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.
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.
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.