The usual fallacy is that, in every universe, many futures splay outward from any given moment. If you are of grammatical bent, you might call it punctuation on a cosmological scale. The woman has haunted Blackwheel Station for as long as anyone remembers, although she was not born there. She is human, and her straight black hair and brown-black eyes suggest an ancestral inheritance tangled up with tigers and shapeshifting foxes. Her native language is not spoken by anyone here or elsewhere.
They say her true name means things like gray and ash and grave. He is the first human she has seen in a long time. The stranger has taken on a human face to talk to her, and he is almost certainly interested in the gun. The gun takes different shapes, but at this end of time, origami multiplicity of form surprises more by its absence than its presence.
Sometimes the gun is long and sleek, sometimes heavy and blunt. The woman will not tell it to you, and the gunsmith Arighan is generations gone. Her hand—on a glass of water two degrees from freezing— stops, slides to her side, where the holster is. Small courtesies matter to him because he is not human. His mind may be housed in a superficial fortress of flesh, but the busy computations that define him are inscribed in a vast otherspace.
She shakes her head. She is certain he does, which is potentially inconvenient. It always is. They want chancellors dead or generals, discarded lovers or rival reincarnates, bodhisattvas or bosses—all the old, tawdry stories. People, in all the broad and narrow senses of the term. There was a time when more of them tried to force the gun away from her.
One of the things she likes about Blackwheel is that the administrators promised that they would dispose of any corpses she produced.
Guide Discarded Mercy
Blackwheel is notorious for keeping promises. By now, the other people in the bar, none of them human, are paying attention: a musician whose instrument is made of fossilized wood and silk strings, a magister with a seawrack mane, engineers with their sketches hanging in the air and a single doodled starship at the boundary. The sole exception is the tattooed traveler dozing in the corner, dreaming of distant moons. In no hurry, the woman draws the Flower and points it at the man.
She is aiming it not at his absent heart, but at his left eye. If she pulled the trigger, she would pierce him through the false pupil. The musician continues plucking plangent notes from the instrument. The others, seeing the gun, gawk for only a moment before hastening out of the bar.
As if that would save them. I could name programmers all the way back to the first people who scratched a tally of birds or rocks. But she knows many ways to kill. Covered by her palm, engraved silver-bright in a language nobody else reads or writes, is the word ancestor.
Science Fiction & Fantasy
The gun had survived four dynasties, with all their rebellions and coups. It had accompanied the imperial arsenal from homeworld to homeworld. The sitting room, comfortable but not luxurious by Blackwheeler standards, accommodates a couch sized to human proportions, a metal table shined to blurry reflectivity, a vase in the corner. There are also two paintings, on silk rather than some less ancient substrate. One is of a mountain by night, serenely anonymous amid its stylized clouds. The other, in a completely different style, consists of a cavalcade of shadows. Neither painting is signed.
I have volume and mass and volition.
I drink water that tastes the same every day, as water should. I kill when it moves me to do so. His mouth tilts up at unwritten. You speak a language that is not even dead. It never existed. The woman folds herself into the couch next to him, not close but not far. Admirals, ministers, monks. Once upon a universe, a duelist named Shiron took up the gun that an empress with empiricist tendencies had given her. She nodded at a sweating man bound in monofilament so that he would dismember himself if he tried to flee.
See if the gun works on him. The calendar they used, at least, was familiar. It told her that she was years too early. No amount of research changed the figure.
- The Rules of Winning Chess!
- Stillbirth remains discarded at Mercy?
- Act 3 Scene 4.
- Compulsory Registration: A Vehicle of Mercy Discarded Notes 3 California Western Law Review!
- No Fear Shakespeare: King Lear: Act 3 Scene 4 Page 4.
- How to Teach Your Child Chinese.
- Great War Diaries of Brigadier Alexander Johnston?
While a relatively new liturgical feast, the day is packed with some much-needed wisdom and encouragement. In our world today, many people have fallen prey to the false belief that our faults define us.
- THE PROFESSIONAL- REVISED?
- He Came Crying.
- VATICAN – ITALY Pope: May God give us the grace to be "discarded";
This popular but wayward tendency is summarized by the maxim: People are the sum total of their sins. This rash judgment is fueled by cultural trends that elevate vanity, diminish compassion, and encourage a raw competition among people. Such contests only implode our dignity and cause a disdain toward our neighbor as we fear the disclosure of own faults while publicizing the weaknesses of others. If we choose to break from this pattern, we must be ready for persecution.
If mercy has been discarded, then the one who wishes to retrieve it will endure opposition, misunderstanding, and slander.
PIME’s first 'House of Mercy' inaugurated in Mumbai (photos)
The eighth Beatitude given by the Lord Jesus calls his followers, and all people of goodwill, to a willingness to suffer persecution for the sake of righteousness. Of the many things that might cause us suffering, is there anything more noble to suffer for than a sincere act of mercy? In Western societies, those who are persecuted are not always given physical punishment, as so many Christians face today in the Middle East and in other parts of the world.
Sometimes the suffering can be in the social, occupational, economic, or recreational areas of life. With the above clarification, however, it must still be emphasized that the most fundamental persecution is that which causes death to the witness. Accepting this reality can be a hard thing for a person of goodwill. Of course, the Christ who gives a summons to mercy and persecution is also a Christ who does not teach as an outsider. He is someone who lived and taught within the human family. In his own messianic work, the Lord suffered in order to defeat darkness and experience the fullness of human life.
He readily accepted all forms of suffering. And so, leading us as the Good Shepherd, he desires to teach us the power of mercy and the purpose of suffering. In taking on our human nature, the Lord Jesus embraced our suffering, body and soul. From his life of poverty, to living as a refugee in a foreign land, to being hunted down as a criminal, to the frustration of learning a trade, to the death of his foster father, to his experience of being tired and thirsty, as well as being misunderstood, rejected, and unloved.
All of these sufferings, taken on for the sake of our redemption, culminated in the cruelty and torture of his passion and the humiliations and asphyxiation of his death. He chose to accept and use suffering—which has been a pivotal dilemma and source of anguish throughout human history—as the very means to manifest his love and restore righteousness to the human family. And so suffering would become the instrument of goodness and salvation.