popping up worth the amount of scornful silences. I have trouble believing any of these people know what they are talking about when it comes to reality let alone an abstract dialectical concept. The ones that won’t talk are the scared smart ones. I should try an get them all scanned with a green apples array and hire a couple thousand clerks to sift through all the bullshit for a year or two. That would separate the bull shitters from the truth. If only I had a budget!

Just then, I myself am cornered by an angry Jungian psychiatrist that has broken off from the pack of bearded tweeds gathered near the salmon and crab.

“Be careful researcher you’re playing with fire here. Humanity is caught in the midst of an unconscious psychic epidemic of a malignant egophrenia. A dualistic cultural mass hallucination capable of anything. Capable of tremendous evil in the perpetuation of deep lies.” He jabs his cellulose plate piled high with lab crab at me.

“I intend to report all the lies I can get.” This is truth.

“You will report a history that lies to itself!” He sputters buttered breath. I say let upset overfed Jungians lie.

“What is happening is the unconscious of the masses is shaping the world through mass hysteria!” It’s a mess of masses alright! He nods agreement with himself. Helen nods agreement.

“This an epidemic of a scale not seen in centuries!” “God? or get the fuck out!” I tell him firmly.

“God is a symptom of the egophrenia that has history in its grip!” “Next!” We move beyond the gestaltic schadenfreude.

‘God is whatever you want God to be.” “I want God to be document-able verifiable with corroborative evidence of existence.” Is that possible?

Suit! Note to self: Read Hume then reread Hume!

“Man is God incarnate. Life aware is God alive.” “What?”

“What? Not Who?” “Or He? Or Her?”

“Are you not afraid of God?” “Are you?” “Yes.” “That’s what scares me.” People who are deathly afraid of ‘God’ are capable of anything. This fear can be focused through lies like a cultural weapon. This is the cause of war. Fear of others Gods. Fear of this influence on culture makes history. So far no direct comment from God on history. Does He read the reports from senior researchers?

“God communicates with us by floods and earthquakes and hurricanes and tornadoes and tsunamis and mudslides and volcanoes…” “Sounds like not much good to say huh? But, if you have not been hit by a tremendous natural catastrophe does that mean He’s not talking to you?” She blinks at me idiotically.

“You should thank God every day he has not destroyed where ever you are that day.”

“What about night?”

“Especially at night!” She’s safely holo call company distant from my heresy We exit her sensory dialog cone.

“Did you see the entvid series? You know… 'God'… on entvid? They had five or was it six…or…more…episodes...it showed all about God… I watched some of them… great entertainment. You didn’t catch it then? Oh too bad… you’d a had your answer now.” We narrowed his transmit bandwidth with distance.

The ontologist stared hard at me.

“Omnipotence…” I met his eyes imploringly…”…is a very wide subject…covers just about everything?” He does not flinch.

“Could an omnipotent being create something so heavy God its holy self could not be able to pick it up? Could an omnipotent being change the past? Why should an omnipotent good God allow evil. Theodicy anyone? Is this not the best of all possible buffets? Where do I put my counter-factual subjunctive conditionals? Is omnipotence bound by any laws of nature? Exactly how did Anselm fuck it up?”

“I think you’ll need an epistemologist for that.”

“Ooh sounds painful.” “It usually is.”

“God is inherently mysterious, unfathomable, unknowable, so to seem close to God people seek out the most incoherently confusing self professed personal conductive spokesperson of God. The more hard to understand the message the more scrambled the jargon-ed dogma the more out of fashion the ancient names the more it will be unquestioningly believed for truth. The more unlikely the event the more miraculous the ideation. Popularly personalize a force of nature action of change with a sub textual string of sounds and the mind of man will hear a name for God.” That thought makes him chuckle. He turns conspiratorial.

“Make a vague announcement of a particularly exciting religious revelation and then let others create the religion around this kernel in a conjectural cascade. Thus holy books write themselves through the human need to even subconsciously fill the blanks in the story to the best of the ability of the collective imagination. Better yet make up a person to experience this or even pick some chump and make up stuff about him. A real person is better for immediate marketing of the conjectures. The subject could even deny it all. A successful religious cascade wipes away the true relative past anyway. Dangerous though, often ends tragically with persecution and execution for the founder-victim.”

“I’m becoming familiar with that very scenario.” And here he recognizes me. That’s me: victim of rolling conjecture. Rumor does kill on its way downhill to God. A drunk epistemologist in a stained elbow patched scanty systems resort grade commuter suit could be fun to hang out with to mock reality together. He spots the Librarian staring at me from amid a combat squad of documenting military intelligence assault troops and the smart epistemologist flees to beyond camera range. I get the same urge to flee.

The waste system drain locker, what on Tera surface would be called the toilet or the loo or the potty or the banyo is one place assured some privacy. Past the hatch I leave Space and a hundred monet credit with the attendant with her mints and odor eating aerosols and colognes. She has dog biscuits! On my way to a booth I am “psssstttt..” at and beckoned into a nozzle stall by a no-g suit with hood up, visor closed.

“Oh sorry I’m not into that kind a thing…” I wave the psssttt’er off.

“Mister Dvorak, I’m an emissary. I have a private message.” A whisper. The radiation visor slipped away into the hoody of as shabby an outmoded un-serviceable tape patched pod lami civil crew suit as I’d ever seen. This guy obviously had no weapon as he obviously couldn’t afford even a sharpened plastic knife. The small round face that squinted up at me through thick goggles appeared to me as a type sidekick character from an animae vid. Male, I think. Suburbatoid I dubbed him. I stepped into his vacuous domain.

“Close the door…”

At narrow proximity the face lost none of it’s cartoon quality while revealing the dangerously cute features of a very intelligent badger human hybrid. This body mod phase we’re in is getting ugly. Ugly cute. Suburbatoid seemed quite smug that he gotten me into the toilet with him. He locked his beady super badger eyes onto mine in a feint at an attempt at total mind control. Badgers have tried at this game before. I could not look away or I knew he would savage me with his dull plastic butter knife.

“I represent a secret society…” He paused for the affect of the effect.

“Which one?” I was eager. I love secret societies. “The invisible Masters of the Universe?” I’ve always wanted to see one of those. No. “The Inelectuli?” They are out there somewhere I know it. Not? “Knights of Darkness?” Suit had the yellow pages com code category ’secret society’ scrolling on head up. Are you a really secret society if you have a phone number? “Indemnifiers of Khoast?” “Lighteners of the Armageddon? “Sons of the shadows?” “The, oh my God! The Wilson Phillips family?”

 HOW TO TELL IF YOUR GOVERNMENT IS EVIL

Category: Call Library Board Evil Government Activity Hotline
Top ten hints your Government is DEFINITLY EVIL:
1: Your Governments top boss never changes.
2: Your Government kills you if you suggest change of top boss.
3: Your Government all in same evil religion (see HOW TO TELL IF YOUR RELIGION IS EVIL).
4: Your Government insists it must “RULE THE WORLD”.
5: Your Government puts an evil army in your home (see HOW TO TELL IF THE ARMY ATTACKING YOU IS EVIL).
6: Your Government makes your family spy on you.
7: Your Government takes all your best stuff and deports/kills you.
8: Your Government attacks/takes/destroys neighboring Governments people/land/stuff because “they started it”.
9:Your Government violates any of the applicable 57 irrevocable sentient creature rights.
10: Your Government supports/endorses other Governments that do any of hints 1 through 9.

Category: Call the Library Criminal Government Response Army Hotline
Top ten hints your Local Government PROBABLY IS EVIL:
1: Your Local Governments leaders always elected by over 95% majorities keeping their jobs for life/till executed.
2: Your Local Government always needs more money but cannot explain where “all the other money went”.
3: Your Local Government has reps/employees that will “make life easier” for property/money/sex with you.
4: Your Local Government keeps its activities “secret”.
5: Your Local Government creates/deploys armies not within the Library Scrutiny Command Structure.
6: Your Local Government restricts/denies your ability to vote/ hold meetings/protest/ move away from it.
7: Your Local Government insists everyone eat only bland green discs.
8: Your Local Government insists it will eventually “Rule The World!”.
9: Your Local Government won't answer the phone.
10: Your Local Government bans “Dancing”.

Category: Call the Library Criminal Government Documentation Hotline
Top ten hints your Government COULD BE TURNING EVIL:
1: Top Government boss lives in impregnable fortress.
2: Location of Government offices is “secret”.
3: Somehow your home has been destroyed.
4: You cannot get across town because of the constant militaristic parades.
5: The person that gets elected to Government every time insists you buy stuff/everything from his “cousin”.
6: Your garbage never gets picked up.
7: Your local water supply is dirty/tainted/poisoned/dried up.
8: Your Government leaders wear ridiculous hats resembling genitals/antlers.
9: Your Local elected Government leaders live mostly thousands of kilometers away in luxury.
10: Members of your Local Government start killing each other.

This is not a complete list. All Governments are always considered evil by someone. The Library Board wants to document any/all suspected Governmental evil activity so please report promptly 24/7/365 to minimize whatever subsequent damage/destruction that could occur.



Above is excepted from THE ANSWER

 ANSWER excerpt:

“I saw her on the lift platform going up to the flying esplanade. She looked up at me from the escalvator steps. About three people over. All I said was: ‘Hey, you shaved your eyebrows Hollywood!’ She ran off sobbing! I couldn’t get to her before she got to a restroom and then she just never came out. What did I say? Her eyebrows were bare, it was quite striking.”

“You oaf ! She’s done it!! She’s gone Zubum. She’s over to the whoowhoos! Its sad.” Helen crossed her arms under her breasts and stared holo hard at me.

“What? You think? How do you know?”

“The eyebrows! The lack of them. They say that before you can meet the aliens no hair above the eyes.”

“Come on that’s ridiculous! What about lashes, eyelashes, do they pluck them out as well?”

“No. They dye those bright florescent green. Kinda sparkly like...sorta.”

“You’ve never seen this. This is, oh-my-god, flight deck talk! That’s all you wrench types do is stand around drinking coffee talking bullshit isn’t it. Is that what I pay you for? BS’ing on pop culture cults?”

“Yes of course it is and you know it. And you don’t pay me anyway. I’m a permanent governmental employee twelfth class!“

“Quite right. Of course. Don’t go all calling the union on me again all right okay? I’ll be a good researcher from now on. Um, hey, by the way, did anybody down there mention about depilatory zoo bums fashions elsewhere.”

“Huh?”

“You know down there, hey like, Brazil style?”

“What?”

“You know. A hairless elsewhere? You went in for that once didn’t you? Always swiping my little barber bot. I'd find it later with that silly grin on its face. I was gonna fit it up with a camera.” She grinned at me like a happy barber bot.

“And how was your stay on that power satellite? Did you and Space have fun there? We would laugh for hours at your hairless naked holo calls me and Moody!”

The mention of that arch traitor Moody reminds me that I have to call him soon and apologize for the assassination attempts he’s been encountering lately. It is merely an unfortunate Shakespearean misunderstanding. The group of murderous fanatics only really want to do good things for me. I should not have been complaining about him in their midst, but who takes it seriously when you say out loud sometimes: “I wish somebody would kill that son of a bitch?” I mean come on! Oh, I think I said that out loud again.

“But what do we do about Becky? Paul she’s fragile.”

“Well she is easily brainwashed alright. Look at her career in the military.”

“Lets have an intervention. Deprogram her. Drug her up and fly her out.”

“Dope and hope! She’d kick all our ass’s. Cool your jets Helen.” Oh she hates it when I tell her that. “I’ll see what I can find out from them. After all there would be no zoo without my bum.”

“How well put.” She said dryly as her holo image disintegrated into fading gobs of zubum eyelash sparkles.

This eye hair thing has me thinking that the guys running the aliens have some kind of light show going on with their act, projected down from above perhaps. Visually subjective hypnosis for religious domination purposes is the oldest form of art. Confuse the eyes and the ass will follow. And so I must resort to the most natural enemy of art: the lawyer. I wake up Amanda from her snore accompanied meditative contemplation of my complicated legal budget revenues transfer situation. Suit deposit’s the appropriate amount to her accounts.

“I need you now baby.” I see that she takes obvious note of my word “baby” possibly in order to later inform her lawyers of my perhaps inappropriate behavior. I’ve slept with more lawyers then she can afford.

“You want to consult again? We have consulted all over the tube.”

“There will be time for more consulting later my petite shoe.” She smiles that wonderful honest French smile that makes me think she wants to stab me. “I hope you’re up for the big pay olla ,“ I say this kind of franciaze like so she’ll understand, “of a full price representing appearance.”

And so to get full value I consult with her some more for awhile.

“You mean there’s only two of you in there?” The uniformed elite zub paramilitary looks to his partner. They both make the face of the particularly incredulous. Another walks up.

“OK pay up.” He says flatly to the other two. Muttering they tap away at their id lami wallet displays.

“You two sound like fifty people having sex!” He peels his lami bugs from my door.

“They thought there was an orgy going on in there.” It’s Jenkins the Space Marine.

“There was.” I reply and try to add some twinkle to my eye. Amanda blush’s and giggles in a most un-attorney like way. Suddenly it seems she’s dropped something and must bend over very far to pick it up. Its very obviously good for bending that she wore such a scanty cut away skin tight ultra micro shuttle suit. This attracts tremendous military attention and I use the diversion to step unaccompanied into the lift.

Ducking the obvious camera clusters and ID panels hood up I make my way by back corridors and maintenance tunnels to what I know was Becky’s last known address, an apartment tube off the third domes ring road. I remember the place had a great view of the new low-g water park. As I casually snuck amongst my neighbor Lunarians I thought about how Becky and I had lost touch after the close of my last report. Did I drive her to this extreme, I wondered, through my neglect and infidelity? We are still married after all and I do feel responsible for her even though she’s always saving my life by not killing me. Who’s going to save my life next time if she’s off in some bizarre cult somewhere?

When I’m sure I’m at the right place I find the tubes decomp door wide open. The place is full of people. There’s a chanting party going on. They sway in a contra harmonic trance of unintelligible mumbling. It’s a crowd of mostly tribal techie types of every race or skin dye hue dressed in as hippie as you can make out of a wired systems laden jump suit. Several are not even real in the sense that they are even in the room or on the moon but cast that shadow less electronic glow that shouts cheap holo caller. Some of the more aware less tranced out ones glance up at me as I weave through their fervent languishing. I sense them scanning my eyebrows.

“Pay oool im zub.” Says the man whose hand I’m standing on.

“Eww. Aw. Sorry. Oh. Are you alright? Ooopps. I guess. Sorry, sorry, so sorry.” I think this song needs music. I let suit pick. It chose a Handel scratch acid mix of the halleluiah chorus at a very low volume level three, almost just above subliminal if you’re deaf.

“Hey, um, anybody know Becky Savage? She still live here? Blond, maybe, no brows, no eyebrows?” By now I had engaged several of the closest ones to the man who rubbed his hand wincing. They all had eyebrows. Certainly they would have noticed her. “Halleluiah!” softly shouts my suit as the sub-woofers in my deck boots thump in slow time to the deepest hum like loop bass in the phrase the DJ's are attempting to repeat. The halleluiah’s give it some skank. A woman whose expression clearly is telling me to go to hell, where ever that is in their alien pantheon, points to the door of the once stylishly decorated tube’s antechamber. Rebecca’s bedroom. A room I know quite well having paid for it. Suit thinks its time for Dean Martin to sing and now I need a drink. She used to keep liquor over there by that hippie ore shuttle driver. Suit sends some marstini up the sippy tube next to my blacked out ID lami. I know I will miss the dusky red olives that come with a fresh full launch tank pitcher; that’s the price I pay for the convenience of a full suit bar amidst the ruble of a cult.

Should I knock on the door or burst right in? It is my bedroom isn’t it? Did I say that out loud?

“Isn’t what in zub?” I’m asked mid chant by a young man in a moon suit adorned with multicolored plastic beads.

“Oh but that’s the rub! Bub.” I poet my way through the unlocked slider door.

“Hello Paul. I’ve been expecting you.” Becky, alone, sits naked at her mirrored table, her back turned to me.

“Well I had to come see you right away. I’ve been worried since you ran away yesterday. That was you wasn’t it? On the steps?“ I moved in closer to her, I wanted to grab her and make love to her again, eyebrows or not. In fact the whole no eyebrow thing was becoming a sort of a turn on. A new dimension of Becky-ness to explore. She’s shaving her eyebrows right now I notice. She looks up at me in the mirror soulfully. We make deep eye contact.

“Stubble.” She says beautifully. “I didn’t think I’d get stubble so quickly” She shakes her beautiful long smooth forehead from side to side. She caught me peeking south of the border.

“Um, do you zoo bums do that everywhere? This shave thing?”

“No silly boy. Just the brows. And only a top candidate does this. I am a terrarista!” She announced quite proudly.

“I’m married to a terrorist!”

She laughs.

“Not terrorist. Terrarista. Terrrraaaarrr. Not terrroooaarrrr. Its like French or Spanish or Cosmeranto or something. It means “of the earth”

Solemn moment now.

“You’d make more money as a terrorist. You have the training. You’d be good at it.”

She looked for a moment as if she were seriously considering this.

“Well, maybe when I get back.” I knew it!

“Back! Back what? Where are you going?”

“To meet God of course!” As if I didn’t know! She’s a serious terraaarrrista alright. ”The zubums know God personally and are gonna introduce me. I get a sit down with the man or… the…woman…err… well you know!”

“You get the glowing green mascara too?”

“Yeah! Hey, you know about this too Paul?”

“A little. When are you leaving and where are you going?”

“One… I don’t know. Two…I don’t know. They don’t tell me. The zoo does or the bum does. Or I just know I guess.“

“Well when you tell yourself let me know okay?”

She gazed at me quizzically asking herself.

“What are the other rules? Can I do this?” She squeals with mock delight. “Oh Paul!” “Or this? Can a zubum’s husband do this? Must he be underwater?” Apparently there are few rules of conduct that apply to horny terrarristas. The oddest one I’ve noticed so far is this eyebrow thing. It seems the only proscriptions to social zubumic behavior is the eyebrows, and that you must thoroughly wash your ass. The aliens apparently are sensitive to smells, ass smell in particular. Becky in case she should be about to call herself to zubum takes a bath. We take a bath. I might want to go along.

“Oh no Paul! You absolutely can’t come along with me! It’s not allowed. I am on the solitary path of the chosen.”

“Who chose you?” I tried not to make that sound like I thought that nobody rational would’ve chosen her.

“What? I can’t go on a quest for God? Not me? Look Mr. Senior Researcher” when she capitalizes that I know I’m in for trouble “I happen to enjoy intellectual pursuits. Not like you drinking Marstini’s” she pantomimes me throwing back a launch tank. “I spent half my career an EXTINT officer and had to take the stupidest shit for it: ‘Oh I saw a UFO, it looked like a big butt, ha ha ha!’ “ Her impersonation of her fellow officers was spot on. I could see their pathetic school yard antics. I could imagine their puerile humor. Then she punched me hard in the gut!

“And you ! You’re the worst ever! ‘Oh there’s one over there! Hey made you look…ha!!’ Playing your silly sci-fi soundtrack music! Like right now! Now stop it! Stop the music now!” Suit heard her loud and clear from the corner. “I suppose you expect me to report it all to you! Everything! All of it!”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I mean when you get the chance. I could use it for some new research I think I want to do.” “NO Paul!” “Big project kinda ties in with last one.” “You can’t!” “Big budget. Long scale.” “Don’t say it!” “ You know I need you now more then ever.” “Not that!” “I don’t know what I’ll be up against, and that’s why I need you.” “You mustn’t!”

“Yes Becky, I think I’ll research God next. And I need you to get us in so we can serve the warrants and subpoenas. Just point to the guy in charge, God, you know, and we’ll do the rest. A crack team of paramilitary lawyers’l get the truth outta God!”

“Sure Paul.” She sounded soothing. She patted my hand. Led me from the bath to the bed. And when I woke up she was gone and so were my eyebrows.

“I just looked in the mirror to see if I was actually alive. I feel like I got hit with death!”

“I can’t see what your talking about! Move into better light. Wait there! There!”

“Turn up the resolution in your phone menu. I tell you they’re gone! Gone! I look like a freak’n thespian!”

“Paul just ‘cause your eyebrows have been shaved off does not make you a lesbian. Besides you’re a ah ah… you know what I mean….?” She was confusing herself here I could tell.

“Man? Man Helen. Man? Is that what you mean?” She acknowledges I’m a man with an infuriatingly reluctant nod. “What I mean is Theatrical person, an actor, a make up wearer.”

“Well there’s improvement then!” What! “That’s what you should do!”

“What!?”

“Cosmetics Paul. We do live in the future after all. This is supposed to be a time of tolerance and enlightenment isn’t it anyway?”

“Lets leave the future in the past between us and get to what you’re trying to tell me!” I manage to say through clenched teeth.

“Just paint in your eyebrows with la lusta number seven. That’s your shade I think. Match your brownish hair. Don’t arch them too high up on your forehead though or you’ll look cheap.”

“Oh I’m cheap alright. Cheap Dvorak that’s what they call me… yup.” She readily nods at this in confirmation. “ Helen I’m not putting on fake eyebrows!”

“Come on Pauly, you want people to stare at you? Surely Becky’s got something there that you could use?” I searched like a good researcher the contents of the vicinity. Nothing, no liquor, no cigarettes, no make up. I sip some fresh suit marstini. Besides empty all I found was a lami pamphlet from the zoobums central. I’ll read this dogma later in the karma. “How about a space pen? Or a zero G sharpie marker?”

“I’ll see if there’s something in the other room.” Is always how I innocently descend into ever more trouble. I have really no thought in my head as to the other room than that there is in the food prep area very many sliding storage bin lockers full of junk recessed stylishly into the highly expensive la lusta shade twenty seven Passion Flower decorative paneling that I paid for. I can smell zoobums as the door slides pneumatically aside. Even Space-less I smell a lot of zoobum smell sort of patchouli sweat and sani hose disinfectant. What was another room of the suite, once splendidly furniture’d in modular low G plush-O-hide, the common media room is now merely a shell surrounding the deepest most tightly packed crowd of wild eyed religious fanatics that this room could possibly hold. I can tell this as the main decomp door to the corridor stands open and the sea of brainwashed heads extends full view. People are so close together that they blur in their tribe’d up tech suits. Shoulder to shoulder they form an arc around me at arms length away. I make no move except to put my hand up feebly to hide where my eyebrows should be. They take this as a salute.

“Paaaauuuuoool iiiimmmm bbbbuuummm.” Echoes vibrate the structure of Crater View Estates itself. Such a tremendous blast of fowl breath hits me that I take a step back.

And thus the door, the tiny mind of it’s sensor program quite sane, closes me back into the bedroom.

“Company at the door Paul?”

“Some sales reps.” I stagger to sit on the bed.

“What are we going to do about Becky?” Helen’s holo image drips thick with real concern. As I open my mouth to say… “I don’t know!” I’m over spoken by: “What do you mean ‘what are you gonna do?’ ” of an angry Becky voice coming from behind me.

“You’ve been in the vacu-spa this whole time?” She looks all smooth brow-ed big eyed. Her cheeks are red and she’s frowning because she’s pissed off.

“You don’t have to do anything about me Helen! I do just fine for myself!” She storms over to me on the bed falls beside me and grabs my arm at my com lami and Helen is gone. She hung up on Helen!

“Thanks. That call was starting to cost me.”

Life is strange enough without a cult outside your door. Angry Becky glares at me. She stands askance arms folded. It takes a minute before I realize she’s staring at my forehead. She bites her lip. I pounce.

“What’s the big idea of shaving my eyebrows?! Some kinda joke? Ha Ha! Think it’s funny?” She reach’s out and takes my hands. We sit on the airbed.

“I didn’t shave your eyebrows off Paul.” Her eyes lock onto mine as if she’s looking deeply into me. “You were laying there asleep and I thought and thought about what you said about God and aliens and asked the zoobum if I should stop you or kill you or love you. I asked and asked and didn’t hear a thing. No copy of my coms. I thought about being a terrarista and what a terrarista would do and I didn’t know and so I asked the only other terrarista I ever met. And she said that humans are good at waiting to see what will happen. Its one of our natural special abilities as animals. Its how we learn things, watching and waiting. Sometimes knowledge comes to those who wait. So I waited to kill you because I love you, we’re married after all. And then when I looked at you again your eyebrows were gone! It was just a moment! I didn’t do it. And that was what I was waiting for.” We gaze at each others reflection in the nearby mirror. Holding hands.

“Well who shaved them off? An eyebrow burglar? A hair fetishist?”

“No one shaved off your eyebrows! Don’t you see? You are chosen! You’re a terrarista too! You weren’t picked by a committee like I was, you were chosen by the Bum itself. You are the Zoo!”

“We are the walrus.” I recite. She looks at me uncomprehendingly. Suit gives us some Beatles medley. I see the positive. “This will get me in there for sure.” I admire the new look of my reflection.

“That’s why they’re here.” She nods at the door. I can hear the monotonous chanting.

“What are they saying? Pay ool im Bub?

“It’s you Paul. They speak so many different languages that when they chant all together it blends like a chord. They’re saying “Paul is Zoobum”. You’re the Paul. You killed Simpson Acca Buddha. There would be no Zoobum aliens here if it wasn’t for you. Those people wouldn’t have the chance to meet God.”

“Becky you know what happened as well as I do. I did not kill Simpson Acca Buddha. He killed himself, or rather his neurotic android copy self-destructed.” On the saturoid Il Buacentaurri. Vaporized. “You tell them I didn’t do it! Explain.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. Things have gone too far. Your myth is written. They’re your followers. Your personal bum. They think if they’re around you their chances of talking to God get better. Every terrarista attracts them. Its like a personal cheering chanting squad. Only yours is big! Really big! There’s at least five thousand people clogging the whole neighborhood tube!”

She’s right. Things have gone too far. I’ve been defaced. They got my forehead hair by remote somehow. A tuned down blast and suck was aimed at my face. I’m the prisoner of a mob of fanatics that think I killed the founder of their religion and they’re glad about it. Soon the soldiers of the Zoobo council will be here angry that I gave them the slip. They want me on tube detention. The Mormons from Idaho want me for war crimes against their military industrial complex rooted in the same events that spawned the alien religion. I know I have to act fast.

“I think we should make mad passionate frenzied love right now.”

“Oh Paul we have to stay pure. We’re the chosen.” And so we did. Several times. In rhythm to the chanting. On the airbed. Against the door. In the other room they must have thought we were encouraging them as they then became louder. We were equal terrarista now Becky and I. When I awoke from my exhausted stupor Becky was shaving her face again. I rubbed for some stubble. Nothing. Smooth.

“How will I get outta here?” I mumbled. Space is with Amanda and I don’t want her corrupting him into some kind of French poodle.

“You can go anywhere you want. They won’t stop you. They’ll probably follow you everywhere chanting.” She finishes her depilation’s.

“Lets go then. Come on with me. Talk to Chevrolet. Get Helen to pick us all up. Amanda and Space too.” I hold her close.

“They have space ships too Paul. They’ll follow you everywhere now that the Paul Dvorak is a Terrarista. You’re a religious superstar.”

“We’ll get away. All of us.”

“No.” She stops me. “Not me I can’t go with you. I got the call last night while you slept. My appointment is set. I have to go now to zubum.” So we bathed in the soapy low-g pod. Clean ass-ish-ness is good alien etiquette.

“So where are you going to meet the aliens who introduce you to God?” I ask innocently.

“Clackamas.”

I think she wants me to spank her and it gets quite splashy before she tells me that it’s a place in Oregon NA on Tera.

 

Early in The Reason

Zombies can't lunge hungrily at somebody flying over. A shuttle goes to the city nearest the roadblocks. Once there no one will rent me a verti, fleeing citizens have got them all, I'll have to wave warrant displays to hitch rides from the military.

While riding gravity downward in the shuttle, suit got me a breakdown of the outbreak. It started like most historical cinema recordings of zombie outbreaks with vid crews of a zombie ENT production using the swamps as a filming location. Somehow zombie extras got zombiefied to run amok on the set. Blame when this occurs is usually put on casting which must have shoved a real zombie into the horde of actors by accident. The first to die was actors. The crew continued to record until too late. If you watch carefully you can see what has become known as Zombie Number One grab biting at a womyn zombie who is seen in another scene biting other zombies. The last time this happened a century or so ago was shown at Cannes to good reviews. Unfortunately the lessons learned in ancient cinema prove useless in this plot.

Much more current amateur video of our snapping zombies feasting on the neighbors brains show these zombies are of Type 3 on the Romero scale. The oldest known form of zombie is the Type 1 horde: a drugged person is buried as dead then dug up and revived. Continuous administration of drugs spiked with rare puffer fish venom keeps the zombie a zombie. Useful mainly as a docile servant. Maintenance drug costs are high. Illegal by most governments. Called a Type 1 zombie as drug costs typically limit horde size to one individual. Type 1 zombies do not crave brains but when sent to the market to pick up fried chicken and cola might have a nibble and a sip.

Type 2 zombie horde requires of the infected an induced persistent dissociative fugue that centers on a craving for brain. First recorded in very early cinema. Typically caused by meteorite impact carrying space fungus or plant. No incidents recorded last several hundred years. Type 2 zombies move very slow, respond negatively to fire, easily wiped out with methods at hand by survivors. Contained to localized geographic area, not pandemic. Horde size can range from several hundred to less then ten thousand.

Type 3 horde zombies satisfy the apocalyptic pandemic code red criteria. Not geographically localized. Often made up of recently dead who've been infected by bites upon the living uninfected. Wounded victims who escape being eaten appear to die then become zombies after a dormant period dependent upon dramatic stress. Horde sizes range from many thousands to millions. Typically type 3 zombies are the product of a twisted science gone evil. May be fast moving, may carry weapons, may be communicative depending on the warped science involved. Controlled by quarantine extermination programs or rehabilitation with zombie chows.

Type 4 horde zombies crave brains, are not localized, are recently or previously long dead, in fact can be very decomposed corpses that crawl out of their graves. Untraceable supernatural causes. Recorded also in cinema though outbreaks not seen since late first Hollywood period. Animal zombies may occur.

We live in a fortunate era. Who hasn't battled zombies in some game milieu? They are a convenient opponent in being dead already does not raise many moral or nationalistic objections. Hundreds of years of practice has made humanity ready with tried and true simulated zombie combat experience. Big drawback is there is no re-spawn in real life. You cannot reload a checkpoint in real life to give it another try. Though the military types long for this ability.

The nearest to the outbreaks city space port was in a state of panic. Only three people got off the shuttle, after having a look around two of those got right back on. The sea of people destined anywhere else pressed against me as I fought the tide. The quarantine zone is being extended toward us and everybody except me wants out now. I waved down a military officer whose armband flashed PIO in cool blue letters. He acknowledged my floating flashing ID with a pained: “OK so...?” Warrant slap! POW! Or more realistically 'DING' as it reached his coms. “Oh...” he read... ”OK so?”

“Take me to your leader. Which way to the front? Can I get a ride from somebody to headquarters?” He made a call.

They were a team of combat forensic anthropologists sent to investigate the thousands of missing people. They meant to document the struggles of the locals to survive. The Katska they rode in on had huge G5s' painted on all sides. There was barely room for me among the crates of questionnaires and lami pamphlets. I was asked if I'd seen the biologic survey team that went in ahead of them to “test for poisonous atmospheres, rogue virus's, deadly bacteria's, nerve gas's, eccetera...” Eccetera like there is much more.

I answered: “nope.”

Our driver had: “They went in with the tanks. So they should be OK.” though his face showed he was not certain. Had he seen active zombies? Refugees? “Oh yes. Everyone in the zone is dead or a zombie.” Mass graves? Pyres? Killed zombies? Trails of dead? “Oh you'll get all that.” And then he kicked us all out at the local quarantine headquarters.

…...

…...

This Command Post is split into cubicles by utility: armory, ammo, coms, snack room, TOC and TACs, supply, meds, trans, duty, CQ, each labeled with handy lami signs. I proceed from the armory to the less post apocalyptic decor of the snack cubicle. The place was full of break time soldiers whose background murmur of conversations rose then fell into dead silence. There was a minor chorus of chairs squealing as snacking soldiers and cops got out of the way of a Librarian entering with his entourage. He made his way right at me like a reaper missile. I gulp suits marstini sippy tube into 'mixing/standby mode'. I gotta upgrade to a higher capacity suit bar.

“You the Dvorak kid?” He's old. The oldest Librarian First Class I'd ever seen. Not short or tall with the face like a sculpture of an ancient politician. They tend to be young, eager, flexible, naive. I nod obediently. “I don't work for you.” He snarls. That settles that, he won't be bossed around by me. “My commitment is to the three S.R.s we got now. You're just along for the ride. The brass is going to send a squad in with you mostly so we can confirm for history how you die.” So I'm going in? With a squad? Of course I'm recording all this and upping it to the office for my report so eventually everyone can see me die anyway.

To live to get this old a Combat Librarian must be good and lucky. Somehow I feel I want to stay close to him like his magical luck perimeter could cover me too. I don't want any separation from his view that could cast doubt about my zombiefication. A guy could slip from view, get scratched to infection, then reappear a moment later a ticking brain eating time bomb in the midst of dinner. Any doubt just shoot. Historically proximity to a Librarian in combat is usually a very safe place. Too bad when I'll have to split off for the labs I want to see. He'll be too busy looking for those other two Senior Researchers and their Librarians, that were overrun two days ago, to worry about where I went.

I am dismissed by the back of this receding Librarian without my having said a word or learned his name. No hearty intro handshake or 'good luck' from him since I am already dead in his prehistory. 'Librarian First Class Otto Grey' Thanks suit. He's famous, I've heard of him. He's declared war on suspected zombies before. He's declared about thirty wars, big and small, mostly justifiable, but none for quite awhile, at least an info-war ago in fact. A good heroic Librarian might only get one or two in a whole career. Retired, suit says, brought back by the Public Library Board after they lost three Librarians to this outbreak.

Suit has the newest rules of engagement: 'shoot all zombies dead on sight'. The order of battle, with me included, is posted. It's a combined task force sweep to clear some zombie free chunks of real estate. They will try to clear and hold approximately eight square kilometers. The intel estimate is nine to nine hundred zombies per square kilometer, a range that makes me cringe at its absurdity, part of this area has already absorbed thousands of well armed troops. We, my squad of witnesses go in last, which worries me; in all my cinema/game zombie experience last in line is first to die. Naturally Otto the Librarian with his close support shock assault combat brigade goes in first to stir them up as last in line, us, tries to catch up.

My plan, since I can't ride in Otto's pocket is to skirt their main route, avoid zombie contact. Shooting is a known way to attract more zombies. By not shooting ones not within arms length and moving fast and waiting till they home in on Otto's brigade shooting we should be able to reach the labs OK. I know Otto's column will be shooting because we won't be there following last to be grabbed first. It should be loud enough to attract zombies from kilometers away, especially once air support starts bombing. Only ones we should see are the deaf ones.

…...

…...

Whatever caused this zombiefication is very new. Someone has found a way to animate dead meat into murderous machine. The long quest for a fleshy suitably sexy non threatening domestic bot has struggled with the meaty parts. Plastic no matter how squishy or well warmed is not the same. Growing blank people and trying to program them has had not much success either: lawyers. Building mechanical yet fleshy people bots is safe from lawyers as an individual product item can't qualify as sentient life, or sue anybody. So some well meaning mad genetic scientist in the interest of power and greed has sniped and shuffled bits of DNA, cooked up flesh in vats, till something they did crossed over. Some new type of life has taken over the victims basic biology of life. The chemistry of life mechanisms encoded in the zombies genes must have been scrambled by some bio labs gene tinkering.

The span of the existence of life on Tera is geologic. Life has outlasted continents. It is meta geologic since life has so transformed the planet. The very first choices of chemistry creating sustainable reactions is at the root of all life. All life as we know it shares the same basic mechanisms at the cellular level, shares the transfer of knowledge in the genetic recipes. All life shares these basic functions that make life. Tiny strands of coded knowledge control even the largest of beings. So to understand big you have to go small, molecular small, atomic small. Lots of things affect the very small world in very large ways, thus, at this moment: brain craving zombies. It's usually too late for the very small when zombies are pounding at the door. They were probably searching for a genetic obesity cure and the menu preference mode got stuck on human brains. According to the Holy Hollywood archives not the first time obesity treatments have led to zombies.

This outbreak had to have started years ago quietly in actions rooted in one of the bio labs around here. These bio corporations like industrial areas surrounded by swamp, or in far deserts, there are a few under the sea, many on the moon and in orbit, like they half expect something dangerous could very well escape. It has happened. It's like a resigned inevitability. The NA Army thinks they have the zero infection location plotted to a lab run by one of the corporations they buy their secret poisons, deadly bugs and stuff from. They can save a lot of money here by grabbing up all they can get that they would have had to pay for otherwise. No one alive from the corporation left around to work up a bill. If that corp caused the outbreak they are done as a business entity. They'll never get insurance again. They are sure to be sued by millions of people and businesses. The Army can kill zombies that hunt the living; few armies have stopped lawyers that hunt money. First came the zombies then came the Army here comes the lawyers.

The second Senior Researcher intrigued by these zombies quickly secured the support of a Librarian backed by the military structure that imposed the quarantine zone. They went in late last week, only three days ago with a Battalion of heavy infantry on hundreds of assault vehicles under a cloud of air and space fire support; no ones had contact for days. An armed force of over a thousand evaporated into the hundred proof mildly radioactive shiny metallic fog, accompanied by two Senior Researchers with a Librarian included. Heat signatures recorded from space record an intense battle that lasted less then an hour, then six hours of chaotic coms interspersed by horrific vid scenes from pockets of survivors while the Governments struggled with raising a relief force to rescue them. Earlier, before anyone thought apocalypse another Researcher with a Librarian First Class and a trainee First Class Librarian Combat Document Clerk went no coms on the second day of the outbreak before the quarantine was established, they had gone looking for the movie crews. It became obvious to anyone being asked to provide troops as the quarantine zone expanded that there could now be up to several hundred thousand zombies in there.

Putting these kinds of labs and bio-flesh factories near swamps that happen to be next to large cities does not enhance their isolation. Swamps and zombies go together in every horde type, add a city, that's what we've got here. There must be... it can only mean... yes no... thousands, no... maybe ten thousand zombie lawyers! Who do you sue?! From here safely surrounded by guns its hard to believe some people can have survived in there; could be thousands of isolated pockets of survivors. It's what we are counting on. Hopefully someone is still alive in that lab that can explain why they needed so many hundreds of millions of liters of alcohol. My personal crusade, an angle missed by the missing three Senior Researchers who got here early on the zombie thing, only me is after the alcohol.

Where did all the alcohol go? It's a volume that dwarfs the local structures seen from space. What did they do with it? No empty wet fuel rockets landed anywhere near to fill up before blasting off. Pouring it into the swamp would have been noticed downstream, but the present alcohol clouds might be a hint of this. Did they pump it into the ground like the ancient fractors? Perhaps the pipes are broken somewhere, somehow, or they just left the booze spigot running.

“Why we going there?” The soldiers don't like the idea of leaving the column. I explain the 'last in line rule'. They are still reluctant. I tell them we are going there to seize data relating to alcohol shipments. I could see the change come over them, the word 'seize' excited them and the 'shipments of alcohol' gave them hope for the future.

“We break away low and quiet. No contact shooting. Shove the zombies out of the way. We keep moving fast to these big doors on this building.”

These guys assigned to me are not an ugly bunch. Well one of them is. Marines? “It's a swamp.” “Space Marines?” “Water Marines.” OK swamp tactics to the water Marines. They didn't seem to want to talk about the distinction anymore. One of the better looking ones was their boss they called: 'Gunny',which I assumed meant he would be good with guns. A good looking one of those that Gunny yelled at constantly was 'Boats”, who must have large feet; hard to tell with the anti-zombie booties on. The one of them that was most not ugly was the Marine they called 'Pig', which I thought was unfair because she seemed gorgeous when she peeked out of her blast hood from behind her Gatling blaster, her nickname must be about how she eats. The last and least in rank, also by far in my opinion the ugliest was the Marine they called 'Cherry', which is actually his name: Myron Cherry. Cherry was also harnessed into a Gatling blaster. These guys intend to mow down any kind of unarmed 'run at you' type enemy. I am comforted by that concentration of firepower only as long as it is pointed away from me. Gunny's “We keep you in the middle.” tactical sketch has them both behind me however. At least half their guns are pointed away from me.

“What is it you do Boats? I mean he's the boss, and they got Gatling blasters?” Demo, coms, meds, what? He just grinned at me. Gunny answered in his cigar choked growl:

“His job is to kill you...” pause “if you get bit. He's gonna watch you the whole way. His job is to survive to bring back a record out from under the mist and report exactly how you died with vid, audio, DNA portions, telemetry, witness statements, pieces of you, eccetera.”

“My mission is to make sure you're dead. I'll be right behind you every step.” While the 'last guy rule' here gave me some comfort, Gunny's tactical positions put Boats right in front of me! I decided not to bring it up.