Colony Four

People seem to be reading these offerings, for whatever reason, so here’s another – considerably younger than the others; in fact, dating dating from just two years ago.

And in light of new findings about Pluto and Charon, I may just have to add a colony B-)

Colony Four

Retrieved from Colony Three Archives, from approximately 20 million years BP.  Partial translated record of a policy statement from System Government.

“It is hard to know where they came from.  Against all odds, in a hostile and corrosive environment, to not only come to be – but to thrive, to prosper, and…to spread.

This is where the peril lies, for us.  These organisms have survived such adverse environments, and multiplied in them, that they could probably live anywhere.  Including where we live – and that is part of the problem.

Their rise and development is the other, and possibly more important part.  In mere thousands of planetary revolutions, they have gone from being inconsequential animals to beings that influence an entire planetary biosphere – and adversely, from our viewpoint and from theirs.

We missed this development, until it obtruded itself upon us.  We were unaware of their insidious intrusion into our fourth colony’s ecosystems until the top predator numbers started catastrophically declining, and the heavy metals started pouring into the atmosphere.

Just in the fourth colony, though: the last-settled and most sparsely colonised; the one with the steepest gravity well, the highest radiation hazards and least abundant nutrients; the one we regard as a fringe habitat, albeit the one with possibly the greatest potential habitable volume of all.

Perhaps part of the problem is that we cannot identify with them in any way at all: they are physically far larger than us; they have also left the atmosphere of their world a mere few million years ago to live in what amounts to a soft vacuum – albeit one with enough corrosive oxidant to be highly toxic to any of us, and sufficiently highly damaging to any of our equipment as to make it almost impossible to spend long enough with them to attempt any contact.

We have indirect contact, however.  They have mastered enough technology to fill the space between planets with electronic noise, however unintelligible; they also fill the atmosphere of Colony Four with enough noise pollution as to make it almost uninhabitable – as a by-product of their transport mechanisms!

And now they start to try to leave the planet.  Oh, they only use primitive chemical propulsion, with tiny payloads on enormous chemical rockets that only get into low orbit, but they have still left the planet.  To what end, who knows: theirs is the only planet with surface conditions suitable for them; they cannot use our habitats without extensive modification or protective wear, just as we cannot use theirs – although our sort of habitat is far more common than theirs, in this, our planetary system as well as on their planet.

We cannot allow this to continue.  Simple prudence dictates that we, the dominant life form in this system, should not allow ourselves and our habitats to be threatened by what amounts to a fringe organism arising from an extreme environment – and that we should take measures to protect ourselves and our civilisation from it.  It is merely common sense, therefore, that we should accept a temporary loss of access to Colony Four’s ecosphere while we intervene at a planetary level to negate the potential threat these organisms pose to us.  They have never met us, they have never sought to communicate; they probably have no idea…[further material too garbled to interpret]”

Commentary prior to Third Intervention on Colony Four: Citizens Record Network

“This is a fascinating snippet from our early history, as it sets the stage not only for the huge First Intervention at Colony Four, but also the smaller Second that was deemed necessary for the same reason, just over 5 million years ago.  Changes in our governmental policies and ethics with time have set the threshold for intervention ever higher, until the proposed Third Intervention comes only after evidence of advanced planetary change that itself amounts to global consequences nearly as severe as the Second Intervention itself: this time, the emergent organisms have significantly changed the chemistry not only of the atmosphere, but also of the attenuated gases above it – and caused extinctions of atmospheric life forms rivalling any caused by us.  We will remember that our very recent Intervention in the atmosphere of Primary was triggered by the same observation – which extinguished an emergent threat very much closer to us, although technologically not as advanced.

However, the most important fact influencing a change in the non-interventionist policy for Colony Four that has prevailed for 5 million years is the fact that the new Colony Four emergents have achieved what amounts to interplanetary travel.  While initially this was limited to the Colony Four satellite and the adjacent planet, both barren beyond any hope of colonisation, as well as deep outer system probes, they have recently managed to explore the environment around Colonies Two and Three.  Although the ecosystem of Colony Three is securely hidden from them by the thick planetary crust, Colony Two’s atmosphere vents through the crust into the orbital plane of Second Primary – and has been sampled several times by the Colony Four emergents, using a surprisingly long-lived exploratory vehicle.  It is considered only a matter of time, given that Primary and Mother World and Colony One are closer to Colony Four than are Two and Three and Second Primary, that they also investigate these worlds.  As it is, it is becoming increasingly likely that they will detect – or may have even already detected – our shuttles as they arrive or leave the planet, given an increasing use of electromagnetic scanning and of near-surface flight craft.

The threshold has been passed, therefore – and action is imminent.  As twice before, a strike using a large outer system cometary body is being discussed, and will probably be mandated.  Given that the organisms inhabit only the near-vacuum region of Colony Four, albeit in a wide range of temperature zones, a severe global reduction in temperature over a period of several Mother World standard years should adversely affect the above-atmosphere ecosphere sufficiently to reduce their numbers and infrastructure so as to negate any threat, without rendering the habitable atmosphere overly unpleasant.  It may even return the atmosphere to conditions prevailing around 50 million years ago, with the atmosphere completely covered by a frozen crust, similar to Colony Four – which would be a most favourable outcome!

It is interesting that these emergences should have happened three times in recorded history on this, our most marginal colony world.  It is presumed that because the planet is the only one of the Colonies warm enough to expose the atmosphere directly to space without a protective crust, also allows faster evolution of organisms adapted to living in near vacuum, to achieve sufficient sentience as to pose a threat – three times in just 20 million years, and 250 million revolutions of the planet around the primary.  It is even more interesting that all of the organisms in question evolved in, and then came out of the atmosphere – and that their distant ancestors probably came from a source common to us and them, however repugnant the thought.  Indeed, while we see animals physically similar to us that live in their atmosphere, the truth is that our common ancestors were bacterioplankton, blasted from the atmospheres of worlds throughout the system by asteroid strikes over 300 million years ago, and distributed across the worlds through millennia by simple orbital mechanics. Indeed, it is possible that we have a closer genetic relationship to the now extinct and almost unimaginably diffuse cloud beings of Primary, than we do to Colony Four’s emergent beings.  Thus, they are as evolutionarily distant from us as we are from crust-hugging foodweed, or bottom-dwelling gusher spawn, and we should feel no more kinship to them than we do to our food.  The fact that they are so short-lived compared to us should similarly inspire pity.  Their paltry six or seven years compared to our eight-of-eights means no one individual can ever amass enough knowledge to be truly sentient; no grouping can last long enough or be stable enough to consolidate knowledge as we do.

If it were not for the good of The People, however, we could feel a general sense of regret at having to yet again cause the extinction of what appears to be intelligent life, however primitive.  However, the greater good of the greater number should be what guides us in this momentous decision – and in truth, we Citizens probably outnumber the emergents on their own planet, despite the sparseness of our settlement there, to say nothing of our far greater numbers throughout the rest of the system.  It is a sad fact of life that the fit out-compete the unfit, even at the level of entire species, and that we need to out-compete species that emerge to threaten our long-term well-being.  We have done it by simple biological competition on Mother World, in our own distant prehistory; we did it deliberately by atmospheric engineering on Colony Five, out around the blue and distant Primary Three.  And we have already done it twice to Colony Four, and an-eight-and-a-half times to Primary.

As it is, if the strike is mandated, in a few eights of years our orbital telescopes will give an excellent view of the chosen body being guided from the fringes of the system, to impact our ill-fated Colony Four, on the third planet out from our companion star.  We are assured that it will be even more impressive than the most recent cometary sterilisation of the emerging cloud beings of Mother World’s Primary, given the much smaller size of the Colony Four planet.   Of course, colonists will shelter as deep in the atmosphere as is feasible, if they do not wish to be evacuated: they will still be safe, as the strike will be directed, as before, to impact rock above the atmosphere.  Until then – be safe, Citizens!”

Archivists note:

It is fascinating, from the viewpoint of a million Nest years later, to read such similar justifications of repeated genocide, of beings that were innocently unaware of the existence of what we know as The Inner Republic. A twelve of species eliminated on Planet Five alone; three on Planet Three; at least one around Planet Seven – and all in just a million years!  Indeed, their mark persists until now, with Three still crusted over, the atmosphere of Five so unstable and their own Mother World so polluted, that nothing but bacteria can live there.  It is scarcely credible that they could have risen, and then descended again, within the lifetime of one star.

It is also interesting to see that they were so blithely unaware of our existence, out in the region where the rocks and ice bodies that bombarded them came from: could they not see that the cells that made them and all other life in the system, came from here?  That in fact, they and all the other life in the Inner System descends from our prehistoric waste, carried between stars with us, and then in-system?  They, who used bodies from the Cloud as weapons to kill other species?

It is probably a feature of the overpoweringly hot environment in the planetary zone that results in such rapid evolution, that organisms come to sentience without the length of life that allows true reflection and understanding.  Out here on the system perimeter, all we have is stars – and the closest is merely the most recent to us, whereas to them it was their only one.  Such beings cannot take the time to gather information, to observe and eventually, to understand.  It has taken just a fraction of the life-of-a-six to gather all the information that they ever transmitted, through so many of their lifetimes.

It is fortunate, then, that their reach remained limited to the inner system, inside Planet Nine.   Only-a-twelve-could-compute what damage they could have done to us in the Mother Cloud, had they not turned on themselves and descended into mere beasts again.

Truly, inner system organisms live fast and hot, and die young.

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A Day at the Station

Here’s another, from the back archive: I think I wrote the original version about 30 years ago; this is resurrected from a much-copied .wri format file, from the misty past. A homage to the SF greats who inspired me: Roger Zelazny, Poul Anderson, Walter M Miller, Theodore Sturgeon, Cordwainer Smith….


A Sort of

Science Fictional





Edward Rybicki

I will tell you what this place is.

It is The Station.

It is, at once and separately, every type of station you could wish it to be.  It exists in all times, all at the same time.

It is everywhere at once, and nowhere in particular.  It is within your imagination, but probably outside of your life – unless you join us.

Joining us is not hard. 

It is also extremely difficult. 

You see, the act of joining is the easy part: it requires only the conscious decision.  Ah, but getting to where one is faced with the decision – that is the difficult part.  It is not hard to make beautiful music after a lifetime of practice; not difficult to create wonderful images when one’s life has been spent working to that point – so too, it is not hard to make the decision to join The Station, when your whole experience has pointed you towards it.

But joining us is forever.

We have many people here.  People you may know, people you have heard of.  People you have passed by and never noticed, people who lived their lives far away and long ago, and were known by very few.  The man who walked around the horses at the inn and vanished, he is here.  A writer of strange dictionaries, who went missing, also.  Simple folk, too – here in the greatest number. 

All with one thing in common.  All here because of a simple realisation.

You know us, you know.  You see us every day.  We surround you, we walk beside you, we are in the next seat, the next aisle.  We are your milieu in your travels.

Let me tell you a story, to illustrate this.  This happened for me just recently; for you in ages past or just tomorrow, or in some time other than this.

Picture a branch of The Station.  This is a small branch, for steam trains this time.  Picture golden grasses as far as the eye can see, broken only by the straight steel lines, meeting out near infinity.  A small wooden building in this incarnation, with a bent stovepipe chimney, a low platform, a small office.

And a Station Master.

This is one to inspire distaste in the powerful, unease in the prosperous, and fear in the humble ragged folk who huddle on the platform, as far from him as they can be.  A glassy look to the eye, a habit of looking over your shoulder while speaking loudly in a harsh voice, of repeating things often, of muttering to himself and making jerky movements.  An excellent recruiter, then.  He had the manner of one used to command, of one accustomed to being listened to, and instantly obeyed.  Perhaps he had been, somewhere, sometime.

And there was I, of course.  A humble person in this place, a sweeper of platforms and fetcher of things inconsequential.  A person deferring anxiously to the station master, yet gaining some small substance from the greater being.  I have been greater than this, I have been less.  I will not tell you where I come from before  – it does not matter, here.

And the travellers.

A ragged crew, dirty with the grime that comes from too much wear rather than too little water.  One old man, white-bearded, large felt hat; and six women, all with head cloths, all worn and lined.  They sat in the close, motionless, silent huddle of dull despair, in the apathy that settles in when whether or not the train comes becomes a matter of indifference.

Almost there, then – all of them.

I industriously wield my broom along the platform, raising great clouds of unnecessary dust, pushing along towards the wretched huddle.  As I frown at them to move, to remove their lowly selves from the path of one such as myself, I surreptitiously scan their faces, their postures.

There is one, I say to myself, there is one.

She sits slightly apart from the others, appears more hopeless even than they, yet more refined, more gentle.  She has fallen further than them, then.  She does not notice, rather than ignores, the dust falling now around her.  She hardly notices the station master as he clumps up, harshly shouting at this scum to move themselves or be thrown out of this place; she is lost in some private, sad imagining.

Definitely a candidate, this one. I take up a position at the end of the platform, between them and the sun still low in the east.  Yes, they have waited here two days now, and this is the second morning of hope.  I whistle some tune as I lean on my broom, watching the woman as I idly scan the horizon.  I know there is a train coming, I have seen the faint smudge of smoke blurring in the far east.  I see the station master does too – he smiles to me as he comes officiously to glare at the passengers once more.

Presently they too notice the thickening smoke, and begin to come alive: little murmurs, and almost stealthy gestures begin, and the pathetic baggage is checked.  All except for the patriarch, and the woman.  He cannot permit himself this hope, this expectation; she does not care.

The train slowly, so slowly draws closer.  A fine cowcatcher on the front, we see, and a tall funnel chuffing a thick black smoke.  There are passenger cars, and freight wagons.  The station master positively struts, now, and pulls his moustache fiercely, and consults his watch (to no purpose – there is no timetable, only a calendar, and this is mostly wrong).  The train draws near finally.  Two of the women stand, anxiously, twittering like faded birds.  The others are busy pulling together bundles, even the old man stirs himself to pull out a pipe.  Only The Woman (as I call her to myself) does not stir.

The train slows.  It blows a shriek of steam through its whistle, once, twice.  An arm swings out of a carriage, drops the mail sack.  I swing another aboard.  The station master waves once, abruptly.  The train does not stop.

Consternation amongst the travellers.  The women cry, weep, argue.  The patriarch shakes his head, curses.  The woman lifts her head to the retreating train, permits herself a small, sad smile that lingers as she returns her stare to the platform.  The old man mumbles to himself a while, then plucks up the courage, his hat in his old, calloused hands, to approach me.  I gently shoo him over to the station master, wordlessly, shaking my head and smiling.  He heavily approaches this worthy, who still writes in his book.  He stands before him, turning his hat.  The station master writes on.  The old man stands.  The station master finishes.  He closes his book.  He looks up and through the old man, and turns to go.  The old man reaches out a hand, with a little wordless cry.  The station master stops, looks back.  He shakes his arm.  The hand drops off from its grip on the black, shiny cloth.  The station master looks through the old man a for what seems a long, long while.  The patriarch begins to blurt an apology.  The station master goes to his office, closes the door.

I shrug as the old man turns to me, and continue with my sweeping.  I ignore him as he tries to speak, and he hopelessly trudges back to his group.  I observe the woman, then.  She sees all this, she shakes her head, with the little smile a little twisted now.  I catch her eye, once.  She looks away.  I stare.  She looks back, away, back again.  I will her to see.  I will her to realise her potential.

She looks troubled.  I stare into her eyes, trying to show her the way, trying to help her decision.  She gazes back, like a rabbit at a snake.  I smile, and point up and out with my eyes.  Her gaze follows, returns.

I narrow my eyes.  I sneer.  I turn to the patriarch, then, and sweep more dust.  I hear something, a little like a sob, then a soft cry.  I look, sideways.

You would see the woman fold up like an old garment, slump to the platform, sigh as the air left her lungs, and her sphincters opened, and she died.

I saw her stand up, look about, smile at me, and step into –

The Station.

You would see her lie like a sack, as her companions discover her passing and begin to wail; as the station master comes over and rages at them for the mess.

I see her pass with a graceful step, away from the rags lying untidily on the scarred wood, into the warmth and light of that part of our world we call the Tavern.  Her face lights up, she reaches up a hand to be helped up, she turns and waves – and the rift between worlds closes, the warmth vanishes, and we are left with the grass waving in a cold breeze, the wooden platform, and the body.

We have an understanding, the Station Master and I.  We both recruit for our world, he with the blind arrogance of authority, and I with the understanding look.  We look at each other, smile.  I turn to the pathetic passengers, speak slowly and loudly to them, gesture them to take the body away, to bury it, to remove it from our notice.  Sobbing, they slowly obey.  They are all very good candidates, these.

Maybe  more of them will join us, further on this hopeless journey of theirs.

Perhaps you have guessed, by now.  Perhaps now you know what is required to come to The Station, to stop by the Tavern of the World.  Perhaps we will see you soon, apprehensively stepping over the threshold, coming in to join the old wanderer in rags, the big man with the beard and ornate signet ring, the monk who babbles of blueprints, the men who did not return from Borodino, from Stalingrad, from Kabul, from Gettysburg, and from Fomalhaut and Proxima Centauri.  Perhaps you will soon relax with us, drink an ale, listen to stories from before you were born, and after you lived.

Then you will go out, as we do, into all of time, and mingle with those who are not of us, be part of the faceless background of their worlds.  You are wondering if you have seen me before?  You have.  You will again.  You will see many of us.  You will know and talk to none –  unless you come here.

It is very easy to get here.

Simply realise that your journey has no point, that you are beyond hope, beyond hoping, that the mere act of passage is futile.  Then, in the calmness beyond despair, a simple realisation that warmth and light beckon you on – and you go.

Ah, but the training for such a step – a whole lifetime, or much shorter.  A lifetime spent at a grey desk in a grey building, or the much shorter period it takes to dehumanise a prisoner; a lifetime of hopelessness, or a few weeks in a trench somewhere in France, in Iraq.

You see, we do not need to recruit actively.  The World does that for us, quite efficiently enough.

I like to nudge, though.  It gives me a sense of being useful.  I don’t think I was much use, before.  I smile at the Station Master.  He gazes past me, somewhere into the awful depths of a classic retreat, or perhaps a grey retirement from glory.  We both turn our gazes to the distant yellow horizon.

There is another train coming.

More travellers.

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Tragedy’s Children

Seeing as the UCT Web renewal project has expunged all of my pages dating back to 1994 as if they had never been – I feel free to recreate them, via the magic of the Wayback Machine. Like this one B-)

Tragedy’s Children

by Ed Rybicki

HMS Beagle:

Posted January 21, 2000 · Issue 70

Note: Inspired by findings of the University of the Witwatersrand’s Palaeo-Anthropology Research Group, especially their reconstruction of the death of the Taung child. This account goes a little further.

The child huddled, whimpering, into her mother’s side. She had been crying for hours. Now all that she could manage was to shiver and keen in a little high-pitched whine. Her mother petted her, worried and heartsick. The child had never behaved like this before, and, with her brother gone, she was all that was left to the family in its long, long flight from starvation. She had always been a different, inquisitive, bold child – and now she was a guilty child, gripped by a remorse foreign to her and her people.

The man of the family gazed stonily out of their refuge. He blamed the child, the mother knew, for what had happened. Blamed her for the childish act of viciousness that had caused the three-year-old to fall and be left behind long enough for the enemy to strike – and carry him away into the broken country so quickly that he could not be found. They had heard him calling for a while – but the cries had soon broken off, and then he was gone. The father had beaten his daughter then, and only stopped when the mother had thrown herself over the child to receive the blows herself. All that night, the child had sobbed with the pain, and with the knowledge of her guilt. All that night, the man had sat and watched out of the little cave mouth while the woman had tried to comfort the child.

Finally, the dawn came, creeping up out over the African hills, lighting the dry land with a false rosy glow. The man looked at his little family then for a long moment: the thin, haggard woman; the small girl; their few pathetic scraps of food held onto during their mad run for the cave. He snarled, threw up dust at them, and was gone.

For a long while, the woman lay with her daughter, dully aware that this was probably the end. Her man had gone, probably forever: he had been increasingly impatient, and increasingly desperate, as their endless trek had taken them away from the big, ugly, vicious invaders of their home country into a land that grew drier and drier as they moved through it. Now he had gone away from them when they needed him most.

Finally she stirred and thought to look for food, to survive a little longer. The cave entrance was narrow and masked with surprisingly green bushes given the dryness of the surroundings. While it was not the broken forest she was used to, there were some similarities, and she had learned the hard way where to look for food during their flight. There were some bulbs near the cave and many larger insects and grubs, even a lizard or two. She could hear monkeys chattering in the distance – they would not be here unless there was something to eat. Further prospecting, with the child clinging to her like death, turned up a damp patch between two big rock outcrops that yielded a muddy puddle when she scraped it out. There was water here, then. They might even live on a while yet – long enough, perhaps, to meet with and perhaps join the band of their people they had seen in the distance a few days previously, also heading this way.

The daughter seemed to have settled a bit, though still she clung, so the mother petted her roughly and got on with the business of staying alive.

The father did not fare well for very long. Fatigue, rage, and perhaps grief, made him careless, out in the open among the scattered rocky hills, and a leopard was pleased to take an alternative to his regular baboon.

The daughter and the mother, though, did well. After her surprisingly quick recovery from the shock and shame of her brother’s disappearance, the girl proved to be a resolute and inventive scavenger, as if determined to make up for the losses her family had suffered. They met with another band of wanderers a few months later, when the rains had finally come, and were assimilated. The mother did not last long; she had lost too much, in flesh and spirit, during the flight from home. The girl, though, eventually took over the role of female organizer in the band. The first thing she instituted was an almost fanatical protection of the young, as well as ostracism by the group of men who strayed. She made other changes to the social order, too – some born of natural genius, some born of the guilt that still permeated her soul. All were useful and became part of the ways of the band. The little group survived and grew and moved on – in a time when many of their brethren perished due to drought, and to invasion and conflict.

The land and the climate changed, and with them the animals. The strong, vicious invaders turned out to be less adaptable than the people they had displaced, and they were soon gone. The people multiplied and spread and were soon everywhere – and they took with them the ethic instilled by the girl, who had become a mother in her turn, and then a matriarch, during her unusually long life.

The bones of the father were soon scattered from the tree under which they had dropped: hyenas and jackals and then the smaller rodents took care of that, converting them into fragments dispersed in the grass. The bones of the boy, however, had a different fate. The crowned eagle that had plucked him by the head from the game path on which he had sprawled had a great, untidy nest in a big tree next to a rocky outcrop. She ate her fill of the child, after flexing her talons into his little braincase, then dropped the remains out of the nest. They fell down, down, onto a steep, earthy, detritus-strewn slope and into the small cave beneath the hill. The stalactites above the slope dripped gently onto the remains, gradually cementing the material beneath them into a solid mass. The child’s braincase was filled with limey seepage, which slowly hardened into a perfect impression of the inside of his skull. The ages passed, and the cave filled up, burying the child’s little bones deeper and deeper. Waves of climatic change swept over the land, but the rocks and the cave system endured.

Finally, finally, men came there and found the child and gently dug him out. They marveled at his perfect little skull, his unblemished teeth, his unerupted molars. They traced arteries in his brain by the lime cast inside his skull. They compared him with other victims of the eagle that had lived above that cave so long ago. Eventually, they named him Taung – and they wondered if he had been part of their ancestry, but decided that they would never know.

But his sister could have told them. She probably still tells us – from the inside. . . .


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We all came down to Montreux….

Well, to Lausanne, actually – but it’s just a boat ride to Montreux, so for the second time in ten years, we were where:

We all came out to Montreux
On the Lake Geneva shoreline
To make records with a mobile
We didn’t have much time
Frank Zappa and the Mothers
Were at the best place around
But some stupid with a flare gun
Burned the place to the ground
Smoke on the water, fire in the sky

So no hotels burning, no Deep Purple soundtrack – but it was beautiful, and one could see why they came.

Us?  Well, we were here to do biofarming, but we took a day off B-)

Near Vevey, close to Montreaux, on board the La Suisse

Near Vevey, close to Montreaux, on board the La Suisse

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Music of a certain age

And here we are, in 2015, listening to music we grew up with – again.  The good wife and I, sitting in our bedroom during an electricity load shedding episode, listening to The Best of Bread newly downloaded in iTunes, and getting dreamy-eyed with memories.

Forty years on and more, and still listening to the Led Zeppelins, the Creams, the Jethro Tulls, the Rory Gallagher – even the Bread.


Are we still so caught up in the way we felt when we were 17 or 18, that we can’t let go of the way we were?

Are we trapped in a desperate search for rejuvenation, for our lost youth, or….

Was it just really, really good music?

I was listening to Hendrix this morning in my car, to something that I swear I had never actually heard before – such is the magic of a biiiiiig iPhone memory, and iTunes – and I was struck by how very slick, and effortless, and GREAT it was.  Hendrix and friends, off an album Gus Silber recommended to me via Twitter just last year (People, Hell and Angels), doing an instrumental blues that just blew my mind.

It also effortlessly took me all the way to work, given minimal traffic while University students pretend to work at revision, but this is by the bye.

Another thing: I was tempted into a little Zeppelin episode on Saturday last, after a longish drive in the rain and mist, with a 2008 remastered offering called Mothership bought in Scotland, pumping out 1968 and 1969 songs from albums I and II. LOUD.

Very, very loud.

And you know, my 19 year-old daughter and her friend joined me, and the friend enthusiastically recognised a track she liked – probably “Ramble On” – and sang along.

What made it for me, though, was on Sunday when I was selecting some music for a family lunch, when I accidentally launched Zep’s “Good Times, Bad Times” – and my 22 year old son son cranked it up to the max my 1983 vintage NAD 3020 amp can do, and sang the whole intro with me. Turns out Led Zeppelin is his favourite band, right up there with Green Day – and, would you believe it, Queen.

We segued into Hugh Masekela and decreased the volume considerably, but my heart had been touched. I had brought my children up right.

Oh, I’ll give an ear to Coldplay, U2 and the Chillie Peppers; I’ll even audit the Black-Eyed Peas and The Eels and Wolfmother – but if I really want to relax, with my eyes closed and immersed in noise, I’ll choose Cream, Zeppelin, Rare Earth, Blind Faith or Hendrix.

Because I can.

Because they are So. Fucking. Good.

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ZA Virus: The Beginning

This is a further elaboration from the taster previously published here.  More will come, as I get time.  As I am inspired.  As my imagination becomes more lurid B-)


The little bat fluttered awkwardly down into the dim alley, its fragile forearm broken by impact with the newly-placed clothesline, high above.  Not that anyone would ever know, but it was a Geoffroy’s horseshoe bat, and it was so close to its roost in the disused storeroom ceiling just a little way down the road that it could smell it – but it would never get there.

It was a tiny thing, just 25 grams of reddish-yellow fur and dark wings spanning just 30 cm, with its stomach half-full of the moths it had been hunting so assiduously beneath the streetlight at the mouth of the alley.  Bat lovers knew it as a public servant, and would know that piles of wings and carapaces under a temporary roost were a good marker of its presence – and there were thousands of them in Cape Town, more in the countryside, and they were completely harmless to humans and animals.

The bat landed roughly, scattering some of the lighter debris carpeting the alley.  It flopped ineffectually, trying to get airborne enough to roost in safety, but all it did was disturb the papers and plastic bottles some more.  Enough to attract the attention of an even more common city inhabitant: a brown rat; Rattus norvegicus, the legendary ship’s rat that had colonised the world, courtesy of seaborne traffic since the dawn of sailing craft, and had been breeding in Cape Town sewers and gutters for three hundred years.

It was big and well-fed specimen; 350 grams and 45 cm from nose to tail tip, darkish brown with a lighter belly.  Like many of its Cape Town brethren, it was bold and adventurous – and aggressive.  It and its kind had not met bats often before; aside from cleaning up dead remains fallen from roosts, the little fliers were generally too agile and too elusive to ever be caught live.

The rat cautiously explored the area near the now suddenly-immobile and sound-alarmed bat – which did its best to feign death, until the rat’s whiskers touched its flight sensory fur on one wing.  Then it exploded into a flurry of movement, frightening the rat off to a meter or so away.  There it sat, watching the bat flutter helplessly in circles on the ground, until it tired and was still again.  So the dance of death began, with the rat venturing up, the bat frantically fluttering, the rat withdrawing – but less each time, until a quick dart had him at the bat’s shoulder, and sharp teeth clamped down to rip the thin wing.

Even though the bat’s wing covered the rat like a blanket, it was so outweighed that its struggles were futile, and quickly over.  Even so, its tiny but sharp teeth caught the rat’s face, and their blood mixed in the rat’s fur as he finished the game.  All that remained was to drag the little body away, to the hole in the crumbled masonry of the alley wall that led into the storeroom of the old antique shop next door, to feed the family.

* * *

It is interesting that it is in the unlikely intersections of unlike partners, that new virus diseases often originate.  Humans, pigs and fruit bats in Malaysia for a virus called Nipah; humans, horses and fruit bats in Australia for a related virus called Hendra; humans and rodents in West Africa for Lassa virus; humans and deer mice in New Mexico for Sin Nombre virus – and humans and bats for the various types of Ebola.  Then there are the various influenza A viruses, which jump from birds into animals and often people too – sometimes with devastating effects, such as the Spanish Flu pandemic that probably killed over 50 million people.

All of them serious killers of people; all of them viruses that infect rodents or bats or birds without causing symptoms; all of them a result of population pressures forcing animals and people together.

Then there are the much rarer incidences of genuinely new disease agents arising from accidental mixing of different viruses: very occasionally, two viruses that infect the same host can mix in unexpected ways, to produce something viable.

And a mix that came from the unlikely combination of freshly-eaten moth remains, the still-bleeding meat of an insect-eating bat, and the inside of a rat, was about to be tested.

To Be Continued.

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Baby steps in a spacesuit 4: in praise of Analog

Worlds Without End retweeted a post from author Robert Sawyer the other day, congratulating Analog magazine on its 1000th issue.

Seriously: 1000 issues of a classic SF monthly magazine, still going in a time where print is pauper and digital is king!

I started reading Analog – which went through several name changes over the years – in around 1969, as tatty second-hand copies sourced from my favourite paperback swap shop in the Lusaka Central Arcade.  It was easily the best of the magazines I had sampled – which included Amazing Stories, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction – and I actually built up quite a collection, pretty much as consecutive issues, and was introduced to a multitude of amazing authors.  I remember reading Larry Niven, Poul Anderson, Ben Bova, Asimov – and many others, some of whose stories are still vividly with me, even though I have completely forgotten who wrote them.

Like the large red-haired men in kilts and feathers, who counted coup…I still haven’t found who wrote those ones.

I even corresponded with the editor, in 1978 or so: I wrote to Ben Bova, commenting negatively on the politics of John Campbell and his editorial disdain for Africa, and was unexpectedly answered by Stanley Schmidt, who had just taken over – who had actually been to Africa, and who was far more sympathetic.

So congratulations, Analog – and I hope you have many more issues!  I must start reading you again….

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