This is a quick test of the new “embed” functionality in write as.

It doesn't address what I want. I want to be able to upload the audio file into write as.

Adding a hyperlink in a blog post doesn't give me what I want. I might as well just ping the audio hyperlink direct into a social media post rather than write a blog post with it in.

Any way here is the test:

https://open.spotify.com/episode/0s7mgCqMl7VTEzhgu4P3Lz

Everybody has a plan until they punched in the face.

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear, but along with the temptation he will also make the way out so that you may be able to endure it. 1 Cor. 10:13.

A real temptation is by definition desirable. Something that is difficult to resist. This prayer to not be tempted beyond what we can bear has been a long prompted request from the Creator. Sometimes, it feels like He's ignoring you. But in reality, His answers don't come in the form of a lightening bolt. They come in the form of a timely phone call or text message. A request for help from someone else who's under their own trial. Maybe even a knock on the door, someone dropping off a gift to say, 'hey, I love you.'

And when that happens, it does two things: 1. it gets you to reign in your heart (hopefully) and 2. it makes Jehovah more real.

If you ask for a blue car and someone drops off a new pair of walking shoes, you might connect the dots and realize Jehovah gave you what you needed, not what you wanted. But if someone shows up with a blue car, it's hard to just cry coincidence.

Here's the key: Do we recognize intervention when in fact that's what it is? Or do we push it off and try to handle it on our own?

And fail.

When we are successful, it's a big deal. Not just because we get through hell, or at least hell-ish, but because we effect our God's heart in a positive way.

That's important. Way more important than minimizing our own suffering.

A successful trial exposes the enemy as the liar and hate-filled creature he is.

1 Corinthians 10:13 guarantees we'll be successful. Jah WILL make the way out. He doesn't make it easy. Just survivable.

I watched Castaway last night and I was thinking about how hope kept him going.

If I was crashed on an island and guaranteed rescue, maybe a satellite beacon or something. That would massively improve my emotional state while I waited. But it would NOT make the existence there any easier.

Same with our lives. We all have to face something. Some dragon you will need to slay. My dragon is different than yours. I watched a friend struggle for years addicted to gambling. Another (several others actually) addicted to pornography. My own mother, grandfather, cousins and uncles addicted to drugs. These are real trials. But my trial is very different. And wholly unexpected.

Yours will be too. If we could anticipate the trial, maybe we could sidestep it. Hence: always be on guard, and the shrewd one considers his steps and conceals himself.

But a lot of the time, real trials and temptations come when we least expect and in ways we never anticipated.

Thank JAH! for scriptures like 1 Cor. Imagine the anxiety we'd have if we were unsure of rescue when that left hook catches us across the nose? Instead, we are told God is faithful.

Faithful. A friend who is there when we need Him. Who doesn't abandon us. Leave us alone to fend for ourselves. He'll let us carry the ball as far as we can, but then He scoops us up and carries us to the finish line.

And that He uses our friends and family to do that is incredible and wonderful. When they help us, we are feeling the hand of Jehovah. When we help others, we become the hand.

So, dear reader, thank you for your role in in helping someone carry their burden, get over their hurdle, get off their island. Because know it or not, sometimes you are the strength Jehovah gives another to endure.

And I think that's beautiful.

---

#essay #biblereading

Introduction: The Threshold of Epistemic Surrender

To cross this threshold is to abandon the posture of the academic, the historian, and the speculative theologian. It requires an act of radical epistemic surrender — a shift from reading about the Sacred Text to being read by it.

For centuries, scriptural interpretation (tafsir) has functioned as an accumulative, external discipline. The seeker was taught that to understand the Revelation, one must assemble an ever-expanding apparatus of external data: lexicographical roots, historical contexts of revelation, legal precedents, and the competing opinions of medieval authorities. These tools preserve the historical silhouette of the text. They operate entirely within the realm of objective distance. They treat the Quran as a static, historical object anchored in seventh-century Arabia — a text to be dissected, categorised, and intellectually mastered by an autonomous, detached subject.

Hudur — Divine Presence — shatters that distance. Revelation is not merely an event recorded in history. It is a continuous, real-time descent (tanzil) occurring in the immediate present whenever a heart opens to receive it. The Hermeneutics of Presence does not approach the Quran as a book to be analysed by the human intellect. It approaches the Quran as an active, living environment in which the human soul is exposed, rearranged, and illuminated.

Traditional hermeneutics asks: “What did this verse mean historically?” Legalistic hermeneutics asks: “What rule does this verse extract?” The Hermeneutics of Presence asks: “What is this verse enacting upon my consciousness in this very moment?”

This shift from representation to enactment is the cornerstone of an unmediated Quranic Irfan. The Primary Text does not merely convey information about the Unseen (al-Ghayb). It acts as the primary vehicle through which the Unseen breaks into the domain of human perception. To read with Hudur is to move from secondary reporting (khabar) to direct, existential taste (dhawq). Before the Quran can be understood as a law or a history, it must be experienced as an ontological confrontation between the Absolute and the temporal creature.

The Organ of Perception: Reclaiming the Qalb

The primary barrier to experiencing the Quran as a living presence is not intellectual ignorance. It is an organ error.

Modern educational and religious paradigms have trained us to approach text almost exclusively through the analytical, discursive, conceptual mind. We read to gather information, build arguments, or satisfy intellectual curiosity. The Quran identifies a different organ as the sole recipient of its transformative power: the Heart (al-Qalb).

“Verily in this is a reminder for whoever has a heart, or gives ear while he is present as a witness.” (50:37)

The Quranic Qalb is not the modern sentimental heart — the seat of irrational emotion. In Quranic psychology, it is the central organ of spiritual perception, intuition, and holistic integration. The subtle locus where the divine spark (al-Ruh) meets the physical container of human nature (al-Jasad). The discursive intellect can parse grammar, analyse structure, and categorise laws — but it remains confined to the realm of form (Surah). Only the Qalb perceives meaning (Ma'na), tastes essence (Dhat), and experiences the reality of Presence (Hudur).

When the heart is veiled by heedlessness, intellectual pride, or unexamined egoic attachments, the Sacred Text becomes opaque. The words remain visible on the page. The acoustic vibrations reach the eardrum. The intellect parses the syntax. No illumination occurs. The reader remains locked in the outer shell.

The Hermeneutics of Presence begins with the deliberate purification and orientation of the Qalb. It demands an internal state of stillness and vulnerability before engaging the word. The heart is not a static container. It is a highly sensitive instrument that constantly fluctuates between states of expansion (bast) and contraction (qabd), clarity and turbidity. To read with Hudur is to bring the heart into alignment with the acoustic and spiritual frequency of the Revelation — to fulfill the condition named in the verse: to give ear while present as a witness. The reader does not merely listen or scan. The reader becomes an active, existential witness to the descent of the Word into the vessel of their own immediate awareness.

The Triad of Realisation: Tilawah, Tafsir, and Tadabbur

Three distinct modes of scriptural engagement. Historically conflated or arranged in rigid hierarchies that marginalise the contemplative dimension. In the Hermeneutics of Presence, they form an integrated, non-linear triad — each a necessary phase in the interiorisation of the Word.

1. Tilawah: The Body of the Sound

Not merely the vocalisation of text. The physical incarnation of the Divine Word through human breath, cadence, and resonance. The Quran was revealed as an oral, acoustic phenomenon — a spoken discourse designed to enter the human nervous system through sound. The acoustic patterns of the Arabic — its lengthenings, pauses, reverberations, and rhythmic shifts — are not decorative. They are precise vibratory frequencies engineered to bypass the defensive mechanisms of the analytical ego and directly alter the state of the Qalb. Tilawah provides the physical anchor for Hudur, grounding spiritual presence in the body through rhythmic breath and vocalisation.

2. Tafsir: The Intellectual Frame

The necessary, foundational work of the discursive intellect. Linguistic boundaries, semantic roots, grammatical structures, historical context. Without rigorous grounding in the outward form provided by Tafsir, spiritual interpretation collapses into arbitrary fantasy or subjective projection. But within the Hermeneutics of Presence, Tafsir is a means, not an end. It builds the doorway. It does not constitute entering the room. Once the intellectual frame is established, Tafsir yields to a higher mode of perception.

3. Tadabbur: The Spiritual Penetration

The ultimate engine of the Hermeneutics of Presence. The deliberate, deep, sustained immersion of the purified heart into the internal depths of the verse. Where Tafsir stops at the external meaning of the words, Tadabbur asks what those words reveal about the eternal nature of God, the hidden mechanics of the soul, and the immediate state of the reader. Active, contemplative wrestling — the verse critiques, dismantles, and rebuilds the reader's self-concept. Tadabbur transforms textual knowledge into existential realisation (Tahqiq).

The Four Pillars of the Present Hermeneutic

Pillar 1: Personal Address (Al-Khitab al-Mubashir)

Every statement, command, warning, and glad tiding in the Quran is addressed directly and personally to the reader in the present moment. When the text says, “O you who believe,” it addresses the living spark of faith within your heart right now. When it describes the hypocrites, it commands you to inspect the subtle insincerities, dualities, and hidden compromises within your own psyche — not to point fingers at historical enemies or contemporary opponents. The Quran is a private letter from the Eternal to the individual soul. To read it as a general public document or a dead historical archive is to miss its primary intent.

Pillar 2: The Dissolution of Time (Fana' al-Zaman)

In the state of Hudur, the artificial boundaries of linear time dissolve. The narratives of the prophets, the cosmic descriptions of the Day of Judgment, the creation of Adam — these are not events strung along a chronological timeline. They are simultaneous realities existing within the timeless space of the Divine Consciousness, rendered accessible to the human soul through Revelation. The Day of Judgment is not merely a distant future event; it is an active spiritual reality unfolding within your consciousness whenever the Light of Truth exposes the hidden motives of your ego. Paradise and Fire are not merely future geographical destinations; they are immediate states of proximity and distance, peace and burning remorse, accessible to the heart in the here and now.

Pillar 3: Radical Receptivity (Al-Insaat)

“And when the Quran is recited, listen to it and keep silent, so that you may receive mercy” (7:204). The silence commanded here is not the cessation of physical speech. It is the silence of the internal dialogue. Most readers approach scripture with a noisy mind — pre-existing theological biases, political agendas, personal anxieties, eager attempts to fit the text into pre-built conceptual boxes. Insaat requires suspending all internal chatter, empty opinions, and defensive intellectualising. Becoming an empty vessel upon which the Divine Word can etch its own meaning without distortion.

Pillar 4: The Ontological Reflex (Al-In'ikas)

Every verse possesses a direct, mirror-like reflection in the structure of human existence. Human beings are created as the comprehensive microcosm (al-Kawn al-Jami') — containing within themselves reflections of all Divine Attributes and all cosmic layers. Every textual statement corresponds to an internal state. The text is never “about something else.” It is always, simultaneously, about the divine-human relationship unfolding within the reader's own being.

The Structure Ahead

With the foundational posture of Hudur established, Part I systematically builds the methodology required to read the Sacred Text as an unmediated engine of spiritual illumination.

Chapter 1: The Primary Language of the Unseen examines how the Arabic of Revelation operates fundamentally differently from ordinary human language — not merely as a system of signs designating physical objects and abstract concepts, but as an active alteration of consciousness. It explores the precise distinction between Tafsir and Tadabbur; the principle of polysemy — how a single Quranic root contains multiple, non-contradictory layers of meaning designed to unfold as the reader's spiritual perception deepens; the holographic relationship between the Signs in the Horizons and the Signs in the Soul; and the acoustic mechanics of the oral Quran — how sound, rhythm, and breath operate as direct spiritual transmission.

Chapter 2: The Self-Referential Grammar of Batin establishes a rigorous, text-internal grammar for reading the Quran's inner meanings without drifting into arbitrary allegorisation or flattening literalism. It examines the self-imposed, text-internal constraints that distinguish legitimate ta'wil from arbitrary projection; the primary archetypal metaphors woven throughout the scriptural fabric — Light, Water, Darkness, Clay, and Fire — and how they define the fundamental forces operating within human consciousness; and the re-definition of the Unseen — shifting it from a distant, inaccessible theological realm into an immediate, present dimension of experience waiting to be unveiled through spiritual presence.

The Ultimate Aim of Presence

The Hermeneutics of Presence is not an end in itself. It is the doorway.

When you close the book after reading with true Presence, you do not walk away possessing more information. You walk away altered. The illusions of the ego have been exposed. The heart has been polished. The boundary between the sacred text and your daily existence has begun to dissolve.

The Quran is not merely a book sitting on a shelf. It is the fundamental architecture of Reality itself. By learning to read the written Revelation (al-Kitab al-Mastur) with presence of heart, you unlock the ability to read the open Revelation of Existence (al-Kitab al-Maftuh) with the same illuminated vision. You step out of the secondary shadows of secondhand religion and enter the radiant, unmediated light of the Divine Presence — where the Speaker, the Word, and the Listening Heart meet in singular, uninterrupted communion.

I put a thirst trap on my Hinge, one of the photos of me flexing in the posing room. Suddenly, I’ve gotten a lot more matches, and people are talking with me and flirting. I guess I’m not surprised, but a little part of me is.

Starcraft Co 4- Zerglings II

I know it is not an original title, but it was what the level was titled when it was originally made. Anyway, the conclusion to the Zerg infestation on the Horizons Beyond.

---

The Horizons Beyond had another secret. This one was worse. Administrator Kessler contacted StarCraft Co. through the same encrypted channel he had used after the E-Forty-Two incident. He looked less frightened than before, but only because exhaustion had replaced panic. “We leased space,” he said. The commander waited. “To whom?” Kessler admitted it was a private research corporation operating aboard the ship. When the commander asked whether the arrangement was official, Kessler looked away. That was answer enough.

The Horizons Beyond had entire sectors that remained unused between expansion cycles, spaces large enough to become neighborhoods, industrial facilities or storage complexes as demand changed. One of those sectors had been quietly leased to a third-party research company under an arrangement that apparently did not exist in any public registry. “What kind of research?” the commander asked. “Biological.” The commander already suspected the answer to his next question. “Zerg?” Kessler hesitated before admitting it. The commander stared at him. “You rented an unregistered section of a civilian carrier to people experimenting on Zerg?” Kessler insisted that the corporation had assured them its containment protocols exceeded regulatory standards. “They always do,” the commander replied.

The facility was now nonresponsive. Approximately ninety scientists and technical staff worked there, along with twenty-eight members of the corporation's internal security force. All were missing. Worse, Kessler had already sent another mercenary team into the facility six hours earlier. Fourteen people had gone in. Contact had been lost. When the commander asked how many Zerg were inside, Kessler could only say they didn't know. The creatures appeared to be primarily zerglings, with no confirmed sightings of anything else. There were also extensive stores of volatile laboratory materials throughout the sector. Missiles, explosives and heavy weapons were out of the question. It would have to be infantry.

The commander thought about the last infestation. Sending more bodies had not saved the Horizons Beyond security team. Training, equipment and discipline had. StarCraft Co. had learned the same lesson. “Two marine squads. Two firebat squads. Medic support.” Kessler frowned. “That's all?” The commander reminded him that they had sent more personnel into E-Forty-Two because they had known less then. Now they knew what worked. When Kessler asked for the price, the commander named it. Kessler didn't negotiate. StarCraft Co. had officially stopped being the cheap option.

The research sector occupied several contiguous decks below a freight district near the outer hull. Its entrance looked nothing like a laboratory. The public-facing side had been disguised as warehousing and environmental control infrastructure. Behind two security bulkheads, however, the corridors changed abruptly. Sterile white wall panels replaced industrial steel. Observation windows looked into laboratories. Directional markings identified containment suites, tissue culture rooms, specimen storage and restricted research areas. The first body lay ten meters inside. A scientist. The second was farther down the corridor. There was much less of him.

The commander ordered the formation tightened. Marines took the lead while firebats remained one position behind, ready to move forward when the corridors narrowed or the Zerg committed to a rush. Medics stayed central. Every soldier carried upgraded ammunition, improved optics and better armor seals than the company had owned during its first jobs. They had also learned to stop rushing. The first zerglings came through a laboratory wall—not a door, the wall. A section of composite paneling collapsed outward and six creatures poured through the opening. The marines fired immediately, killing the first three before they cleared the rubble. Two more reached the line before the firebats stepped forward and filled the corridor with flame.

The last zergling tried to retreat through the hole. Mercer followed it just far enough to burn whatever was behind the wall, and screaming echoed through the structure. “More in there,” he said. The commander ordered the breach sealed and the force moved on. The next several chambers were almost routine, which disturbed them more than anyone said aloud. Zerglings occupied specimen rooms, maintenance corridors and storage laboratories. Some had nested beneath desks and equipment. Others prowled openly. One group had torn apart an entire bank of refrigeration units and consumed whatever had been stored inside.

The mercenaries cleared each room the same way. Marines identified movement, firebats destroyed concentrations, medics treated wounds, and doors were sealed behind them. They didn't chase. They didn't split. They didn't assume anything was dead. The system worked. By the time they reached the sublevel access, they had killed more zerglings than existed in the entire Varga infestation. Nobody bothered counting anymore.

The elevator had failed, so they took the emergency stairs. Halfway down, the shooting started. It wasn't theirs. Automatic weapons rattled somewhere below, followed by screaming. The commander ordered the forward marine squad to move, and they descended rapidly until the stairwell opened onto a wide service junction. Zerglings filled it. Dozens were attacking a barricade constructed from laboratory benches and storage lockers, with muzzle flashes flickering behind it.

The commander reacted immediately. Firebats went forward while the marines fired high over them. Flame rolled down the corridor and the zerglings turned, dividing the swarm. Half continued attacking the barricade while the rest charged StarCraft Co. Gauss rifles fired over the firebats' shoulders. The first wave died. The second reached them. One firebat went down beneath three zerglings, and another soldier dragged him backward while his squadmates burned the creatures off his armor. Gunfire erupted from behind the barricade at the same time. Caught between both forces, the swarm collapsed. It took less than two minutes. It felt much longer.

When the last zergling stopped moving, nobody advanced immediately. The commander ordered whoever was behind the barricade to identify themselves. A voice answered through an external speaker: “Harrier Group. Contract security.” They had found the missing mercenaries. Seven of the original fourteen were still alive. They emerged carefully, armor scratched, burned and covered with Zerg blood. One man had a bandaged eye. Another could barely stand. Their leader removed his helmet and stared at the StarCraft Co. insignia. “Mercenaries?” Rourke looked at the barricade. “You expecting someone else?” The Harrier leader laughed, halfway hysterically, while Venn's medics began treating his people.

The commander asked what had happened. The Harriers had gone after the nest. They had found where it was forming in Subsector Three and pushed toward it, believing they were chasing perhaps ten or fifteen zerglings. Instead, the Zerg had repeatedly fallen back. The commander understood immediately: they had been led deeper. When he asked how many were waiting there, the Harrier leader shook his head. “Hundreds.” Four of his surviving people could still fight. The commander gave them ammunition and ordered them behind the StarCraft Co. line.

They moved toward Subsector Three together. The first sign of what had happened there was the smell. Then came the blood. The corridor walls were smeared with it. Pieces of uniforms lay among shredded laboratory coats. Human bones had been dragged into corners. Several bodies had been stripped almost completely of flesh. Then they reached the main chamber and pushed a fiber-optic camera beneath the door.

Nobody spoke for a while. A mound of bodies occupied the center of the chamber: scientists, security personnel and members of the Harrier team. Some were recognizable. Most weren't. Zerglings moved across the pile. More than a hundred were visible, while others crawled through ruptures in the walls or disappeared into maintenance conduits. The chamber had become a feeding ground and a nest. The commander watched one small zergling crawl out from beneath the gore, followed by another. He remembered Varga's basement. No queen. No hatchery. Yet again, the numbers made no sense.

“Commander?” Rourke eventually asked. The commander looked away from the feed. “We burn it.”

There was no elegant solution this time. They could not vent the chamber into space. They could not use explosives. They could not collapse the deck without risking volatile storage rooms below. So StarCraft Co. did what infantry had always done when there were no better options. They went in. The first firebat squad entered through the western door and the second through the east, with marines following twenty meters behind. The fire started immediately. Zerglings screamed as the front ranks died, but those behind them kept coming. They came from the corpse pile, holes in the walls, ventilation ducts and broken sections of flooring.

The first firebat line disappeared beneath them. The commander ordered them back while marines fired into the swarm. One firebat rose again covered in burning Zerg. Another didn't. Medics dragged wounded soldiers toward the entrance as the remaining firebats widened their firing arcs. Smoke and flame made the chamber almost impossible to see. Zerglings reached the marine line and rifles went to point-blank fire. One marine disappeared beneath four creatures. Another emptied his magazine and began using his rifle like a club. The Harrier survivors joined the line. Nobody cared whose company logo was painted on whose armor anymore.

Casualty markers began appearing across the commander's display. One. Two. Three. More. He ordered the north access sealed, and a maintenance door slammed shut just before zerglings began tearing at it from the other side. Mercer's squad rotated left, opening a corridor for Rourke and the remaining firebats to advance. They burned directly into the corpse pile. The bodies ignited, as did the organic matter beneath them.

Then the walls began moving.

Dozens more zerglings poured from cavities hidden behind the biological growth. The formation bent and nearly broke. Then the first nest structure collapsed. Flame reached something inside the wall and a pocket of organic tissue ruptured, setting several emerging zerglings ablaze before they even reached the floor. The commander finally understood. “They're using the walls.”

The surviving firebats redirected their weapons. Not toward the Zerg, but toward the nest itself. Marines covered them while the firebats burned everything organic—the walls, the floor, the corpse pile, every cavity and every tunnel. Zerglings kept attacking, but fewer emerged each time. The swarm began thinning.

Twenty minutes into the battle, ammunition became a problem. Thirty minutes in, fuel became a problem. Forty minutes in, the floor was covered in bodies, human and Zerg. One firebat ran dry, drew his sidearm and joined the marines. Another continued firing until his weapon overheated. The medics picked up rifles from the dead. Nobody had enough people left to maintain the original formation, but the Zerg had fewer too.

Eventually the last rush came. Perhaps thirty zerglings emerged from three openings simultaneously. The mercenaries held. The remaining firebats fired until their tanks emptied. Marines fired until the creatures reached them, and then the survivors fought with whatever remained—rifles, sidearms, knives, armor. One Harrier mercenary killed a zergling with a broken section of laboratory railing. Rourke crushed another beneath his boot. Mercer emptied his pistol into the last creature still moving.

Then there was silence. Real silence. Not the pause between attacks, not creatures moving behind walls. Nothing.

The commander ordered them to check everything. Every wall cavity. Every ventilation shaft. Every access tunnel. The firebats burned the entire chamber again. Nothing emerged. Subsector Three was dead.

The casualty report was ugly. StarCraft Co. had lost nine personnel. Several others were wounded badly enough to require surgery. Three of the seven rescued Harrier mercenaries died during the final fight. Four survived. The scientists were all dead. The corporate security team was gone. But the infestation had been destroyed. The commander ordered the entire research sector quarantined and sterilized, then contacted Kessler.

“Finished?” the administrator asked. The commander confirmed it. When Kessler asked about survivors, he told him four Harrier personnel were coming out. Kessler exhaled and said they would be compensated. “They'll be quiet?” the commander asked. Kessler almost smiled. “That depends what we're paying them.” The commander uploaded the casualty list. Kessler's expression changed when he saw it. “That's…” The commander finished the thought for him. “Nine of mine.” Kessler said he understood. “No. You understand the number. You'll understand the cost when I send the invoice.”

This time there was no argument. StarCraft Co. received the full contract payment, replacement costs, medical expenses and death benefits. Then Kessler added a large bonus for recovering the Harrier personnel and maintaining discretion. The commander looked at him for a long moment. “Your ship has had three Zerg incidents.” Kessler said nothing. “That's not bad luck anymore.” Kessler finally admitted that he knew. The administration was conducting an internal investigation. The commander nearly laughed. “Of course you are.”

Kessler ignored the remark. There was one other matter. The surviving Harrier personnel had asked for StarCraft Co.'s contact information. The commander asked why. “I imagine because you saved their lives,” Kessler replied. That made sense. More interestingly, the research corporation's surviving executives also wanted to establish a channel. “After ninety of their people got eaten?” the commander asked. Kessler merely pointed out that they had considerable resources. The commander considered that, then told him to send the information.

For the next several days, industrial sterilization crews moved through the abandoned research sector. Every contaminated chamber was burned, chemically treated and sealed. Contractors quietly replaced entire sections of wall and flooring. Official documentation described the work as remediation following a laboratory solvent accident. Nobody aboard the Horizons Beyond was told about the dead scientists. Nobody was told about the mercenaries. Nobody was told that well over a hundred zerglings had been breeding inside the ship. Eventually the biosignature sweeps came back clean. For the first time in months, every known section of the Horizons Beyond was free of Zerg.

For now.

StarCraft Co. left with fewer soldiers than it had arrived with, but it also left with money, a growing reputation, the gratitude of another mercenary outfit and the contact information of people who operated far beyond the Horizons Beyond. The company had started by killing zerglings in a scientist's basement. Now people were beginning to call them before they called anyone else.

D*m*nic. A British living here for the last 5 years but entered the bakery for the first time today.

L*vi like the jeans, who is a vegan from Texas, with Mexican heritage, who was well-versed in recent viral news of a Singaporean woman who talked about her boyfriend not being her physical type but was also mindful about not adding to the existing misogynistic hate directed at Erica Kirk.

V*n**ss*, who works in tech and M*rk, a dog trainer and forest tour guide.

I like remembering people and their names.

تاريخ النشر: 11:28 فجر الخميس 30 صفر 1448 [بحسب التقويم وننتظر إعلان التاريخ الشرعي من المحكمة]

خلاصة:

تولد الخبرة من أعمالٍ نزاولها ونحسنها بعد حين، لا من نطاقٍ ضيق، أو وصف وظيفي قاصر، أو اسمٍ كبير أو لقب صغير. خلاصة تجربة مهنية بلغت سبعة أعوام ونصف أو تزيد في سوق العمل. ليست دقيقة تنقضي قبل أن ينفتح باب المصعد، لكنها دقائق تساعدك أيضًا على تأمل مسارك المهني مستقيمًا كان أم متعرجًا.

مقدمة:

اشتد تعرج مساري المهني في العام الماضي 1447، واقترن السؤال عنه في المقابلات بصمتٍ يعاقبني بالرفض. ولم تزل إجاباتي -وإن صدقت- شبهة قوية للسائلين على مرافعة دفاعية أنتهض بها للاعتذار عن شيءٍ لا يعتذر منه وليس لي يدٌ فيه أو في أكثره. وما أضيق وقت المقابلات الوظيفية عن الشرح والتعليل والبيان الصادق لما جرى في الماضي.

أحدثكم اليوم عن جمالٍ يتوارى في المسار المتعرج، وعن خبرة تراكمت في مهماتٍ ووظائف لم تكن في الوصف الوظيفي، ومسؤوليات تجاوزت مسؤوليتي المحدودة، ومشروعات ليست في نطاق العمل.

وألحق بالمقال نموذجًا من سيرتي المهنية لمن أراد العلم والعمل بمقتضى العلم.

1- لا تعليق بعد اليوم: استخراج الذهب في قطاع تقنية المعلومات (14-3-1446)

لم يكن من شأني وقد انضممت حديثًا إلى تلك الشركة أن أشتغل بتصنيفها الفني عند هيئة الحكومة الرقمية. لكن رئيس الشركة عهد إلي بمتابعة ذلك الملف العالق لما نالت الشركة أقل مما تستحقه، وكان ينبغي أن تنال التصنيف الذهبي. فشمرت عن ساعدي واشتغلت بتحديث ملفات الشركة، وحسن عرضها، وتتبع ما نقص من شهاداتها ووثائقها، وإعادة رفعه في المنصة، ومواصلة الهيئة بين الحين والآخر.

اشتغلت بالمشروع شهرين ونصف الشهر حتى تحقق الهدف بحمد الله في عصرٍ من الثلاثاء في ثالث شهور السنة [ربيع الأول 1446]. وكان مشروع رفع التصنيف الفني خدمة تضطلع بها مكاتب وشركات وتتقاضى عليها الأموال الطائلة. فحمدت الله عز وجل على عملٍ ناجحٍ تنوء به المكاتب.

لم ألتفت إلى ما أنجزته حتى حدثت به أحد الأصدقاء ذات صباح، فأخبر زملائه عني، وسألوني أن أقدم إليهم عرضًا فنيًا وماليًا. وكاد أن يتم الأمر لولا مشيئة الله.

2- اربط لتضبط: قائمة متجددة لشراكات محلية ودولية (1445/1 – 1445/6)

دخلت إلى دنيا المناقصات وعالم العروض الفنية في منتصف عام 1444. وكان مما أدركته أن منظمة واحدة -وإن كانت كبيرة هائلة- لا تستطيع أن تعمل وحدها على أكثر الفرص التي تناسبها. وعرفت أن نجاح الشراكة شراكة في النجاح.

لم يكن من وصفي الوظيفي متابعة الشراكات القائمة وإدارة علاقات الموردين. إذ كان عندنا قسم المشتريات، والمطلوب مني -ومن سائر الفريق- تقويم المنافسات المختارة من منصة اعتماد، وإعداد ما يناسبها من العروض الفنية والمالية.

لم نتخصص في المجالات التي نخوضها، وكنا نعوِّل كثيرًا على شركاء متشاكسين محليين ودوليين.

ولم يلبث مدير القسم حتى انتخبني لإعداد قائمة الشركاء في الحال والمآل مقترنين بالحلول والخدمات التي يقدمونها.

اشتغلت بمشروع إقامة الشراكات وتقويمها شهرًا أو شهرين، وكان علي أن أتصل بالشركات وأن أبحث عمن يمثلهم في المملكة العربية السعودية أو منطقة الخليج.

وأعجب من ذلك أنني أنفقت بعض أيامي في اجتياز شهادة لإحدى الشركات العالمية، ونجحت في اختبارها بعد شق الأنفس وأعنت زميلًا لي على ذلك.

أفادتني هذه الخبرة كثيرًا بحمد الله، فكانت سببًا ساقه الله إلي لأترشح إلى وظائف المبيعات وبناء الشركات.

الربط سبب وثيق إلى الضبط [1].

3- تقدم إذا تأخر غيرك: المشاركة في إدارة مشروع تقني كبير (1443/6 – 1444/6)

عامٌ مضى في وظيفة أتقنتها، واجتهدت في أداء مهماتها، فلم تزدني الشركة هللة واحدة رغم إلحاحي ومطالبي. كنا نشتغل ببناء ذكاء الذكاء قبل أن يعرف الناس عنه شيئًا. وكنا نعلمه الكلام ونختبر قدرته على الاستجابة، وندربه على عبارات مختلفة عربية وإنجليزية فصحى وعامية.

تخصصت في بناء المحتوى النصي لبرمجيات المحادثة الآلية [شات بوتس Chatbots]، واستطعت أن أزودها بنماذج متعددة من المدخلات والاستفسارات على هيئة (intents, utterances, and queries) ولا داعي لكتابة الكلمات بحروف كبيرة. خطوة مهدت لي التعرف إلى التعلم العميق (deep learning) والذكاء التوليدي (generative AI).

والمقصود أنني اضطلعت بقدرٍ لا بأس به من مهمات إدارة مشروع تقني كبير (وتفاصيله في سيرتي الذاتية الكاملة التي تحصل عليها إذا راسلتني في البريد hijriman47@keemail.me).

استنابني مدير المشروع وكذلك مدير الفريق فصرت أشهد الصراع على المشروع في ساحات الحرب كما يسمونها بالإنجليزية (war rooms) وأفاوض العميل والشركة التي تولت المشروع وكذا فريق الجودة والاختبار.

كنت أتلقى التذكرة في جيرا (Jira) بالواسطة أول الأمر ثم آلت إلي الإجابة عنها، وإغلاقها في وقت محدد يسير، وصرت أباشرها بنفسي في كثيرٍ من الأحيان.

أدركت بنفسي كما لم أدرك من قبل في دورات إدارة المشروعات PMP كيف يتجاذب العميل ومدير المشروع المتطلبات، وكيف تصير الأهداف المتفق عليها سببًا في نزاع مستمر.

أردنا أن نقدم للعميل برنامجًا للمحادثة الآلية يغني عملاءه عن إشغال الموظفين بالطلبات اليسيرة المتكررة، والعجيب أننا لم نملك وسيلة لأتمتة إجراءات البناء والاختيار. اللهم إلا نظامًا يسيرًا بنيته في إكسل Excel من مايكروسوفت لتسريع الإدخال والاختبار.

خبرة تمنيت أن أستثمرها لما أردت الانتقال من الشركة سوى أنني انحصرت في اسم الوظيفة الضيق، وأحبطني قلة التقدير الذي لقيته في نهاية المطاف!

4- شذرات من التجارب (1444/6 – 1448/1)

أ- تكيفٌ بلا حدود: تعرفت إلى مبادئ أتمتة الإجراءات (RPA)، فاستعملت باستعمال باور أوتوميت (Power Automate) لتسريع العمل في السير الذاتية. إذ كانت تعبئتها وإلحاقها بالعروض الفنية استنزافًا للوقت وإرهاقًا للأصابع وإجهادًا في غير فائدة.

طريقة بذلتها إلى زميلٍ ما لما غادرت الشركة، ولم تصلح في شركة أخرى لأنها تستعمل باوربوينت (PowerPoint). لم أجد حلًا قليل التكلفة، فاستبدلت الأتمتة بنصفها وحسنت القوالب لتتسع لعروض أخرى، وأضفت إليها مواضع (placeholders) يسهل تعبئتها بالكلمات الدالة على الجهة والمشروع ومدته واسمه وغير ذلك.

ب- القلم يرفعنا: لم يفارقني القلم يومًا في أعمالي ووظائفي، فكم حررت وراجعت صفحات المواقع (Webpages)، ومذكرات التفاهم (MoUs)، واتفاقيات عدم الإفصاح (NDAs)، والترجمات من العربية إلى الإنجليزية وبعكس ذلك. ولذلك كتبت ستة (6) تقارير في مشروعٍ تريد الشركة أن تحرك مدفوعاته الراكدة، ودفعت إليهم ثلاثة (3) مستندات عربية وإنجليزية مطلوبة للطرح المالي.

لست أنكر أنني أفدت من أدوات الذكاء التوليدي حينها، لا سيما أن بعض أهل الإدارة كانوا يظنونها مفتاحًا لكل المغاليق، وحلًا للمشكلات، وابتكارًا للمخارج السريعة.

والله يعلم أنني لا أحب أن أسيئ في كتابتي، وأحملها على عاتقي، وأنظر بنفسي في المعلومات الواردة، وأتثبت من صحتها (fact-checking) لئلا يسأل عن كاتبها على سبيل الذم والحط.

لست أنسى تلك المقالات المترجمة التي دفعت إلي لأحررها متطوعًا فلم أقنع بعيوبها السطحية، بل نفذت إلى أصولها، وقارنتها، وقدمت لطالب التحرير تقريرًا بشيءٍ من التفصيل في عيوب الترجمة وأخطائها الشنيعة.

ج- البيانات كاشفة: مكنتني إدارة المناقصات من المشاركة مع الأقسام الأخرى من مبيعات ومشتريات وفرقٍ فنية، والمساهمة في تحسين أعمالهم. ومن ذلك أنني أخرجت لمديرين أحدهما في المشتريات ذات مرة تقريرًا عن أداء الموردين وشركائهم مستفادًا من نظامه التقني.

د- العبرة بالنظام لا بالوسيلة: تعلمت إمكان التحول الرقمي وسهولة الانتقال إلى عالم الديجيتال في الشركات الصغيرة حيث تقل الموارد وتضيق الميزانية عن أكفأ الحلول وأفضل الوسائل.

تعرفت إلى إدارة المناقصات في نظام Dynamics 365 من مايكروسوفت لتنظيم موارد المؤسسات (ERP)، وأتقنتها في الشركات الصغيرة التي لا تكاد تستعمل الشير بوينت (SharePoint).

أدركت حينها أن العبرة بحسن بناء النظام وإن كان صغيرًا، وضبط موارده وإن كانت قليلة. وقد أبصرت بنفسي تكاسل طائفة من الموظفين عن استعمال النظام التقني المتقدم، ونشاط بعضهم في مجموعة واتساب أو نظام محدود الإمكانيات.

لم أعد أصحاب تلك الشركة ببناء نظامٍ آلي لرصد المنافسات وتصنيفها. لكنني وعدتهم بنظامٍ يسير لضبط المنافسات الحالية، ومعرفة الناجح منها، ورصد ما يأتي في قادم الأيام. وقد وفيت بهذا الوعد.

خاتمة:

كنت أحب أن أرى ثمارًا للبذور التي وضعتها وسقيتها ورعيتها، وكنت أتمنى أن تكفيني الأرقام الناجحة مؤونة تعليل المسار المتعرج الذي سلكته في مسيرتي المهنية. لكنني أحمد الله عز وجل على خبراتٍ تنوعت وتراكمت، وأفادتني كثيرًا في العمل والإدارة. وأحسب أن ما كتبته من مقال يخفف عني -إن شاء الله- وطأة الأسئلة المزعجة التي تنتهي إلى الرفض أو العرض المجحف وكلاهما مرٌ لا حلاوة فيه. وإن شئت أن تقف على مزيدٍ منها، فدونك السيرة الذاتية التجريبية في الحاشية، فتأملها كما تحب!

وكتب البراء بن محمد.

في مشرق الشمس من يوم الخميس سلخ صفر عام 1448.

30-2-1448

هامش

[1]

كان أحد أصدقائي في الشبكة الرقمية مولعًا باقتباسٍ عجيبٍ عن ابن رشد، تذكرته الآن وقد عرفت فضيلة الربط والضبط. والحق أن كلمته في سياقٍ آخر لا يتصل بما نحن فيه، لكنها لطيفة يحسن ذكرها.

(من لم يعرف الربط لم يقدر على الحل)

[ابن رشد – فصل المقال ص 127 طبعة مركز دراسات الوحدة العربية]

ملحق [السيرة الذاتية التجريبية بحسب آخر تحديث 20 صفر 1448]

صورة من الصفحة الأولى

صورة من الصفحة الثانية

صورة من الصفحة الثالثة

صورة من الصفحة الرابعة

صورة من الصفحة الخامسة

Starcraft Co 3- Substructure Skirmish

The administrator had fucked up. There was no diplomatic way to put it, and by the time Administrator Kessler contacted StarCraft Co., he wasn't particularly interested in trying. A cluster of Zerg organisms had entered an unmonitored section of the Horizons Beyond maintenance substructure and remained there long enough to establish itself. That should have been impossible. Every compartment on a vessel carrying more than three hundred thousand people was legally required to contain functioning biosignature detectors. E-Forty-Two did not.

“Why?” the commander asked.

Kessler looked exhausted. “The sensors were never installed.”

There was a moment of silence over the encrypted channel. “Never?”

“The construction subcontractor certified them as installed.”

“And nobody checked?”

“The ship contains approximately eleven thousand kilometers of maintenance corridors.”

“So nobody checked.”

Kessler rubbed his forehead. “No.”

The commander had learned enough about the Horizons Beyond during the mutalisk contract to understand how something like that could happen. The carrier had cost more than some planetary governments spent in a decade, yet every stage of its construction had involved contractors, subcontractors, cost reductions, revised specifications and executives receiving bonuses for bringing their particular portion of the project in under budget. If Kessler tried counting every corner that had been cut during construction, the hull would rust through before he finished.

“How bad?”

“We don't know.”

That was worse than any number.

Kessler continued. “Three maintenance workers failed to report at the end of their shift. A team was dispatched to locate them. They found blood and evidence of Zerg activity. Security sealed the entrances and sent twenty-four personnel inside.”

“When?”

“Seven hours ago.”

“And?”

“No contact.”

The commander sat forward. “None?”

“Nothing.”

“Biosigns?”

“There are detectors in the adjoining sectors. Nothing has crossed the containment perimeter. Within E-Forty-Two, we are blind.”

“Notify the authorities.”

“We can't.”

“You lost twenty-four armed security personnel.”

“I understand the situation.”

“No, you understand your stock price.”

Kessler didn't deny it. The commander thought about the previous contract. Six mutalisks had frightened the administration because six mutalisks represented bad publicity. This was different. This was an actual infestation aboard a mobile city. If Zerg reached the residential decks, secrecy would become irrelevant.

“What are you offering?”

Kessler named a number. The commander almost laughed. “No.” He named another.

Kessler stared at him. “That's more than six times what we paid for E-Seventeen.”

“E-Seventeen had six targets. You've got an unknown number of Zerg and twenty-four missing security officers. You called me because everyone you sent in disappeared.”

Kessler was quiet.

“Half up front.”

“Agreed.”

The commander hadn't expected that. That told him more about E-Forty-Two than anything else Kessler had said.

StarCraft Co. arrived four hours later. The difference from their previous visit was substantial. The Varga contract had given the company its first capital. The mutalisk contract had given it credibility. The commander had invested nearly everything they earned and borrowed against what little they owned. If the company failed now, the creditors would pick its corpse clean. But for the first time, StarCraft Co. looked like a real mercenary outfit.

Four marine squads entered E-Forty-Two, supported by a squad of firebats and a dedicated medical squad. Their armor was newer. Their communications equipment was better. Rifle optics had been upgraded for low-light fighting. The firebats carried improved fuel systems and reinforced armor. The medics had portable trauma equipment capable of keeping soldiers alive through wounds that would have killed them during the Varga job. Rourke and Mercer were there. So was Venn.

The commander addressed the force before the bulkhead opened. “Primary objective is extermination. Secondary objective is recovering the security team. We don't know how many Zerg are inside, we don't know what kinds, and we don't know whether any security personnel are alive. Nobody assumes a body is dead until a medic confirms it. Nobody assumes a room is clear until it's checked twice. Firebats stay central unless we hit a swarm. Marines maintain overlapping fields of fire. Medics do not get left behind.”

The soldiers acknowledged. The bulkhead opened. The smell reached them first. Something had been eating.

They went in.

The first attack came less than three minutes later. Zerglings rushed them through a junction from two directions simultaneously. The front marine squads opened fire while the rear formation rotated to cover the flank. Gauss rifles thundered in the enclosed corridor. The first wave disintegrated beneath concentrated fire, but the second reached the line. Then the firebats stepped forward. Flame filled the junction. The remaining zerglings died inside it.

“Contact front!”

A hydralisk appeared at the far end of the corridor. Spines struck armor before the marines could react. One man spun and collapsed. Another took a spine through the forearm. The squad returned fire. The hydralisk absorbed an astonishing amount of punishment before finally falling.

Venn's medics moved immediately. The first marine was alive. His armor had stopped most of the impact, but fragments had penetrated his chest.

“Evac?”

Venn examined him. “No. Stabilize and move him with us. We don't control enough territory to send anyone back alone.”

They advanced.

The first security officer was found forty meters farther in. There wasn't enough left to identify him visually. His armor had been torn open and most of the soft tissue was gone. A rifle lay several meters away, its ammunition counter reading zero. The marines became quieter after that.

They found another body near a maintenance lift. Then three together. Then six. The security team had fought. Scorch marks and bullet impacts covered the walls. Zerg corpses lay among the human remains. But ship security had been trained to deal with drunken residents, theft, domestic disturbances and occasionally armed criminals. They had not been trained to fight the Zerg.

The commander counted eleven bodies. “Keep moving.”

The corridor ahead contained four more. One marine approached. Something moved beneath the floor.

“BACK!”

The deck erupted. A hydralisk burst through a maintenance panel directly beside the corpses. Another emerged behind it. Spines filled the corridor. One marine died instantly. A second fell screaming. The squads scattered toward cover while the hydralisks climbed from the cavity they had carved beneath the decking.

“Firebats!”

Rourke and Mercer came forward with the rest of their squad. The first hydralisk fired again. Flame engulfed it. The second tried to retreat into the hole. Three marines emptied their rifles into its exposed back. It collapsed halfway underground.

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Then Venn shouted for help. The wounded marine was bleeding badly. A spine had entered below his ribs and emerged through his back. The medics worked. He died anyway.

Two dead.

The commander looked at the security corpses again. The hydralisks had buried themselves beside them. Waiting.

“They're using the bodies as bait,” one marine said.

Nobody disagreed. From that point forward, every corpse became a potential ambush.

They fought for nearly two hours. E-Forty-Two became a maze of short, violent engagements. Zerglings attacked through ventilation shafts and maintenance hatches. Hydralisks fired from the ends of corridors and disappeared before the marines could close. Twice the mercenaries encountered sections where organic growth had begun spreading across the walls. That frightened the commander more than the casualties. The Zerg weren't simply trapped aboard the ship. They were settling in.

StarCraft Co. changed tactics. Squads stopped advancing through every corridor. Instead, engineers aboard the Horizons Beyond remotely manipulated pressure doors ahead of them, gradually dividing E-Forty-Two into smaller compartments. The mercenaries cleared one section, sealed it, then moved to the next. The firebats became their hammer. Marines identified concentrations, firebats destroyed them, and medics kept the formation moving.

They lost another marine when a hydralisk fired through a grated maintenance floor. Two others suffered serious wounds during a zergling rush. One firebat's fuel system ruptured after a spine penetrated his backpack, forcing the squad to abandon the weapon before it ignited. But the line kept advancing.

Eventually they heard gunfire that wasn't theirs. Three shots. Pause. Two more.

The commander immediately stopped the advance. “Security?”

No answer. Then another burst.

“Move.”

The forward squads advanced quickly. They found the survivors barricaded inside an electrical control room. Five security officers remained. One had a broken leg. Another had lost most of his left hand. All were dehydrated, exhausted and almost out of ammunition.

Their lieutenant stared at the StarCraft Co. insignia. “Mercenaries?”

Rourke looked at the barricade. “You expecting someone else?”

The lieutenant laughed. It sounded halfway hysterical. Venn's medics went to work.

“What happened?” the commander asked over the channel.

The lieutenant accepted a water pouch before answering. “We followed them.”

“The Zerg?”

“We thought there were maybe ten. Fifteen. They kept falling back.”

The commander understood immediately. “They led you deeper.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“Into where?”

“SCV bay.”

Nobody liked that.

“How many?”

“I don't know.”

“What kinds?”

“Zerglings. Hydralisks.”

“Anything else?”

The lieutenant hesitated. “Something flying.”

The commander closed his eyes. “Mutalisks?”

“I don't know what they're called.”

Of course.

“Can your people fight?”

The lieutenant looked at the four security officers still capable of standing. “Give us ammunition.”

The SCV preparation bay occupied one of the largest spaces in E-Forty-Two. Under normal conditions, engineers entered through personnel doors on one side, suited themselves inside massive construction exoskeletons, and departed through industrial access doors on the other. Rows of SCVs stood in maintenance racks along the walls.

Now the entire chamber was becoming a nest.

Organic matter covered sections of the floor. Fibrous Zerg growth climbed the SCV racks. Dead maintenance workers had been incorporated into heaps of partially consumed biomass. Zerglings moved through the chamber in packs. Hydralisks occupied elevated platforms. Three mutalisks hung from overhead machinery.

The commander watched through a fiber-optic camera pushed beneath the door. Nobody said anything.

Eventually Mercer spoke. “That's a lot of Zerg.”

The security lieutenant stared at the display. “We went in there.”

“Yeah.”

“We actually went in there.”

Rourke looked at him. “That was stupid.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Extremely.”

A frontal assault was impossible. So they didn't make one.

The commander looked at the SCVs. “How many of those work?”

Kessler connected him with engineering. “Unknown.”

“Find out.”

Engineers began remotely querying the machines. One responded. Then another. Then four more.

Six functional SCVs.

The commander smiled. “Can you operate them remotely?”

There was a pause. “Technically.”

“That's my favorite kind of yes.”

The attack began with the SCVs. Six unmanned construction exoskeletons activated simultaneously. The Zerg reacted immediately. The first SCV stepped from its rack and drove a massive industrial drill directly through a hydralisk.

Chaos followed.

Zerglings swarmed the machines. Hydralisks fired. Mutalisks dropped from the ceiling. The SCVs weren't combat units. They didn't need to be. They needed to be distractions.

“GO!”

Three doors opened simultaneously. StarCraft Co. entered from three directions. Gauss fire crossed the chamber. The first zergling pack disappeared. Firebats advanced behind the SCVs and poured flame into the organic growth. The nest ignited.

Hydralisks returned fire. One marine dropped. Then another. The security officers joined the line, firing from behind an overturned maintenance cart. A mutalisk tore into one squad from above. Its glaive struck one marine, ricocheted into another and then buried itself in a medic.

The medic went down. Venn reached her.

The mutalisk turned for another pass.

An SCV caught it. Not deliberately. The construction machine had been ordered to swing its drilling arm continuously while advancing. The mutalisk flew directly into it. The impact broke one wing. Marines finished it on the floor.

Another SCV exploded. Zerglings poured through the wreckage.

“FIREBATS!”

Rourke's squad advanced. Flame rolled across the deck. Zerglings burned. Organic growth burned. One hydralisk burned long enough to reach the firebats and drove a spine through a man's visor. He dropped without a sound.

Rourke kept firing. There was no time to stop.

The second mutalisk descended toward the medics. Four security officers opened fire. Their rounds forced it sideways. That put it directly above a marine squad. Every rifle pointed upward. The mutalisk disintegrated.

The third tried to climb. The SCV bay ceiling was high, but not infinite. Marines fired from below while a surviving SCV moved beneath it. The commander saw the geometry.

“Engineering. Crane.”

An overhead maintenance crane activated. The mutalisk turned too late. The crane carriage struck it against a support beam. It fell. Mercer burned it before it could rise.

The remaining Zerg broke. Not literally, but whatever coordination had held the nest together disappeared. Zerglings charged individually. Hydralisks tried to retreat into maintenance passages. The mercenaries gave them nowhere to go. Squads advanced from three directions. Fire drove the Zerg from cover. Rifles killed what emerged. The surviving security officers fought beside them.

Twenty-seven minutes after the first SCV activated, the last hydralisk died beneath concentrated Gauss fire.

The chamber became quiet.

Nobody cheered. There were too many bodies.

StarCraft Co. had lost six personnel. Several more were seriously wounded. One medic was in critical condition. The surviving security officers had lost another man during the fighting. But the nest was gone.

The commander ordered the SCV bay burned. Every piece of organic material. Every corpse that couldn't be positively identified as human. Every surface showing evidence of Zerg growth. Then they swept E-Forty-Two again.

And again.

Nothing remained.

Administrator Kessler was waiting when the commander finally contacted him. “Is it contained?”

“Yes.”

Kessler visibly sagged. “Casualties?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

The commander told him. Kessler looked away.

“And my security personnel?”

“Five survived the initial attack. Four are coming home.”

For once, Kessler had nothing corporate to say. He simply nodded. After a moment he asked, “What do you need?”

The commander looked at the casualty report. That was a very different question from the one Kessler had asked before. The first time StarCraft Co. worked for the Horizons Beyond, the administration had chosen them because they were cheap. This time the administration had called them because nobody else could solve the problem without exposing it.

Next time, there would be no bidding.

The commander named a number for replacement equipment, death benefits, medical costs and the contract balance.

Kessler didn't negotiate. “Done.”

“And we're revising our standing rate.”

Kessler almost smiled. “I assumed you would.”

The commander named that number too. Kessler was quiet for several seconds. Then he nodded.

“Agreed.”

Above them, life aboard the Horizons Beyond continued without interruption. Artificial daylight illuminated parks and shopping districts. Restaurants served dinner. Concert halls filled. Children played beside artificial lakes. Hundreds of thousands of residents went to sleep believing themselves completely safe inside one of the most sophisticated vessels humanity had ever constructed. They would never know how close the Zerg had come. They would never know about the missing biosensors, the slaughtered security team, or the nest burning beneath their feet.

But the administration knew.

And now, whenever something went wrong aboard the Horizons Beyond that couldn't appear in an official report, they knew exactly who to call.

Starcraft Co 2- Mutalisks

And this is the second installment of the scrappy, fledgling private mercenary group trying to make a name for itself in the Koprulu sector, staying true to the plot outlined over twenty years ago.

---

The Horizons Beyond was less a ship than a city that happened to move.

Nearly forty kilometers from bow to stern, the supermassive carrier had been built for people wealthy enough to regard planets as an inconvenience. Its residential districts contained artificial parks, shopping promenades, theaters, universities, hospitals, private clubs and entire neighborhoods of luxury apartments. Hundreds of thousands of residents lived aboard while the Horizons Beyond drifted leisurely between settled systems, spending months at each destination before moving on. Most passengers could live their entire lives without ever entering the industrial decks beneath them.

That separation was precisely why the administration intended to keep the current problem quiet.

“There are six,” Administrator Kessler said.

The commander looked through the photographs on the datapad. The images weren't especially good, but they didn't need to be. The leathery wings and hooked tail were unmistakable.

“Mutalisks.”

“Yes.”

“On a ship carrying three hundred thousand people.”

“Two hundred eighty-six thousand residents, plus approximately forty thousand staff.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?”

Kessler's expression remained professionally pleasant. The office around them overlooked an artificial lake several decks above. Sailboats moved across blue water beneath simulated sunlight. Nobody strolling along the shore had any idea that six Zerg organisms were roosting a few hundred meters beneath their feet.

“They are confined to maintenance substructure E-Seventeen,” Kessler said. “There is no evidence that they have entered inhabited portions of the vessel.”

“Yet.”

“We don't expect them to.”

“Then why hire us?”

Kessler ignored the question. “The Horizons Beyond crossed the Remora Passage twelve days ago. The route had been certified clear. Evidently that certification was incorrect. We believe a small number of Zerg organisms attached themselves to the outer hull and subsequently entered through maintenance apertures.”

“You notify the authorities?”

“No.”

“Ship security?”

“Only senior command personnel are aware.”

The commander looked up from the datapad. “You have your own security force.”

“We do.”

“And you're hiring mercenaries.”

“We require discretion.”

That explained the contract. StarCraft Co. had exactly one completed paying job to its name. There were larger mercenary outfits, better-equipped outfits and outfits that could have cleared six mutalisks before breakfast. They also charged accordingly. StarCraft Co. had submitted the lowest bid.

Kessler folded his hands. “You understand what would happen if this became public.”

“People might object to living on a ship with Zerg aboard.”

“People would panic unnecessarily. Prospective residents would cancel reservations. Existing residents would reconsider long-term contracts. Our insurers would become involved. Regulators would demand inspections. Financial media would sensationalize an isolated maintenance issue. The company's share price could lose twenty percent before anyone bothered establishing whether there was actually a threat.”

“There are six mutalisks living next to your engine.”

“And I am paying you to make that number zero.”

The commander glanced through the contract again. “Why infantry?”

“Location. E-Seventeen runs directly beneath the outer hull adjacent to the primary engine assembly. Missiles are obviously unacceptable. Fighters cannot engage without risking damage to the vessel. Even some heavier infantry weapons are prohibited.”

“So rifles.”

“Rifles.”

The commander considered what StarCraft Co. could afford. The Varga contract had given them working capital, but not much. Six marines and two medics were available without putting the company back into debt.

Against six mutalisks, it wasn't a comfortable number.

It was enough.

“We'll do it.”

The eight soldiers entered E-Seventeen through a freight elevator normally used by engineering crews. Their equipment had been transported aboard inside unmarked maintenance containers. Officially, StarCraft Co. did not exist on the passenger manifest.

The difference between the upper decks and the maintenance substructure was astonishing. Artificial sunlight disappeared. Decorative architecture became bare steel. Corridors widened and narrowed unpredictably around machinery never intended to be seen by residents. Pipes thicker than a man ran overhead. Coolant pumps vibrated beneath grated floors. Every few seconds the entire structure produced a low metallic groan as stresses shifted through the enormous ship.

The commander spoke through their headsets. “Remember what you're hunting. One mutalisk catches you in the open, somebody dies. Nobody wanders. Nobody chases. You see one, you call it.”

The marines acknowledged.

They had studied everything available about mutalisk behavior before deployment. The creatures were fast, aggressive and surprisingly intelligent predators. Their glaive wurms could tear through infantry and then ricochet into additional targets. Clustering together was dangerous. Spreading too far apart was worse.

So they moved in pairs.

Two marines advanced while two covered. The remaining two protected the medics. Nobody entered an intersection until every adjoining corridor had been checked.

They found the first mutalisk twenty-three minutes later.

Technically, it found them.

A maintenance technician's helmet lay in the middle of the corridor ahead.

“Stop.”

The formation froze.

One marine raised his rifle toward the ceiling.

Nothing.

Another checked the pipes.

Nothing.

The commander studied their helmet feeds.

“Back up.”

They moved backward.

The mutalisk dropped from beneath the walkway behind them.

“CONTACT!”

It struck one marine before anyone fired. The glaive tore across his shoulder armor, ricocheted from the wall and buried itself in another man's thigh. Both went down.

The other four marines opened fire.

The corridor became a storm of muzzle flashes. The mutalisk tried to climb, wings beating furiously inside the confined space, but there was nowhere to gain altitude. Gauss rounds shredded one wing. It struck a pipe, spun and crashed onto the walkway.

They kept firing until it stopped moving.

The medics immediately went to work.

Neither marine was dead.

That became lesson number one.

The mutalisks knew how to hide.

They found the second roosting above a coolant manifold.

This time they didn't approach it.

The maintenance schematics showed three routes into the chamber. Two were sealed remotely. The marines positioned themselves behind machinery along the third.

Then engineering increased coolant pressure through the manifold.

The sudden vibration disturbed the creature.

It dropped from its perch and flew directly toward the only open exit.

Six rifles were waiting.

It survived less than four seconds.

The third was harder.

They tracked droppings and scraps of insulation through nearly half a kilometer of substructure before discovering that the creature had taken refuge inside an inactive ventilation shaft. Sending marines inside would have been suicide.

So they didn't.

They sealed one end and connected a portable maintenance blower to the other.

The mutalisk tolerated the increasing airflow for almost a minute before emerging.

Four marines fired from one side.

Two waited on the other.

The creature chose the direction with fewer enemies.

That was exactly what the commander expected.

The two marines retreated while firing, drawing it through a narrow maintenance passage. The mutalisk followed until it reached a bulkhead doorway.

The door closed behind it.

The other four marines were waiting on the opposite side.

Crossfire killed it.

The fourth was almost anticlimactic. They found it feeding on something beneath a maintenance platform. The marines surrounded the chamber without entering, then one tossed a metal tool down the opposite corridor.

The mutalisk investigated the sound.

Six rifles opened fire from three directions.

Four down.

Two remaining.

The last two were different.

They had nested together.

The chamber was enormous, a vertical maintenance cavity beside one of the primary engine's magnetic containment assemblies. Catwalks crossed open space at multiple levels. Machinery filled the lower sections. Above, the ceiling disappeared into darkness.

The two mutalisks hung together beneath an overhead support structure.

The commander studied the feeds.

“Don't engage.”

Nobody argued.

Six marines could kill one mutalisk quickly enough. Two attacking simultaneously could rip through the entire squad before they brought either down.

Worse, the chamber offered the creatures room to fly.

They withdrew.

For nearly twenty minutes, nobody fired a shot.

Instead they studied the schematics.

One marine eventually noticed something.

“Commander, what's this?”

A maintenance crane ran through the chamber on overhead rails. It was normally used to remove engine components weighing hundreds of tons.

“Can engineering operate it remotely?”

The commander contacted Kessler.

Three minutes later they had access.

That gave them half a plan.

The other half came from one of the medics.

“Why do we have to fight both?”

The commander looked at her camera feed.

“Explain.”

“They're animals. Separate them.”

The chamber had four pressure doors. The crane couldn't reach the mutalisks directly without disturbing both, but it could move something else.

A replacement heat exchanger sat on a maintenance cradle near the far wall.

It weighed forty-three tons.

The marines attached a chain to it and withdrew.

The crane lifted the exchanger.

Then it slammed the forty-three-ton block of machinery against the opposite wall.

The sound was extraordinary.

Both mutalisks woke.

One immediately launched toward the disturbance.

The other hesitated.

That hesitation was enough.

A pressure door dropped between them.

The first mutalisk turned.

Six marines were waiting.

They fired from behind engine machinery, deliberately spreading far enough apart that its glaive could not efficiently ricochet between targets. The creature attacked one position. Those marines withdrew while the others fired into its flank. It turned toward them. The first pair resumed firing.

They rotated.

Again.

Again.

The mutalisk couldn't commit to a target without exposing itself to four other rifles.

Eventually one wing failed.

It crashed onto a catwalk.

The marines finished it.

Five.

The final mutalisk was furious.

It struck the pressure door repeatedly from the opposite side. The metal held, but nobody expected that to last forever.

The marines reloaded.

Two were wounded. Ammunition was getting low. The last creature now knew exactly where they were.

The commander looked at the maintenance schematic again.

“Move everyone to level three.”

The squad climbed.

Below them, the pressure door buckled.

“Commander?” one marine asked.

“Keep moving.”

They reached the upper catwalk.

The door failed.

The mutalisk came through immediately.

Nobody fired.

It saw them above.

The creature climbed.

“Now.”

The maintenance crane moved.

The forty-three-ton heat exchanger swung across the chamber like a pendulum.

The mutalisk never saw it.

The impact caught the creature in midair and carried it across the chamber. Mutalisk and heat exchanger struck the engine housing together with enough force to shake the catwalk.

The creature fell thirty meters.

It hit the lower deck.

Still alive.

“Of course,” one marine muttered.

The squad descended carefully.

The mutalisk tried to rise.

Six rifles finished the job.

Administrator Kessler met the commander two hours later.

There was no celebration. No announcement. No commendation ceremony. Nobody aboard the Horizons Beyond would ever know anything had happened.

That was exactly what Kessler wanted.

“Six confirmed?”

“Six.”

“No additional organisms?”

“We swept the entire affected substructure. Nothing.”

“And casualties?”

“None. Four injuries. All recoverable.”

Kessler nodded.

The commander slid the report across the desk. “You should still notify the authorities.”

“That will be an administrative decision.”

“Meaning no.”

“Meaning your contractual obligations ended when the sixth organism died.”

The commander understood.

Kessler transferred the remaining payment.

Then he added something else.

A discretionary bonus.

Not enormous, but enough to matter to a company that had completed only its second contract.

“You were inexpensive,” Kessler said. “More importantly, you were quiet.”

“That's quite an endorsement.”

“For our purposes, it is.” Kessler stood and offered his hand. “The Horizons Beyond has extensive operations throughout the sector. Problems occasionally arise for which conventional security services are… inappropriate.”

The commander shook it.

“We'll keep the channel open.”

“I recommend that you do.”

By the time the Horizons Beyond entered its next system, the damaged maintenance sections had been repaired. The wounded marines were recovering. The official ship log contained nothing more alarming than an unscheduled inspection of engine substructure E-Seventeen.

On the residential decks, artificial sunlight rose over the lake precisely on schedule. Restaurants opened. Children went to school. Investors checked the Horizons Beyond share price and saw nothing unusual.

StarCraft Co. had completed its second paying contract.

And, for the first time, someone with very deep pockets had remembered their name.

Starcraft Co. 1- Intro + Zerglings

A little over two decades ago I created a Starcraft Brood War custom campaign called “Starcraft Co”. I had a lot of fun making it using the built in map editor that came with the game, and added missions to it periodically over time. I even had a sequel planned but never got around to it. Unfortunately the map files are lost to time. Probably one some hard drive that's been decomposing in a landfill or recycled for scrap ages ago. This was before the ubiquity of the cloud.

The basic premise of the campaign is that you are working with a partner to start a private military corporation that will operate across the galaxy taking high-risk, lucrative contracts. I had the face of Arcturus Mengsk for the cut scenes as your partner because, for anyone who played that game, the number of character animations was... limited. In this version of the Starcraft Universe, the Zerg are not a centralized hivemind intelligence intent on galactic domination/consumption. Instead, they are a disparate alien race that travels in roving swarms. More of a serious nuisance than an existential threat. Their numbers are vast, but they lack any centralized coordination. The Terrans are humans that have spread across the galaxy and are run by a corrupt, bloated, bureaucratic, capitalist interplanetary government. Humans have limited contact with the Protoss, but they are an older alien race with vastly different technology. They haven't been much of a threat because they are separated into different tribes that constantly war with one another.

While the campaign files are lost, I still remember the general plot pretty well considering its age. There were somewhere in the mid 20s in terms of missions, so I might miss a few but I think I can reconstruct most of them. I thought it would be fun to turn it into an episodic narrative, with a narrative based on each mission. So, without further adieu, Mission I- Zerglings (i'm going to try to maintain the exact titles when I can remember, I wasn't very creative back then apparently, and will fill in the blanks as best I can. A few missions may be lost)

Mission I- Zerglings

Dr. Emil Varga had been very careful about the wording of his request. SECURITY CONTRACT — PRIVATE RESEARCH FACILITY. Hazardous wildlife removal. Subterranean environment. Discretion required. Compensation: 20,000 credits. There was no mention of the Zerg.

“There are perhaps thirty,” Varga said.

The commander studied him across the kitchen table. The scientist's home was unremarkable: cheap cabinets, an aging refrigerator, dirty dishes stacked beside the sink. Nothing about it suggested that a private biological laboratory extended beneath the basement.

“Perhaps?”

“Twenty-eight as of yesterday morning.”

“And now?”

Varga hesitated. That hesitation was enough.

“Forty thousand.”

Varga nearly came out of his chair. “Forty? The contract was for twenty!”

“The contract said hazardous wildlife. You have a Zerg infestation.”

“Zerglings. Only zerglings.”

“Then you won't have any trouble finding someone else.”

Varga glanced toward the basement door. Somewhere below them came a muffled metallic crash. “Twenty-five.”

“Forty.”

“Thirty.”

The commander considered it. The job was ugly, but simple enough in principle. The budget only allowed three personnel: two firebats and a medic. Against a few dozen zerglings, that should be sufficient if they were careful. More importantly, every hour spent negotiating was another hour the creatures had to spread.

“Thirty.”

Varga exhaled. “Agreed.”

“One more thing. How did they get here?”

The scientist's expression changed. “I acquired several specimens.”

“Several living Zerg specimens?”

“They were contained.”

“Apparently not.”

“They were sedated. Juvenile organisms. There was no queen, no hatchery, no mature reproductive organism of any kind. They should not have been capable of establishing a viable population.”

The commander looked toward the basement door. “You said you had twenty-eight yesterday. How many did you acquire?”

Varga didn't answer.

“How many?”

“Six.”

That changed things.

The commander leaned forward. “Zerglings don't reproduce on their own.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Are you?”

Varga's irritation briefly overcame his fear. “I am a xenobiologist.”

“And yet you've got six zerglings turning into thirty in your basement.”

“They've been consuming biological material from my experiments.”

“What kind of material?”

“Cultured biomass. Artificial tissue. Some experimental regenerative substrates.”

“Anything designed for rapid cellular replication?”

Another hesitation.

The commander stood. “Thirty thousand. Half now.”

Varga transferred the money.

The commander opened the channel to the three soldiers waiting outside. “You're going in.”

The firebats were Cole Rourke and Jin Mercer. The medic was Mara Venn. They weren't specialists, exterminators, or xenobiologists. They were grunts who had been given a job and enough information to understand that getting surrounded would kill them.

They entered through Varga's basement. The first flight of stairs was completely ordinary, descending past painted drywall, shelves of household supplies and a washer and dryer. Behind a reinforced security door, however, the house gave way to something else entirely. A steel staircase descended through a concrete shaft lined with pipes, cables and ventilation ducts. At the bottom, another security door hung partially open.

“Power?” Rourke asked.

“Still active in most sectors,” Varga replied over the radio.

“Cameras?”

“Offline.”

“Figures.”

The commander came over the channel. “You've got the floor plan. Clear clockwise. Room by room. Seal everything behind you. Don't split up and don't chase anything.”

Rourke lowered his visor. “Copy.”

Mercer did the same. Behind them, Venn checked the seals on her medical kit and drew her sidearm. The two firebats ignited their weapons.

They went in.

The first room was empty. The second contained three zerglings clustered around a stainless-steel specimen tray, tearing strips from something pink and fibrous that had overflowed its container. Mercer fired first. The confined laboratory erupted in orange light. One zergling died almost immediately. Another charged directly through the flames, its burning carapace cracking as Rourke caught it with a second stream. The third fled through the opposite doorway.

Mercer started forward.

“Negative,” the commander said immediately. “Stay on your route.”

Mercer stopped.

They watched the burning zergling disappear around the corner. Then Rourke closed the door behind them and marked the room clear.

They learned the rhythm quickly. Rourke entered first while Mercer covered the doorway. Then Mercer advanced while Rourke shifted to cover another angle. Venn remained behind them, watching vents, ceilings and previously cleared entrances. Whenever possible, they didn't attack the zerglings at all. They made noise, drew them into corridors, and let the creatures charge into overlapping streams of flame. A firebat's greatest weakness against zerglings was the distance the creatures could cover before dying. Two firebats firing together solved much of that problem.

By the seventh room they had killed fourteen.

That was when they found the biomass.

It covered half the laboratory floor. Thick ropes of pale tissue had burst from shattered cultivation tanks and spread across the tiles. Portions of it twitched despite being disconnected from any obvious organism. Zerglings had burrowed into it like animals feeding inside a carcass.

Mercer stared through his visor. “Doc?”

“Yes?”

“You've got a meat garden.”

“That terminology is scientifically meaningless.”

“I'm looking at a meat garden.”

Venn crouched near the doorway without entering. “It's growing.”

Varga didn't answer immediately.

“Doctor?”

“It shouldn't be.”

Something moved beneath the tissue.

Then several things moved.

“Back!”

The biomass erupted. Eight zerglings came through almost simultaneously. Rourke fired and the front rank vanished into flame, but the others charged through their dying kin. One slammed into him hard enough to throw nearly half a ton of armored firebat backward. Another cleared him entirely and hit Mercer from the side. Its claws found the flexible joint beneath his left arm.

His armor alarm screamed.

Venn fired twice. The first round ricocheted from carapace. The second entered the creature's open mouth. Mercer grabbed it with both gauntlets, hauled it away from his body and threw it against the wall. Rourke rolled onto one knee and incinerated it.

“MOVE!”

They retreated. Rourke slapped the emergency control as he crossed the threshold and the laboratory door slammed shut. Something hit the other side hard enough to bow the metal.

Mercer leaned against the wall. Blood was already pooling inside his armor.

Venn went to work.

“How bad?” the commander asked.

“Deep punctures beneath the arm. No arterial bleed. I can stabilize him.”

“Do it.”

The three listened to zerglings clawing against the door while Venn packed and sealed the wound. After several minutes Mercer flexed his arm experimentally.

“Can you fight?” the commander asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then we keep moving.”

They changed tactics.

Varga's laboratory had been constructed with an isolation ventilation system so individual rooms could be sealed during a containment failure. The Zerg had damaged parts of it, but enough remained operational to manipulate airflow. Mercer opened an access panel in the neighboring utility room while Rourke traced the duct leading into the biomass laboratory.

Venn watched him push his flamethrower nozzle into it. “That seems like a terrible idea.”

Rourke pulled the trigger.

Fire roared into the ventilation shaft.

Thirty seconds later smoke began pouring beneath the laboratory door. Screeching followed. They waited until it stopped before entering. Five zerglings were dead inside and most of the exposed biomass was burning.

“Commander,” Venn said, looking at the remains. “You seeing this?”

“I see it.”

One of the dead zerglings was small.

Very small.

Varga came over the radio. “Move your camera closer.”

Venn did.

The scientist was silent for several seconds.

“That wasn't one of mine.”

Nobody answered.

“It can't be,” Varga continued. “The original specimens were all approximately the same developmental age.”

Rourke looked around the room. “So where'd Junior come from?”

“I don't know.”

The commander did not like that answer. “Doctor, is there anything else in this facility capable of producing Zerg organisms?”

“No.”

“A queen?”

“No.”

“Larvae?”

“No.”

“Eggs?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then we've got a problem.”

They kept moving.

The infestation became worse deeper inside the complex. They killed nine zerglings in the incubation wing and four more in storage. Several were noticeably smaller than the others. Two came through a ceiling panel and nearly reached Venn before Mercer intercepted them. Another survived long enough to rake its claws across Rourke's faceplate, leaving three deep grooves and cracking the visor. His left-side visibility became little more than distorted shapes.

Venn wanted him pulled out.

The commander refused. “We retreat now, whatever is producing these things gets time to produce more.”

Rourke wiped blood from inside his visor. “I'm good.”

“You're not good,” Venn said.

“Good enough.”

That became the standard.

They stopped treating the laboratory as terrain and started treating it as a weapon. Steel tables became barricades. Fuel was sprayed across corridors and ignited only after zerglings committed to a charge. Venn discovered that several doors could be controlled through local terminals, allowing them to separate packs before engaging them. In the refrigeration chamber, they trapped six by opening one entrance, drawing them inside, then cycling the door remotely. The temperature dropped far below freezing.

Twenty minutes later they returned. The zerglings were still alive, but barely moving.

Mercer finished them.

“I'm starting to enjoy science.”

Varga's voice came over the radio. “Cold doesn't kill them that quickly.”

Mercer looked at the frozen bodies. “Fire does.”

They continued.

Five hours after entering the facility, they reached the main cultivation laboratory.

Varga had warned them about it from the beginning. Most of the experimental biomass had been stored there. The door was open and the lights beyond it had failed. Rourke's damaged visor compensated as best it could.

Movement appeared in the darkness.

A lot of movement.

Mercer checked his fuel. “Twenty-one percent.”

“Eighteen,” Rourke replied.

Venn looked past them into the darkened room. “How many?”

Nobody answered.

The commander watched their helmet feeds. Shapes moved among overturned tanks. Some were full-grown zerglings.

Others weren't.

“Doctor,” the commander said. “What am I looking at?”

Varga didn't answer.

“Varga.”

“I don't know.”

There was genuine fear in his voice now.

The commander counted what he could see. There was too much biomass, too many blind corners and not enough fuel. Sending the three soldiers into that room would turn a successful extermination into a suicide mission.

“Fall back.”

Rourke hesitated.

“You heard me. Back upstairs.”

Varga was waiting when they emerged. His expression changed when he saw Mercer's torn armor and Rourke's ruined visor.

“You're leaving?”

“No,” the commander said over the radio. “They're improvising.”

Ten minutes later, the three returned carrying two propane cylinders from Varga's house, a length of garden hose, several containers of industrial solvent and a sack of flour from the kitchen.

Varga watched through their cameras. “What exactly are you planning?”

Mercer answered. “Science.”

“That is not science.”

“Starting to sound like a matter of professional disagreement.”

They built the trap in the corridor outside the cultivation laboratory. Fuel first. Solvent next. The propane cylinders went at the center. The flour was dumped into an air intake where the ventilation system could disperse it into the corridor as fine particulate.

Venn examined their handiwork. “I'd like the record to show that the medical professional objects to all of this.”

“Objection noted,” the commander replied. “Get behind cover.”

Rourke approached the cultivation laboratory and struck the metal doorway repeatedly with a wrench.

The darkness came alive.

He ran.

Zerglings poured into the corridor. Ten. Fifteen. More followed. Adults came first, fast enough that Rourke barely kept ahead of them. Smaller creatures followed behind, scrambling over one another in their frenzy.

“Wait,” Mercer said.

Rourke crossed the mark.

“Wait.”

The swarm reached the solvent.

“Now.”

Mercer fired.

The corridor became the sun.

The explosion knocked Varga's washing machine half a meter across his basement floor. Dust fell from the kitchen ceiling. Somewhere outside, a neighbor's dog began barking.

For several seconds there was nothing on the radio but static.

Then Venn coughed.

“We're alive.”

Varga collapsed into a chair.

The three soldiers emerged twenty minutes later. Mercer's armor was torn open beneath one arm. Rourke's visor was destroyed. Venn had a burn across one hand and a long cut down her thigh. All three were walking.

Behind them, the underground laboratory was blackened, flooded in places, and probably going to require hundreds of thousands of credits in repairs.

Nothing inside it was moving.

Rourke uploaded the final count.

Forty-seven.

Varga stared at the number. “That's impossible.”

The commander answered him. “You started with six.”

“Yes.”

“And we killed forty-seven.”

“Yes.”

“How long ago did they escape?”

“Approximately seventy-two hours.”

The commander was silent.

Varga looked toward the basement door. The relief that had been on his face moments earlier slowly disappeared.

“There was no queen,” he said.

“You've mentioned that.”

“No. You don't understand.” Varga looked genuinely shaken now. “There was no queen. No hatchery. No larvae. Nothing. Zerglings cannot establish a reproductive cycle independently. They don't work that way.”

The commander looked at the mission report again. Forty-seven confirmed kills. Multiple juvenile organisms. Six original specimens.

“Apparently these did.”

Varga said nothing.

The remaining fifteen thousand credits arrived a moment later.

The commander confirmed the transfer, then closed the contract.

Downstairs, beneath scorched concrete and collapsed laboratory equipment, the last pieces of Dr. Varga's experimental biomass continued to smolder.

For now, at least, nothing moved.

“What goes around comes around.” Now, the question. does that quote mean anything? No, i just thought it would be funny to throw something unnecessarily profound at the beginning and then admit i have no idea what im talking about. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my mother lately, i havent visited her grave in some time. long enough that admitting it feels worse than actually counting the days. i tell myself ill go soon, then days become weeks. weeks become another month, another excuse. its weird how easy it is to avoid a place when you know exactly what you’ll feel once you get there. And then there are the dreams. for gods sake, leave me alone. i already sleep like ive been left halfway through something interesting with these wrist restrainers and a broken door. which doesnt sound pleasant to begin with. my dreams, naturally, have decided to make it worse. sometimes they feel so real that i wake up and have to sit there for a while, trying to figure out which part actually happened and which parts my brain decided would be a fun little extension, because it had nothing better to do. there are times where i have to make a guess. No, not remember. Guess. was that a dream? did i actually say that? did i actually see her? was that a memory? or was my mind just bored enough to manufacture an entire little world and then leave me to deal with it when i woke up? they are convincing. my dreams dont always feel like dreams. they feel like memories that haven’t happened yet or memories that never happened at all. sometimes i wake up carrying the emotion of something that doesnt exist, and somehow the emotion still feels completely real. whatever, thats funny to talk about. i guess ill always fall for my own “tricks”.

Thats enough for today, enough thoughts, enough complaints, i need a cigarette.

Sincerely, Barely trusting my own memory.

Chapter 1: The Prayer You Almost Do Not Want to Say Out Loud

It is late enough that the house has finally gone quiet. The lights are low, the dishes are still in the sink, and your phone is charging across the room. You know this would normally be the kind of moment when you pray, but tonight you sit there with nothing coming. Not anger. Not tears. Not peace. Just a strange blankness that makes you wonder whether you should even try. If you have been living in that silence, this message for when you feel spiritually numb and cannot feel God is not asking you to become more emotional. It is asking you to stop hiding from what is already true.

There is a sentence many believers are uncomfortable saying: “God, I do not feel close to You.” It sounds dangerous because we have learned to associate strong faith with confidence, gratitude, certainty, and visible devotion. So when the heart becomes quiet, we often cover it with religious language. We tell God what we think a faithful person should say instead of what the person sitting in the room actually feels. That is why this encouragement for Christians struggling with spiritual dryness and a tired faith begins in a place that can feel almost too simple: you are allowed to tell God the truth.

Maybe the truth is that you are tired of praying about the same thing. Maybe you have asked Him to change a situation for so long that you no longer know what another prayer would add. Maybe there was a time when you felt His presence easily, and now you cannot remember the last time something inside you truly responded. You still believe. You have not rejected Jesus. You just do not know how to make yourself feel what you think you should feel.

I think many people make spiritual numbness heavier by keeping it secret.

You can sit beside someone in church, sing the same song, hear the same message, and carry an entirely different experience inside. They may lift their hands while you are wondering why the words are not reaching you. You may feel guilty because you remember loving that song once. You may look around and think everyone else has something you have lost.

Then you go home and say nothing about it.

There is a man somewhere tonight who has spent the last year solving problems for everybody else. His family calls when something breaks. People at work depend on him. Someone close to him is going through a hard season. He keeps handling the next thing because that is what he does. When he finally gets ten minutes alone, he realizes he does not feel much of anything. He assumes the emptiness means his spiritual life is failing.

But maybe his heart has simply been living without enough room to breathe.

God knows the difference.

That matters because you may be accusing yourself of something Jesus is not accusing you of.

There are times when numbness can point toward something that needs attention. We can drift. We can become distracted. We can avoid God. But not every quiet season is rebellion, and treating every quiet season like rebellion can make you afraid of your own humanity.

Sometimes you have been disappointed for too long.

Sometimes grief has worn you down.

Sometimes life has required so much emotional energy that when you finally come to prayer, there is simply not much left.

You do not have to solve which one it is tonight.

You can begin with honesty.

“Jesus, I do not know what is happening inside me.”

That is enough to start.

Do not rush to add a better sentence. Do not explain yourself. Do not promise that you will do better tomorrow. Let yourself sit there for a minute without turning the prayer into another responsibility.

The strange thing about honesty is that it can feel less spiritual than performance, even though it may bring you closer to the truth. We often think prayer needs to sound hopeful before it can be faithful. But there are moments when the most faithful prayer is simply refusing to pretend.

Jesus already knows what you feel before you name it.

He knows you are disappointed.

He knows you are tired.

He knows you miss the version of yourself who prayed more easily.

He knows you are frightened by the silence.

You are not giving Him bad news.

You are finally letting yourself stop carrying it alone.

And perhaps that is where you begin again—not by trying to feel God, but by allowing yourself to speak honestly to the God who has never needed you to pretend.

Chapter 2: Staying With God When Nothing Inside You Moves

The next afternoon, you may find yourself standing in a grocery store aisle with a basket in your hand, trying to remember what you came to buy. Your mind has been full all day. You answered people, handled responsibilities, drove where you needed to go, and kept moving. Then, for one strange second beneath the bright store lights, you realize how tired you are. Not just physically tired. Tired in that deeper place where even prayer has started to feel like another thing you should be doing better.

You do not have to turn that moment into a spiritual test.

You can simply recognize it.

There are seasons when returning to God does not feel like returning home. It feels more like sitting beside someone you trust when you do not have anything to say. The relationship is still there. The love is still there. The silence does not cancel either one.

This is where I would encourage you to stop asking yourself whether you feel enough and start noticing whether you are still willing to remain.

You opened this article.

You are still thinking about God.

Some part of you still wants closeness, even if you cannot produce the feeling.

That matters.

You may have spent so much time trying to get your old spiritual life back that you have missed the possibility that God can meet you differently now. Maybe you used to pray for thirty minutes and now you can barely manage three. Maybe you once filled pages in a journal, and now the notebook sits untouched beside the bed. Maybe worship once brought tears, and now you listen quietly while folding laundry.

None of that automatically means you are moving backward.

Faith can become quieter without becoming weaker.

There is a woman sitting in a hospital waiting room tonight with a paper cup of coffee she no longer wants. Someone she loves is behind a closed door. She has already prayed every prayer she knows how to pray. Eventually she stops asking for new words and simply whispers, “Jesus.”

That may be all she has.

It is still prayer.

Sometimes we complicate our relationship with God because we believe every spiritual moment must contain insight, emotion, clarity, or relief. But there are days when faith is simply staying turned toward Him.

If you are spiritually numb, try letting your prayers become smaller for a while. When you wake up, say, “Thank You for another day.” Before a hard conversation, say, “Help me.” When fear rises, say, “Stay close.” Before sleep, say, “I am still here.”

Those prayers are not inferior because they are short.

You can also stop judging every Bible reading by how strongly it affects you. Read a few verses and let them exist without demanding an emotional response. Truth does not stop being truth because your heart is tired.

And give yourself permission to notice your actual life. Maybe you need rest. Maybe you need to talk to somebody. Maybe you need to admit that the last year hurt more than you have allowed yourself to say. Spiritual honesty sometimes begins with ordinary honesty.

There may come a morning when you notice something small. You look through the window and feel grateful for the sunlight. A verse stays with you after you close the Bible. You pray without deciding to pray. You realize the silence does not scare you quite as much.

Do not rush that moment either.

Let faith return at its own pace.

And if you are not there yet, you do not have to be.

Jesus is not standing at some distant finish line waiting for the emotionally restored version of you to arrive. He is with the tired person you are right now.

You can stay there with Him.

You can tell the truth.

You can remain.

Sometimes that is what faith looks like before it feels like anything again.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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The decisive document in the fight over western Coweta County, Georgia, was not a protest sign or a petition. It was a line on a zoning map. For years, 829 acres of pine and hardwood about thirty-five miles south-west of Atlanta had carried the designation Rural Conservation, a category the county's own comprehensive plan reserved for what it called rural places and complete communities. In April 2026, on a three-to-two vote of the county board of commissioners, that land became Industrial. The change took seconds to enact and will take a decade to build out: nine data centre buildings, two substations, a campus valued at seventeen billion dollars and rated at nine hundred megawatts, roughly the output of a nuclear reactor, dropped into a landscape whose defining feature until that afternoon had been that almost nothing was there.

The residents who had spent fifteen months trying to stop it were, by then, extremely well organised. Laura Beth, the chairwoman of a group called Citizens for Rural Coweta, had learned in early 2025 that a hyperscale campus of more than 4.9 million square feet was proposed to run past her back garden, and had started a Facebook group, Stop Project Sail, which TIME reported in July had grown beyond eight thousand members. They read the ordinances. They turned up to every hearing. They had no financial interest in the outcome beyond the water in their wells and the value of their houses. And they lost, by one vote, on a body of five people.

I keep returning to that margin, because it exposes what the national argument about artificial intelligence tends to skip. We debate whether the machines are worth their cost. The question Coweta County actually had to answer was procedural: who possesses the authority to trade a place's groundwater, its grid capacity and its rural character for a facility it did not ask for and will not use? That has an obvious legal answer in most American jurisdictions, and a deeply unsatisfying one. The bodies with formal power to decide are frequently not the bodies containing the people who bear the consequences. The harm has one footprint and the franchise has another, and the AI build-out has made the gap between them impossible to ignore.

A Country Learning to Say No

The gap is being noticed at scale. On 18 July 2026, according to Reuters reporting carried in newspapers across the country, opponents staged 142 protests across 42 states, coordinated by a group calling itself HumansFirst and described as the first nationally organised day of action against the AI build-out. Texas hosted eighteen events, more than any other state; Georgia eleven; California eight. HumansFirst was co-founded by Amy Kremer, a veteran of the Tea Party and of Women for Trump, who has compared the mood to 2009 while insisting the campaign is nonpartisan, and who blames both parties for letting the companies build at this scale without troubling to consult the people who will live beside it.

The protests are the visible edge of something larger. The Information reported in June 2026 that more than three hundred American cities, towns and counties had adopted bans or moratoriums on data centre development. Data Center Watch, the tracker maintained by the AI research firm 10a Labs, counted 833 active opposition groups across forty-nine states by March 2026, up from 396 at the end of 2025, and calculated that in the first quarter of 2026 alone at least seventy-five projects worth a combined 130 billion dollars were blocked or delayed. Taken cumulatively since the start of 2025, the tracker puts the value of projects blocked or delayed at roughly 286 billion dollars.

Public opinion has moved with it. A Reuters/Ipsos poll of 4,531 Americans, published on 11 June 2026, found that just fourteen per cent were comfortable with a data centre being built near them, and that fifty-seven per cent would oppose one in their community, including two-thirds of Democrats and half of Republicans. Only a third agreed that building data centres at the current pace was mainly a good thing. Seventy-seven per cent were worried that AI would make electricity more expensive, and Republicans, Democrats and independents worried about it in close to equal proportion. This is not a partisan split so much as a broad, cross-cutting discomfort, and it has begun to register at the level of state executives. On 14 July 2026, Governor Kathy Hochul signed Executive Order No. 62, imposing what her office described as the first statewide moratorium in the United States on new hyperscale data centres, pausing discretionary state environmental permits for facilities drawing fifty megawatts or more for up to a year while regulators build a framework. New York's average residential electricity price has climbed by close to sixty-eight per cent since 2019. “They drive up costs for local ratepayers,” Hochul said of the facilities, “and I refuse to let those costs get passed down to New Yorkers.”

What happened in New York before that order is the more revealing half of the story, and it is this essay's question in miniature. On 4 June 2026 the state legislature passed the Responsible Data Center Development Act, a one-year moratorium on state permits for data centres drawing twenty megawatts or more, with dedicated rate classes, transparency standards and impact studies attached. The Senate carried it forty-four to sixteen, the Assembly one hundred and two to thirty-nine. Hochul did not sign it. Six weeks later she issued an executive order of her own, and commentators now expect the Act to be vetoed. The thresholds are the tell: the chamber closest to the affected districts drew its line at twenty megawatts, the single executive at fifty, more than twice as permissive. Both instruments are lawful, both get reported as a moratorium, and they are not the same policy. The choice between them was settled by which office holds the pen.

One widely repeated figure deserves care. Reporting on the backlash, including TIME's, has cited electricity price rises of up to 267 per cent in states with dense data centre activity. That number originates in a Bloomberg analysis of wholesale prices at tens of thousands of individual grid nodes, which found that in some locations near major clusters the monthly wholesale cost of power was as much as 267 per cent higher than five years earlier. It is a wholesale, node-level finding rather than a residential bill, and when Senator Elizabeth Warren used it as a household figure in June 2026 PolitiFact rated the claim mostly false. The distinction matters, because the ease with which the number has migrated into the shorthand of the debate is itself a symptom of how little reliable, locally specific information reaches the people asked to accept these facilities.

The Difference Between By-Right and By-Permission

To understand where authority actually sits, you have to understand a distinction almost nobody outside land-use law thinks about until it lands on them. In American zoning, a use is either permitted by right in a given district, meaning a developer who meets the technical standards is approved administratively through site-plan review, or it requires a discretionary act, a rezoning or special exception, which triggers public hearings and a legislative vote.

For most of the industry's history, in most of the places it grew, it was by right. Loudoun County, Virginia, the densest concentration of data centres on earth, permitted them by right across much of its industrially zoned land, which is precisely how the corridor filled so fast and so quietly. That changed on 18 March 2025, when the board of supervisors voted seven to two to make data centres a special exception use in districts where they had been by right, converting an administrative rubber stamp into a legislative process with staff review and public hearings. Even then, the board grandfathered applications submitted before 12 February 2025 for projects more than five hundred feet from homes. The reform arrived after the pipeline had already formed.

The by-right question determines whether there is a public decision at all. Where a data centre is by right, there is no hearing to attend, no vote to lobby, no record to appeal. The community's only formal opportunity to shape the outcome came years earlier, when the zoning map was drawn, in a proceeding almost nobody attended because nobody imagined what would eventually be built there. The decision had, in effect, already been taken by the county's past self on behalf of its future one.

Where discretion does exist, the procedural rules become the whole battlefield. The most consequential legal defeat the industry has suffered in Virginia turned on a technicality of notice. On 7 August 2025, Prince William County Circuit Court Judge Kimberly Irving voided the rezoning for the Prince William Digital Gateway, a project of more than two thousand acres beside the Manassas battlefield, holding the ordinances void ab initio because the county had failed to comply with the state code's public-notice requirements: the advertisement for the December 2023 hearing was published three days before it. The Court of Appeals of Virginia affirmed unanimously on 31 March 2026. The county and the developer Compass Datacenters withdrew from the litigation in April. QTS, the Blackstone-owned operator, petitioned the Supreme Court of Virginia in May through an affiliate, then withdrew the petition on 2 July 2026, leaving the lower rulings standing, and after a Court of Appeals order on 29 July the rezonings are void and the land reverts to the district it held before. The largest data centre campus ever proposed in the United States, some 2,100 acres of it, is dead. Years of civic argument about water, viewsheds and historic land hinged on the calendar arithmetic of a legal notice, because that was the only lever the law actually handed the objectors. The lever worked. The project was not defeated on water, or on viewshed, or on any ground the community had spent years assembling. It was defeated on the date a newspaper advertisement ran.

Ken Confidential

The second structural feature that determines who decides is information, and here the asymmetry has been engineered deliberately. In July 2026, Public Citizen published a report by Deanna Noël titled The Secret Data Center Buildout, documenting the routine use of non-disclosure agreements between developers and the public officials who will vote on their projects. It found that eighty per cent of Virginia localities with proposed or existing data centres have NDAs in place, and that at least ten states have introduced bills restricting the practice. Some agreements forbid officials from revealing that discussions are occurring, that confidential information has been received, or even that an NDA exists.

The Minnesota Star Tribune documented the same machinery in its own state, reporting that eight cities, two counties, at least one state agency and a school district had signed such agreements; of twelve cities the paper approached with known data centre proposals, only four had never signed one. Leslie Krueger, the University of Minnesota's assistant vice president for planning, space and real estate, spent August 2023 corresponding about Meta's Rosemount campus, code-named Project Bigfoot, with a company representative who identified himself to her only as “Ken Confidential”. Further north, in Hermantown near Duluth, city officials knew from September 2024 that a large project was proposed and declined to confirm publicly what it actually was until the Star Tribune obtained the city's emails roughly a year later, at which point the scheme filed as Project Loon turned out to be Google's. A community can be kept from knowing not merely who is building but what is being built, for a year, by the officials it elected. In Tucson, negotiations over a 290-acre campus proceeded for roughly two years behind NDAs that concealed the end user's identity from the public and from most of the city council. “Giant corporations prefer to operate in the shadows,” the council member Lane Santa Cruz said, “but Tucson is not for sale. We deserve transparency and accountability.”

Coweta County shows how the two asymmetries compound. Investigative reporting by DeSmog, based on public records requests, established that Project Sail's public face, an entity called Atlas Development, LLC, was fronting for Prologis, the San Francisco-based logistics real estate giant, whose involvement was concealed until May 2025 even as its logos appeared on project illustrations. The records showed a steady programme of private access: a meeting between a Prologis vice-president and one commissioner at a Newnan law office in July 2025, another with a second commissioner in August, personalised email updates to all five the day before a public hearing, further emails in October. The lobbyist Arthur “Skin” Edge IV submitted recommendations for the county's data centre ordinance on 7 July, writing that he did so on behalf of the Project Sail team and stating that Atlas Development had retained him as an attorney for the project; both Atlas Development and Prologis subsequently told DeSmog that they were not represented by Edge. Somebody's account of who was speaking for whom is wrong, and the instructive part is that the public record does not allow anyone outside those rooms to establish whose. After a CBRE vice-president testified at the November 2025 hearing, commissioners amended their draft to allow data centres on collector roads, raise the height limit from sixty to seventy feet, and replace a requirement that utilities demonstrate adequate capacity with a letter of intent showing preliminary coordination.

Set against that, Laura Beth's account of her group's access is stark. “Coweta County has not met with us specifically about the ordinance,” she told DeSmog, describing commissioners who would accept only group emails and declined the telephone conversations residents requested. The rules governing the facility were being drafted in one conversation and defended in another, and only one of those conversations had a transcript.

The Lawsuit That Followed the Vote

Suppose a community clears every hurdle: it learns about the project in time, secures a discretionary hearing, persuades its elected board, and votes no. What happens then is the sharpest test of where authority really lies, and the answer arrived in a farming township of about 2,200 people in Washtenaw County, Michigan.

In September 2025, after months of contentious meetings, the Saline Township board voted four to one to deny the rezoning sought for a Stargate data centre campus backed by Related Digital, Oracle, OpenAI and Blackstone, with DTE Energy contracted to supply roughly 1.4 gigawatts. Two days later the developers and landowners sued, alleging exclusionary zoning: the claim, under Michigan law, that the township had unreasonably barred a legitimate use, strengthened by the fact that Saline Township had no industrially zoned land at all. Facing litigation costs against an annual municipal budget of roughly a million dollars, the township settled by consent judgment, accepting community benefits worth about fourteen million dollars, including four million for farmland preservation, along with water and noise restrictions. The attorney who advised the settlement observed that zoning power is not absolute.

The sequel is more revealing than the settlement. Residents organised to force a referendum on the rezoning, a right Michigan law affords them. On 14 January 2026 the board formally rezoned the land to industrial to comply with the consent judgment; on 28 January it reversed that action and restored the agricultural designation, reasoning that the judgment itself authorised the project, so no map change was required. Because there had been no formal rezoning, there was nothing to petition against. Tammie Bruneau of the Rural Michigan Defense Fund put the consequence plainly: if the map need not be updated and no notice published, there could be no referendum. The resident Kathryn Haushalter, whose motion to intervene in the settlement had been rejected by a Washtenaw County judge as untimely, asked the question the episode poses: “What does it look like when residents are not able to determine what happens in their communities? What are we expected to do?” On 1 June 2026, Governor Gretchen Whitmer and Sam Altman appeared at the ceremony marking construction of the campus.

Tucson demonstrates the same lesson through geography rather than litigation. On 6 August 2025 the city council voted seven to nil to reject the annexation that Project Blue required, after residents objected to roughly two thousand acre-feet of city water a year. But the land was unincorporated county territory, and the Pima County board of supervisors had already voted three to two in June to sell it and had approved the zoning. The developer, having earlier signalled that the project could not proceed without the city, redesigned the facility for air cooling, which uses far less water and considerably more electricity, and pressed ahead through the county alone. On 3 December 2025 the Arizona Corporation Commission approved the power purchase agreement four to one, Commissioner Rachel Walden the sole vote against; Tucson Electric Power expects to be supplying the campus with two hundred and eighty-six megawatts by 2028. Amazon Web Services withdrew as operating partner. The project continued, and then acquired one more venue. Arizona's attorney general, Kris Mayes, has appealed the commission's approval, contesting the speed of it and arguing that the agreement lets the utility and the developers set electricity rates between themselves, a power the state constitution reserves to the commission alone. For once the proliferation of forums runs in the objectors' favour, though nobody in Tucson could reach that one either. The state's chief legal officer took an interest, which is a different thing from a community having a say.

The pattern in both cases is not that local government was overruled. It is that “local government” was never a single thing. It is a set of overlapping venues — township, county, court, utility commission — in which a developer need prevail only once, while residents must prevail everywhere.

Where the Decision Actually Lives

Step back far enough and the venue keeps moving upward. Justin Kollar, writing in the Journal of the American Planning Association in 2026, describes this as planning under pre-emption: states removing land use, zoning and environmental review authority from cities and counties through statutory overrides, utility governance, fiscal incentives and procedural constraints, so that decisions migrate to state agencies, utilities and corporate actors, and planning becomes administrative coordination rather than deliberation.

West Virginia has gone furthest. Its House Bill 2014 bars counties and municipalities from adopting or enforcing any ordinance limiting a certified microgrid district or a certified high-impact data centre, and exempts those projects from county and municipal zoning and land use ordinances, from building permitting, inspection and code enforcement, and from licence requirements. What is left to the locality is the power to charge fees and to send fire engines and police cars. Nor does the statute restrict what may be generated inside a microgrid district, so a gas, coal or nuclear plant may be sited in a county that has been relieved of any authority to review it. And the property tax revenue such a facility produces does not stay where the facility stands: the statute routes the greater part of it to the state, partly to fund reductions in income tax. That last provision repays attention, because the standard defence of accepting a data centre is that the host is compensated for what it absorbs. West Virginia has legislated away the deliberation and the compensation together, and left the county with the facility. In Pennsylvania, a proposed Data Center Siting and Permitting Act would have the state environmental department designate at least fifteen pre-approved sites. More than three hundred data-centre-related bills were introduced by state legislators in the first six weeks of 2026.

Much of the most consequential decision-making never touches land use at all. It happens at public utility commissions, bodies whose members most residents cannot name. On 15 April 2026 the Louisiana Public Service Commission voted four to one on Entergy Louisiana's application to build the generation for Meta's Richland Parish campus: seven new gas-fired power stations, some two hundred and forty miles of transmission and a set of nuclear uprates, a programme of 21.37 billion dollars, the largest investment in the utility's history, binding ratepayers across the state for the term of a twenty-year agreement. What the commissioners approved that day was not the plan. It was a request to fast-track it, skipping key steps of the standard regulatory review; the vote on the application itself is set for November 2026. The distinction is this essay's subject reduced to a single procedural motion. Before anybody decides the question, somebody decides how much deliberation the question is going to get, and that second decision is taken first, in a proceeding almost nobody is watching. Entergy maintains that Meta will cover construction costs and that customers will save money. The Alliance for Affordable Energy has warned that if Meta departs before the contract ends, the cost of the gas plants could fall on ordinary ratepayers; the Union of Concerned Scientists noted that the commission declined to investigate a financing arrangement under which Meta established an additional parent entity, retaining a twenty per cent stake, and borrowed twenty-seven billion dollars against the project. Whatever one concludes about the risk, a decision of that magnitude about who bears what is being taken by five elected commissioners in a venue with no relationship whatsoever to the parish hosting the buildings.

The tariff question is following the same path. According to Utility Dive, state regulators approved twenty-nine large-load tariffs in 2025, against fourteen in the whole period from 2018 to 2024, and by June 2026 twenty-four states had approved at least one. Minnesota's HF 16, enacted in June 2025, requires the state utility commission to create a very large customer rate class and allocate attributable costs to it. Oregon's POWER Act directs its commission to establish a separate class for facilities of twenty megawatts or more. Texas Senate Bill 6, signed on 20 June 2025, established a regime for loads of seventy-five megawatts and above, requiring new transmission-level connections to install equipment permitting remote curtailment during firm load shed events. These reforms matter enormously for whether the build-out raises household bills. They are also decisions taken hundreds of miles from any affected backyard.

Then there is the fiscal layer, which quietly converts a public choice into an accounting one. Good Jobs First has documented that most states subsidise data centres through sales and use tax exemptions on hardware and software, some lasting as long as forty years, alongside property tax abatements, and calculates that public subsidy runs to roughly two million dollars for every permanent job created. Abatements and payment-in-lieu-of-taxes arrangements are typically negotiated by development authorities rather than legislatures. At the top of the stack sits Executive Order 14318, signed on 23 July 2025, directing federal agencies to streamline permitting, identify federal land for siting and expedite environmental reviews for qualifying projects. Every one of these levers is legitimate in itself. Stacked together, they mean that by the time a proposal reaches a county board, most of the consequential variables have already been fixed elsewhere.

The Boundary Problem in a Rural County

This is where the argument stops being about zoning and becomes something older. Democratic theory has a name for the difficulty at the centre of the data centre fight: the boundary problem. In 1983 the political theorist Frederick Whelan set it out with uncomfortable clarity. Democracy is a method by which a group makes decisions, but it offers no democratic method for deciding who belongs to the group; any vote on the boundaries of the demos must be taken by a demos already constituted, which places the foundational question outside democratic determination. Robert Dahl, who framed the same difficulty a decade earlier, could find no satisfying escape from it.

One candidate answer is the all-affected-interests principle: those affected by a collective decision should have a say in making it. Robert Goodin, examining it in Philosophy and Public Affairs, treated the principle as the most promising basis for constituting a demos while showing how radically expansive it becomes once taken seriously, since almost any decision affects almost everyone at some remove. Sarah Song, writing in International Theory, argued the other way, that the demos should be bounded by the state, precisely because affectedness is too elastic to draw workable lines. The debate is unresolved for good reasons. But the data centre is an unusually clean instance of the mismatch it describes.

Consider the footprints. A hyperscale campus draws on an aquifer that obeys hydrology rather than municipal boundaries; its cooling demand, at the upper end of industry estimates, can reach five million gallons a day, comparable to a city of fifty thousand. Its electrical load falls on a regional transmission system, and PJM's footprint alone spans thirteen states and the District of Columbia. Data centres consumed about 4.4 per cent of American electricity in 2023, according to the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory's report for the Department of Energy, and are projected to reach between 6.7 and twelve per cent by 2028. Emissions travel with the wind; xAI sited turbines for its second Memphis supercomputer across the state line in Southaven, Mississippi, while the computing sat in Tennessee. Ratepayer costs fall on a customer class defined by a utility's service territory. Not one of these footprints coincides with the electorate of a county board of commissioners.

The subsidiarity principle, familiar from European constitutional law and Catholic social teaching, holds that decisions should be taken at the lowest level competent to take them. It is usually invoked for localism, and here it is often assumed to settle the matter in favour of the county. But subsidiarity contains its own limit, and the limit is competence. A township of 2,200 people cannot competently allocate a regional grid's capacity, and should not have to. Equally, a state utility commission cannot competently decide what a particular hillside means to the people who live beneath it. The failure is not that decisions are made too high or too low, but that they are distributed across levels in a way that lets each venue treat the questions it is worst placed to answer as somebody else's problem.

Elinor Ostrom, whose fieldwork on commons governance won her the Nobel prize in economics in 2009, derived design principles for institutions that manage shared resources without collapsing. Two are directly relevant: that the boundaries of the resource and of the group entitled to use it be clearly defined and congruent with local conditions, and that most individuals affected by operational rules be able to participate in modifying them. Measured against those principles, American data centre siting fails not because it is too democratic or too little, but because the people bound by the rules and the people entitled to change them are systematically different sets of people.

The Strongest Case Against the Veto

It would be easy, and dishonest, to leave the argument there. The case for local control over land use has a bleak record, and anyone who wants to strengthen community authority over data centres should sit with it.

The most rigorous account is Neighborhood Defenders, the 2019 study by Katherine Levine Einstein, David Glick and Maxwell Palmer, which examined thousands of participants in local land-use proceedings and found that the people who turn up to oppose development are not representative of their communities. They are disproportionately older, whiter, wealthier and far more likely to be homeowners; they oppose new housing considerably more strongly than their neighbours do; and the participatory institutions built to democratise planning reliably amplify their voices. The result has been a decades-long housing shortage borne overwhelmingly by people who never got to attend the meeting because they did not yet live in the town.

The same dynamic has kneecapped the energy transition. The Sabin Center for Climate Change Law at Columbia found that by the end of 2024 at least 459 counties and municipalities across forty-four states had adopted severe local restrictions on siting renewable energy, a sixteen per cent rise in a year, and identified 498 contested projects across forty-nine states. Between 2018 and 2023, at least thirty per cent of utility-scale wind and solar projects were cancelled during siting, largely because of community opposition, local ordinances and zoning. If your principle is that affected communities may refuse infrastructure they did not choose, that principle has already been road-tested, and used most effectively against solar farms and transmission lines.

The pro-build response also has a legitimate core. Matthew de Boer, writing in the Fordham Law Review in 2026, notes that states have aggressively pursued data centres with incentives while declining to regulate their siting, leaving municipalities to manage hyperscale facilities with frameworks designed for warehouses. His proposal is light pre-emption modelled on housing reform: not the elimination of local authority but its discipline through procedural mandates and objective standards. The Michigan exclusionary zoning doctrine that defeated Saline Township exists for a reason. A jurisdiction with no industrial zoning anywhere within it has, in effect, pre-committed to refusing every industrial use, and a legal system that permitted that at every boundary would make nothing buildable anywhere.

The honest position, then, is that “who decides” genuinely cuts both ways, and that a general right of local veto is not a principle anyone should want applied consistently. Which is precisely why the boundary problem is the right frame. The complaint from Coweta County and Saline Township is not, at its strongest, that localities should be able to refuse anything. It is that the procedure by which these decisions are made produces answers no defensible theory of authority endorses: hearings held after entitlements are secured, ordinances drafted by the applicant's lobbyist, referendum rights extinguished by declining to amend a map, consequences distributed across airsheds, watersheds and ratepayer classes that no ballot anywhere encompasses. That is not the tyranny of the neighbourhood defender. It is the absence of any forum in which the actual question can be put.

Making the Franchise Fit the Footprint

What would it take for a decision of this kind to be legitimate rather than merely lawful? The reforms already circulating are more modest than the theory suggests, and worth taking seriously precisely because they are achievable.

The first is informational, and nearly consensual. Public Citizen's recommendations amount to a simple proposition: officials should not sign non-disclosure agreements with private developers about matters they will later vote on, developers should disclose their identity, projected water and energy use, procurement plans and financial incentives before entitlements are granted, and existing agreements should be published. Attorneys quoted in reporting on Oklahoma's secrecy deals have questioned whether such agreements are even enforceable against public bodies. Pima County changed its own policies on NDAs and environmental review in September 2025, after what its supervisors called lessons learned from Project Blue. And the standard objection, that transparency of this kind is commercially unworkable, has now been answered by the only sort of party who could answer it. On 18 March 2026 Microsoft announced that it would stop using non-disclosure agreements with local governments for data centre projects anywhere in the world and would terminate those already in force, saying that transparency with the communities where it operates was paramount. That followed a commitment in January to pay the full cost of the power its facilities draw, decline local property tax breaks, replenish more water than it consumes and invest in local training. Microsoft is so far the exception, and should be called one: Public Citizen records that every other major technology company continues the practice. A single exception is still enough to dispose of the claim that the practice is necessary. Nothing about the AI build-out requires that the people voting know less than the people lobbying them.

The second is jurisdictional, and follows from the boundary problem. If the harms of a facility cross municipal lines, notice, standing and formal comment rights should cross them too. There is no technical obstacle to requiring that a rezoning application within a defined radius of a boundary trigger notice and consultative standing for the adjacent jurisdiction, or that a groundwater withdrawal above a threshold trigger review at the level of the aquifer rather than the parcel. That would not give neighbours a veto. It would give them a seat, the minimum the all-affected-interests principle can be read to demand without becoming unbounded.

The third is fiscal, and has the most momentum. Large-load tariffs and dedicated rate classes of the kind Minnesota, Oregon and Texas have adopted move the ratepayer question into a proceeding where it can be argued explicitly. If a facility's grid costs are ring-fenced to the customer that causes them, the county board's decision becomes one about land, water and noise rather than about everyone else's electricity bill, and the venue mismatch shrinks. The same logic applies to abatements: a forty-year tax exemption negotiated by a development authority binds successor councils and their electorates, and ought to require the deliberative treatment any long-dated public borrowing would.

New York's executive order is a hybrid of all three. It pauses state permits, an exercise of upward authority, while directing Empire State Development to publish a community investment framework within sixty days to guide local negotiations, and the Department of Public Service to prepare a generic environmental impact statement so proposals are assessed against a consistent standard rather than each locality improvising. Whether that produces better decisions or merely relocates them is unclear. That it exists in place of the statute the legislature actually passed, and at more than twice the legislature's threshold, is a reminder that the reforms are governed by the same question as the projects. But it recognises that a county board asked to evaluate a nine-hundred-megawatt load with a planning staff of a dozen is not being empowered. It is being handed a decision it has no capacity to make and then blamed for the outcome.

A Judge in Newnan

On 5 May 2026, Citizens for Rural Coweta filed a petition in Coweta County Superior Court asking a judge to declare the rezoning invalid. Their argument is that the commissioners disregarded the county's own comprehensive plan, which designated the land for rural places rather than industry, and did so despite the site's groundwater recharge areas, wetlands and watershed. It is, in essence, a claim that the county broke a promise to itself.

There is a coda to the vote that is easy to miss, and it may be the sharpest thing in this account. In May 2026, weeks after rezoning the Sargent land, the Coweta commissioners adopted a moratorium on any future data centre project in the county. Residents said it was too little and far too late; one likened it to shutting the barn door once the horses were out. But consider what the sequence establishes. The county was entirely capable of pausing. It held the instrument, understood how to use it and did use it, one decision after the only decision that mattered. Coweta's future self is now protected in a way its present self declined to be, and the difference between those two counties is not one of law, or capacity, or information, or public sentiment. It is a difference of timing, which is to say a difference of nothing at all except that the applicant arrived first.

The venue is telling. Having lost in the only forum where they could vote, the residents have moved to the one forum where nobody votes at all. That is the recurring shape of these disputes. In Prince William County the decisive intervention was a judge's reading of a notice statute, and it killed the largest project in the country. In Saline Township a consent judgment did what the electorate had refused to do, and a second judge declined to reopen it. In Tucson a unanimous rejection was routed around by a county land sale and a corporation commission vote, and the next serious challenge came from a state attorney general. Litigation has become the default civic instrument of the AI build-out because it is the only instrument that reliably crosses the boundaries everything else respects.

There is a version of this story in which the residents are simply wrong: in which a county gains a tax base and a state gains capacity it badly needs, and a few hundred households absorb a view they dislike, which is roughly what infrastructure has always asked of somebody. I do not think that version is obviously false. What is false is the assumption that the current procedure is capable of telling us which version is right. A process in which the applicant's lobbyist helps draft the ordinance, the developer's identity is concealed behind a shell entity, commissioners meet privately with one side and by group email with the other, and a referendum right can be extinguished by declining to amend a map, is not a process that produces a trustworthy answer to a hard question. It produces an answer and calls it settled.

The families in Coweta County who moved out of Atlanta to be surrounded by trees are not, in the end, asking for a veto over American AI policy. They are asking something democratic theory has never fully answered and American land-use law has stopped even trying to: what makes a decision about a place belong to the people who live in it. Nine hundred megawatts is arriving either way. Whether it arrives as something a community decided or as something that happened to it is a difference no amount of tax revenue will retire, and it is being settled right now, county by county, in rooms that most of the affected will never enter.

References

1. Shah, Simmone. “Community Backlash to AI Data Centers Is Growing Across the U.S.” TIME, 22 July 2026. https://time.com/article/2026/07/22/community-backlash-ai-data-centers/
2. Reuters. “Data center opponents stage 142 protests across 42 US states.” 18 July 2026. https://www.spokesman.com/stories/2026/jul/18/data-center-opponents-stage-142-protests-across-42/
3. Reuters/Ipsos. “Americans wary of AI-driven data center boom, Reuters/Ipsos poll shows.” 11 June 2026. https://www.usnews.com/news/politics/articles/2026-06-11/americans-wary-of-ai-driven-data-center-boom-reuters-ipsos-poll-shows
4. Data Center Watch (10a Labs). Data Center Opposition Tracker. https://www.datacenterwatch.org/
5. Office of Governor Kathy Hochul. “Executive Order No. 62: Establishing a Temporary Moratorium on Data Centers in New York.” 14 July 2026. https://www.governor.ny.gov/executive-order/no-62-establishing-temporary-moratorium-data-centers-new-york-while-state-develops
6. Bloomberg. “How AI Data Centers Are Sending Your Power Bill Soaring.” 2025. https://www.bloomberg.com/graphics/2025-ai-data-centers-electricity-prices/
7. PolitiFact. “How much have data centers increased electricity prices?” 12 June 2026. https://politifact.com/factchecks/2026/jun/12/elizabeth-warren/data-centers-rising-electricity-costs/
8. Shehabi, Arman, et al. 2024 United States Data Center Energy Usage Report. Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, December 2024. https://eta-publications.lbl.gov/sites/default/files/2024-12/lbnl-2024-united-states-data-center-energy-usage-report_1.pdf
9. DeSmog. “How Data Center Developers Staked Their Claim in Rural Georgia.” 7 April 2026. https://www.desmog.com/2026/04/07/how-data-center-developers-staked-their-claim-in-rural-georgia/
10. Noël, Deanna. The Secret Data Center Buildout: How States Can Stop Big Tech's Abuse of NDAs. Public Citizen, 8 July 2026. https://www.citizen.org/news/the-secret-data-center-buildout-how-states-can-stop-big-techs-abuse-of-ndas/
11. Minnesota Star Tribune. “NDAs, code names and shell companies: how Minnesota officials support data center secrecy.” https://www.startribune.com/ndas-code-names-and-shell-companies-how-minnesota-officials-support-data-center-secrecy/601499182
12. WTOP News. “Digital Gateway data center project dies after final developer withdraws appeal.” July 2026. https://wtop.com/prince-william-county/2026/07/digital-gateway-data-center-project-dies-after-final-developer-withdraws-appeal/
13. Fortune. “A Michigan farm town voted down plans for a giant OpenAI-Oracle data center. Weeks later, construction began.” 6 May 2026. https://fortune.com/2026/05/06/ai-data-center-michigan-saline-politics-farmland/
14. KJZZ. “Rejected by Tucson and abandoned by Amazon, Project Blue data center moves forward.” 9 December 2025. https://www.kjzz.org/the-show/2025-12-09/rejected-by-tucson-and-abandoned-by-amazon-project-blue-data-center-moves-forward
15. Kollar, Justin. “Planning Under Preemption: State Power and Local Authority in the AI Data Center Era.” Journal of the American Planning Association, 2026. https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/01944363.2026.2618221
16. de Boer, Matthew. “State Intervention in Local Zoning: Lessons from Housing Applied to Data Centers.” Fordham Law Review, Vol. 94, Issue 5, 2026. https://ir.lawnet.fordham.edu/flr/vol94/iss5/12/
17. West Virginia Center on Budget & Policy. “HB 2014 Would Preempt Local Control; Divert Millions Annually in Local Property Tax Revenue for Schools and Public Safety to Fund Income Tax Cuts.” https://wvpolicy.org/hb-2014-would-preempt-local-control-divert-millions-annually-in-local-property-tax-revenue-for-schools-and-public-safety-to-fund-income-tax-cuts/
18. Utility Dive. “Large load tariffs proliferate as states take more active role in data center regulation.” https://www.utilitydive.com/news/large-load-tariffs-proliferate-as-states-take-more-active-role-in-data-cent/816184/
19. Good Jobs First. “Money Lost to the Cloud: How Data Centers Benefit from State and Local Government Subsidies.” https://goodjobsfirst.org/money-lost-cloud-how-data-centers-benefit-state-and-local-government-subsidies/
20. Whelan, Frederick G. “Democratic Theory and the Boundary Problem.” In NOMOS XXV: Liberal Democracy, ed. J. Roland Pennock and John W. Chapman. New York University Press, 1983.
21. Goodin, Robert E. “Enfranchising All Affected Interests, and Its Alternatives.” Philosophy and Public Affairs, Vol. 35, No. 1, 2007.
22. Song, Sarah. “The boundary problem in democratic theory: why the demos should be bounded by the state.” International Theory, Vol. 4, No. 1, 2012. https://polisci.berkeley.edu/sites/default/files/people/u3868/Song%20-%20Boundary%20Problem%20in%20Democratic%20Theory.pdf
23. Ostrom, Elinor. Governing the Commons: The Evolution of Institutions for Collective Action. Cambridge University Press, 1990. https://www.cambridge.org/core/books/governing-the-commons/A8BB63BC4A1433A50A3FB92EDBBB97D5
24. Einstein, Katherine Levine, David M. Glick and Maxwell Palmer. Neighborhood Defenders: Participatory Politics and America's Housing Crisis. Cambridge University Press, 2019. https://www.jstor.org/stable/48584947
25. Sabin Center for Climate Change Law. “Opposition to Renewable Energy Facilities in the United States: June 2025 Edition.” Columbia University. https://climate.law.columbia.edu/content/opposition-renewable-energy-facilities-united-states-june-2025-edition

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Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

In Summary: * The week I recently spent without central air, being able to air condition only two rooms in the back of this house with window a/c units, that week is thankfully over. Six hours ago cool air began blowing from vents throughout this house and, my-oh-my, in the immortal words of Jackie Gleason, “How SWEET it is!”

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 227.63 lbs. * bp= 133/81 (70)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 05:10 – 1 banana, 2 HEB bakery cookies * 07:34 – 1 ham & cheese sdandwich * 13:50 – meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:45 – bank accounts activity monitored. * 05:05 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 13:30 – following the MLB Game, Cardinals vs Phillies * 15:40 – and the Cardinals win, 7 to 1. * 15:50 – follow news reports from various sources, * 17:50 – listening to relaxing music, and reading

Chess: * 06:30 – moved in all pending CC games

I am far too busy doing the things of life to live a life.

This is not necessarily a complaint.

It is more of an observation.

There are things that need doing. I have generally been the sort of person who does them. There is a certain simplicity to it. If something is broken, fix it. If something needs carrying, carry it. If somebody needs help, help them. If the roof leaks, get on the roof. If the car makes a noise it has never made before, pretend not to hear it for a little while and then eventually find out what is wrong with it.

There is always something.

This has the useful advantage of keeping a man occupied.

It also has the useful advantage of keeping him out of trouble.

Mostly.

There are worse things a man can do with his days than be useful.

I suppose that is one of the bargains of adulthood. You spend a great deal of your time taking care of things that did not exist when you were young and will probably continue to exist after you are gone. Bills. Houses. Vehicles. Fences. Appliances. Other people's problems. Your own problems, which are generally less cooperative.

You make appointments.

You keep appointments.

You forget appointments.

You make another appointment.

You buy things you did not know you needed until you discovered that you needed them.

You repair things that worked perfectly well until you touched them.

Then you repair the thing you broke while repairing the first thing.

It is a system.

I have become rather good at it.

There is satisfaction in finishing something.

A job completed has a certain clean honesty about it. You know where you stand with a repaired fence. It is either repaired or it isn't. A ditch is either dug or it is not dug. The wood is either stacked or it remains in a pile making you look at it every time you walk past.

There is something comforting about such things.

The world becomes less complicated when reduced to a list of things that need doing.

Perhaps this is why soldiers have always made sense to me.

Soldiers dig ditches.

They carry equipment.

They clean things.

They stand watch.

They march.

They wait.

They fight battles when required and then, presumably, go back to digging ditches.

They do not spend much time wondering whether the ditch is a meaningful expression of their inner self.

The ditch needs to be there.

So they dig it.

There is something admirable in that.

Loyal.

Enduring.

Resilient.

Strong.

Mostly, though, they dig ditches.

I suspect much of life works the same way.

We like to imagine that life is made up of the great moments. The wedding. The birth of a child. The trip. The promotion. The victory. The sunset over the lake. The photograph that eventually becomes old enough to be called a memory.

Those things are real, of course.

But most of life is not like that.

Most of life is Tuesday.

Tuesday needs the garbage taken out.

Tuesday needs groceries.

Tuesday has an email that requires an answer.

Tuesday has a tire that is going soft.

Tuesday has laundry.

Tuesday has somebody calling to say they need a hand with something.

Tuesday has a ditch.

And so you dig it.

I think there is something to be said for a life made largely of Tuesdays.

Not every day needs to be memorable.

In fact, most days probably shouldn't be.

A day in which nothing terrible happened and several necessary things got done is a pretty good day.

We have perhaps become too interested in making our lives remarkable.

There is considerable pressure to have experiences. To travel. To discover ourselves. To maximize our mornings. To optimize our sleep. To find our passion. To cultivate hobbies. To make memories.

All of this sounds exhausting.

Sometimes I think the great luxury is simply to know what needs doing and do it without turning it into a philosophy.

There is a kind of peace in ordinary work.

You get up.

You go.

You do what needs doing.

You come home.

You eat something.

You sleep.

Then you do it again.

Years can disappear that way.

I do not necessarily regard that as tragic.

There are people whose lives are full of excitement who would probably trade some of it for a little peace and quiet.

There are people who have spent their lives chasing extraordinary experiences who eventually discover that what they really wanted was somebody familiar sitting across the table.

There are worse things than being tired from having done something useful.

I have occasionally wondered, however, what all the doing amounts to.

Not in some grand philosophical sense.

I am not looking for the meaning of existence.

That seems like a lot of work.

I mean in the smaller sense.

What will remain of all this?

Perhaps not much.

The fence will eventually need repairing again.

The house will belong to somebody else.

The truck will be replaced.

The bills will be forgotten.

The projects will become somebody else's projects.

Even the things we thought were permanent turn out to be temporary arrangements.

But perhaps that does not make them pointless.

A ditch does not need to last forever to have been worth digging.

A bridge does not need to stand for a thousand years to be useful.

A meal does not become meaningless because it is eventually eaten.

Maybe usefulness has never required permanence.

Maybe the value is simply that something was better because you were there to do it.

That is a modest sort of legacy.

I rather like modest legacies.

Perhaps your children will not remember every thing you did for them.

They probably shouldn't.

A childhood ought to be more than an inventory of parental maintenance.

But perhaps they will remember that when something needed doing, you did it.

Perhaps somebody will remember that you showed up.

Perhaps somebody will remember that you drove across town at an inconvenient hour because they called.

Perhaps somebody will remember that you fixed something.

Perhaps they will remember that you sat beside them when there was nothing to fix.

That last one may be harder.

I have always found it easier to do something than to do nothing.

Doing nothing requires a certain amount of confidence.

You have to believe that the world will continue without your immediate supervision.

This is not always obvious.

There is always another task.

Always.

If you finish everything on the list, somebody will simply make another list.

If nobody does, there is probably something wrong.

The list is eternal.

That is its great strength.

It never runs out of ammunition.

Which means that waiting until everything is finished before living a little is probably not a particularly sound strategy.

Everything will never be finished.

The ditch will remain.

There will be another ditch.

This does not mean we abandon the work.

It means perhaps we occasionally look up from it.

Not because the work is unimportant.

Because it is not the only thing happening.

There is a difference.

A man can dig a ditch and notice the weather.

He can repair a fence and hear the birds.

He can mow the grass and realize that the evening light is particularly good.

He can stop for coffee.

He can call somebody he has not talked to in too long.

He can sit on the porch without needing a reason.

These things do not interfere with the work.

They are part of the work.

Or perhaps they are the reward for doing it.

I am not sure.

I have never been particularly good at rewards.

Give me another task.

I understand tasks.

Tasks are dependable.

Roses are less so.

Roses bloom when they please and then become roses no longer.

Lakes change.

Weather changes.

People change.

Children grow.

Dogs get old.

Houses become unfamiliar.

Friends move away.

Parents become older.

One day, without much ceremony, something that was ordinary becomes something you remember.

This is not necessarily sad.

It is simply the nature of things.

The trick, if there is one, may be to notice them while they are still ordinary.

The cup of coffee while it is still just coffee.

The dog while he is still young enough to get up without thinking about it.

The friend while he is still only a phone call away.

The house while it is still your house.

The evening while there is still evening left.

There is no great lesson in this.

I distrust great lessons.

They tend to require a seminar.

It is just something I have noticed.

I spend a great deal of my life doing things.

Perhaps that is what I was built for.

There are worse occupations.

There is dignity in being the fellow who gets up and handles it.

There is dignity in carrying your share.

There is dignity in being tired because somebody needed you.

There is dignity in keeping the promises you made even after the excitement of making them has worn off.

There is dignity in doing ordinary things well.

And there is probably some wisdom in occasionally remembering that the ordinary things are not the whole story.

Soldiers dig ditches.

They do not spend their days wondering whether the ditch expresses who they are.

They dig because the ditch needs digging.

Then perhaps they sit somewhere afterward.

Maybe they smoke.

Maybe they talk.

Maybe they laugh about something stupid.

Maybe they look at the sky.

For a few minutes, at least, they are not soldiers doing anything.

They are simply there.

That seems about right to me.

Do the work.

Carry the load.

Fix what is broken.

Help where you can.

Be dependable.

Dig the ditch.

There will always be another one.

But every now and then, put down the shovel.

Look around.

There is probably something worth seeing.

You do not have to make a production of it.

You do not need a retreat, a life coach, a five-year plan or a scented candle.

Just look up.

Maybe somebody you love is standing there.

Maybe the sun is going down.

Maybe the lake is quiet.

Maybe there is a rose.

Smell it.

Then pick up the shovel.

The ditch is not going to dig itself.

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#essay #writing

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12/08/22