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Mass migration and the west (and why you might be wrong about it)

If you know me IRL, you would know me as a bit of a doomsday preacher. Not because of religion but because of extant socioeconomic trends and inevitable developments, as well as the discrepancy between our capabilities for destruction and solving problems.

When you read the title of this post, it is possible you had preconceptions and an emotional reaction. This is normal; whether you are left or right or centrist, you likely have a stance on migration. I choose it deliberately to get this reaction. I hope to get you to think, wherever you may stand.

First about myself, because it is relevant in this context: I am left leaning and libertarian, and I believe it is imperative to limit migration. To address the elephant in the room: I am against so-called ethnostates and closed borders, because apart from being naïve, those ideas are untenable. Migration is a fact of life, populations have been intermixed for generations, and it would not solve but rather exasperate ideologic differences. According to economists, immigration is necessary given the low reproduction rate in Europe and North America. I don’t agree fully given that automation makes a lot of vital jobs obsolete, but that warrants its own post. We need qualified immigration, and to prevent segregation and self-segregation to facilitate integration into an extant system of norms and values.

My main concern with immigration is not that any one population will overwhelm the west and force the end of western values, it is that those who fear the other will change the west and lead to the end of western values. To be precise, the end of the most basic of values in the west: secular, humanistic, pro-democratic values.

This is rooted in my conviction that economics, not numerical superiority determine political power and norms. There will be no caliphate in the west. But there might be apartheid and racial segregation, especially given the disenfranchisement of the working class through continued Automation. Those who do not work will have little sway, even in democracies which will likely trend towards authoritarianism, if current trends are anything to go by. Democratic reform will be difficult, in any case. Which brings me back to the topic of migration.

Mass migration brings tensions and sociocultural stress. Demographic shifts create reactionary backlash and budgetary chaos. I believe therefore that it would be favorable to limit mass migration, regardless of where you fall on the political spectrum. Paradoxically, this is especially true if you are part of the left and concerned with human rights. The way I would propose is to stabilize Africa and the Middle East, as well as India through investment and diplomacy through the next century. It is a tall order, but IMO not beyond the scope of possibilities. That would not eliminate the migration driver that is climate change, but it would limit economic migration and refugees. It could lead to lucrative emergent markets and military alliances, making our world a safer place for everybody.

We live in extraordinary times, insofar as that we can make our voices heard. We can end mass migration, not by closing our borders but rather by removing the incentives that lead to migration in the first place, and increase total human well-being. I welcome your thoughts and critiques on this subject and am looking forward to discussion.

[kershmaru-blog]

The overgrown mansion part II

Amélie Dulay 4th may 2049

 I slept horribly today. In my dream I was somebody else, running from the mansion, my uncle, a younger Helstrom and several other men and women after me. Buckshot whistling overhead, me falling towards the blackberry bushes, then nothing. After the kind of transition that is only possible in dreams, I, myself again, sat on my uncle’s lap long before our fight about his lost tenure. He told me stories of far-off worlds and the secrets of the universe, read me Clarke, Asimov and Dennis E. Taylor.  I remember laughing at the story of Bob the spaceship. I wanted to be like him, meet alien civilizations, but the thought of immortality scared me. My uncle grinned and stroke my hair. “We aren’t immortal. Some people think we will be, one day, but I am not among them. But I too want to know the secrets of the universe and meet others.” Then he became serious and got a somewhat distant and pained look. “They got it wrong you know - SETI, and all these authors and scientists. We shouldn’t seek others out there, and we likely never will muster the spirit, the courage, and the resources to venture beyond the Sol system. But that is where we come in. Our family, this place, our…curse. Those dreamers are, all the same; they do not ask the right questions, dare not dream the right dreams. You know what people fear most, what they dare not even consider?...”

 I awoke with a slight fever. Not the dreams again. I had come back alright.

 After sleeping in the guest house, as all people did, or so I was told by Helstrom, I entered the mansion today. There was a putrid smell in the air, and I soon found the source in the defunct kitchenette. Something had been left standing out. What it had been I couldn’t tell. What it was is a writhing mass of maggots I didn’t dare touch. I was unwilling to open the refrigerator, nor the two on the stair’s landing labeled “research specimens” and “reagents.” On this one, a note was pinned. Somebody had over and over scribbled the same binary sequence on it: 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01110010 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101100 01101101 01101111 01110011 01110100 00100000 01110010 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 00101110 00101110 00101110 than a space and the same all over again.

I noticed several guns and religious paraphernalia hanging on the walls. I took one of the weapons down and opened it. Loaded, and in excellent condition.

 I steeled myself and went upstairs. Most of the original walls on the first floor had been removed, replaced by single, circular room fully enclosed in windowed walls in the middle of the vast space. The windows began at the height of my hip and continued to the ceiling. Before I entered, I took stock of my immediate surroundings. Outside of the room, there were several open desks with miscellaneous data, correspondence, and printouts. The outside wall was lined with ancient filing cabinets and pickled specimen jars of all manner of creatures, interspersed with scribbled on whiteboards. There was a Frankenstein’s monster of a computer, with the core being a very old PC- from the 90’s I would think; and thus from my uncle’s childhood - spliced into several raspberry pies and a modern state of the art supercomputer. The monstrosity was on and displayed a Linux OS on a cathode-ray display. Several apparently self-developed programs, ranging from several sensor logs to some form of expert systems were monitoring the inside of the room. I remember that as an adolescent, I had helped write some of the code. Cameras, both analog and digital were mounted on tripods and robotic arms, monitoring the room.

 I picked up one of the sheets on one of the desks. Correspondence between one of my uncle’s erstwhile students with top universities discussing modified M-Theory dated 2032. It hadn’t been until five years ago that modified M-Theory had officially become the theory du jour amongst the scientific community, yet here was somebody discussing the specifics more than ten years before that on behest of my uncle. I looked at the filing cabinets. If I went back far enough, would I find correspondence between my uncle’s predecessors, my ancestors, and Einstein or Hawkins?

 I went through some other papers on other workstations. Astronomical and Astrological calculations, Alchemy, esotericism. History and geography side by side with a book about lay lines. The student who had worked here had circled the mansion’s location several times. Another desk. Biological cladistics, including several philia not described by science, a picture of a tardigrade and several samples of the moths and what I assumed was the fungi found on the property. Another one. Logic trees and Algorithms, flowcharts for several complicated programs about signal analysis. Next, a homemade phonograph, and other forms of analog sensor equipment.

 I opened the door to the room was greeted by a smell of incense, and the door to the Faraday cage within. There was a single bed on a rug inside. The restraints were not on it at the moment. I went over and touched it, remembering sleeping there after getting involved in the family business. Doing so, the sleeve of my dress slipped, revealing my self-inflicted scars. I angrily covered up again. The rug was new though. Maybe an effort to seem respectable to any visiting academic. I slung it back, revealing the brown circle and the glyphs underneath. Crazy. All of this was mad. I can’t; I simply can’t. I will go tour the property, get some fresh air, unpleasant as it may be, and clear my head.

[kershmaru-blog]

The overgrown mansion part I

Amélie Dulay 3rd may 2049

It has been years since I came here. The arrival via the overland roads was pleasant, all birdsong and fresh air. I had opened up the Cabrio and bought some groceries from a farm on the way, picnicking at noon halfway to my destination on a hill with vision of a beautiful valley full of fields and woods.

Before dusk, I arrived, the crumbled up paper in my hand.

“Amé. You are the only one I can ask for this now that most of my students left me. I willed you my property – do with it as you wish, but go there and bring my effects in order. Most importantly, take my research and send it to a university you trust. I know that you have broad interests and of course I thought you as a child, so you should understand enough to make an informed decision. I know you think I am crazy, and my most sincere wish would be to simply leave it at that. Unfortunately, I have no such luxury. Please forgive me. - oncle Pièrre”

Of course, the place wasn’t visible from the road. And of course, the weather had changed, giving the proper backdrop to my task and feelings.

I could have spared myself the arduous track to the house from the townward side of the property by finding the dirt road that entered it from amongst the hills with their dilapidated vineyards, which had fallen into disrepair during the recession of ’24. Of course, the properties own orchards had been neglected long before that. I knew the old dirt road was still maintained, since I had been the one paying for the maintenance, a not insignificant sum each year, in the vain hope to maintain my uncle’s strenuous grip onto society and a semblance of normalcy. But In my wisdom, I decided to park amongst the villas and housed on the edge of the town, fumbling with the heavy keyring the notary had provided me with. The rusty cast iron monstrosity defied my attempts to open it until I came back with my car’s toolbox and broke off the padlock. I had planned to break the lock, not the fixtures on which it was mounted. Oh well. The obstacle out of the way, I began my ascent to the top of what uncle had named lookout hill. The mansion was visible from there, as was the path needed to reach it through the wooded land. The ancient, weathered stone steps, placed here during the time of the empire were uneven and overgrown, and while climbing, I got the same eerie feeling I vaguely recalled from being a child. Back then I had not been able to tell why the old mansion and the surrounding lands gave me the willies and at the same time held me spellbound. Now, after reading a lot, I can at least partly articulate it: The property seems indifferent if not outright hostile to human habitation. Despite the rainy climate, withered, fruitless blackberry bushes and old gnarled trees,  cover half the serpentine path; the erstwhile apple orchard turned into a strange, Lovecraftian vista, the trees, and soil affected with an unknown fungal blight. This, I reckon, is also responsible for the taste of the infested apples I picked. I cannot adequately describe it. It is bitter and putrid, but strangely refreshing and welcome at the same time. Alien and removed from ordinary experience as all here is. Devoid of even birds or small mammals, only bugs and insects thrive here, primarily spiders that were too big for my taste and dark brown moths with white antennae, giving off an acrid smell. Neither as a child nor now was I ever able to determine the origin of the buzzing sound, or the nature of the miasmic, dense air. The only thing I can tell is that like a good horror story; the place never let go of me, had sunk its talons deep into my very essence and haunted both my dreams and waking reveries. I instinctively, with a primal notion hated the place and yet never could shake the thought and longing to see the things my juvenile mind told me stalked this land when man slept, those things that made the woods creak and the bitter winds blow.

Since I was a child, I dreamt of this place and the stories and secrets uncle Pièrre would tell me. It was only when I became adolescent that I realized that the brilliant man was losing it. That was when I distanced myself and sought to coax my uncle out into the world instead. Prior to receiving his last will, I hadn’t spoken to him in years. I walked down the overgrown path, struggling with the thorny blackberry vines and dirty gossamer spider webs. The moths continuously divebombed my face, and the unpleasant buzzing made my skin crawl and my hairs stand on end. The ape in me felt a hostile presence keeping their eyes on me, and bawled to turn and leave, while the human tried to laugh it off.

When I arrived at the house, I was covered in small cuts and filth, and it had started to rain. The old pickup stood in front of it, between the main villa and the guesthouse, and reminded me that I could have spared myself the uncomfortable and frankly unsettling track. I again fumbled with the keys, only to have the door open in my face and to be confronted by a haggard old, gaunt man wielding a crucifix and a sawed-off shotgun, seemingly haunted, by what demons I do not know, and unsure which of the objects would protect him from this sudden intruder. That was my first encounter with Olaf Helstrom; mathematician turned my uncles’ student - acolyte? And groundkeeper.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part XIII and epilogue

But I see now that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. I have such evidence, but I cannot reveal it. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 First things first. “Ship, enter administrator mode. Delete all access codes save my own. No more killing without my express order.”

 “Confirmed.”

 “Ship. What will happen if I do not go to Aztlan?” He already knew the answer. But habits die hard.

 “Things like that have happened before. They would wake for another verifiable hybrid, or for the genetic manipúlation and eugenics programme to run its course, to the point when humanity awakened their latent genetic memories. Then any one of them could be used to verify the end of the cycle.”

 “Let’s first see that that does not happen soon.”

 “Very well. Killing off the mali and destroying their DNA samples would slow down the cycle significantly.”

 “I will not kill anybody. Will they listen to a direct order from me?”

 “Certainly. However, the gods will most definitely rescind your orders. And even if they do not, the cycle will be complete soon. Your existence is proof of that.”

 “One thing at a time. Put me in contact with them.”

 The motes of light formed into several people from several different ethnicities, who one after the other dropped their disguises and fell to their knees. “My lord,” they hissed.

 “No need to refer to me as such. Who amongst you speaks for the rest?”

 One of them who used to look like a prominent politician rose. “I do. What gives us the honor of your visit?”

 “I hereby command you to cease the experiments to accelerate the cycle and destroy all extant DNA samples of the Aztlani.”

 This caused some restlessness amongst the snake people. Then: “It shall be done, my lord. Since We have lost our purpose, do you wish for us to die?”

 “No. I will try to broker a peace deal with the humans in your name, to ensure your safety and wellbeing. For now, remain hidden and safe.”

 “It shall be done.”

 With that, he cut off communication and Martin faced the girl.

 “I am sorry that I am so indignant a guest. I haven't even asked you your name.”

 “I have no name my lord, nor does this vessel have a designation.”

 “We cannot have that, and we cannot have you refer to me as ‘My lord.’ My name is Martin. Give yourself a name. As you said, the barrier between the living and the nonliving is insignificant.”

 “You want me to make a decision Martin? That is highly unusual. But if you so wish…Maria. My name is Maria.”

 “Happy to make your acquaintance Maria. Now, please make an information packet for the taskforce agent Gutiéres - the man you killed - was a part of. Tell them about the cycle, and that the mali are now in hiding and will not conduct their experiments for the time being.” Knowledge of the world of Aztlan violently filled him. “And include information about the Aztlani. Their world Aztlan, their technological capabilities, that they are a Kardachev type II civilization living on the inside of a multiple star Dyson sphere they created through stellar lifting.”

 “I shall do so Martin. And what after its dissemination?”

 “We will leave earth.” He thought back to the skulkers in the void, a text by his mother he only now understood. “We need to bring proof of the cycle to all people. I do not know how jet, But we must stop it. We must convince the Aztlani that what they are doing is a moral evil. I will not be able to do that, staying on earth. Bring us away from here, for now.”

 “Error. Order violates current ethical parameters.”

 “How so?”

 “Our wormholes would cause severe damage to the planet, causing a cataclysm that could potentially kill thousands in the near vicinity.”

 “We cannot have that. Recommendations?”

 “One moment… the concept that is known as nuclear thermal propulsion to humans.”

 “I am familiar with it. Using a reactor to heat a gas and use its impulse to drive a spaceship. Can you build such a device?”

 “Easily, though the synthesis of the necessary heavy elements will take some time. We cannot use our singularity core to heat a gas directly.”

 “Take the time. I will talk to the task force and explain the intel package we give them. And Maria?”

 “Yes?”

 “Please prepare the body of agent Gutiéres for transport. We owe him, at last, a proper burial.”

  I will seek more evidence. It is the only way to protect what is most dear to me. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 This day, the task force received and disseminated the truth about the cycle, which was quickly leaked to the population. They now knew that humanity faced an enemy they couldn’t possibly defeat and that it was but a question of time before they come. And that their fate for better or worse lied with a young man. They were quick to connect this information with the streak of fire from in front of the coast of the Yucatan peninsula - And grangran, who now knew her daughter had not been crazy, was quick to connect this with her grandson, now on a mission to end the cruel fate of all the people in the universe.

 This is it for the time being. I will start a new series within the next two weeks. This one was mainly world building and an introduction to Martin Hernándes, the renegade god, and Maria, his ship and companion. They may well come back in future short stories.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part XII

Alas, the prophet is ignored. I have become as Cassandra. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 The figures got up from their seats in disarray. “Ship! Do something.”

“My current ethical parameters forbid me from acting. As per the Lord's wishes, I cannot harm lesser beings.”

“Administrative override! Akkara 3491! Rescind that alteration! Help him!”

The girl moved quicker than Martins eyes could comprehend. One second she was yards from the two of them, the next she was there, grabbing Gutiéres head and ripping it off in a fountain of warm blood.

 “What is it, Master? The danger is over. Have I done something to upset you?” The angelic being, now drenched in fresh blood and holding a severed head asked the sobbing Martin.

 Akkara waited for Martin to calm down, looking at him disapprovingly. “Your empathy is misplaced. He would have killed you.”

 “You didn’t have to kill him! If this machine, this avatar of the ship is that strong, it could have restrained him.”

 “An unnecessary endeavor. He would more than likely have perished at the end of the cycle anyway. Besides, the only fitting penitence to the sacrilege of laying a hand on your god is death.”

 “You are no god! Neither am I!”

 “Semantics. What defines a god? That they arose from primordial chaos? We did. That they are immortal and near omniscient? We are. That they created lesser beings? We did. Wheather we are gods or not lies squarely in the eye of the beholder. Now come. You need to make the journey to Aztlan so that we can initiate the end of the cycle.”

 “No. You won’t. I won’t let you.”

 “You are still confused, young one. You see yourself as part of them. You are not. You are one of us.”

 Martin could see in his newly awakened memory that she was entirely convinced of what she said and that it was the truth.

 “Be that as it may I will not be part of genocide.”

“Genocide? Does an exterminator commit genocide against pests? A farmer against livestock? You apply ethical categories to unsuited targets. We are not the same as them.

 “Know what? The current people of this cycle, the humans, said the same about different ethnicities within the same species for a long time.”

 With a gesture, Martin dismissed the communication.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part XI

Reality is a cruel mistress, and to me falls the dubious honor of being her herald. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

  Martin and Gutiéres approached awestruck and fell back once she opened her eyes. “My lord,” she purred “welcome to your birthright.” With that, she left her apparatus and hugged Martin. Martin, flabbergasted could only muster: “You are - a machine?”She leaned back and looked into his eyes: ”I am this ship’s AI given form to welcome you. Without having been fully awaked by familiar sights and sounds, new lords tend to react best to aesthetically pleasing members of the opposite sex. As to your question - yes, I am a machine. But this distinction, the one between the living and the nonliving, machine and lifeform is not so strict as the lesser beings think. It is mainly a question of complexity and energy usage. Is me being a machine against your will my lord? Transitioning from being a mere Mechanism would be easy.” With that, she turned warm and soft to his touch.

 Gutiéres, still not sure what to make of the situation, spoke up. “What is that? How do you speak their language?” The girl looked at Gutiéres with pure disdain. “I won’t question your decision my lord, but this creature is offensive to me. What does it say?”

“Can’t you understand him? The language he speaks is English.”

“I shall endeavor to learn it, my lord. Scouring local data nets…done.” Then, in English, she added: “Is this better, my lord?”

“Who are you? What is this place? And why are you calling him ‘My lord?’”

“Quiet creature. Your voice defiles this holy place.”

“I would like these questions answered myself.” Martin felt lightheaded and disoriented. A dreadful realization lurked just beyond his conscious mind.

“All shall be revealed soon, my lord. Follow me into the communication chamber.”

 With that, she led Martin and agent Gutiéres to a smaller, still gargantuan chamber filled with swirling blue motes of light. When Martin entered, those motes came together and formed a room full of people sitting in a half-circle waiting. Following an intuition, Martin asked the girl to translate into English. He already knew that the language these people were going to speak was going to be the same hissing he mysteriously understood. A strange but beautiful figure rose from their seat and approached, growing bigger in the display of light. At first, Maritn thought the figure was male, but he soon realized it was a woman, albeit one while being barechested lacking, in fact, breasts and areolae. She also was completely hairless, with oversized irises and feathers on her arms which seemed too long, and while her skin seemed flawless at first glance, as she grew bigger on the display, it was revealed that she, in fact, had small hexagonal scales.

 She smiled at Martin after an irritated look at Gutiéres, revealing a double row of sharp fangs. “Welcome child. You must be confused and disoriented. When our faithful servants contacted us, we were pleasantly surprised with the speed at which the cycle on ‘earth’ concluded this time. Ask whatever questions you have. You must prepare for the journey.”

 “First, who are you to me? I know you - but it can’t be.”

“No surprise there. I am Akkara, your paternal grandmother, in charge of the cycle on earth. One of our servants impregnated your mother with a sample of my son’s DNA, thus proving that the cycle once again nears its conclusion.” “What is the cycle?” Martin knew the answer before she spoke. And also realized his own place in it, in all its terrifying significance.

“I am sure you know by now. The cycle is the meaning and purpose of the lesser beings. We seeded a sterile universe with life but recognized long ago that interstellar distances would make social cohesion impossible, even with the possibility of faster than light travel - trying to control colonies would be a waste of resources. No, we limited ourselves to the cradle of our birth, Aztlan, mining the universe for resources with robotic drones. But after a first conflict with our creations, the lesser beings, we recognized that we had in mere artistic pursuit during our misguided colonization programme created something worthwhile.

 We made adjustments to our robotic servants in place of the now inhabited worlds and began to guide their evolution. To our own ends. We, as you must have realized by now, have a trait that no lesser being shares - access to ancestral, genetic memory. You must feel it inside you, now that you have seen and heard so much. By promoting certain evolutionary milestones, we made sure the genome of the lower beings is compatible with our own. Once a hybrid is born and verified, we come to an end the cycle, harvest the potential genetic memories of the lesser beings and use them in pursuit of our perfection. The survivors are made into mali- slave servants. They serve alongside our robots and agents indoctrinated into the faith from amongst unaware lesser beings to speed up the repeating of the cycle. I believe you have encountered some of the survivors of the first cycle on earth.”

 “No! No! It cannot be!” Martin fell to his knees, feeling a rush of emotion and knowledge. Despite his protests, he knew it to be true, knew the struggles of his mother once she had discovered that she had been made a Guiney pig in a million year eugenics programme to birth the harbinger of doom for the human race, knew her parents childhood growing up like his own, and their ancestors beyond that, stretching to nebulous prehistory. And he felt the other side of his parentage, sublime, intelligent, wise but cold, alien and cruel beyond belief.

His lamentations were interrupted by Agent Gutiéres, who grabbed him by the neck and threw a punch to his face, sending Martin sprawling to the floor. A moment later, Gutiéres was on top of him, throwing punches and intermittently crying out”You monster! You are one of them!” And “I am sorry, it is the only way.” With that, Gutiéres began strangling him.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part X

Reality, I am afraid, is not so kind. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 Martin and Gutiéres came to rest in a metal cathedral amongst strange machinery and vaguely Mesoamerican artwork. Through big curved windows, blue light fell into the room. The force that had kept them safe from the maelstrom that had killed the traitorous agents gently laid them to rest in a hollow of twisted metal - proof that the vortex had devastated this side of the transport as well. But as they watched, the metal bend itself back into shape, seemed to flow while staying a solid. At the same time, a ring of hills rose outside the hollow from the metal floor - and quickly took the shape of things that were easy to identify as some sort of gun batteries.

 With that, we come back to the start of our story. Martin lay naked on low ground in front of an array of guns, in the company of agent Gutiéres who he hardly knew - and gave up. There was simply no point in continuous struggle anymore. He felt a gentle warm feeling float over him and realized he was being scanned in some way by the guns. Then they swung over and aimed at agent Gutiéres.

 “No!” Martin shouted. It was a mere instinctive reaction to the realization that the only other person here would be killed.

 Nothing happened. Then a voice rang out: “Confirm command: cease removal of lower being?”

“Confirmed! Do not harm him! Do not harm anybody!”

“Confirmed. New ethical parameters set.” The guns turned back into mercurial puddles and vanished in the floor. Gutiés spoke up “What… was that? What did you say?”

 “Didn’t you hear…?” Martin interrupted himself. No, Gutiéres hadn’t heard. Or rather, understood. Martin had once again spoken in the hissing of the snake things. Now he also remembered that this is what caused the first of these beasts to kill itself. When he rose to his feet, another hill rose from the floor. The apparatus it became seemed like a storage closet with a transparent front. Inside, Martin saw a black mass rapidly becoming some sort of fabric, and then a uniform. It was beautiful, somehow both ornate and unimposing. If nothing else, it had Martin think of the uniforms of bygone fascist regimes, albeit with Mesoamerican motives. The doors of the apparatus opened, and when Martin reached out, the uniform flowed out and onto his body. It felt like ordinary cloth, but Martin could tell that it was some sort of smart material, infinitely adaptable while remaining nonintrusive.

 Gutiéres gasped when the cloth flowed onto Martin on its own accord. Somehow, the surreal quality of all of this was lost to Martin.

 Another device, this one mounted on the wall became active. Martin and Gutiéres witnessed a metal skeleton being assembled before long fibers were spun from nozzles moving on robotic arms. What began as a roughly human shape soon turned into the most beautiful girl Martin had ever seen.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part IX

Humans tend to seek truth. Or at last, that is what we like to tell ourselves. Fact is, we would like the truth to be something so simple we can understand it with our ape brains without despairing and without losing our fragile minds. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 “Aliens?” The question escaped Martin before he could suppress it.

 “Possibly, though their genetic makeup and certain statements they made under enhanced interrogation indicate a terrestrial origin. They claim to be the latest tools of the gods, created to shepherd and form life. Though some of their testimony bears the stain of religious fanatism and is too fantastic to be taken wholly seriously. They likely forgot or obfuscated the line between their history and mythology.”

 Martin would have to digest that. “What is it they do?”

Gutiéres hesitated but then continued to speak. “As far as we can tell, they conduct a genetic manipulation and eugenics programme on the human race, to an unknown end. One of their last subjects was Sophia Amoxtli. What is your connection to her?”

Martin suddenly felt sick with the revelation and the implication it held for him. “I’m … I am her son.”

Scantly after he had spoken, two of the agents exchanged a look. One of them produced a strange device and pricked martin with it. “Hey!” Agent Gutiéres seemed as perplexed as Martin. “What is this? What did you do?”

The agent ignored the question and showed the display to the others. One of them hissed, under his breath. Martin understood it to mean “Praised be the gods.” With that several of the agents drew their sidearms and began executing the others! Gutiéres threw himself protectively over Martin and returned fire. The agent who had stuck Martin with the strange device changed, his face taking on the bestial quality Martin had witnessed before. He pressed a button on the device and spoke: “Our prayers have been answered. He is here with me. Home in on my position. Praised be the gods.”

 Gutiéres fired, and his gun ran dry, the sled coming to rest in reclined position. But the others, now that the resistance had ceased seemed to ignore Martin and Gutiéres, seemingly deep in prayer.

 The light in the room seemed to bend around the one with the device. Then the winds started, as though one had created a void inside the building. With a scream of extasy and pain, the snake thing agent was ripped to shreds and disappeared in the growing anomaly. Martin felt himself gently lifted and saw –felt - his own form twist into a gaping vortex of light and matter. The forces around him ripped off his clothes, and he could feel titanic forces batter his fragile form. But there was no pain, and while he and Gutiéres seemed to twist and bend, without breaking, the others were ripped asunder. With a sudden feeling of speed and movement in several directions, some of which do not exist in three-dimensional space, he felt the somehow familiar sensation of being moved somewhere else.

[kershmaru-blog]

Democracy or the candle in the storm part II: Classical strongmen.

Battle not with monsters, lest you yourself become a monster.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

As I mentioned in part I: Introduction, there are several different factors which might disrupt democracy. In this part II, I will take a more detailed look at one of them deemed by many the most dangerous and by me a mere symptom of an already dysfunctional system: the classical strongman.

There are plenty of examples of strongmen, both in history and currently in the world. Orban and Erdogan, Hitler and Stalin to name but a few.

And of course, at least according to his detractors, Trump.

All these men aren't comparable. While some killed millions, others, including Trump, have merely broken with political orthodoxy. That in and of itself isn't a crime, but it might still have drastic consequences. Under Bush and Obama, the fabric of democracy was weakened, with mass surveillance and tacking on of additional wars to an old casus belli, the 2001 war on terror. In themselves, these acts are hardly tyrannical, and they like so many of history's mistakes happened with the approval of the electorate. Only time will tell whether Trump will work to restore democracy in the United States or seek to do away with checks and balances to better implement his agenda. Given his conflict with unfavorable media and his propensity to lie and boast, I know which one of these two possibilities I deem the more plausible, but of course, he might positively surprise me and turn out to be a good president. I am still ready to give him the benefit of the doubt and do see a lot of the media coverage against him as being nonsensical, focussed entirely on the wrong things.

The most interesting part about the Trump presidency and the other people I have mentioned, only history will show: how their erstwhile supporters reflect on their actions. In particular, I am interested to see how many of the voters actually want Trump to behave more authoritarian. But I digress. Back to my list of strongmen.

One might ask the question what these people have in common, given that they arose from drastically different systems and strived/strive for different things.

One thing they do have in common is this: they came to power to fervent applause.

It has long been a suspicion of mine that people do not, in fact, crave freedom. All too often they are thrilled to rid themselves of the necessity to think for themselves. People are all to finicky when it comes to pointing out the shortcomings of democracy or aristocracies, and call for a man who will get rid of the uncertainty, the corruption, the bureaucracy. All too often a perceived slight from the outside will trigger a reaction in the form of the election of a nationalist, autocratic leader.

However, these men and women do not gain power in a vacuum. They are a symptom of a diseased democracy (or in some cases, similarly dysfunctional other system)

This means IMO that the strongman himself is not the problem- the people are, and their lack of defense for their inherent and constitutionally guaranteed rights. I will come back to the people and constitutions in my next post, Bulwarks of democracy.

But what to do about strongmen, you might ask? There are two guarantors to keep them out of power: political and economic prosperity. - With the unorthodox term political prosperity I mean the lack of slights, perceived or real, against your country by outside powers. But also a lack of ambition to promote or impose your values and ideology on others. The most prominent promoter of democracy might trigger a wave of reactionary and anti-democratic sentiment. This is, at least in my opinion, a greater threat to democracy worldwide than the mere fear of strongmen.

Quite the opposite, by removing "strongmen" you may destabilize the world and foster the very storm that might one day extinguish the candle.

I am opposed to American interventionism and all for economic sanctions and, more importantly, financial incentives. What the world needs, at least in my opinion, is a new Marshall plan for the developing world. But I will need to write a blog post on this subject.

As long as the candle burns somewhere, democracy will continue to be propagated. We only have a problem once it goes out, for the threats I mentioned in part I may cause it to stay extinguished for good.

My goal with these blogs isn’t to be a naysayer or a doomsday prophet, but merely to communicate that democracy isn’t a foregone conclusion but instead an unimaginably fragile thing, especially facing the storm of our own making.

[kershmaru-blog]

Some Artwork my cousin did for my short sci-fi/horror story

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part VIII

Livestock is for slaughter, slaves for labor. Lesser beings, on the other hand, are seen as less than beasts- tools created for the god’s dark appetites - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 When Martin came to, he was handcuffed to a hospital bed; his head wound bandaged.

 “Mr. Hernándes, is it? I have some questions for you. Do you prefer English or Spanish?”

“Either is fine” Martin answered, feeling his still aching head.

 Several people were in his room, none of which looked like medical personnel. They wore suits, which couldn’t hide their muscular build and the bulges of concealed holsters. The one who had spoken was the only one who was sitting and was currently intently studying something on a tablet. In his other hand, he held a form and a pen.

 “My name is Alfonso Gutiéres. Special agent Gutiéres. CIA, here with the blessing of the Mexican Government as part of an international task force. Sign here. With that, you acknowledge that this conversation is deemed classified and that speaking of this matter to anybody outside this room will have dire consequences.”

 Martin signed. The pretense of legal proceedings at least indicated that he would not be disappeared into some black site.

 “Mr. Hernándes, I will be frank with you. You were found in the streets of Mexico City with a severe head wound. When police investigated the room in which you presumably were held, they called SEDENA – Mexican military intelligence. Who called us. Care to guess what we found there?”

 “I’d rather not. You would just call me crazy.”

 “So you do not have to guess then.”

 “What was that?”

 “One thing after the other. First, tell us what happened. In detail.”

 Martin told the whole story. How he had come to lying in a pool of his own blood, restrained. How he had become aware of a man in the same room. How the Man had asked him about his interest in Sophia Amoxtli. At this stage in the narrative, special agent Gutiéres subvocalised something over his larynx microphone. How the man had changed. How he had released Martin and had smashed his head in on the turbine.

 Special Agent Gutiéres paused, his forehead in wrinkles. “Only the two of you? And he smashed his own head? I’d never believe it if it wasn’t collaborated by the physical evidence. Why would he - it - do that?”

 “Your guess is as good as mine.” It wasn’t a lie. Martin couldn’t recall any details that would hint at any motivation for his captor’s strange behavior. “Now, what was it?”

 Special agent Gutiéres took another long look at Martin while he listened to something on his earphone. “We do not know, exactly. It is the reason for our task force. It existed in one way or another for the last hundred years, since these things were first reported. We destroyed a whole city of them in 2007, on Yucatan. But they are everywhere, in all cultures and all strata of society.”

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part VII

Lesser beings often spend their little lives in pursuit of purpose. Would they know what their purpose actually is, they would despair. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 The creature made a hissing noise like a boiling teakettle. Martin interpreted it as laughing. He lifted the blade to Martin’s cheek. Panic made Martin blank out. At the same time, something stirred within him in cold fury. The indignation of himself being manhandled by this creature!

When Martin spoke again, it wasn’t in English nor Spanish nor any other human language. His words came in a modulation of hisses.

“I said let me go newt. How dare you lay your filthy talons on your betters?”

The reaction was immediate and drastic. The knife fell clinking to the floor. The creature made a noise of startlement and pure terror and struggled to unfasten the straightjacket restraining Martin.

It stammered, switching between hisses and English and Spanish“ I had no idea! Certainly, the possibility had been discussed but for it to occur so soon. Of course, the author. Now all makes sense. Do not look at me in anger my lord; I know how I must atone for my transgression.”

With that, it walked over to the turbine and bashed its head against it repeatedly until it fell and lay still.

Martin, shocked, disoriented and without clear thought about what had transpired ran through the darkness beyond the shine of the monitors, feeling blindly for a door. Finding one and forcing it, he found himself at the landing of a filthy stairs leading back into the outskirts of Mexico City. He was picked up, covered in his own blood by police soon after. Sedated in the back of an ambulance, he fell into a long slumber. He dreamt of stars, and of shadows stirring in the void between them.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part VI

Lesser beings believe in fate. The gods had defeated nature. Fate doesn’t bind them. They have become fate, or to the lesser beings, doom. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 Martin woke up with a splitting headache, with no idea where he was or how he had found himself in his present situation.

 “…He is coming too. He asked one of our mali about subject 207, the author who recently died. What was I to do? Right. I shall find out who he is. His purpose shall be laid bare…”

Martin heard, and while a part of his brain understood the meaning, a detail didn’t make its way to his conscious mind, which only discerned modulated hissing as from a leaking valve. He was still too disoriented to realize he had heard and understood something in a language not meant for human ears.

 Without that knowledge and without any of the patterns his brain was used to process as language conveying information, his subconsciousness dismissed the report. After all, all Martin had heard was a quick modulation of hissing noises.

 First, a survey of his surroundings. He lay in a pleasantly dark and damp place, heat, the smell of ozone and a deep hum speaking of nearby machinery. The floor was dirty bare concrete, and he could tell every detail in its texture - he was laying on it, face first. Moving his head, he felt weak and nauseated and saw stars dancing in front of his eyes. He now was able to see some kind of old turbine and a heap of coal and some outdated computers from whose screens the only light in the room came from. He smelled some manner of feces and stale air. Beneath all he perceived, unobtrusively a peculiar scent that had him think of the reptile-house in the zoo he had visited as a child.  When he tried to move, he found that he could not. For a brief moment, fear of crippledness or debilitation flashed through his mind. Then he realized he was wearing an oldfashioned straightjacket. And that he wasn’t alone. Someone sat in the shadow and observed him. A man wearing a suit and tie, with a classically beautiful caucasian face and shoulder length brown hair and a short beard. It was the man that he had met with in the outskirts of Mexico City. Something about him was not right. Martin couldn’t quite tell what.

 Right… he had traveled to Mexico City. The last thing he remembered… His memory was broken, addled, incoherent. The gash in his scalp and the pool of his own blood he was lying in might account for that. But what had happened?

 “What have you done to me? Where are we?”

 The man scoffed.

 “Who are you? What is your interest in Sophia Amoxtli?”

 The counterquestion took Martin by surprise. His captor had an interest in his mother? Looking at him a little closer and trying to realign the fragments of his memory into a coherent whole, Martin realized what was wrong. The man’s eyes. They were slanted. Like a cat’s. Or a reptile’s.

The man approached. His gait was all wrong, and Martin had no problems despite the headwound discerning why that was: the man’s knees stopped bending the right way after the first steps. He opened up his suit and shirt and threw them carelessly aside. Underneath he wore a bodysuit with green scales and a collar of orange feathers. No, Martin realized. No bodysuit.

 The man came even closer while Martin turned and tried to crawl away.

 “I said …“ The man picked Martin up effortlessly with a single hand. “…who are you?”

 The man’s face began melting, flowing, revealing the horror beneath. Martin bit his own tongue not to cry out in shock. The grotesque abomination in front of him had properties of both man and beast, orange feathers where hair and beard used to be, several distinct shades of green scales and fangs. The man opened his mouth and licked martins face with a forked tongue, filling Martin’s nostrils with the scent of stale blood and spoilt meat.

 “I am not going to ask you again” the man that was no man hissed, drawing a knife.

“Let me go!” shouted Martin.

[kershmaru-blog]

Democracy or the candle in the storm part I: Introduction

In the words of Sir Karl Popper: Democracy is the best system not because it leads to the best possible government, but because it contains a nonviolent means to get rid of an imperfect one.

 But by its very nature, Democracy is both a fickle mistress and a dangerously fragile thing. It is illusory to think that democratic institutions, the system of checks and balances in place will be sufficient to safeguard Democracy in the face of classical strongmen, climate change, mass migration, military conflict, mass unemployment and exotic and sci-fi-esque threats to it. Even within the confines of the law, there are plentiful threats to Democracy, or, to use the analogy I used in the beginning, to the Candle in the Storm. Once extinguished, we may find we can not light it again. In the analogy, that would leave us trapped in darkness.

 Let me introduce myself: I go by Kershmaru online. I believe that the source of an argument all too often leads to appeals to authority or a lack of belief based on the political alignment of the source. I am Austrian, and the political compass test places me where they place Thomas Payne, a slightly left leaning libertarian and founding father of the USA. When I do not ramble about politics, I write, primarily sci-fi and horror. Please do not hold this against me and rest assured that the scenarios I explore in these blogs are all too real.

 I need to preface this series of blogs by saying that I am neither a supporter of Donald Trump nor do I demonize him to the same degree some people do. My main gripe with the man is that I consider him not competent to hold the office. While I think that he will do some damage to the US, and believe he already has by intensifying the already existing division in American society, I do not think he will be the end of Democracy in the United States. It is too early for that. However, I believe that he may or may not aggravate problems that will pose additional dangers to democracy and prosperity down the line. I will come back to him in the second part of this blog: Classical strongmen.

 Democracy is a system that gives every citizen the ability to in a limited fashion influence the system. It is safeguarded primarily by the division of power in the three branches of government: The executive branch, the legislative branch, and the judicative branch. These three branches or estates of government are accompanied by a fourth: the media. I would like to propose a fifth one: the Internet.

  In addition to these five estates, there are political parties and norms.

 It is seductive to think that in Democracies, the power lies with the People. It is also not true, to various degrees depending on the specific System of Democracy implemented.

 The power lies with the political parties, who can make decisions without the People’s consent. They can also endorse and elevate potentially dangerous individuals.

Furthermore, there is a set of unofficial political rules: The norms. Things that are not codified in law, but expected.

 These two things, the political parties with their agendas and the political norms are the first gatekeepers safeguarding the road to power.

 I will come back to the Bulwarks of democracy in an eponymous blog post. For now, I will leave you with some thoughts on why I am more concerned than ever with the frailty and beauty that is Democracy.

 There has never been a global Democracy. Of course, no political system has ever had global power, but the world is getting smaller, more interconnected – and more fragile. With each technological and political achievement, we have won new Amenities, a new standard of living – and face new challenges.

 Already, our every move, both in the virtual world and in real life can be tracked by powerful algorithms. Wheather you realize it or not, these constructs interact with you and influence your life. They might decide your professional future, or whether or not you can take a bank loan. For those of you who are interested in such things, I can only highly recommend Cathy O’Neil’s “Weapons of Math Destruction.” A truly frightening book, because it depicts the world we already more and more live in. And those “weapons” weren’t created with ill intent.

 Why am I concerned for Democracy? Because while when it only fails on a local level, it is quite likely to return. Should it fail on a global scale, our technology and political system may be turned against us, and we be kept in darkness in perpetuity. I do not believe for a second that the Nazis could have been successful in forming their thousand-year Reich. But in the not so far future, we might be able to. And we might never see it coming.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part V

Is there such a thing as perfection? The gods believe so. And they found purpose in the seemingly endless strife for what lesser beings would deem unobtainable. To them, the size of the challenge and the prize didn’t matter, nor the time it would take. The gods are patient and immutable. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 According to his mother's medical records, she had grown insane, something blamed on a “truth” discovered in an ancient Nahuatl text she had found in Spain.

 Her books weren’t fiction, she insisted. She had sold them as such while working on the evidence, to procure the funds necessary.

 The Mesoamerican people, she insisted, were inspired by something much, much older they had found on the Yucatan peninsula, a hidden city of the servants of the gods in whose likeness the gods of the Aztec religion were formed. Those beings had taught the proto-Mesoamericans much, who strived to imitate them. More importantly, they had revealed to them the true nature and hidden purpose of humanity: Slaughter in the name of a greater good. The gods had sent something across the void between the stars, to seed life. Where it blossomed, they brought their servants to bear, forging/forming the flesh of new life in their god's image. Once the process was complete, and the outcome verified, the gods would come in person to bring about the slaughter of their creation, leaving only the worthy to ascend back to Aztlan. That was the cycle of life, and according to something she wasn’t willing to talk about with her therapists she had found out that the end of the cycle approached. She only made allusions to a man - the therapist believing that this was a former lover- who had revealed more than he had wanted and then left her. Somehow that man or something she did would bring about the end of the world.

 Was here the reason grangran was so unwilling to talk about his mother? Was she, the Catholic, ashamed because of the psychosis of her daughter? Did she fear that Martin would leave her, as his mother had done? Did she try to discourage him from pursuing astronomy for these reasons?

 And still, he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it all as mere figments of a diseased mind. The insane don’t produce books like that. Who was the man that left her and who she had such antipathy for? There was a possibility it was his, Martins, father. Was there a method to her madness? Did she avoid Martin because of something his father had done?

 Ultimately, more questions than answers. But to find out what really had happened, what motivated his mother and grandmother, Martin would need to leave the States himself.

 And answers he would have. After his 18th birthday, he did two things: Pay Goldstein and book a one-way flight. Back to where it started: Mesoamerica. He would follow in his mother’s footsteps and find out what had inspired her breakdown, if there was a trigger, it would be here, either in Mexico City or Yucatan. He left a letter of explanation to grangran and stole away like a thief in the night.

 He had always deemed himself strong. But he had no idea what lay in front of him, what he would find.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part IV

The age of strife and science had begun, cataclysmic wars were fought, and Nature was raptured, bound and dissected. The gods knowledge grew and with it their capability for cruelty. The new can only ever arise from the destruction of the old. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 “Hello, is this the law firm of Goldstein & Fink?”

“Indeed, I am the secretary of Dr. Goldstein. How can we help you, sir? Pardon me, but you sound very young to be needing legal counsel.”

“ It isn’t about legal counsel. My name is Martin Hernándes. My research indicates that your firm has several subcontractors specialized in finding missing persons. That seems to be the sort of investigator I need to hire, for while the person in question isn’t missing, but verifiably dead, I cant find out anything about her life or her whereabouts in the last decade and a half. It is about my mother…”

 After being connected to Dr. Goldstein, Martin told him about his mother, and he agreed to work on a commission which would only be paid after Martin was of age and had access to his inheritance.

 Nearly a year later, the law firm contacted Martin with their findings.

 Dear Mr. Hernándes,

We were successful in reconstructing Mrs. Amoxtli’s life in the past fifteen years. As you know, she was a writer of science fiction, and a successful one at that. Apparently in 2018, the year you were born, she had a falling out with her publisher; and a violent one. The particulars of this case are unclear, due to her unwillingness to say anything beyond pleading guilty for assault. During a short stay in a federal corrections facility, she apparently refused to meet with her remaining family, yourself and her mother. Then she left the United States. Our preliminary findings are that she never came back, but traveled without discernable path or purpose to Meso- and South America, Africa, Europe and southeast Asia. She came into conflict with local governments and law enforcement several times - you will find an itemization of known incidents and known localities as an attachment.

We managed to piece together a timeline of your mother’s movements, but little beyond that.

Additionally, she was several times admitted to psychiatric care. Our investigator tried to get access to her patient's records, with success. I usually do not condone breaking the law, but he insisted that this may be instrumental in giving you the answers you seek. Given the relative dearth of other information, In our other findings, and thrusting into his judgment I agreed to bribe a Nigerian orderly and obtaining a copy of these records. I haven’t read them myself but included them in this mail. You will find them alongside a write-up of our other findings. I sincerely hope they contain the answers you are looking for. Please, do not hesitate to call the firm if you wish to talk to the investigator or talk in general.

David Goldstein, Goldstein & Fink, Attorneys at law.

 Martin speedread through the write-up. Little indeed if that was al that could be obtained through legal channels. Her crimes were mostly dealings with local black and grey markets and unlicensed archeological digs. Odd. The patient’s records, on the other hand, revealed a lot about his unknown mother.

[kershmaru-blog]

The fate cycle part III

At first, the gods were like the lesser beings- weak, superstitious, helpless. But in time they would kill their weakness and find their purpose. - From The skulkers in the void, by Amoxtli.

 Grangran never was willing to talk about his mother, or why he had been left with his grandmother. His mother had been a woman of means, once, which was evident by the purchase of the mansion in which he and his grandmother lived and which she had in a weak moment admitted had been bought by his mother. It was after she had smashed her old smartphone. Martin had surprised her on the phone, shouting and crying, and when he had concluded who must be on the other side of the line, he had tried to take it from her. Rather than let him have it, she had smashed it. In tears, she had then pleaded with him to forgive her and insisted that what she had done was for his own good. He believed, and in time, was close to being able to forgive her. But it didn’t close the gnawing hole within him. Nothing in the place spoke of the current owner. No paintings or pictures, no personal effects, nothing. He knew neither what it was she did nor where she was during his childhood.

 At the age of fourteen, that would change.

 “…convey my sincerest condolences, Madame Hernándes. Oh,  and that must be young Martin.” The speaker, a white man in his fifties with receding grey hair introduced himself as a notary after grangran had tried in vain to shush him out of the entrance.

Now at last Martin would find out through his mother's last will that she had died, and that his own research into her had been bound to failure because she had taken on, for some reason, a new last name during her adolescence, Amoxtli.

 He also found out that she had been a science and science fiction writer of some notoriety, though only writing under her new last name, which was Aztec or rather Nahuatl for book. She also had moved from Mexico City to Massachusetts, where she bought the mansion in which she housed her mother. Now she had died and left both the estate and a not insignificant sum to both Martin and grangran.

 A letter that was never sent was to be his only link to his mother.

 I do not even know how to address you. You might think me a coward for not coming back, looking you in the eyes and explain everything to you. Martin-my child. Words can never express what I feel and how you must feel about me. You have every right to hate me if you so desire. I will not ask for your forgiveness. But know that I tried to love you and that I tried to do what was best. Your grandmother never understood why I left and never looked back- that much is evident by the way she parted ways with me. I had my reasons. There was something I had to do. I pray every night that this letter never reaches you because that would mean that I failed and thus was unable to make it back to you. To ask your forgiveness in person and to explain me. But if you read this, it was not meant to be. I have only one wish: for you to be happy. For you to move on. Forget that you ever had a mother, if that is what it takes…

The ink was stained. Tears?

Please, please do what you want to do with your life. Know that my biggest wish was to be there for you when you do.

Your loving Mother Sophia Amoxtli.

 That only added to Martins emotional turmoil. He knew that his own history had been deliberately obfuscated by his grandmother, and the letter, whatever the intention, had just left a cold and desperate longing.

 Forget he had a mother? How? How was he supposed to do such a thing? Instinctively he understood that whatever her reasons were, he would have understood. And that there was no reason for her to ask his forgiveness. He only wished to tell her that, and that he would not get the opportunity to filled him with despair-fueled cold rage.

 Who was this enigmatic woman, his mother? Why was grangran so unwilling to talk about her, and why had she left both her mother and child to fend for themselves, when she had the means to help them? Where had she been all these years, and what had she done?

 Much to grangrans chagrin he bought his mother’s books from Amazon and read them all. Her scientific work was in the field of astronomy and mathematics – two fields Martin himself, despite his grandmother’s effort to interest him in something, anything else was very interested in. Her science fiction dealt with a mixture of Aztec, and several other different mythologies and Armageddon beliefs in other cultures as a backdrop for exploring the culture and deeds of an alien species she said was native to the world of Aztlan, a place in Aztec mythology they believed to be their origin.

 The books were good, well written and full of interesting concepts and subtle societal criticism. But they didn’t divulge anything about the writer.

 But now that he had a starting point and resources, Martin knew what to do.