Thurman's Principle

By Jonathan Dellinger

As one of millions living on a generation ship, Jameson probably isn’t the only one to feel both oppressed and neglected. Still, he may have more reason than anyone to wonder if the world is out to get him. He's grown up the ward of a corrupt and incompetent regime, his father a political exile and his mother dead of mysterious circumstances. Even more than he suspects, however, events are unfolding that will test his will and his sanity. Jameson soon finds himself tangled up in a mysterious tragedy at his university. He will be cast into a journey to uncover the truth behind a conspiracy centuries in the making, whether he likes it or not. Along the way he will encounter ragtag revolutionaries, hard-luck journalists, and competing authorities. But there are still worse things that dwell in the many shadows of the ark, and Jameson isn’t the only one they are watching.

The first installment of this gritty sci-fi epic explores human nature and adversity in a story of casual conspiracy, cultural flux, political incompetence, and man-made monsters. Enduring, vibrant, characters find themselves caught between the death throws of the old world and the horrors of the new, struggling with the contradictions of their existence in this artificial society, hurtling through the deepest reaches of space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Dellinger
• Release date: Oct 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301524136

Jonathan Dellinger

Jonathan Dellinger has worked as an educator, camp director, researcher in the social sciences, and the occasional bartender. He likes painting, writing, the outdoors, and airplanes. When not writing or teaching undergraduate courses in communication, he swims laps and makes peaceful watercolors of cosmic horrors.

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Thurman’s Principle

Jonathan Dellinger

~~~~

Thurman’s Principle

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Dellinger

Cover art: Matthew Dellinger

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Civil Actions

This place is rotting, the post read. Even here in the First Shell, we have to worry about how the ministries view what we say. Even here in on the network, we have to worry about our safety. Even now, twenty-three years after the riots that shook our society, nothing has changed.

There was the usual noise of campus night life outside his window. Jameson Brickman ignored the merriment. He scanned his usual stream of blacklisted media outlets, feeding his loathing with the indulgent rebel voices. Somehow, the farther he progressed in his education, the dumber he felt. He was a prisoner, still a ward of the state since the exile of his father and death of his mother. He was still a child at age twenty-two. He was a hostage.

But aren’t we all, he thought. The Ministries held all of modern society hostage.

Something ought to be done.

He leaned back on his sofa in his state-owned dormitory apartments. Sharon lay beside him with that little guilty frown set in her face as she drifted in and out of sleep. More than once she awoke with a start, stared at Jameson, then nestled against him again, reassured that he was still there.

They were hostages, both of them; beholden to the broken system that had robbed him of a family. Something ought to be done, but not by him and not that night. He closed the feed and enjoyed the crisp spring air wafting through his window. He knew he still had it better than most. Those poor suckers in the Second Shell, literally living beneath the feet of the upper classes, might not ever get to see the sun in the sky and the great verdant expanse of the First Shell nations rotating ceaselessly around it. He could see the marbled back of it, somewhere high above, through his window. It twinkled on the raucous nightlife of Canney and the ignorant masses.

Yes, something ought to be done. He wriggled his fingers into Sharon’s curls and held her to his chest. Everything was wrong, but he was just so very comfortable.

~~~~

The room was quiet, heavy with boredom. Some students were dozing, others scribbling and volleying messages on their screens. The florescent lights buzzed overhead and a tease of birdsong could be heard outside the tiny basement window. Jameson was thinking sinful thoughts about Sharon. He found this train of thought more rewarding and amusing than what passed for a political science course at the University of Canney. He had, after all, read the book already. He had plenty of time to study and plenty of personal attention from his instructor, but this did little to distract him from the tedium of life as a student.

Brickman, tell me about Thurman's Principle.

What? Jameson was pulled out of his reverie by his instructor, Sharon Weiland's, black-hole voice. He had been staring at her chest and she had been staring at his soul. He focused on the quotation in his messy notebook and cleared his throat. Uh. Thurman's principle is the isolationist civil mechanism that, uh, cultivates purity of the public sphere through rejection of foreign influence.

That wasn't right and he knew it.

Well, sort of, she said. It rejects foreign influence and...?

And... he echoed.

And leads to societal collapse due to cultural entropy.

It...right.

Read the book please, Jameson, she said with a smirk. A soft chuckle rippled through the room. She did like to seize any opportunity to remind him of her superiority. The main thing to take away from Thurman is that change is inevitable. Cultural entropy drives change through trends, fashion, innovation, scandal, and conflict. The harder a society resists the change, the more cultural entropy charges the situation, thus increasing the resulting magnitude and volatility of the shift. What do you guys think of that? The general disinterest was like a concrete wall, imprisoning the conversation. Well? Do I need to call on someone?

Thurman was an ass, one young man said. Aside from Jameson, Jack Finch was the most vocal student in the little discussion class.

Okay, Mr. Finch. Do you want to elaborate on that?

Sure. Thurman was a self-serving, spineless reformist, hiding behind a PhD. Her writings were a transparent attempt to justify her radical anarchistic agenda.

Yeah, we all know what your dad thinks, Finch. But from what we read in the book, he paused to glare at Ms. Weiland, her paper was published way before her activism. And she only supported reform because the moss guild kept trying to censor her.

She endorsed violence as just response to the efficient management of the industry. She single-handedly started the Guild Riots and got hundreds of Ministry citizens murdered, Finch said.

Single-handedly? Wow, Jameson said. What kind of asshole do you have to be for one professor to swing a full riot on you?

Alright, alright, let's just slow down for a second guys, Ms. Weiland interrupted. We're getting off our topic. The question I pose is whether or not a society can remain stable through the rejection of outside influences. Mr. Finch?

Of course. A body at rest will remain at rest. Without any outside influences society should be peaceful.

Except that nothing in the observable world is at rest. Outside influence is unavoidable. That's what Thurman meant, said Jameson.

So we shouldn't try to keep the peace because change is inevitable? Typical reformist logic. Resisting change would reduce violence, not make things worse.

On the short term it does, but cultural entropy doesn’t discharge. Right?

And that doesn’t matter if force of order is maintained.

Could you think for yourself for once? Do you have your dad piping you arguments through an earplug or something?

What the hell is your problem, Brickman? Are you pissed that I have a dad, or because yours is a traitor?

You boys will watch your words in this classroom! Ms. Weiland said.

Jameson's pen was dribbling black blood on his desk. He must have broken it. He wiped at the mess with a napkin from his pocket and found his voice.

I'm not sure Wayne Finch actually counts as a father, but I guess you got me.

That's enough! God, this isn't grade school. You two can settle your differences outside of class. Now, anyone else have something to add about Thurman's Principle? Yes, Lady?

So, Thurman was a reformist?

Yes, Lady. Race Thurman is the same Thurman that rallied the workers in the Guild Riots.

So she was an anarchist?

Yep, Finch said.

Well it's not that simple. She did publish this paper several years before the riots. It's not exactly clear what her intentions were back then.

But in her paper she said that we have to embrace changes, and then in the riots the radicals just destroyed everything. Like, museums and libraries, even. So, it seems like she was just attacking, like, organization.

Yep.

Shut up, Finch, Jameson said.

Well, be careful, Lady, Ms. Weiland said. While Thurman and the radicals are often considered to be part of one rhetorical entity, we have to be careful about generalizing groups like that. We're talking about a lot of different people when we use words like 'radicals' and 'reformists'. Thurman's is only one voice in the movement.

I know that, but, Lady said, It just seems like, well...like she didn't care about traditions, or government, or anything. So, I think that hurts her argument.

Forcing people to work eighteen hours a day and not paying them enough to eat is not tradition. It's indentured servitude. And that museum you're talking about was a memorial to the forceful subjugation of Doghree Centro after the Purge War, Jameson said. Have you ever been to school, Lady? Seriously, have you ever even looked at a history book?

Lady's eyes dropped to her desk. She pushed around her stylus.

I just...

That's not necessary, Jameson, Ms. Weiland said in an attempt to rein in the discussion again. Lady began whimpering, and, as more eyes fell on her, crying. Ms. Weiland decided on a different approach. Thurman's Principle is a bit like crying, actually. Why do we cry?

Because Jameson's an asshole! Lady said.

Whoa!

We cry, Ms. Weiland cut Jameson off, to release emotional stresses building in our brain. One of the curses of higher brain function is emotional stress. We have the capacity to worry about how we feel things. When those pressures get to be too much, we cry. Afterwards, we feel better. We think clearer. It's the same with cultural entropy. Trying to hold back the forces of cultural entropy only makes things worse. The stresses build up and build up, and then it breaks. It's almost like God cries for the world, and then things get better.

The class stared at her with disinterest. She'd lost them, but at least Lady had stopped crying.

At least, Weiland said, at least that's how I like to think of it.

Jameson swept his things into his bag and headed for the door.

Jameson, there are still fifteen minutes left in the period, she said. Jameson paused and glanced at the wall clock.

Oh yeah, I guess there are, he said as the door creaked open and then screamed shut.

This whole damn place is out to get me, Jameson said. He plopped down in a chair across from the pretty Tenjiman girl.

What? Michiko glanced up from her studies.

Weiland's discussion section. I might as well go yell bomb threats at the MDC for all the good arguing with those cretins will do me.

Cretins? I thought you liked that class. She slurped noisily on a straw and blinked her liquid brown eyes at him.

I like it in principle. It's just those...savages! They suck the fun right out of it.

"Ah! Souda! Jack Finch changed to your class. Maybe he has, nandatta, a crush on you."

I'll give him a crush! Assholes like him have ruined my life. He picked at Michiko’s cold food.

You always find trouble, it seems.

Michiko remembered how they'd met, back in secondary school. He'd accidentally come to her rescue while trying to ask her on a date. He had told the racist bullies that they could avoid foreigners easily enough if they would just keep inbreeding and stay out of society's way. His reward had been a black eye and a platonic relationship.

What the hell are you smiling about?

"Betsu ni... Michiko shook her head and slurped some more. But, you don't have to try so hard to find trouble."

Whatever.

She hummed.

Maybe other people have trouble in that class, too.

You didn't.

That's because I'm smart, she grinned. Also, I didn't sleep with my instructor.

Granted. Jameson pulled out his notebook and commenced doodling. If you did, she might go a little easier on me.

In bed?

Hah. Good one. I suppose we'll never know. That would be simply too sexy for the universe to allow.

Jameson, the black-hole voice came from behind, can I speak with you for a moment?

I'm really kind of busy right now, Ms. Weiland. A huge monster stomping on legions of MDC squad cars was taking shape beneath his pen.

Sharon glanced at Michiko.

Could you give us a minute, Mitch?

"Sure, Ms. Weiland. Jamie, call me when you go. Mata ne."

Yeah, later.

Sharon sat across from Jameson and looked around the busy arcade. The Wickerton Hall basement was where most students spent their time between classes. This building's time had all but passed; it showed more in the cracked plaster and stained tiles with each leaner fiscal year. History hung in the air with the perennial stink of mildew. After the centuries of abuse and neglect it was a wonder that the whole building didn't just cave in on itself. It wasn't Sharon's favorite place, but it was noisy and it was public. No one would think anything of an instructor meeting with one of her students here. They could talk safely.

Jameson, she said. He kept scribbling. Jameson, what's wrong?

Nothing. What's wrong with you? Did you want to have a quickie in the bathroom?

Don't be a child, Jameson.

I thought adolescence turned you on. I wouldn't want to act my age and disappoint you.

She frowned and pressed her hands down on the table.

I'm only trying to help you. I know things aren't easy around here.

Do you? That's uncharacteristically insightful of you. How exactly are you helping? You gonna overthrow the Ministries? Or maybe you've expunged my family's name from the blacklist? Or maybe your idea of helping is to get romantically involved with one of your more infamous students. I know! You could get those hyenas you're supposed to be educating under control before you try to give me life advice. He tossed his pen on the table and leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

What hyenas? The only reason that class gets out of control is because you try to piss everyone off.

Right. It's my fault. You chastise me just to make yourself feel better, you give Jack Finch free range of your class, and it’s my fault.

Yes. Yes, it is. You don’t get special treatment, Jameson. I still have a job to do and facilitating discussion is part of that.

If that is your idea of a discussion, this school is in more trouble than I thought.

Jameson, your problem isn't the MDC or that your family is blacklisted. Your problem is that you can't tell your friends from your enemies. If you can't figure that out, you are going to be alone and miserable forever. We aren’t children anymore. She sighed. You are brilliant, Jameson. You are smarter than half the doctoral students I take classes with. Don’t waste that. You’ll graduate soon, and then maybe we could actually spend some time together…

How am I the one that thinks this is completely insane, Sharon? You’re just as deluded as the rest of this place! Thanks for the advice. You're helping lots. Now, I have to go. More childish brooding to get done before dinner.

Jameson stood and left the arcade, pleased with the frustration on Sharon’s face. His grimy sneakers squeaked up a worn marble staircase and out some double doors to the patio. Beyond the mossy brick and fading tables there was a jogging path and the beach. There he sat on a flaking park bench.

The view was spectacular, but he didn't permit himself to enjoy it. He took no comfort from the fleeing dayline or the lapping waves. He didn't listen to the sea-birds calling and curling in the wind. He ignored the scent of Tenjiman cherry blossoms wafting from the commons. He marinated in his melancholy.

Jameson leaned back on the bench and turned his eyes skyward. Blocking out the burning crescent of the sun with his thumb, he imagined he could see trains snaking across Lancent, fifteen kilometers away. His dad was over there. Maybe he was looking back down on his son. Maybe he'd forgotten his son.

He stayed like this for a time, feeling the sun on his face and willing his mood on the world around him.

There was a sharp thud that shook Wickerton Hall and rattled nearby windows. It smacked one's chest and clapped ears. Startled gulls took to the sky from their rooftop nests and people craned their necks to see the blast shades clattering down over the windows. Panicked shouts coalesced to screaming and bled from the shutters in black smoke. Jameson stood and started towards the building with the other students outside. Sirens rose in the distance. People stumbled out into the evening. Some were dusty, others dazed and coughing. Some were bloodied.

There was no immediate answer to the urgent question billowing skyward. No reason made itself apparent to the faces now dressed with unfamiliar violence. And before the question could be expressed in words the Ministry of Damage Control arrived. They swarmed the area in gas masks and body armor, weapons in hand. Students found new reason to flee. Inflatable barriers erupted from the grass that had long ago grown over them. Jameson ran, too, knowing better than to entrust his welfare to the MDC.

The campus buildings were tightly packed along the waterfront, forming a maze of alleys around their flanks. Jameson ducked into one such passage and out of sight before he could be stopped. From here he could see other students disappearing in a similar fashion. Most of the upper-classmen of Canney U. had these shortcuts memorized from years of skipping class to smoke or deface state property.

The dazed and slow were corralled into guarded areas. There, medical personnel examined the injured, scanned for implanted insurance radio tags, ticketed those without. Armed troopers stormed the building itself. Some were drawing closer to his hiding spot so Jameson abandoned his luck. He peeled away from the wall and made for a main street. After five minutes of fence hopping and silent nodding to like-minded students, he emerged on Franklin Avenue, brushing off his grimy hands.

The sun had turned its back on Canney now. He could feel the spring air thickening with the chill of night.

His phone chirped.

Michiko.

"Moshi-mosh," he answered in colloquial Japanese.

"Moshi-mosh nothing! Are you okay? I called you four times!"

I'm fine. I was outside. Do you know what happened? People were bleeding and there's MDC everywhere.

"Maji-de? It's radicals do you think?"

I'm not sure, Mitch. Look, I don't want to talk about this on the phone. I'm on Franklin right now. If you're close meet me at the Canal Cafe.

Mitch's cursing was almost drowned out by the noise of running students.

"Jaa, give me ten minutes."

~~~~

Campustown fostered a hushed panic. It clung to the follicles of hair and curdled in the stomachs of the wide-eyed people there. Everyone knew something was terribly wrong, but they couldn't decide just what it was or how directly it affected them. They hurried about their evening schedules half-heartedly, like deer after the first shots of gun season. The chaos that was Wickerton Hall could still be heard all the way to Franklin. The alleys themselves whispered of darker days and nights to come.

Jameson trotted into the crowded cafe after sidestepping a man shaking plaster from his hair on the threshold. He squeezed his way to the counter and ordered two beers from the rather distracted barista.

Speculation flitted about the room on smoky wings. A few dusty students vanished into the bathroom to clean up. They would not want to have been involved should the MDC pop in. Not that they had anything to say, even to friends and curious strangers.

There had been an explosion. Parts of the building had caved in and the arcade still smoldered. Those who were able to had run.

Did anyone die? a girl asked. All cast their eyes down in the ensuing silence.

Jameson found a corner to wait for Michiko in. He sipped a beer and found that he was shaking in the wake of adrenaline he couldn't recall using. Mitch found him there minutes later. She accepted the beer and appraised him.

I thought you were inside still. Was Ms. Weiland with you?

Sharon. He'd forgotten her.

No, she wasn't. But I'm sure she got out, he told himself as much as Mitch. I left maybe five minutes earlier. She wouldn't have stayed.

I hope she's okay, Mitch said, staring at the space between bubbles.

Yeah, me too.

Jameson watched the unusually busy street beyond the steamy window. People were clotting together, sharing thoughts and worries in the cooling night. The streetlights came on and people fastened to them, moths swinging in and out of the pooled light to share one-another's presence.

Michiko and Jameson stayed in the silent corner, letting the surrounding murmur fuel their imaginations.

Lancent subterfuge?

Second Shell radicals?

Academic discontent?

Maybe Wickerton had just been standing there too long, one boy chuckled cynically. It was overdue for renovation. His friend shushed him as flashing lights danced across the crumbling stucco of the garden wall out front.

Nothing like this had ever happened on campus before. Violence had always been comfortably foreign or historic. What would this do to them? Jameson was sure it would only compound the complications of his existence.

How much you wanna bet they'll try to pin this on me? he mumbled.

What? Mitch said. That's not funny.

"I'm not