The War Machine.

When the gears of the war machine start to churn there’s some sort of an attraction generated, as if the grinding of the components create a magnetism that draws mankind; compels us, encourages us. I used think that it required fuel, a source of energy that powers the motors, such as a political or religious belief system, or simple greed. Then it needed a little something for upkeep, typically the blood of the participants and victims. Lately, though, I’m thinking that it’s a perpetual motion machine. Everything that it needs to run is already available within it. The war machine has always been running, and always will.

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Looking for a better deal.

The difference between you and me can get a little fuzzy. Hell, the difference between a person and a rock gets fuzzy out in imperial space.

I’d been lingering in Ngaiawang for a week, watching the kids ramp up for the next little skirmish out at Falisci, and running through some minor wear-and-tear repairs on the Asp, when a guy approached me in the bay.

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There’s an abundance of choice out here. At times it can seem overwhelming, and the consequences can be rewarding, debilitating, or deadly. Billions of stars circling a massive center, and each other, the majority of them offering up something to do. Smeared out across a tiny section of those billions of stars, people carry around and evangelize their many varied designs, compounding the possible choices. In a single populated center, there’s enough to do for a full-time job. The simple surface of a choice belies the complexity and the absurdity beneath. And there you are, stuck with the choice you’ve made.

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