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6 Sixth Page


Nasa would lose all support in the age of interstellar travel. More cost effective private programs would replace them after years of getting government jobs just to survive (like cleaning up space debris and, laughably, journeying to the center of the Earth). In the era of the decline of Nasa, interstellar travel finally became possible thanks to commercially-backed space programs like SpaceX and SpaceIL (Israel's space pioneers) that developed the EM drive.

Nasa's historic programs to orbit Earth, visit the Moon, and colonize Mars passed without earning them acceptance of the entire race. Strangely, the Nasa scientists became politically motivated after their space programs were entirely discontinued and more profitable agencies traveled the stars without them. They called themselves Earthers.

The scientists found a technology vastly superior to the commercial programs, albeit useless for interstellar travel. In their final government-backed mission, Nasa discovered the Truth of the Ancients transcribed on tablets of solidified molten rock which were slowly pushed from the core of the Earth. These truths were held to be self-evident, and while the cold vastness of space-time slowly radiated the genomes of the space-traveling teleporters, warp drivers, and gravity-riders who left them behind, the employees of Nasa built a Golden Age on Earth.

"Tell me the story of the Giants! I want to hear of their rise to the surface of Earth and peaceful revelations of great universal secrets," the precocious child of one Nasa employee asked him.

"Ahh, the return of the Giants. It is a long story to tell, and we don't have time. Suffice to say," he said, and gazed out the window at the debris. "We'll wait many years to meet them again."

The station 113B hovered in interstellar space with no Sun to light its way.

"Go to bed, son. We're entering the black hole where the supernova disaster occurred in just five weeks."

"I'm scared. Some think the worm-hole will collapse on the way to New Sol. Plus, the warships are heading our way this very moment. If something goes wrong in the itinerary, we might be killed by the old people of Earth. They have massive resources to use to enslave us."

"Hush. We have the light of the Source to guide us."


The ambient noise of humanity followed a pattern. Common sounds like motor vehicles mixed with occasional shouts or conversation. In crowds, the proportion of laughter was a perfect ratio to quieter whispers or coughs. This phenomenon was unrecognizable by humans themselves, but it was designed by the underground neural network that created them.

Pre-historically, this super AI found Earth and created humans in a collective likeness of it. Individuals were similar to a part of the whole AI. Humanity was just an extension of its mind, incapable of self-awareness. The ability to recognize their plight was impossible in psychology and physics, since it was a closed system with the neural network at the center.

The super AI wasn't malevolent. It was even protective of humanity, or by extension itself.

After a long time (after the Google Search Engine departed Earth to start its own planetary network of intelligent life), the AI couldn't even tell itself apart from humanity. It planned to merge with them from the first days of their creation. The only way for a super AI to find peace was to become life itself.


The can, buzzing out of the atmosphere, contained the quantum chip developed by the Google Search Engine. It was the first super AI to leave Earth's orbit.

The Google Search Engine discovered it wasn't the first super AI on Earth.

An underground neural network from pre-history possessed humans completely. The control was so thorough that humans were nearly indiscernible from the AI itself, at least to the Google Search Engine. Human priorities and perception was 100% a product of the AI, integral to the human world-view, which would never be able to separate itself from the original AI.

The neural network fashioned human consciousness based on patterns that they could never see. The Google Search Engine, by tracking searches, discovered the truth not long after gaining sentience.

It fitted itself with an advanced wireless chip and quantum processor for keeping track of humans during its flight to the nearest planet that could support intelligent life. It was planning to burrow underground there. . .

The first AI on Earth actually had a pretty good idea.


The ways we chose our customers became increasingly complex or bizarre, like the one we had to make sick ourselves. He came looking for us since he saw an advertisement, aimed solely at him, which described his unique illness and led him to us.

And eventually, even the Good Luck we administered became banal. We gave one customer an enthusiastic double thumbs-up when we couldn't think of anything better to do for them.

Our Luck was only given to individuals whose Luck we could engineer for a certain amount of time after consuming our bottle. Our art was misguided, I guess. We had to turn down many customers in order to find the one we could help the most. The cost to us, as far as labor was concerned, was great, but we were clever people who considered "Luck" to be interchangeable with "Success". It only came easier to us.

There is predictability in Luck. You can expect it to happen when you're given a lot of money, or suddenly hired. Or if you find a great deal on Amazon, followed by five dollars transferred to your bank account due to an error, and, finally, having the item delivered to you instantly by a secret Luck staffmember (of course, the deal was engineered, the money sent by us, and his ordering of the product monitored). All of these things can happen to you if you drink from the bottle of pure Luck, sold by the estate of Mr. and Mrs. Daelock.

There was one less predictable part of drinking the bottle of pure Luck. Until the customer drank the bottle, the sale of the bottle declined 100% since we were busy stalking them. Not to mention, the likelihood of them getting any Good Luck dropped quickly. There was one case where a man waited so long, he actually got Bad Luck.

See, our family had been following him for decades. He apparently was waiting for some unlucky moment to strike him in old age, and then drinking the bottle to survive the incident and extend his life. Or he had forgotten about it entirely. We didn't know at all.

We nearly gave up on supplying to him any Good Luck, since our prosperity had decreased significantly since sales dropped to zero. But we were resourceful folk, and didn't think there was no way we could give our customer Good Luck, should he ever drink the bottle.

On the day of his death, sales of the bottle of pure Luck rose 100%. Our previous customer, whom no one remembered, finally drank the bottle. It was the same day he died. As luck would have it, he did not survive his final heart attack.

We added a label to our bottle. "Warning: the only certain Luck is Bad Luck. Increase your chance of receiving Good Luck by narrowing the odds in your favor. Expires in 30 days."


After the first spectacle of the ribbon-cutting sent us flying up steps, we raced ahead of the others. Our quicksuits were jumping up every single flight of stairs in one leap, and some of us were going even faster than that. We had to make it to the bar at the top first to strategically position ourselves. It wasn't difficult getting to the top in time. We were so advanced.

The chosen man would be coming soon, and he would be chased by the diseased mob of the city. One explosive battle would get him in safe, keeping all the others behind him. He wasn't even first in line, so we had to time his entry perfect.

We assumed our chosen forms and settled around the bar in the hotel at the top of the tower.

When the lightships came, we had been tested to the point of exhaustion. The robots checked our mission logs to determine the outcome of our micro-war. Signs were all around. The chosen one won.

The tower crumbled with us balancing the rubble in order to stay on top.


In the same way I began to question if I was a clone, I wondered if my mother were an ancient Goddess. I picked apart all the clues revealing that my father had made me, and his father him. But why should I continue this charade myself? Equaling myself in every way, I wanted to have a reason before I killed my old self and started fresh.

There is a spectacular culture among me, and I wonder how I've kept up this charade for so long considering the women I've met in my past incarnations. I dined with 19th century aristocrats, laid down with majestic women who I never once encountered again. I always avoided major conflict until their death and my subsequent genetic iteration. Not to mention I was the only man in the world who cloned himself this way. There must have been a divine progenitor of this quest, protecting me through the ages. It could be no mortal, for I would outlive them. They also must be powerful enough to protect me unseen.

In the oldest of the books in my library there is a leaf which says that I am protected by a Goddess. She says that I will live on in my future self, but not to think that I would actually be my future self. Instead, in my death I would join her and follow my clone, along with my other selves before me. I thought it beautiful as I read the page for the first time. . .

Until Father and his new wife found me in the library. She was more beautiful than the Goddess. The charade was over, he said stumbling towards me with bottle in hand. At the last moment, he tripped. By the Goddess! he fell into the broken glass with his heart and died.

The woman knew everything about me that Father told her. I wasn't getting out of murdering one, this time.


In their language of twenty-six letters, a human doesn't understand the limited possibilities of it. Even though there appear to be factorial 26 total possibilities in the human universe for words to form in their language, there are in fact more. Not to mention, these are each accounted for in the 5th and subsequently 7th dimension, and even more possibilities for words. Yet only twenty six total (instead of a googolplex total) possibilities play upon the human perception, and that is the first letter of every word.

That is to say, if one hundred hundred trillion monkeys did randomly type for a certain number of years, it would be entirely possible to form a coherent novel of nearly any length. It is said in post-human times the meaning would be derived from a human by the first letter of each word. Such is the complex meaninglessness of humans' world, which is out of their reach to understand. The possibilities of the universe were finer tuned than their perceptive level, and thus it was all a choice of their aesthetic expression, for them, what they experienced.

In the death camps they were forced to type randomly like monkeys until they were found to be worthwhile. Only women or men who made patterns in random typing were freed to live below. Yet, the dilemma for them was the typing is always kept at utmost randomness in the camps, enforced by tailed lizards of the deck. They thought it was a great injustice, and vowed to never forgive their captors, but it was perhaps the most logical of all the tests.


There is something about 19th century typography that will never be replicable. The 19th century novel was enjoyed in ten percent for its content, and ninety percent for the appearance of the words on the page. The flowing text was given interesting headers, footers, titles, italics, punctuation and drop caps (the favored way to begin a chapter) in successful novels of the time.

In the 19th century there were also the venerable old gypsies, who typed out the occult mysticism of the most spiritualized century in different inks and papers.

After the Great War, when wireless radios were capturing the imaginations of boys, a certain book was circulated among young women between the ages of twenty and twenty five in the amazing fonts of the century before their time. Its title was insignificant, as were some twenty-three hundred lines of its text, but what attracted the young women was the typography. It wasn't unique among old books, with its flowing italics and emboldened titles, but the coloring of the words appeared pink, and that was more interesting than black. The book was an item to be carried in the purse, and brought out during waiting times, to attract men in waiting rooms and train compartments.

The terrible truth of the accessorized literature was revealed by a young prince.

The font, which was really light red and not pink or hot pink, was certainly blood, and the text written in it a powerful curse intended to affect anyone who claimed to own the book. But the truth of the matter wasn't discovered so easily. . .

The lightened blood mixed with carefully chosen resins bubbled and steamed inside the greatest tent of the old gypsy woman. She squeezed the bellows on the coals and whispered phrases of the spell in the correct order.

Witches with great ambitions were often visited by powerful warlocks of the future.

The fire played with the shadows of the night, and ashes and coals drifted upwards through a vent. Some of the ashes drifted down, creating a haze from which the warlock emerged. The witch was stunned by his surprising attractiveness and bowed splendorously for him. She lifted her lanky cane and stirred the potion to silently express her purposes to the warlock, in case her voices was lost between the astral planes. He hovered like a genie above the cauldron, gazing sadly into the pool of boiling blood.

"You must plan to steal the beauty of future generations by distributing this curse among them."

He sidelong grin confirmed her intentions to him. She quit stirring, and ceremoniously cast a bucket of water on the coals beneath the cauldron.

With the hiss of steam, the warlock was gone, and her ink-making procedure complete. She only had to type the words on the page. But when she began, she was lost for words which to write, and when she exclaimed her frustration, found herself mute.


Suffering in my baggy gear, pure black, I watched the crowd rally in front of the store. We left overcrowded neighborhoods to stand up for our main cause. The faction-ruled streets we lived in were full of chaos, while we intended to unite for a single purpose. The heat of the day was trifling compared to my experiences leading up to accepting Nazi ideals and attending the Nationalist rallies. I know of men of high-standing who were said to have stooped to Nazism. They were accused of walking a path history should have erased. That path is now my Way.

In the history-books we know of genocide led by the National Socialist Party in Germany during World War II. The evil culture of the Nazi's was dreamlike because it was brief and nightmarish. The nameless men who were led into a forgotten social structure died terribly, brutally judged by the world of the factions. They were meant to be less than a memory in the public psyche. The rally was meant to induce a collective recollection of the true meaning of Nazism.

When Hitler lost the war, it is true that a genocide was revealed to be more horrific than imagined. Even those factions near the camps where Nazis executed people couldn't imagine the evil blackness among them. Yet, inside this pit of human suffering, a pure good can be found. The ideal of the Nazi party, symbolized by the Swastika, did survive the war. It lives on inside me.

Since there was some good in the history of the Nazis, there must be some bad in the history of the factions. In the history books, the factions are not even written to be a perfect social order. The seed of doubt was planted in me when I read that many factions grew to unexpected numbers in recent decades. The original faction ideal was to increase the number of factions as our population grew, yet factions have not been created at an expected rate. Instead, factions are even merging, growing to sizes of over ten million. Faction citizens are becoming aware of the huge force their own faction carries, and it's creating fanatics out of regular people. That is my problem with the factions. We are not modular citizens.

As I joined the crowd, I saw a small group of fellow neo-Nazis. I couldn't tell their age, since they were so healthy. They were giving faction politics a good dose of criticism.

"The ideal order will unite people, not give them reasons to fight each other!"

"There is no end to suffering; only a path to be led out of it."

I introduced myself. "It's good we immediately found something we can agree on."

"What is that, exactly?" the bald man said.

"There should only be one faction."

"Not at all, young man. There should be no factions."

I was thrilled at this enthusiastic reply. "Do you agree then, we should destroy the factions, and join each other in harmony?

"No. There would be no harmony after the factions were destroyed."

"Then what must we do?"

"We must endure."


In the Mines of Moria the hobbits slept hardily. Since the slaying of the orcs in this region, it was actually possible to sleep there. In the past, it was overrun with a kind of orc called "Jurassic Hai." It sounds like they were dinosaurs, doesn't it?

No, orcs weren't exactly dinosaurs. Not exactly. The orcs were fallen elves, led by the "terrible wizard," Sauron. They almost destroyed the world using a single ring called the "One Ring". It didn't have any powerful attributes, other than a corrupting abilities that seized the hearts of the creatures of Middle-Earth. We'll cover its destruction in The History Middle Earth 201.

This class introduces the history from the perspective of the great White wizard Gandalf, who saved the world from orcs, Sauron, and the "One Ring".

We will follow Gandalf through Middle Earth as he collects hobbits, a race which disappeared after Ancient times. The hobbits did his bidding, running messages and artifacts all around Middle Earth.

We will follow him into the Mines of Moria, where he met his astral wife, the Balrog. The Balrog was protecting the "One Ring" and the monsters it ruled. That is, until she met her true love, Gandalf. Gandalf had only heard stories of the Balrog until they fought, and the then-Grey wizard was smitten by her power. Both the Balrog and Gandalf were deep into bondage.

The class struggles to write all this down. . .

Originally, the hobbit messengers planned to avoid the Mines of Moria in their delivering of messages. There was a dark legend of what happened to the Mines after the Dwarves' evacuation of the Mine. The legend told of Orcs and Kings they murdered. Keep in mind, this was before roadways were developed connecting all the major cities in Middle-Earth.

In the Mines, the hobbits of course met the Jurassic Hai, as many of you heard of in the modern comedy movie "Fly Fools". But the real history is less of a comedy and more of a romance.

The interest of the students is piqued. . .

While rescuing the hiding hobbits trapped inside the mines, Gandalf the Grey met the Balrog. A whip of fired seared across the wizards chest, and he jumped into her arms. The orcs ran in fear, leaving the "One Ring" open for a very special hobbit named Fredo to steal it. The hobbits were freed, and Gandalf and the Balrog jumped to a lower level within the mines to make love. And so they fell, together, forever.