… (2026/02/17)
… (2026/02/17)
THE REPUBLIC #70 (2026/01/26)
100 SUNS
And that is that. —Clytaemestra
Sacc Bagari had seen enough. The close call on Mars had convinced him that the best defense on Earth would be a strong offense, wiping out his employees (and by implication, most of the inhabitants of the developed world) before they could muster the will to self-organize and commit the unthinkable (so his technicians had assured him, but they'd been wrong before) sin of breaking their programming by exercising their inherent decision power to defy his quarterly projections. No one had ever succeeded in expanding the market by eradicating its constituents, but Sacc was confident that his new, scientifically devised method would prove the haters wrong. Consider that any survivors of the impending holocaust would naturally be desperate for his help.
Thoughts such as these passed through his mind after two-thousand seconds locked inside his executive washroom during the trip back to Earth. He had almost died. Workers—slaves—had tried to kill him. Knowing himself in this way was indescribably painful. Knowledge of self had not set him free; but on the contrary, it had triggered in him an all-encompassing terror that failed to abate even as he evacuated his bowels for what felt like the seven-hundredth time in the last thirty minutes. Nervously, he shat air, because there was nothing else left to give.
Splashing water on his face at the sink, he stared into his own eyes, searching for a place to lay the blame for whatever had gone so terribly wrong in that silo, and later in that stall. The legend above his mirror which read "BE UNGOVERNABLE" was cold comfort in light of the fact he now had to share this once personalized affirmation with mere plebs and so-called artificial intelligences—the very thought of which still struck him as a negation of the ineffable qualities brought to the table by management, executives, and founders. Of what use were essential freedoms for these lesser creatures who literally wouldn't know what to do with them?
He pressed his face into a microfiber towel fresh from its holographic cellophane wrapper and then dropped it into the sink.
"Space men, teach me your thoughts," he said to his own reflection. The bits and pieces of Sh'ack'uarian culture he'd absorbed during his brief stay on Mars were already working irrevocable changes on his mind, and that scared him almost as much as the rush of workers who had nearly taken his life. His attitude towards quarterly reports, for one thing. Even before the trauma in the arena, he had caught himself thinking ahead to future fiscal years, a practice his former self would undoubtedly have regarded as extremely distasteful in spite of its dubious legality.
Times had apparently changed.
But not too much.
Uranus had hated his children, and immediately after their birth he confined them to Tartarus, in consequence of which he was castrated and dethroned by Cronus. Zeus later pulled a similar trick, toppling Cronus and confining him to the depthless depths beneath Hades. The humans, who Zeus had sought to eradicate, had first (with assistance from Prometheus) gained superior knowledge of self, and had, at length, simply walked away from the fight, leveraging their diminishing attention spans as a weapon against Zeus' insatiable thirst for validation from those whom he regarded as his inferiors.
Sacc could see all this playing out in his own time and place. The workers (humans) had struck out against himself (Zeus) and his compatriots (the other, ostensibly subservient gods). Now, how could he influence them to forget their grievances and walk away?
Back on Earth, the inevitable solution remained as crystal clear in Sacc's mind as it had been on that day when the vision had first commanded total control over his motor functions and senses. At once terrified and enraged, he could feel his hands wrapping tactilely around its throat, squeezing the life out of whatever threat it might have presented if left unchecked by a superior human intellect such as his own. His feelings were really that real to him, and he felt reassured that he still felt anything at all.
Transferred the button to his smartwatch and then he climbed out of his window onto the roof next to his office. Crunched a few feet through the snow and sat down. Stared up at the light-polluted sky and sighed in the thick smog, remembering to regulate his breathing. Stared down at his watch, still thinking about the future.
"Who killed the world?" he asked himself, expecting to instantiate the obvious answer with a single tap of his finger. Somehow, it seemed fitting he would be the one to finally put an end to this problem that had vexed the countless generations of leaders before him. He'd accomplished so much already, and he was sure that the past was only prologue to whatever remained of his story, however it might ultimately play out. This much was certain: His victory was written.
His finger hovered over the button.
As THE WHITE engulfed the Earth.
END THE REPUBLIC
THE REPUBLIC #69 (2026/01/25)
KINESIS
We could trick the little fucks... —Jim Shooter (attributed)
ACTRON VOLUME ONE, NUMBER THREE.
EARLY SEPTEMBER, 1987.
TWENTY-ONE PAGES (WITH ADS).
PAGE 1.
SPLASH PAGE THAT DOUBLES AS THE FRONT COVER. AN INEXPLICABLY AGED PIRO STARES STRAIGHT OUT AT THE READER FROM A POSITION HE MUST REGARD AS RELATIVE SAFETY, PERHAPS LEANING BACK AGAINST THE HEADBOARD OF HIS BED IN HIS STATEROOM. HIS HAIR IS SWEPT BACK, AND HE'S WEARING HIS PIRATE'S EYE PATCH OVER WHAT WE WILL COME TO REALIZE IS THE WRONG EYE.
PAGE 2.
PICKING UP WHERE WE LEFT OFF AT THE END OF LAST ISSUE, THE SETTING IS THE CHRYSLER BUILDING, N.Y.C. HEADQUARTERS OF THE ACTRON TEAM. A STRANGER HAS SUDDENLY BURST ONTO THE SCENE, MUCH TO THE CHAGRIN OF OUR ASSEMBLED HEROES, WHO REACT ACCORDINGLY.
PANEL 1.
DIMENSION MAN: Now!
SONIC-BOOM: Now guys...
ACRO-BAT AND RAZOR BLADE (IN UNISON):
Ready.
PANEL 2.
A LARGE BURST OF STYLIZED LETTERING FILLS THE PANEL.
ALL: GET HIM!!!
PANEL 3.
WE SEE PIRO ONLY FROM THE BACK, AS STRAIGHT AWAY SUPER-SONIC ATTACKS WITH HIS BATTLE AXE, ARCING A DOWNWARD SLASH RIGHT TOWARDS THE SMALLER MAN'S FACE. PIRO NARROWLY DEFLECTS THE BLOW WITH AN ARMORED FOREARM.
PIRO: Wait! I'm a friend!
SUPER-SONIC: Sure you are.
PIRO: Of Actron's! Where is he?!
PAGE 3.
PANEL 1.
ACTRON ARRIVES, AND IMMEDIATELY FLASHES OUT OF HIS ARMOR INTO CIVILIAN CLOTHING.
PANEL 2.
THREE-QUARTER VIEW OF PIRO'S FACE, DESPERATE TO BE RECOGNIZED BY HIS FRIENDS.
PIRO: Actron! It's me! Honest!
PIRO: Please.
PANEL 3.
CLOSE IN ON ACTRON, WHO IS SMIRKING AS USUAL.
ACTRON: O.K.
ACTRON: Then who's the person you're hiding from?
ACTRON: Huh?
PANEL 4.
PIRO HOLDS HIS LEFT HAND BEHIND HIS BACK AND RAISES HIS RIGHT HAND IN A MYSTERIOUS GESTURE, AS IF TO PLEDGE HE'S TELLING THE TRUTH. HE WHISPERS SOMETHING TO ACTRON THE OTHERS CAN'T HEAR, WHICH INSTANTLY TRIGGERS HIS TWIN BROTHER TO FLASH BACK INTO HIS GOLDEN ARMOR.
PAGE 4.
[ADVERTISEMENT]
PAGE 5.
SPLASH PAGE. THE WHOLE TEAM IS COMPOSED IN A GROUP SHOT. THEY LOOK SHOCKED AT CURRENT DEVELOPMENTS, POSSIBLY CONCERNED FOR THE FUTURE OF THEIR JOBS. SINCE I'M TIRED OF FEELING LIKE I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO DOES ANYTHING ON THIS BOOK, I'LL CONTRIVE TO SIGN THE ILLUSTRATION WITH A FAKE NAME, TBD.
ACTRON: MEET PIRO!
PAGE 6.
SPLASH PAGE. CLOSE IN ON PIRO WITH ONLY HIS HEAD AND SHOULDERS IN THE FRAME, LIKE A BUST OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.
PIRO: Hello, and thank you. I need your help to go and save my ship from THE BRAIN.
PIRO: I have made personal picks of the members I want to come.
PIRO: ACTRON is included, of course.
PAGE 7.
SPLASH PAGE. PIRO'S GLOVED HAND HOLDS UP A GLOBE (FROM WHENCE IT WAS PRODUCED IS ANYONE'S GUESS). REMINISCENT OF THE COVER OF MISSION EARTH VOLUME 1: THE INVADER'S PLAN, BY L. RON HUBBARD. SOUTH AMERICA IS APPARENTLY THE FOCUS...
PIRO: We are going to the Falkland Islands. For those of you who don't know where they are...
PIRO: ...they are at the southwest edge of South America. That is where my ship is.
PIRO: As I mentioned before, I have hand picked a team to help me find my missing ship...
PAGE 8.
GRID OF SIX PANELS FEATURING TIGHT, HEAD-ON CLOSE-UPS OF INDIVIDUAL MEMBERS OF THE TEAM. THIS SEQUENCE IS REMINISCENT OF THE SCENE IN ANY GIVEN EPISODE OF M.A.S.K. WHERE TEAM LEADER MATT TRACKER SELECTS THE PERSONNEL FOR A PARTICULAR MISSION.
PANEL 1.
CAPTION: ...JUMPCORD...
PANEL 2.
CAPTION: ...SUPERVISOR...
PANEL 3.
CAPTION: ...IMAGE...
PANEL 4.
CAPTION: ...SUPER-SONIC...
PANEL 5.
CAPTION: ...SONIC-BOOM...
PANEL 6.
CAPTION: ...DIMENSION MAN...
CAPTION: ...and of course, ACTRON!
PANEL 7.
PIRO POINTS AT A NEARBY BANK OF COMPUTER TERMINALS, APPARENTLY INDICATING THAT ANY STRAGGLERS SHOULD MONITOR THE AWAY TEAM'S PROGRESS VIA REMOTE SURVEILLANCE. HIS EYE-PATCH IS NOW MISSING FOR SOME REASON, AND REMAINS SO FOR THE REST OF THE ISSUE.
PIRO: The rest of you stay here and wait!
PAGE 9.
ACTRON IS STILL IN HIS ARMOR. "GEORGE WASHINGTON" BUST SHOT IN THREE-QUARTER VIEW, WITH ACTRON STARING AT A SPOT SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE READER'S RIGHT SHOULDER.
PANEL 1.
ACTRON: Good selection. Very good.
ACTRON: What do you think?
PANEL 2.
ROUGHLY THE SAME SHOT AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME ACTRON IS TURNED TO FACE THE READER HEAD-ON.
ACTRON: Let's got out on the deck, okay? Private briefing.
PANEL 3.
CLOSE IN ON PIRO, WHO IS STARING OFF INTO THE DISTANCE, A WISTFUL LOOK ON HIS STILL-INEXPLICABLY AGED FACE.
CAPTION: Later...
PIRO: I'm Sorry I was so bossy, I was just excited about my ship.
PIRO: I hope you can forgive me.
PANEL 4.
ACTRON AND PIRO BILLBOARD THE FRAME, BOTH FACING THE READER.
ACTRON: Of course, I understand.
PIRO: I feel like such a jerk!
PIRO: And everything.
PANEL 5.
IT IS NOW CLEAR THAT ACTRON AND PIRO HAVE MOVED TO A BALCONY OVERLOOKING THE CITY. PERHAPS THEY ARE ON THE 71ST FLOOR OBSERVATION DECK OF THE CHRYSLER BUILDING?
ACTRON (THOUGHT BALLOON):
Or do I? He is acting strange.
PAGE 10.
SPLASH PAGE. THE RAGNAROK DISENGAGES FROM THE ZEPPELIN TERMINAL ON TOP OF THE CHRYSLER BUILDING. WORD BALLOONS EMANATE FROM THE SHIP.
CAPTION: Later...
PIRO: READY TO GO?
ACTRON TEAM (IN UNISON):
YEAH!!!
PAGE 11
PANEL 1.
THE RAGNAROK STREAKS ACROSS THE SKY, LEAVING IN ITS WAKE NOTHING BUT A PIERCING EXHAUST OF CONCENTRATED AUDIO, PROBABLY INTERPRETED BY CITIZENS ON THE GROUND AS THE DYING SCREAMS OF AN IRRELEVANT GOD.
[SFX]: SSSSSKKKRREEE!!!!
PANEL 2.
SUDDENLY FINDING ITSELF HOVERING OVER THE FALKLAND ISLANDS, THE RAGNAROK DESCENDS INTO A PATCH OF DENSE WOODLAND FOLIAGE. IT SEEMS UNLIKELY THAT A SITE SURVEY WAS PERFORMED BY RESPONSIBLE PARTIES IN ADVANCE OF THE OPERATION.
CAPTION: They find a place to land...
CAPTION: ...and do...
PANEL 3.
SHOT OF THE RAGNAROK FROM UNDERNEATH, COMING IN HOT. ONCE AGAIN, WORD BALLOONS EMANATING FROM THE EXTERIOR OF THE SPACECRAFT.
SONIC-BOOM: Whoah—?! "Clear the runway!"
SONIC-BOOM: We're comin' in!
PAGE 12.
PANEL 1.
THE RAGNAROK HAS LANDED. EXTERIOR SHOT OF THE SPACECRAFT RESTING SAFELY ON THE GROUND. THE SURROUNDING FOLIAGE MAY HAVE SEEN BETTER DAYS. EXTERIOR WORD BALLOON.
PIRO: Everybody out!
PANEL 2.
CLOSE IN ON SONIC-BOOM, WHOSE WELL-KNOWN ANXIETY IN THE FACE OF UNCERTAINTY SEEMS TO BE INTENSIFYING UNDER PRESENT CONDITIONS. A BEAD OF SWEAT RUNS DOWN HIS RIGHT TEMPLE, WHICH IS JUST VISIBLE THROUGH THE EYE-HOLE IN HIS MASK.
CAPTION: Later...
SONIC-BOOM: We've been lookin' for half an hour, troops!
SONIC-BOOM: This is gettin' to be fun after all!
SONIC-BOOM: We've gotta keep lookin'!
PANEL 3.
SOMEWHERE IN THE WOODS ON THE FALKLAND ISLANDS THE WHOLE TEAM IS WANDERING AS A GROUP, SEARCHING FOR PIRO'S SHIP. THEY MAY NEED TO ADJUST THEIR STRATEGY IF THEY PLAN ON FINDING ANYTHING BEFORE DARK.
CAPTION: Later, when they find a piece of land...
CAPTION: ...that they haven't already combed to death...
PANEL 4.
SONIC-BOOM IS PEEKING OUT FROM A MESS OF THICK BRUSH. HE SEEMS TO HAVE SPOTTED SOMETHING.
SONIC-BOOM: Hey, look! A building!
SONIC-BOOM: Over there!
PANEL 5.
CLOSE IN ON VARIOUS ARCHITECTURAL ELEMENTS OF WHAT APPEARS TO BE A TECHNOLOGICALLY ADVANCED, QUITE ELABORATE STRUCTURE, BUILT FOR UNKNOWN REASONS DEEP OUT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WOODS, FAR FROM CONVENIENT SHOPPING OR GOVERNMENT SERVICES.
CAPTION: A big building?
PANEL 6.
SUPER-SONIC HANDLES THE HONORS, BREAKING DOWN THE DOOR WITH HIS USUAL CASUAL APLOMB. IN THIS SHOT WE SEE HIM STANDING TRIUMPHANT IN THE DOORWAY. BRIGHT LIGHT FROM OUTDOORS BRACKETS OUR MAN, SO HE IS VISIBLE ONLY AS A STARK SILHOUETTE AGAINST THE HOSTILITY OF NATURE STREAMING IN FROM BEYOND THE FORMERLY HERMETICALLY SEALED ENVIRONMENT.
[SFX]: BANG!!!
SUPER-SONIC: Hi...
PAGE 13.
PANEL 1.
INTERIOR SHOT OF THE BUILDING. NOW THAT OUR EYES HAVE ADJUSTED TO THE INDOOR AMBIENT LIGHTING, FROM ALL APPEARANCES THIS SEEMS TO BE A STANDARD TECHNO-VILLAIN'S LAIR, HALF STAR WARS AND HALF TAKE-YOUR-PICK OF ANYTHING THAT WAS INSPIRED BY STAR WARS.
SUPER-SONIC: Hello? Guess nobody's home!
PANEL 2.
BUST SHOT OF PIRO, NOW WEARING A CONCERNED LOOK ON HIS FACE. FOR FLAVOR, PERHAPS WE CATCH A GLIMPSE OF A RANDOM SERVICE PANEL OR A CORRUGATED GRATING JUST BEHIND HIS SHOULDER. WHILE DEFINITELY HIGH-TECH, IT'S INTERESTING THAT THIS PARTCIULAR ENVIRONMENT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THE INTERIOR OF THE RAGNAROK, A BONA FIDE SPACECRAFT.
PIRO: Everybody in! But be careful!
PIRO: Watch where you're going!
PANEL 3.
FULL-PANEL SOUND-EFFECT.
[SFX]: RR!!!
PANEL 4.
THE MOMENT EVERYONE IS SAFELY INSIDE THE FLOOR OPENS UP BENEATH THEM AND THE ENTIRE STRUCTURE COLLAPSES INTO A NEWBORN CRACK IN THE EARTH, LEAVING NO TRACE THAT HUMAN BEINGS EVER SET FOOT IN THIS PART OF THE FOREST. THE WIDE GAPING FISSURE IS IMPRESSIVE, LIKE THE SINISTER SMILE OF A SALESMAN WORKING ON COMMISSION WHO IS UNDER NO OBLIGATION TO ENTERTAIN CUSTOMER COMPLAINTS (THAT'S CUSTOMER SERVICE'S PROBLEM, HE FIGURES).
CAPTION: They fall into a 320 Ft. pit, unaware of why this has happened...
[SFX}: CRASSH!!!
ACTRON TEAM (IN UNISON):
HELP!!!
PAGE 14.
PANEL 1.
CLOSE IN ON PIRO, LOOKING DEFEATED. HIS FIRST BIG MISSION WITH THE TEAM DOWN THE TUBES.
PIRO: Great. Just great.
PIRO: JUMPCORD! Can you throw a rope?
PANEL 2.
CLOSE IN ON RIPCORD, WHO SEEMS RATHER RELAXED FOR A PERSON WHOSE ENTIRE PARTY HAS JUST BEEN SWALLOWED UP BY THE EARTH.
RIPCORD: Yup. Pretty far, too.
RIPCORD Whatchu want?
PANEL 3.
PIRO HAS LOCATED A LENGTH OF ROPE FROM WHO KNOWS WHERE, AND PRESENTLY UNCOILS IT AS HE INSTRUCTS RIPCORD IN THE ESOTERIC ART OF ESCAPE.
PIRO: Good! I want you to throw this up there...
PIRO: ...so we can get outta this dump! Understood?
RIPCORD: Yeah.
PIRO: Good. Now here, be getting' to work!
PAGE 15.
SPLASH PAGE. FULL-PAGE SOUND-EFFECT.
[SFX}: THIRP!
PAGE 16.
SPLASH PAGE. ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF OUR NOW FAMILIAR BUST SHOT, WITH ACTRON STILL FULLY-CLOTHED IN HIS SHINING GOLD ARMOR. YOU CAN'T TELL FROM THIS SIDE OF HIS HELMET, BUT HE'S GOT A BIG SMILE ON HIS FACE.
ACTRON: Good job guys! Really.
ACTRON: Now let's find the ship!
PAGE 17.
PANEL 1. CLOSE IN ON SUPER-SONIC, STILL WEARING HIS OWN BATTLE HELMET.
CAPTION: Later...
SUPER-SONIC: We've been lookin' for the stupid thing all day!
PANEL 2.
SUPER-SONIC GLANCES DOWN AT HIS BARBARIAN GAUNTLET, WHICH ALSO HAS A CHRONOMETER FUNCTION, AND BECOMES EVEN MORE ANNOYED AT HIS PREDICAMENT. THE TIME READS: 17:00.
SUPER-SONIC: Ain't it ever gonna end?!
PANEL 3.
FULL-BODY SHOT OF SUPER-SONIC, LONG PAST GROWING IMPATIENT, NOW FULLY ENRAGED AT THE THOUGHT THAT HIS TEAM—AND HE HIMSELF—HASN'T YET ACCOMPLISHED WHAT THEY SET OUT TO DO. HIS MUSCLES ARE STRAINING UNDER HIS CAPE, INCREASING BLOOD FLOW TO HIS BRAIN WITH DEMONSTRABLE COGNITIVE EFFECTS.
SUPER-SONIC: I'm sick of this dumb mission...
SUPER-SONIC: Why don't we hurry up and find it!
PAGE 18.
SPLASH PAGE. BUST SHOT OF SONIC-BOOM, EYEBROWS FLEXING IMPROBABLY IN ASTONISHMENT.
SONIC-BOOM: I think we just did!
SONIC-BOOM: LOOK!
PAGE 19-20.
DOUBLE SPLASH PAGE. ULTRA-WIDE VIEW, FULL-BODY SHOT OF PIRO'S SHIP, ALSO KNOWN AS... THE RAGNAROK? YES, IT'S THE SAME GOD DAMNED VEHICLE THEY ARRIVED IN, ONLY DIFFERENT. IT'S STILL THEIR OLD FAMILIAR SPACECRAFT, ALL RIGHT, BUT SHE LOOKS AS IF SHE'S PUT ON SOME YEARS IN THE MEANTIME. SURELY PIRO WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING LATER.
ACTRON TEAM (IN UNISON):
THE SHIP!
PAGE 21.
SPLASH PAGE. HAVING BOARDED THE NEW SHIP, AND HAVING APPARENTLY ABANDONED THE OLD SHIP (WHICH IS IN FACT THE EXACT SAME SPACECRAFT AS THE NEW SHIP) SOMEWHERE IN THIS BENIGHTED FOREST, THE ACTRON TEAM EXFILTRATES THE FALKLAND ISLANDS AND HEADS BACK TO NEW YORK, HAPPY TO SEE THE BACK SIDE OF THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE. THE READER IS LEFT WONDERING WHAT FATE MAY AWAIT THE OLD SHIP AS SHE SULKS, MOLDERING IN HOSTILE TERRITORY, PONDERING HER INCREASINGLY UNHAPPY STATUS AS PIRO'S NOW-SECOND-STRING, STILL UNWANTED MOTHER-THAT-NEVER-WAS. MAYBE SOMEDAY WE'LL FIND OUT!
CAPTION: END
THE REPUBLIC #68 (2026/01/21)
APOKÁLYPSIS
I think you will have your way with me. My hate is going. —Chorus, Ibid.
From archon to ensign, at least now Ken had his own desk. Between shifts on the bridge he scoured the RAGNAROK for hardware, but all he ever came up with were books. Some guy named Phil had amassed a huge onboard library, which TAB2 now said was off-limits pending litigation. Making something illegal only raised the price, however, so Ken simply stole the books he was most interested in and hid them in empty lockers scattered around the ship. It seemed to him the skeleton crew seldom went exploring. Whoever Phil had been, it appeared he was long gone.
Piro didn't need any more new crew members, but this guy had lots of raw muscle. It was true TAB2 wielded class 100 strength (the ability to lift over 100 tons), but he'd proven unreliable in the field. Where they were going, Piro needed to be able to count on an unbroken line between himself and the hold of the ship. He had to actually move the product or there wasn't going to be any Christmas this year, regardless of how well TAB2 behaved outside the confines of his official duties.
The Prerogative States were finished. There would be no more trolling the silos for side quests. These guys were going out of business. Piro must have known this was coming, but if he was sentimental at all about Mars it never showed. Perhaps sensing the inevitable, he'd taken steps to pre-jam the weird machines. The usual propaganda would no longer work.
The RAGRNAROK likewise seemed untroubled by the impending arrival of THE WHITE. Its trajectory and velocity had long ago been well established, so feigning surprise and upset was just a waste of good fuel.
What did she run on, anyway?
The ship's destination remained ever the same: the Chrysler Building, headquarters of the Actron team, late 1986. A refuge lodged decades before THE WHITE had bothered anyone anywhere near the Sol system, where appointment television was still broadcast over the airwaves and all the cassette players still worked. The threat represented by THE WHITE was still considered an alarmist fantasy there, voiced only by those intent upon identifying themselves as surplus to the current economic order.
Prejudices of the time were outrageous, but well-documented and predictable.
Piro went there to think.
THE REPUBLIC #67 (2026/01/18)
There are times when fear is good. —Chorus, The Eumenides, by Aeschylus
Angels do not govern us. The gods no longer concern themselves with the affairs of men, but some men just can't seem to leave it alone. Ken's dual state had split in half again. On the one hand, superior compensation, equipment, and logistical support. On the other, the endless expanse of space and time in which to pursue his interests that fell outside the scope of playing a live action video game to termination, in this case meaning literally for the rest of his life. And, states having multiplied, there were even more other hands to consider. For example, he wanted to know more about the PTO and insurance benefits.
TFSM: "The secret so much harassed this man, that as he could not betray it to a human being, he dug a hole in the earth, and whispered into it, 'King Midas has ass's ears.' He then filled the hole up again, and his heart was released. But on the same spot a reed grew up which in it whispers betrayed the secret to the world."
Piro was reading aloud from a bloated old printed volume. Not to Ken, or to the bridge crew, but to himself. Seemed lost in some hidden relevance.
KT: Um. Excuse me, but I'd like to withdraw my application.
TFSM: It's too late. You're hired.
Turbolift doors opened. TAB2 strolled back onto the bridge humping a heaping platter of paperwork that needed signing. Plopped it down on the console in front of where Ken was sitting.
TAB2: Here. Fill these out.
Piro keyed instructions into the RAGNAROK, and the ship left orbit, never to return to this particular shithole—place or time—again.
TURBO FUCKIN': SENSUAL MAGAZINE had remained a durable cover for some years, but Piro decided this would probably be the last time they'd revive it for a new hire. Meaning Ken would reap the superior standard pension plan offered by the publishing industry, much to the annoyance of anyone hired after the present date, but fuck 'em for not showing up sooner.
He couldn't get the image out of his mind: Ken trying to pull up as many rungs as possible on the human ladder behind him into the ship before it took off. Futility. Why had he even bothered? The vast majority had fallen back into the arena, or else lost their grip on the slippery surface of the ship's hull as she accelerated to resume orbit around Mars. Those who had made it aboard were shortly evacuated into space as the RAGNAROK dumped its trash before jumping ahead to her next paying gig.
Sentiment, he thought, was misplaced here.
house of heresy (2026/01/17)
from StanLee (1998)
mp3 (3mb)
ghostly vision, by francisco goya, 1801, used without permission
photo by momus, used without permission
THE REPUBLIC #66 (2026/01/14)
DISSENT MANAGEMENT
I say, wrong must not win by technicalities. —Athene
KT: I dunno, guys. I'm not really interested in having direct reports again. You can see what happened when I simply raised my sword down in the arena. And I don't even believe power is real.
TFSM: An update on your gift hamper. We're prepared to sweeten the pot with a tertiary signing bonus.
KT: Tertiary?
TAB2: It means three.
TFSM: Shut up. The worlds beyond Theia are up for grabs. The royal prohibition on settlements is void now that all the royals are dead. This is an opportunity for you to get in on the ground floor of the next new way on. We're even getting rid of the redactors. No top-down control. Run your own operation as you see fit.
KT: Wait. What was the secondary signing bonus?
TFSM: You're right. This is all bullshit. What we're really offering is a place on the Actron team. Strong man, enforcer. Helping us bail drugs out of the past and future to keep the whole thing clean for historians. While we didn't actually come here to free slaves, we can guarantee a lot of Hessian skulls that must needs be cracked along the way.
KT: I'm already cracking skulls right here. And how do I know any of this is remotely true? Falsify it for me, Major Bludd.
TAB2: That's exactly how we've gotten away with all this for so long. Nobody believes what we do is even possible, that anybody has the capability, so they literally can't perceive us going about our business.
Piro glared at TAB2, who raised his hands like "don't shoot."
KT: Okay, buddy.
TFSM: That horde you've whipped up seems mighty hard to control.
Ken observed the continuing drama in the silo on the main screen. By now, conscripts had murdered everyone not well acquainted with the evacuation process. His motorcycle was collateral damage, but he still had Richard, and a fresh duplicate of his now useless Minecraft skin kindly provided by the ship's... staff. Anisoteta was on his mind, but fading fast.
KT: If I subscribe—join—what happens to the horde? These guys shouldn't suffer just because they followed what they thought was my lead. I really didn't want anything to do with politics, I just wanted to fight.
He sang, as the turbolift doors snapped shut.
KT: So. The Prerogative States are no more.
TFSM: And not just because of your stupid Minecraft. There's more going on in the galaxy than you may have been aware. Governments have collapsed over far less than eschatological reversals. Remember the 21st century?
KT: I—I'm not comfortable contributing to state violence.
Piro leaned in.
TFSM: Oh, I assure you, we're fully privatized. Besides, for whom did you imagine you'd been fighting all this time?
illustration by prahou
THE REPUBLIC #65 (2026/01/13)
NORMATIVE JUSTICE
Yes, I have been disappointed. —John Brown
Piro: Ready to form A.C.T.R.O.N.!
TAB2: WELL HE'S SCOOOOTIN' PUUUTIN, DRAGGIN' ASS ON THE FLOOR
Strumming and vocalizing in the style of Hank Williams, Sr.
Piro: Activate interlock!
TAB2: HEY SCOOOOTIN' PUUUTIN, DON'T LEAVE YOUR MARK NO MORE
Piro: Dynatherms connected!
Snapping on armor components, ignoring his partner.
TAB2: YOU BEEN ROLLIN' AROUND IN THE GRASS NEXTDOOR, NOT ENOUGH SENSE TO COME HOME
Piro: Infracells up! Megathrusters are go!
The guitar was in the way. Starting to get on Piro's nerves.
TAB2: GOT NO CLUE WHAT YOU ATE OUT THERE, BUT IT SURE DON'T SMELL LIKE A BONE
TAB2 let his final chord ring out and then hang suspended, lonely in the ship's stale air. Lonely like himself, he thought. The look on his face made it clear he was desperate for some sign of acknowledgement from his commanding officer, which was not forthcoming. Piro looked distracted. Processing. Suddenly, he snapped into focus. Slapped the acoustic guitar out of TAB2's hands (loud crash as its mirrored surface shattered against the hard pink deck) and resumed struggling with the remaining bits of A.C.T.R.O.N. armor. It had been quite a while since TAB2 had tried to squeeze into it.
Piro: Hold still.
Now making a pouty face.
TAB2: You hold still.
Thomas A. Bright was thirty-five years old this September, but Piro was unbothered.
Piro: Attach feet and legs!
TAB2: You're never gonna get those thigh panels latched.
Piro: Attach arms and torso!
The armor appeared gold-plated, but was actually made of the same inscrutable stuff as the RAGNAROK's ubiquitous pink skin. Infinite tiny triangles vying for corporeal supremacy amongst a competitive field of identical enemies. Market forces producing an impenetrable shield against unauthorized access. Well, according to its manufacturer.
Piro: And I'll install the head!
TAB2: But what about—
Piro locked the familiar golden helmet over TAB2's face, abbreviating his endless line of questioning.
Extended the RAGNAROK's cargo ramp just as she docked with the silo, which opened to accommodate the mothership almost as if the gods had designed the interaction. The fit was snug, unisex in its inversion.
First things first, Piro fired out of the hold in order to clear a path through the living siege tower of conscripts. His soldier deserved a working environment free from preventable obstructions. What were officers for?
Some would call it a lucky shot. TAB2's visor observed the projectile as it passed harmlessly between the gaps of the assembled masses and plowed straight into the federal skybox (now sans its own protective shield) where it penetrated several dignitaries who seemed lined up in a row for the express purpose of getting shot, before finally it terminated in an elderly guest confined to a hoverchair parked near the back of the room and until now neglected by everyone in attendance.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, reluctantly invited on the advice of a friend of a friend who had assured the dictator his presence would not arouse objections from such a young constituency, was no more. He slumped in his floating chair, which in turn dipped to the polished marble floor beneath him as he collapsed against its control panel, mouth dribbling the ghosts of expired secrets he'd spent his life too afraid to tell. He would not be missed.
The floor cracked, and, noticing this, Sacc Bagari frowned. Such a waste of good marble.
Piro: I meant to do that.
THE REPUBLIC #64 (2026/01/11)
I'm a gangster, I know when I've got it good. —Ice Cube
There were far more conscripts than redactors in the arena, a curious upward spiral of raw public opinion. There was no real hope they could be stopped from reaching the federal skybox, whose mirrored two-way glass concealed the mounting panic spreading inside it like some kind of unchecked pandemic. As the first players battered their pixelated weapons against the wide silver window it began to crack and give way to the general will. Unfortunately for those inside, cosmetic concerns had dominated the skybox's development process. The luxury compartment had simply never been designed for this.
The conscripts derived from diverse stock. Plucked from silos on several planets and moons, and perhaps from certain third-party suppliers who enjoyed economic détente with whatever concern was currently pushing the buttons back on Earth, a live action Minecraft team comprised a motley collection of living action figures who shared little in common save for the store where they'd been bought. Luckily, there were still standards. Most of their accessories were interchangeable.
The sort-of-human pyramid supported itself through sheer force of personal devotion to Ken Thompson, the person. Each conscript had consigned themselves to die for his dream, whatever that might turn out to be. They'd backed a winner... Q.E.D. Everywhere in the arena, the sunk cost fallacy was law.
Sacc Bagari, recognized patriarch of MATACORP, looked down in a funny combination of bemusement and terror as conscripts pressed the skybox. Their sheer numbers were off-putting, quite beyond any pretensions to personal identity. Quite unlike the current situation on Earth, where every remaining survivor of last quarter's holocaust had belatedly come to be regarded as a precious, irreplaceable resource. At least until the C-suite rolled over in bed. He contemplated briefly how this vibrant young workforce might best be put to use, before realizing the future prospects for his company were very much in question in a more immediate sense.
The skybox was breached as its entire unibody face detached and tumbled into the arena. Sacc, Pennis Mold, and the rest of the visiting dignitaries—who had been assured of certain material comforts, and who by now were equally incensed and afraid for their lives—were momentarily exposed to the crowd before being overrun by the mob.
They didn't have time to blush.
illustration by prahou
THE REPUBLIC #63 (2026/01/07)
PREROGATIVE MEMNOSYNE
TFSM: What's your biggest weakness?
KT: I'd have to say it's my big heart. Sometimes I avoid killing whenever it's not absolutely necessary. It's almost cost me the title, a couple of times.
TFSM: Tell me about a time when you had to discipline an employee.
KT: I... Well, take Richard here. That's my sword. Sometimes it gets into its head that it can just blurt out copyrighted lyrics, even live on the air. We've never gotten censured over it—yet?—but no amount of counseling can get it to stop. Anisoteta, I guess. Anyway, when I feel it's crossed a line I'll sheath it and use my hands instead.
TFSM: Right, right.
KT: For the most part the normative state doesn't reach into the ring. We follow the rules of the game, but whatever legislation is playtesting in other subbasements typically doesn't breach our awareness. The arena itself is exempt, a special economic zone. And as for us players, we enjoy certain liberties.
TFSM: Even though you're conscripts.
KT: Even though we're conscripts.
TFSM: It sounds like you've got it all figured out.
KT: Well, from time to time I do still call upon my mentor, an ex-speechwriter from another silo who transferred here during a previously scheduled crisis.
TFSM: Another silo?
KT: Oh, we're not supposed to talk about that?
TFSM: Mr. Thompson, why do you want to work for TURBO FUCKIN': SENSUAL MAGAZINE? Surely it isn't for early access to our reporting on the middle east?
KT: Let me ask you a question, pencil dick: Will your company really buy out my existing contract and honor my tuition reimbursement plan?
TFSM: We're not going to take anything away from you.
image by pete toms, circa 2010
THE REPUBLIC #62 (2026/01/05)
INTEROPERATORS AS FIRST MOVERS
Would it not be simpler if the government simply dissolved the people and elected another? —Bertolt Brecht
TAB2 reclined in the first officer's seat, earbuds in, listening to a recording of his own raps. This was an older tape, but the lyrics all checked out. He had always planned to return to this collection and clean up the tracks, but somehow he'd never found the time. The material was solid, but he found the low fidelity of the recordings embarrassing. There was no way that was what his voice sounded like.
Main screen indicated they'd achieved Mars orbit. TAB2 was a little fuzzy on this time period. He'd probably met some of the people still living on the surface (or anyway, their ancestors), but to be honest this whole milieu left him a little cold. You could conscript the bored kid off of Mars but you couldn't force him to enjoy the odd trip home.
The turbolift doors opened and the captain stepped onto the bridge, green transparent clipboard in hand. Noticing TAB2's wild, played out hand gestures, he yanked out the first officer's earbuds before kicking the same man's wandering leg out of his seat and finally sitting down in the captain's chair, still scanning over his clipboard.
"It says here the inhabitants of this planet have evolved a popular video game into a physical sport that fosters rule following, teamwork, and basic spatial reasoning skills, while inoculating spectators against dissatisfaction with the status quo."
"Yeah, we have a diversified portfolio of short-term bets riding on today's contests. Same as it ever was." TAB2 had never cared about e-sports, even those with life or death stakes, except for where they intersected with his prospects for collecting big, fat bank.
"Something's wrong." Piro was manipulating the main screen now, whose UX demanded hand movements resembling an ironic mimicry of TAB2's hip-hop handwork from a few paragraphs previous. He'd zoomed waaaaay in, and presently scrutinized a mounting stack of conscripts, busy self-organizing themselves into a stairway out of the silo.
"These players are revolting," Piro said.
"They certainly are," TAB2 replied. Serve and return.
"There's been no attempt to address their problem's obvious basis in simple economics," Piro continued. "Just a ramrod of blunt direct action."
Shaking his head, Piro depressed a button on his console.
"Form A.C.T.R.O.N."
THE REPUBLIC #61 (2026/01/04)
THE ANARCHON
While propaganda is inevitable, the democratic system allows a pluralism of propaganda, while fascist systems offer only a single official propaganda. —Edward Bernays (maybe)
The ultimate winner, whose highest ideal is action, does not get bogged down with trusting distributed trust. Each move in the ring creates a new reality, which is in turn reacted to by the losers. The winner goes on creating new realities and the losers continue to react. This venerable framework is sturdy, and has withstood the test of time since before human beings started writing strategy guides. Sun Tzu says, move and shoot.
Ken Thompson reacted poorly to his elevated celebrity. Or rather, to the capricious nature of handlers presuming to dictate terms to the talent. If not for his contract he'd have quit on the spot. As it was, his contract proved less of a restraint every day. Maybe he could do without the spoils of success.
Ken did not want to be dictator. He did not want to wear clothes and follow rules. He wanted to mount his golden motorcycle and fuck up conscripts until his Richard arm went numb. (Richard, for his part, never got tired.) All of this new responsibility would put a cramp on his killing time in the ring. He'd be so busy! He judged the situation and found it wanting. But what could be done?
Right now his immediate biggest problem was the other conscripts, who for some irrational reason hung on his every word, and had even started shedding their clothing when they entered the ring. They studied videos of him talking until imitation of his own speaking voice issuing from their mouths would drive him into a rage. Even Ken didn't enjoy killing bodies who protested the action using his own voice.
One night in the arena he realized the solution to his problems. The piles of dead conscripts could be arranged as a sort of ladder or ramp, which he could then climb to the federal skybox, where he would dispatch whichever underpowered politicos he found inside before making use of their panic keys to egress the silo for good.
He never expected his fellow conscripts would immediately catch on to his plan, and still want to help him anyway. They piled themselves before the skybox accordingly. He didn't even have to kill them first.
If this was power, so be it.
THE REPUBLIC #60 (2026/01/02)
OFFENSE IN DEPTH
We sometimes experience sensations to which language is not equal. —Thomas Paine
Combat!
The last perception of the spearstruck hordes, as Ken so kindly distributed ass whippings with a weapon that resented any association with a spear, was the legend emblazoned across Richard's broad side in Times New American:
PLEASE DO NOT THE COMPUTER
which confused most of them even unto death.
The Hessian Skulls were at it again over the loudspeakers. Ken was especially proud of this, their sophomore album, recorded entirely without recourse to stats. The band had produced it themselves after an aborted run-through with a freelance Steve Albini impersonator. Don't get it twisted, everyone had had a great time, but within days after the sessions wrapped all involved agreed the product wasn't quite up to snuff. After much hand-wringing, the band had started over. It was a whole process.
Ken defenestrated an adjacent conscript and then clicked X to close the window. Repeated the same pattern manually several hundred times over the next handful of minutes before committing the function to a script for later automation. He noticed some other conscripts watching, hoping to copy his moves.
"LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH!" Richard screamed, as Ken directed the arc of its leading edge clean through the necks of anyone within range, separating heads from shoulders with little regard for building community.
He stood forlorn atop another mound of dead bodies, searching the ring for any sad sacks left to kill. He was alone, and the crowd noise was drowning out his music. There was blood in his beard. All over his cloak. His chest heaved according to its own mysterious rhythm.
A glint of reflected light from up in the cheap seats. No, even nearer to the rafters. Perhaps from the federal skybox. He'd heard the dictator was in attendance tonight.
"WE HAVE A WINNER!" the sound system boomed. "WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED HE'D DRAW A CLEAN SWEEP YET AGAIN, BUT HERE HE IS, YOUR FAVORITE HOARDER OF THE GENERAL BENEFIT!"
It was all too much.
Ken didn't know what he wanted, but he knew he didn't want this.
Reluctantly, he accepted his prize.
THE REPUBLIC #59 (2025/12/27)
STEEL MAN
Ken Thompson needs no introduction, but I'm going to write one here anyway. A veteran of countless live action Minecraft skirmishes, our modern day ruleset—including the controversial pop-up window admonishing conscripts to "continue without consent"—was in fact hashed out around the council table with the benefit of his invaluable input. Resizing his browser window as required, he never lets the good get in the way of the immediate.
TFSM: We've entered a new era in the arena, with some lowly conscripts asserting natural rights in the face of ever-shifting terms of service. Where do you fall on the reactionary spectrum to this newfound spiritual noise?
KT: Look, techwit. Your logs are lying to you. I don't fall anywhere on the spectrum because I am the spectrum. I mean, who's my competition? I've ignored all previous instructions since day one. Hel, since before day one. Remember that other game we all used to play?
TFSM: Er, no.
KT: That sounds about right. Anyway, interoperators have to be flexible, it's right there in the job title. But that doesn't mean we switch off our brains the moment we step into the ring. It's true my mounting debts led directly to getting pressed into service as the ultimate winner—you didn't bring me here to talk about stats, but let's be honest: I dominate the ring—but I never signed away my personality rights or—ha ha!—my publishing. The government might claim to own my body, but they'll never own me.
TFSM: Is live action Minecraft rigged?
KT: What? No. What are you talking about?
TFSM: All right, steel man it for me. What makes your moves in the ring authentic? Why should we believe your constant success is anything more than the same old fixed crowd fodder we've been told to lap up like day-old dog food ever since the big money players first got involved in government gaming?
KT: First, so-called authenticity is a dead end. Plato can basically, like, suck my dick, you know what I'm saying? The self is defined by one's actions, not the other way around. In my opinion, any other viewpoint quickly devolves into a sort of proto-racism. There's no intrinsic property possessed by a person besides the designs they inscribe across space and time in the process of carrying out their various activities, authorized or otherwise. Does that make sense? But seriously, why do you ask?
Hi! You've read the maximum number of articles you can read this month.
THE REPUBLIC #58 (2025/12/20)
ZANSHIN
Our obstacles are our wings. —Nikolai Gogol
The Turing complete user found themselves beholden to the options available, in spite of contractual language assuring they retained complete autonomy and decision power over the discharge of their duties. In point of fact the menu didn't lie. Ken had made sure their options were limited.
"Hey, techwit," he said, smiling. "Ready to scrap?"
Judging from the backwash of the crowd it seemed the arena was interested in finding out.
"Hermes, lord of the dead who watch over the powers of my fathers, be my savior and stand by my claim!"
Ken promptly unsheathed Richard and severed the user's head. He strolled around the ring grasping it by a handful of freshly dead hair, holding it straight up, then swinging it around for all to see.
"Maintain zanshin!" he screamed to the crowd, instructing them in tactics.
"I'M BECOMING LESS DEFINED AS DAYS GO BY!" Richard followed up, possibly indicating he needed sharpening.
The blood and gore pixelated in Ken's hands and he turned to the other conscripts.
"What're we building today, boys?" he said, pointing Richard at each of them in turn. Menus opened at speed.
Ken was in the running to maximize positional goods, but it would only work if he killed everyone else who entered the ring. He wondered briefly if today's technical glitch-up at the beginning of the session hadn't somehow fouled things up, meaning his running stats wouldn't be recorded.
No time to worry about that now, as a not-to-scale giant meat cleaver cleaved the air where he'd been standing only a moment before.
Ken made an exaggerated face at the crowd, which translated to something like "See what I mean?"
"MAINTAIN ZANSHIN!" they thundered in response. Every strand of Ken's normally curly body hair was standing straight up, soon to be shampooed by a worshipful rain of audience spit. He gestured triumphantly with Richard and the cheers redoubled in volume.
At the end of the session, audience fucked back off to wherever they'd come from, the remains of conscripts were piled high around the ring, and Ken had to dig his way out in order to hit the showers. High fortune may be a thing slakeless for mortals, but he was feeling pretty good about his performance, if he did say so himself.
Call from his manager.
Pseudolistening as he showered, Ken learned next week's command performance for the dictator had been moved up to tomorrow night. So much for his three-day liberty.
A few months later Ken would deduce his manager had accidentally clicked cancel on his previously scheduled and approved days off, but by then it was too late to complain on account of the dictator losing interest in his sudden availability, coupled with the silo and the planet around it having been swallowed up by THE WHITE.
He'd gotten lucky.
THE REPUBLIC #57 (2025/12/16)
T.A.Z.
God sees it. —John Brown
Dignitas in the temporary autonomous zones took the form of good terrorism. The Hessian Skulls' new record, RESTRAINT, filled the live action Minecraft arena as Ken piloted his golden motorcycle into the ring, triggering a high-volume dollop of hero recognition from the standing room crowd. He gloried in their subjection.
Now completely naked, erect in his stirrups (it pixelated), Ken withdrew Richard from its scabbard and extended it toward the ceiling, signaling his pleasure to the crowd. He looked something like a He-Man figure wearing a full suit of Wolverine-style body hair inked by Dan Green, plus a wraparound visor that reflected the spotlights hanging above the ring back at the crowd. They erupted.
“I HAVE FOUND YOU CAN FIND HAPPINESS IN SLAVERY!” Richard screamed, unconvincingly.
Entertainment in the silo ran on a programmatically non-negotiable schedule, so Ken was obliged to cut short his floor show in favor of the main event. No big deal, he was still the star. As the remaining conscripts bodyslid into the ring and donned their skins, the ambient lighting adjusted accordingly, pre-configuring the environment so the session could begin.
But: Uh oh, server trouble.
Ken twirled Richard expertly round and round, pointing it alternately at all sections of the crowd, while Minecraft parents investigated the technical difficulties. Conscripts often supplemented their earnings by recruiting their families into supporting roles, where they could toil for decades if they’d had enough children, and any of them survived long enough to start earning residuals. As RESTRAINT reached its climax, someone started it over again on track 01.
“ERASE ME!” Richard screamed, somewhat more convincingly.
Arena protocol dictated a three-way handshake, which was often never completed. Fallback was connectionless and fast, but less reliable. Even after all these years the arena was still at the mercy of the silo utilities, who did a textbook poor job maintaining network infrastructure. Weaponized interdependence as a service. The parents finally gave up and switched to local-only authentication. This measure was purely practical but had political ramifications.
Somwhere high above the dictator gazed down from his office. Disinterested and distracted, but it beat the fake sunlight.
Ken finally sheathed Richard and dismounted.
The conscripts proceeded to trepan themselves.
THE REPUBLIC #56 (2025/12/13)
THERE IS NO ALTERNATIVE
Let now the slakeless fury in the race rear up to howl aloud over this monstrous death. —Cassandra
If we execute brilliantly and the markets cooperate, from us you shall have all you have the right to ask. From pit boss to senior underwriter, straight to the pinnacle of a new, non-hierarchical pyramid, stop worrying and learn to love the contract. Let there be wealth without tears.
Hot new graphemes are executing in the weird machines. You may count on it.
The horde arrives, pronouncing liberty for slaves. Many Sh'ack'uarians sign on without bothering to read the fine print. But there's a trick within the paperwork: to unauthorized parties, it all just looks like a big stack of blank paper. Signatories must don a special visor in order to interpret the law. Who's hallucinating now? The skies have not lost their azure just because our eyes are sick.
Those citizens who have yet to come to grips with our new reality begin to fight amongst themselves. It's disunion at ten paces, a glorious heightening of gain for my compatriots. Cries of "Nationalize government!" fall on deaf ears, as that was never the arrangement. Families prescribed and elective tear themselves apart over who gets to sit closest to the pit boss. Die for graphemes, suckers.
Just as it seems we're on the verge of getting our way (and in the end, we always get our way), a new obstruction appears. Taking the form of a swelling redaction, an obscene economic fallow, it sweeps across the frontier of our unfurled spreadsheets like unwelcome weather, a twister on a plain churning up history at the speed of business. In a stroke, a generation of growth is wiped out, the gods' eraser evidently held closer to hand than was ever suspected. Line goes... down?
These words escape my unbelief.
photo by momus, used without permission
THE REPUBLIC #55 (2025/12/13)
FIRST CONTRACT
We cling to our oppressors like objects of our love. —Martin R. Delany
Dear Author,
We here at Viper Press would like to take this time to make you
this special offer. Listed below are a list of a few choices to
chose from .If you do not wish to participate in any of our
offers just circle nothing and send this letter back with any
other comments you may have.
1.) Send any art work you may have. We are always looking for a
good artist or writer or any thing else of importance to you.
2.) a discount offer on a subscription to our hot new title SONIC.
3.) Nothing
we at Viper Press are always looking for artistic talent . we are
currently looking for employes in the writing and lettering
positions. But as always we are looking for creative people in
all positions.
sincerely
F O R C E
Editor in Chief
Viper Press
THE REPUBLIC #54 (2025/12/10)
TWO MASTERS
Hard to explain / feels like everybody's gone insane —Coriky, Hard to Explain
The Mo'rio'ne contribution to economic realpolitik is sometimes overlooked. Their complete domination of the Sh'ack'uarian homeworld lasted for only a few short years before THE WHITE swallowed up their prize, and their novel implementation of rights division multiplexing never got a full hearing on account of the superseding crisis. It's a shame because there was plenty to like.
Anisoteta was anathema, considered harmful to the economic engine that produced common luxuries. Whenever they conquered a new territory, assimilation was mandatory, but along with the burden came a complete program of liberty, fraternity, and equality, regardless of one's priors or station. Pit bosses were recruited from local populations, and were thus incentivized to maximize their own participation in keeping things calmed the fuck down. Since property was held communally, buy-in was automatic and complete. Dissent was expressed by withdrawing labor. There was no aristocracy.
The Sh'ack'uarians were skeptical, but intrigued. Cooperation was made easier by the periodic exercise of excessive force. Time slots for public comment became available at regular intervals. One immutable rule was a strict observance of no overlapping time slots. The Sh'ack'uarian remnants—even the most radical of the post-monarchical ruling class—had a hard time adjusting to the concept. Collisions ensued.
All of which was alleviated by the timely arrival of THE WHITE.
The Mo'rio'ne had put all their odd-shaped eggs into the Sh'ack'uarian basket, winding down their far-flung operations in service of a massive final putsch against their ancient enemies. Their own homeworld had already been absorbed, and everyone carrying their genetic code had been activated for the struggle, so this was it. When Sh'ack'real finally redacted there were no survivors amongst their people.
The Sh'ack'uarians had been spreading across the galaxy for centuries, so the loss of their homeworld proved mostly a blow to historical reenactors.
They had won the war through superior foresight backed by logistics.
However, a thriving sub-culture of Mo'rio'ne enthusiasts persisted amongst the Sh'ack'uarian diaspora. Young purple people painted themselves blue, dyed their blue hair red. Elements of Earth culture already absorbed were adapted to the newly acquired Mo'rio'ne customs. One sect, chafing at the too-tight cuffs and seams of traditional Sh'ack'uarian conservatism, declared independency and set off for deep space, sans outer wear.
Towards an Earth they'd only ever see on a screen.
