Sound of Freedom

The plane touched down without a hitch. When I had imagined the desert I did not have a great deal of reference for anything between srubby brushland and the National Geographic pictures of Sahara dunes. This place was neither. Rolling dust stretched long distances with the horizon broken by giant spikes of bare dark rock.

"Woah," a coworker says behind me, "look...missiles."

They are sitting on a rack in the dust, probably only the casings in reality. I'm slightly disgusted with my smug sense of pride to not be involved with those devices. The plane ceases to taxi and we begin getting out and getting our equipment.

"Only one person on the stairs at a time," the pilot says calmly. I reach between the netting on the cargo area behind the last seat and walk down the stairs in the door of the plane holding the prototype.

You don't sweat in the desert, you simply suddenly realize that your throat is dry. The sweat evaporates from your body long before you notice it. Thankfully we concluded all the mandatory tests early. We were driving at one point for fun but then a gear box stripped out. This is the perfect failure for a software test bed: completely not software, and the mechanical design was just a quick mock up and never meant to take that kind of damage anyway. We would have run it until it failed anyway, and this is a perfect failure mode.

"So you want to see Dryden then?" Crash asked.

We all nodded.

We weren't badged for Edwards so we wound up slipping in with a tour. One of Crash's friends met up with the group and removed us from it. We wound through corridors until we came out in a large room where a gleaming white robot greeted our eyes.

"This," Crash's friend said, "Is a MQ-9 Preadator B, also known as an MQ-9 Reaper, although we can't have things named Predator and Reaper around NASA so we call it Ikhana."

"And...what's it for?"

"Earth studies," the pilot says, "during the forest fires last year the governor estimates that this device saved 100,000 homes from fire with the data it gathered."

I'm terribly torn about my feelings on the existence of this object. In war we rarely even care to talk about the question of what we are spending money to buy for the troops anymore: we simply brag about how much we are spending. Then, at the same time, we hear reports of troops being killed in Iraq because their Humvees are unarmored.

Who cares about the dollar amount but not overly so much about the result? The manufacturers do. The military industrial complex frightens me in many respects, and the Predator is doubtlessly a product of this complex.

Yet, this is the way things are aren't they? The military develops technology which eventually is adopted and betters the quality of civilian life. This Predator is undoubtably doing good things. If you separate yourself from this cycle do you really lessen war any, or do you just make it so that less technology filters down to the people?

We're walking again into a room where another gleaming white plane greets us. The wings are so long that a spare set of wheels hangs from the undersides of them half way down their length.

"This is a U2, it flies 70,000 feet and... perhaps higher."

Another military plane that does scientiffic work.

Walking out the door to the hanger the heat hits you like a wave. Motion in the distance trains the lens on a coworker's camera to the sky.

"No cameras in that direction," the pilot says, "that's where the F22s are."

Bah-boom

One of my coworkers looks up somewhat incredulously at the sonic boom. The pilot laughs, "You know what that is?"

The pilot doesn't even wait for a response as he looks at the banking fighter in the sky, "That's the sound of freedom."

Jake the Cab Driver

Its another blue interview shirt day. There is a light drizzle outside as I pick my way carefully to the cab between the puddles. The HR woman who was coordinating my visit walks out with me and leans in the window of the mini-van. She's one of those people who you meet and instantly genuinely like, although something about her simultaneously unnerves me. She is well meaning, but distinctly alien.

"Hey," she says, "This is Pika, and I just found out she hasn't seen the city yet. She's got some time before her flight, do you think you could give her a little tour? It would be nice for her to be able to see the city before having to choose if she wants to live in it."

The cab driver seemed to be in his mid fifties. He wore a red plaid shirt and a big smile. "Yeah," he said, "Absolutely." He turned to me, "Hold on a second then," and cleared out the front seat so I could ride shotgun instead of the normal ceremonial position of the same side but sitting in the back.

"Jake," he said, extended a big red hand for me to shake as he drove toward the security gate. He looked almost sunburned even though up at college it was barely spring.

"Pika," I grinned taking his hand.

The gates clattered open and Jake pulled the vehicle out. "Well, they seem to like you," he smiled. I decided I liked Jake.

"Yeah, but I think they might be trying to put me on a defense contractor job instead of one of their commercial ones."

"You don't want that?"

"No,"

"I can respect that."

Its a sad thing that I'm left with the ability to speak candidly to a cab driver but not to my interviewer. I know my interviewer will never ask the cab driver what I said. The truth is that these people have been totally forgotten, like most persons in the service industry have. Nobody looks at them like people anymore. I personally think they are the best sort of people and normally always try to make an effort to talk to them. Partly it is always entertaining to hear what they have to say. On another level I think it really makes their day to just have a few minutes when some asshole isn't condescending to them for no good reason.

Jake's from a family of three. He has been in the industry of transporting things and people all his life. When he was young he and his brothers ran a bicycle delivery service.

I looked at him thinking he had to be nuts. He was definitely not old enough to remember a time when cars were not prevalent enough for bicycles to be a competitive way to do things.

"No seriously," he said. "This city suffers from gridlock. A bicycle can pick its way along the streets between the isles of cars at a good 10 miles an hour, and can take all sorts of shortcuts a car can't. Besides that, bicycles are cheaper to repair and you don't have to pay to fuel them. They don't require insurance, and they represent a lot less overhead."

"Oh," I said, feeling thoroughly schooled.

Jake smiled. I guess he was use to people initially laughing the idea off. "My older brother ran the business," he said. "He started out with just the three of us. He was a brilliant business man you know. He bought all one-speed bikes."

"One speed..." I was confused again.

Jake had a million little stories about this, how the one-speed bikes saved on repair costs and time, how they gave kids the option to use their own bicycles, repair them themselves, and earn a little more on each delivery for doing so, how he and his brothers had purchased all the christmas presents in the family one year, how as the organization grew he found himself more and more overseeing overhead, how at that time his hands perpetually smelled like chain grease from repairing huge fleets of bicycles.

As we drove along Jake gave a narrated tour of the city. I was actually floored. I have never heard such a well-given tour. The man's knowledge of the French and Indian War blew mine out of the water. If nothing else he knew how to pronounce all the Indian tribes.

"I'm really lucky," he grinned, "I love this stuff and study it for fun, but its not every day I get an audience." We were both grinning and happy.

"I'll take you to the strip district," he said, "I bet that is exactly your kind of place."

I sort of wondered what initial impression I had given him to make him think anything called 'the strip district' was my sort of place. In reality the strip district was the name for a large international district full of foods that I couldn't pronounce but dearly wanted to try and people selling massive amounts of junk on the streets. He had completely hit the nail on the head.

We drove passing steep inclines which were navigated by cable cars. Jake explained how they use to balance the wagons on one side, horses and all with the cable car coming down full of other stuff. This reduced the effort and meant that 1800's technology could easily move the cars up and down a mountain. We drove among tall reflective main buildings and quiet market squares. I was fascinated. No wonder HR was so eager to give me a tour. I'd happily live in this city.

"So," I gestured to the car, "What happened to it? The bicycle delivery system?"

"Oh, I decided to retire into easier work," he pointed at the interior of the van. "My older brother is still doing it though, even deliveries. He's absolutely ripped, looks a good 10 years younger than me. He comes over and gives us all crap about being so much older than us and yet looking so much younger. You know how brothers are."

I grinned, "What about your younger brother?"

"He's doing a lot better. He was going down a hill pretty fast once when some asshole decided to open a big van door on him. The front wheel got jammed under the door and he went up over the handle bars, whole body upside down against the open door. Broke his lower back in two places. If he hadn't been wearing a helmet the doctors say he'd be dead. He's really lucky though, he still walks and everything. He can't do manual labor anymore though."

I was aghast. "What happened to the driver of the van?"

"He tried to leave the scene with my brother just laying there, claiming he didn't notice. Somebody got his plate and traced him back, but its claimed that he did it by accident so there is not a lot we can do. They settled it out of court recently but, not for a whole lot, but my brother appreciates the closure of having it finally be done. We all realized it really isn't worth getting upset over. No amount of punishment on that driver will make my brother's back better again."

I was amazed by his maturity in this situation. There didn't seem to be a whole lot to say so I was very quiet.

Jake looked at me and smiled, "That's the way these things go sometimes kid."

Firing Squad Society

"You don't have any complicated ethical issues with working on military projects do you?"

"No," I lied, adjusting the hem of my blue interview dress shirt. Somebody in my position doesn't have the privilege to throw interviews. I figured I would make the best pitch I could and then untangle my ethics privately if somebody handed me an offer letter later.

My interviewer stretched out in his chair. He was in his mid-thirties with a wide face and a nice smile. He had bravely served his country for 9 years of active duty before leaving the army to become an engineer.

"I don't have any issue with it myself, I'm a military man, but I know some people do, so I just wanted to ask."

I nodded. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

"If it makes you feel any better," he continued, "a lot of people here say they sleep better when they realize that we don't actually make the bombs, we just make the auto-targeting and delivery systems for them. The actual explosives are manufactured elsewhere."

There was a pause.

"You see, you're not actually killing anybody at this job."

***

Firing squads are a detail of normally five shooters with guns. They are selected to execute a criminal by shooting this criminal at approximately 20 feet away. To help them hit their target a doctor locates the heart of the person being executed and pinning a target on the shirt just above it. The person being executed is normally tied down to a chair.

It is a tradition that one of the shooters be secretly given a gun with a blank in it instead of a gun with a live round. The shooters are aware that one of the rounds is a blank but nobody knows who has been given the blank.

Obviously the odds are incredibly bad of you having the blank bullet. However, the tradition purportedly exists for the purpose to help the conscious of the people who are charged with the task of the execution.

It is also worth noting that the firing squad as a method of execution in criminal cases has all but been outlawed entirely in America. This is, allegedly, because of the number of cases where being shot by four men with 30-30s aiming at a target pinned over your heart from 20 feet away was proving to be not immediately fatal.

I find that pretty impressive personally. Even if you don't quite hit the heart there are still a number of important organs near the heart which dislike hot lead in them enough to kill a person immediately. Modern firearms are more than sufficiently accurate even in rather amateur hands to hit a target 20 feet away.

I am never one to underestimate the stupidity or incompetence of humanity but I am pretty sure in this particular case it is because people have issues killing a person point-blank like that and flinch when they pull the trigger. If you look at the entire setup it is designed around easing the conscious of the executioners (the blank, the fact that in most cases the criminal's face is obscured). It is also designed to make it difficult for a single person to not shoot and feel like they make a difference. When all of the executioners fire at once the last person is left with an overwhelming feeling that the group is firing anyway and that their single choice to fire or to not fire is insignificant.

Essentially, people are dragged into doing things they do not want to do by two illusions: one is the inevitability of the outcome, and secondly is the concept that they, against all odds, are the ones holding the blank, that their efforts are not what did the killing.

***

Same shirt, different day. God knows I'm too broke to have in my possession much of a repertoire of interview clothing.

"You specialize in embedded systems?" the interviewer asked.

"Robotics in particular."

"That's wonderful, we're in need of an engineer for an embedded system for one of our projects."

"Oh?"

"Yes, we need an auto-pilot system to bring pilots to and from their battlefields in the dark."

"And they can't use radar?"

"They are very tired."

"I see."

We chat idly for a few minutes before I pretend to take a re-emerging interest in the project I'd be assigned to.

"About how many g's of force can this system handle?"

"Hrm," my interviewer said, "I think 15 or 20...not sure."

I was floored. I have never heard of a fighter jet pulling more than 9. If wikipedia is to be believed 16gs for a full minute can be fatal.

I looked at the man who I was speaking to and remembered thinking that this man had to be the most willfully ignorant man alive to possibly believe there was any sort of human cargo aboard this vessel. It seemed horribly obvious to me that they were simply designing auto-pilot software which somebody later would integrate into a missile.

My interviewer looked at me quizzically. "What's wrong?"

***

Vex Victim walked along the booths at the conference admiring various creations lined up along the tables. The TALON table naturally drew a crowd.

Vex was in a sense representing the school and so somewhat on his best behavior. He started up an average conversation at the TALON table which eventually turned to

"So does this...military stuff ever bother you?"

"Well," the engineer said, "When you think about it, we just make the robots. What people choose to do with it is their issue."

Vex was speechless for a long second.

"You built a gun on the front!"

***

I'm not here to tell anybody what is or is not an ethical way to live their lives. There are many noble aspects to military work and I have nothing but respect for the selfless sacrifices made of soldiers. Seems a shame that we live in a world where the only people selfless enough to live for anything more than being wrapped up in themselves are statistically the most likely to die. Guess it explains a lot about our society.

Military work has brought us many achievements in science which were pushed through the government funding which was made available to the military. Our road systems, the Internet, and many other things are thanks to the military. If you want to advertise to me that this is why you are doing it I may not partake but I am wholly unlikely to get in your face about it.

But you can go to hell if you're going to look me in the eye and tell me that's not what you're doing. That's an insult to your intelligence, an insult to my intelligence, an insult to the people you will kill, and a slap in the face to whatever God you believe in that you are intentionally doing something you believe is wrong and justifying it by telling yourself it isn't happening. How can you claim to have any sense of morals at all if you simply throw out all the facts which you personally find inconvienent to your life?

***

"Hung over pancakes" are a proud tradition in my house. We don't let anybody drive drunk so we just lay out sleeping bags and pillows on the floor and by the end we have a slumber party. Then the next morning either Magpie or I, depending on who gets up first, makes pancakes.

I stumble in and sit myself down in Magpie's desk chair which has been rolled into the kitchen to make up for our insufficient seating.

Krill takes one look at my face, laughs, and passes me a plate of pancakes. "Morning sunshine."

Somebody pours me a glass of orange juice and I drink it slowly. I'm not really a morning person.

"You alright?" Magpie asks.

"Just thinking..."

"'Bout what?"

"Firing squads."

I guess its a testament to how early it was in the morning or the tolerance of my friends that everybody just accepted this fact and quietly enjoyed their pancakes for a moment.

"Has anybody here ever fired blanks from a gun?"

"Yeah," Hammertime replies as she passes me the maple syrup.

I take the bottle and begin pouring syrup on my food, "Does it kick differently than a live round?"

"Yeah."

"Really differently? Like you can tell the difference?"

She nodded, "You'd really have to want to believe you were firing the other to confuse the two."