A practical call to action for all

In the last decades many have shown a considerable capacity to learn and to grow.  Hand in hand with that personal development service and love for others has also grown.  Despite all this progress, the coming challenging decades will require abilities seemingly impossible from today’s perspective.  Given this, it is vital that we now seek urgently to fortify both ourselves and the communities we live in.

Often, we find ourselves missing something necessary for our growth, tranquillity and spiritual development. That ideal ingredient for any individual, community or institution is the understanding and belief that all are part of world-wide community.  Only when this concept is accepted can real progress, peace and the serious problems facing humanity begin to be solved.

In any endeavour whether material or spiritual a vision is required, an overriding clarity about the objectives to be achieved. It helps to have this in our minds at all times. Our purpose in life is clear, to work for the betterment of the world and to help humanity to live in concord and harmony.  To achieve this, we will require more than our own endeavours it will also require a vibrant, outward-looking community working alongside us.  The journey to our goal will have to entail both spiritual and material progress.  In order to build momentum, meaningful conversations with those around us are necessary and will help shape that very development. However, if the betterment of the world is to be achieved still more is needed. In order to trigger a society-building power, energies latent, but so far largely unexpressed, in humanity will have to be awakened.  It is worth focussing on some vital much-needed qualities.

Qualities of cooperation and mutual assistance will have to be developed to ensure human society advances in both progress and prosperity.  Sufficient moral vigour and spiritual health will prove basic necessities for individuals and communities everywhere.

The betterment of this world will be dependent on other basic qualities, singularly lacking in today’s society, such as unity, trustworthiness, mutual support, collaboration, fellow feeling, selflessness, commitment to truth, a sense of responsibility, a thirst to learn and most importantly love.  This is not an intellectual exercise in self-advancement it is a practical call to action for all.  Make no mistake, the degree to which we respond to the pressing needs of the age in which we live will determine all our futures and indeed those of future generations.

"The civilization of today, for all its material prowess, has been found wanting.."

The Universal House of Justice 

Nose picking, B.O. and lessons to be learned

Dennis was dead by his own hand and even as I digested the news, the thought bubbled unwanted into my mind that I had never liked him. We met in primary school in the playground and his favourite trick was to run as hard as he could into unexpected victims. Pushing or pulling he seemed not to mind if you cut a knee as you fell over, or bashed the back of your head on the curb. His main satisfaction was in felling others. It was something he just could not stop despite repeated beatings from our headmaster. He was refused to be weaned from his favourite pastime.

In my first day at school, Dennis wet himself. The Headmaster’s wife, Mrs Harris, raged and locked Dennis in the cupboard off her class where the sewing baskets were kept. There Dennis howled for the full two hours until break time while Mrs Harris lectured us all on bladder control. I'm not sure what the rest of the class learnt or Dennis but those two hours taught me that people with grey hair in buns wearing respectable expensive clothes could be vicious beasts deep in their hearts. Every cry of Dennis that soared over her demands, that we sit straight, remain silent and colour in our drawings, left me with a lifeline horror of colouring in. I knew with every crayon stroke that all of our souls were being coloured by the cruelty of that situation in ways that would linger for decades.

Perhaps the soft play dough of young children hearts makes every such event traumatic? Not that Dennis endeared himself to anyone. His spontaneous acts of violence continued unabated in the playground and even grew with each passing year. I complained to my father about his behaviour and he pointed out that Dennis was from a dysfunctional home. I had no idea what that meant but learned that Dennis was being brought up by his grandmother, an eccentric woman whose hair was as wild as her language. 

My father claimed our dog Monty could identify people with unusual tendencies. In their presence Monty would change from a placid ever good-natured Labrador into a barking aggressive hound. He wouldn't bite but barked as if a bear had entered the garden. Dennis's grandmother got by far the worst reaction from Monty and so I reckon dysfunctional was something dogs sensed that we humans had to guess at. It didn't make me dislike Dennis any less.

The headmaster Mr Harris would regularly throw Dennis over his shoulder and carry him out of the class after slapping him hard across the face and knocking him out of the school seat. Beating Dennis seem to be the main educational response to any misdemeanours.

He seemed to search for ways of annoying others. Not just by pushing but by laughing at other’s discomfort. A Kindergarten child was crying in the playground for her mother. She was tiny and vulnerable in this new world absent of parents. I overheard Dennis telling her she’d never see her mother again! That was what school meant. She was so distraught at this news she cried hysterically until she wet herself. At which point, Denis ran to tell Mrs Harris of the incident. Horrified we watched as this tiny girl was frogmarched into Mrs Harris’s dreaded cupboard as punishment. Her cries were far more tragic than Dennis’s as fear rather than humiliation fuelled their volume. I remember I broke four crayons that day pushing the nibs deep into my paper, digging into the white sheets in huge red stripes until they snapped. Why on earth do people think childhood was the happiest days of their lives? Was their childhood so good or what followed so awful in comparison?

In my last few years of primary school Mr and Mrs Harris retired and there were speeches of gratitude to these two monsters. Even the local MP came to sing their praises, mentioning their love of children and dedication to others. When Mr Harris died I remember the same MP weeping real tears copiously while reading a piece from the Bible during the service. I sat in church watching the whole pantomime, thinking what must God think of all this? None of it made any sense to me.  Not the cruelty, nor the adoration of abusers nor the incessant nose picking of Dennis who sat beside me during the service, stinking of BO. The horror of it all was mixed with the smell of pee, the memory of warm crayons between my fingers and bitter injustice burning in my belly.

Towards the end of primary school the girls all grew into giants while the boys remained the same height. At least, that's how it seemed to me. With only brothers at home I knew how to fight and dealt out  instant justice to those I felt due. Any time Dennis played his cruel games with kindergarten kids I’d hammer him. When he pushed others over I punched him hard. It never stopped him behaving badly but it made me feel good. As if at last I could play a role in fixing things. He became my pet project for world betterment. I couldn't control Mr and Mrs Harris but I would try with Dennis.  To his credit he never held any grudges against me. I think he was beaten so badly by adults all round him he viewed our exchanges as just rough child's play. At times, on some strange level, we were close. I watched out for him in the playground and rather than resenting my interference he felt a bond that I was ashamed was one-sided.   

In the secondary school, he attended, my mother taught him Maths.  She used to bring a complete clean uniform, shirt, tie, blazer trousers, socks and pants to school for him each day.  Whenever, he had an accident she would bring him the clean set, from her room, to change into.  Two years into secondary school the wetting stopped but she continued to supply him with new clean clothes when his own were unclean. 

We went our separate ways then, Dennis and I. His grandmother was still a visitor to our home occasionally and treated with good humour. On a family outing, with her in the car, I can remember my father parking outside a huge palace of a house with elegant rhododendrons on either side of the drive. He managed to convince her that his relatives lived inside this massive mansion. She was impressed beyond words and later when he told her he’d only been joking she roared with laughter that was too loud and too long.

Years later, Dennis joined the police. My mother was stopped by the police one night in the Glenshane pass. The officer that peered through the window was Dennis. She said he looked smart and proud in his neat new uniform. He had thanked her that night for her maths lessons in secondary school and told her she'd been his favourite teacher. Dennis we learned even had a girlfriend. Then, out of the blue she dumped him for someone else. 

On a rainy night in his new car, high in the mountains, near our village, he put his police revolver to his head and blasted his life away.  When I heard the news I felt a physical ache within. His ex-girlfriend went on to marry three other men in the years ahead, breaking more hearts no doubt in the process. I wished he had been able to know she wasn't worth it. Not worth one second of the life that should've been his. Too many young men seem to take their own lives in despair and betrayal. Alone in the dark their anger turns inwards with no other bond to hold them in this world.

Dennis had really tried. He'd come through so much in his short life. None of us had ever really understood him. I still hear his cry from the cupboard and can only pledge to be more kind to the souls around me. Some journeys are so tough you can't imagine or know how bereft of love and kindness such lives can be.  If we did, I hope we’d all be different to each other.

Burnishing the Soul, polishing the wood

The conversation around the table ebbs and flows. From laughter to remembered incidents designed to entertain. All ages are represented from grandchildren to grandparents. The food is good. The room massive and ornately decorated as if from an earlier period. Candelabra, fluted glasses on intricate embroidered white runners contrast with the dark shiny walnut wooden table underneath. Sitting 16 people easily, the large dining room set gleams in its splendour. Around the huge room sits antique furniture polished carefully and positioned precisely. The walls are covered in old oil paintings of ancestors who made good. Each piece has a place in the memories of all here. This is a great grandmother's rosewood writing table, over here a display cabinet of delph displayed on six deep shelves behind glistening glass. Everywhere mementos remembered from childhood. Voices pointing out where it used to sit older houses. As the courses come to the table one senses how much care is lavished on these pieces of history. How polishing has to be undertaken regularly, pads positioned to absorb the unnecessary bangs from careless users. The wood of the huge table shines unprotected in its beauty, but one feels those who love it, wince with every glass or plate clicked down with not enough elegance and respect. 

I have nothing of value in my home, but I recall my mother's table in the dining room. She would cover it its wooden top with thick blankets of woollen protection. Designed to cushion all serving dishes it hugged the wood in tight protective cotton wool. This was but the first layer. Like astronaut's suits my mother believed in layers of defence. The second layer was a specially designed thick rubber tablecloth and then the third layer was the intricate pretty tablecloth purely for appearance. But even with this bullet-proofing nothing was placed on her table unless a solid wooden platter was anchored beneath it. On some some rare occasions she would peel back the layers of cover to show the immaculate table top free of every blemish and glorious as the day it was created decades before. Then gauging my impressed reaction she would tuck the tanned wood safely back into its bed. 

I recognise in some faces around a table my mother’s concern. Yes, you want to show the piece to its best. Allow it’s living dark flesh coloured wood to glow but in doing so you have opened it to rape and pillage. One miss-placed coffee cup could damage that perfection. These faces show both their pride in this epic table combined with a fearful expectancy of risk. Fathers must feel the same when their daughter emerges out of adolescence into fresh stunning beauty. Suddenly, they glow in the evidence of their bloodline’s perfections but alongside looms the fear of predators. Why does beauty always instil such a powerful mixture of awe and fear? As people drink other emotions surface. Being teetotal, I am shocked at how quickly alcohol removes the veils of civilisation. Conversation descends into politics, corruption and bare breasts? Alongside this curious diminishing of quality other issues make their disturbing appearance. 

Resentments over historical family slights, possessions that were inherited are searched for like lost children. How could she have ended up with my aunt’s glorious sideboard? As more alcohol flows unhappiness and resentment are stirred up. There is love here and you sense it but also so much pain and disappointment. Strangely, it is the younger generation who seem to demonstrate the most damage. They sit as if among museum pieces with which they have little affinity. Aware that eventually they too will become custodians of all this opulence but resentful of the weight of expectations. All these things seem like anchors to their future keeping them here, marooned among the family history. Glorious, expensive, filled with ancient memories of greatness and position but not of them. They do not seem content in this landscape. Their spirits flutter to escape and are not reassured by the quality around them but wearied by it all. There is a depressing unhappiness that leeches from all that alcohol seems to fuel. I suspect we all hug our pains away from prying eyes.   Alcohol loosens our grasp. All this pain and resentment circles the once happy group and one wishes like table tops people could be wrapped and protected from harm and hurt. Remain  unblemished and pristine. But I fear our purpose here is to learn from the ring-stains of life. To be tested by the careless and thoughtless and yet to use it all to find quality within. To polish and restore what may have been damaged and burnish our souls with worthwhile deeds.

Reader - final installment

This is the fourth of a science fiction series ( to read the first three click on hyperlinks below)

Reader part 1

Reader part 2

Reader part 3
Reader part 4

Masters in Intuitive ability ‘Readers a social history’ – by Cherry Godwin

(published postumously -  in her memory)

It has long been cited that readers emerged as a byproduct of brain transplant technology. According to Wentzky (2024) by not replacing the entire brain organ it allowed the brainstem of the recipient and the transplanted brain to communicate. This rudimentary brain communication contributed to the development in offspring of telepathic abilities, Smith and Stevens (2027). These studies have fuelled some to dismiss those who develop intuitive tendencies as genetic errors, medical mistakes or even as waste byproducts. Of course, the scientists involved in such transplants have clearly argued that such gross simplifications are an erroneous distortion of the facts.

They have instead concentrated on the insights, the reader’s ability, brought to neuroscience in general. The stigma suffered by readers was nothing new. The inquisition/expulsion/targeting of ‘the different’ had historical parallels in terms of race/religion/disability.  Historically speaking, this ever-enduring fear of others has given rise to not only persecution but numerous wars for millennia. Race riots, religious clashes, the growth of terrorism and a growing divide between the rich and the poor fuelled upheavals right up to the beginning of the 22nd century.  The situation might have escalated further had it not been overtaken by two external events which decimated human society.

1.   The pandemic on a global scale changed human interactions both socially and internationally. The loss of life had not been experienced since the Spanish flu of 1918 that killed 40 million. One early impact had been a social isolation that became necessary to avoid contagion. Almost no aspect of human interaction was left unaffected. Even the handshake that most primitive of greetings (developed to restrict the sword arm of your potential enemy) did not survive. Communities became more rural as larger numbers perished in urban settings. International travel became less common.

2.   Severe climate change sped up the pace of this deterioration in transportation. Due to sea levels rising, more than had been predicted, coastal regions including almost all the worlds major ports (Hubs of cargo transportation) were inoperable. Speeding up of the earth’s engine meant there were more intense storms/dust/volcanic eruptions/earthquakes/droughts and floods. The atmosphere (Due to holes appearing in the ozone level) no longer protected the population from increased UV rays. Nor did it aid communication systems as solar flares regularly knocked outside satellites. Even communication at microwave level (WiFi) was impacted.

These global changes transformed society. The fear of others combined with poor communication systems and poor transport routes triggered the rise of opportunistic political groups. Scientists called for a rational approach to the challenges but were seriously damaged by the discovery that climate change had been fuelled by the very technology developed in their ranks.

Social anthropologists on recognizing the changing structures of human society began groundbreaking studies of the grass root communities beginning to emerge. Such close social groups, isolated in rural settings, began to exhibit customs and mannerisms that reminded the researchers of much older tribal societies. Not only, much more self-subsistent in nature but also demonstrating increasing social interaction at the micro-community level. Many published papers showing parallels with pre-industrial tribal groups.

In a society where seas became the main barriers between communities the emergence gradually of three Superstates (named after the three seas that separated them) seemed organic. Technologically society developed in scientific hubs and progressed quickly. Scientific knowledge had not been lost during pandemic and climatic changes. Careful data storage meant that when scientific communities could flourish (as in Superstate funded Hubs) the explosion of technological breakthroughs startled everyone. Transplant technology was just one field, which benefited from these hubs but there were others. In fact, it was precisely due to the massive restructuring that scientific cross discipline collaboration became rampant. This brought new fields of research. One such crossover between fields was between neurologists studying brain transplant development and those social anthropologists investigating new community dynamics. When presenting results of readers telepathic abilities in close proximity to others, anthropologists pointed out that in some very close-knit communities of non-readers there seem to be a growing intuitive link between members who had prolonged exposure to each other. This included sensing of moods, being aware of small and subtle changes in behaviour or habits. This coincided with a dramatic drop in suicide rates. It almost seemed as if social isolation could be inversely linked to the health of the community.

One social anthropologist pointed out that in ancient tribes if a witchdoctor cast a spell on a troublemaker within the community the following social exclusion would invariably cause the victim subjected to such isolation to die. The neurologists wanted to know if isolation had been linked to suicides in other societies. Exposure of such a link became evident in many societies from the rural isolated Australian outback areas in the 21st-century to elderly living in inner-city areas of France. 

Neurological studies of twins, highlighted instances of links built up via genetic similarities and close proximity in the womb. Again it repeated and reinforced earlier studies that actually brain communication was a result of enough close physical exposure.  Brains were evidently designed to communicate in huge swathes of ways that far exceeded our previous understanding. Science’s inability to spot such phenomena was largely a result of ‘not looking’. Once attention was turned to this feature, all sorts of evidence began to emerge. When females live in close proximity, their menstrual cycle is quickly gets in sync. Couples who live together in close proximity for many decades flagged up coincidence of thoughts and insights that were just milder versions of the readers abilities. The brain’s plasticity continued into adulthood and enabled unexpected linkage.

It was soon demonstrated that intuitive links developed in communities and between individuals was actually a healthy community in operation. In fact, isolation and the lack of such contact was not only unhealthy but in some cases deadly. Studies of human brain communication began to let the scientific community put readers back into a continuum of mainstream abilities. Instead of being caricatured as medical waste, they were in fact exhibiting skills that human society needed to cultivate quickly. Living in a close-knit community was as important as a healthy diet. Such genuinely close-knit groups are more welcoming of others. This embracing of individuals, despite their abilities/or lack thereof was indicative of a society in the process of development. That intuitive ability allowed each member to learn from and contribute to their betterment of their society. In this environment social exclusion of readers by Superstate’s such as Pacifica could be seen as flawed as earlier ideologies supporting genocide. 

To choose to reject others led to to exclusion. Whatever steps taken in that direction began to descend into a sliding form of apartheid. It inevitably begins focused on one specific group but soon morphs into targeting more and more as unwanted. In fact, the question becomes less, ‘Who do we not want?’ but more, ‘who will we retain?’. Even those who supported the exclusion policies initially can find themselves in later years the target of these same expulsions. Such piecemeal dissection of society creates fear and confusion.  In these divided and fearful societies leaders become disproportionately empowered and corrupt.

In deciding which direction to take for the future, perhaps there are parallels to be found in the biology that gave rise to readers in the first place. Early organ transplants including heart, lung limbs etc involved heavy-duty immune suppressant medication to avoid rejection of the new organ. This had major side-effects and impacted considerably recovery statistics.  Eventually, science uncovered an effective solution. The Tissue Generated Linkage Technique (TGLT) which did away with the need for immune suppressants.  This involved recognizing that that it was the interface between donor organ and recipient that caused most of the problems.  By growing in situ manufactured tissue that diluted boundaries, the body could be fooled into accepting the new organ.  Organ rejection was all but eliminated and transplant technology proceeded at an incredible pace.

Brain transplants became possible and although highly controversial were carried out. The question of the hour was, ‘which was the human’. The brain being given a new body or the body, being given a new brain. Legislation was of the opinion that the higher organ (I.e. the brain) would have to be perceived as the human host. When the existence of the brainstem of the donor body became evident the legislation had to be revisited. If there are two sentient beings in the one body, which one constitutes humanity.  Before legislation could even be formulated science showed how quickly the new brain and brain stem began to communicate and indeed act as one. Such evident synchronicity seemed to preclude viewing them as separate entities. The brain sections, instead of competing to dominate each other, evidently approached proximity as a means of establishing a multitude of communication channels. Including the development of high-level neural linkages that neither had ever created before. It would seem rather than otherness or rejection of a foreign organ, the brains choose a more creative and inclusive path. Reaching out to this new organ with curiosity and openness.

This responsiveness of both parts of the brain to totally new possibilities of communication is perhaps an indicator of the general path an ever-advancing civilization should take. Inclusion, clear communication, working for the progress of the whole system, all of these, our brains indicated must be the priority.  Surely, when we contemplate the future of humanity these lessons must be embedded in all our interactions.

Part 3 Readers - The Killing

This is the third of a science fiction series ( to read the first two click on hyperlinks below)
Reader part 1
Reader part 2

Four days later Sherry was dead. He received a call from her line manager. Keats was informed that she had stepped out in front of an express train at Central Station. The driver had seen nothing and the impact had been minor. It had been railway tech workmen who picked up the tiny shudder at the hub station. They recognized the tiny tremor peak that they had grown accustomed to in suicides on train lines. Their electronic sensors had flagged up an incident and Cherry had been identified quickly by DNA analysis. The line manager broke the news with great sensitivity but the blow felt beyond enduring. On the phone Keats had been unable to speak, to reply. Even, when asked, “are you alright do you need assistance?” He just put his forehead on the phone intercom and closed his eyes. Because of his lack of a coherent reply a response team had been dispatched. They arrived 15 minutes later, over-rode the front door lock and raced in, medical kits at hand. Kind hands lowered him onto his bed while a sleeping patch was applied on his inner wrist. He fell into blissful oblivion and remained so for four hours. 

When he woke he was still in his own bed a bereavement medical worker by his side. He asked the uniformed woman who she was. She was in her 40s with dark straight hair, around a pleasant calm face. Not pretty but plain and pleasant with brown sympathetic eyes. She replied,

“My name is Dora, I'm your bereavement medical worker. Here is my ID, you've had a shock. Do you remember anything?”

While she asked, experienced fingers took his pulses all five recorded on the tablet quickly and efficiently.  Keats shuttered his response, disbelief in every word. 

“My wife and she's dead I think.”

Dora nodded,

“Yes that's right.”

She paused and waited. Keats felt huge sobs coming as if from his feet. Big shaking waves that shook his body, Dora held his hand stroked his shoulder, murmuring “I'm here, I'm here.” Gradually, his sobs stopped and he turned to Dora, and asked, “What happened?”
Dora looked at him clear eyed and measured.
“Cherry is dead but do you need to understand I am responsible to both of you.
Keats was confused,
“What?”
Dora explained,
“When a death like this happens, a bereavement medical worker (a BMW) is assigned to both the deceased and the next of kin. I have prepared Cherry, accompanied her to forensics and made sure her wishes are respected to the letter. I am duty-bound to you both, but my priority is of course Cherry, as she is no longer able to speak for herself.” 
Keats struggled to grasp what Dora was saying,

“I don't understand.”

Dora calmly replied,
“Just because a person is dead, it doesn't mean one rides roughshod over their rights. Cherry had left clear instructions and I have carried them out to the letter.”

“What instructions?” Keats almost howled his despair. Dora elaborated,

“She wanted instant cremation after a full forensics. She had prepared well, there is her will and a letter.”

“But why did she do it?”

Dora frowned.

“Out of respect for Cherry, I am duty-bound to point out forensics indicate she did not jump in front of the train. Bruising showed she was pushed and CCTV footage on the train clearly indicates this. In no way was she intentionally ending her life.”

Keats felt bile rise in his throat.
“But the call they mentioned suicide, her line manager said...”

Dora stroked his shoulder gently.
“He had no right to call you like that. No one should hear that sort of news over a monitor. Any fool knows that. But, I'm afraid nowadays communication outstrips wisdom. They certainly shouldn't make a judgment call without full forensics. For exactly the reasons that are evident here.
Keats said nothing, so Dora continued.

“I had to respect Cherry’s wishes, she was my key subject, so you were given a sleeping patch until such times as I had carried out her wishes.”

“What wishes?” Keats questioned.

Dora gave him a small sip of ice-cold water and it soothed his dry throat. He coughed and spoke louder,
“What wishes?”

Dora took out an envelope and explained. "When someone anyone dies or is dying, A BMW is assigned. Their key subject is the patient or client and they make sure their needs are met. In terms of pain control, final wishes, personal care plan. In the case of a diseased patient we are escort them to forensics or to the funeral home and ensure respect is shown to the body. We take notes and in the case of Sherry arrange cremation.”

“But I needed to see her, I wanted to...” Keats could not continue.

Dora spoke,
“In this case her instructions outweigh your wishes. But she did wish you would be given this on her death.” 
Dora handed over the white envelope.
“Just know this, she did not take her own life. This was not her choice. Someone took her from you. You need to know this. I'll leave you to read the note in private, if you need me I'll be outside the glass doors, just signal and I'll come.”
He clumsily pulled the envelope open, tearing it. His fingers felt like spagetti. His brain was in shut down. He tried to focus. The handwriting was hers and when he read Dear Keats, he cried out and put his hand over his mouth. Dora behind the glass doors stirred but he held up his hand to stop her. He read on,

‘I'm dead I don't know how it happened after all, I'm younger than you. But there you go, life is unexpected. You must be devastated, unless you killed me, in which case, perhaps relieved. Only joking, being a reader married to a non-reader is tricky but being a non- reader married to a reader is an act of daily trust. You more than met all my life's expectations. You're a good man and it has been a privilege to share these years. Your love has given me incredible happiness. Being cremated is not what you would've wanted for me. I appreciate goodbyes are important to you. But some studies have shown readers die differently. The part of the brain that processes readings in others is the last stop to stop functioning. It's requires so little blood flow there is speculation that it may continue functioning for sometime after the body is dead. I have to confess that thought freaked me out so much, a speedy cremation seemed a safer bet. I didn't want my last reading playing like a record in my head. I know it will all be all over, the fact that you are reading this means my wishes have been respected. I can ask for no more. Would have loved more time with you but you have given me more than I ever expected. Your goodness a daily lesson in how to be a better human. Thanks for that too!
much love Cherry."

He held the letter to his cheek and tried to breathe in her scent from the paper. His heart felt like it would explode. The pain in the centre of his chest pulsed and his ears began ringing. He rubbed his chest with his knuckles and the pain seemed to flow along his arms. Dora was beside him in an instant and placed the patch on his wrist. He tried to stop her, but she pushed his hand away and spoke gently.

“You need to trust me now. This is best. I'm here, I'm here.”

Blissful nothingness hugged him into a deep sleep. Doris sat beside him in the darkened room. He would sleep for an hour. These patches had to be used with restraint. Patients could quickly grow addicted to the swift release from painful reality. It was her job to begin weaning him. She never gave more than three patches and really felt EBW’s who did were shortchanging their clients. The sooner patients came to terms with what had happened the better. Delaying that, often suited inexperienced EBW’s who needed time to think what was best to do next. Putting a client into a long sleep allowed them to consult others and plan ahead and cover their own backs. Dora knew recovery in patients who slept through the first two days was twice as slow as those who didn't. Not on my watch, she thought settling down to her knitting, keeping a watchful eye on his vitals. She'd only been knitting for 20 minutes when someone knocked on the glass door. Dora approached the door slowly. His eyes were green flecked with gold and he signalled to her to open the door. Dora picked up the intercom and pointed to the receiver on the outside. Dickens spoke in a rush,

“He's a good friend, can I come in? He's had an awful loss, he needs me!

Dora answered,
“No, he needs me at present. I will not authorise any visitors until he is stabilised.” 

Her brown eyes were cold and clear. Dickens held up his hand, pleadingly.

“Look its not fair, if he was your friend you'd want to be there for him.”

Dora pressed a button low down on her medical jacket, and then spoke
“Who are you, exactly?”

He answered eagerly, “Dickens, we go back half a century. Come on have a heart.” He smiled winningly through the glass door.
Dora nodded slowly and held up her hand in acquiescence.

“This space has been disinfected, please wash your hands and use a cleanser spray and before entering.”

Dickens quickly did as she instructed, washing his hands with mocking exaggerated care and using the wall disfectant spray on both sides of each hand. He slipped the scalpel up his sleeve, one more kill and he was in the clear. Just one more death and freedom in this brand-new world beckoned. He could feel his hands trembling with the thrill of the kill. He would have to take out the plump woman too, but suddenly, having got rid of Cherry so easily, he felt anything was possible. Dora waved him towards the glass door and stood a little to one side making room for him to pass when the doors would open. 

Dickens smiled encouragingly at the plain face, so close to his own. Suddenly, the doors to the lift behind him opened and four security guards grabbed him. Efficiently they cable cuffed his arms and searched him. They found the scalpel within seconds. Dora opened the glass doors and stepped out allowing them to close behind her. She approached Dickens and told the guards,

“I pressed the alert, he has just killed and was about to kill again.”

The guards immediately placed red stick highlighter across Dickens’ forehead. It was fluorescent and would identify him as a murderer to everyone when he was in transit. There had been an initial outcry when such permanent indicators were used. Prisoners were horrified to find the mark indelible. Sociological studies found the mark more of a punishment than many of the other prison regimes. Not even facial tattoos removed the fluorescent red. Removing a deep layer of skin or branding did, but were so drastic most people could guess what had been removed and this defeated the intent. This colour branding had been started 30 years ago and it had been so successful the measure had become standard. As they hauled Dickens to the lift, he shouted at Dora, in recognition, 

“You’re a reader, she's a reader!”

He continued to shout as they bundled him out. Dora opened the glass door and returned to her chair. Checking vitals and fussing with his sheet she felt his pulse and then settled. Frontline EDW were not all readers but in a diversity drive at the same time as the second maxim announcement had meant 50% of them where.

It had seemed as if one life had been saved by her quick reading of Dickens but further

research on the case indicated that he had killed dozens of people. The Dickens case as it became known became as instrumental as the Linenbury case in changing attitudes.

A new maxim came into being, “Unity in Diversity, makes us stronger and safer”. 


(to be continued)

part 1 - Science Fiction

Have not been posting as I have been working on an piece of science fiction.  Here is the first section of this novella.  The next installment will be in a week or so.  Hope you like it.  Very different from my normal stuff and way outside my comfort zone - but great fun to construct and make up.  Set in the future!

Statement from the President of Pacifica

“Our country stands at an important crossroads in the history of our civilization. In order to understand where we are now, we must be aware of our history. Unlike previous multitude of nation states, today's great powers of Pacifica, Atlantica and Asia represent the entire population of our planet. As president of Pacifica, I have had to steer difficult ethical path in a world were other leaders have lost their footing.

Let me explain. In the early part of the 21st-century brain transplants became possible. Following the success of heart/lung/kidney/face replacements this seemed a natural progressive step. However, it would be another two decades before research discovered that the brain itself consists of two connected parts. During surgery only one part of the major brain organ was replaced. The brainstem was left intact as it had important connections to the spinal column and other vital nerve pathways. At that time, we were unaware of the effect of two brains in situ for a lifetime. What actually happened was a form of gradual communication between the new brain and the old brain stem. This linkage arose because of the plasticity of brain cells, which had previously thought only to exist in embryonic and developing brains. From close physical proximity the brains learnt how to communicate. This had no effect on the first generation of patients but had tragic consequences on their children.

In 50% of their offspring there was indication of telepathic capacities. This so-called learnt behaviour meant they were able to read the minds of others in their proximity. We call those unfortunates, readers. Let us call a spade a spade. These readers are an accident, and mishap of modern transplantation that should never have happened. We have learned to our cost, that surgery has far outstripped ethical considerations. All three superpowers no longer permit partial brain transplants but the damage has been done. For some time we will have readers in our midst, that is the conclusion of the other superpowers. Until, this abomination is diluted through genetic mixing and the dying out of existing readers they say we must be patient and long suffering.

We, here in Pacifica say no! We will not tolerate mind readers within our borders. They will not be allowed to play God amongst us. Reading our private thoughts, judging and dispensing their misguided sentencing. Innocent until proven guilty is a fundamental right. I am responsible for what I do, not what I think. Only my actions are accountable. We do not accept their strange world of thought control and monitoring. Their ability to abuse their powers has been exposed in our courts. What more do our neighbours want? There has been a consensus here in Pacifica and expulsion of readers has cleansed our home. It has protected our rights, as free individuals in a free society. While the other superpowers play gruesome games disfiguring their justice systems and social structures to accommodate these medical mistakes, we have held fast to what it is to be a human. We alone, have kept our focus on human society and governance. Our clarity has shown the lack of morality of other superpowers. They want to fudge the truth because they have forgotten the essentials. They think with maxims or supervision and diversity drives these mind readers can be corralled, controlled or embedded. We alone guessed that the plasticity of their brains which causes the telepathy will also frustrate any attempt to legislate or control. Soon their mistaken philosophy will become apparent.

In essence, human beings have been invaded by an alien of their own making. Would we willingly continence this alien intrusion into our lives, thoughts and future. No, friends we would not! We will not! Pacifica stands firm for your rights, human rights. Having expelled readers we have taken the first step of our liberation. Now, we must close our borders to avoid infiltration. We must control and monitor the enemy within. This will be our second battle. We have begun a war and there will be many battles before victory is ours. As long as expulsion is possible, readers will be exiled but soon other superpowers will realise their mistake in accepting these toxic specimens. Here, in Pacifica we have recently developed the technology to identify readers from birth. I find it significant that both superpowers, at great expense, have ordered particular technology from us. As always, we lead where others follow. When, they refuse to except readers, we will have to bring in legislation for the disposal of what is medical waste. Make no mistake, our ability to clean Pacifica from this abomination will be an example that the rest will inevitably have to follow.

We are steeled for the longer view. We see with clarity the path ahead which others have failed to see. We are precious, we are unique, we are human beings. This is our pledge to you, Pacifica and this is the Ark of humanity of this planet. Your safety, our security. We have chosen the right and only path for the future of us all.”

........to be continued