
Canto 145 – Senators and Senate Stuff
The biggest debate in the arguing about forming the New Star League had been about which planet was the best place to host the capitol of the newly formed multi-star government. The idea had formed around the planet Don’t Go Here, which was entirely too provincial and had never had a space-faring tech level before. In spite of its sentient orbiting space port, the Ancient construct known as Frieda, retrieved from the device made by the Ancients called the Crown of Stars, it was determined that the planetary system was simply not equipped to be an interstellar capitol.
Tron Blastarr, leader of the pirate space forces establishing the new union of solar systems, wanted his home base of Outpost to be the new capitol, but the main inhabited planet, Outpost itself, was an airless rock with no room for much beyond Nebulon colonies and military installations.
Xavier Tkriashav, the political leader who had brought all the worlds of the Psion exiles and the Lupin pirate hordes into the union wanted his home world of Zarane to be the capitol. But that world did not really have a central enough location to work well.
So, the leaders, meeting on the centralized world of Gaijin with its hybrid Gaijinese people and relatively high tech level, decided to build the new capitol in the city of Kiro on the planet Gaijin.
Tkriashav and the bald immortal Dr. Naylund Smith both retired to the Gaijinese tea garden behind Dr. Smith’s house with their cups of steaming white-stork tea.
“Well, Dr. Smith, it seems that everybody got what they wanted in the meeting. The constitution is practically written already.”
“Yes, you, it seems, got the choicest position, making yourself Senator Prime.”
The turbaned Zaranian smiled. “You will be my Number Two, so you will succeed me if anything happens.”
“Yes, but it was not a looked-for opportunity. I have other matters that urgently demand my time.” Dr. Smith stared into his cup of tea.
“But you are an immortal. Surely if anyone has all the time they will ever need to do anything, it is you.”
“I go on living practically no matter what happens to my body, it is true. But my precious daughter is not immortal. Even now, Sara is with Ged Aero on a mission she may not return alive from.”
“But she’s only one of how many children you have sired over your three-thousand-year-plus lifetime?”
“She may be only one of many, but they are all gone now in the well of time, and I vowed that her mother would be the very last woman I ever loved and then outlived. That kind of loss is taxing to the soul.”
“Yes, the sentiment is certainly understandable. But it is a great thing we are undertaking. Never before have so many different sentient species come together to form an interstellar planetary alliance. We have always been ruled in the past by the members of the Earther Human Race and the Human-Galtorrian Fusion Race. But now there are the Molluscan M’uduai Race, the Japanese/Sylvani Race we are now calling the Gaijinese, the Psion Race of Zarane and her sister worlds of the Old Psion Empire, the Pale Humans of the Geonee Race, the deep-space Nebulon Race, the Lupins, and the Dion Saurian People, as well as all the Genetically Altered Races of the Faulkner Genetics Worlds.”
“An impressive list to be sure. But can they hold together as one people with common interests in this new government?”
“I don’t see why you would doubt it?”
“Maybe because of the endless warring and race-hatred of the many human races. You know how the Imperium is. Zombie like Mechanoids, dead bodies brought back to life artificially are the backbone of their armies, space marines, space navy, and special forces. The ruling elite see all alien races as expendable and exploitable. They don’t even treat Dions and M’uduai as worthy of being called people. And they enslave and exterminate Nebulons and Lupins.”
“Yes, and we are not them. We are not Imperials. We will hold ourselves to a higher standard.”
“You have no idea how often I have heard that same sort of pronouncement come out of the mouths of well-meaning world rulers and empire builders. It almost never goes the way they see it in their glorious visions.”
“It will be different this time. The Prophecy of Xhan says it will be so.”
“I too have studied the prophecy, Xavier. I have also studied much too much history firsthand to have your confidence.”
The younger man smiled and softly slapped the old immortal on the back. “Fear not. There is much in the Prophecy of the White Spider yet to be realized. We are making history. But it is history that is foretold and will certainly come true.”
“It will if Ged Aero succeeds in his quest. And it will if the space forces on our side can get it all together to fight off evil old Admiral Tang, and the darker forces behind him. You would be wise to prepare for at least some parts of your prophecy not to come true in the way you are expecting.”
There was no doubting that Dr. Smith had a point. And even Xavier’s clairvoyant Psion abilities couldn’t remove the darker clouds from among all the cumulus constructs of the possibilities that lay ahead.


















Vonnegut
My experience of the works of Kurt Vonnegut is limited to the reading of three books; Cat’s Cradle, Breakfast of Champions, and Slaughterhouse Five. But it was enough to make me love him and use him as a shaper of my soul.
I deeply apologize for the fact that even though he only wrote 14 books and a bunch of short stories, I have not read everything I could get my hands on by Kurt. Three novels and one short story (Harrison Bergeron) is not really enough to compare to the many, many things that I have read by Mark Twain, Terry Pratchett, Louis L’Amour, and Michael Crichton. I can’t begin to count how many books of each of those four I have read and reread. But it is enough that I read those three novels and have a lifelong regret of never buying and reading Slapstick when I had the chance. Vonnegut writes black humor. The ideas are painful, and burn away flesh from your personal body of being. And at the same time, you cannot help but laugh at the pure, clean, horrifying truths his ridiculous stories reveal.
If, in the course of telling a story, you can put the sublime, the ridiculous, and the horrendous side by side, and make the reader see how they actually fit together, then you can write like Vonnegut.
Let me give you three quick and dirty book reports of the Vonnegut I have read in the order I have read them;
I read Cat’s Cradle in college. I was young and idealistic at the time, foolishly convinced I could be a great writer and cartoonist who could use my work to change mankind for the better.
In the book, Dr. Felix Hoenikker (a fictionalized co-creator of the atomic bomb) is obsessively re-stacking cannonballs in the town square in pursuit of a new way to align water molecules that will yield ice that does not melt at room temperature. Much as he did with the A-bomb, Hoenikker invents a world-ending science-thing without any thought for the possible consequences. The narrator of the novel is trying to write a humanizing biography of the scientist, and comes to observe the inevitable destruction of the whole world when the oceans freeze into Ice-9, the un-meltable ice crystal. Before the world ends, the narrator spends time on the fictional Carribean island of San Lorenzo where he learns the fictional religion known as Bokononism, and learns to make love to a beautiful woman by pressing bare feet together sole to sole. It is a nihilistic picture of what humans are really like more savagely bleak than any portrayal Monte Python’s Flying Circus ever did on TV.
Needless to say, my ideals were eventually shattered and my faith in the world shaken.
I read Breakfast of Champions after I had been teaching long enough to buy my own house, be newly married, and a father to one son. It was probably the worst time of life to be reading a book so cynical, yet true.
In this story, the author Kilgore Trout, much published but mostly unknown, is headed to Midland City to deliver a keynote address at an arts festival. Dwayne Hoover is a wealthy business man who owns a lot of Midland City real-estate. Trout gives Hoover a book (supposedly a message from the creator of the universe) to read that suggests that all people (except for the reader of the book… meaning Hoover) are machines with no free will. Hoover takes the message to heart and tries to set the machines free by breaking them, beating up his son, his lover, and nine other people before being taken into custody.
The book contains devastating themes of suicide, free will, and social and economic cruelty. It makes you sincerely reflect on your own cog-in-the-machine reality.
Slaughterhouse Five is a book I bought and read when I missed my chance to buy Slapstick and needed something to take home from HalfPrice Books to make me feel better about what I missed. (Of the five books I had intended to buy that day, none were still on the shelves in spite of the fact that they had been there the week before.) It was fortuitous. This proved to be the best novel I had ever read by Vonnegut.
Like most of his work, the story of Billy Pilgrim is a fractured mosaic of small story pieces not presented in chronological order. It details Billy’s safe, ordinary marriage to a wife who gives him two children, but it is ironically cluttered with death, accidents, being stalked by an assassin, and being kidnapped by aliens. It also details his experiences in World War II where he is captured by the Germans, held prisoner in Dresden, kept in an underground slaughterhouse, and ironically survives the fire-bombing of Dresden by the Allies. Further, it details his time as a zoo exhibit on the alien planet of Tralfamadore.
It explores the themes of depression, post-traumatic-stress disorder, and anti-war sentiment. Vonnegut himself was a prisoner of war in Dresden during the fire-bombing, so real-life experiences fill the book with gravitas that it might not otherwise possess. Whether the author was ever kidnapped by aliens or not, I cannot say.
But Kurt Vonnegut’s desire to be a writer and portray himself as a writer in the character of Kilgore Trout, and even as himself in his work, has an awful lot to do with my desire to be a writer myself. Dark, pithy wisdom is his thing. But that wisdom, having been wrung from the darkness is all the more brightly lit because of that wringing. It is hard to read, but not hard to love.
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