Category Archives: Relationships

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #25

[perhaps I should have explained at the beginning that Chapter titles do not indicate endings for blog posts.  One chapter can contain several blog posts. For example this post begins with a chapter title that will make sense only in the next blog post…]

[begin blog post #25]

Chapter 12 – The Dark Sun; a Few Explanations

“We owe each other some serious explanations, I think,”  says the doctor.

“Yes sir.”  I return to my subservient mode as a precaution to this conversation.  I cannot forget how the last one ended and I have Deirdre to worry about now.

“Look, you don’t need to take that subservient tone with me now.”  He says as he feels my reluctance and fear of his changing moods.  “I know I must do more than apologize for striking you but see, I’ve been on this world so long I’ve taken on some of its patterns within myself.  I have great difficulty fighting back the terrible disease of this place.  On this world, women are ectohormonal all the time.  That creates sexual lust beyond any male’s power to assimilate.  Because of the social taboos on sex, the repression results in a deadly combination of fear, anger and violent hatred towards the females.  As an anthropologist, I came here in part to identify and isolate the source of it but I have had no success, rather the opposite.  This world is dragging me down with it.

“I hated myself for striking you, and for having sex with you without asking, yet another part of me said that to do less under the circumstances was to deny my manhood and my rights.  I could not allow a woman to flaunt her power, any kind of power, over me.  I reacted as any normal male would react here.  Basically, from the programming here, you were the one responsible for me striking you in anger and hate.  If you are asked a direct question, you must answer immediately and truthfully at all times.  Never try to shrug it off, that shows disrespect and truly enrages men.

“Love-hate, love-hate.  It bangs in our head, hearts and loins all the time.  It’s not so bad if we can avoid contact with females, but it rages the closer we get to one.  Utterly irrational feelings arise and boil over into emotional outbursts.  But at least I am able to demonstrate to you that I am still somehow different? 

“After I sent you out I came in this place and got totally, disgustingly drunk!  I remained in here for two days without food or washing until my Cydroid servants brought me out and restored me to some semblance of sanity.  I hate this place…”

“Doctor, why did you call your people “Cydroids” and not androids?”

“Ah that, well, I cannot explain now.  Why don’t I let the Cydroids themselves explain it all to you later?  Just think of them as androids if that makes it easier for you until it is explained properly.  Now, Antierra, I want you to speak to me freely, as an equal.  At the moment my mind is free and as long as the Cholradil is with us you are safe.  She seems to provide a dampening cushion to this world’s energies.”  And with a sudden change of tone, almost beseeching for forgiveness, he asks,   “Do you object I had sex with her?  Please answer me as a person to a person.”

What an unexpected question!  “There is no jealousy in me in that respect.  In fact I think it was a very good thing for her.  I think the Cholradil is equipped to do this with any number of men and women without arousing more than surface jealousy in others.  When she is with me, she is not with anyone else.  However she is not immune to jealousy in herself.  There are human feelings there also.”

“I found the same to be true.  When we made love she was entirely mine, even with you lying but a few meters away in the auto-medic.  She is a fascinating creature: there seem to be few contradictions in her mind.”

 

“Isn’t it strange, doctor, that we speak of her as if she wasn’t here, listening to us speak?” 

“Watch her.”  He makes me notice Deirdre in a new light.  “She isn’t really listening to our conversation.  Notice her expressions.  She is in full empath mode searching your body for any weakness the auto-medic may have missed.  She can hear us, of course, but our conversation is meaningless to her because it doesn’t concern her personally.  Cholradils do not care what others think of them as a general rule.  They exist on separate neural pathways of emotion-feeling.  She would make an interesting case study on my world.”

“On your world, doctor?  So I was right in thinking that you and your Cydroids are not from T’Sing Tarleyn but actually from another world; another planet?  You have just made the statement I was hoping to hear from you.  If you are not from here, then you must have the means to leave this place, a ship?  Could you maybe consider getting her to your world, or at least off this one and onto some safe place?  I don’t know if you are aware of her predicament: Cholradils cannot fight.  They cannot hurt others for when they do, they feel the full impact of it within their own minds and suffer even more than the other.  Consequently doctor, she cannot fight.  Her first arena combat is a sentence of violent torture and death for her.”

“I was aware of that, yes, but thank you for the reminder.  Antierra, I would like to help both of you.  The Cydroids take the trip to our home world fairly regularly and taking her on the ship would not be a great burden.  Travel there incurs only a little over six months of transit time debt.  The real problem is getting her admitted to our world.  She may be refused entry, in which case what can the Cydroids do with her?  They must land before they can return here.  If they land her illegally she will be put in cryogenic freeze unless I can somehow guarantee some sort of refugee status for her.  Our world does not, as yet, have any clear policy on granting such status to off-world aliens.  Our ability to travel space is relatively new and harboring refugees from other worlds has not been needed or considered to date. 

“Taking Deirdre there would be to put her at the mercy of pure goodwill unless it could be demonstrated that this Cholradil is a paragon of intellectual prowess.  If that were the case, no problem.  She would become an instant celebrity in our society.  Our fledgling World Court ( which I helped establish before I posted myself to this world) would accept her without question.

“There is another, most obvious and more pressing problem before us: getting her out of this compound alive and without endangering the lives of many others, mostly innocent bystanders if there is an escape.  You know how they react to their security being breached here.

“For me there is also a personal aspect to this venture.  If you want me to seriously consider taking such a risk for you and the Choradil I must insist on a fair exchange for my costs and troubles.  You will owe me something in return.  You will have to tell me exactly and truthfully who you are and what you are doing here, as well as how you got here – I want the real story.  Further to that you must agree to join with us whatever be the cost to you personally.  Can I hold you to that?”

[end blog post #25]

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #25

[begin blog post #24]

When I come to, and I must admit I’m surprised they didn’t just kill me for the satisfaction of the crowd out there in the arena, I’m lying on a flat, hard surface and what I first see are the faces of the doctor and Deirdre staring at me.  At first I think I’m having a PDE (Post Death Encounter) of latent images.  Then I hear them talking and I pick up a whiff of disinfectant.  I’m truly still alive!

The room I’m in looks strange by any standard.  The ceiling is low, curved and full of recessed lights.  At my feet are pulsing blue-green lights around an opening that resembles an ancient short-range shuttle auto-medic.  I’m wrapped tightly in some kind of tensor bandage with only parts of my face showing.  I detect a familiar humming sound.  And I realize, almost ecstatically, that for the first time in months I feel no physical pain beyond a slight throbbing at the temples.  What a blessed relief!

“Do you recognize where you are?” the doctor asks me.  His voice comes from a great distance and moves in and out.  But I understand him.

“No sir.” I reply, my voice weak and throaty.  I realize my throat is parched and motion with my mouth.  Deirdre brings me a pink coloured drink in a clear crystal-like goblet with a folding tube from which I suck the liquid.  After she removes it, she applies a wet cloth to my lips, removes it and kisses me!  The witch!  Tears form in my eyes.  How good it is to be alive at this moment!  And loved.

And I continue answering the doctor, “But I should know.  Those lights and sound are those of an auto-medic unit as used on ancient short range crafts we called Jump Scouts, the kind used by the United Treaty Worlds.”

“I don’t know anything about United Treaty Worlds but you are correct, this is from an alien spacecraft, yes, we have ascertained that.  But we are not in space, just a few yards from my room.  This medical unit was obviously cannibalized from an abandoned or disabled alien space craft perhaps hundreds of years ago.  It was entombed here, we do not know by whom, nor why it is here but it has been used by my people as com center, first aid medic facility and safe house on many occasions since we have been studying this world. 

“That we know, no one else on this world besides the three of us here and the Cydroids you saw previously know of this facility.”

Cydroids?  Ah, he probably means the androids.  Of course!  A beep sounds and the lights by my feet at the opening into the auto-medic change from a pulsing blue to a steady red.  The doctor consults his watch-chrono.

“It’s time again.  I’m going to send you into the auto-medic for a deeper scan and some preliminary bone repair.  You will be returned in thirty-five minutes for my inspection.  Meanwhile I must decide what to do with your friend Deirdre.”

“Please don’t hurt her!”  I try to scream as the stretcher I am strapped upon retracts into the glowing tube.  The end seals itself shut just behind my head and white noise or white light or both, fill my brain.

In a moment of timeless eternity I awaken once more in the land of the living.  I’m no longer in bandages but still lying on the retractable “gurney”.  Deirdre helps me up and the doctor actually hands me a gown.  It’s been so long since I wore any clothing, I’m almost embarrassed to put it on, as if wearing clothes is committing an act of indecency.  Deirdre is also wearing a short black dress and sports a comical perplexed expression as she fingers the flimsy material as if she wanted to tear it off of herself.  She has never worn a dress, or any kind of clothing in her entire life!  It would seem strange, indeed.  To her it must seem as if she were attired as a male.

She does not seem hurt in any way and with my full senses returned I know she is not hurt.  In fact I sense some kind of new energy from her.  I know the doctor has made love to her – I can smell it on her – and I know that she has made a deep impression upon him with her sexual skills and empathic personality.  He likes her and I like the connection made thus, a connection that I plan to use in time, in whatever time I am given.

After I sit at the doctor’s small table Deirdre serves me some food concoction that tastes beyond delicious, whatever it is, on a real plate and with utensils!

Here I am, sitting at a table, eating with cutlery, not wolfing coarse food down with hands and fingers from a bowl.  I’m wearing clothes, my body clean and free of physical pain and putting my hand to my hair, I feel that it has been washed and cut into a pageboy style.  Deirdre again.  My sweet lover cuddles against me and the man whom I’d feared, sitting across from the small fibresteel table watching me, is now most certainly my life saver.  And a fleeting smile plays across his beautiful face. 

We used to say, ‘wonders never cease’ and indeed it’s true.  They never do.  We go through life after life, experiencing the flow of the All-Thing and we are forever renewed by being pushed into new experiences by choices made by others, or choose our paths through our own creative thinking.  The best is when all of it works in harmony, but that is a rare thing.   

The doctor looks at me and smiles.  “You are truly a beautiful woman when you take care of yourself now huh!?”  Question?  Statement?  A joke?  Yes, my doctor makes a joke and the smile returns.  This man is full of surprises.

Daringly I ask him, “How do you know the girl’s actual name, doctor?”

“She came to me feigning a knee injury while you were in the fight.  She told me everything you and she talked about.  She told me about the name-giving rite you performed with her and said you needed to speak to me, which suited me fine because I need to speak to you also.  And she was emphatic in claiming that you would need my full attention when the fight was over because you would be mortally wounded.  She knew!  When I asked her how she could know this she just shrugged and told me she couldn’t say.

“But then I figured it out, of course.  This creature is a throw-back, a Cholradil.  She possesses the mind-set of an ancient race that inhabited these parts around a hundred thousand years ago, according to old writings.  I got that impression when I touched her body looking for the knee injury.  It is said that their responses to touch is somewhat like contacting a static charge.”

I look him straight in the eyes and let mine convey the thoughts in my mind.  ‘I owe you for not punishing the girl and I owe you the debt of life also,’ I think as I stare into his broad face, now more beautiful than ever to me, ‘yet I have a terrible favour to ask of you and must risk your anger once more.’  There is a quizzical look on his face.  He knows I’m speaking to him but cannot understand.  He is not telepathic, or if he is, he uses a different thought patterning.  It’ll have to be openly verbal then.

The time has arrived for real questions and real answers.  Now I must know; this charade between us must end.  

[end blog post #24]

A Sisters’ Conversation

 a short story  by  Sha’Tara

Well hi Diane. Haven’t seen you in ages.

I was actually looking for you. Let me buy you lunch. I really need to talk to you Elise.

Yeah? What about?

First off, the family is worried about you.

Worried about me? Why?

They worry about your lifestyle, living alone and well, quite free-wheeling if you get my drift.

It’s how I live my life, how I like to live it. Simple, uncomplicated, nobody really to worry about and it’s nobody’s business but mine.  Years ago I figured that “the family” and associated friends were actually my jailers so I broke out of jail.

Well thanks for that. Do you have to live alone?

I do, but I am not actually alone. I have those friends of mine in my head. They don’t try to control my life and don’t ask for much, just a bit of time now and then you know, to touch base.

Touch base? How?

They talk to me; what other “how” is there?

You hear voices in your head?

Of course, don’t you?

I don’t have entities in my head telling me how to live my life, no!

Are you sure about that? No one, ever, insisting you pick up a tabloid at the supermarket checkout, which you do to find out later there is an article in it you’d been dying to read?

That isn’t someone talking to me, that’s me making a personal decision!

Would you say the same thing if you’d been with a friend and she’d suggested you buy the magazine because it has something in it the two of you had been talking about and you could read about it?

That’s totally different. You’re talking about someone real, someone standing right beside me.

So someone standing beside you is more real to you than someone inside your own head?

Of course. She wouldn’t be an imaginary friend as would be someone in my head.

This is interesting. You would find someone separate from you speaking to you audibly in actual words more real than another living right inside your head speaking to you directly without the use of words?

I don’t have imaginary friends.

Let me try something here. You are seven months pregnant and you meet your friend, say her name is Rosa, pushing a baby carriage with her six month old baby boy in it. Is her baby more real to you than your own whom you are carrying within you?

That is a really stupid comparison. I know my baby is real, I can feel it; I can see how he’s changing my body as he develops.

But someone inside you who does not take up space; doesn’t demand energy from you and doesn’t need to be seen, can’t be real because of that?

Look, this is ridiculous. The only person in my head is me. There is no one else there.

So you do admit there is someone in your head?

Yes, me. I talk to myself and that’s perfectly normal. Everybody does that sort of inner dialogue.

Why do you do it if the ‘you’ whom you are engaging in your head is purely imaginary, i.e., non-existent?  Why would you or anyone knowingly engage a conversation with no one and if no one answers why do you listen? What are you expecting from the exchange?

Nothing, it’s just what people do.

If you do something, should it not serve some purpose?

I’m not going to dignify this topic any further. I actually wanted to ask if you’d come to Danny’s birthday party this Saturday?

Danny? Who’s Danny?

My son!  Your nephew! It’s his sixteenth birthday, do you think you can make the effort?

Sure. Still in the duplex on Alexander?

My God you’re hopeless! When Graham got his promotion we moved out of that dump. We’ve been living on Mount Thom for two years now. I’ll text you the address.

You have my cell number, Diane?

Yes, got it from Gram. You gave it to her when you did the home care for her through her hip replacement.

Gram? Oh you mean mom. Yeah, of course, it’s what the grandkids call her I suppose.

I should have called you but thanks for doing that for her, I couldn’t have done it with the redecorating and Danny’s sports – I’ve been run off my feet, literally.

Don’t sweat it, I’ve done it for lots of people.

Like it doesn’t make any difference to you that it’s mom we’re talking about?

People need my help, they need my help, why should it matter to me who they are?

If you weren’t my sister Elise, I think I would hate you.

Don’t be jealous of my freedom, Diane. You exercised your own brand when you chose redecorating and your son’s sports over your mom’s convalescing needs. See you Saturday.

Yeah.  

 

 

 

 

The Antierra Manifesto – Blog post #22

[begin blog post #22]

Chapter 11 – The Drook Challenger

Deirdre desperately needs to be trained if she is ever going to become a fighter.  I have earned a certain kind of “reputation” among the handlers and developed an understanding of their pecking order in the training compounds, from the overseer down to the lowly trainers.

Perhaps I should explain the hierarchy of authority and power surrounding the whole aspect of arena fighting.  First are the owners whom we never see or have contact with.  They foot the bills for our maintenance and they recoup these losses and sometimes even make money from the gambling on our fights.  The fighting is arranged by the arena council, a group of a dozen owners or other influential people representing Hyrete and other major centers where fighter slaves are bred and raised.  Then come a variety of “judges” who adjudicate on the various laws and rules of combat, weapons and the conduct of fighters and challengers.  They also decide when a fighter is ready to enter her first arena combat.  Then come the overseers, guards, handlers and trainers.

What a fighter must quickly learn is not so much the official power of each class of male over her, but their pecking order.  It is important to develop a sense of which men are the most power hungry and vicious and which men are there because it’s a fairly safe job, certainly more so than being palace guard, police or military.  These latter can often be manipulated if one knows how to play the sex and humility angle.  I know the ones who have enough authority among their peers to approach for small favours.  By dint of hints and innuendos, I am able to make my desire to train Deirdre known to a couple of handlers.

In return, possibly as a favour to an old and battered crone but one considered still in good enough form and a safe bet in a fair fight, I am given permission to begin her training.  I cannot fail to notice more than a hint of cruel amusement on the faces of the handlers when they authorize the training of Deirdre.  The reason is soon brought home to me.

She is utterly hopeless in hand-to-hand combat.  Though taller than most T’Sing Tarleynan females, she has no aptitude for weapons.  Try as she may, she cannot produce a single hit and winces as if in pain each time she does attempt it.  She blocks thrusts and jumps blows with amazing alacrity, using subconscious reflex actions that blur her movements.  She performs intricate dances of evasion to any thrust, even using the staff weapon as if it was made for pole vaulting, her acrobatics causing cheers to come from the males watching from the benches where they sip on their home brewed mead.  No doubt she is a superbly trained performer and entertainer.

But her heart refuses to enter fighting mode.  There is not one ounce of motivation there.  All the wonderful energy I experience from her when she helps me, or makes love to me, there is none of that on the grounds.  I am in despair.  One day she will be thrown in the arena and the worst possible will be done to her.  Why won’t she fight?

In each session I speak to her of this.  I try to impress the necessity of going along.  “You are strong, daring, probably the fastest I’ve ever seen.  And you are fearless,”  I say to her, “So why can’t you do what you are supposed to?”  Today she shrugs, drops her staff to the ground – a violation of my own rules as an unofficial trainer that could get her severely punished – and turns from me.  When I grab her and spin her around to upbraid her for her neglect and cowardice, I see her face is covered in large, hot tears.

In desperation I ask, “Who are you, Deirdre?  I know you are not gladiator material.”

“I am ‘Cholradil’ (pronounced show-ray); a natural born empath.”

I am shocked by that revelation.  “I thought they had no such class of female.” I reply to her.

“They don’t.”  She replies.  “It is said we are rare – they call us atavistic ‘throw-backs’ or freaks.  When they can use us they keep us, otherwise we are killed as soon as they discover what we are.  About three years ago while I was still in crèche I was caught stealing herbal medicines to help a wounded friend.  They could have flogged me to death but instead they put me in the line-up to be sold for gladiator training.  That was their real punishment.  Since the buyers were not made aware of my predicament, they made money on me which they would not have had they just killed me.

“They knew I couldn’t fight and considered it was a great joke to put a Cholradil in among fighters.  I cannot harm anyone or anything, let alone kill, you see?  I never told you because there was no point in it.  I always knew I would never be able to fight anyone and that I would be killed the very first time I go into the fighting ring.  It is my punishment.  It is the way of it.”

“It is the way of it.”  They say that with so much fatalism.

“They actually tolerate individuals who could never harm others?  They have empaths on this twisted world?  Why?”  The question was rhetorical, of course.  I did not expect her to have the answer.

“I was born feeling what you feel; what anyone feels who is close enough to me.  If you hurt, I hurt.  If I hurt you, I hurt me.  When I was still very young, I knew if another beat me up, I could do nothing but put my arms up to block the blows.  But if that person was hurt, I’d find some way to help her because I could always feel what she felt in her pain.  It wasn’t what you call “compassion”.  I didn’t have to like her.  I did not have to want to do it but I had to help her heal so our pain would go away.  After a while they did not hurt me anymore.  They left me alone and came to me only if they were hurt.  I would heal them and they would ignore me.  I was something they could use.  I could never play in their violent games or listen to their thoughts of violence against one-another and against the authorities they hated.”

“What class of girls were you bred for and raised in, then?”

“Sex slaves.  Entertainers.  Pleasers.  We learned all that is known about sex.”

“But your branding says you are class 04, fighter.  How can that be?”

“They changed it by grafting and re-branding to make more money.  I am tall and look as if bred as fighter.  It was a ruse on their part.  I sold for much money.”

Well, that explains some of what I’d observed in her.  “Is that why you speak so clearly and knowingly?  You were educated in the arts of words, of communication?”

“Yes.  I would be worth more.  Maybe even become a concubine of some great man.”

[end blog post #22]

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #20

[begin blog post #20]

Chapter 10 – Deirdre of the Sorrows

The heroine of a tragic Irish legend. Deirdre, the betrothed of the king of Ulster, eloped with one of the three sons of Uisneach. All three sons were slain by the king and his henchmen while Deirdre was unharmed and left to mourn them. Two well known writers have based works upon this legend – William Butler Yeats in “Deirdre”, and J. M. Synge in “Deirdre of the Sorrows”.

“I baptize you Deirdre of the Sorrows,” I say as the rich blood follows the creases in her forehead.

“Strange name,” she says.  “Deirdre…  I have a name!”

She says it so loud, I have to put my hand over her mouth, leaving blood all over her face.

“Shhhh you idiot.  Yes, you have a name.  You are the richest young woman in the kingdom of Tassard now.  How do you like that?”

“It is good.  But what does the last part of it mean?    Of the Sorrows, is that also my name?”

“The name belonged to a young woman in a story from a land I knew a long, long time ago on another world.  Deirdre was a young girl chosen to be the bride of a powerful king.  But she loved another man, a  younger one, and she escaped with him and his two brothers.  But the king found them and killed her lover, his brothers and all the other men who had helped her or had ever looked upon her with love.  Then he let her live in her permanent mourning.  She never had another lover, never married, living and dying in sorrow for what her beauty and desire had done to others. 

“She was a heart breaker, but she inherited the heartbreak, you see?  What we do to others often returns to us.  And now because you love me you must share in my sorrows, not just in the pain we all must endure because of how things are here, but specifically in the suffering of heart our relationship is going to entail for you and me.”

“I don’t understand.”  She shrugs and shakes her head, her hair having been allowed to grow longer, brushing over my shoulder. 

I try to explain: “As I have told you, I was not born here, Deirdre.  I came here, full grown some years ago.  I remember coming here with a single-minded purpose: to collect information about this world, store it in my mind and take that back with me to my home world.  It has been my hope that in time, somehow, I may be able to help the women of Malefactus (it’s what I call this place) by creating change in the power structure that keeps things as they are.  If I can do that, and if some of the women here catch some of my vision also we can create beautiful change here, not just for the women you must understand, but for the men also.

“Remember this: it is not normal for men to kill women.  It is not normal that women should be the slaves of men.  All the things done that hurt others, these are evil things.  Evil destroys worlds.  On another world which is called Earth and where I had many lives before this one I saw much evil too.  When people like me see evil being done to others we experience much sorrow of heart.  

“On that world, the people practiced slavery also, for a long, long time, and in some places it was still going on when I left, though it was not called that.  They did many other terrible things that made their world in every way as evil and as abhorrent at this one.  They made people starve to death if there was money to be made in it.  Babies died along with their mothers, tens of thousands each day and very few of the people cared.  Young women, often just little girls, were sold into prostitution, as sex slaves to men, just as they are here.  Instead of chains, men used drugs and money to hold them.  Millions over the years were abused, their lives destroyed and many were killed, or killed themselves in despair.  Many more died of terrible diseases that continually plagued the people of Earth because they refused to understand the cause of it all.

“They tortured and killed millions of people for having different skin colour, or for believing different things.  Many of their great religions (that is to believe in spirit beings like gods or goddesses) were ruled by male gods who hated women.  There were times when women were killed by having stones thrown at them or they were burned alive, tied to a post because men were convinced these women were evil creatures, in league with a great enemy they called Satan or Shaitan.”

Even this child of Malefactus, with all the evil she had already known, gasped at the images my words gave her.  I had never thought of Earth as having such a similar, if more diversified and creative path of evil, to Malefactus.  Or perhaps I had seen, but never actually understood the depths of it.  It is hard to see the evil of one’s society when born and raised in it; when programmed to take it all for granted for as they say here: it is the way of it. 

I continued to explain.  “Things were done to their planet that hurt the air and the water; the animals and the fish and billions of creatures, of non-human lives died, often entire species were destroyed.  Poisons were spread by machines.  There were always diseases and they fought wars all the time.    There never was a time when there was no war being fought.  I am not speaking of the small groups of men who rampage through a countryside and fight each other for honour or slaves.  I am talking of wars that burned entire cities to the ground, poisoned lands and waters and killed everything in their path; when one bomb would leave millions dead or dying in horrible circumstances.

“Earthians killed others in the name of their gods but it always was to take their lands or any goods or valuable thing they had.  But even through those horrors the people never learned because in those days they were able to make more people than they could kill.  So the deaths, you see, did not seem so obvious.  It was as if they did not really happen.  The people of Earth could not feel the pain they caused others. 

“Not being able to feel the pain of another: that was the main problem of Earth just as it is here.

“You see Deirdre, on my home world which is called Altaria, we know there is one Great Law, written in the starry heavens for all the people when they evolve and become like us, having a concept of right and wrong doing.  That Law says they have to care, Deirdre.  They have to care what happens to you and me.  They have to wish that only good happens to others.  Even if it means that they will lose something.  Even if it means they must forfeit their own life!   If they do not care; if their life, their personal pleasures, their riches and immediate comforts, are more important that the well-being of others anywhere, but particularly on their home planet, then they have failed in their attempt at evolving.  They reach a certain place but can go no higher.  They turn in on themselves and begin a tumble towards destruction that increases exponentially year by year.  Each day their death, and that of their world, approaches at a faster rate.  That was the sickness of my adoptive Earth world.

All the evil I have experienced of life on Earth that was then my sorrow and it continues to be.”

Her questions indicate she is a sharp listener.  She says, “You speak as if that world is gone.  Or are the people better now?  Did they learn to care, to feel each other as you and I feel each other?” 

She hugs me tightly as she says it.  She is a true healer-witch and has the gift of knowing.  Her touch is a balm to body and heart.  She wants the pain I feel in speaking of Earth to go away. 

“No Deirdre, that world is not completely gone.  It is going through a terrible purging.  Billions of people have died and the population has dwindled to a fraction of what it used to be.  Everybody that is still alive must now struggle just to eat or to find shelter.  Everything hangs in a very precarious balance.  Some of it has to do with you and me here, now.  We are involved in a great project by billions of individuals from all human worlds to awaken the next level in our evolution – a non-predatory, non-violent way for all of us.”

“What is a billion?”  She asks with a truly puzzled expression I can just make out as Albaral passes by one of our “windows” in the high walls.

How can I explain the chaotic madness of the teeming billions of Túat Har?  I try the simple approach.  “A very, very large number, like grains of sand in a full feeding bowl.  Actually, if you understand what a million is, there are a thousand of them in a billion.”

“That’s so many, so terrible.  So terrible!”  She shuddres violently against me as she says this.  “But why do they need shelter?  Are they trying to hide from something?”

“Earth is a cruel world in its natural cycles Deirdre.  It does not care about human people.  It has great changes of weather in what are called seasons.  Summer is hot and dry in many places and winter is very cold in other places.  In between are other seasons that have unpredictable weather patterns.  People can quickly die from exposure to the natural elements there.  They have to have places where they can keep warm and dry; protect their bodies from the winds, the snows, the rains or just the freezing cold; where they can raise their children from predators – human or animal – and store food.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”   She looks utterly perplexed and there are tears in her big round black eyes.  “This place makes more sense to me than the Earth you speak of!”

“I know you don’t understand sweet.  I’ll find some way to explain it all to you.  Just give me some time.  Or maybe I’ll find some way for you to discover these things on your own.  Be patient.

“Now Deirdre, we were speaking of sorrows.  To know sorrow is to be able to feel by choice the pain of others before your own.  It comes from being compassionate.  It is not something you naturally feel, Deirdre.  It’s something you choose to feel, out of your own heart, something that desires only good things for all people, all things, not just for some who are special.

“Is that not what love is?”

“No sweet.  Do not mistake compassion for love.  Those who do can become very confused about their feelings when the feelings change and they no longer push toward what they know is right.  Love is that special feeling you and I have for each other that we cannot have for others, see?  No one else can share in our bonding.  That is love.  It is what I call an exclusive feeling.  It keeps others out so we can have more of it between the two of us.  It is a good thing for us when we are safe, not threatened, and we share our time alone together.  When no one else wants to take one of us from the other to have her.  When everyone understands our need to be together and gives us our place out of respect.

[end blog post #20]

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #18

[begin blog post #18]

After washing and eating I’m returned to my cage.  Having won a special fight I am not expected to continue training the rest of that day.  Later when the others return, as was promised, a young trainee is put in my cage.  She sits next to me and nudges against me, looking to please any way she can or knows how.  She runs her arms and hands over my skin to feel me.

I caress her slowly, running my long fingers through her short cropped, straight black hair, noticing her uncharacteristic lanky, skinny body covered in pure white skin, the long slim arms and long skinny legs and her large feet that seem almost ungainly on her.  She has a small patch of pubic hair and her breasts are just beginning to bud.  So young, I think, and so innocent.  At least in looks.

I croon softly over her, letting her know that I approve of her and she need have no fear.  She turns up to me and I’m staring into virtual pools of black luminescence: over-sized black eyes, reminiscent of those nocturnal arboreal creatures of Old Earth and Margaret Keane’s ‘big eyed waifs’ from Old Earth C-20; eyes that seem to penetrate into and beyond my most secret thoughts.

I’ve made an instant conquest, but so has she.  This child is mine to do with as I please.  If I’d ask her to kill herself for me, she’d do it without a moment’s hesitation.  Such is the way.  But then, if giving up my life would save hers, I’d have no hesitation either.  I see myself now plunging into an abyss of feeling I’d thought could never again touch me.  So much, once more, for reliance on training “in absentia.”

I cradle her and bring her lips to my hardened nipples.  She suckles slowly, tenderly and I realize, happily.  As easily as that I become the mother the baby never had.  And just like that, I now have another purpose in a type of relationship I’d believed I could never again engage in.  Blame the empty years here, my tired condition but mostly her uncanny ability to seduce.  There is witchcraft in her, I can easily sense.  The good kind.  The kind I practised once… somewhere…

Out of the most terrible of ordeals; the greatest of trials, comes beauty and love if one knows how to move through the energies.  Ah well, maybe this is where I start making a difference.  If I am careful to give to this child, without taking anything from her but what she freely offers me in return.  If I can bury my dark fear of losing her to the arena or to some mistake she may make and be “punished” for.  If I can allow myself to be broken, not only in body, but in heart, for love of her and all of us here. 

Totally broken.  Yes.  I know this lesson in my mind.  Now I must impress it into my brain and upon my body.

Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies it will not produce fruit.”  Source is an Old Earth sacred book quoting a claimed avatar they called Jesus the Christ. How long ago was that? Thousands of years but the question is not relevant.  I am able to remember: that’s what matters now.  Remembering.  Remembrances.

I remember some of my lessons.  How I loved to say them to myself and make my feeble attempts at giving them living substance in my own life – “lives?”  But in this purgatory of lost souls, can I demonstrate the cosmic truth behind these pithy sayings?  Can I live them and teach them?  How do I reconcile my life’s performance today with that?

I look upon my child-woman without disturbing her.  Who will outlive whom?  I can’t help but torture myself with wondering.  I must stop thinking and just enjoy her.  My child and perhaps in time, lover; perhaps even friend: the most dangerous relationship of all.  Every life, however bleak, can have its moments of true tenderness.  Some time ago I would have rejected that notion.  Now it makes perfect sense.  I feel an urge within that I must baptize this child and give her a suitable name.  This one must enter her own version of Valhalla with her own name and must be given the recognition deserved.  ‘Help me, Tiegli!’ I silently beseech my old friend for it was her who impressed upon me the invaluable lesson of empowerment through the simple act of giving someone a name. 

I prepare myself to plunge into a much-needed deep sleep, despite the fact my heart overflows with love, my loins are filled with desire and my body is racked with a thousand lances of pain from the excessive movements I put my body through today.  A perfect balance for this would-be avatar, would you say?  My little one has fallen asleep with her arms wrapped tightly around my torso and her moist lips, slightly parted, brushing my nipple, leaving a tiny trail of drool to find its way, like a cool mountain stream, down my cleavage.  An image, a feeling, that changes one forever.

In the weeks that follow I find myself involved in few fights.  I think I am being avoided by bookies and gamblers because of a growing reputation for deadliness through apparent recklessness and ruthlessness.  Indeed I have decided that due to my size it is usually safe enough to take chances and go for the kill right from the beginning of the encounter.  I get less cuts, bruises and broken bones that way and return to the compound much less tired.  But the risks are real, not the least of which is being considered persona non grata and receive the Court order to be summarily executed as an undesirable, a bad performer.

I am not the crowd pleaser any longer.  If I am the gladiator being billed, the stands are but half filled.  They certainly object to seeing a woman kill a man outright.  They want play, sport, blood, but mostly they get off on the inflicting of pain.  They like to see long fights where opponents are fairly well matched and do the most damage to one-another before one is killed.  Entertainment.  Sport as a way to assuage their miserable lusts which their system will not permit them to satisfy in other more natural ways.

I just do my “job” as per its description.  But complaints are continually lodged with the handlers and trainers that the “Beast” is not being cooperative; that ‘it’ does not understand the subtleties of encounters with honour.  In other words, ‘it’ is not giving ‘its’ male opponents a chance to demonstrate their honourable ways of torturing a woman to death by killing her outright in public or destroying her body through violent encounter after encounter. 

Yes I am expressing spite and bitterness along with everything else, looking within to see all the things I’ve become a complete failure at achieving.  I may be winning battles in the arena but Malefactus is winning the war against my mind, perhaps against my heart.

Take detachment, for example.  I have become utterly and hopelessly “in love” with my child-lover, though I cannot quite locate my deepest feelings as being those for a child, or those for a lover.  I don’t think I’m capable of separating the two but I have steeled myself not to make love to her.  I have vowed to let her initiate that aspect of our relationship.  She, on the other hand, basks in my presence, cries silently when I prepare to leave for the arena and lights up like a shooting star when I return. 

Never have I experienced such gentle touch nor encountered such dedication and abandoned selflessness in a human being.  She steals pieces of cloth while working the kitchens and serving tables which she stuffs in her vagina to get past the guards then hides in the straw bedding.  She later uses those to bind my cuts.  She takes extracts from certain fruits and vegetables which she uses in my wounds or gives me to swallow.  She’s an accomplished and fearless thief and healer.

She licks and sucks the blood from my cuts, then bandages them in the night, using braided strands of split straw if she has no cloth.  She is fully aware and conscious of the fact that if she is discovered she will be flogged to death – or tortured in even worse ways.  It twists my heart to find her doing such things but however I caution her and ask her to desist, it is of no avail.  She has her own mind, as stubborn as I.  And she is tireless.

[end blog post #18]

 

Antierra Manifesto-blog post #16

Chapter 9 – The Young Trainee

“What do we really know of love?  Mostly by all the ways by which it has never been demonstrated, however often defined.” (Voice from the Other Side – Sha’Tara)

So pass a couple of years between training and killing in the arena.  Rarely is there a change unless it’s some sort of punishment, usually when handlers and trainers feel a need for some gratuitous entertainment or think it’s time to assert their authority over us. 

One day a work gang of male and female slaves enter our compound to make superficial repairs to one of the towers.  An older fighter interrupts her training to watch these naked skeletons walk by and is unfortunately noticed by a trainer.  He blows a whistle and everybody stops dead, dropping their weapons.

Two trainers and a handler run along our line-up and grab the fighter.  She does not resist as they take her to the post.  She is dreadfully silent as they flog her to death before not only the fighters but the other slaves.  It is obvious to me they did this just to show their power, not for us but for the worker slaves. 

On another day, some two years after this event and while training I am unofficially and illegally challenged to a sparring match by a handler, not a trainer.  I immediately notice he is high on chakr.  This is not supposed to happen.  The overseer, other handlers, guards even trainers are supposed to intervene immediately and send me to my cage.  Nothing of the sort happens.  They just watch to see what will come of this.  I begin by just defending myself, blocking his blows and slowly giving ground to his attacks, not wanting to provoke some kind of outbreak of violence against myself or the other women. 

There is no protocol for his attack, nor for my response to it.  I wait for him to tire out but the chakr keeps him going.  I wait for my feelings to kick in and they do.  I get angry.  I have a coarse, basic staff made of a very tough hardwood but with with no metal caps, extender or pike end.  Still it is my favourite weapon and I know how to use it in many ways I have seldom demonstrated either in training or in fighting, saving them for the day when surprises are needed.  He holds a top of the line professional fighting staff, complete with spiked end and extender.

Undoubtedly, even if he is no great fighter he has a tremendous advantage.  He must have secured permission to attack me and I know this is to the death.  All the other fighters are standing still, watching this strange match.  I parry his blows as expertly as I know how but I need to attack to tire him out.  Time now to effect some of those “surprise” moves with my staff.  I block one of his blows and strike him hard on the shoulder.  He grins, the chakr now in full force and he can’t feel the pain.  He charges again and again.  I block, waiting, watching for the sudden spring of the extender and trying to knock the staff from his hands.  I aim at his hands time and again, connect twice and break fingers.  He’s still fully under the influence of the drug and coming at me.  I slip under his guard and jab him in the heart.  He stumbles and I strike him viciously across his right hip.  He collapses on the stones and I move to back away.  But the overseer comes over to me and says,

“You, gora, kill challenger or die!”  So I kill him, crushing his skull with a vicious side sweep that brings the end of my staff behind his ear.  It penetrates the skull.  No choice for me, and no reason to choose otherwise if there had been choice given.  For I know he would have recovered and challenged another woman to a fight, choosing a weaker one, probably a young trainee next time.  I did what I had to do.

I wait for certain punishment by flogging for killing a man outside a prescribed combat.  Nothing happens.  Four fighters are ordered to take the male body inside one of the huts and they return, wash blood from their hands and we are told to wash and eat.

I never found out what that was about.  Best guess, some kind of private vendetta, or debt owed that involved a bet made on my ability to defend myself in a non-conforming situation.  Oh well, I’m not a king’s concubine, common expression among fighters.

That night I have another young trainee ‘lover’ in my cage, a new arrival.  This tells me someone is pleased with the results of the fight.  Go figure… or not. 

My reputation as a fighter keeps growing with the consequences that gamblers are pulling back on betting against me.  But you can’t say these men are without imagination.  I need more challenge and they find one for me.  A giant black man captured beyond their deep desert in a coaching sweep for military cadets, has been secretly trained as a challenger and this I’m told is what I must fight.  When I see him I understand the term ‘giant’ in relative terms.  Indeed, he stands a full head and a half over me and is easily twice my weight.  His legs are more like tree trunks than legs and the muscles on his arms ripple when he flexes.  Ouch.  I’d much rather make love to this one than fight him.  And even that could be painful.  He’s well hung as they say.  Now I have to kill him.  Pity.

He chooses the double handed sword and when he sees me and realizes I’m his fighter, the comprehension slowly showing on his face, he squints his eyes and sniffs the air like a bull, letting out a bellow.  Fortunately they have a neuro-restraint screwed to his head and they control him by remote.  He yells in a deep basso voice, “Female!  Arghhhh!  Give me real fight.  Give me man to kill.  Female!”  He spits on the ground and spittle spatters on his wide hairless chest.  “Kill, cook and eat that, I do.”  He points at me.  “This is dishonour!” 

He stomps the ground and it shakes.  His six handlers point lasguns at him and explain it simply:  “Fight female or we cut off penis and balls.”  Then they emphasize by pressing the remote.  He slumps down into a whimpering mass, shaking.

“I fight female.”  They ‘release’ him and he stands groggily, shaking his massive head.  I’ve changed my mind about the making love thing.  I don’t think that would work.  I’ll fight him.  How do you fight a tree?  I remember an old friend of Earth who’d say, “Use a chainsaw.”  For whatever reason I can’t get serious about this encounter and the image of using a chainsaw on this creature amuses me.  Perhaps because of his ignorant bravado about killing, cooking and eating.  We’ll see who does the killing.  I’ll pass on the cooking and eating – I’m vegetarian after all.

The next morning sees me going through the standard practice of having my fighter meal alone at one of the long tables.  Our current overseer who is called Dalton comes to me and indicates he’s put his money on me. 

“Win this one, slave, and I give you a special treat.  There is young trainee here will be very good for you.  My gift.  You win this fight.  I buy boy for son, need money to pay and get house and concubine too, understand?”

“I win this fight for you sir.  Thank you for gift.”  And I add sotto voce, “I deeply thank you for your confidence, for betting on me.”

The meal over I am splashed with the usual cold water and escorted, shivering and shaking, by two handlers through the cold tunnel and into the entrance to the arena.  I take my sword from the hands of the red-robed weapons judge, turn and walk to the center of the ring.  The plasma lighting is throwing a little heat and with the sun just rising over the battlements my teeth stop rattling.  Why must they insist on giving us that water treatment before a fight particularly?  Stupid is as stupid does!

The challenger arrives a few moments later.  He is in restraints and surrounded by six handlers with lasers charged.  He refuses to look at me and looks down as they remove the restraints and hand him his weapon.  Then they escort him to the center of the ring to face me.  Only now does he look at me and if hate could kill I’d be below the sand.  He doesn’t see my nude female attractiveness.  What does he see?  Something he’s bred to hate.  A female fighter: more than an anomaly – an impossibility; a female who dares oppose a man.  Something to be crushed, destroyed.  A pollutant, that’s what he sees.

His handlers take a couple of steps back from him.  He hefts the sword as if it was a twig.  Not the least effort in holding it; as if he doesn’t even know it’s in his hands.  But he knows.  I know he knows.  Part of his pea-brain is open to me.  He’s trying to look dumb but he’s more than he looks.  This is a different kind of challenge, something I’m not at all familiar with.  Should prove interesting.  How fast can I run in reverse?  If I’m to win this I have to take him down ‘branch by branch’ as topping and de-branching a tree before you cut it at the stump. 

[end blog post #16]