Gods Dogs, Book 3
Chapter 29

Avoiding humiliation is the core of tragedy and comedy.

John Guare

The rules for the debate were agreed upon. That wasn’t the hard part. The difficulty came from the fact that the general population – the putative judges for who would win the debate – was mostly ignorant when it came to logical discourse. They didn’t know what a premise, or a proposition, or an assertion was; or what constituted a logical fallacy; or what constituted an argument.

Propaganda was what they knew, from cradle to grave. They were used to the crazy-making policies of their government, and the ignorant acclamation of those policies. It didn’t bother them when the policies were reversed, or heroes denounced, or promises ignored, or the institutions that served the people were chronically mismanaged and under-funded. It seemed the genetic preference given to those species that could adapt extended to an adaptation to the wildly dysfunctional system of governance of a conquest empire.

Solomon did concern himself with the disruption critical thinking would produce in such a society. Critical thinking within a large segment of the population meant the end of an autocracy.

People didn’t mind being governed. Citizens who could critically think, though, required those who governed to do so with some competence and integrity. Whereas, a brainwashed rabble only cared for bread and circuses.

Solomon released a primer on what the rules of debate actually meant. It was a short course, significantly dumbed-down so the masses could understand. He knew it would make their heads hurt, but he listed and defined formal and informal fallacies, how an ‘argument’ was constructed from ‘premises,’ and conclusions that were valid needed to fit within a formal structure.

Getting all that published through the state-run media was itself a win, as far as Solomon was concerned. He was of the opinion that the sentient brain was both at peace and more productive when the world made sense. Since autocracies didn’t make sense, at least not for those who were exploited and scammed, a critically thinking populace fatally undermined the foundation for the autocrats’ right to rule. Solomon gave them the tools to think critically. It was the big win, and the debate itself was theater.

The Coyotes monitored the council of elders with eyes-on observation as well as listening devices. They moved to a new camp every few days. Solomon air-dropped them the supplies they needed, or what he wanted them to have.

Finally, the debate schedule was published. The first debate was on the statement, or policy proposition, that read: A conquest empire is a reasonable form of government for interstellar civilizations.

Obviously, Solomon was arguing it was not. Some of his points, fully researched and documented with the thoroughness only an ASI could provide, included: 1) whole populations were murdered; 2) a ‘dark age’ descended on entire worlds; 3) there was an increase of paranoia between worlds; 4) there persisted a long-lasting hatred for the conquering people; and 5) conquered worlds enjoyed a stalled or a reversal of their growth potential.

The scholars pointed to the benefits: 1) it mixed people together, which spawned ideas; 2) it brought the rule of law and peaceful trade; 3) it allowed self-rule to each world, including freedom of religion; and 4) the empire protected them from their enemies.

Solomon was at his best destroying the ‘advantages’ of the empire. A recurrent theme in his counter-argument was to detail how these ‘advantages’ seemed to only accrue to the elites.

The council’s response, since the debate was live-streamed, was to organize a ‘spontaneous’ political rally in support of the empire as an answer to Solomon’s apparent win in the first debate.

“Now I see why Solomon sent us paintball ammunition,” Moss said with a laugh.

“Yep,” Quinn said. “We’re going to turn the rally into an embarrassment.”

“Laser training packs, paintball rounds, airburst grenades with sparkles,” Pax said with a wry smile. “He does have a quirky sense of humor.”

River was finished loading up and slung her sniper’s rifle, which was broken down and packed for travel. “I’ve got four hides mapped out. I’ll let you know the sequence when I figure it out.”

Then she trotted into the trees. The others finished their own packing and headed off as a group. They would be closer to the stage than River, probably at the edge of the crowd.

The venue was an open area with a stage near one of the woodland greenbelts that were common in the city. A crowd of ten thousand would easily fit in the open area, and the press was expecting more. Vendors set up along the perimeter, and a road straight to the platform was designated with decorative barricades. The event was scheduled to start after lunch, but by mid-morning the entertainment had begun.

River liked this assignment. She rigged zip-lines between the trees where she constructed her sniper hides. Zipping around was fun, but she really liked not having to kill anyone.

Life as a Coyote operative required a life lived in paradox. The mundane world was more solid, by contrast, and much less confusing. The Chert, for example, saw a Universe filled with potential rivals. You killed them, or they killed you. The Chert weren’t alone in this baseline belief about the Universe as a jungle, and survival of the fittest was the rule.

The Congress recognized it long ago and channeled the fear of the ‘other’ into free-trade alliances and insured safe lanes of travel. It took millennia for the idea to catch on, but it did. The League followed a similar path to discovering the same lesson. While this was good for civilization as a whole, it, too, fell short of the life of paradox Coyotes lived.

It was a constant demand on them not to be pulled into the consensus reality where the comfort of concrete structures of thought, tradition, expectations, laws, and social conditioning grounded people so they could pursue their dreams, attain their goals, and leave behind a legacy to their children. Coyotes left that life behind in favor of a life dedicated to protecting the innocent. The metaphor they used to understand it was that eighty percent of the people were gather around the campfire enjoying the warmth and camaraderie. The twenty percent faced away from the fire to confront the dark and the dangers that hid there. Their brutal training prepared them for this kind of life.

So far, River’s life as a Coyote was especially tough compared to her peers. She endured extreme torture, faced dark shamans, rescued abused children, and killed more people than she could count. Some days she wasn’t sure who she was. Most days the dawn brought the prospect of an adventure she didn’t know she would survive.

Rootless, ungrounded, a leaf blowing on a capricious wind was her constant state of mind. She touched the world with a light touch, but her actions carried immense weight – another paradox.

She set up in her first hide, high in an evergreen tree. From here it was a mile to the platform where the speakers would be. She would prefer to set up further away, but the paintball rounds, wrapped as they were in a sabot, didn’t have long distance accuracy.

The angle was also a bit problematic. She was not facing the platform head on. She was stage-right, and the angle would become more severe when she moved.

Even so, it would be fun to splash fluorescent red, yellow, and blue paint on the rally leaders. If the op went well, the crowd would have a great time watching their favorite demagogues laid low.

She chuckled at that thought, settled into a simple relaxation meditation and waited.

Moss, in some respects, was the polar opposite of River. True, he lived in the same paradoxical Universe. For him, though, it was the perfect environment for the Trickster he embodied. Like anyone who lived close to an archetype, Moss’ presence caused displacement, as if he bumped people into a wider worldview, a situation that caused a type of spiritual agoraphobia. Most folks didn’t want or need the big picture view of life.

Tricksters, in general, but the wild coyote, after which they were named, in particular skirted the edges of civilization and adapted to all ecosystems. Moss was all that, and he relished the loneliness this adaptability produced – another paradox of fitting in everywhere, but never truly belonging anywhere.

Trusting no one, he was a good friend that wasn’t reluctant to voice an unpleasant truth. He skirted the edges of any consensus looking for flaws. Solomon’s plan, for example, was brilliant, in that he was attacking on all fronts, but it was also flawed in Moss’ view. Life for most beings was a rut they kept digging deeper until it became a grave. Prompting, shooing, or coercing them out of their rut didn’t work.

He went along with the plan because it would weaken the conquest ideology, and that would make the empire easier to defeat in the final showdown. Besides, this part, humbling the pompous, was something he fully enjoyed. He checked the energy pack for his laser rifle to make sure it was a training, stun-only sort. Then he checked the underneath barrel to make sure the grenades he launched were airburst fireworks displays. Then he settled in to wait.

Pax was checking his over-under rifle as well. He was set up stage-left approximately across the two thousand yard expanse of open area from Moss. Vendors in temporary stalls were before him, and trees were behind him. He was on a hillock in a tangle of underbrush.

His place in the paradoxical Universe the Coyotes inhabited was to see what people tried to hide. Emotions didn’t lie. They told a person how he was reacting or responding to a given event or situation. It was the ego-self’s decision on how to act on the information the emotions provided. Skill at reconciling mind and emotions so that the action taken was authentic and productive was rare. Pax was a beacon of truth in that chaos. He was a comfort for those who sought truth, because Pax offered it without judgment. It was terrifying for those who hid behind masks.

Compassion for Pax was hard-edged, as it was compassion that forged the sword of truth in its divine fires. Of all the Coyotes, the empaths were the ones who could safely play with that fire.

Quinn was stage-left as well, a half-mile back from Pax. He took up station in a tall building where he could see the entire ‘battlefield.’

Quinn was a tactician, an analytic and intuitive thinker. Whereas Pax could manage the forge of compassion without sentimentality, and Moss was a joyful skeptic, and River was battle-hardened and steady, Quinn was the stillness before action, the possible before the actual. He set the pieces on the board and waited for the opponent’s move. Then he waited for the flash of insight to inform his counter-move. Often-times, his team picked up on it and acted without direct orders, which is what he expected today.

His training in the cold calculus of combat was immense and ongoing. It was a thirst he enjoyed quenching as it gave him options with the paradox of war: What tactic would bring peace?

Behind this well-honed tactical skill, Quinn was the most uncomplicated person on the team, and the most grateful for simple amenities. He quickly saw the gifts in any situation and overlooked the inherent hardships. He saw the good in people and minimized their faults and frailties.

He quietly expected them to act from their strengths, which was its own disappointment, but that didn’t bother him too much. People, after all, were people – God’s children doing the best they could. His great-grandmother would be proud of him in that regard.

Quinn checked the time. The field was filling with Cherts in their harnesses and kilts. Martial music was blaring in the near distance. Then, in a column of two, a company of soldiers marched down the center aisle. They marched and displayed their weapons in, what seemed to Quinn, was their version of a five-point manual of arms.

It was eye-catching. In sync, the soldiers started with their rifles on their right shoulders, and through a flourish transferred it to the left shoulder. They twirled the rifles back to the right shoulder, marched for a two-count, and reversed the procedure.

The crowd liked it and cheered. Quinn noticed the raised platform was filling with dignitaries, while workers set the stage and positioned the sound system.

“River,” he sent over tac-net, “wait until after the introductions. Then hit the seated dignitaries. Pax, hit the guy at the podium when River fires. Moss, launch a grenade after they’ve all been hit.”

A series of clicks was the response. Quinn set the HUD in the faceplate of his light armor to zoom in on the stage. It looked like five speakers. Two were military, and three were civilian. None of them looked healthy. Quinn grinned, thinking of Solomon’s description: lazy, fat, old men.

He asked Shiva, his A.I., [Are you guys plugged into the speaker system?]

[Yes, Quinn. The sequence will run when the airburst detonates.]

[Thank the crew for me, and let’s see how this plays out.]

[We are wondering why you think the Chert response will be to laugh at their leaders covered in paint.]

[When the high and mighty are brought low, especially in an autocratic regime, it is a cause for celebration.]

[We see the logic, but wouldn’t a celebration be dangerous for them?]

[Yes. But a whole crowd laughing isn’t much risk.]

The crowd quieted as the first speaker approached the podium.

“Friends,” he began, “we are here to celebrate our way of life. It is under constant attack by many. In our forbearance, we mostly pity those who long for what we have and cannot attain it for themselves.

“However, a new threat has arisen and we must respond. Not in anger. Not in fear. Not in a violent confrontation. No. We need only affirm, for all the Universe to see, our loyalty and affection for the ancient legacy of the Chert Empire.”

The crowd cheered. Then the speaker went on, “To help up in this, our first speaker is the commander of many glorious victories, retired General Antona Ronal, a cousin to our beloved emperor.”

The speaker retreated to his own chair, and the general slowly approached the podium.

Quinn watched as the seated dignitaries’ chests exploded in starbursts of color – red, yellow, blue, and red again.

The general dropped as if pole-axed, and an airburst of fireworks appeared over the front half of the audience.

The speakers belted out a trumpet fanfare, and Solomon’s voice followed.

“Turn about is fair play, citizens. I’d like to celebrate the coming of a new day when pompous elites have to get real jobs instead of bleeding the people for their extravagant lifestyles.”

Then a cheery tune began with a strong drumbeat. The crowd couldn’t keep their feet from dancing to the folk tune they learned in their youth.

Another airburst followed, and the crowd laughed a nervous response. Then another airburst before someone killed the music.

The ceremonial company of soldiers began pushing out into the crowd. River began picking them off. The crowd noticed and backed away from the soldiers.

“Moving,” River told them.

The soldiers looked to their officers and NCOs for orders, but they were covered in paint and stunned from the paintball impact. Finally, one of the soldiers ordered a perimeter around the stage, and he detailed a squad to help get the dignitaries to safety.

Moss and Pax dropped the squad and anyone else that tried to assist the dignitaries. And periodically, they launched more fireworks.

Quinn sent, “Moss, Pax, the vendors have your location. Time to withdraw.”

Two clicks affirmed his order. Four more airbursts followed to cover their retreat.

Shiva said, [We’ve got control of the sound system again.]

Quinn chuckled. [Play the music.]

The riot police showed up about then, and River reported, “In position.”

“Take out the leaders of the riot police.”

There was a single click, and Quinn watched as five riot police exploded with color.

And the crowd cheered.