Showing posts sorted by date for query "race war". Sort by relevance Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by date for query "race war". Sort by relevance Show all posts

Tuesday, September 15, 2026

A Monitory Message For America

     If you enjoy historical fiction, you may already be familiar with the work of Taylor Caldwell. Her great historical novels are among the foremost gems of that field. But Caldwell wasn’t just a writer of historical fiction. Her novel Dialogues With The Devil is a particularly striking work that I would recommend without hesitation to any Christian. Her novel The Devil’s Advocate, about a near-future Communized America, is equally impactful.

     Taylor Caldwell was a thinker – an impassioned one.

     What follows is an article Caldwell published in 1957. I stumbled upon it not long ago. I was massively impressed by her insight, for the article speaks, softly yet quite audibly, of a nation that permitted itself to be overcome by envy, sloth, and the desire for power… a nation gone from the world, and only dimly remembered today.


The Story of Honoria

     This is a true story about a nation which was once great. At the outset, we will call that nation Honoria; but you will readily guess her true name, as the story unfolds.

     Once upon a time, some courageous men decided to leave their own country, which did not encourage freedom of religion, freedom of speech, and freedom of the individual. They wanted to establish a new country where men could be free.

     So, these men who wanted freedom became Pilgrims. They migrated to an uncivilized land inhabited only by barbarians, enduring terrible hardship to get there. When they landed in that savage region, they stood upon a great rock. There, they did homage to their God -- for guiding them during their arduous journey.

     To this day, that rock is one of the most famous monuments in the world.

     Pilgrim Fathers

     The Pilgrims weren't very kind to the natives of the region; but kindness is not usually an attribute of the human race, not even among just men earnestly seeking freedom and justice for themselves. They drove off the natives, and built their rude shelters in the inhospitable wilderness. They also engaged in flurries of small wars and massacres with the natives, and they went armed into the fields to set their crops and take care of their cattle. They taught their wives and half-grown children how to handle arms and protect themselves when the men were away.

     One of the first things these Pilgrims did was to build a house of worship in the wilderness -- a crude, rude house, but still a house of worship. There they would gather, not just on holy days, but every day, to pray. They had a special day in the year, too, to give thanks for their blessings; and they would walk through the silent fields and wild forests on that day, armed and watchful against the savages.

     The Pilgrims were stern and austere men. They believed in their God, but they also believed in work -- hard, driving, determined work. They established schools, under religious leaders. These schools, in a way, were the first public, free education in the world -- education such as had never been before in the old, corrupt countries.

     The old, corrupt countries laughed at the Pilgrims -- laughed at their poverty, their hard work, their educational efforts, their single-hearted devotion to religion, their dedication to a simple, strenuous, virtuous life. In fact, in one of the old countries, a famous playwright wrote a most amusing play on the Pilgrims -- a sensationally funny piece that brought many honors to the playwright. You can still read his play today, if you wish.

     People in the old countries -- rich and decadent -- called the Pilgrims savages. They did not know that these Pilgrims -- these obscure, work-stained men; these men with the soil of the earth under their fingernails; these men in their rude shelters -- would, through their descendants, build the most powerful nation in the world, one to which the old, corrupt countries would look in envy, hatred and contempt while they demanded more and more support for their tottering governments, their tyrannies, and their starving people.

     The Pilgrims were intolerant of wrongdoing. They used whips and gallows to punish criminals. Their clergymen preached stern virtue and selfless dedication. They had no patience with the weak and degenerate, who, if they are pampered, become the cancer of a nation. And, as the Pilgrims had endured so much to come so far, there was no place in their community for those who would destroy them and what they were building.

     The Pilgrims engaged in trade as their community grew. They set sails on the ocean. More Pilgrims joined them. They became moderately prosperous. But still they retained the severity and devotion of their lives, dressed very simply, loved the good earth which nourished them, gathered in their churches for prayer. Their tiny villages became small towns, and then small cities. All this took a long time.

     Other colonists came and established other colonies -- over a period of more than three hundred years. But these colonies, and the colonies of the Pilgrims, were not yet one nation. They were small, unintegrated colonies under the shadow of powerful nations, from which the colonists had fled.

     But all the colonists had one thing in common: They had fled from oppression, hoping to live in peace, with as much justice as men can dredge up from themselves. They had had all they could take of endless wars, endless taxation, endless bureaucrats, endless arrogant rulers. In the sight of their God, as they wrote over and over, they had established a new nation.

     Over three hundred years went by. The colonies were flourishing everywhere. The breath of freedom blew over them like a mighty wind, clear, sharp, invigorating, stirring men's souls, lighting up their hearts, strengthening their arms, making their spirits incandescent.

     Some of the noblest literature ever written by men was created in those colonies, some of the noblest architecture, some of the noblest precepts. Facades of our modern government buildings bear some of the legends written in those days: "Liberty," "justice," "freedom of worship."

     The cobbled streets of the colonial cities began to ring with the footsteps of great men, with the sound of heroic voices. A new day was dawning in this cluster of colonies I have called Honoria.

     Eventually the Pilgrims -- those severe, strict men -- became more tolerant of their neighbors, and did business with them. They sent their best writers, best artisans, best agriculturists, to the other colonies, and in return received a little laughter and gaiety. For three hundred years that went on; and God blessed the colonies, this new nation, not yet one nation, which I have called Honoria.

     Three hundred years -- and then the terror.

     Colonies Unite

     One of the old, corrupt countries, greedy for exploitation, despising the simplicity and moral laws of the colonies, and anxious to tax them and put them once more under oppression, sent tax agents to the big city of the Pilgrims.

     Word of the terror ran through the colonies like the sound of a drum awakening freemen to the knowledge of peril. The colonies sent their greatest men as representatives to a general assembly of all the colonies. They knew that their destinies lay together. They looked about for a leader, and found him: a prosperous gentleman farmer, a man concerned only with agriculture, but a man of learning. Above all, he was a man. They sent representatives to him, as he stood in his fields, with his hand on the plow. He shook the dust of the fields from his feet and went to the city.

     One of the most famous cities of the United States is named after him. He became known as "the father of his country."

     Now, this man united the colonies. This noble man -- who will never be forgotten so long as free men dare to speak -- won his fight against corrupt politicians, and he returned to his fields.

     The united colonies became a nation -- Honoria. The day of their great and growing power had dawned.

     The new nation had two houses of government. The more powerful was the Senate. No one could be elected to the Senate unless he was a man of probity, honor, patriotism, and religion. But that was in the early days of the Republic. For Honoria was a Republic, though she is a Republic no longer. Honoria, in those days, distrusted militarism, hated wars. Her ideal was freedom under divine guidance.

     The Senators knew that they must support the Republic and shun intrigue with foreign nations -- or suffer severe punishment. For a long time, a very long time, the Senators did not betray their people.

     A civil war ultimately divided the Republic, a bloody, fratricidal war. A leader of the Republic was assassinated. He had led the country in a war to keep the nation united, but he had enemies. Many plays and books have been written about this leader. I do not argue for or against this man who was assassinated in the warm spring of the year, in the very shadow of government buildings. You have read about him; you have seen him in moving pictures, and on television. He was murdered, and one of the greatest playwrights of all time immortalized him in a noble play. One of his most trusted friends, a general of the army of the Republic, avenged his death most terribly; and Honoria never really did recover from that vengeance, and that death.

     Honoria, after that bloody civil war, and after many men were executed because of it, suddenly and mysteriously changed direction. She was a real power in the world now. The old, corrupt countries, which had hoped to see her divided and ruined by the civil war, had to take her into their calculations, although she was still being called vulgar and uncultured and gross.

     The old, corrupt countries sent ambassadors to Honoria. Tens of thousands of immigrants came to Honoria from the old countries. Many of them went like the ancient Pilgrims, fleeing from oppression. But many came because Honoria was rich, and they cared nothing for her traditions.

     Prosperity does not automatically bring virtue, nor does it always sustain it. Honoria was powerful. Her ships ranged everywhere.

     Many of her Senators became ambitious, and ambition for power brought corruption. They began to make deals with leaders of important factions. They became arrogant, and often depraved. They forgot their Spartan beginnings. They began to sneer at the Pilgrims and their severe laws and austerities. The Senators, many of them, became rich in worldly goods, but very poor in knowledge of what had made their nation great. They began to despise the very Republic for which they stood. For a price, they would even betray their country.

     The Republic, which had grown strong by not engaging in foreign entanglements, now became entangled. What was the purpose of the entanglements? Oh, the leaders said alliances were necessary to defend the civilized world -- but the real purpose was to satisfy the greedy ambitions and allay the sickly fears of the leaders.

     The alliances brought wars, and the wars brought taxes. But the citizens of Honoria did not resist, because war also brought an increase in trade and industry.

     The citizens of Honoria, blissfully enjoying their new prosperity, did not mind the taxation -- at first. Their leaders had told them it would be imposed only "on the rich fellows," the "fellows with big houses and servants." The silly citizens nodded their heads soberly. Let the rich fellows pay and support the rest of the country.

     The citizens were beginning to think of security. They wanted public auditoriums for sports, paid for by tax money. They wanted bigger and better roads. They wanted pensions, support at public expense when they felt disinclined to work. And more and more citizens were becoming disinclined to work. Farms? That was for the horses! Industrious toil? That was for the stupid.

     Now the farmers moved into the scene. They were resentful of the special interest groups in the city. They sent petitions to their Senators. They demanded subsidies, price supports. The Senators, wanting support for their own schemes, passed laws granting subsidies for the farmers; and the government bought up surplus crops and stored them in warehouses, where they rotted away. Now the industrialists moved in -- they must have tax benefits. It never occurred to them -- or perhaps it did -- that taxation in itself was an evil.

     Finally, government, urged on by greedy groups and minorities, became the all-powerful state. It guaranteed to protect the people from all the forces of nature -- floods, hurricanes, land-slides, failure of crops. And taxation grew and grew.

     Death of the Middle Class

     Honoria had always been distinguished by a strong, sturdy, industrious middle class, composed of farmers, artisans, shopkeepers -- virtuous and sane and devout. But the middle class presented a threat to an all-powerful government, determined to protect the rich and the strong -- and the worthless, the mean, the haters-of-work, the whining cowards who wanted everything for nothing. So the government decided to get rid of the middle class.

     The middle class of Honoria stood in the way; it must be destroyed. Then, the elite could rule by oppression; and the craven, the despicable, the cowards, the worthless, could live on the bodies of the nobles and the heroic -- through taxation.

     But the greedy mobs could never be satisfied. They made endless demands on the Senators. They stood in government offices and howled. They howled for subsidized housing. And they got it.

     The government, corrupt and vile, subsidized housing, for "low income groups." It built huge projects in the very heart of the city for the mobs -- with swimming pools, of course, and hot free food. Within a year or two, those housing projects became slums, for people with slum personalities inhabited them. The swimming pools collected garbage. But still the howl went up for more and more; and the Senators, now the creatures of the mobs, tried to provide everything the mobs demanded.

     And the middle class, the backbone of the nation? They were reduced to despair. They dared not have children; they couldn't afford them. While the mob enjoyed their public housing, their free sports, their free meals, the middle class worked ceaselessly, trying to get ahead of their tax bills, trying to live, trying to keep their schools alive for their children. It was all no use. They began to dwindle away. They had to leave their houses. The mobs moved into their houses and turned them into slum dwellings. Crime became so commonplace that it was dangerous to be on the streets at night. Morality was dead.

     The middle class, the hardworking, the self-reliant, slowly smothered from despair. Who cared? The mob had a full belly today and government promised to fill it again tomorrow.

     The monstrous state, the top-heavy bureaucracy, was happy. The cynical laughed among themselves. Freedom? Why, the people didn't want freedom. They wanted free entertainment, free bread, free housing. A degenerate nation deserved no freedom, no consideration.

     But ere long there was no laughter, even among the cynical. The politicians, who had begun by manipulating the mobs, became tools of the mobs. The productive citizens were taxed more and more to provide benefits for the worthless.

     An evil old man, crippled and malformed, led the nation into more wars and foreign entanglements -- he was the ruler of Honoria. Patriots were considered scoundrels. The rulers of Honoria were tools not only of the mobs, but of foreigners.

     An old general, who had been victimized by the government, stood up and cried aloud to Honoria to remember her past, to return to honor, to decent government, to the principles of the Founding Fathers, to God. The people hooted: He was a reactionary. He was eliminated. He retired, with bitterness, and thought his anguished thoughts.

     A Senator dared to stand up in the Senate and cry a halt to foreign subversion of Honoria and to constant foreign aid and the draining away of the people's money. Other Senators shrieked him down and called him vile names. He, too, was liquidated. And the nation fell deeper and deeper into debt, became more luxurious and rotten.

     Honoria joined a league of the world, with her enemies. They exploited her. She taxed her citizens more and more to send her wheat and meat to those nations.

     In one of Honoria's stupid wars she allied herself with powerful barbarians who were full of hatred and envy, and the lust for power. Honoria sent "experts" to the barbarians to teach them the latest scientific discoveries.

     Honoria had become a corrupt and monstrous nation. Foreign tyrants and domestic mobs called the tune, and the spineless rulers of Honoria danced. The very walls of government echoed to the ever-growing demands for more foreign aid, more security, more bread, more sports, more government, more restrictions on the proud and the self-respecting.

     And the middle class finally died.

     And what of the barbarians? They looked on Honoria with contempt. They were fierce and dedicated men. They had allies in the government of Honoria. Who could oppose them, with their savage ferocity? The time had come for them to take over Honoria, and destroy civilization.

     And the barbarians moved in.

     Who had made the barbarians so strong? Honoria, of course. Honoria had given the barbarians access to the wealth of Honoria, at the expense of the betrayed and ruined citizens of Honoria. Honoria had sacrificed her people so that her alleged allies could make common cause against her with the barbarians.

     Road to Ruin

     What is the real name of Honoria?

     Ancient Rome.

     You know what happened to ancient Rome. The barbarians, in the fifth century, invaded Rome and destroyed her; and for hundreds of years, there was a long, black night of slavery and despair and ruin. Rome had not only betrayed herself but all the civilized world with her. The barbarians ranged over that civilized world; and the cultures of thousands of years were destroyed, so that only fragments have come down to us, mere fragments of great and mighty literature, and law, and beauty.

     Fortunately, one thing did survive: The Twelve Tables of Common Roman Law. For that we can thank the early Christians. Those Tables of Law formed the basis of English Common Law and, more indirectly, of the American Constitution.

     Had Rome retained her Constitution, she would perhaps have survived and her splendor would not have been extinguished. But she permitted the slow erosion of her Constitution, just as we are permitting the quicker erosion of our Constitution.

     Everything which strikes at our Constitution brings us closer to death as a free nation, just as Rome died. Each time a new treaty of alliance is signed with foreign nations, we die a little more, as Rome died. Each time the Supreme Court or the President violates the Constitution, we come closer to slavery -- as Rome came.

     Nearly two thousand years stand between us and Rome. Never before the rise of Rome, and never since, did two nations so remarkably resemble each other, in history, in splendid rise in civilization, in magnificent communication between nations, in grandeur and wealth. In strange and amazing ways, we are the counterpart of ancient Rome. Her history, almost step by step, is our history.

     Shall we continue along the path which led to the extinction of Rome? We have made her terrible mistakes; we have duplicated her crimes and stupidities, almost to the letter. We are destroying our Constitution, the only safeguard we have in the face of domestic and foreign enemies, just as she destroyed hers. We are permitting government by men, now, instead of government by law -- just as Rome finally did.

     So long as Rome remained Rome -- patriotic, proud, virtuous and healthy -- she remained a strong and powerful nation. When she became internationalistic, underwrote the economies of other nations, permitted her rulers to become dictators, enmeshed herself with the problems of aliens and taxed her own people to support those aliens, she began to die.

     When she became militaristic, and had her armies spread on foreign soil, the fabric of her life was weakened and strained, and the wild sword of the barbarian cut it easily.

     It is a stern fact of history that no nation that rushed to the abyss ever turned back. Not ever, in the long history of the world. We are now on the edge of the abyss. Can we, for the first time in history, turn back? It is up to you.

     ________________________________________

A few notes on similarities:

  • The "prosperous gentleman farmer" who responded to the call of duty and saved his country in a time of crisis, who became known as "the father of his country," and in whose honor a famous American city was named ... was the ancient Roman, Cincinnatus.
  • The "evil old man, crippled and malformed," who led his nation into wars and foreign entanglements, was Caligula, Emperor of Rome.
  • The "old general, who had been victimized by the government," and who "stood up and cried aloud" for his country "to remember her past, to return to honor," was Mark Antony.
  • The Senator who "dared to stand up in the Senate and cry a halt to foreign subversion" of his country, while "other Senators shrieked him down," was Cicero.
  • The "great rock", comparable to Plymouth Rock in American history, was the rock which became the foundation of the Temple of Jupiter in Ancient Rome.

     That was Taylor Caldwell speaking, in 1957. Please reflect on her foresight, and what it means for us today.

     “Give a nation war and she’ll be only too happy to surrender the sentimentality of freedom.” -- Taylor Caldwell, The Devil's Advocate, 1952

Wednesday, September 9, 2026

“The Winning Side”

     I’ve been having some exchanges with a brilliant fellow, Armond Boudreaux, about the different mindsets of materialists and theists. My contention is, in essence, that it’s about premises and ontological boundaries. The materialist bounds his ideas and his questions in the material realm; the theist goes beyond that. In neither case can anyone argue about the choice. Premises are like that.

     Boudreaux observed that there are villains whom material forces and social mechanisms don’t punish. Inarguable! Moreover, there always have been and always will be. Such persons choose to do evil. Those that escape their just deserts in this life are emulated by others.

     That’s the Siren song of evil: “You’re clever! You can get away with it!” It appeals to persons of malformed conscience and excessive self-regard. And yes: some of them do “get away with it.” Temporal mechanisms for correcting and deterring evil conduct are imperfect, as is everything else about Mankind.

     The great danger lies in the perception that the villains are “on the winning side.”

     We joke about that, sometimes: Come to the dark side! We have cookies! But it only stays funny so long as that perception fails to attain a critical mass. That ignites a positive-feedback cycle. Should the successes of the villains become irresistibly attractive to too many people, that society is doomed.

     Once again, I’m in mind of a passage from C.S. Lewis:

     “Hang it all—the preservation of the human race—it’s a pretty rock-bottom obligation.”
     “Well, personally,” said Feverstone, “I’m not indulging in any Busbyisms about that. It’s a little fantastic to base one’s actions on a supposed concern for what’s going to happen millions of years hence; and you must remember that the other side would claim to be preserving humanity, too. Both can be explained psychoanalytically if they take that line. The practical point is that you and I don’t like being pawns, and we do rather like fighting—specially on the winning side.”

     Discerning the “winning side” involves a limited view of things – a choice of premises and ontological boundaries. Lewis tried to expand that from the purely material to the eldila, a quasi-angelic race of spirits, one of whom functions as evil’s chief agent on Earth. The materialist won’t go that far. But even theists make some assumptions about “the winning side.” James Blish demonstrated this in his novel Black Easter:

     ‘Impossible!’ Father Domenico cried, though choking with the dust of the exploded crucifix. ‘It is written that in that war you will at last be conquered and chained!’
     OF COURSE, BUT WHAT DOES THAT PROVE? EACH OF THE OPPOSING SIDES IN ANY WAR ALWAYS PREDICTS VICTORY. THEY CANNOT BOTH BE RIGHT. IT IS THE FINAL BATTLE THAT COUNTS, NOT THE PROPAGANDA. YOU MADE A MISTAKE – AND AH, HOW YOU WILL PAY!

     The speaker in capitals above is a Prince of Hell, the demon Put Satanachia, after the workings of a black magician have brought about Armageddon.

     Good and evil both make promises. Evil has an advantage: its promises can be fulfilled in this life. Good must work overtime to counter that lure.

     Should the villains ever seem to get the upper hand – think of that as “Cthulhu’s Return” – we’ll be in mortal trouble.

* * *

     Concerning that “limited view of things,” the C.S.O. and I saw an excellent movie just recently: The Witch, which stars the young Anya Taylor-Joy. The scripting and performances were both impressive, but the capper for me was the demonstration of how that limited view of things can function to corrupt a previously innocent soul. The central character, Thomasin, is the eldest child of a 17th Century New England family that has chosen to live apart from other society. That family is beset by a series of tragedies, which Thomasin’s mother and siblings put down to witchcraft. I won’t go any further than that, except to say that the movie demonstrates the ways in which seemingly unmerited suffering can make one see evil as “the winning side.”

     It is part of the moral duty of the good man to counter those influences that make evil, whatever form it may take, appear to be “the winning side.” Too many subconsciously equate might with right, and victory with moral or ideological superiority. When we speak of “the still, small voice” that tells us to avoid evil and to remain aligned with good, we are appealing to a standard that doesn’t always offer temporal rewards. It’s why we must be faithful to that standard. Unless admirable men, men of honor who are satisfied to live honorable lives, outnumber the villains, the perceptions of persons of weak, poorly formed conscience will be swayed.

     You wouldn’t want to hang around after that.

Sunday, July 19, 2026

Schismata Part 1

     Depending on what time zone you were in at the time, either today or tomorrow, in the Year of Our Lord 1969, Neil Armstrong first set foot on the surface of the Moon. For many, that moment was the high-water mark of Western Civilization. In the person of an American astronaut, Mankind had escaped its womb and begun its journey to the stars.

     But the matter was far from settled. “Those who have not joy” (C. S. Lewis) immediately began to denigrate or cast doubt on the achievement. Some were blatant, others subtle. A number strove to recast the Apollo landing as somehow tainted by slavery, “imperialism,” or whatever else they could conjure up. A few tried to reduce its significance by stressing that the Moon is “conveniently close,” which makes getting there “no big deal.” Others pointed to the competitive, quasi-combative aspect of the “Space Race.” Had it not been for the Soviets’ early lead in space travel, they claimed, America would never have cared about a Moon landing. And so on, ad nauseam.

     We ought to have paid more attention to the denigrators and naysayers. They were the point of an invisible spear aimed at America’s heart. There was significant pressure behind that spear. It had already made an inroad into our national psyche. It penetrated ever more deeply as the years rolled past.

* * *

     The Sixties, for all the hype that’s been lavished on them, were the beginning of America’s decline. Those who sought to destroy us knew that you don’t start at the top. To bring down a society, you locate its foundation and work to undermine it. The foundation stones of the extraordinary achievement that Robert A. Heinlein called “the Renaissance Civilization” were all but invisible to the great majority of Americans. In consequence, we failed to recognize their attackers or grasp the aim of their efforts.

     Rather than follow my usual practice, I’ll cut to the chase:

The foundation of the United States of America
Was made from Christian ethics and political freedom.

     Those aren’t things that would yield to the first blows of the chisel. They are – or were – too deeply ingrained in the American psyche to be quickly shattered. So deeply, in fact, that the average American of the first decades after World War II never thought about them. They were omnipresent, like air. More, we had inherited them from prior generations. It was easy to believe that that’s just how things are and always will be.

     We never thought about why we believed that. That made it easy for the underminers to chip away undisturbed.

* * *

     It was the Sixties in which the attacks on our foundation became generally visible. Conspicuous socialist and communist movements began to proliferate in “centers of higher education.” Those things are inherently opposed to both freedom and Christianity. Their purveyors were clever; they aimed first at cultural targets: the arts. They strove to displace the esthetics that ruled music, painting, sculpture, dance, fiction, and entertainment. For they understood, as many of us did not, that those things reinforce a people’s sense of themselves and their achievements.

     Ironically, those who railed against the new, anti-Christian esthetics were beaten back with a weapon that baffled them: artistic freedom. That was presented to us with the implication that the nouvel artiste has an affirmative right to stand alongside traditional practitioners. It occurred to very few that freedom includes the freedom to condemn.

     Collectivist nostrums would soon infiltrate the educational system. Clouds began to form around basic concepts such as rights and justice. The arts had lifted the tent flap and made it possible. Eastern European intellectuals had embraced the Gramscian prescription and brought it to receptive American “scholars” who were looking for something “new.”

     First in the arts, then in “soft” studies such as psychology, sociology, and economics, American universities became battlegrounds between the Left and the Right.

* * *

     This is really an introductory piece. I can’t finish it in one Sunday; there’s too much ground to cover. (Besides, I have laundry to do, a cat room to clean, and meatballs to make.) I wanted to introduce the idea and ideas of the Sixties, “the Summer of Love,” as the appropriate starting point for examining the attack on America’s conceptual foundation.

     It’s time for the gloss that’s been smeared over that decade to be wiped away, in the interests of clearsighted understanding of our plight and its roots.

Saturday, June 27, 2026

Race War News

     My gentler Gentle Readers don’t like for me to write about this stuff. Yet I have, and I will. From where I sit, we’re looking at a civilizational crisis. I can’t watch without commenting.

     Have a couple of tweets:

     And even worse:

     These are representative of the trends in recent events. They are not exceptions to a more civilized pattern. Neither are they far from the behavioral norm among blacks.

     Do you remember the “knockout game?” It hasn’t vanished. It’s just that with Colin Flaherty having passed away, no one is writing about it. And it’s blacks attacking Whites: in nearly every case, a young black male attacking an older White man.

     Armed robberies and home invasions have been “colorful,” too. There are plenty of reports of such. Usually, the races of the perpetrators go unmentioned. If there’s a video, it’s even money that the faces of the perps will be blurred. If a White homeowner shoots and kills a black invader, the invader's mother will immediately scream to the media that “he din’ do nuffin’ to deserve that.”

     American Whites haven’t been idle. They’ve been on the move. Residential segregation is making a comeback through White relocation. Demand has made White neighborhoods ever more expensive. Blacks with sufficient means have sought to follow Whites to their new neighborhoods… and have found that they’re not welcome.

     The prevailing residential quest of our time has been to live where there are no blacks, or as few as possible. That’s even the goal of well-civilized, law-abiding blacks. And as young blacks are proving repeatedly that they’ve bought the “White oppressor” propaganda, the trend will continue.

     To regular readers of Liberty’s Torch, this doesn’t come as news. I’ve been on this beat for years. But now and then, it seems important to emit a reminder:

     Whites are not safe around blacks.
     The police are still afraid to act.
     The media are still suppressing reports.
     The courts are still releasing offenders with no or low bail.
     The prisons are still furloughing and paroling violent criminals.
     And should you dare to defend yourself, race-hustlers will call you the real criminal.

     Always, always go armed. No exceptions.

Wednesday, May 20, 2026

Does Size Matter?

     The arguments over political systems, what makes them possible, what undermines them, and so forth are doomed to go on until Man is no more. Some of the most basic ones – the fundamental questions beneath all political discourse – arise from considerations of size: How large or small should a political unit be to attain stability?

     The arguments over whether to tolerate “globalization,” and to what extent, are part of this. Commercial currents that flow above political units confound many people’s notions. Businesses that operate internationally seem to flout some of our political aspirations. Or perhaps it’s that they flout the aspirations of politicians; that’s equally likely.

     I’ve long held that bigness in business requires bigness of governments. There may be exceptions, but they would be cases where truly huge amounts of capital and labor are required to pursue such enterprises. However, when power-wielders turn their voracious attentions to business, it’s the biggest players that they go after first. Also, really big businesses tend to need more competition than the marketplace will naturally provide them; Alfred Sloan recognized that when he arranged for the divisions within General Motors to compete against one another. All this suggests that bigness, even if it confers an advantage in certain fields, comes with compensating disadvantages that limit its value.

     Many of the dynamics that characterize businesses in competition also apply to political units – governments. But governments are loath to admit it. The European Union came into existence mainly because of politicians’ desires to rule a nation larger than their homelands, a nation that could compete politically and economically with the United States. American politicians, analysts, and influential commentators encouraged it for reasons of their own, some of which are unclear to me.

     Large or small? World-girdling or localized? What are the advantages and disadvantages of each? The questions are pressed in many fora. But answers are slow to appear.

     The following first appeared here on May 14, 2020.


     Wes Rhinier at NC Renegade has penned a short piece about what he foresees for America. His expectations are bleak. In particular, he’s troubled by the many plaintive calls for “a leader” for “the coming civil war.” Here’s the part that plucked at my fiddlestrings:

     We are all too divided. We all have our own ideas. It’s always been a problem in this liberty movement.

     I think a Balkanization is more likely to happen. Or maybe small confederations happen.

     For me, this called to mind the conclusion of Poul Anderson’s Hugo-winning novella “No Truce With Kings.” It concerns the efforts of an alien race to engineer a specific sociopolitical outcome for Man on Earth…by subterfuge and the use of alien technology to promote one faction in a distributed, multi-participant war over the others:

     “You wanted to re-establish the centralized state, didn’t you? Did you ever stop to think that maybe feudalism is what suits Man? Some one place to call our own, and belong to, and be part of; a community with traditions and honor; a chance for the individual to make decisions that count; a bulwark for liberty against the central overlords, who’ll always want more and more power; a thousand different ways to live. We’ve always built supercountries, here on Earth, and we’ve always knocked them apart again. I think maybe the whole idea is wrong. And maybe this time we’ll try something better. Why not a world of little states, too well rooted to dissolve in a nation, too small to do much harm—slowly rising above petty jealousies and spite, but keeping their identities—a thousand separate approaches to our problems. Maybe then we can solve a few of them…for ourselves!”

     The idea of federalism was an attempt to harmonize the large nation – by virtue of its size capable of standing against other, more rapacious nations – with the small community of independent identity. Federalism proposed a way of having many small, largely autonomous regions within a central structure with sharply limited powers that would defend all of them against invasion. But governments always suck power from smaller units toward larger ones, and from peripheral loci toward central ones. We might not have known about that dynamic two and a half centuries ago – we didn’t have that many examples of it to study back then – but we have no excuse for not knowing about it now.

     However, there’s more than one view about these things. Here’s another angle, from Tom Kratman’s very best novel:

     “Do you know why we band together into nations, girl?”
     The question seemed so totally out of the blue that Maricel didn’t really even comprehend it. She shook her head, a gesture that meant, in this case, I don’t understand.
     Aida took it wrongly, assuming the girl meant she didn’t know why. She answered the question herself. Pointing towards the flames, she said, “We band into nations for just that reason. In the real world, little tribes like TCS are destroyed. They can’t compete against determined bands of raiders. It takes more power than that to defend yourself against people like yourself, people with no law above themselves.”
     Ah, now Maricel understood the question. She wasn’t sure she understood the answer and, given that she was going to die, the answer didn’t really matter anyway.
     “It’s the flaw in some utopian schemes,” the woman continued. She looked at Maricel’s uncomprehending face and said, “You don’t understand that word, do you?”
     “No.” Sniffle. Just get on with it, will you?
     “Never mind; here’s the truth, a truth I’ve been trying to find for the last . . . well, for the last good long while. People band into nations, real nations—not travesties like TCS, gangs that fancy themselves nations—to defend themselves. It requires an emotional commitment. The limits of nations are not how far their borders can reach, but how far their hearts can. People with tiny hearts, people like TCS, can never reach very far, can never gather enough similar hearts together to defend themselves. Only real people, and real countries or causes, can do that. That’s why TCS is going to die tonight.”

     [Tom Kratman, Countdown: H Hour]

     Perhaps the question is multivariate, in which case the answers will be multivariate as well. At the very least, it’s not simply What do we seek for ourselves and how can we get it? but Are we able to do what it will take and endure what we must to remain that way? That all sociopolitical arrangements are inherently unstable doesn’t mean that all are equally desirable.

     Freedom is not the only good people seek from their political alignments and arrangements, as we should all know far too well. They also seek prosperity for themselves and their families, and security against threats, both actual and potential. And some – there will always be some – have a vision of “the good” that requires others to bend their knees and their necks:

     One female (most were men, but women made up for it in silliness) had a long list she wanted made permanent laws—about private matters. No more plural marriage of any sort. No divorces. No “fornication”—had to look that one up. No drinks stronger than 4% beer. Church services only on Saturdays and all else to stop that day. (Air and temperature and pressure engineering, lady? Phones and capsules?) A long list of drugs to be prohibited and a shorter list dispensed only by licensed physicians. (What is a “licensed physician”? Healer I go to has a sign reading “practical doctor”—makes book on side, which is why I go to him. Look, lady, aren’t any medical schools in Luna!) (Then, I mean.) She even wanted to make gambling illegal. If a Loonie couldn’t roll double or nothing, he would go to a shop that would, even if dice were loaded.
     Thing that got me was not her list of things she hated, since she was obviously crazy as a Cyborg, but fact that always somebody agreed with her prohibitions. Must be a yearning deep in human heart to stop other people from doing as they please. Rules, laws—always for other fellow. A murky part of us, something we had before we came down out of trees, and failed to shuck when we stood up. Because not one of those people said: “Please pass this so that I won’t be able to do something I know I should stop.” Nyet, tovarishchee, was always something they hated to see neighbors doing. Stop them “for their own good”—not because speaker claimed to be harmed by it.

     [Robert A. Heinlein, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress]

     Are Anderson’s mini-states impossible by Kratman’s logic? Or are Kratman’s larger nations doomed to deteriorate into tyrannies owing to the dynamic of power-seeking as Anderson has pinned it? And what about the people – “crazy as a Cyborg” or otherwise – who insist that the State compel others to bend to their preferences?


     The questions are inclusive and eternal. The answers are idiosyncratic and fleeting. The arguments never cease.

     And some of us just want to be left alone.

     “Politics and business… I don’t pay them no mind.” (Jesse Colin Young, The Wine Song)

Tuesday, March 10, 2026

The War News

     No, it’s not about the conflict in Iran. You can read the newspapers for that. This is about the war against American Whites.

     This is a few days old, so you may have seen it already:

     Iryna Zarutska was a beautiful young White woman. Yes, she was a recent immigrant, but a legal one. She was employed, was self-supporting, and to the best of my knowledge was entirely innocent. And she was killed by Decarlos Brown Jr.: a black savage who’d served five years in prison for two felonies, who’d been arrested fourteen times in Mecklenburg County alone. Brown killed her for no reason whatsoever.

     To cap the ironies, Iryna was an immigrant to the United States from Ukraine, who’d come here in search of safety.

     Now someone is vandalizing murals and posters that depict Iryna. Why?

     I don’t know who’s responsible for these defacements. I wouldn’t care to guess the race of the people responsible. But to my mind a single a single question exposes the moving force behind such villainies:

Would this have happened
If Iryna had been black?

     White victims of crimes by blacks are anathema to those who hate Whites and want to see us exterminated. Only blacks are allowed to have martyrs, you see. George Floyd? Michael Brown? Trayvon Williams? They’re okay. They can have murals, statues, memorial plaques, streets named after them. But not a White. Especially not a White woman as young, beautiful, and innocent as Iryna.

     I can’t imagine how American Whites can tolerate this. Yet we are tolerating it. We’ve been subjected to unconscionable discrimination, the vilest slanders, the most execrable treatment… and we’re told over and over that it’s our fault. Somehow, these things are justified by our “white privilege.”

     There’s a good chance that the life of Decarlos Brown Jr. will be spared on the grounds of mental illness. He has been diagnosed as schizophrenic. Though it would be the denial of justice, it’s likely all the same. But what of that in the face of “diversity, equity, and inclusion?” Who cares when there’s “systemic institutional racism” to be fought?

     It’s just a few days back that a couple of black boys raped a 12-year-old black girl. Yes, this time the victim was black. They admitted they’d done it. One of the rapists is 12 years old. Here’s how his father – yes, some of them do have fathers, or at least men who claim to be their fathers – argued in his defense:

     Got that? Mustn’t incarcerate a black boy! He might suffer. Other inmates might abuse him. And the black mark will follow him throughout his life! You can’t do that to him, just because he raped and brutalized a young girl and left her scarred for life. It would be unfair!

     Can you imagine the volume of the cacophony blacks would raise if the rapists were White?

     I have to “wipe the foam off.” Here are my earlier pieces on race and racial conflicts. Have fun.

Sunday, December 28, 2025

Attractively Packaged Lies

     Have a brilliantly compact observation from a brilliant source:

     Bravo! I hope a great many people see the above and reflect on how nicely it characterizes the incentives faced by young Whites today. It also raises a parallel question: were the memetic firewalls of which Elon Musk speaks stronger in previous generations, or have those dedicated to the destruction of the White race and the civilizations it’s built become that much cleverer and more insidious?

     I’m suddenly in mind of an old Heinlein story:

     “Reason is poor propaganda when opposed by the yammering, unceasing lies of shrewd and evil and self-serving men. The little man has no way to judge and the shoddy lies are packaged more attractively. There is no way to offer color to a colorblind man, nor is there any way for us to give the man of imperfect brain the canny skill to distinguish a lie from a truth.”

     [From “Gulf,” in this collection.]

     To be sure, we’re all “men of imperfect brain.” Yet I have a sense that the generations before the great wars of the Twentieth Century were less easily swayed than those that followed. That may be because the examples of family structure were more attractive, more enduring, and less often challenged than are those of today. Today, “alternative” family “structures” abound. Long-term endurance isn’t common. And the promises they make, while seldom spoken aloud, are seductive.

     Young Whites of the prewar years grew up among intact nuclear families that tended to be larger than those of today. They were exclusively heterosexual. They were racially unblended. Childbearing was applauded. Infidelity was condemned. Divorce, while it did occur, imposed a stigma upon those divorcing, especially if minor children were involved.

     The rise of aggressive, subtly anti-family feminist ideology was a large factor as well. World War II forced many women into the workplace, which supplemented the feminist proposition that women could and should have “lives of their own,” apart from child-rearing and homemaking. A young woman’s prime childbearing years, if expended on wage-work, are forever lost. Meanwhile the Betty Friedans and Germaine Greers were exhorting young women to “make something of themselves” – to go to college or enter the workforce – rather than to leave themselves “dependent on a man.” Women’s magazines were increasingly used to reinforce that message.

     I hardly need to expound on the social and economic changes that followed the wars. Compared to the incentives presented to Whites of the prewar years, the differences could not be more striking. (They stand out even more starkly when compared to the incentives faced by young blacks.) The mental defenses of postwar generations were far more easily undermined than those of their predecessors. Many forces converged to do the undermining: schooling at all levels, the news media, the entertainment industries, and the activists perpetually deriding tradition in favor of “change.”

     Just this morning, a young friend – a young woman who recently opted to enlist in the Army – reminded me that inferences are always subject to dispute, and that opinions will vary. No question about that! Were the postwar changes to social structures, customs, and attitudes uniformly bad? Perhaps not; traditional ways aren’t always indisputable or unchallengeable. But they explain much about today’s reproductive malaise.

     Elon Musk spoke of “memetic firewalls” that are too weak to repel the ideological bombardment today’s young Whites endure. Add the great intensification of that bombardment, and it begins to seem that things could hardly have developed otherwise. But human happiness, which Aristotle called the consequence of right doing and right living, appears seriously endangered by the changes the youth of the preponderantly White First World nations have faced. Many who eschewed the old ways of faith, family, and community look back on their decisions with regret. Perhaps lessons are accumulating for those that follow them… however many or few they may be.

Friday, November 28, 2025

“Why So Racist, Fran?” Part 2: Let Them Sink

     Appeals such as the following are everywhere, especially in December:

     Oftentimes, they’re proximate to statements such as this: “You stole everything from us.” Of course, you means Whites, and us means blacks.

     Such claims are clearly nonsense, yet they’re repeated endlessly by black racialists and propagandists. They can’t be refuted; they’re utterly counterfactual and nonsensical, so there’s nowhere to start. What is there to say in response?

     Nothing. Silence, cold and absolute, is the proper response. Yet Whites continue to try to reason with them.

     Blacks claim to be our superiors. Yet not one of the advances in science, technology, philosophy, or society came from the Dark Continent. They say we owe them “reparations” for historical slavery. Yet slavery is still practiced in Africa; only in White nations was there an end to it. More, blacks in this country alone have absorbed trillions of dollars in “public assistance,” to say nothing of the many preferential treatment laws and programs that have awarded them privileges over Whites.

     Our forebears were mistaken ever to listen to them.


     On this Black Friday, among the things I’m thankful for is the surging White anger and resentment toward blacks – and their sad-sack White apologists – that blacks’ claims and demands have elicited. We’re finally getting close to the cold stare and folded arms that say “Watch out. We’ve had enough of you and won’t tolerate your savagery any longer.”

     Of course, there’s a lot of social and political inertia to be overcome. If blacks had intelligent representatives, they’d know better than to “double down.” They’d turn to their own and say “Cool it! You’re about to provoke a pogrom, with us on the losing end.” But they are doubling down. Violence against Whites, shoplifting and destruction, disruptions of White-owned and operated stores, restaurants, shopping centers, and so on are all on the increase.

     I’ve written before that there’s a race war in progress. The “It’s On” pieces are clearest in that regard:

     It doesn’t have to be a flying-lead war. Indeed, it shouldn’t be. It can and should be conducted with Whites’ traditional weapons: exclusion when it suffices, and impersonal, objective enforcement of the law when it’s required. That would leave the Negro race to its own devices: i.e., to whatever order or chaos / prosperity or squalor it could maintain in the absence of interaction with (or support from) Whites.

     The cessation of the war wouldn’t necessarily be evident to everyone. There wouldn’t be an armistice, or a peace treaty. There would only be a steady diminution of offenses against law and propriety, and a lessening of screechy demands from black racialist mouthpieces. It would take a while, and afterward there would be some ugliness. Unless the radical solution is applied, Whites would still have to endure some savagery. Hopefully, it would fall to an irreducible minimum that ordinary law enforcement can handle.

     But blacks might not permit Whites such a peaceful war.


     “No one wants war” is a phrase we’ve heard many times. It’s one of the perennial lies, a pleasant dream that’s utterly false-to-fact. Many people have wanted war over the centuries. They’ve usually gotten their wish.

     Good people have never wanted war; it’s practically a defining characteristic. Yet they’ve been forced to fight wars many times. They haven’t always prevailed.

     To say that “no one wants a war” when we’re demonstrably already embroiled in a war is the height of folly. It’s like closing one’s eyes and chanting “Make it go away.” Once a war has begun, it must be fought to a conclusion.

     If there’s a race war in progress, it must be fought. To refuse to fight is to surrender pre-emptively. Unless you want to live in a nation in which Whites are a designated rightless victim class, to be abused and expropriated by blacks whenever the urge comes upon them, you must fight.

     If you choose not to fight, don’t expect to keep the respect of others who’ve taken up arms to defend you and yours.

Tuesday, September 9, 2025

Enemies

     Do you have enemies? If you believe so, are they known to you individually? If not, by what criteria do you identify them?

     I’m not talking about board games, Gentle Reader. An enemy is someone who would like to see you come to harm. The nature of the harm need not be physical, though that would certainly count.

     The crime statistics suggest that there are a lot of people out there doing harm to others just now. In a great many of those cases, the “harmers” don’t know the “harmees.” Not as individuals, that is. They choose their targets by other criteria.

     Crime statistics can tell us a great deal, but they don’t elicit the kind of horror or passion for vengeance that the murder of Iryna Zarutska has awakened. Yet this, according to all we know, was an impersonal crime. The murderer was not acquainted with the victim. They had never previously encountered one another. Neither had said a word to the other before the killing took place.

     Individual crimes seldom evoke mass movements or large shifts in public opinion. Even utterly vicious killings don’t usually have that effect. A gang that knocks over a convenience store, killing a clerk in the process, is usually just treated as one more dreadful statistic. Until the statistics are studied for patterns, that is. Then the game changes.

     The murder of Iryna Zarutska had a special quality. The mass media were aware of it from the start. They could sense the kind of avalanche in public opinion it would loose. So they declined to cover it. Their explanation? “Just another local crime story.”

     When the media finally did deign to mention that murder, they tried to make it about – what else? – race and politics.

     Reflect on that for a moment while I put up another pot of coffee.


     I could go in a dozen directions about this, but you’ve probably read my other tirades about the race war in progress, so I’ll spare you that set of rantings. No, today my focus is on the mass media.

     We’ve known for quite a while that the media are boughten allies of the Left. Journalism attracts the Left-inclined ab initio, for reasons I’ll address some other time. Leftist activists and politicians have had great success at seducing journalists into supporting and promoting their causes. But above all, the media have been most useful to the Left in embracing and promulgating the Left’s narratives.

     Leftist politics requires that certain narratives get traction. The most prominent of them has been the oppression narrative, particularly in matters of race. The notion of ongoing race-based oppression probably matters more to the Left than any of its other themes. Therefore, its allies in the media must take care:

  • To cover any event that can be framed so as to lend support to the notion that whites oppress blacks;
  • To refuse to cover, or to minimize or distort, any event that leans in the opposite direction.

     Some time ago, I wrote:

     Word gets around. Something as atrocious as the rape-torture-murders of Christian and Newsom cannot forever be kept from the light of day. People talk: policemen, forensic investigators, neighbors, reporters, reporters' clerical assistants, cleanup specialists, garbagemen, the families of the victims, their neighbors, and their neighbors' kids. There's simply no hope that the story won't sooner or later be told. When it is told, after a long interval of silence, people will naturally ask one another, "Why haven't we heard anything about this before now?" They will suspect conspiracy.
     It's easy to suspect conspiracies, and difficult to disprove them. Conspirators are secretive by nature, seeking always to conceal or disguise their identities and deeds. Successful conspirators are well prepared to deflect the blame for their crimes onto wholly innocent others. With this as the model, one who begins to suspect that he's being deceived has a long, hard road to travel to disabuse himself of the notion.
     Journalists who downplay or conceal inter-racial crimes out of the mistaken notion that they're helping to avert further hostility are either deluded or hopelessly stupid. By furthering the conviction among private citizens that we're being lied to, they advance the concomitant conviction that "the other," about whose deeds we're being denied full and accurate reports, really is someone to be feared...someone to be located and destroyed, or cast out of our midst, for our own safety's sake.
     Thus, whatever their conscious motives and intentions, politically correct journalists who spike stories about horrific crimes by black perpetrators are the new segregationists. It is their decisions about which stories should be emphasized and which ones must be buried that will persuade white Americans that their black neighbors cannot be trusted and must be expelled from the body politic.

     An insistence that reality must be shoved aside – denied or suppressed – to make way for a counterfactual narrative is the height of delusion. Word gets around. The supposed purity of the deniers’ motives cannot hold back the tide.


     Most Americans first heard about the murder of innocent white woman Iryna Zarutska by black multiple felon Decarlos Brown Jr. on X. For the first two days after the event, the media wouldn’t say a word about it. “Local crime story” was the rationale. But the “coverage” that followed gave the game away.

     White Americans are angry now. Angry enough to do what? Perhaps not angry enough to start lynching the blacks around them. But they’re angry at the media, for sure. The media have revealed themselves as our enemy.


     During the 2002 war to depose Saddam Hussein, a lot of jokes were cracked about Iraqi information minister “Baghdad Bob,” who was known for denying every report of American advances against the regime. One picture, in particular, became commonplace:

     Baghdad Bob’s behavior is easy to understand. He was working for Saddam Hussein. He had to serve the interests of the regime or lose his job... and quite possibly his life. There was no reason to doubt where his allegiance lay.

     But the mainstream media claim to work for us. It’s become all too clear that that is not the case. The media are enlisted in a cause that threatens our very lives. In advancing that cause, they repeatedly deny the reality of events. When that’s no longer possible, owing to independent journalism, they strive to obscure the causes and the implications. Shall we impute to them the foreseeable consequences of their actions?

     Draw your own conclusions.

Friday, August 29, 2025

Whither Britain?

     The courageous Mayah Sommers, who has been called “The Young Queen of Scots:”

     ...is still very much in the news. Mike Hendrix has some thoughts about the matter. So does el gato malo. Both are worth reading. And of course there are these irrelevancies immediately below.

     My thoughts this morning run in another direction: How did Britain fall this low? It’s worth a lot of thought, though I doubt it will get even a fraction of the thought it deserves.

     From anyone else, that is.

***

     Let’s have a little music before we proceed to the analytics – no, wait; I think the thoughts expressed below deserve to be part of the analytics:

Another suburban family morning
Grandmother screaming at the walls
We have to shout above the din of our Rice Crispies
We can't hear anything at all
Mother chants her litany of boredom and frustration
But we know all the suicides are fake
Daddy only stares into the distance
There's only so much more that he can take

     Many miles away
     Something crawls from the slime
     At the bottom of a dark Scottish lake

Another industrial ugly morning
The factory belches filth into the sky
He walks unhindered through the picket lines today
He doesn't think to wonder why
The secretaries pout and preen like cheap tarts in a red light street
But all he ever thinks to do is watch
And every single meeting with his so-called superior
Is a humiliating kick in the crotch

     Many miles away
     Something crawls to the surface
     Of a dark Scottish loch

Another working day has ended Only the rush hour hell to face
Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes
Contestants in a suicidal race
Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance
He knows that something somewhere has to break
He sees the family home now looming in the headlights
The pain upstairs that makes his eyeballs ache

     Many miles away
     There's a shadow on the door
     Of a cottage on the shore
     Of a dark Scottish lake
     Many miles away...many miles away...many miles away...

(Sting, “Synchronicity II,” 1983)

     Yes, I’ve used it before. It’s potent. It’s penetrating. It asks the same question I posed above: How did Britain fall this low? And it asked it forty-two years ago.

     Forty-two years before Synchronicity was released would be 1941: the year of The Battle of London. Britain was still in decent shape before the Nazi bombing campaign. It wasn’t as well off as the United States, but its economy wasn’t yet dismissible and its men included a fair number of actual men. The American-British alliance that won World War II’s Western European Front was powerful. It suggested that British men were still masculine, a force to be respected.

     But appearances can deceive. Britain was already sinking into the Slough of Despond. In part, that was because its economy hadn’t progressed as far as the American and German economies. In another part, it was because of the deaths of so many British men in World War I, up to then called “The Great War.” And in a third part, it was because of the sense that the ineptitude of His Majesty George VI’s government was responsible for Britain’s involvement in the new war that was devastating their homeland.

     The sense of having been battered by events and bad governance was already at work on the minds of the British. Popular will had begun to wane. When socialist Clement Attlee took the reins from the Churchill government, it received further “humiliating kicks in the crotch:”

     Attlee led the construction of the first Labour majority government, which aimed to maintain full employment, a mixed economy and a greatly enlarged system of social services provided by the state. To this end, it undertook the nationalisation of public utilities and major industries, and implemented wide-ranging social reforms, including the passing of the National Insurance Act 1946 and National Assistance Act 1948, the formation of the National Health Service (NHS) in 1948, and the enlargement of public subsidies for council house building. His government also reformed trade union legislation, working practices and children's services; it created the National Parks system, passed the New Towns Act 1946 and established the town and country planning system.

     There was no disguising the direction of Attlee’s program. He aimed to make Great Britain – soon to be renamed United Kingdom – into a socialist state.

     Nothing enervates a people as swiftly, or as thoroughly, as socialism.

***

     Other things must be sketched in for a complete picture: the rise of the trade unions and the accompanying violence; the deterioration of Britain’s “public services,” especially the NHS, from the administrative bloat and underperformance characteristic of a socialized system; the flowering of the various “rebel” movements: “punks,” “skinheads,” “rude boys,” and the like; the decline in marriage and fertility; the retreat from Christianity; the “brain drain;” the opening of Britain to unlimited immigration from the Third World; and so forth. Many causal threads are intertwined there. Suffice it to say that none of the trends that emerged after World War II favored the development of a masculine, self-reliant British man. He was being transformed into a villein.

     Villeins seldom rebel against their masters. They depend on those masters for far too much.

     Today, Britain’s “law enforcement” targets Britons who dare to resist the forces of depredation and degradation. Mayah Sommers was arrested for her courage. As for the multitudes of rapists and despoilers The State has allowed into the Sceptered Isle, they’re under official protection. Their numbers are still increasing, despite Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer’s declaration that immigration be slowed. The Muslims among them have become arrogant, publicly assertive, and impossible to discipline.

     Popular will is supposedly being expressed by Operation Raise the Colours. Yet those flags are being ripped down as fast as they’re put up. Who stands against that counter-movement? Who will stand against it? One might surmise that the flag-raisers are waiting for Mayah Sommers to do it.

     Talk is not enough to save Britain. Neither are flags.

     It’s been suggested, by Larry Correia among others, that American arms makers go to emergency production levels, and their output be airdropped over Britain. Yet British hoplophobia is so advanced that it’s likely that the airdropped weapons would remain untouched until “trained firearms officers” should arrive to “safe” them.

     A recent email from my dear friend Margaret Ball contained this gem:

     I've been reading a lot of British mysteries lately. The cultural differences are sometimes amusing. Recently, for instance, I read one which started with 3 chapters of the cops agonizing because they've learned that in a certain house in Leeds there may exist...
     A GUN!
     Leads me to suspect that if a bunch of British cops were suddenly transported to the US they'd have a collective nervous breakdown.

     Britain needs men. Have any survived Britain’s century-plus of degeneration? Or are they waiting for Mayah Sommers to lead her sisters and her neighbors’ daughters to save them?

     Your Curmudgeon reports; you decide.

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Gaolers

     The first freedom is not freedom of expression, but rather freedom of movement: to go where one pleases, when and how one pleases, limited only by the rights of others. The imperative necessity of that freedom is what has animated the inventors of the wheel, the saddle, the horse-drawn buggy, the automobile, the train, the boat, the airplane, the helicopter, and the spacecraft. If a man’s freedom to move can be taken from him – with emphasis on his freedom to elude those who wish to control him – he can be made a slave: helplessly dependent on those who have confined him.

     This is a large part of the reason why freedom has been steadily sliced away since the closing of the land frontier. How does one get away from the tyrants today? Unless you have an ocean-going vessel and considerable skills, it’s all but impossible. So – I’m tempted to say “needless to say” – the would-be tyrants have been working to impede our freedom of movement at least since the invention of the automobile.

     Now read this:

     In October 2020, NASA’s Planetary Science and Astrobiology Decadal Survey committee received a manifesto from its Equity, Diversity and Inclusion Working Group (EDIWG). Written by NASA Ames Research Center public-communications specialist Frank Tavares — along with a group of eleven co-authors including noted activists drawn from the fields of anthropology, ethics, philosophy, decolonial theory, and women’s studies — and supported by a list of 109 signatories, “Ethical Exploration and the Role of Planetary Protection in Disrupting Colonial Practices” lacks technical merit. It is, nevertheless of great clinical interest, as it brilliantly demonstrates how the ideologies responsible for the destruction of university liberal-arts education can be put to work to abort space exploration as well.

     With praiseworthy clarity as to their bias and intent, the EDIWG authors say that human space exploration must be stopped because it represents a continuation of the West’s tradition of resource development through free enterprise. “All of humanity is a stakeholder in how we, the planetary science and astrobiology community, engage with other worlds,” they say. “Violent colonial practices and structures — genocide, land appropriation, resource extraction, environmental devastation, and more — have governed exploration on Earth, and if not actively dismantled, will define the methodologies and mindsets we carry forward into space exploration....It is critical that ethics and anticolonial practices are a central consideration of planetary protection. We must actively work to prevent capitalist extraction on other worlds, respect and preserve their environmental systems, and acknowledge the sovereignty and interconnectivity of all life.”

     It can’t get any plainer than that, Gentle Reader. Please don’t dismiss it as a few cranks and crazies. These people have big resources behind them.

     Our would-be gaolers think their victory is in sight. Can’t let space travel actually mature to the point where people could flee this tyrant-infested ball of rock, should they choose. So they’ve mobilized one of their auxiliaries in an attempt to foreclose the option before it becomes practical – possibly to forestall the development of the technology that would make it practical.

     With that as the theme, allow me to present a segment of my novel Freedom’s Scion. It originally appeared as a short story, so you may have seen it already.


GAOLERS

     For fifteen months Liberty's Torch plodded onward at slightly over Michelson seven. The power from its fusion engine was insufficient to force swifter passage.
     Althea was near the limit of her endurance when the ship at last entered the cometary zone around her target star. She disengaged the permittivity drive, engaged the reaction drive, and activated the lidar scanners and broad-spectrum receivers.
     The receivers immediately caught a spread of multiply modulated signals in the microwave and higher frequencies. The lidar returns hinted at an artificial structure in orbit around the third planet of the system.
     Hope's first interstellar explorer had reached her intended destination. It appeared to be inhabited by a race as advanced as Man on Hope, if not more so. And she had no clear idea how to proceed.

* * *

     When Liberty’s Torch reached the outer margins of the K-class star’s system of planets, Althea slowed to 50 miles per second. The signals and lidar returns she had interpreted as evidence of habitation by intelligent life while in the cometary zone had grown far stronger. A large spherical mass with a visible-light reflectance of nearly 100% orbited the third planet from the primary. She corrected course minutely, slowed still further, and observed closely.
     The object was without detectable external features. Its orbit was coplanar with that of the third planet from the system’s primary. It appeared not to rotate around any axis. Its smoothness and spherical perfection spoke of high power sources and extreme craftsmanship flawlessly executed in zero gravity. It was all too obviously a space station.
     The station was emitting electromagnetic radiation in regularly spaced pulses, at a wavelength of 1215 angstroms. Liberty’s Torch’s receivers classified it as a probable attempt to communicate. Althea braked still further and activated the recorders, but made no immediate attempt to interpret the signal stream.
     Should I reciprocate? It might be no more intelligible to them.
     She activated the communications laser, set the modulation to unencrypted analog, and spliced in the voice output.
     “To the entity or entities aboard the space station,” she intoned, “This is Althea Morelon, mistress of interstellar vessel Liberty’s Torch. My people call our world Hope. Our system is about...” She paused for thought. “About as far from here as light will travel in eleven of your revolutions around your primary star. My intentions are peaceful. I wish to make contact, but I’m uncertain how to proceed. If you can interpret this message, please respond in kind with your rules for a visit to your system and for docking with your station. Liberty’s Torch will loiter here until I hear from you.” She disconnected the voice output and waited.
     Martin's exhortation to avoid what risks she could rose to her thoughts.
     If they can tight-beam Lyman-alpha radiation that I can detect from the cometary belt, they have to have one helluva power source aboard that station. I’d better play very, very nice.
     The answer arrived at once, in a musical alto voice.
     “Welcome to Loioc system, Mistress Morelon. We have awaited your arrival with much pleasure. Please brake to approximately 1/5 of your current velocity while we analyze your vessel’s hull and compose docking instructions.”
     Althea put a tight rein on her rising excitement and complied.

* * *

     The Loioc were bipedal and humanoid. Unless the pair that awaited Althea in the station’s docking bay were non-representative, they stood somewhat shorter than Earth-derived Man. The more closely she focused on either one, the more apparent were the subtle deviations that marked their departures from Terrestrial humanity. Their proportions were slightly different, possibly owing to having adapted to a stronger or weaker gravity. The resting angles of their limbs diverged slightly as well. Their faces were exquisitely beautiful, as human as anyone could wish, with smiles as welcoming as any she had ever seen.
     She doffed her helmet and took her first breath of their air. It was rich with oxygen, and carried a subtle hint of sweetness.
     “Yes,” the one on the left said, “our respiratory needs are a good match for yours as well. Welcome to our home, Mistress Morelon. How may we make you comfortable?”
     “Well,” Althea said, “for starters, you could tell me how to address you.” And maybe fill me in about how you learned to speak English.
     The one on the left nodded. “I am called Efthis. My husband,” she said, turning to her left, “is named Vellis.” She took his hand, and he gazed at her in evident affection. “No doubt you are curious about my mastery of the English language.”
     Althea chuckled. “Well, yes.”
     “These past thirteen hundred years,” Efthis said, “Hope has emitted radio signals of sufficient variety for us to deduce virtually the whole of your tongue. Indeed, we have watched your race from well before your ancestors’ flight from Earth. We have long looked forward to meeting you.”
     “Is yours a spacefaring race,” Althea said, “apart from this station?”
     “It was once,” Efthis replied. “No longer. In fact, this is the only offworld presence our race maintains.”
     Althea frowned. “Why?”
     Efthis’s gentle smile acquired a hint of world-weariness. “Let us say we saw all that we wished to see, and somewhat more.” She glanced at her husband and nodded toward the interior, and he nodded in response. “Come, let us refresh ourselves together, and I shall tell you whatever you might wish to know.”
     They turned as one, and Althea followed them into the depths of the station.

* * *

     “I don’t believe it,” Althea said.
     Efthis cocked a hair-thin eyebrow. “Surely your people enjoy a warm bath after a day of exertion?” She swiftly divested herself of her coverall. Vellis followed suit, and the two climbed into what was plainly a large hot tub.
     “Well...yes.”
     But in company with a couple of aliens? All right, they seem to be very nice aliens...so far, anyway.
     Oh, what the hell.

     She unzipped her vacuum suit, stepped out of it, groped for her gunbelt and realized, to her displeasure, that in the excitement of first contact she’d forgotten to arm herself.
     Probably wouldn’t matter anyway. A race that could build this station and give it nearly a gee of gravity without spinning it would laugh at a Wolzman needler.
     She removed her coverall, tossed it aside, climbed carefully over the side of the tub, and took a seat facing her hosts.
     Vellis’s eyes immediately fixed upon her, wide in undisguised fascination. He looked pleadingly at his wife. She studied him for a moment, then turned to Althea with a faintly mysterious expression.
     “Vellis would like to touch you,” she said. “Would you permit it?”
     “Uh...” Oh, why not? They’re probably puzzled that I’m not just as curious about their bodies. “Sure, okay.”
     Efthis nodded to Vellis, who flowed across the water between him and Althea so swiftly that he was upon her before she realized it.
     “Upon her,” indeed. The Loioc male wrapped himself around Althea, arms and legs both. He squirmed against her in a powerfully erotic fashion. His erection probed for her vagina with no pretense to the contrary. The surprise of it paralyzed her.
     “Efthis,” she croaked, counter-squirming to keep Vellis’s phallus from finding the orifice it sought, “just what is Vellis doing?”
     Efthis frowned. “He’s trying to merge with you. I would have thought that was obvious. Are you offended?”
     “Uh, no, but...” Are you? “Why?” And why hasn’t he said a word since I arrived here?
     “You’re very beautiful,” Efthis said. “Wouldn’t a male of Hope want to merge with you? Or is it not permitted for some reason?”
     “Well, uh, yes, it’s...permitted,” Althea said. You think I’m beautiful? Vellis’s squirming was becoming frenzied. He had begun to whimper. “But this is...a bit sudden.”
     Efthis shrugged. “It’s up to you. Enjoy him as you wish, and for as long as you wish.” She smiled. “If you’d like to test whether he can impregnate you, I have no objection to it.”
     “Uh, not just now, but thanks for the...hospitality. Maybe later.” She forced her arms between her and the squirming Loioc male and thrust him forcibly away. Vellis shrieked at the separation. He wriggled frantically, lashing the water into little waves of anguish, in an attempt to re-establish the embrace. Althea held him at arm’s length with only modest effort.
     I’ve got to ask.
     “Efthis,” she said in a carefully controlled tone, “Vellis is mute, isn’t he?”
     Efthis frowned again. “Of course. Isn’t it obvious?”
     There’s too much obvious stuff going on here. I shouldn’t have relaxed.
     Althea nodded, holding the agitated male firmly away from her. “Is it by accident, or was he born that way?”
     The Loioc’s frown deepened further. “Born that way, of course.” She emitted a whistle of elaborate modulation. Vellis immediately ceased to struggle against Althea’s restraint. She relaxed her grip, and he returned to Efthis’s side reluctantly and with a look of frustration.
     “Well,” Althea said, “you must love him very much.”
     “Love?” Efthis said. “How does one love a nonsentient?”
     “What?”
     “Vellis is incapable of rational thought. He’s been conditioned to be loyal to me. He knows nothing of love, no more than an animal of the field.”
     “But...” Althea groped for words. “Your husband?”
     The Loioc woman nodded. “Yes. He husbands me. He fertilizes my eggs, when and as I permit. He need not be sentient for that.” She leaned forward to peer more closely into Althea’s face. “All our males are nonsentient. Just as yours will be, in time.”

* * *

     Vellis protested with a whimper that was nearly a howl, but Efthis spoke sharply and stamped one delicate foot, and the Loioc male became submissive. At his mistress’s direction, he went reluctantly into a room whose sole furnishings were a thin mattress, a hassock, and a large box filled with some crumbly substance, sat upon the hassock in a peculiarly canine fashion, and bowed his head. Efthis swung the room’s door, a grate of closely spaced metal bars, closed with a muted clang and twisted a knob that sent a deadbolt home. She turned back to Althea with an air of chagrin.
     “I must beg your pardon,” the Loioc said. “Despite all the study we have made of Hope and its people, I had momentarily forgotten that you allow your males to remain sentient. Indeed, that fact has caused no small amount of consternation among our people. We have awaited true, bidirectional intercourse with you with great eagerness for that reason among others.”
     We allow our males to remain sentient?
     “I had assumed,” she said, measuring out the words, “that this...condition was a consequence of some unfortunate cosmic phenomenon. Maybe a radiation field that swept over your home world, or something like that. You...engineered it? Genetically?”
     Efthis had led her to a rather conventional-looking kitchenette, complete with sink, faucet, counter, table, and chairs, and bade her to sit. The Loioc pulled open a large metal cabinet, extracted a pitcher and two glasses, and brought them to the table.
     “This is called kiara,” Efthis said. “It’s a fruit juice, moderately sweet, with a mildly acidic tang. You might enjoy it. Would you like to try it?”
     “Efthis...” Althea said, “I do appreciate your hospitality, but how do I know it’s not toxic to me? Just because we look alike?”
     Efthis smiled. “I had your body chemistry analyzed while you were in the bath with us. Our metabolisms are nearly perfectly identical. What would poison you would be equally lethal to me, if not more so.”
     “Why did you do that?”
     The Loioc gestured at the pitcher. “To know whether we could do this, for one thing.” She poured generous helpings of juice into both glasses and passed one to Althea. “For another, so that I could be certain that our body-maintenance devices can repair you, should you come to any harm while you are my guest.”
     Althea started to say got my own, thanks, and held her tongue.
     “So you’re completely self-sufficient here? Food, clothing, energy, medicine, diversions all taken care of?” She sniffed at the glass of kiara. Its aroma was as Efthis had described it: moderately sweet, with a citrus-like tang. Unsure of the proprieties but unwilling to proceed solely on Efthis’s assurances, she set the glass down and pushed it a little away.
     Efthis nodded. “Completely. It was a condition of the assignment. To be supplied with our necessities from groundside, with all the complexities and intrusions that would entail, would be entirely too troublesome for all concerned.”
     “But you could return to the planetary surface if you chose, couldn’t you?”
     “Oh yes,” Efthis said. “We have a one-way vehicle docked on the other side of the station.” She smiled. “Believe me, from time to time these past eight years, I’ve felt the urge to return. However, my relief won’t be ready to assume her duties for another two years, so it would be viewed with disfavor.”
     She and her...husband must have a lot of ways to keep occupied.
     “Concerning your earlier question,” the Loioc said, “yes, we quenched the sentience of our males by decision and design. What we learned from comparable races, to say nothing of our own experiences, made it imperative.
     “Before we did so, our world was riven by every kind of strife and madness. Loioc males were quite as aggressive and proprietary as yours, and we females could do little to mitigate their tendencies toward violence and destruction. The nations of our world were almost continuously at war.
     “Your ancestors on Earth provided a fertile field for study,” Efthis said. “Were you aware that over the two millennia that preceded your people’s departure from that system, your planet of origin had known peace—real peace, not merely a temporary lull in the slaughters—for a grand total of three days? That throughout the rest of that interval of history, Earth males had been killing and being killed, laying waste to whatever they could reach?
     “You, Althea, are the beneficiary of what progress your race could achieve despite the continuity of slaughter. Your achievements and those of your kindred began from the plateau of knowledge and technology build by those who preceded you—those who managed not to fall as the ordnance flew around them. By our measures, you of Hope have reached a technological level perhaps seventy-five percent as high as we Loioc have attained. At that, Hope has not progressed as far as the Earthly societies from which it was derived. I shall not denigrate it, even so. But have you ever contemplated how much higher your world would have risen—how much greater your own achievements would have been, Althea—had Earth known the blessings of peace?
     “About twenty-two hundred of your years ago, a great geneticist isolated the constellation of genes and alleles that give rise to a brain capable of sentience and rational thought. It was well that she was female and discreet. She immediately conceived of the application to the pacification of our race, and set about assembling a team that would construct a nanite that would unmake the sentience constellation in our male progeny. As soon as they were certain it was effective and safe, they flooded the waters of our world with the devices. Within fifty years, there was virtually no violence among us.”
     She glanced back at the door of Vellis’s cell. “My husband is typical of Loioc males. His brain masses to about sixty percent of mine. His ability to communicate is limited to what he can absorb through conditioning: simple sounds and simple gestures. He’s not the sort of companion with whom I could have a conversation such as this.” Efthis smiled. “But he essays no violence. He recognizes females—Loioc females, at least—as his superiors by inborn instinct, and submits to us without hesitation. Now that he’s been conditioned for personal loyalty, he does as I command him, and nothing more.
     “We had a few regrets, of course. Society was more dynamic, and more interesting, before we unmade our males’ minds. But the consensus was that a degree of social and economic stasis would be a small price to pay for the elimination of the horrors male aggression had brought us. At any rate, that door is closed forever. The nanites are self-replicating. The waters of our world are saturated with them, and they can never be seined out.”
     Althea suppressed her desire to shudder and did her best to smile.
     “If you had asked your men whether they would agree to be...pacified that way,” she said pleasantly, “do you think any great number of them would have said yes, do it?”
     Efthis shrugged. “Possibly not, but what does it matter? The moral imperative was too obvious to permit any resistance. We had learned all too well what develops when male aggression is permitted to operate unchecked.” She waved an elfin hand. “You would not find a Loioc anywhere below who’s unsatisfied with the arrangement.”
     Except the ones who can no longer say so.
     “I think the women of Hope would have a different opinion,” Althea said. “We love our men as they are. I can’t imagine perpetrating the sort of...adjustment on them that you’ve inflicted upon yours. In fact, among us what your great geneticist did would constitute an unimaginably vile crime, the rape of an entire species. She would be ostracized for life if she were even to suggest it.”
     Althea paused for a moment of reflection, and smiled. “Hope has never known war, or mass violence of any other sort. We left that sort of madness behind us when we set out from Earth. I doubt my sisters could bring themselves to think as yours do, no matter how eloquently you might argue it to them.”
     Efthis raised an eyebrow. “No war or mass violence, you say? Then why does nearly every denizen of your world go armed whenever he ventures beyond his home?”
     Althea shrugged. “Simple caution. Men—humans, both sexes, have free will and the capacity for evil. Besides, you never know what might come up.”
     “And from where might some threat that requires an armed response arise, Althea?” Efthis’s smile acquired a predatory edge. “Which of the two sexes are you being cautious about?”
     Althea’s temper strained against her leash. “We like our men as they are,” she grated. “They’re our partners in...” What did Martin call it? “...in the adventure of life. Not a threat we have to defend ourselves against at all costs.” She hardened her expression into lines of defiance. “You can keep those clever little nanites for yourselves.”
     Efthis smiled slyly. “Is that why you haven’t touched your kiara, Althea?”
     Despite her resolution to maintain her reserve, Althea felt a snarl form on her features.
     “What do you think, Mistress Efthis?”
     “I think you need not deprive yourself,” Efthis said. “You’ve been thoroughly infused with the nanites since a few seconds after you stepped into the bath. We are no more willing to allow your males than ours to pollute our galactic neighborhood with their violent ways. You will be the instrument of their gentling.”
     A tidal wave of fury surged within Althea Morelon. She reeled from her sudden, all but overpowering desire to smash, kill, and lay waste around her.
     “When I return to Hope,” Althea ground out, “the men of my world will very likely construct and commission an expeditionary fleet—a well armed fleet—and send it here. I can’t be certain what they’ll do when they get here, but I doubt you and your sisters groundside will find it pleasant.”
     The Loioc’s smile turned superior.
     “Then you will not be returning to Hope.”
     “Oh? Do you have a way to stop me?”
     Efthis rose from the table, turned toward a dim corridor into the station, and indicated with a negligent wave of her hand that Althea should follow.

* * *

     “The mechanism you see via this viewscreen,” Efthis said, “occupies most of the volume of this station. It generates a high-intensity muon flux that permeates the galactic disk for two hundred light-years around. It’s powered by our sun, it’s self-repairing, and it cannot be turned off. Alone of all the children of Earth, you have learned how to negate the effects of that flux and relax the so-called speed-of-light limitation. But since you passed within the cometary belt, the flux has been far too intense for your ship’s superluminal drive to countervail. Nor will it avail you to exit our system on your reaction drive alone, for the suppressor has already infiltrated and taken command of your drive. You will not achieve interstellar velocities again unless I permit it.”
     Althea gazed in silence at the huge, faintly humming machine that held her prisoner.
     I never thought I’d find a machine that’s an abomination, all by itself, just because of what it can do.
     She closed her eyes, set her viewpoint free of her body, and sped it into the vast machine.
     The thing was complex beyond Althea’s understanding. It possessed hundreds of interlinked subsystems, only a few of which resembled anything she knew. She thought she could identify radiation sources and targets, direct-and-deflect conduits, baffles for stray emissions and sinks for excess heat. But far more assemblages were completely opaque to her comprehension. Some of them, though they appeared to be as unitary as gemstones, possessed internal structures of bewildering intricacy. She could not even be certain where any component began and ended. The whole hinted at properties of space-time and modes of matter-energy interaction beyond her attainments.
     She tested her telekinesis against a handful of the smaller pieces. None of them moved detectably, even when she exerted her full power.
     It doesn’t matter. I can’t just wrench a few bits of this contraption loose telekinetically and call the job finished. Not as long as it might retain the ability to fix itself, or if the Loioc might discover the damage and repair it...and not as long as I don’t really know what I’m doing.
     The whole thing has to go.

     “What’s the price for my freedom?” she said at last.
     Efthis turned toward her, a glittering metallic torque in one hand.
     “You must agree to wear this. It contains an advanced artificial intelligence, equipped with a full suite of environmental sensors, that will sense any attempt to violate the ethical constraints programmed into it. It also contains a generator capable of shocking you into unconsciousness, which will activate at any attempt, even a dubious one, to commit a violation or to remove it from your body.”
     Althea peered at the gleaming thing. “You have artificial intelligences that can read a person’s body language and forestall undesirable actions?”
     “Not entirely body language, Althea,” Efthis said. “Look at the inner surface of the torque.”
     Althea leaned in for a close inspection. At close range, a great many filaments, each one finer than a hair, became visible. “Neural probes?”
     Efthis nodded. “Quite sensitive ones. They give the onboard intelligence a way to anticipate the wearer’s actions, as well as react to his current ones. It’s how we restrain our few remaining lawbreakers without having to incarcerate them.” She smiled.
     Althea had seen that smile before. It was that of a woman who knows, beyond all possibility of contradiction, that she holds all the trumps. Her blood rose. She answered the Loioc’s smile with one of her own.
     “How clever,” Althea said. “I suppose I’ve no choice. But may I ask a question first?”
     Efthis cocked an eyebrow.
     “How do your sisters travel the galaxy?”
     The Loioc frowned. “We don’t. The suppressor’s speed-of-light restriction binds us as firmly as any other world within the machine’s radius of effect.”
     Althea widened her eyes. “But a race as advanced as yours must be working on some alternative, surely?”
     Darkness touched Efthis’s features. “Of course. We’ve been researching teleportation for centuries, but so far it’s remained out of reach. Entropic effects arising from the energies required fatally disorder anything we try to teleport.”
     “I see,” Althea said. “Has it ever occurred to you that those effects might be due to an even more advanced race’s suppression of your desire to wander the stars?” She gestured at the viewscreen. “Just as you’ve used that machine in there to confine the peoples around you?”
     Efthis’s mouth dropped open. She glanced at the huge machine, Althea moved with sudden, violent speed, and the Loioc fell to the floor unconscious.
     “Bitch,” Althea muttered as she hoisted the smaller woman into a fireman’s carry. “Never tell a Morelon there’s something he can’t do. Now just where do you keep your stash of rope?”

* * *

     It took a while to locate the reentry vehicle Efthis had mentioned and secure the unconscious Loioc female in one of its seats. It took still longer to persuade the badly frightened Vellis that Althea meant him no harm, that it was safe to leave his cell and go where she directed him. Eventually she had the two properly strapped into their anti-acceleration chairs and ready for launch.
     One more thing to see to.
     She returned to Liberty’s Torch, powered up her voice recorder, and dictated a brief message.
     “This is Althea Morelon, mistress of interstellar vessel Liberty’s Torch from Hope, approximately eleven light-years out toward the galactic rim. I’ll be returning to Hope in just a little while, to tell my compatriots all about your society. I expect my reports will make them very angry. I expect that they’ll decide to do something about you...and that the time you’ll have to brace yourselves for our next visit will be a lot shorter than you’d like.
     “As you can see, I’ve returned your sentinels—excuse me, your gaolers to your loving arms. Don’t treat them too harshly. They did their best. They just didn’t reckon with having to face a Morelon. Anyway, try to smile about it all. I’m leaving you a present. Before I depart your system, you’ll have the same interstellar potential I’ve contrived for us of Hope. Think you’ll be able to make use of it without the help of your menfolk?
     “That’s all for now. Althea Morelon signing out.”
     She transferred the recording to a memory cartridge, returned to the reentry craft, and tucked it into a pocket of Efthis’s coverall. As she made to leave, Vellis looked up at her and whimpered.
     “Sorry, fella,” she murmured. “I can’t do a thing for you. Maybe we’ll be back to help your kids, some day.”
     She stepped out of the hatch and closed it behind her.

* * *

     When Liberty’s Torch’s sensors showed the reentry craft to be safely beyond Efthis’s station, Althea seated herself at the command console and strove to compose herself for her next moves. She checked the ship’s tanks of reaction mass, did a swift mental calculation, reached for the reaction drive igniter, and took a deep breath.
     It had to be Loioc men who built this abomination. The women would never have dared. The dangers of large-scale construction in space are far too great. They probably used collars like the one Efthis threatened me with to compel them to comply.
     But were they derationalized creatures like Vellis, or were they intact men? If the former, how could they have coped with the complexities? If the latter, what did the women promise them for their cooperation? A homeland of their own, where they could live as they pleased to their dying days? Or a privileged status of some sort among their derationalized brethren?

     Her thoughts veered toward an even less pleasant subject.
     An isolated group of genes responsible for sentience? Just one group that can be removed without damaging the rest of the genetic code? Not bloody likely. I should have probed for more details. What did the excision of the sentience constellation do to the rest of the male physiognomy? Was their strength reduced? Their dexterity? Their endurance? Their lifespan? What sort of process did the “great geneticist” go through in deciding that the tradeoff would be worthwhile?
     She tried to imagine Martin reaved of his intellect and reduced to a well-conditioned slave. To a mindless, soulless thing, good only for what his sinews could do and his heart and lungs could endure. The thought was enough to revive her fury. It burned white hot at the center of her soul—a soul whose reality she could no longer doubt, a soul uniquely and indissolubly hers beyond any possibility of separation.
     Only a part of her in direct contact with the moral laws of the universe could have flamed into such righteous rage.
     What right did they have? How on Hope—strike that; how in the galaxy did they convince themselves that this was their prerogative?
     Women have been civilizing the men of Hope for thirteen centuries. We’ve never needed to geld them. They’ve fought no wars. They’ve taken no slaves. They’ve erected no States, which is where all the other horrible ideas always came from. Maybe doing it our way, with love and devotion and lives filled with family and enterprise and riches, just seemed to the Loioc women like too much work.
     The more fools they.

     Another unpleasant possibility rose to bedevil her.
     Will the menfolk of Hope burn as fiercely as I do over this obscenity, or will it fall to Clan Morelon to arrange vengeance and salvation for their cousins on the world below?
     Will it fall to me?
     It doesn’t matter. If no one else will lead the expedition, I’ll do it myself. Strike that: I’ll do it, period. I’ll craft the warships, invent the weapons, and build the armada. I’ll train the leadership cadre and inspire the troops. I’ll bring the hammer of vengeance down on these arrogant bitches. And I’ll make a thorough job of it.

     She engaged the reaction drive, opened the exhaust baffles wide, sent power to the attitude jets, and slowly circumnavigated the station.
     She bathed the Loioc space station from end to end in the fusion plume. The station was tough; it had to be to accept, contain, and direct the energies required for its duties. But it wasn’t nearly tough enough to resist temperatures kindled in the heart of a star. Within minutes, the shell of the station had softened and turned to slag. The shell and all its contents were no more than plasma shortly thereafter.
     It never occurred to you that a mere female might have a little violence in her soul, did it, Efthis? Enough to deal with you and turn the door of your jail cell into a cloud of incandescent gas? Enough to return with a fleet of ships and weapons sufficient to deliver your menfolk from bondage and treat you and your sisters to the fate you’ve earned?
     In time, bitch. In time. I have a little more physics to do, and a lot more planning. But I’ll be back. With a fleet and a gaggle of angry companions...some of them women.

     When she could see that the destruction was complete, Althea nodded in satisfaction, damped the main drive, constricted the exhaust baffles, pulsed the attitude thrusters to reorient the ship for system exit, and headed for the cometary belt to top off the ship’s reaction mass tanks.
     When Liberty’s Torch had ingested enough cometary ice to bring her reaction-mass reserves to maximum, she went to high thrust and swiftly left the last objects in the outer system well behind. A few hours later, the densitometers declared that the vacuum was thin enough to go superluminal. She disengaged the reaction drive and briefly contemplated the return journey.
     An elaborate procedure was required to prepare the ship for an automated return to Hope system. She’d allowed for the possibility that it might be needed and had designed the necessary control linkages and software to make it possible, but of course had never tried it out.
     No help for it. As soon as I’m under superluminal drive and properly headed up, I’m getting into the medipod. With luck, it will find the nanites and strain them out of me. Without...God, be with me.
     She had to be certain she’d been thoroughly purged of them before she would allow herself to return to the surface of Hope.

==<O>==

Copyright © 2013 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.