I have this core memory of this News show that my high school av teacher used to show us in class that was focused on current events and it was hosted by a guy that’s all i can remember

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Disclaimer: The content in this sub/thread is for information and illustrative purposes only and should not be regarded as investment advice or as a recommendation of any particular security or course of action. Opinions expressed herein are the opinions of the poster and are subject to change without notice. Reasonable people may disagree about the opinions expressed herein. In the event any of the assumptions used herein do not prove to be true, results are likely to vary substantially. All investments entail risks. There is no guarantee that investment strategies will achieve the desired results under all market conditions and each investor should evaluate their ability to invest for a long term especially during periods of a market downturn. Good Luck to All!

10/12/68 Avalon Ballroom “it’s a foxtrot, and also a ladies choice”
In a way, this is my Deadhead origin story. It's 1989. I was 14 and had just discovered “classic rock." My native musical tendencies at the time, trended around 80s hip-hop (Run-DMC, Beastie Boys), thrash metal (the big 3) and various NWOBHM—particularly Iron Maiden. The weird, disturbing/cartoonish/horror iconography and imagery were important to 14 year old me ( I guess in a way, I was primed for the Dead.)
Anyway, around this time I had an older cousin who hipped me to Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, and The Doors. Also, that summer was the 20th anniversary of Woodstock, and MTV aired the Wadleigh film I think several times. I was absolutely spellbound. I taped most of the film to a VCR cassette and probably watched Alvin Lee and Ten Years After’s blissed out performance of I’m Going Home everyday for like 3 months. I wanted Alvin Lee’s whole Woodstock vibe injected directly into my veins. I had become a wannabe hippie.
This neo-hippie vibe seemed to infect my whole friend group. We all read the Beats and Huxley’s The Doors of Perception and traded 60s/70s tapes—Floyd, The Who, The Doors, Cream. We of course started smoking pot and spending hours spacing out to psychedelic music or re-watching Fantasia, Heavy Metal, or 2001 for the umpteenth time. It was all way more interesting than Motley Crue or Winger or Bon Jovi or whatever the fuck MTV was doing.
And of course, I had heard of Grateful Dead by then—I was like 12 when “Touch of Grey” was a hit. And they were a big mainstream rock band in 1989. The news ran segments on them when they came to the area.
But initially, I thought they were kinda lame and corny--like the Beach Boys and Kokomo. Sure, the imagery was dope—like one would expect from a metal or hard rock band. But the Dead were definitely and (for me at the time) disappointingly not hard rock. And those Dead guys for sure did not look like the bad ass dudes from Slayer. From what little I heard, I was not impressed. But how to access the good stuff I knew must be there?
In a way I am a little envious of young people discovering music today. It’s all out there. Want to get into Bob Dylan? You can spend a long weekend online listening to his discography and reading countless essays about his art and emerge as a fairly knowledgeable Dylan fan 3 or 4 days later. The Dead may take a bit longer to fully grok, but all the shows are online and there is no shortage of info about where to start. These days, an intrepid neophyte could get a broad understanding of the Dead in a week or two.
In 1989, I was flying blind. It’s weird to think about how differently we used to conceptualize and listen to rock music back then. At the time rock music was rooted in mystery and scarcity. I was limited to the maybe twenty or so cassettes I had, which I listened to over and over and over again. All I knew about rock music was what I saw on MTV, read in Spin or Rolling Stone, or heard about from friends, older cousins, and siblings.
So when I looked to get into the Dead, I had little bearing for which to set my course. I picked up Aoxomoxoa at the mall because the cover looked cool. And…it was okay. Look, compared to some of the other classic rock era albums I had been exposed to by that time it just didn't really rock or roll very much. At the time, I much preferred Blue Cheer’s Vincebus Eruptum to Aoxomoxoa (and I kinda still do).
Anyway, fall of 1989 was the beginning of high school. New people and new cliques. This kid who became part of our group had a Deadhead older brother in college. And he had the goods. For the price of one or two Maxells, we could get a bootleg. Since I knew next to nothing, I asked for a show he liked. He gave me an aud from a 78 show (a show I actually like now!). At the time however, this seemingly failed even more than the Aoxomoxoa album. The sound was muddy and murky, and some of the songs reminded me of Jimmy Buffett on quaaludes.
But side 2 of tape 3 was called “Filler: Set 2 Avalon 1968.” It listed four songs like this: “Dark Star>St. Stephen>Eleven>Death What the fuck is this? Filler? I wanted killer, and now I was getting filler? Hmm. I’d heard of Dark Star. I knew St. Steven from Aoxomoxoa. “Death” was certainly intriguing. Alright, let’s give it a go…
…
(cut to scenes of dude’s face melting in Raiders of the Lost Ark, the guy’s head exploding in Scanners, the scientists learning to talk to the UFO in the last act of Close Encounters, the Sasquatch/mushroom scene in Tenacious D’s Pick of Destiny, Andy Dufrane standing in the rain after escaping Shawshank)
…
THE SHOW
This is it. This is where I GOT IT. 10/12/68 is what turned the worm for me. Actually, it was just the first set at first, though I was able to get the second set a few weeks later—ah, yes, thank you, this is the bus I was waiting for…
This is pure, uncut Primal Dead. For me, this show is exhibit A of Jerry Garcia as a swaggering gun slinging guitar god. His playing is full of snarling psychedelic attitude and creativity (I think he’s playing a Les Paul here?). You know how Phish people used to refer to “Machine Gun Trey?” Yes, well, here we have Flame Thrower Jerry.
Let’s consider Grateful Dead in the fall of 1968. This show occurs at a time when Pigpen and Weir had presumably been kicked out of the Dead. In the days leading up to the Avalon shows on the 12th and 13th Jerry, Phil, Mickey and Bill were kinda sorta rethinking the Dead line-up w/the “Mickey and the Heartbeats” shows played at the crosstown Matrix on the 8th, 9th and 10th.
Indeed, Pig did not play on the 10/12 Avalon show. For his part Weir does what he can rhythmically as Jerry, Phil, Mickey, and Billy lay waste to all before them. I mean, you’ve got to love a band that fires a dude and then just lets them stick around and earn the job back. Knowing the back story now, this show almost seems like some kind of trial by fire for ol’ Bob. I mean, imagine trying to keep up with this music? In short, this is elemental, fire-breathing psychedelic acid rock played by young men with something to prove.
The Dark Star is early—not as open ended as 72-74 Dark Stars. The Live/Dead version, recorded about six months later, is perhaps more mature and developed, but this one has off-the charts energy and inventiveness. This is my favorite of the early Primal Dead, pre-72 Dark Stars.
I think The Eleven here is an all-timer. Jerry and Phil conjuring viscous curlicues of dark light while Bill and Mickey lock into some kind of inter-galactical syncopation. And the Death Don’t Have No Mercy is just phenomenal. My personal favorite. Jerry really goes for it—he never apes the blues, but he makes it his own. Really passionate guitar playing and even more passionate vocals.
Like the Dark Star here, The Other One would range farther (furthur? lol) out in the future, but this version is just a snarling beast, dripping with liquid magma and unrelenting energy. Likewise, the jam on New Potato Caboose scales the holy psychedelic summit of bliss.
For personal reasons, of course, 10/12/68 is one of my favs. This is a great show to check out if you are looking for raw, primal 60s Dead—an interesting companion to Live/Dead.
It’s also a good gateway show, especially for rockers. I got a few hard rockers turned on to the Dead through this show. The balls-out energy and talent is palpable. Years ago, I played The Other One from this show to an Army buddy who likes metal like Mastadon and Opeth. About halfway through he low whistled and said, “Goddamn, that hippie motherfucker is playing the shit out of that guitar. Gotta respect that.”

We are excited to have you join us as for the Nashville Match. Here are some things for you to be aware of as you plan to attend the big event Saturday evening, presented by Coca- Cola ...PLEASE ARRIVE EARLY as arriving closer to kickoff will result in delays at parking lots, stadium gate entrances and concession lines.
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/worldnews
https://www.bbc.com/news/av/world-africa-65788250

Hello everyone,
please excuse my poor English, I am not a native speaker. However, there seems to be a similar sub not in my language.
I am pretty sure that my father is a victim of a scam attempt. To the facts of the case:
My father (70) is a member of Facebook. He is also still married to and caring for my (very sick) mother. On Facebook, he is always written to by various unknown young women (30-40 years old). These would have always found him by chance on Facebook.
The alleged women have in common that all are rich through inheritance or professional activities and have absolutely no relatives left. Here once stories to three cases:

• American journalist at Fox News, in her mid-30s, "discovered" an illegal oil rig off Portugal, which was then stormed by the U.S. military. The funds found were seized and divided among those involved as a pinch. The journalist's money is now at a bank in Paris, she wants to go to Paris and pick up the money and give it to my father. In fact, my father received a transfer of 7000€ from this woman (I saw it on the bank statement), however, her name sounded more Eastern European. The money should be used by my father to pay bills of the woman. She would not have a European account. Also, 200€ would be due for the transfer, otherwise it would be reversed by the bank.

There is also a number from Portugal calling him all the time. My suspicion is money laundering of the 7.000€.

• American soldier, staff sergeant, currently stationed in Poland, also in her mid-30's. Would have inherited warehouses in New York, also no living relatives. Gave my father access data to her online banking (National West Bank or something) and he was supposed to transfer 1.3 million to his account. My father did so, but the transfer was not executed because of alleged tax debts to the U.S. IRS. The money was to be invested in bitcoin, among other things. After leaving the service, she wanted to settle with him in Germany.

Allegedly, as a soldier, she could not have cash at her disposal, nor online banking (soldiers here?). Again, calls come sporadically. As alleged proof, my father showed me his military passport. I noticed immediately that the name is not correct, this he wanted to tell her now. Here also various business was discussed. Thus the US army is supposed to have seized Russian luxury cars in the Ukraine and to sell these now.

• Third woman, also a soldier, also in her mid-30s, also leaving the service soon, currently in Baghdad. Supposedly she would have an account with a little over a million in California and she would get her pension entitlements paid out in full when she leaves the service (also around a million?). Here I got as proof a photo of her house, which is supposed to be in California.

My father doesn't want to believe me that these are all scams. The women tell him one of because he is their darling and their big love etc. and he dreams of the big money. I haven't quite figured out where the advantage is for the scanners. Money laundering? Identity theft? Also, the whole right is raised professionally, such scams are in our country by far not so elaborate (grandson trick with sometimes very poor translations). The scammers are very diligent and try again and again.
My mother let him do it, because it was always harmless until now. Now he has found out about polygamy and wants to become a Mormon. This became too bunt for my mother now.
Can one of you enlighten me? Thank you very much!

AV receiver: Denon AVR S760H
Speakers: 2x JBL Stage A170 floorstanding speakers
Can anyone tell me what thisTest Tone Start do in Denon S760H av? Is it safe to put +10db on speakers? It located:
setup menu > speakers > manual setup > levels > test tone start. Denon's Audessy setup put my front left floorstanding speakler -5db and front right floorstanding speakers -6.5db.
I Couldn't hear dialog well like it being muffle when watching direct tv channels and news channels, and I have to crank the volume up to like 80% with Denon's audessy inputs.
When I dial +10db for my front right and front left in the levels > test tone start, this is where I can hear dialogue and sounds come to live at <70% volume. Is this +10db safe? First time doing home theater setup.

AV receiver: Denon AVR S760H
Speakers: 2x JBL Stage A170 floorstanding speakers
Can anyone tell me what this Test Tone Start do in Denon S760H av? Is it safe to put +10db on speakers? It located:
setup menu > speakers > manual setup > levels > test tone start. Denon's Audessy setup put my front left floorstanding speakler -5db and front right floorstanding speakers -6.5db.
I Couldn't hear dialog well like it being muffle when watching direct tv channels and news channels, and I have to crank the volume up to like 80% with Denon's audessy inputs.
When I dial +10db for my front right and front left in the levels > test tone start, this is where I can hear dialogue and sounds come to live at <70% volume. Is this +10db safe? First time doing home theater setup.

Hello lovely readers,
Welcome to the second and final discussion of Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands by Kate Beaton. This autobiographical comic was Canada Reads (an annual "battle of the books") winner for 2023. You can read the first discussion here.
Summary
The story picks up one month after that horrible party. Kate sleeps with Mike. She continues to get weird sexual comments from the men she works with, but she has started to laugh the comments off. Many of the men seem to have problems with her giving them orders, and her superiors get pissy with her for minor things or for wanting ‘special treatment’. Joe, a fellow Nova Scotian, overhears her swearing in frustration and tells her that everyone at the mine is just yelling at the guy next to them for work they’re not doing themselves, but that people tend to be friendlier to people from their own region of Canada. Kate wonders aloud to Doug whether the oil sands make people better or worse.
The men at the mine have heard that Kate’s ‘little friends’ (her sister Becky and friend Lindsay) are going to be joining them, and she warns them to leave them alone. When Becky and Lindsay arrive, they are wearing skirts and they quickly notice the staring and weird behaviour from the men on site. Kate apologises for it, and they wonder why she is saying sorry.
Kate tells Becky and Lindsay that the other men have been leaving her alone since most people know about her and Mike, and they tell her it’s because in their eyes she’s ‘claimed’.
They take a trip to Gregoire Beach, but Kate doesn’t wear a swimsuit or go swimming. Becky asks her what’s up with her, as she’s noticed something is wrong. Kate talks about how everything at the beach seems so normal, but that she isn’t. However, she doesn’t explain further.
Kate looks for other jobs online, and sees a post for a job at the Maritime Museum of British Columbia in Victoria, the capital of British Columbia.
Not long afterwards, she sees the man who forced himself on her at that party. He and the group of men he’s with see her and they start laughing.
Kate hears a man playing Peter’s Dream on his guitar, and joins in singing the song.
She goes to Becky’s room and tells her that she needs to leave the oil sands for a while, even though she and Lindsay have just arrived. She asks her to promise that she and Lindsay will look out for each other, and finally tells her about the assaults. Becky tells her that it wasn’t her fault, and wishes she had been there sooner to protect her as that’s her job as the big sister. She tells Kate that it happened to her too, at her university dorm. She tells Kate she should go.
We leave the oil sands, for a year in Victoria. Kate gets the museum job but it’s no more than 21 hours per week, so she gets a second job. In a coffee shop, she hears the song An Innis Aigh playing, and tells a woman who was wondering aloud about the language that it’s Gaelic.
Victoria seems like a nicer place than the oil sands, but it isn’t perfect – the city big problems with homelessness and mental health, but none of the old, rich people living there care [read runner note – according to Victoria’s Wikipedia page, the city is known for its disproportionately large retiree population. Some 23.4% of the population of Victoria and its surrounding area are over 65 years of age, which is higher than the overall Canadian distribution of over 65 year-olds in the population (19%). A historically popular cliché refers to Victoria as the home of "the newly wed and nearly dead"]. Kate is fired from her job for not taking American money and not wanting to sell the merchandise badly enough. One of her colleagues (I think?) sees her drawing a comic, and suggests that she should make a website.
Kate tells her parents that on her days off she works at a grocery store, and her father wonders what her degree was for. Shortly afterwards, she is fired from the grocery store for yawning and ‘being surly’. She goes on a date, but panics when the guy tries to kiss her at the end.
Kate can’t get a reprieve from her student loan payments, even though she paid half of it off the previous year with her oil sands earnings. She decides to go back to the oil sands to pay the rest off, and says goodbye to the museum.
After that brief reprieve, we’re back in the oil sands, this time at Shell Albian Sands. Kate has taken a job in the warehouse office, and her living quarters are a bit fancier than at the previous sites. The site also has a Tim Hortons, Wi-Fi and a gym, even yoga classes. Lindsay tells her that a lot of the warehouse crew from Long Lake have moved up there too. One of her new colleagues is Hatim, who is creepy in a new way, plaguing her with messages despite having a wife and children.
The team get a congratulations message with a gif for achieving three million man hours without a lost time incident (LTI). Kate’s boss, Ryan, tells her that they don’t have LTIs at the site because they look bad for the company, I guess implying that they cover them up.
She sees Doug again, who seems to feel that she’s all high and mighty now with her office job, and struggles with her ‘bossing him’ since she’s younger than him (and presumably because she’s female). When she has to cover a warehouse shift, Doug laughs about how she’s down from on high and has gone soft. He tells her that he sang with The Men of the Deeps and even sang for the queen, which she doubts because he has a terrible voice. She sings a bit of Coal Town Road (which I’m kind of disappointed doesn’t sound like Old Town Road) and asks if she could be in the choir too, but he seems annoyed about her singing a mining song when she’s not a miner.
Kate’s sister Becky is still working at Long Lake, but lives in Fort McMurray, and Kate goes to meet her there; she says it’s much better than living in the camp. She tells Kate, that one time a guy jumped out of the closet in her room, but she was able to kick him out. She always locked her door, but often heard the handle jiggling at night. She even had a stalker, who managed to get into her room with a bottle of alcohol and suggested doing body shots – she didn’t report it, but when he got fired everyone thought she had.
Kate struggles to read some of the order sheets because many of the workers are bad spellers or have unclear handwriting; many of the older men at the mine left school in grade six. Lindsay tells her about one of the lead hands from Newfoundland, who can’t read, and was humiliated by the other workers when they tried to make him read the safety memo aloud so they could laugh at him. Lindsay says she’s never seen a grown man ashamed like that, and they discuss how he’s one of the nicest guys there.
A group from the Calgary office visits the mine site, and Kate has to find the nice hard hats and safety vests for the visitors, the ones the actual workers can’t have because they’re too fancy. Basically, they have to put on a show for the head office people – everyone has to look sharp, make things tidier than normal etc. One of the visitors takes a photo of Kate. After they leave, Damian asks if he can have one of the fancy new vests, but they were taken back to Calgary even though they don’t need them at head office.
Kate continues doing her comics, and her colleagues occasionally read them. Ryan finds some of them in the scanner, which she had used to upload them to her website, and tells her not to leave her stuff lying around at work.
Becky and Kate discuss what it would have been like if their father had gone out to the oil sands to work when they were children, as many people did. They wonder if he would have been like the other men they work with, and how they must all be normal at home. Kate says she tries to remember that there are a lot of men who don’t bother her, but she doesn’t remember them because they’re not the ones in her face.
Their safety lectures tell them basic information about how ice is slippery and is all over the ground, which presumably every Canadian already knows. One of the men remarks that it’s not about safety, but an arse-covering exercise so that a worker can’t sue them if they fall. Kate doodles a pony in her notebook (thank you u/Amanda39 for linking to this comic in last week’s discussion!).
Many of the staff have families that they don’t see very often. One of the men gets a phonecall from his wife’s phone, which he answers thinking it’s an emergency as she never calls during the day; it turns out to be his young son, who is calling to see when he’s coming home next.
Brian asks Kate if she heard about the ducks (TITLE DROP!!); three hundred of them got stuck in a tailings pond at another oil sands site [read runner note – two years later, Syncrude was actually found guilty of the death of 1,600 ducks]. The site begins installing anti-waterfowl devices, and the staff are reminded that they have to wear PPE at all times. They’re also told about the death Gerald Snopes, another worker; some of the men talking amongst themselves, and Ryan tells them to have some respect. He had a heart attack while operating a crane, and threw himself out of the cab so that he wouldn’t land on the controls and cause an accident.
Kate hears about a road accident involving some men from Cape Breton. She asks Davy about it to see if she knows them, but neither of them do. Kate finds the news articles and feels annoyed that they were misidentified as Calgary men.
Kate notices some welts on her back; Lindsay has them too but doesn’t know what it is. Kate mentions all the dust they have to wipe off everything, and how there’s so much crap in the air. Lindsay wonders what kind of cancer they’ll have in 20 years.
Kate finds Doug building a scarecrow for the tailings pond, which is meant to scare off the ducks. Probably another arse-covering exercise.
Activists from Greenpeace try to block an oil sands pipeline, and 11 people are arrested. One of the workers gets angry about it, asking who will put their life on the line to unclog the pipe Greenpeace has blocked, and that it sure as hell won’t be the president of Shell. Kate hears about another death – a contractor was in his trucks, and one of the heavy haulers drove over it, crushing him.
Lindsay writes an article for a grassroots paper, giving the inside perspective on working at the oil sands. Kate considers doing a comic about it for them. Lindsay later wonders if she made a mistake writing her article, as many of the comments are critical, including many from women which Lindsay did not expect.
Kate sees a video on YouTube of Celina Harpe, an elder in the Cree community of Fort McKay, talking about the effect of the oil sands on the First Nation. Kate had not realised when she arrived there that Fort McKay was a First Nation, nor that it was so close to Syncrude. She thinks about how she’s not the president of Shell, but she’s still working there, and she can’t extract herself from having come.
At another safety meeting, the staff are down the safety pyramid, which has different levels: at the base it has at-risk behaviours, then near misses, then minor incidents, and it all leads to a major incident or a fatality.
Kate receives a phone call from a reporter at the Globe and Mail who had seen her comics about the oil sands. She asks several leading questions about her experience as a woman at the remote sites and the harassment, but Kate feels uncomfortable giving her examples. She later tells Lindsay that she couldn’t talk to the reporter as she felt like she just wanted gossip, and that the story was already written before she called.
The leering of one of the other workers bothers Kate in the lunchroom, and she tells Lindsay about her assaults. Lindsay is horrified that Mike and Brian laughed at her when she told them about it. Lindsay tells her that it happened to her in university as well.
Kate calls her parents to tell them that she’s finally paid off her student loan, but she needs to keep working at the site because now she has no money. She’s going to try making it as a cartoonist, and her parents are unimpressed.
Kate notices that Ryan is acting strangely, being absent a lot and not doing his work, and it can’t fully be explained by his recent divorce. She hears about other workers who are taking cocaine and behaving strangely too. She asks Ryan if he’s ok and he brushes it off. Kate contemplates the safety pyramid again. She finds a piece of paper on Ryan’s desk with an appointment for the employee assistance program. Emily later tells her that Ryan has left suddenly, and that they need to figure things out until a replacement is found.
Kate wonders why there are so many safety meetings but none have ever talked about drugs or alcohol. Her coworkers say that everyone knows why there is so much of both, and that the company can’t have safety meetings about illegal activities anyway.
Kate finally gets to leave the oil sands and go home. Her colleague Norman gives her prints of some of his photos of the northern lights as a leaving present, including one of a rainbow. Before she leaves, the company organises a staff photograph with all the workers on the site. Kate sees the man who assaulted her the second time, and he recognises her but can’t remember her name or who she is, and asks her how it’s going.
Kate trains her replacement, and finds out that she’s earning more than her despite not having any experience in tools. She complains to John about it, and finally rants about all her shitty treatment in the oil sands. She goes to see Gary in the head office, and demands her full bonus, which was going to be docked because she was leaving. Gary tells her it’s company policy. She tells him about the harassment, and he claims she could have come to them about it, but she fires back that he knows she couldn’t have. Gary agrees to give her the bonus. Her colleagues organise a going-away barbecue, and even Mike attends.
Back in Nova Scotia, Kate is reunited with her family. While out enjoying the seaside air, she chats to a farmer who tells her he’s keeping a field for his son who is working out west in case he ever comes back and wants to build a house. A man called Lauchie visits the house before moving west himself, and tells them there’s something for everyone out there and that the young people have everything they want. Out in Halifax with friends, she and Becky see a man from one of the camps, who tells Becky that they had a bet on who would sleep with her first. Their friends who haven’t worked in the oil sands can’t believe they’d let a man talk to them like that.
In the book’s afterword, Kate talks about how the book chronicles her specific experience at a specific time. She is wary of sensationalism of her story, especially because sexual assault is so common that it’s not actually sensational. She notes that neither of the men who raped her probably consider it to have been rape. She is also critical of the treatment of Indigenous people, and says the YouTube video of Celina Harpe was a “sword that cut through my ignorance”. We also find out that Becky died of cancer, and that her former coworkers pooled money together to send to her.
Bookclub Bingo 2023 categories: Non-Fiction, Graphic Novel (grey), Mod Pick (grey)
Other links:

• The first discussion
• Canada Reads page about Ducks [I hadn’t realised that Station Eleven, another recent bookclub read, was the runner up]
• Kate Beaton on Wikipedia
• Hark! A Vagrant, the archive of Kate Beaton’s comics website
• The original Hark! A Vagrant sketch comic about the oil sands (links to all five parts; I’ve posted the parts individually below this in case that’s easier)
• Original Ducks Part 1
• Original Ducks Part 2
• Original Ducks Part 3
• Original Ducks Part 4
• Original Ducks Part 5
• Lindsay Bird was one of the people in the book whose name wasn’t changed, and in 2019 she published a poetry collection about working in the oil sands called Boom Time. There’s a CBC article about the book here.

The questions are in the comments below. Thank you for joining me and u/fixtheblue in reading this book!

Edit: Was told BBBYQ is not on the Chill list by Fidelity. Another rep said they were not aware of a global lock. I've moved the chill list global lock section to the bottom. - Interesting Virtu, Citadel, and Gensler info below.
Share transfer clarity from AST - Was told I'd hear back from AST back office by Mon latest.
Back office of Fidelity says BBBY and BBBYQ is showing up in their system the same as its always been although the chapter 11 could effect this at a moments notice.
If you've experienced any disruption in the transfer of shares from the transfer agent to Fidelity - by Fidelity's account, it should not be from their end. And could be related to AST's rules which they are not privy to. It should not be restricted to minimums or anything else and transfers should go through. These transfers can only be initiated by Fidelity (on the brokers end - sending a request to AST). The chat agents are not always aware of what's up.
Next thing I will do is request a small transfer on Fidelitys end to transfer in shares from AST to see if it goes through. I transferred in another batch of shares today the other way to AST today (25% of my total shares on top of what was already there , at 37% total now with plans for more).
SEC chairman Gensler tweets on May 25th https://twitter.com/GaryGenslestatus/1661760275370979328 about how a cow ended up burning down the whole town of Chicago ( u/scarebearz7). And of course this is happening the same day that u/realpulte who has been tweeting a lot about going after corruption, tweets a pic of Cohen on top of a cow /bull/ steer of all things (all credit to Plur / u/scarebearz7 ). u/falcone7
The same building Citadel is in appeared to have had a fire happen there within the past year (see further below for more smoke if there's actually a fire here so to speak). https://twitter.com/Chicago_Scannestatus/1622616443299811333
Gensler mentions a fire can happen in financial markets as well. Now recently the market maker Virtu has been served several lawsuits and u/taynethebetasequence did an excellent exploration of how this could be talked about somewhat cryptically but in plain site with Cohen tweeting at the Panthers. If you've been following, Vincent at Virtu, a market maker, isn't the only one involved with the Panthers.
https://www.nhl.com/panthers/info/douglas-cifu
Earlier in 2022 Virtu filed a FOA request to see just who the SEC was talking to that could lead to actions designed to benefit retail investors (what was later implemented in part). https://ir.virtu.com/press-releases/press-release-details/2022/Virtu-Financial-Announces-Commencement-of-Lawsuit-Against-the-Securities-and-Exchange-Commission-to-Compel-Compliance-with-Freedom-of-Information-Act-Request/default.aspx
Their ceo is still hitting back at the Sec in public as of April 18th of this year.
https://www.marketwatch.com/story/virtu-ceo-slams-gensler-reforms-as-democratic-plan-to-curb-retail-trading-2ea1daf0
Not to mention his personal Twitter page. With the lawsuits that I've looked over not even addressing the apparent siphoning of funds from Virtu stock investors... It makes me wonder.
The security breach and trade secrets that were exposed by former Virtu employees and sued by Virtu - Well the SEC found Virtu at fault - https://www.wsj.com/livecoverage/stock-market-today-dow-jones-05-01-2023/card/virtu-stock-falls-after-disclosure-of-potential-sec-enforcement-action-w8oxzdAvCUYsPpvvpSDn which is what the slew of lawsuits in the past few days against Virtu for shareholders of their stock seem to be related to.
While everyone has focused much of their attention on one market maker Citadel, is Virtu a big piece of the equation as well?
With the pieces that u/region-formal , u/life_relationship_77 and others have put out regarding share count being traded as if it was much higher than in actuality, this all seems pretty interesting.
--------------------------------------------

Other Citadel fire

There was a fire in the building before Citadel moved in. Just seems a bit odd to mention Citadel in the story and the timing. From 2019 https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2019-03-28/fire-breaks-out-at-midtown-office-tower-slated-to-house-citadel
Secure storage facility where Citadel may have held documents? Or Virtu? Both? Went up in flames. Apparently the fire fighters decided on a controlled burn at some point.
From early Feb last year in Chicago https://youtu.be/wf4Pamtj56U?t=71
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8sw-l8aW80

Excerpts from chill and global lock webpage

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I posted this in a smaller sub but didn't get any discussion going and have some new information that could be related. I will call myself today to see if BBBYQ is transferrable back in to Fidelity from AST (at least for me).
​
I wonder if this related to the chill list or global lock here https://www.hg.org/legal-articles/dtc-chills-a-big-conspiracy-or-just-fraud-30815 with excerpts further below.
A chill can prevent deposits or withdrawal of chilled securities. I read that as they can do things one way but not necessarily always both. The other thing that stood out to me is "only the company can direct its transfer agent to issue free trading shares" - Curious peoples thoughts on that.
"DTC staff may discover (previously undetected) illegal free trading share issuances or other fraudulent activity that will persuade them to limit or suspend its services. In these instances, DTC may make referrals to appropriate regulators including the SEC’s Division of Enforcement. "
​
"When DTC eligibility is lost, issuers will often tell their stockholders, they have no idea what happened. Since only the company can direct its transfer agent to issue free trading shares, most often it knows exactly why DTC limited or suspended its services".
​
"A DTC Chill restricts DTC’s services, including limiting a DTC participant’s ability to deposit or withdraw chilled securities."
"DTC does not always disclose the reason for a chill or Global Lock, nor does it suggest how long it will be in effect."

Människor runt om i världen lider av en mängd olika hälsoproblem. De flesta hälsoproblem är direkt eller indirekt förknippade med ökad kroppsvikt. Detta är tillståndet av fetma där kroppen tenderar att gå upp i vikt i onödan. Keto Xplode Det är nödvändigt att du kontrollerar din vikt allt viktigare innan du blir en allvarlig situation för dig. Att arbeta hårdare på gymmet och följa en strikt diet hjälper dig inte i en sådan situation.
Du måste göra extra ansträngningar för att gå ner i oönskad kroppsvikt. Keto Xplode är ett helt naturligt viktminskningspiller designat för att stimulera fettförbränningsprocessen och öka viktminskningsresultaten naturligt. Det är formeln som förbättrar din kropps ketosprocess och bränner fettceller som lagras i kroppen istället för kolhydrater för att gå ner i vikt snabbare och hälsosamt.
Keto Xplode är det bästa tillskottet designat för att naturligt minska oönskad kroppsvikt. Det optimerar kroppens totala vikt och improviserar fettförbränningsmekanismen. Det minskar ditt beroende av kolhydrater för energi och minimerar därför det totala upptaget av kolhydrater i din kost. Den använder lagrade fettceller för att producera energi i ketosprocessen. Det improviserar din kropps ämnesomsättning och förbättrar den övergripande viktminskningsprocessen.

Vad handlar Keto Xplode om?

är ett bantningspiller gjord av kraftfulla ingredienser. Det hjälper dig att hålla dig motiverad av dina viktminskningsmål. Keto Xplode Detta är formeln utformad för att hjälpa dig gå ner i vikt snabbt och hälsosamt. Formeln för effektivt din kropp till tillståndet av ketos, där den börjar gå ner i vikt snabbare. Detta är den naturliga processen där kroppen använder lagrade fettceller för att producera energi till din kropp. Det minskar din kropps beroende av kolhydrater för att producera energi. Det förbättrar din kropps övergripande fettmetabolism och minimerar upptaget av kolhydrater genom kosten du konsumerar.
utlöser processen för termisk tillkomst. Detta ökar värmegenereringen inuti kroppen för att bränna de lagrade fettcellerna över tiden. På så sätt minskar den kroppens totala vikt och gör dig smal och anpassad. Det är viktminskningsformeln som också dämpar aptiten och känslan av oönskad hunger. Detta minskar din vana att äta känslomässigt och förhindrar dig också från att äta för mycket. Detta hjälper dig att gå ner mer i vikt i snabb takt.

Hur fungerar Keto Xplode viktminskning Keto Xplode?

Keto Xplode arbetsprocess är naturlig och fungerar utan biverkningar för användarna. Formulan innehåller hälsosamma och naturliga ämnen som samverkar för att öka viktminskningsprocessen. Formeln fungerar genom att föra din kropp till tillståndet ketos, vilket bränner fettceller som lagras över tiden för att producera energi snarare än att använda kolhydrater för att producera energi. På så sätt minskar det upptaget av kolhydrater från din kost och hjälper dig att hålla dig frisk för alltid. Formeln fungerar också genom att öka din kropps ämnesomsättningsnivå, Keto Xplode Svenska vilket utlöser processen för termisk tillkomst. Detta är den process genom vilken kroppen genererar värme för att bränna fettceller som lagras i svåra områden av din kropp.

Vad innehåller Keto Xplode och hur kraftfullt är det att gå ner i vikt?

Fullständiga detaljer om ingredienserna är inte tillgängliga och den officiella webbplatsen anger att tillägget stöds av naturvetenskap och att nyckelkomponenten i formeln är BHB Ketone. Beta-hydroxibutyrat är den naturliga ketonen som spelar en viktig roll i hälsosam viktminskning. BHB arbetar först med att föra din kropp till ett tillstånd av ketos där den börjar bränna lagrade fettceller för att producera energi åt dig. Det minskar din kropps beroende av kolhydrater för att producera energi. Detta leder till lägre kolhydratupptag genom kosten och snabbare leverans av viktminskningsresultat.

Vilka är de främsta anledningarna till att konsumera Keto Xplode?

Keto Xplode främjar massförbränningsprocesser Att föra din kropp till ketosprocessen är en annan specialitet Det hjälper till att klara massgraveringsprocessen. Keto Xplode Svenska Minskar magfett snabbare Utlöser kroppens ämnesomsättning Tar snabbt bort oönskade fettceller Tar bort aptiten och känslan av oönskad hunger Ökar din energi och uthållighet.

Är överdosering skadligt?

Ja, överdosen av formeln är skadlig. För att undvika de allvarliga konsekvenserna av överdosering på formeln är det nödvändigt att ta det i de föreskrivna doserna. Du bör undvika att överskrida 2 kapslar per dag. Detta kan vara skadligt och orsaka Keto Xplode-biverkningar om formeln överdoserar.

Vilka är försiktighetsåtgärderna för att använda denna dietformel?

Keto Xplode ska drickas dagligen med vatten. Den är inte avsedd för personer under 18 år. Keto Xplode Svenska Personer på svår medicinering bör undvika att använda den. Rådfråga din läkare innan du använder formeln är nödvändig. Använd i föreskrivna doser för att undvika överdoseffekter.

Slutsats!

Enligt kritiker och vittnesmål, är en kraftfull viktkontrolllösning för dem som kämpar för att uppnå sina viktminskningsmål. Keto Xplode Svenska Det är formeln som kan hjälpa dig att gå ner i vikt på ett hälsosamt sätt och hålla dig frisk, utan några hälsokomplikationer på grund av fetma.
https://www.mynewsdesk.com/febiwebsolution/pressreleases/uppdatering-keto-xplode-recensioner-svenska-ketoxplode-Keto Xplode-bluff-omdoeme-skaffa-sig-i-sverige-3249579
https://www.outlookindia.com/outlook-spotlight/keto-xplode-svenska-recensioner-fungerar-ketoxplode-Keto Xplode-sverige-verkligen-bluff-sanningen--news-284514
https://www.sverigetillskott.se/keto-xplode-svenska/

With his mother dead and his cultist family members out to ruin his life, getting abducted by alien slavers is actually an improvement for Corey Vash. A quick and chaotic escape attempt only succeeds thanks to an unintentional rescue from the impressively skilled and infrequently sober bounty hunters aboard the Hard Luck Hermit. With no clue about how to survive in space and nothing to return to on Earth, Corey joins the crew in their efforts to make a quick buck, try new drinks, and figure out who the hell keeps trying to kill them.
[First Chapter][Previous Chapter][Cover Art][Patreon]
“Alright, our little gun show just got a hell of a lot more complicated,” Kamak said. Zero-G combat was a pain in the ass even for people who’d been specially trained, and as far as Kamak knew, that only applied to Farsus. He and Doprel had been in a handful of zero gravity fights, but he was less than confident in his skills and knew that Doprel felt the same.
“I’m not confident in our ability to manage this combat scenario,” Farsus said. “Melee combat is generally more viable in zero gravity environments, and we cannot hope to beat the Doccan in melee range.”
“On the other hand, lot of handholds here on this ship,” Corey said. He grabbed an exposed mechanical element, one of many jutting from the patchwork halls of the ship, and latched himself in place. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but they had places to brace themselves to avoid the zero-gravity recoil problem. To Vo braced her foot against an oddly welded ridge in the ship’s hull and kept her gun up.
“Could we leave this vessel disabled and wait for the Doccan to send reinforcements?”
“We’ve only got enough disable rounds for one more ship, and the Doccan always escalate linearly,” Doprel said. “They’ll send two, maybe three next time.”
“It’s a little messier than anticipated, but this is still our best shot,” Kamak said. “Guns up.”
The team shouldered their weapons and started kicking off the walls, drifting down the darkened halls of the ship. The vessel had enough of an auxiliary power system to keep some emergency lights on, but even those were intermittent, with many bulbs burnt out by the Doccan’s lack of interest in repairing such a negligible function. They did not feel fear, much less fear of the dark.
Corey, on the other hand, was feeling a lot of fear. His casual interest in sci-fi films had done him a lot of good out here in space so far, but now it was starting to backfire. He’d watched Alien one too many times to be comfortable drifting around the dead silence of this spaceship. He tried to remind himself that there were no xenomorphs here. The only aliens he had to worry about were nigh-unkillable super strong emotionless behemoths.
In retrospect, that was worse, and Corey decided to start thinking about literally anything else just in time to hear something go click.
A three round burst of plasma fire soared down the hall, briefly illuminating the length of it in green fire. One of the bolts caught Farsus on his broad chest, but his armor mostly negated the damage. Kamak returned fire, sending a stream of bullets up the hall, and Kamak himself careening the other way. In his haste to return fire, he’d forgotten to brace himself. The rest of his fireteam made no such mistakes.
With his back to a wall, Corey turned his gun towards the Doccan and took aim. There were two of them, both even larger than Doprel, and wearing patchwork armor to boot. That was an unpleasant development.
“Take out the guns first,” Farsus shouted. The Doccan themselves were durable and heavily armored, but their guns were as fragile as any other weapon in the galaxy. Corey took aim and peppered the Doccan’s limbs with a spray of gunfire. One of the two had the wherewithal to clutch their gun to their side, letting their arm absorb the brunt of the gunfire, but the other kept trying to return fire even as a bullet finally hit home. The metal slug cracked through the plasma repeater’s energy chamber, and the weapon started to vent green fire as the energy cell leaked.
With his weapon damaged, the Doccan took the next logical step and launched himself at his opponents, massive arms raised and ready to strike. The crew took advantage of the zero gravity recoil and let go of their handholds in the wall, then fired at the approaching Doccan. The recoil propelled them away as bullets peppered its thick hide. With no gravity to make it flow outwards naturally, the strange fluid layer beneath the skin of the Doccan started to leak out in blobs of oozing blue.
The floating globs splashed into dozens of tiny droplets as Doprel met his kin coming the other way. The divided drops then scattered in every direction as the shockwave of their colossal impact traveled outwards. Another spray of blue fluid followed shortly after as Doprel dug his fingers into a patch of bullet holes and tore a massive chunk out of the Doccan’s exterior carapace.
“Doprel! Give me an angle on the face!”
With a quick grunt of acknowledgment, Doprel spun around and put the Doccan he was grappling in a headlock. He kept his arms wide and his face behind the Doccan’s back as Kamak took aim at the Doccan’s head and fired. A quick round of bullets tore through the air, a few managing to find purchase in the Doccan’s face, tearing out one of its eyes and a few chunks of mandible. The floating drops of blue liquid pouring out of the broken head were soon joined by a thin flow of black bile -the real lifeblood of the Doccan.
“Not going to be interrogating that one,” Kamak said. “Focus fire and take out his friend!”
Kamak drifted forward and grabbed on to the broken body of the dead Doccan, using it as cover as the hail of bullets continued. Under fire from five sources at once, the Doccan’s defeat was inevitable yet worryingly slow. Corey kept his rifle focused on the joint of its arm for a solid thirty seconds of sustained fire, but it didn’t even drop its gun until the arm was only attached by a few strands of tattered, fibrous “muscle”. Even at that point, the Doccan simply switched hands and continued firing until Farsus blew a big enough chunk of its head off that it stopped moving entirely. Doprel walked up and ripped its other arm off just to be sure, while Kamak took a final few potshots at the head of the other one.
“Bastard’s aren’t afraid to play dead,” Kamak said. “Especially when they know they’re at a disadvantage.”
“Good news is, this means there’s probably just two more,” Doprel said. “If we were dealing with multiple groups there’d have been a full crew of four after us.”
“Best news I’ve gotten all week,” Kamak said. “Now where are the others…”
“We are located in the cockpit.”
Five guns pointed in five different directions as the voice boomed out from a PA system.
“What’s going on?”
“You have stated an intent to interrogate a living subject, and have proven your ability to defeat two or less Doccan in combat,” the monotone voice proclaimed. “There is no further purpose to violent resistance.”
“I see,” Kamak said. They really were logical. “We’ll be right there. Guns up, of course. I’m not dumb enough to not see a trap.”
“We lack the resources to commit to such a deception.”
That did nothing to ease Kamak’s suspicion, for reasons the Doccan could not at all understand. He, Doprel, and Farsus kept their guns up as they head upwards, towards the cockpit of the makeshift vessel. Corey was not far behind, until he realized To Vo La Su was quite far behind. She was bouncing slowly around the hall, trying to dodge floating globs of Doccan ichor—and a few chunks of the Doccan themselves.
“You’ve just got to accept you’re going to get messy and move through it,” Corey said. “The laundry machine on the Hermit is surprisingly good.”
“I don’t have that many clothes to start with,” To Vo mumbled. Due to the impromptu circumstances of her “recruitment” To Vo had the clothes she’d been wearing and a few spare outfits Tooley had been willing to throw at her—most of which fit poorly and had suspicious stains already. “But that is not my issue. I do not- there is a certain amount of- I can’t-”
“To Vo?”
The former transit authority tightened her grip on a gun she was entirely unsuited to carry and took a deep breath. One of the globs of Doccan ichor drifted worryingly close to her face, and she backed away.
“I didn’t want to do something like this again.”
“Again?”
To Vo was naturally small, but she still found a way to shrink in on herself.
“The world I come from was harsh,” To Vo said. “We did harsh things to live. All of us.”
A few chunks of gore drifted by Corey’s head. He knew better than to ask what she meant.
“Yeah. Look, I get it, but, these guys came after us because they thought we were a defenseless bunch of stranded travelers, right? You think they brought all that firepower to escort a bunch of lost souls back to safety, give them a nice pat on the back and a snack for the road? If we’d actually been lost travelers, we’d be dead. And eaten, quite possibly.”
“But we aren’t travelers, and now they’re dead,” To Vo said, pointing out the drifting Doprel corpses as she spoke. “How can this be right?”
“Look, To Vo, nothing’s ever completely ‘right’. Even when you’re purely trying to help someone, who’s to say they ‘deserve’ it, or that there’s not someone else who needs the help more and isn’t getting it?” Corey asked. “You’re never one-hundred percent in the right. Sure, maybe we’re a lot closer to that line between good and bad than we could be, but I think we’re still on the good side of things.”
“And what happens when you’re not?”
Corey didn’t have an answer for that question. Luckily for him, he didn’t get the chance to try.
“Would you two stop fucking moralizing and back us up? This is still a combat zone!”
The ever obedient To Vo La Su was the first to grab her gun and kick off towards the cockpit, heedless of the gore she had to splash through on the way. Corey followed closely behind her, secretly quite happy to let her absorb all the floating ichor instead of him.
***
As it turned out, the Doccan were sincere in their desire to surrender. That left only one dilemma to resolve.
“So. Awkward issue,” Kamak said. “We’ve only got enough restraints for one of you.”
“We will offer no resistance,” one of the Doccan said.
“Oh sure, for now. Until we get attacked by someone else, or we all turn around at once, or you decide you might have a good opportunity.”
“This point is sound,” the Doccan admitted.
“Which one of you knows more about the recent movements in people fighting you guys, and why your people blew up the Bang Gate?”
“I am more knowledgeable on all military matters,” the Doccan on the left said. Kamak pointed to the one on the right.
“And you agree with that sentiment?”
“Yes. However, your inquiries might require a greater knowledge base. I am in charge of monitoring the social habits of various Doccan, and may possess relevant information.”
The other Doccan had barely finished speaking when Kamak shoved the barrel of his gun in their mandibles and pulled the trigger. A burst of rounds tore through their cranium and the Doccan fell over dead. The only surviving Doccan did not even react as his comrade collapsed. As black blood started to drift through the air, Corey very deliberately avoided To Vo’s gaze.
“Not particularly interested in your social media. Alright, Doprel, tie the other one up,” Kamak said. “And you. Got time for questions?”
“I will accede to any line of questioning that does not actively endanger the Doccan species.”
“Great! What’s your name, champ?”
“Doprel.”
Doprel looked up and over the other Doprel’s shoulders.
“Doprel, why is our new friend also Doprel?”
“It’s...actually a term for the working class of Doccan’s,” Doprel said. “I didn’t have any other name, and by the time I realized what was going on it had sort of stuck, so...yeah.”
“Do you want a better name?”
“No, no, like I said, it’s stuck now, no sense changing it,” Doprel said. “Not like we hang out with other Doccan enough for it to be confusing.”
“On that note, for the purposes of this conversation, you are Junior,” Kamak said. The newly christened Junior did not object to this designation, so Kamak assumed he accepted it. “What do you know about why the Doccan attacked the Bang Gate?”
“We were recently informed that new stresses upon intergalactic shipping routes would place additional importance on our galaxy as a trade hub,” Junior said. “Your Galactic Council endures our presence and our attacks on your shipping route as acceptable losses. If this galaxy was to become more important on a galactic scale, they would feel more pressure to protect it, and therefore take more aggressive actions against the Doccan species. A pre-emptive strike to lessen the utility of our home as a trade route mitigates this risk of escalating conflict.”
“And blowing up a fucking Bang Gate isn’t an escalation?”
“The gateway is destroyed. Retaliatory attacks achieve nothing. Your Council has nothing to gain from further conflict.”
“What if they’re worried you’ll blow up another fucking gate, Junior?”
“The measured presence of other species in this galaxy ultimately benefits us by providing resources we would be otherwise unable to acquire,” Junior said. “We have no reason to completely close ourselves off.”
“You guys have a lot of work to do on understanding other species,” Kamak said.
“Typical warfare does not stop when one side considers it merely ‘convenient’,” Farsus said. “If the Galactic Council decides on hostilities, they will not stop until they possess a considerable advantage over you.”
“By our appraisal they already possess a significant advantage,” Junior said. “However, if I survive our conversation, I will pass on your appraisal of the situation to the homeworld.”
“Jury’s still out on your survival. Tell us this and improve your odds: Who told you about all this shipping route bullshit?”
“It was [TRANSLATION ERROR].”
Kamak rubbed the sore spot where his translator chip was implanted and tried again.
“Say again?”
“We were informed of these developments by a [TRANSLATION ERROR].”
“Alright, not going for a third try here,” Kamak said. Whenever the translation software ran through the full suite of languages it knew, it started to overheat a little, and Kamak didn’t want a hotspot in his skull. “Doprel, I thought you gave us the whole language?”
“I did!”
“If I may theorize,” Farsus said. “To my understanding, the Doccan are a very literal people. Junior, when your people are faced with a new entity or concept, do you invent a new word for it?”
“When it is the most convenient course of action, yes,” Junior said. “Oftentimes compound words are formed. Your own people are referred to as ‘Red-Large-No Carapace’.”
“An apt descriptor,” Farsus said. “So we can assume whatever introduced these concepts to the Doccan, it was something they first encountered after Doprel’s departure, and something so unique it prompted the creation of a new word.”
“Fun times,” Kamak grumbled. “Junior, can you describe the thing whose name we can’t understand?”
“I have never seen it.”
“Peachy. What do you know about it?”
“It displayed enough intelligence that our central command council took its provided information seriously.”
“And did your central command stop to think about whether this word-we-can’t-understand had any ulterior motives?”
“Non-Doccan rarely approach the Doccan without ulterior motive,” Junior said. Had he any understanding of irony as a concept, he might’ve pointed out his current situation. “It was decided that the threat presented was legitimate enough to act without regard to possible external agendas from the [TRANSLATION ERROR].”
“Please stop saying that,” Corey whined.
“I am unaware of any reason to do so beyond your physical movements,” Junior said. To him, the flinching Corey did every time he said the word was just a strange muscle spasm, as the average Doccan did not experience pain.
“Just don’t fucking say it. Back to the point, you should know that whoever or whatever brought this stuff to you, they’re using you and your actions as a smokescreen to get away with their own shit,” Kamak said. “They’re pushing to change trade routes and pressure new parts of the galaxy. Maybe the threat is legitimate, but it is only legitimate because they are doing what they’re doing.”
“Noted.”
Junior’s quiet acceptance of the dramatic twist unsettled Kamak more than he’d like to admit. Maybe it was just because he’d lived through so many dramatic twists and turns lately, but he felt like that warranted more of a reaction. The emotionless Doccan accepted every new twist of fate the way a calculator would accept a new number plugged into a math problem.
“So...if we let you live, you’re going to tell all this to your planetary council or whatever?”
“New data will be considered.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic, I guess. Anyone else got questions for Big Blue Number Two?”
“I’ve got one,” Corey said. “How long ago did that weird thing bring you guys all this info?”
“Eighteen Doccan days ago.”
“That comes out to a few months, with everything converted,” Doprel said. The Doccan homeworld had a very slow rotation period.
“Once again putting it well before our run-in with that purple ship,” Corey said. “So we really did just get caught up in a plot that was already going on.”
“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t,” Kamak said.
“It might be useful, at least,” Corey mumbled.
“Final call for questions,” Kamak said. “I want to get out of this floating piece of crap.”
“Just the one,” Doprel said. “If what we’ve said is true, and the Doccan find out they’ve been manipulated into making their own situation worse...what will they do about it?”
“It is impossible to make an assessment of the situation without a consensus of at least one Doccan hive,” Junior said. “If not the full planetary council.”
“Well what would you, personally, do?”
“Obey the consensus of the hive or council.”
“Let’s say there’s no hive or council-”
“If all hives and the council have been obliterated, my priority must be to repopulate the Doccan species first and foremost, ignoring tertiary matters such as this.”
“Doprel,” Kamak said. “Whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to get.”
“Yeah. Got it.”
Doprel’s sullen silence infected the rest of them, and their interrogation was put on pause for a moment.
“Has your interrogation ended?”
“What?”
“You have asked for final questions and are now silent. Is your interrogation finished?”
“Pretty much,” Kamak said. They’d learned this particular Doccan was next to useless, so they didn’t have much reason to continue. “You got a last request?”
“In some form. Do you intend to assault, kill, or otherwise impede the entity you believe has manipulated the Doccan?”
“That’s the plan, yeah,” Kamak said. “Speaking of assaulting or killing-”
Kamak hefted his heavy rifle once again.
“Cooperation will be beneficial,” Junior said. “Remove my restraints so that I may assist.”
“Oh, yes, sure, that sounds like a great idea,” Kamak said. “Assist us with what?”
“Surviving.”
Something Junior wouldn’t be doing much longer, if Kamak had anything to say about it. It was hard to read a Doccan, but he knew a bluff when he saw it. The captain raised his gun, and had it shoved down again by Doprel.
“Kamak.”
In any other situation, Doprel would’ve been on board with calling the bluff, but the Doccan didn’t bluff often. Kamak reluctantly accepted Doprel’s caution and played his part.
“Okay, this is me taking the bait,” Kamak said. “You’re going to help us survive what?”
“The patrolling warship on route to this location,” Junior said. “My willingness to discuss important information with you was a stalling tactic. We sent a distress ping shortly after you boarded.”
While Kamak started swearing, Farsus did the slightly more sensible thing. He hopped on the comms and turned back towards the Hermit.
‘Tooley, ping the long range scanners.”
“Okay. We got...huh,” Tooley said. It took a moment for the full details to come in, but even the most basic scan functions couldn’t miss the vessel coming their way. “That is a big one. I think that might be a Corrhulk.”
“They’ve kept a fucking Corrhulk flying for the past century?”
“What exactly is a Corrhulk?” Corey asked. He felt context was very important.
“It’s big and it’s got a lot of guns,” Kamak snapped. The Corrhulk was one of the last true warships the intergalactic community had mass-produced. Nowadays what few heavy cruisers existed were mostly just carriers for swarms of small fighters, but enough heavily-rusted Corrhulks were still shambling along in merchant fleets and pirate gangs to give the ship a reputation. “Tooley, what’s the Corrhulk’s ETA?”
“Couple drops if we’re lucky,” Tooley said. “I can get us out of here before then if you get back to the ship.”
“And provided it doesn’t try to chase us,” Kamak said.
“Undo my restraints and I will transmit your cooperation to the vessel,” Junior said. “There is benefit to mutual cooperation.”
“And if your friends on the ship don’t agree?”
“Then you will be killed.”
“Love the bluntness,” Kamak grunted. “I’ve got enough friends.”
“Kamak,” Doprel grunted.
“Oh, I’m sorry, are we making friends with your cousins who want to eat you now?”
“We have more enemies than allies,” Farsus said. “Questionable friends are still friends.”
“We’ve got like four drops on our escape window, guys,” Tooley said. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.”
“There are those among the Doccan who have spoken to our informant directly,” Junior said. “Further dialogue may yield further relevant information.”
“Oh fuck me,” Kamak said. “Whatever. Not like we’ve ever made a smart decision, might as well make a stupid one on purpose.”
With a reluctant nod from Kamak, Doprel reached down and untied the thick cables holding Junior in place. The titanic alien immediately drifted towards the console and started inputting a complex series of commands.
“Get back on the ship,” Kamak ordered. “Tooley, prep us to detach and start calculating a faster-than-light vector for us. We’re negotiating over comms, and if they say anything we don’t like, we’re out.”
“Oh, are we not going to invite the murderous sociopaths onto our ship for some drinks and snacks?”
“Just shut up and get us ready, Tooley!”
“Ready to die, maybe,” Tooley grumbled. She shut down her comm link in order to get the last word and started calculating their escape route while everyone else made a mad dash back to the Hard Luck Hermit. Before she rounded the corner and drifted out of sight, To Vo La Su took a look back at the cockpit, back at Junior.
He’d picked up the corpse of his dead copilot and was beginning to gnaw on it. No sense letting good nutrients go to waste. To Vo started to wonder what they were getting themselves into.

First Previous Next
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
— Langston Hughes
Catalogue Description:
Self-Monitoring Behavioural Management Report: Casimir Szymański, Scazim Institute of Science and Technology - English Translation
Date:
15 Summer-2 3429 (Standard Parimthian Calendar)
November 23rd, 2162 (Gregorian Calendar)
Held by:
The UK National Archives, Kew
Legal status:
Public Record(s)
My father worshipped a fabricated, pagan prophet.
The Senghavi of the Parimthian Empire are principally joined under the ditheistic religion called Siedi, which I do not subscribe to. Of course, the Senghavi's literature, art, and faith flooded the whole of Earth upon their arrival a century ago. From this ocean of civilised culture, my degenerate species drew a sample, claimed it as our own, and polluted it with a distorted, appropriated, dumbed-down doctrine.
The central figure in this corrupt sample of Siedi was a man whom my father called Jesus Christ. He was said to have offered himself as a sacrifice that could be made to a single God. It was a final sacrifice, one beyond lambs or cattle or people. One that would atone for humanity's sins, so that we could have the free choice between the eternal presence of God and the eternal absence of "Him."
My father dressed himself in black, with a standing collar whose white fabric was exposed at the centre. That much, I could recall. He preached to hopeful humans in what was called a church, though I did not know what he was preaching. At the very least, my childhood is fuzzy in that regard.
The pain that throbbed through my skull, after the blonde savage had slammed my head against the ridges of the airlock, faded into the background. I could not focus; perhaps, I thought, one of their improvised explosives had gone off by accident. There was blue Senghavi blood staining my dress shirt. The rush of air escaping into vacuum pierced my ears.
Perhaps it was thirst of water, which binds most sapient beings—the Sons of Liberty had reached an agreement with the Colonial Defence Force to allow spacecraft delivering food, water, and medical aid, only to unleash the anti-collision lasers of this cursed spaceliner upon those very ships.
Or perhaps it was the explosion, as I initially thought, an inadvertent complication which had wrought injury and death over my countrymen, and which had forced the terrorist savages to attempt to patch up the many hull breaches left by debris.
Or perhaps it was simply the stress of betraying, in my desperate efforts to save everyone from this senseless violence, the greatest secret of the Senghavi Terrans: our antimatter research. Word of it had likely been forwarded already, hundreds of light-years away, to that pink-hued marble which was Parimth itself.
Or perhaps it was all three; thirst, explosion, and stress. In any case, my mind shut it all out, and something lost from my childhood flashed before me:
We're standing on the cracked street of the Vennec Human Reservation. In the distance, the Senghavi's white, glassy spires reach above the clouds, their accents of luminescence dim in the broad daylight.
I hold a ball in my palm. It's wrapped in white leather held together with red stitching. I toss it to Dad.
Instead of his clerical uniform, he wears the normal "T-shirt" and "cargo shorts." Along with the clerical getup, they are just two of the many sorts of clothing which the Senghavi have invented for humanity. I toss the ball to Dad, and he swings a primitive wooden bat.
The ball goes soaring, further than he meant to. He jogs down the road to retrieve it, then gives me the wooden bat. The breeze ruffles his hair just as he ruffles mine with his hand.
"Now, you try," he says. "It's just practice, that's all."
For some reason, he lifts one leg in the air, then pitches the ball to me. I swing. The impact of the ball shakes through the wood, and it goes careening off to the left.
"I did it!" I yell. "But it went out of bounds."
"Heyyyy, that's not bad," Dad says with a reassuring voice. "Good job, just try to go a little more right next time."
Mom comes out onto the front porch, the breeze ruffling her dress as she waves to Dad. "Dinner's ready, and Mom's pie is... almost ready."
I stare blankly at her until I realise that she is talking about her Mom, Grandma, who is the best at making pumpkin pie.
"The pie!" I shout, running and jumping to the front door. "I totally forgot about that!"
I am ready to speed my way through dinner just so I can get to dessert, but Dad stops me before my first bite.
Of course, I think. We need to say grace. Me, Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa all hold hands, thanking God for our food, and then dig in. But Mom and Dad just talk about work, and I am too focused on finishing my food quickly to pitch in.
Finally—Grandma's pie!
When you bite into the soft, smooth filling, you can instantly tell it's been made with fresh pumpkins, not the boring canned ones. The taste of cinnamon and spice is balanced out perfectly with the coolness of the whipped cream.
The flavour spreads through my tongue and nostrils, filling my entire brain with a feeling of amazing-ness. If I wrote the Simple-Speak Dictionary for Senghavi Terrans, I'd put Grandma's pie next to the translation of "perfection."
I should save a slice, I think, for the Senghavi kid.
Even though it's only been a week since I met him through the playground fence, we already told each other where we live, and I want to get to know him more. He doesn't live on the Vennec Human Reservation, but his house is just a bike-ride away in Fellye Neighborhood.
I wonder if anyone's ever given pumpkin pie to an alien before. Even though humans only invented it fifty years ago, it makes me feel proud of my species!
When Mom tucks me into bed, kissing my forehead, I tell her what I'm going to do.
"Oh, you wild thing," she coos. "You're so much like your father. And you have his eyes, you know? Just stay safe."
"Don't worry, I'll do my best."
>! "Good night. I love you." !<
>! "I love you, too, Mom," I say. I hug her tightly from my bed, and a warm, fuzzy feeling blossoms within me. I can hardly fall asleep in my excitement. !<
Luckily, Fellye Neighborhood doesn't take apartheid that seriously, and I don't think anybody cares about an eight year-old human riding his bicycle around the gates.
Next evening, I do just that, peddling out of the Reservation's entrance into the violet dusk. When I get to Mensim's address, I ring the hi-tech front doorbell, and a really tall Senghavi shows up.
"Oh, dear," she says in Parimthian. "A barbarian hatchling—by what name do you go?"
"I'm Casimir," I say nervously. I don't pay that much attention in school, but I know just enough Parimthian to talk to the Senghavi woman. "Are you Mrs. Munghazi? Is Mensim fe Munghazi here? I got two slices of pie. You can have one, too!"
She looks at me suspiciously, antennae twitching. "That would be Teacher Munghazi to you; I know not why you natives invented these odd 'Mister' and 'Missis' honorifics. Hold on—Ghanvati! A native hatchling stands at our doorstep!"
Ghanvati must be Mensim's dad. I wonder where his other moms are; only one has shown up to the door. Ghanvati shows up with two of them—they are both shorter and daintier than Teacher Munghazi, their raptorial forelimbs folded shyly against their bodies. In front of the group of three is Mensim, and I involuntarily gasped with excitement.
"Mensim!"
"This is your new companion?" Ghanvati asks Mensim.
Mensim's papery forewings flicker with affirmation. "I met him at school."
"What, pray tell, is the point of apartheid if it does not actually keep natives away from Senghavi?" whines one of Ghanvati's wives.
Ghanvati's antennae droop as if to say "I don't know," while Mensim lifts my arms, inspecting me like I am a test animal in a mad scientist's laboratory.
"How do you guys not get cut all the time?" he asks, tracing his tarsal hairs over my bare skin. "You're so fleshy!"
"I do get cut all the time," I giggled. "We just use band-aids. Oh, do you wanna eat a pumpkin pie?"
It turned out that pumpkin pie is bad for alien stomachs. Mensim had to go to the bathroom for a long time, and three of his moms got mad at me.
When I got back, Dad and Mom were arguing. I snuck close to the back porch, making sure they couldn't hear me.
"Yes, they leave some people alone," Dad said. "Obviously, they can't spy on every single human who believes in human religions. But Katarzyna, they still need people to make an example out of, and I don't want to be that person!"
"Casimir is a responsible kid," Mom retorts. "I told him he can't tell anyone what you do, and he listens to me."
"He's eight years old. You can't just let him wander around aliens with a secret that could have me killed! Or have you killed!"
Mom cups Dad's cheek and looks him in the eye. She's a lot shorter than him. "Look, love. You're a great father, and I think it's amazing that you spend time with him. But you're the only person he talks to. You know just as well as I do that he needs to talk to other kids! It's not healthy; even Teacher Perevvoxath agreed. And now he finally has a friend."
Dad sighs, running his hands through his black hair. My hair. "You really think aliens are a substitute for human interaction?"
>! "I think every human needs a person they can talk to, and Casimir found one. If you really care about him, stop preaching for a while! Your church isn't gonna die without you. It'll be okay." !<
The next day, I visit Mensim's house after school again. And the next day after that, and the next after that. His dad Ghanvati is formally named Engineer Munghazi. I am to call his moms Teacher Munghazi, Teacher Munghazi, Teacher Munghazi, Accountant Munghazi, Priestess Munghazi, Doctor Munghazi, and Maidservant Munghazi.
A couple weeks later, Mensim and I are lounging together on his couch, watching a Parimthian war movie. The main characters are fighting against the evil forces of the Imperium of Orion. Under his head capsule, Mensim is munching something called Synth-Fruit, which is imported from a faraway planet called Mryi. I eat Pop-Tarts, which I'm pretty sure are toxic to him.
"Come on, just give me one," Mensim exclaims, reaching over to steal the sweet snacks from me. "It can't be that bad!"
I lift the Pop-Tarts away from him, laughing. "Stoppit, you're attacking me! Pay attention to the movie, or I'm gonna shoot you!"
"But I just want one..."
"It's gonna poison you, and you're gonna get your weird alien throw-up all over me!"
Priestess Munghazi, the oldest of his moms, bursts into the living room, her jewellery clinking over her clerical cape.
"Your sister conveyed to me quite the disturbing piece of news, Mensim," Priestess Munghazi cries. "The father of Casimir is a priest of a most barbarous and evil perversion of the Siedi faith. Ghanvati and I spoke, and we agreed that you are not to consort with this primitive, pagan savage any longer."
I drop my crumbly Pop-Tart on the couch, confused at the sudden order.
"But Priestess Munghazi, I'm not dangerous or evil. I'm just a kid."
"Nonsense! You are dangerous; your father is a barbarian worshipper of this evil, primate paganism that is called Christianity, and a most woeful effect is begot that even self-respecting Senghavi have 'gone native,' as they say. Mensim, if you continue to consort with this native spawn, I will be impelled to inform the Siedi Court, and they may by chance see to it that he is executed!"
"W-Wait!" Mensim says, holding up the remote to pause our movie. He gets off of me, suddenly losing interest in my Pop-Tart, his vestigial forewings rising with concern. "Please, Mother. I promise he won't be any trouble."
My blood runs cold. Dad, executed? Just because what he believes in isn't "civilised" enough? Actually, I thought that Mom told him to stop preaching for a while.
Mensim scrambles to *his father's sleeping quarters, and I trail frantically after him.*
"Father," Mensim says. "Is Casimir's father's job so ghastly that he should be executed by the Siedi Court?"
"We can't just let the natives spread the same barbarous religions that they used to kill each other," Ghanvati replies, his secondary arms clasped together. "It's a threat to safe, moral society. Priestess Munghazi told me his father spreads evil and paganism. I have no reason not to trust the oldest of your mothers."
"But Casimir's my best friend! If you tell the Siedi Court about his father, I'll... I'll run away! I'll hate you!"
Distressed vibrations emanate through the floor beneath my feet; Mensim's antennae and papery forewings and hindwings go limp. Something like lilies and the earthy scent of rain fills the air.
"My dearest Mensim," Ghanvati says softly, dipping his head capsule with compassion. "I will hold off, just this once. It would be apt of you not to cause me to reconsider."
"T-thank you, Engineer Munghazi," I say, wiping my own tears. "My dad's not a bad person, I promise."
After confronting his dad, Mensim and I keep on watching movies and playing digital games. He always wins when we wrestle, but I still haven't given up (even though Priestess Munghazi always tells us to stop roughhousing).
I even bring my Lego pieces to his house. He doesn't know what Legos are, but later, in his sleeping quarters, we build together. He makes a cool-looking spaceship that he calls a "negative energy generator."
"Hey, you took all the cool black and grey pieces," I complain. "Now I can't finish my army base!"
"This is cooler than your army base," Mensim says proudly. "Father used to work in one. It uses the superposition of squeezed vacuum states to produce a field of negative energy density."
"I have no idea what that means, but that sounds really smart."
"No kidding! It's how people make wormholes and fly all the way to other stars."
"Well, my army guys could beat your negative energy-thingy. They have machine guns."
"My guys could just fly a [~million billion trillion kilometres] away, and yours can't do anything about it!"
"Then your guys are wimps. But my guys aren't. Because they're the Army!"
>! We also explore the pine forest in his backyard. Within just two more weeks, we have uncovered all sorts of interesting things, like a piece of a real human skull. One time, we found a human foot sculpted and smoothed out of stone—who would make such a thing?—and a dead metal device with the icon of a bitten-out-of apple printed on it. !<
There were also other human body parts made out of ancient stone, too: the cracked half of a man's face buried a foot deep, a muscly arm sticking out of the soil. Even a private part, which I snickered at, though Mensim seemed unfazed.
There is something else we start to do. My parents have given me "the talk," and Mensim told me that his parents gave him the Senghavi version of it. And so even as we talk and play in the woods, we experiment—because we are curious, and why should we not be?
A fragment of a memory in the forest; Mensim's raptorial forelimbs are set on my shoulders as his compound eyes look into my primate eyes, and he says, "You cannot tell anyone about this. Anyone. Absolutely no one."
I don't know how, but Priestess Munghazi learned of what we were doing, and now she expresses anger and disgust alike, her wings and antennae wild and rigid. Ghanvati is the same. Mensim and I... We're actually making them reconsider their decision not to tell the Siedi Court about my dad.
A fragment of a memory... I feel like I am in space, stranded aboard a spaceliner that has been hijacked by terrorists, its atmosphere venting amid a backdrop of violence... But I am not, I am in the forest that Mensim and I talked and played in; I am in Mensim's home, terrified as I am yelled at by Ghanvati, whose compassion no longer shines through, accompanied by Priestess Munghazi.
"By the names of the Gods, it's those false, pagan corruptions which humans have named as their religions, that are spouted by your father," Priestess Munghazi spits. I am teary-eyed and snot-nosed from guilt and embarrassment. "How horrid is the link between the state of barbarism and a most revolting and shameful propensity for bizarre and perverted behaviour!"
Then I am in my own family's living room, and the mom I love so dearly yells at me, too, but my father is quieter and only seems disappointed. This must be the first time in my life that I have felt true shame, I think; the kind that leaves you with an emptiness inside. Like the whole point of existing just vanished inside of me.
The worst part is that I cannot even lean on Mom's shoulder, because she is distressed—because she knows what will happen—
"This is all on you, Casimir!" she screeches, tears in her eyes. "All on you!"
I remember telling Priestess Munghazi that 'I'm not dangerous or evil; I'm just a kid,' but now I can't be sure anymore. I can tell I am different in the eyes of my family. They are disgusted by me.
It is my fault, after all, that Priestess Munghazi tells the Siedi Court of my father's evil, barbaric Christian teachings.
The Parimthian soldiers bring my father to the gallows. Their snow-white exoskeletons gleam under a burning sun. They have dressed him in his clerical uniform, and the camera is close enough that I can see his cross necklace.
I have been grounded in my room; still, I have a television to see the live broadcast.
Hanging works for primates and mantids alike. It happens in the Forum of Movvaeti, the venue for public events in our area, where my father is a lesser criminal compared to the native leaders and Senghavi malcontents who have dissented from Colonial Governor Nieve fe Skellth.
He is joined with seven other convicts, three humans and four Senghavi, and their crimes are read to the crowd—blasphemy, paganism, monogamy, witchcraft, seditious libel, insulting the Parimthian Crown, treason against the Parimthian Crown, and refusal to quarter Parimthian soldiers.
Why? None of this feels right. Why should my father be killed because of what he says and believes? Why can't these people be judged with fairness, rather than at the whim of some distant space emperor?
Not only have I been grounded, but I grow cold without my mother's touch. I want to hold someone's hand while watching Dad lose his life, but nobody is there. Mom brings me food, but she doesn't even look at me. Why can't she look at me? Why can't she speak to me? I just want things to be the way they used to be, when Dad would help me practise hitting a ball with a bat on the street.
I watch him turn down a caped, bejewelled priestess of the Siedi faith, who thought she could make my dad accept their Gods before his death. Before a modest crowd of humans and Senghavi alike, all eight of the convicts have their arms and legs bound with rope.
I am begging myself to turn the TV off, but I can't bring myself to. The Senghavi executioner uses some kind of hi-tech display to remove the supports from beneath the convicts' feet. My stomach flips over inside of me, a nausea of shame filling my body.
I can't deny it any longer. This is my fault—this is why my family avoids me—this is why they are disgusted by me—and Dad falls and his head jerks when the noose goes taut.
As he hangs there, I cannot tell for how long he remains alive. My insides are cold. After the broadcast ends, after night falls and I sit in the moonlight spilling faintly through my windows, that is when it all comes out. I sob alone. I scream for Mom to help me and be there for me, but she does not come. Her harsh voice resonates through my memory; this is all on me. I am a disgrace to everyone I love, and that is why they have left me here. Why they avoid me as if I am a disease.
The only thing I want is to see Dad again, but he is gone forever. I curl up on my room floor. What is this? What is this loneliness? This stinging hatred I feel against myself?
No one, human or mantid, will be there for me. I cry until my throat cannot ache any more harshly, until my eyes cannot sting any more painfully, and then I go cold inside, my body shivering in the moonlight. I retreat into my happy memories with Dad until it is too painful to bear.
I wish so dearly I could end it all, to take my own life and join Dad in the heaven that he believed in. There is a belt in my closet that I can use on myself in the way the Siedi Court killed Dad.
But beneath the sickly well of shame, the nausea and crushing humiliation at the stupid antics of Mensim and I, with which Mom's brief gaze pierces me—beneath the weight of knowing that I will never fill the torturous vacuum Dad left, knowing that I am a foul and disgusting son to the mother I so desperately need, that I see no end to the infinite river of anxiety and guilt pouring through the hole left in my heart—beneath my isolation and my longing for human touch—something breaks inside of me.
An emptiness of purpose. There is no point in going on, and I feel nothing, not even the desire to stop living. There is one exception: A hatred of myself, and of the humans I loved as family.
One day, Mom appears in my doorway, and she just stands there. Before, I would've welcomed being offered interaction with her beyond just receiving food, but now I am numb, my eyes all out of tears to cry.
"Pack your things," she says, her voice flat. She still doesn't look at me; the eyes she once said I inherited from Dad, she now shuns. "You're going to a residential school."
Indigenous Residential Schools; that is what Colonial Governor Nieve fe Skellth calls them, I think. They're for human kids who have trouble letting go of their "savage" roots; kids that the normal schools aren't enough to civilise. Schools that show you how to act Senghavi, to think Senghavi, to... be Senghavi.
There was a human kid in normal school whose sister went there, but they said that something had happened to her there; something in that residential school had changed her before she finally returned.
But I feel no fear as I pack my clothes into my bags. Every time I look in my bedroom mirror, a violent feeling rushes to my chest, only to dissipate into the hatred-tinged numbness I have grown so used to.
Finally, the time comes to depart. In the early morning, I am already aboard the autonomous public transport. It pulls out of the cracked street I once played with Dad in, passing by the entrance of Fellye Neighborhood, driving off into the fiery, violet Terran dawn. I see my faded reflection in the window, and my chest jumps with revulsion.
So I look down, fidgeting with my touchpad—then the numbness abruptly leaves, and my tears fall once again.
Forgive me for all the redaction, Doctor Morgthax. While I will not disclose what I wrote, you are correct, as always, about the act of writing. There is some semblance of psychological relief in typing one's sullen inner thoughts onto a touchpad. As if one can be heard without being heard.
By the time I drifted back to reality, my mouth and lips dry from dehydration, the hijackers had patched up the holes punched through the hull by the accidental explosion. Plenty of Senghavi passengers were spilling cerulean blood from beneath their exoskeletal coverings; though they were all alive, they needed medical attention.
Two hundred-something Senghavi civilians aboard this luxury spaceliner, and none had yet died. That stroke of luck offered me a glimmer of hope.
Pavok, the child, was emitting vibrations through the floor in his despair, the smell of rain and lilies becoming evident to me. It is starkly fascinating, the evolutionary dissimilarity between how native Terrans and Senghavi Terrans cry.
Those ships were delivering medical aid and critical provisions to the passengers, Commander Lokprel barked, the neutrino signals that encoded his gruff voice coming out from the intercom. Why did you laser them?
"Stop playing games," Jake snapped wearily into his radio. I recalled that his full name was Jacob Weaver, as Commander Lokprel had mentioned. A drop of blood streaked down his face. "We know what you're up to."
Paranoia will get you nowhere, Jacob. If we don't work with each other, you won't survive. We have detected an explosion aboard the spaceliner. Is anyone dead?
"Not yet," Jake growled. "But Fenni Svim will be if your forces keep approaching!"
Fenni Svim—the Senghavi from the Vellir Veneti Physics Lab, against whose skull Jake had pressed his pistol to halt the CDF's initial approach, hours ago—stiffened in her seat. I had never known the nuclear researcher very well before this barbarous event, but I prayed to the Gods of Siedi (whom I do not really believe in) that she would be okay.
Many of the passengers were still being kept by the windows to deter snipers. They included Pavok, behind whom Khadija stood guard.
"Sorry for attacking you," Jake suddenly said to me, his voice worn-out. "It's like Khadija said. The bugs know that humans are strong when they're united. It's why they try to play us against ourselves, to ally with just some of us, to try to make us hate each other; to hate ourselves. It's how they tore the United States apart. Everything they do... It's to make us ashamed of our species, our own culture, to lose hope in the future. If we were united, Casimir... they'd be terrified of us. And make no mistake—we're uniting again."
"E-even if what you say about mankind is true," I croaked, "Our species would not have settled anywhere but Earth. Our culture and history would still have been negligible and primitive, the richness and complexity of the Senghavi, still greater by many orders of magnitude."
"Casimir, did you go to one of the Indigenous Residential Schools?" Khadija asked.
"Y-yes," I managed, dusting off my formal wear and cleaning my glasses. "I was sent to one as a child. They are for those of us savage natives which conventional education could not sufficiently civilise."
Khadija's eyes softened with compassion, and she gestured to my wrist. "I asked because of that code on your wrist. I've heard about some of the things that happen in those places. The cruelty; the abuse."
I glanced at the abstract identification code tattooed onto my skin, faded with time. I hadn't thought about it in ages; it was but a remnant of my childhood, and I never paid it any attention.
"Residential schooling is necessary and proper," I tell her. "It is similar to human-mantid apartheid in its purpose; it keeps the public safe from savagery. "
"If we get out of this alive, I'm gonna take you with me to Russia," she said, wiping sweat from her brow. "Specifically, Moscow. It's where I lived after the fall of Türkiye. Man controls it, not the Senghavi."
I was already aware that a vast, untamed region named Zvorriu-Sai, located in Earth's northeastern quarter-sphere, is called Russia in simple-speak. A decade ago, Nieve fe Skellth had tried to civilise the hunter-gatherers who lived there, but his troops starved and froze in the snow.
It was with the multitude of planetary habitat fabricators that his army had been using that the native primates of Zvorriu-Sai constructed such cities as Moscow or Saint Petersburg.
"Russian civilization goes back over a millennium," Khadija explained. "I don't give a fuck about what the Senghavi have built on this planet; Russian architecture is my favourite, hands down. Anyway, it's the most stable and self-sufficient of the ten countries we've got left. Hard to invade, you know? It's seen better days, but the cities are nice, the economy is good. I think you'll find it's a hell of a lot less 'savage' than whatever the fuck the Parimthian Empire is doing."
To corroborate her claims, she showed me a photo from the gallery of her cracked, dusty touchpad. Before a busy canal, the waters tinted orange by a rising sun, a more relaxed version of her smiled into the camera alongside some human of the phenotype I had seen in the video of Tokyo. Looming over them was an intricate, palatial structure topped with colourful, onion-shaped domes.
"How... quaint," I replied, unsure of what to say, though it ignited dry laughter in Khadija.
"Looks like we got a communiqué from the UN," another hijacker announced, his mask still covering his face. I couldn't place his accent at all. He held up his own touchpad, displaying photos of the Colonial Governor herself—Perellanth fe Sumur—flanked by armed UN military personnel. They were clad in urban camouflage that was marred with blood. The black, plant-like extraterrestrial gazed defeatedly in the sterile lighting.
The UN had captured her! The Crown's decision to appoint a Vire as the leader of a Senghavi colony had been no small event. I was certain that after all the talk of Senghavi Terran independence, then followed by the Colonial Governor's capture, His Imperial Majesty regretted his progressivist decision.
"We... We did it!" Jake exclaimed, his voice disbelieving. "We took down Perellanth!"
You achieved nothing, Commander Lokprel retorted over the intercom. Not beyond the promotion of Benghoviu fe Prim to Acting Colonial Governor. If you kill Governor Sumur, Governor Benghoviu will become the permanent Colonial Governor as per the chain of command, and he will carry on the fine work of his predecessor.
Jake seemed to consider that situation a fair one, and he nodded to himself subtly. "Okay, sure. But if you do nothing, we'll still kill our first hostage."
What I can promise you is that Delegate Essintsya fe Baryn will submit an Act to the Forum of Delegates to recognize the sovereignty of the UN. It will be deliberated over for months, but it is your only realistic option. In return, we demand that you allow the passengers injured by one of your explosives to board CDF medical ships.
I recalled that the Forum of Delegates had voted Benghoviu fe Prim as Vice Colonial Governor just a year ago. And before even that, the Senghavi who lived on Vennec—my home continent on Earth—had popularly elected the ever-prudent Essintsya fe Baryn to the Forum. She was quite the economic liberal, as her sort was called.
Delegate Baryn's statements on the social contract between a people and their government, as well as her rejection that the Parimthian Crown ruled by divine right, had resonated deeply with me.
Jake's eyes hardened, and he turned his radio back on. "I said no games!"
There are no games here, Jacob! We only aim to preserve as much sapient life as possible. And you are out of options.
The hijacker who had shown Colonial Governor Sumur's prison photo gave Jake a withering look. "We're dragging this on, man. I don't want anyone to die."
"Don't talk to me about death, Ramiro. Not after what happened in the US."
The so-called United States of America... called Gholo Vieda in Parimthian. That region was Nieve fe Skellth's last successful conquest before he attempted to take on the vast, snowy expanses of Zvorriu-Sai. I wondered if, like Khadija's experience in Türkiye in the Niethvahi region, Jake had witnessed firsthand the cultural assimilation and political integration of Gholo Vieda into the rest of Parimthian Earth.
The conquest of Gholo Vieda and Niethvahi were the great accomplishments of Perellanth's predecessor, of course; but, in my opinion, the devotion of the (now captured) Perellanth to the causes of liberty, reason, equality, and sapientism far outshadowed anything that Nieve had done. I am certain, however, that the Parimthian Crown disagrees.
In any case, my faith in CDF Commander Lokprel loth Fonvie had not risen. Perhaps that was a good thing; otherwise, I might have regretted betraying the knowledge of antimatter research in order to elicit a more competent Parimthian intervention.
More security forces took up positions around the spaceliner, each ship split sharply into sunlight and shadow amid the black of space. The hijacker called Ramiro pointed to a series of smaller craft, which seemed to be pulling away from the luxury spaceliner. Escape pods!
"Hostages are falling through our fingers," Ramiro said. "We need to do something."
"Go to the rear," Khadija ordered. "Stop anyone else from sneaking out!"
Jake's radio crackled with the voice of someone in the cockpit. We've intercepted a neutrino transmission from the new guy, Benghoviu fe Prim. He's calling for some kind of emergency council at the highest levels in the Parimthian Empire.
I scoffed internally. The Crown would intervene for the sake of investigating all this talk of antimatter, whose alluring utility had hitherto been confined to theory and fiction. But it was doubtful that His Imperial Majesty would agree to an emergency council for the sake of his colonists' security and well-being. As (relatively) progressivist as he was in policy, he was still very much a punitive emperor, not a rewarding one.
"I told the commander to stop advancing—dammit!" Jake spat. "We're only letting medical craft get any closer. Fire at the corvettes!"
Affirmative, his radio crackled. Targets in sight.
The spaceliner's anti-collision lasers flashed against several faraway spacecraft. A succession of oxygen-fueled fires, each lasting for a [~split-second] against the vacuum of space, flared in the distance. Even so, the growing array of naval craft began to close in upon us again, surrounding the spaceliner in every dimension.
Switching again to the neutrino-connected channel, Jake gave a disgusted scowl. "Are you deaf, Commander? If your people keep getting closer, the deal is off!"
The more you fire, the closer we will get, Lokprel said. We are just making sure it is safe for the medical craft. As long as you refrain from harming them, we will not hurt you.
The hijacker in the cockpit radioed to Jake again, her voice sounding more alarmed.
We're picking up a massive object on our scanners. It's headed our way.
"How massive are we talking?" Jake asked.
It's... some kind of warship, I think. Over a hundred times our size.
"You're joking, right?"
"A Parimthian spacecraft carrier," murmured a soft, whimpery voice.
It was Fenni Svim again, her praying raptorial forelimbs tucked close in fear.
"The Imperial Parimthian Navy?" I asked. "They're really here?"
"Y-you shouldn't act surprised," Fenni said. "I know you were speaking to someone on the P-Parimthian side. You leaked our greatest secret, Casimir."
"R-right."
"What's she talking about, dude?" Khadija asked. Suspicion of betrayal lingered in her dark eyes. She had believed the lie that I was only calling a loved one when I contacted Mensim, >! who is at present an agent of Parimth!<; she had trusted me, and defended me against Jake's wrath.
I didn't answer. The very reason we needed antimatter was that the colonists' outerspace spanned but a meagre few millionths of the Parimthian Empire's total volume. I did not know what exactly a spacecraft carrier one hundred times the size of our spaceliner could do for the hostages, but it would be far more competent than the comparatively flimsy Colonial Defence Force.
Finally, after so many years of strategic modesty in the administration of the Crown's distant colony, of his Earth, as His Imperial Majesty suffered expense upon expense in countering the Imperium of Orion... Parimth had sent a warship of the Imperial Parimthian Navy, here in full force!
There was no need to inquire as to its distance; I could see it through my window. It was far enough that I could view the whole of its great form. Senghavi architecture, of course, is usually round, white, and glassy, traced with glowing accents; however, the imperial warship was boxy and shadowy black, visible only by the silhouette that it carved into the beaming sun.
Already, dozens of smaller craft—operated by some of the finest Senghavi pilots in the Milky Way—began spilling out from the spacecraft carrier, moving in the shadow of their gargantuan mothership. As even the hostage passengers became aware of its presence, the muted chatter and whimpering, which had been ambient across the aisles of the spaceliner, finally ceased.
Because of me, all of us—colonists and savages alike—were, for the first time in a decade, going to face a military intervention by Parimth itself.

I have been trying for the last five years to reach extreme minimalism. The benefits have been widely discussed however few offer practical ways to achieve it. I decided to start a discussion on it, sharing ideas and to make it easy to follow we start from the opposite. Not from what we have but how we would start if we had absolutely nothing.
Imagine yourselves absolutely naked in the middle of nowhere, a barren landscape on neutral temperature. You can snap your fingers and instantly get/equip what you need. How would you start?
According to the hierarchy of needs, we humans need shelter water and food to cover our absolute immediate needs.
First snap of fingers we get a pair of underwear. At least a pair for now. Let's get to work. We need shelter. There are many options to choose from. Mobile home or conventional. And small enough to clean. For mobility we pick a small trailer truck which these things: a single mattress on a plank and on the other side of the trailer a shower booth with a toilet bowl next to it. Next to the mattress there is a small kitchen sink with 80 cm countertop. Below the countertop there is a minibar fridge and next to it a built-in air-fryer. Under the plank of the mattress there is a single long (1.8 m.) drawer which splits in 2 compartments. One side -the longer one- is our cloth capsule wardrobe which we filled with basic clothing: 2 short T-shirts, 2 long T-shirt (all plain - neutral color), 2 shirts 4 underwear, 4 socks (2 short - 2 long) 1 pair of sneakers, 1 pair of bluejeans, one chico pants and one jacket. The smaller compartment has utensils (2 sporks 2 plates 2 knives with teeth, 2 stainless steel mugs, one for you one for a potential guest) The trailer does not have laundry machine the clothes are so few they can be washed by hand and dry in the sun.
The paragraph above is our base. It keeps us safe, rested, fed and watered. (Under the sink there is a small filter so we can drink the water.) In case we need to travel outside of the country we put everything in a 20-30 liter backpack and we are ready. In case we don't want the mobile home at all and we can rent accommodation, just take the clothes on the backpack and ready to move.
On technology: Our smartphone is enough nowadays to pay almost for everything even contactless payments. Just in case, an extra debit card would do the trick to withdraw cash if required especially when travelling abroad. The phone can also keep notes so no need for pens and notebooks. Either a light 15'' inch laptop or an ipad with a wireless palm keyboard can cover longer sessions of work that require more comfort on screen size and typing. Phones have good cameras for photos, if this is an actual hobby perhaps a small high resolution camera could be added. One charger and a power bank must be included here. Either on phone or laptop/ipad we can have online access to any book or news we may want to read no need for bulky book carrying.
Documentation: ID, Passport, driver's license should be enough to go almost anywhere. Authorizations, tax paperwork, credentials such as degrees or certifications can be mostly stored and verified online (thank you camera scanner) however this differs from country to country and from institution to institution so check what can be equally valid online as is in paper.
Tools and pharmaceuticals: Considering we have little, no tools are required. If something breaks down we replace it. Pharmaceuticals, if required, must be enough to last until next pharmacy is in range and our online prescription should allow us to buy more. Just in case meds should be bought only when required.
And pretty much that's it. Some basic clothes and basic technology on a backpack is all we need to live and create space for experiences not revolving around stuff. As Plinius the Elder said: ''Romans love to spend so much on shiny colorful marbles, statues and paintings...However when a fire breaks out they weep, not only for the unique treasures they lost but for the fortunes they spent to buy them.'' This goes not only to the hoarders, maximalists and over-consumers but to these minimalists who spend on few but very expensive items. (I am looking at you, Burberry coat and latest Mac ''minimalist'') Frugal, extreme minimalism with easy to replace stuff is the answer to fully detach oneself from material possessions and live life without the materialistic stress.
Please feel free to add ideas or anything you think it is absolutely essential but missing from the list.
PS: Nobody starts with absolutely nothing how to reduce the existing material possessions? Depending on item use one of these steps in that order: Either Sell, Donate, Abandon (leave it outside of a trash bin on a plastic bag for someone to pick it up) Recycle, or throw it straight to the trash. Online search is enough to gauge the value of almost anything. (Marketplace, Craigslist, buy-sell social media groups etc or even find the price of your item as new from an online shop and sell it 30-50% cheaper)