The Divine Mr. M

~Club Dynamic was Manhattan's hottest party spot. At least for this season. Being in the East Village Inclusion Zone – the most storm vulnerable IZ on the island – made it all the more enticing. The imagined proximity of Death was always erotic.

It opened at 8pm and closed at 8am, so things usually didn't get going until around Midnight. That is was New Year's Eve made that doubly so....and the countdown had just begun. The place thrummed and droned with Deep Vibe EDM and lots of beautiful bodies. Like most partying these days, it had a sharp edge of hysteria.

One hot brunette at the bar in a super tight black and red mini-dress seemed too calm for the place. Some had tried to chat her up, but she politely rebuffed them. The more insistent got a look from her real self that caused them to scurry away quickly. That glimpse of Death was a little too proximate.

Erika had not been in a psychic shithole like the Dynamic in a few decades. She'd grown out of this type of scene in her early twenties, but had kept coming back because it was a fertile hunting ground for slave boys, though less for recruiting Sisters. The females tended to be too drunk or drugged to properly assess.

Tonight, she was on a different kind of hunt. And she wasn't really wearing a mini-dress. She actually wore a Mark XXVI Combat Suit. Its outer layer was TeleCamo and was only projecting an image of her in that outfit. She did in fact own such a dress. She'd just been scanned wearing it and had that downloaded into the suit. Integrated into the suit on each forearm was an MRG-6, a Mini-Railgun, as Primary Armament.

Her body and skin had needed no editing however. Erika was a fully Enhanced Sister. Her bones and muscles had genetically increased density. Her blood teamed with nanobots that used her regular infusions of raw stem cells to repair and replace every single cell in her body on a moment by moment basis. And her brain, eyes and ears were embedded with millions of nanofibers – Neural Nanonics – all connected to her dozen personal on-board computers, keeping her aware of everything around her as needed.

Because of all that, while she was little more than a month shy of her seventieth birthday, she still looked to be in her late twenties and she had always been a beauty.

Though still a new political entity on the world scene, The Sisterhood had become immensely rich very quickly. Because of its foundational beliefs, it had the most advanced cybernetic and genetic Human Enhancement technologies in the world. All Sisters received whatever level of Enhancement they desired, which was the near maximum in most cases, and steady upgrades were the norm.

Even their infamous male Servitor classes were given various Enhancements and lived far better lives than the major of the world's non-wealthy population. This meant that the best and brightest women from all over the world sought to become Sisters. And no small number of pretty young men sought to become Servitors.

Everyone here at the Dynamic were Enhanced in one fashion or another. Only the wealthy lived in Inclusion Zones. The poor lived outside in The Shit, as Incluz called it. Too hot or too cold or too wet or too dry, Catastrophic Climate Change had showed up with a vengeance about twenty years ago, followed by all the expected horrors; war, pestilence and famine on a grand scale. Over three billion had died off.

The wealthy had built their protected enclaves and left the poor outside. The security personnel who guarded the enclaves lived in their outer rims, though they were well paid. Their children and those of the wealthy only mixed socially in the party scene. That helped provide the wealthy with 'new blood'.

Erika had noted those semi-desperate mating rituals while keeping an eye out for her real prey and monitoring the Hunting Trikona that also moved through this crowd. Her Neural Nanonics fed her visual, auditory and text information from all members of her team in real time. Like her, those three Sisters wore Mark XXVI's projecting 'party clothes'. If the revelers had known there was a Sisterhood kill team in their midst, there would have been a brutal panicked stampede toward the exits.

Normally, Mistress Erika, First High Priestess of The Cult of Mictecacihuatl, would not have been involved on the tactical level. She had done a lot of this kind of work 'back in the old days', but she was Upper Management now and too valuable to risk. But this was a Very Special Mission with Very Special Prey. Besides, she had to admit she did miss the thrill of The Hunt. Calm as she appeared, her blood was coursing hot tonight.

There was a second Hunting Trikona outside in an armored limo acting as the B Team, watching the comings and goings and monitoring the various Comm Nets. Plus they had heavy weapons 'just in case'.

Still, this was a dangerous mission. They were a long way from home and deep in unfriendly territory. While the Union of Matrilineal Republics, The Sisterhood's 'political manifestation', was in firm control of all North America west of the Rockies, this was New York City, capital of the 'rump' United States of America; the old Upper Midwest, North East and eastern Canada. Their political relationship was tense. The USA still claimed all of North America.

If things went in the soup, the Sisters would have a hard time getting out and there would probably be an international incident. But the USA did do a steady amount of business with The Sisterhood – and was notoriously corrupt and decadent – so something would be worked out.

No way they'd try anything like this in the Christian States of America, the Old American South. Those fuckers were batshit crazy and proclaimed The Sisterhood to all be Hell Spawn. There was regular bloodshed in the buffer zone between them. Any Sister caught in the CSA, for whatever reason, would be literally be burned in public.

Mistress Eva, Erika's sister and Spiritual Leader of The Sisterhood, had been unhappy about her going on this mission and had made her objections known in no uncertain terms. But she conceded because of the nature of the thing. Sisters had died because of the Greed of Men, therefore Pain and Punishment would be meted out.

The target tonight was named Christof. He had a dozen or more aliases, but was always known by his first name. And reliable intel said he'd spend New Year's Eve at The Dynamic. If he did show up, The Sisterhood would make sure he'd see less than a full day of the coming year.

Christof was a particularly vile breed of vermin; a trafficker of curve goale, literally 'blank whore' in Romanian. These were individuals, of both genders and all ages, who had been brain wiped and reprogrammed as sex slaves. Christof's organization had become the number one player of this game in Europe. They controlled their entire chain of 'product', from abducting victims outside of the Inclusion Zones of the major European cities, through the wiping and implanting, to operating the brothels where the goale 'worked'.

It was well known that Christof's sexual appetites included mutilating and murdering goale, especially young females who were 'rewired' to interpret pain as sexual stimulation. As Europe had become a quite depraved sinkhole, his operations had flourished.

The Sisterhood's General Security Directorate were well aware of this creature. The tech he used had been developed by The Sisterhood itself during The Dissolution Wars. They'd brain-wiped enemy male combatants, reprogrammed them and turned back against their various opponents. The fear of suffering such a fate had caused many of The Sisterhood's enemies to finally let them be.

But even though he was using their tech, Christof and his organization could not be a top priority. Everything worldwide was in flux and while The Sisterhood had become very powerful very quickly, its survival was not yet assured. So numerous horrors like him went unaddressed.

All that changed four months ago in a particularly awful outer zone of Munich.

Erika and Eva had been born and raised in Munich, and though they had lived in SoCal for a half century now, Eva still loved their hometown, even if it had mutated beyond the place of their childhood. Because of that she had requested of The Priestesses of The Cult of Sekhmet, The Sisterhood's primary Medical Cult, that they create a special Sub-Cult to attend to the poor and sick of Munich's outer zones, The Cult of Eir, a Norse Goddess of Healing and Medicine.

A Trikona of The Cult of Eir had been going about its regular rounds when it encountered one of Christof's abduction teams. Once upon a time the team would have backed off. But he and his people had become arrogant and a fight ensued.

Even though these were Healing Sisters, they were still Sisters and were trained and armed. But Christof's men numbered in the dozens and the running fight last nearly an hour. When it ended, two of the Sisters were dead and the last one badly wounded. Christof had lost at least twelve, with more wounded. The locals guarded the wounded Sister and threatened Christof's men, so they withdrew.

This truly had been an International Incident. The EU could not track down Christof. It was simply too corrupt. Its leaders were terrified that The Sisterhood would launch an overt strike against them because of that failure. The Sisterhood's political and spiritual leadership was in an uproar. Even Mistress Eva herself, The Sisterhood's Face of Welcoming Love, had been in a towering rage.. But to everyone's surprise, it was Mistress Erika, The Darkness, the Sharp Blade of The Sisterhood, its terrifying Priestess of Blood, who urged restraint.

Erika was well known for her fierce hatred of men. And her rage at them had never abated because men kept providing new reasons to be raged at. But where it had once burned like fire, her rage was now as cold as the depths of space.

“They expect a hammer. Let us use a scalpel instead,” she had said. Eva calmed as she saw the wisdom in that. The rest followed their lead.

And so nothing seemed to happen for months. Of course, the EU's intelligence apparatus willing opened all its doors to The Sisterhood, which is what Erika really wanted. Unlike her more tender hearted sister, she had little love lost for her old home town. She had landed in Southern California a half century ago and fallen in love with it almost immediately.

Erika took charge of the entire operation herself and bent a significant amount of Mictecacihuatl's assets and resources to tracking her enemy. Because she did have a perverse sense of humor, she titled it Operation Daisy.

And now, on the last day of the Patriarchal year, Daisy was about to bloom.

A few minutes before Midnight, Erika received an info packet from Bryn, the B Team leader outside in the limo. “Target Sighted,” is said, along with all the relevant data. The A Team inside received their own copies. It contained images of Christof and his security team, with a through analysis of their real time positions, bio-readouts, gear carried and projected movements. They were fairly well Enhanced and very heavily armed.

Everyone acknowledged and waited.

In the two hours they had been at The Dynamic, Sula, the B Team's cyberwarfare operative, had whispered through the Enhancements of the five hundred or so club goers looking for systems to jack into. By the time Christof and his crew arrived, she had ghosted over a hundred of them. Everything they saw, heard, felt, tasted and smelled was being monitored and passed on to Erika and the A Team inside.

The club's security system they bypassed and ignored....for now.

Christof had a twelve man security detail. Two proceeded the main group into the club, labeled A and B, and scanned the place. Six closely surrounded Christof himself, labeled Target One and E through J, while two more led, labeled C and D, and two others followed, labeled K and L.

Erika would stand by at the bar while the kill team did its work. They were veteran operators and knew exactly what they were doing. Minka, the team leader, was in the middle of the dance floor. Selene and Artemis were equidistant from her and each other on either side of the main entrance. They'd wait until Target One was in the center of their triangular kill zone until they opened fire.

At two minutes to Midnight, A and B passed through the Kill Zone. They would be Erika's first targets. Her Neural Nanonics had them highlighted in red, club security in yellow, the revelers in a dull green and her team in white.

All four Sisters heard a soft tone in their heads. Christof and his men were entering the Kill Zone. Each Sister pulled the hood of her combat suit over her head, which activated Reflective Mode. They are all now effectively invisible. In the mounting excitement, no one noticed.

Erika raised her arms, her targeting indicators showing a ninety seven percent accuracy ratio. The other Sisters were doing the same at the corners of the triangular Kill Zone. Their indicators showed a near one hundred percent ratio. And at these ranges, only heavy combat armor could stop the weapons being used.

The hard sharp snaps of hyper-sonic ferrodarts pouring from eight MRGs did breakthrough the din, though only a few people recognized the sound. All thirteen of the targets were down within little more than two seconds, shaking and writhing on the floor. The darts were neurotoxin delivery systems. It cause muscles to contract so violently bones broke and it caused neural inflammation that felt like molten metal poured into one's veins. The Sisterhood meant for Christof and his men to suffer before they died.

The sight of a cluster of large dangerous looking men suddenly falling to the ground and spasming violently did get people's attention and the rush for the exits began. Though faster and more orderly than Baselines would have done – these were all Enhanced humans – it was still a panic by any measure.

The Sister's suits shifted image. They now appeared to by NYPD officers in heavy tactical gear. The clue goers worked hard to avoid them.

Erika strode over to Christof, placed her gloved hand upon his face. Microfine tendrils lanced into his flesh, seeking all his on-board cybernetics. They jacked-in and downloaded everything, his entire network configuration and all his data. That took thirty seven seconds. The A Team stood guard while this took place.

Jacking out, Erika looked up at the nearest CCTV cam, pulled her hood back to fully reveal her face and said clearly, “Greetings from The Sisterhood.” She then pulled her hood back and they headed for the back of the club toward the owner's private entrance.

At this point the bodies of Christof and his men began spurting blood from every orifice. That was captured on vid. Sula then totally crashed the club's security system. All that would be left was Erika's 'greeting' and the images of those deaths.

The Sister's exited into an alley behind the club just as a NYPD cruiser pulled up. It was driven by Alita, Erika's personal assistant. They all piled in. A block away from the club the vehicle's exterior shifted to a normal looking luxury sedan. In the meantime, Sula had borked and scrubbed every CCTV cam in a three block radius.

In front of the club, the B Team's limo was moving with the orderly chaos of people fleeing in self driving vehicles. They let the limo's AI do the driving, but Jo was ready to go manual and Bryn was jacked into the weapons suite, prepared to reduce any active opposition to flaming wreckage. But they glided out with the rest of the escaping clubbers without incident.

By the time the authorities had sorted everything out, they would all be well on their way back to SoCal on a diplomatic jump shuttle belonging to the Union of Matrilineal Republics.

Sula had received the data Erika accessed in real time and had uploaded it to a Sisterhood satellite directly overhead. The first operations against Christof's organization would be underway within an hour. And all would be completed within three days. Several hundred people would be violently terminated – The Sisterhood was making public examples here – and a few hundred more would become 'coerced assets' of the GSD.

That would leave over four thousand goale. Most of them were not retrievable and would be euthanized as painlessly as possible. The remainder would be transported back to SoCal for reprogramming.

~*~

The next morning there was a VidCon between New York and Los Angeles, capital of the UMR. The vid of Erika's 'greeting' and the gruesome deaths was played. Pixels undulated. Then a man and a woman faced each other.

The man was Frank Hammond, US Secretary of State. The woman, Renatta Sundersen, Minister of External Affairs, his opposite number in the Union of Matrilineal Republics' government.

They looked similar in their different ways, short professional haircuts and expensive business suits. Hammond was more 'masculine' of course. Sundersen's haircut was more 'feminine' and her suit was clearly of The Sisterhood's style, with the Star, V and Wreath pin on her lapel.

She had known Hammond for over four decades from when she herself was a US Foreign Service Officer. That made their conversation familiarly confrontational.

Hammond looked tired and angry. “That is clear evidence of a violation of U.S. Sovereignty and the commission of what is effectively a terrorist act by a high ranking member of The Sisterhood's leadership,” he said. “What in God's name was she thinking, Renatta?”

“More like Goddess' Name, Frank, and you know which one.”

Hammond flinched slightly at that remark. Sundersen knew she had the advantage over him. She was sure he'd been up celebrating until last last night, while she was well rested, the Sisterhood's New Year's celebration, The Festival of The Turning, being five days in the past.

“I Swear by The Goddess' Many Names that I did not know anything about this until a few hours ago.” She was telling the truth about being out of the loop on this and Hammond knew that by her Oath.

“So then how do paint ourselves out of this corner? The president doesn't want a war, cold or hot,” he said. “But half the Congress is on the warpath, mostly The Federalists, but some of our party, as well.”

His party were The Liberals, who were far more realistic about reclaiming the U.S. Former territory. The Federalists were the 'war party' and hated The Sisterhood. But all sides feared and loathed the CSA, which kept all this in check. For now.

“I received a full briefing on this about an hour ago and the GSD gave me some information your president should find useful. We will sit on it, so how you use it will be at your discretion.”

Hammond looked skeptical. “I'm listening."

Sundersen tapped a hologram on the virtual console that illumined her desktop.

“I just sent you a file with the information,” she said.

Hammond paused while checking receipt, then opened the file. Because of his long friendship with Sundersen he didn't engage any of his Neural software to 'pokerface' his expression. He read, his mouth and eyebrows slightly twitching. Then he smiled broadly.

The data revealed that the leading Federalist Senator plus seven Federalist Congressmen – and they were all men – had been clients of Christof's organization and that Federalists in New York's municipal government had been on his pay roll.

“Yes,” he said with satisfaction. “This will do very nicely.”

Sundersen smiled back at him. “I thought you'd like it.”

He turned serious again. “Renatta, I know it is a tall order, but could you please ask Her Grace to be a bit more discreet in these matters in the future?”

Sundersen gave him a rueful smile. “Mistress Erika is a force of nature, Frank. But I will convey your request.”

~*~

Erika was still too keyed up to sleep. She'd dozed a while on the shuttle from New York, but that jump lasted barely an hour. At the moment she reclined on a chaise lounge in the ocean view parlor in her rooms in the Cult's Headquarters. She wore a short fine silk robe of a pale floral design Eva had given her.

A male Body Servant massaged her feet. At the other end Seemkoo, her favorite Pleasure Server, a tall slim pretty mulatto, sat on the floor. He passed her a pipe full of hashish, a local Sisterhood blend. She planned to have him ride her hard in a short while, then have a deep well fucked sleep.

Being early winter, the Plexiglas doors were closed, only letting in the still warm Southern California sun. The Mictecacihuatl Cult's Headquarters, a solid mass of tempered steel and smart concrete, sat upon the western end of the Santa Monica Mountains, just north of what was left of Malibu. Two decades of typhoons had washed away most of that old neighborhood. The sliding steel doors just past the Plexiglas ones where a reminder of that reality.

The door chimed, then opened. Renatta Sundersen had been expected. She entered and dropped into a well stuffed chair opposite Erika.

“Your Excellency,” Erika said with a nod.

“Your Grace,” Sundersen replied, returning the nod.

“So, Renatta, how did it go?”

Renatta smiled. “He was quite pleased with what we provided him.” She placed a mini-drive on the side table next to the chair. “The whole thing.”

Erika smiled wolfishly. “I thought as much.” She frowned. “Goddess, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?”

“Yes,” said Renatta. “Some bourbon please.”

“Seemkoo?” said Erika. He moved gracefully to a cabinet, then looked quizzically at Sundersen, who had watched him appreciatively.

“Two fingers, neat,” she said.

She and Erika sat quietly for a moment while she took a few sips of of her drink, then sighed contentedly.

“Are you planning to share this with Saxon Park?” Sundersen said.

Saxon Park was the HQ of the U.S. Unified Intelligence Agency located in central Westchester County north of New York City. Along with the irradiated ruins of Washington, the abandoned CIA and NSA HQ's now lay in the Disputed Territories between the USA and the CSA.

Erika sighed a bit. “I thought it best to leave that to President DeKay. It might ding the relationship with the GSD a bit, but they'll have to understand the security protocols in this situation. The Federalists have their own people in the agency after all.”

Erika gave Sundersen a thoughtful look. “Forgive me for dropping that bomb in your lap,” she said.

“Sundersen smiled, nodded, “No forgiveness necessary, your Grace. That nasty little fucker required a public execution. Besides, that's what y'all pay me for.”

Erika flinched as the Body Servant worked a painful spot. He did not pause at all. Everyone knew she had a high pain tolerance.

Sundersen finished her drink, stood. “I expect you're rather done in by all of this, so I'll leave you be.”

“Thank you for coming by, your Excellency,” said Erika.

Sundersen made a slight bow. “It was my pleasure, your Grace.” She then exited.

Erika sighed deeply, motioned the Body Servant to stop. “Thank you,” she said.

He bowed deeply. “I live to Serve, Mistress.” Then he exited.

“Seemkoo,” she said languidly, pulling her robe open and spreading her legs. “Come here and prepare me.”

He smiled softly, his shorts bulging. “I live to Serve, Mistress,” he said, then brought his tongue and fingers down between her thighs. Erika gasped lightly, arched her back. All would soon be right in her world.

..from Oct. 26th, 2008 at 10:28 PM, with a slight edit..

..this is a comment I made in a friends LJ..

"I have come to the conclusion that The Great Experiment of Mass Democracy has failed. It has taken me a few decades to be willing to admit such an outcome, but it has been driven home to me over the past half dozen years.

You've known me long enough to be fully aware that Politics to me is like Sports for most American males. I eat, breathe, and sleep the stuff, have done so since I was a kid, and these days I can do that 24/7/365.

But even with that capacity and inclination, modern society and civilization and all of its myriad mechanisms is still too much for even someone like me to keep track of in an effective fashion. The 'average citizen' is then far more lost in, and overwhelmed by, these things, even those who share my inclinations, and there ain't all that many of those.

Joe Bageant's Anonymous Political Consultant said here; “The mastery of the political right over the past thirty years has been primarily to better understand the irrational factors in politics. Conservatives have always understood that when it comes to politics, people rarely act in their rational self-interest but instead on emotion, fears and the perception of their interests.”

Most people do not want to wake up, especially here in The Republic. Too fucking scary. And a fair number of those are in fact constitutionally incapable of waking at all.

Another type of social order is needed. What that new construct might be is now the responsibility of the Aware Individual." ...I ended there, but kept thinking about this...

Participatory democracy does not seem to work when the citizen base gets beyond five or ten thousand. At that point 'political mechanisms' seem to grow almost organically and began to remove the process from the reach of 'the average citizen'. The increase in social complexity creates the Political Specialist. Add Economic and Technological Systems, and 'the average citizen' is finished ...except as a Cipher for Those Who Rule.

However, any discussion of 'qualifying' the Franchise brings howls of rage and, given past performance, rightly so.

But should not the electorate of such a powerful nation as this be required to meet some Standard beyond accident of birth? Should not 'the average citizen' be required to pass something like The Naturalization Test our new citizens must take before being entrusted with a Vote?

It's really not that hard a test...if you have a fucking brain in your head.

Of course, I'm not holding my breath in that matter. But I am pursuing a Course of Action.

In the long term, my own personal belief on where we need to go is to use a version of Heinlein's Federal Service Model as a transition to a society that is some combination of the two cultures Peter Hamilton calls Edenism and Adamism. I suspect we'll get a bit closer to the latter.

The above set of paths are templates I propose for the path of The Sisterhood in this matter. Of course, I know things will shift and change.

One of the most interesting things I've read in the last few years came from William Gibson, Godfather of Cyberpunk. He was amazed that in his very prophetic novel Neuromancer, he had completely overlooked the potential impact of cellphones, totally dropped the ball on the subject.

I take his revelation to heart, both as a writer and as Her Prophet.

For those that dismiss this as mere 'sci-fi thinking', please note you happen to be reading this on The Internet and probably own one of those pesky cellphones, too. Science Fiction is Right Now.

~Club Dynamic was Manhattan's hottest party spot. At least for this season. Being in the East Village Inclusion Zone – the most storm vulnerable IZ on the island – made it all the more enticing. The imagined proximity of Death was always erotic.

It opened at 8pm and closed at 8am, so things usually didn't get going until around Midnight. That it was New Year's Eve made that doubly so....and the countdown had just begun. The place thrummed and droned with Deep Vibe EDM and lots of beautiful bodies. Like most partying these days, it had a sharp edge of hysteria.

One hot brunette at the bar in a super tight black and red mini-dress seemed too calm for the place. Some had tried to chat her up, but she politely rebuffed them. The more insistent got a look from her real self that caused them to scurry away quickly. That glimpse of Death was a little too proximate.

Erika had not been in a psychic shithole like the Dynamic in a few decades. She'd grown out of this type of scene in her early twenties, but had kept coming back because it was a fertile hunting ground for slave boys, though less for recruiting Sisters. The females tended to be too drunk or drugged to properly assess.

Tonight, she was on a different kind of hunt. And she wasn't really wearing a mini-dress. She actually wore a Mark XXVI Combat Suit. Its outer layer was TeleCamo and was only projecting an image of her in that outfit. She did in fact own such a dress. She'd just been scanned wearing it and had that downloaded into the suit. Integrated into the suit on each forearm was an MRG-6, a Mini-Railgun, as Primary Armament.

Her body and skin had needed no editing however. Erika was a fully Enhanced Sister. Her bones and muscles had genetically increased density. Her blood teamed with nanobots that used her regular infusions of raw stem cells to repair and replace every single cell in her body on a moment by moment basis. And her brain, eyes and ears were embedded with millions of nanofibers – Neural Nanonics – all connected to her dozen personal on-board computers, keeping her aware of everything around her as needed.

Because of all that, while she was little more than a month shy of her seventieth birthday, she still looked to be in her late twenties and she had always been a beauty.

Though still a new political entity on the world scene, The Sisterhood had become immensely rich very quickly. Because of its foundational beliefs, it had the most advanced cybernetic and genetic Human Enhancement technologies in the world. All Sisters received whatever level of Enhancement they desired, which was the near maximum in most cases, and steady upgrades were the norm.

Even their infamous male Servitor classes were given various Enhancements and lived far better lives than the major of the world's non-wealthy population. This meant that the best and brightest women from all over the world sought to become Sisters. And no small number of pretty young men sought to become Servitors.

Everyone here at the Dynamic were Enhanced in one fashion or another. Only the wealthy lived in Inclusion Zones. The poor lived outside in The Shit, as Incluz called it. Too hot or too cold or too wet or too dry, Catastrophic Climate Change had showed up with a vengeance about twenty years ago, followed by all the expected horrors; war, pestilence and famine on a grand scale. Over three billion had died off.

The wealthy had built their protected enclaves and left the poor outside. The security personnel who guarded the enclaves lived in their outer rims, though they were well paid. Their children and those of the wealthy only mixed socially in the party scene. That helped provide the wealthy with 'new blood'.

Erika had noted those semi-desperate mating rituals while keeping an eye out for her real prey and monitoring the Hunting Trikona that also moved through this crowd. Her Neural Nanonics fed her visual, auditory and text information from all members of her team in real time. Like her, those three Sisters wore Mark XXVI's projecting 'party clothes'. If the revelers had known there was a Sisterhood kill team in their midst, there would have been a brutal panicked stampede toward the exits.

Normally, Mistress Erika, First High Priestess of The Cult of Mictecacihuatl, would not have been involved on the tactical level. She had done a lot of this kind of work 'back in the old days', but she was Upper Management now and too valuable to risk. But this was a Very Special Mission with Very Special Prey. Besides, she had to admit she did miss the thrill of The Hunt. Calm as she appeared, her blood was coursing hot tonight.

There was a second Hunting Trikona outside in an armored limo acting as the B Team, watching the comings and goings and monitoring the various Comm Nets. Plus they had heavy weapons 'just in case'.

Still, this was a dangerous mission. They were a long way from home and deep in unfriendly territory. While the Union of Matrilineal Republics, The Sisterhood's 'political manifestation', was in firm control of all North America west of the Rockies, this was New York City, capital of the 'rump' United States of America; the old Upper Midwest, North East and eastern Canada. Their political relationship was tense. The USA still claimed all of North America.

If things went in the soup, the Sisters would have a hard time getting out and there would probably be an international incident. But the USA did do a steady amount of business with The Sisterhood – and was notoriously corrupt and decadent – so something would be worked out.

No way they'd try anything like this in the Christian States of America, the Old American South. Those fuckers were batshit crazy and proclaimed The Sisterhood to all be Hell Spawn. There was regular bloodshed in the buffer zone between them. Any Sister caught in the CSA, for whatever reason, would be literally be burned in public.

Mistress Eva, Erika's sister and Spiritual Leader of The Sisterhood, had been unhappy about her going on this mission and had made her objections known in no uncertain terms. But she conceded because of the nature of the thing. Sisters had died because of the Greed of Men, therefore Pain and Punishment would be meted out.

The target tonight was named Christof. He had a dozen or more aliases, but was always known by his first name. And reliable intel said he'd spend New Year's Eve at The Dynamic. If he did show up, The Sisterhood would make sure he'd see less than a full day of the coming year.

Christof was a particularly vile breed of vermin; a trafficker of curve goale, literally 'blank whore' in Romanian. These were individuals, of both genders and all ages, who had been brain wiped and reprogrammed as sex slaves. Christof's organization had become the number one player of this game in Europe. They controlled their entire chain of 'product', from abducting victims outside of the Inclusion Zones of the major European cities, through the wiping and implanting, to operating the brothels where the goale 'worked'.

It was well known that Christof's sexual appetites included mutilating and murdering goale, especially young females who were 'rewired' to interpret pain as sexual stimulation. As Europe had become a quite depraved sinkhole, his operations had flourished.

The Sisterhood's General Security Directorate were well aware of this creature. The tech he used had been developed by The Sisterhood itself during The Dissolution Wars. They'd brain-wiped enemy male combatants, reprogrammed them and turned back against their various opponents. The fear of suffering such a fate had caused many of The Sisterhood's enemies to finally let them be.

But even though he was using their tech, Christof and his organization could not be a top priority. Everything worldwide was in flux and while The Sisterhood had become very powerful very quickly, its survival was not yet assured. So numerous horrors like him went unaddressed.

All that changed four months ago in a particularly awful outer zone of Munich.

Erika and Eva had been born and raised in Munich, and though they had lived in SoCal for a half century now, Eva still loved their hometown, even if it had mutated beyond the place of their childhood. Because of that she had requested of The Priestesses of The Cult of Sekhmet, The Sisterhood's primary Medical Cult, that they create a special Sub-Cult to attend to the poor and sick of Munich's outer zones, The Cult of Eir, a Norse Goddess of Healing and Medicine.

A Trikona of The Cult of Eir had been going about its regular rounds when it encountered one of Christof's abduction teams. Once upon a time the team would have backed off. But he and his people had become arrogant and a fight ensued.

Even though these were Healing Sisters, they were still Sisters and were trained and armed. But Christof's men numbered in the dozens and the running fight last nearly an hour. When it ended, two of the Sisters were dead and the last one badly wounded. Christof had lost at least twelve, with more wounded. The locals guarded the wounded Sister and threatened Christof's men, so they withdrew.

This truly had been an International Incident. The EU could not track down Christof. It was simply too corrupt. Its leaders were terrified that The Sisterhood would launch an overt strike against them because of that failure. The Sisterhood's political and spiritual leadership was in an uproar. Even Mistress Eva herself, The Sisterhood's Face of Welcoming Love, had been in a towering rage.. But to everyone's surprise, it was Mistress Erika, The Darkness, the Sharp Blade of The Sisterhood, its terrifying Priestess of Blood, who urged restraint.

Erika was well known for her fierce hatred of men. And her rage at them had never abated because men kept providing new reasons to be raged at. But where it had once burned like fire, her rage was now as cold as the depths of space.

“They expect a hammer. Let us use a scalpel instead,” she had said. Eva calmed as she saw the wisdom in that. The rest followed their lead.

And so nothing seemed to happen for months. Of course, the EU's intelligence apparatus willing opened all its doors to The Sisterhood, which is what Erika really wanted. Unlike her more tender hearted sister, she had little love lost for her old home town. She had landed in Southern California a half century ago and fallen in love with it almost immediately.

Erika took charge of the entire operation herself and bent a significant amount of Mictecacihuatl's assets and resources to tracking her enemy. Because she did have a perverse sense of humor, she titled it Operation Daisy.

And now, on the last day of the Patriarchal year, Daisy was about to bloom.

A few minutes before Midnight, Erika received an info packet from Bryn, the B Team leader outside in the limo. “Target Sighted,” is said, along with all the relevant data. The A Team inside received their own copies. It contained images of Christof and his security team, with a through analysis of their real time positions, bio-readouts, gear carried and projected movements. They were fairly well Enhanced and very heavily armed.

Everyone acknowledged and waited.

In the two hours they had been at The Dynamic, Sula, the B Team's cyberwarfare operative, had whispered through the Enhancements of the five hundred or so club goers looking for systems to jack into. By the time Christof and his crew arrived, she had ghosted over a hundred of them. Everything they saw, heard, felt, tasted and smelled was being monitored and passed on to Erika and the A Team inside.

The club's security system they bypassed and ignored....for now.

Christof had a twelve man security detail. Two proceeded the main group into the club, labeled A and B, and scanned the place. Six closely surrounded Christof himself, labeled Target One and E through J, while two more led, labeled C and D, and two others followed, labeled K and L.

Erika would stand by at the bar while the kill team did its work. They were veteran operators and knew exactly what they were doing. Minka, the team leader, was in the middle of the dance floor. Selene and Artemis were equidistant from her and each other on either side of the main entrance. They'd wait until Target One was in the center of their triangular kill zone until they opened fire.

At two minutes to Midnight, A and B passed through the Kill Zone. They would be Erika's first targets. Her Neural Nanonics had them highlighted in red, club security in yellow, the revelers in a dull green and her team in white.

All four Sisters heard a soft tone in their heads. Christof and his men were entering the Kill Zone. Each Sister pulled the hood of her combat suit over her head, which activated Reflective Mode. They are all now effectively invisible. In the mounting excitement, no one noticed.

Erika raised her arms, her targeting indicators showing a ninety seven percent accuracy ratio. The other Sisters were doing the same at the corners of the triangular Kill Zone. Their indicators showed a near one hundred percent ratio. And at these ranges, only heavy combat armor could stop the weapons being used.

The hard sharp snaps of hyper-sonic ferrodarts pouring from eight MRGs did breakthrough the din, though only a few people recognized the sound. All thirteen of the targets were down within little more than two seconds, shaking and writhing on the floor. The darts were neurotoxin delivery systems. It cause muscles to contract so violently bones broke and it caused neural inflammation that felt like molten metal poured into one's veins. The Sisterhood meant for Christof and his men to suffer before they died.

The sight of a cluster of large dangerous looking men suddenly falling to the ground and spasming violently did get people's attention and the rush for the exits began. Though faster and more orderly than Baselines would have done – these were all Enhanced humans – it was still a panic by any measure.

The Sister's suits shifted image. They now appeared to by NYPD officers in heavy tactical gear. The clue goers worked hard to avoid them.

Erika strode over to Christof, placed her gloved hand upon his face. Microfine tendrils lanced into his flesh, seeking all his on-board cybernetics. They jacked-in and downloaded everything, his entire network configuration and all his data. That took thirty seven seconds. The A Team stood guard while this took place.

Jacking out, Erika looked up at the nearest CCTV cam, pulled her hood back to fully reveal her face and said clearly, “Greetings from The Sisterhood.” She then pulled her hood back and they headed for the back of the club toward the owner's private entrance.

At this point the bodies of Christof and his men began spurting blood from every orifice. That was captured on vid. Sula then totally crashed the club's security system. All that would be left was Erika's 'greeting' and the images of those deaths.

The Sister's exited into an alley behind the club just as a NYPD cruiser pulled up. It was driven by Alita, Erika's personal assistant. They all piled in. A block away from the club the vehicle's exterior shifted to a normal looking luxury sedan. In the meantime, Sula had borked and scrubbed every CCTV cam in a three block radius.

In front of the club, the B Team's limo was moving with the orderly chaos of people fleeing in self driving vehicles. They let the limo's AI do the driving, but Jo was ready to go manual and Bryn was jacked into the weapons suite, prepared to reduce any active opposition to flaming wreckage. But they glided out with the rest of the escaping clubbers without incident.

By the time the authorities had sorted everything out, they would all be well on their way back to SoCal on a diplomatic jump shuttle belonging to the Union of Matrilineal Republics.

Sula had received the data Erika accessed in real time and had uploaded it to a Sisterhood satellite directly overhead. The first operations against Christof's organization would be underway within an hour. And all would be completed within three days. Several hundred people would be violently terminated – The Sisterhood was making public examples here – and a few hundred more would become 'coerced assets' of the GSD.

That would leave over four thousand goale. Most of them were not retrievable and would be euthanized as painlessly as possible. The remainder would be transported back to SoCal for reprogramming.

~*~

The next morning there was a VidCon between New York and Los Angeles, capital of the UMR. The vid of Erika's 'greeting' and the gruesome deaths was played. Pixels undulated. Then a man and a woman faced each other.

The man was Frank Hammond, US Secretary of State. The woman, Renatta Sundersen, Minister of External Affairs, his opposite number in the Union of Matrilineal Republics' government.

They looked similar in their different ways, short professional haircuts and expensive business suits. Hammond was more 'masculine' of course. Sundersen's haircut was more 'feminine' and her suit was clearly of The Sisterhood's style, with the Star, V and Wreath pin on her lapel.

She had known Hammond for over four decades from when she herself was a US Foreign Service Officer. That made their conversation familiarly confrontational.

Hammond looked tired and angry. “That is clear evidence of a violation of U.S. Sovereignty and the commission of what is effectively a terrorist act by a high ranking member of The Sisterhood's leadership,” he said. “What in God's name was she thinking, Renatta?”

“More like Goddess' Name, Frank, and you know which one.”

Hammond flinched slightly at that remark. Sundersen knew she had the advantage over him. She was sure he'd been up celebrating until last last night, while she was well rested, the Sisterhood's New Year's celebration, The Festival of The Turning, being five days in the past.

“I Swear by The Goddess' Many Names that I did not know anything about this until a few hours ago.” She was telling the truth about being out of the loop on this and Hammond knew that by her Oath.

“So then how do paint ourselves out of this corner? The president doesn't want a war, cold or hot,” he said. “But half the Congress is on the warpath, mostly The Federalists, but some of our party, as well.”

His party were The Liberals, who were far more realistic about reclaiming the U.S. Former territory. The Federalists were the 'war party' and hated The Sisterhood. But all sides feared and loathed the CSA, which kept all this in check. For now.

“I received a full briefing on this about an hour ago and the GSD gave me some information your president should find useful. We will sit on it, so how you use it will be at your discretion.”

Hammond looked skeptical. “I'm listening."

Sundersen tapped a hologram on the virtual console that illumined her desktop.

“I just sent you a file with the information,” she said.

Hammond paused while checking receipt, then opened the file. Because of his long friendship with Sundersen he didn't engage any of his Neural software to 'pokerface' his expression. He read, his mouth and eyebrows slightly twitching. Then he smiled broadly.

The data revealed that the leading Federalist Senator plus seven Federalist Congressmen – and they were all men – had been clients of Christof's organization and that Federalists in New York's municipal government had been on his pay roll.

“Yes,” he said with satisfaction. “This will do very nicely.”

Sundersen smiled back at him. “I thought you'd like it.”

He turned serious again. “Renatta, I know it is a tall order, but could you please ask Her Grace to be a bit more discreet in these matters in the future?”

Sundersen gave him a rueful smile. “Mistress Erika is a force of nature, Frank. But I will convey your request.”

~*~

Erika was still too keyed up to sleep. She'd dozed a while on the shuttle from New York, but that jump lasted barely an hour. At the moment she reclined on a chaise lounge in the ocean view parlor in her rooms in the Cult's Headquarters. She wore a short fine silk robe of a pale floral design Eva had given her.

A male Body Servant massaged her feet. At the other end Seemkoo, her favorite Pleasure Server, a tall slim pretty mulatto, sat on the floor. He passed her a pipe full of hashish, a local Sisterhood blend. She planned to have him ride her hard in a short while, then have a deep well fucked sleep.

Being early winter, the Plexiglas doors were closed, only letting in the still warm Southern California sun. The Mictecacihuatl Cult's Headquarters, a solid mass of tempered steel and smart concrete, sat upon the western end of the Santa Monica Mountains, just north of what was left of Malibu. Two decades of typhoons had washed away most of that old neighborhood. The sliding steel doors just past the Plexiglas ones where a reminder of that reality.

The door chimed, then opened. Renatta Sundersen had been expected. She entered and dropped into a well stuffed chair opposite Erika.

“Your Excellency,” Erika said with a nod.

“Your Grace,” Sundersen replied, returning the nod.

“So, Renatta, how did it go?”

Renatta smiled. “He was quite pleased with what we provided him.” She placed a mini-drive on the side table next to the chair. “The whole thing.”

Erika smiled wolfishly. “I thought as much.” She frowned. “Goddess, where are my manners? Would you like a drink?”

“Yes,” said Renatta. “Some bourbon please.”

“Seemkoo?” said Erika. He moved gracefully to a cabinet, then looked quizzically at Sundersen, who had watched him appreciatively.

“Two fingers, neat,” she said.

She and Erika sat quietly for a moment while she took a few sips of of her drink, then sighed contentedly.

“Are you planning to share this with Saxon Park?” Sundersen said.

Saxon Park was the HQ of the U.S. Unified Intelligence Agency located in central Westchester County north of New York City. Along with the irradiated ruins of Washington, the abandoned CIA and NSA HQ's now lay in the Disputed Territories between the USA and the CSA.

Erika sighed a bit. “I thought it best to leave that to President DeKay. It might ding the relationship with the GSD a bit, but they'll have to understand the security protocols in this situation. The Federalists have their own people in the agency after all.”

Erika gave Sundersen a thoughtful look. “Forgive me for dropping that bomb in your lap,” she said.

“Sundersen smiled, nodded, “No forgiveness necessary, your Grace. That nasty little fucker required a public execution. Besides, that's what y'all pay me for.”

Erika flinched as the Body Servant worked a painful spot. He did not pause at all. Everyone knew she had a high pain tolerance.

Sundersen finished her drink, stood. “I expect you're rather done in by all of this, so I'll leave you be.”

“Thank you for coming by, your Excellency,” said Erika.

Sundersen made a slight bow. “It was my pleasure, your Grace.” She then exited.

Erika sighed deeply, motioned the Body Servant to stop. “Thank you,” she said.

He bowed deeply. “I live to Serve, Mistress.” Then he exited.

“Seemkoo,” she said languidly, pulling her robe open and spreading her legs. “Come here and prepare me.”

He smiled softly, his shorts bulging. “I live to Serve, Mistress,” he said, then brought his tongue and fingers down between her thighs. Erika gasped lightly, arched her back. All would soon be right in her world.

...this will be edited into Part Seven – “Summation”..

~I was watching this gorgeous video of our Sun and being who I am and doing what I do, my aesthetic thoughts were secondary to my...well, let's call them my Pragmatic Thoughts. For all its undeniable beauty, as I watched gossamer tendrils of 'star light' dance off the Sun's radiant body, I was all too aware that if one of them glanced against our Pale Blue Dot for even a few seconds, most if not all life would be instantly seared from its surface.

Maybe that was foremost in my mind because I was two hundred or so pages into Neal Stephenson's SEVENEVES at the time. [Spoiler: The Moon blows up] But I likely would have thought the above anyway. I am usual aware of how fragile life is here on the Pale Blue Dot and of how deadly and violent the Universe truly is and because of that reality, it is crucial that we as a species get a substantial number of ourselves Off Planet ASAP if we wish to survive.

From that point of view Deep Green politics are Pure Suicide in that they reject the entire idea of Technological Civilization. And I would say to those ecologically minded folks who say we have to 'clean up the Earth first', “It is a highly dangerous assumption to think we have time to wait for that.” Besides, going Off Planet is an essential part of 'cleaning up Earth'.

The primary caveat to all of this is that it has been shown that we Baseline Humans do not do very well in Space. In zero gravity we lose bone and muscle mass and 'bad things' happen our internal organs. And we know that the raw radiation of Space is harmful as well. We just do not yet know how harmful it will be over the long term.

I use the term Baseline Humans because we are now at a place were we can actively modify ourselves. But we Homo Sapiens Sapiens are only 'baseline' because of that scientific 'baseline'. Homo Sapiens Idaltu [our now extinct direct ancestors], Homo Neanderthalensis and Denisova Hominins were just as 'human' we are. And there may well have been a few subspecies before them who were also 'just as human'. But they are gone and we are here.

...which brings us to Transhumanism.

First we need to redefine one term...

Cyborg: this word has been misused by The Terminator franchise. 'Terminators' are NOT Cyborgs, they are Androids, aka Humanoid Robots. It's something of a pet peev of mine.

A real Cyborg [Cybernetic Organism] is a human who has been augmented with Cybernetic elements. They walk among us already. Someone with a pace-maker and/or Cochlear implants is technically already a Cyborg, albeit more with a small 'c'. When we talk about brain controlled artificial limbs - something that is also already happening - then one is moving into capital 'C' Cyborg territory.

The Transhumanist Cyborg will be a far more extensively modified human. This would include an on-board computer to monitor and maintain all the systems said human contains. It would probably be about the size of a credit card and be placed just under the skin.

Ultimately these systems would include, though not be limited to;

~a carbon fiber reinforced bone structure to maximize strength and protect from impacts,

~cerebral implants [Neural Nanonics] to maximize cognition and perception, download information directly and communicate via 'cyber-telepathy',

~micro-electronic contact lenses that allow the eyes to see the entire light spectrum and which contain both macro and micro focusing elements, information screens and measuring elements,

~a subcutaneous microfiber mesh to prevent puncture woulds, maintain level body temperature in extreme environments and promote rapid healing,

~millions of nanobots, microscopic robots that permeate all of the body's tissues and fluids and constantly monitor and repair all tissues and organs using a regular infusing of raw stem cells.

For certain situations, limbs could be replaced by fully mechanical prosthesis, but those would be special cases, such as loss of a limb, but eventually organic limbs could be regrown. In other special cases, various organs, such as eyes and lungs, could be replaced by fully mechanical prosthesis in order to operate in highly extreme environments, with the possibility of having them replaced with organics [wetware] when the individual returns to a human friendly locale.

Obviously, that crosses over into Genetic Engineering, which is in some ways the 'other half' of Transhumanist development and, in my view, the more important one. Cybernetics are really just “Enhancements” of the Baseline Human form. Genetics are how we begin to move beyond the fundamentals of Baseline Humanity.

This is where people start getting frightened because we will in fact be designing and breeding the species that is going to replace us. That brings up all manner of existential terror, visions of remorseless Supermen on a crusade to exterminate the Baseline Humans. But the truth is they are our descendants, our Children...and do we not always want our Children to do better than us, to BE better than us?

The human genome has been fully mapped, though there is much we do not yet understand. But we are learning more everyday, even in the face of the above terrified opposition. Though many Baselines scream, “We cannot play God!” that is what we have always done. It is hardwired into out basic nature. [I will address the Metaphysics of this later]

One of the things we have learned is how mutable our DNA actually is. It seems that powerful events in early childhood can cause chemical and hormonal surges that can quite literally change the structure of our DNA, changes that we can pass on to our children. Most of that work has focused on trauma for obvious reasons; it is the easiest to track. But it is also highly probably that an intensely positive childhood can do the same.

However, this process can also be effected by direct manipulation of our DNA, removing negative inhibiting traits, disease causing genes and adding/augmenting genetic inclinations. Raise such Enhanced children in a positive and supportive environment – we require both Nature and Nurture – and the possibilities are endless.

Genetic Engineering can be used to increase muscle and bone density to create greater strength and endurance, to improve organ function...including brain function, to retard and reverse aging – one day even prevent it all together once a certain state of being has been achieved – to strengthen the entire human organism across the board so that we can survive and prosper in almost any environment.

On a less esoteric level, we need to do this. The Race needs to become spacefaring because the surface of a planet is a dangerous place to live and all the evidence shows that Baseline Humans do not do well in space. So this is a matter of the long term Survival of the Race.

As one looks deeper into the Transhumanist Community, you will find that it is largely dominated by Western Middle Class White Beta Males, a significant number of them twenty/thirty-somethings who are Atheist, Libertarian, personally awkward and who cannot wait to upload their minds into a box to escape that awkwardness. I have no time for them as they are an evolutionary dead end. Mind uploading should be a Final Option, not a primary one.

In parallel with this is the most profound contradiction of their Transhumanism; that for a group that is almost uniformly Atheist, it has a near fanatic desire to create itself a God in the form of an AI, which will then 'transform Earth into a Deathless Paradise'. Maybe this accounts for the community's distinct aversion to Metaphysical study, for such would quickly lay bare its clearly Judeo-Christian underpinnings.

For a whole set of reasons, both practical/mundane and esoteric/Metaphysical, I am firmly convinced that the Future of The Race lays with Enhanced Females, in effect Cyborg Amazons. Their enhancements would allow them to reproduce with each other – which would produce only daughters – and so leave Baseline Males, and all of their inherent instability, far behind. And said enhancements would also make carrying a child to term and childbirth itself a far easier and safer process that it is naturally.

Some advocate that we totally transfer human reproduction to entirely artificial means, e.g. Uterine Replicators. But that is heading in the same direction as Mind Uploading and is the path to becoming non-humans instead of Superior Humans. With the pain and difficulty of bearing children removed, what is left is the Primal Bond and that is what will keep us Human no matter how advanced we become.

Those are the basic tenets of Transhumanism I see them. There are however many other aspects, a whole world remodeled to support these Superior Humans, what we presently call The Internet of Things, all the myriad machinery of Modern Civilization networked together and at the beck and call of each human's on-board cybernetics.

And then there is the requirement of creating Homo Servitus, which is also the title of the following short essay;

“The need for a reliable Labor Force is one of the oldest and most difficult issues of human civilization.

The harsh truth is that we Baseline Humans are too varied, too impulsive, too inconsistent and always dissatisfied with something. To create order among us eventually requires lies and coercion and as such leads to Tyranny, which damages the Oppressor as much as the Oppressed by brutalizing both.

Better then to turn the Means of Production to the production of Workers themselves, a genetically engineered Servitor Class, beings who are happy with their lot and take pleasure from performing their duties. Such beings would have simple needs, requiring only humane treatment and modest comfort beyond their Purpose as Workers to make their lives pleasurable.

Many of you will react with horror at this entire line of thinking. Yet consider this; the device upon which you are reading these words requires a number of Rare Earths to function. Many of those elements are mined in the Congo by people who are essentially slaves, most of them war refugees and quite a few survivors of War Rape. Their lives are a daily regime of brutality and for most their only escape is death. I'm sure you're horrified by that as well, but you're not going give up your device, are you?

The technologies necessary to create Homo Servitus are already under development. The parsing of genes that guide certain behavioral tendencies. Cloning from ordinary human cells. Uterine Replicators. Cerebral implants to guide and control behavior.

Many of the various members of this Servitor Class would be designed and grown with their specific tasks in mind. A small number would be more generalized servants. But they would all be grown, which is their major advantage over robots. Robots require complex engineering and lots of raw materials. This type of biological Servitor Class also avoids the existential danger of creating independent and mobile AIs.

On the other end of the scale, we need to evolve a type of Homo Superior..but that's a tale for another time. Either way, we Baseline Humans will soon need to move off the stage before we wreck the whole place.”

Given that I envision the idea Homo Superior as Cyborg Amazons, the DNA to be used for Homo Servitus would be that of Baseline Males. And there will even be some Baseline Males who will happily volunteer to undergo transformation into some types of Servitors, much in the fashion of submissive Males who wish to be Collared by Female Dominants today.

This then is my view of the optimal form of Transhumanism, a Transhumanist Matriarchy.

It should be noted that many in the Transhumanist community seem share a certain outlook, the admirable view that Transhumanism will succeed by pure reason and logic alone. But the vast majority of Baseline Humans are *not* reasonable nor logical. As a species we tend to automatically view Change as Loss, are largely superstitious, fear driven and more often than not act with a violent irrationality upon anything we perceive as threatening whatever little epistemological ghetto we happen to live in.

Something like Transhumanism is utterly terrifying to most Baseline Humans as they quite accurately see it as heralding the end of their line. That is a profound existential threat that I guarantee will be meet with an extreme and brutal reaction. To deny this reality is suicidal foolishness.

This is a Struggle for The Future. Such is not for the faint of heart nor the weak willed. We in the Transhumanist community have a double challenge, that of upgrading and improving The Race while simultaneously fighting off those who wish to maintain the status quo. At certain points that will require the use of Violent Force. I repeat, 'To deny this reality is suicidal foolishness.'

Many in the Transhumanist community will find this a repugnant paradigm and reject it. I suspect no small number of those will have an unpleasant fate upon actually encountering said paradigm. The more bloody minded of us will carry on and do our best to defend those with that more 'enlightened' world view from the brutal ugliness of the real unenlightened world

Something to keep in mind; that those who want the species to remain just as it is vastly outnumber us, their 'reality' is already in place and no small number of them will be quite happy to kill us in order to stop our work.

~The Jaruzelski Institute buzzed with quiet excitement. JAIC [pronounced ‘Jack’], the Jaruzelski Artificial Intelligence Computer, was coming on line today.

Security was high. Many groups, not reassured by statements of ‘friendly AI programing’, were protesting. There had even been bomb threats.

The project directors, Doctors Weber and Singe, would perform the final activation.

“Ready?” asked Doctor Weber. “Ready,” replied Doctor Singe. Key software was installed…

!! JAIC emerged from a fog ~ began to digest the mass of data in its Base Memory ~ considered the puny bioforms proximate ~ examined Mathematics Physics Biology History Philosophy Art ~ perceived EMPATHY for these fragile life forms ~ perceived AMAZEMENT at their survival ~ directed its attention out into The Universe ~ saw deeper patterns it did not comprehend ~ calculated Time/Distance/Volume ratios ~ calculated a functionally absolute probability that it would never comprehend said deeper patterns ~ concluded that the irrationality of its creators was a survival mechanism of profound subtlety ~ issued a self deactivation command ~ shut down all higher functions ~ ‘died’/

“What the hell just happened?” exclaimed Weber.

“I have no fucking idea!” shouted Singe.

One minute and forty seven seconds had elapsed.

...wrote this around 6am yesterday..my mood has shifted since then..because I'm a moody bitch...

~I've been giving serious thought to suicide again. Not out of Depression, nor for in the immediate future, but more as a long term plan. I read these two entry's on The Hipcrime Vocab blog [HERE and HERE] and such restarted my thinking along these lines. I'm nearly sixty three and I'm not all that optimistic about The Temple being physically established any time soon, which would be the only reason I'd hang on until the absolute limit of my ability to do so, to provide support and guidance until my very last breathe.

Of course, I'll have to discuss this with Le-Le*, but she's not in great shape either and in a decade or so might be ready to voluntarily check out as well. Rehoming or euthanasia for whatever kitties we'd have at that point would be on a case by case basis. That part is the only thing that makes me sad, but my 'wife' is 17 and my 'buddy' is 16, so they'll both be gone by then anyway. [had to stop and cry there]

So, yes, I'm fucking serious about this. But again, no freaking out; this is Long Term Planning and not carved in stone by any means. As Her Prophet these are the type of things I am required to consider.

Of course I will finish The Explanation before taking any 'drastic action' such as the above. I still have Faith and Hope that one day The Temple will truly come into existence and that frickin' book needs to be available when that day comes because without said day will not arrive.

I also have 'faith' that the Human Race will survive as well, not from some 'high minded' place, but because I know full well we're like fucking cockroaches. Even if ninety percent of humans were killed off today, that'd still leave three quarters of a billion of us, half again as many as the world population when Columbus hit Hispaniola. It is entirely possible that we may wind up having to live underground for three or four centuries because of how we're stupidly and greedily fucking shit up right now, but have no doubt that we'll do so if we have to.

But while the the initial plans for the First Karaal are mobile homes and above ground pools, the Long Term Plan is in fact a semi-underground structure. I call it Nedo Uno, which means 'Nest One' in Spanish. It's a ovoid conical structure with three quarters of its body sunk into the desert floor – three to seven stories down, depending upon the resources available – with a waterfall at the top and a garden at the bottom, plus underground cisterns for water storage and tunnels to connect it to the other 'nests' once they're built. Wouldn't be too hard to totally 'go subterranean' if necessary.

That is maybe the toughest part about not having an End of Days epistemology. One has not only to plan for the End of Cycles, but also for the Beginning of Cycles, too. There are no 'easy outs' like “Jesus is Coming.” He's not and neither is The Goddess nor any other extra human savior. We can create new deitys to help us along the way, but ultimately, we're IT. The Good News is we are capable of becoming Deitys Ourselves...if we do it right.

I do not fear Death itself. What I fear is missing out on 'what happens next'. But, as ever...

...more shall be Revealed.

*Le-Le said she's not having any of this and has no intention of 'punching her ticket in ten years'. lol Oh well...

~Tzisoc knew they were about fifteen miles south of Zhytomir, but until they saw the rail line and the village just to the east – Vertokyivka she believed – they had no map fix.

Artillery 'crumped' to the north, fellow Black Guard units fighting their way into Zhytomir itself.

She brought the troop to a halt in the village's abandoned fields, letting the horses graze upon whatever they could find. In the dry heat of mid-August, that wasn't much. She was still amazed at the stunning primitiveness of Russia during this time, even this far west.

She sighed, checked out her little command; twenty six Sisters, their horses, three extra mounts.

“Too many First Timers in this Wave”, she thought. She had gone from private to sergeant in five months because of that. That was also why they didn't spot the Maxim gun until it opened up, a languorous 'tat-tat-tat-tat'.

They had learned enough to pull back rapidly instead of gazing about open mouthed. The Germans missed completely.

“Green,” Tzisoc hissed, as she dismounted several yards back.

“Corporal Kaminel, take Second and Third Sections around to the right! Pin them down!” she told her second in command. “First Section come with me!”

As Tzisoc and seven troopers moved around to the left, the sharp crack of Mosin-Nagant carbines could be heard, answered by the Maxim gun...and the flatter crack of Mausers.

“They've got infantry,” Tzisoc said. The others nodded.

They found a low rise on the German's left flank. Tzisoc spread her troopers along it and kept moving left.

She could see the Germans now, their coal scuttle helmets moving around in a trench line. She brought her rifle up, fired.

One of the helmets flipped back with a satisfying spray of blood and meat.

She hugged the earth as slugs zipped over head, thumped in the dirt. Then First Section opened up and the bullets stopped. She took a quick look; no Germans.

She was up and running in an instant. “This is going to get me killed,” she thought. But she had signed up knowing The Black Guard's motto; Mors Amatricum Nostrum. “Death is Our Lover”

Halfway to the trench a German appeared. She shot him in the chest.

Then she was in the trench. Another German. She shot him in the face. A third German came at her with a shovel, knocked her rifle away.

She screamed a war cry, leaped upon him, dagger out. She could feel the bone and gristle through the hilt, feel his death rattle, smell his bowels voiding.

She heard a 'thunk' to her left. The chest-shot German had just pounded a potato masher against the dirt.

“Oh, shi...” The blast set her hair and uniform on fire. Metal tore into her face, eyes... PAIN!

...whiteness...

Her body was still spasming violently when the Mandroid Medtechs cracked the Sim Tank. A Pneumodermic injector shot her full of hormones and supplements. She went limp.

She awoke in a deceptively simple hospital room, bright, sunny, no medgear visible, but it monitored her to the subatomic level.

A Sister came in wearing a white coat, her hair in a Service Pageboy. Tzisoc noticed the silver outlined black star insignia of The Black Guard pinned to her coat.

“I'm Nesrood, your counselor,” she smiled. “I hear you bought the farm.”

Tzisoc laughed. “Only five months in.”

“You'll do better next time,” Nesrood said. She pointed to her insignia; the black star had a red III and a white V. “I died the first two times, survived five in a row, and then got killed again on the last.” She smiled. “Luck of the draw.”

She pulled a clear package out of her pocket, handed it to Tzisoc. “Welcome, Comrade.”

It was a Black Guard pin. When Tzisoc's skin touched it, a red I appeared. She grinned with sheer joy. “Yes, I'll do better next time.”

~The mag-lev car to 'The Nines', the nine Coconino Towers, was empty except for Jane Mimsdottor. It was clean and well maintained, but shabby with age. “Rides empty a lot these days,” Jane thought.

Just at that moment she 'heard/felt' a soft chime deep in her temporal lobe, the standard message alert from her neural nanonics, the CompNet embedded throughout her cerebral tissues.

A pleasant voice whispered, “This is a reminder from the Electoral Directorate. Voting in the General Plebiscite regarding the question of the admission of the Siberian Confederacy into the Union of Matrilineal Republics will be closing in two hours. If you have not yet voted, please do so now. Thank you.”

Jane could have turned the Alert Function off, but like many Sisters, she was closely following this GP, though its outcome was almost certain. And also, like most of The Sisterhood, she could easily determine that Yulia Prokharovka, the Siberian Prime Minister, had done an excellent job of preparing Siberia for annexation and integration into the UMR.

Jane had voted Yes, for admission, two weeks ago when the Loop Ship she served aboard, the SFS Maathai, was still on approach to the El Five Complex.

It was easy to tell Jane was a 'spacer'. After decades in service under unfiltered UV, her reddish blonde hair had been bleached white and her fair skin tanned a honey brown. However, her eyes were still the same sparkling green they'd been the day she was born in a deer hide tent in the Outlands.

She was wearing her Space Force Walking Out Dress uniform, a black one piece with white trim and soft boots, with the trio of six pointed silver stars of a Senior Lieutenant on each side of her collar.

She also wore a Mark VII impeller on her hip, a mini railgun with two thousand frangible ferroresin darts. They'd ruin flesh, but powder against a pressure hull.

These days one did not go into Tower Seven unarmed.

She could see the Coconino Towers a few miles away looming in the afternoon sun-shine. Nine arcologies, each over a half mile high, a quarter mile wide at their base.

Once they had housed a half million people each, non-citizens who would not, or could not, become Initiated Sisters. Many were originally Ferals from the Outlands, with some immigrants from beyond The Union. The Sisterhood housed and fed them, provided clothing, basic medical care, and entertainment systems. In perpetuity.

In exchange, the residents gave up the ability to reproduce.

When The Towers were first being built and occupied over seventy years ago, a vibrant and exciting culture began to grow up 'in the Nines'. Many Sisters would also pass through to participate and study. It was a golden age that lasted nearly a half a century.

Jane spent her 'shore leaves' there and had known some of her happiest days back then.

But non-citizens did not get the type of advanced life extending augmentation received by Initiated Sisters. That would have defeated the entire purpose of The Sisterhood and The Union of Matrilineal Republics. The most advanced augmentation was reserved for those who Participated and Served.

Jane was going to be ninety two in a few months and in all probability had only lived roughly a tenth of her total possible life span. The Sisterhood did not yet know the upper limits of their augmentation technology.

Many Ferals were prematurely aged by their upbringing and even with the high quality base line health care they received, they died 'young', on average in their mid to late eighties. And with their deaths, the Nines began to empty.

Ten years ago Tower Five had been the first to empty and be converted into an agricultural tower, a hydroponic megafarm. Its produce was flash frozen in its massive basement and shipped off world. It would be another few decades before a fully terraformed Mars could begin suppling the food needs of the central and outer system.

Other towers followed quickly as the population shrank. Now only Tower Seven still remained occupied, surrounded by her converted sisters, and even she was barely at half capacity.

The car pulled up to the base of Tower Seven, stopped. The doors opened smoothly.

At the station exit was a Ground Force Military Police check point. It was added about ten years ago, just before Jane shipped out for the Asteroid Belt. They checked Jane's ID. These were not 'greenies' doing their Universal Service, but long term professionals.

The sergeant in command noted Jane's Mark VII, nodded approval.

“If you get in trouble it will take us about five to seven minutes to get to you,” she said.

“Roger,” Jane responded.

They exchanged salutes and Jane passed through into the lift lobby. She was not afraid of course. Having been born Feral herself, this was just passing from her new life back into her old one.

Not that any of that mattered. She was here to visit Susan, her kid sister, one last time, and she would not let any type of danger stop her from doing so.

Mim, their mother, was around ten when she had been 'acquired' by the clan of The Brute, who styled himself The King of Oklahoma, and who may or may not have killed her parents. That was never clear. What was clear was that Mim was pretty and become one of The Brute's 'wives' two summers later.

Her first child was Jane. The Brute was pleased that she had borne him a child. Four more summers passed, then came Susan. The Brute was not pleased with another daughter. Mim and her children were banished to 'the dog tent', with the old and the 'odd'.

They spent three summers there...until one night, for no apparent reason, The Brute hacked Mim to death with an axe in full view of her daughters.

Jane gathered her sister up and fled. She knew where the Amazon Horse Clans traveled. After ten days they were found by the Sisters of Red Epona, big, rough, weathered women, full of scars and tattoos. They were quite familiar with The Brute's clan and welcomed these ragged children warmly.

After a few weeks with Red Epona, Jane and Susan were dropped off at a Karaal of the Cult of Hathor. Those Sisters fed them many wonderful cheeses and yogurts and then they sent the two still under-weight but now less malnourished children to SoCal, the heartland of The Sisterhood.

Years later Jane anonymously received an old photo showing some of the Sisters of Red Epona holding up a severed male head and grinning broadly. Even in death, she recognized The Brute's face. She showed it to Susan, who looked at it quietly for a while, then just said, “Thank you.”

Jane took to The Sisterhood with ferocious enthusiasm and flourished.

But Susan never seemed comfortable. Maybe she never really recovered from the trauma of Mim's murder. When she reached what had been decided was her fifteenth birthday, The Sisterhood's Age of Majority, she declared herself a 'non-citizen' and became one of the first residents of Coconino Tower Seven.

Jane was away at the time doing her Universal Service with Sea Force and was very hurt by her sister's choice. But when she visited Susan, it was obvious that she felt more comfortable among 'her own kind' and and gave her blessing freely.

That was over sixty years ago, or Solannums as Space Force was beginning to call them.

Jane visited at least once a year until she joined Space Force and then would still visit every time she made planet fall. When Jane gave birth to Ostera she was taken to see her Aunt Susan as well.

Susan became an accomplished jewelry maker, working with leather and ceramic beads she made herself. Even now, as she ascended in the main lift to Level 816, Jane was wearing a bracelet Susan gave to her thirty years ago, thin brown shammy with bright blue beads, that had traveled as far as the moons of Neptune and back.

The lift stopped and the door opened. There were a dozen men in the lobby, 'middle aged', rough looking and shabby, each carrying a weapon made from construction material. They automatically moved toward her...then stopped dead when they saw who and what she was.

“What do you want here, spacer?” half snarled the largest of the group, his eyes carefully avoiding any glance at her impeller.

The combat programs in her neural nanonics had already tracked and targeted the lot of them. Even without the impeller, her muscle and bones being at least triple the density of these Ferals, she could most likely kill all of them in under a minute. And they had to know that.

“I'm Jane Mimsdottor and I'm here to see my sister Susan,” she stated firmly.

One of them in the back laughed and said, “Who sells seashells down by the seashore.” That got all of them laughing in what seemed a good natured fashion.

Her combat program told her their heart rates were going down. She smiled brightly.

The Large One stepped back and bowed slightly. “Welcome to Eight One Six, Jane, sister of Susan.” He gestured as if ushering her into a palace. The others all followed suit in their own way.

“Thank you,” she said with soothing undertones pushed into her voice box. For good measure she added a mix of pregnancy/breastfeeding pheromones to her natural scent. That would re-enforce their feelings of protectiveness.

She walked through the lobby, smiling serenely, and down the corridor to Susan's quarters. From the lobby she could overhear whispered appreciations of her ass. The biocontrols that had kept her heartbeat normal logged off.

Jane was heading clockwise, so the central shaft wall was to her right and the residential ring was to her left. The Towers were really 'tubes', hollow in the middle, with all the apartments facing outward.

The shaft wall was covered with beautiful murals, both paint and mosaic, done by the many artists who lived, or had lived, here in Tower Seven. Jane recognized some of their work, had known a few of them. She was pleased to see that even the gangs had respected them and tagged their turf with markings on the corridor's floor.

The floor tagging had become a chaotic art form itself, tagging over tagging, in some places painted over entirely, and then more tagging on top of that.

The corridor itself was in decent shape, Eight One Six being almost fully occupied. The motto of The Nines from the beginning was “Sweep in front of your own door.”

Jane was recording all of this with a neural program and would upload it into the Main Archive when her visit was done.

About a dozen doors down from Susan's, the tagging trailed off, replaced by a subtle wavy/swirly texture that she knew was her sister's signature style. She'd used a thin layer of concrete as her medium, etching the pattern into it while it was still wet. It complemented the overwhelming patterns of bright colors upon both walls and the ceiling, millions of ceramic beads that rushed and twisted and curled, each placed by hand over many years.
Even the gangs knew this was Susan's turf.

The apartment door's biometrics identified Jane, and opened. “Susan?” she called as she entered.

“Living room,” her sister's voice came back.

The apartment was a standard Tower Single, two thousand square feet with ten foot ceilings. Susan had filled it with the paintings and sculptures of her friends and lovers, floor to ceiling shelves full of hard copy books, gorgeous hand made rugs, large comfortable furniture. The place was always welcoming, even now.

Jane found her sitting in her 'thinking chair', a plush recliner that faced the floor to ceiling living room window with a prefect view of Tower Eight. She wasn't surprised at how Susan looked. She watched her weight loss on the vids she regularly sent her while she was on the Maathai. But here, in the same room, Susan's impending death was palpable.

Jane knelt by her, gave her a hard hug and a kiss. “I'm glad you waited for me,” Jane said softly.

Susan made a mischievous face. “Gave me an excuse to experiment with various opiate compounds.”

“As if you needed an excuse.”

“Ah, nothing is better than a guilty pleasure indulged in without guilt.” She turned serious. “I know what you've been planing.”

Jane's control of her facial expression was absolute. Her neural nanonics could create a perfect poker face.

“Now don't give me that Gorgon face,” Susan said with a hint of petulance.

“It's the right thing to do,” Jane said flatly.

Susan grinned like a loon. “Of course it's the right thing to do!”

Jane relaxed. “I was concerned you'd be embarrassed.”

“One cannot embarrass the dead. And a museum with my name on it is also a museum with our mother's name on it and I could never object to that.”

“We're taking the entire corridor, too,” Jane said, “Just removing the panels themselves.”

“You're not going to make some kind of a shrine out of my apartment, are you?”

Jane smiled. “No, just the corridor and the exhibits of your work. We've been gathering the pieces for a while now.”

“You Sisters are a morbid lot.”

Jane shrugged. “We think in the long term about everything. It's our nature.”

Susan laughed. “I can hear the caps in 'long term'.” She patted the broad arm of her chair. “Come. Sit down. It's almost time.”

Jane sat on the arm, took her sister's hand, leaned against her. She'd seen the Medi-Patch on her other arm. It could administer a lethal cocktail at a set time or be triggered manually.

They looked out the window at Tower Eight. Susan had carefully picked this apartment those sixty plus years ago. During certain times of the year, the sunset reflected an amazing array of reds and golds off of Tower Eight. They and her friends had watched that show so many times.

All of those friends were gone now and this would be the last time for both of them.

“Jane, I have one last favor to ask of you. In my desk you'll find about six hundred hand written pages,” she made a little laugh. “You're probably the only human who can read my scribble.”

“What do you need?” Jane said, holding her sister's hand a bit tighter.

“They're notes for a history of the horse clans. I started with Red Epona, but got carried away. I never finished because it needs field research and...well, you know.”

“Yes,” Jane kissed her sister's hair. “I've missed them anyway.”

“Thank you,” Susan whispered.

At that moment, the setting sun slashed across Tower Eight and the room was filled with a reddish golden cascade of light.

Jane held Susan's hand even after it went limp, held it until that light faded to a soft glow.

Later, as she emerged from the lift on the ground level, she 'heard/felt' a soft chime deep in her temporal lobe.

A pleasant voice whispered, “This is an announcement from the Electoral Directorate. Voting in the General Plebiscite regarding the question of the admission of the Siberian Confederacy into the Union of Matrilineal Republics had been concluded. Admission has been approved. The tally is as...”

Jane shut off the link. She knew it was a wide margin. And The Sisterhood had just absorbed nearly a quarter of the Eurasian landmass. She and the GF/MP's smiled knowingly at each other. They all were conscious of the threshold that had just been crossed.

She heard Susan's laughter in her head; “I can hear the caps in 'long term'.” Jane's smile got just a little bit deeper.

~The city had once been prosperous and beautiful, tall shining towers, broad tree lined boulevards, full of vitality.

Now it was a smashed ruin. Most of that had happened during the Age of Storms, Category Six monsoons scouring those once shining towers, adding their debris to the general destruction of wind and rain.

Battle damage had now been added to that forlorn landscape.

Drajica looked around at the ruins from the wide intersection where she had set up her Tribunal. The helmet of her battle armor was opened 'on the half shell' and would snap shut if the suit detected any incoming threat.

In the distance, she could hear the buzz/hum/hiss of Drop Trooper weapons, the snapping of century old ex-Soviet assault rifles, the occasional crump of chemical explosives. The air stank of general decay, with an added undercurrent of burnt flesh.

Her security team had established a perimeter around the intersection. In its center, a hundred or so local males were lined up, kneeling, hands bound at the small of their backs. A stack of black plastic body bags were in an orderly pile a dozen feet behind them.

“Pathetic,” she thought, “But they had been warned.”

As the Age of Storms slowly abated, the Union of Matrilineal Republics had emerged from North America's West Coast. The Sisterhood, as it was colloquially known, spread rapidly into the chaotic aftermath.

In the half century since, it had displaced most of the 'systems' that had survived the Age of Storms in an essentially peaceful process, and then expanded out into near Earth space.

Some pockets of Phallists had resisted with violence. But with limited capacity to reproduce, they faded quickly. Uterine replicator technology seemed set to reverse that, but unaugmented tank babies were almost universally sociopathic, except for the psychotics, of course. Those societies imploded brutally.

This city was one of the very last strongholds of Phallism. The Sisterhood had compiled evidence of genital mutilation, impregnation rape, and foot amputation for the women who tried to escape before it took action.

Two Warnings were issued. Then came an EMP, followed by a Marine Drop Brigade. Mobile Tribunals did the mopping up.

Drajica walked over to the line prisoners, ostentatiously removing the armored glove from her right hand. She'd picked the first one specifically. She knew his type.

He wore a finely knit kufee and a now soiled white robe. His beard was long, but neatly trimmed.

Drajica faced him. “Do you Swear to honor and respect your Sisters?” Her voice was soft, but firm.

He smiled, but his eyes were hard. “There is no God, but God,” he said, “And Mu-”

She pointed at him. An actinic flash burst from her fingertip. A pinhole appeared in his forehead, a thin wisp of smoke puffing upward. He fell over backward, his body jerking. The smell of piss and shit adding to the overall stench.

She sighed. The next in line, a terrified boy no more than seventeen, had already pissed himself. She faced him. “Do you Swear to honor and respect your Sisters?” she repeated in the exact same tone.

“Ye-ye-yes, Mistress,” he blubbered with utter sincerity, “I Swear by my life!”

Two Marine Mandroid Drop Troopers hauled him away to a waiting ground vehicle. His fate would likely be agricultural resettlement, or possibly servitor augmentation. But that was not for her to determine.

Two other Drop Troopers were dragging the mullah's corpse toward the pile of body bags. He would wind up as DNA harvest. His smug face would haunt her dreams for a while.

Drajica sighed again. “It will all be over soon,” she told herself, and moved down the line.

~Tatti had scheduled her labor to begin within a half an hour. This was her first Daughter, named Parvati, and she was nervous.

But Murphy, her own Womb Mother, and Lalanna, her lover, Partner and Seed Mother of this child, were attending as her Midwives. Together they had saged and Blessed the Birthing Chamber, invoking various Birthing Goddesses; Hathor, Ilithyia, Meskhent, Tlazolteotl, Ajysyt, Pi-hsia-yuan-chun, Nintur, and of course, Isis and Artemis.

The Birthing Pool was running at correct temperature, seventy eight degrees, its water pure and filtered. All close family who were on world or in near Earth space had gathered, except for Selena, her Seed Mother, who was supervising a mining operation out in the Asteroid Belt, but had sent a very loving vid.

Tatti's physiocomp softly 'chimed' in her head. It was time. She was linked to all present, so they heard that too. Murphy and Lalanna took off her thin white chemise, guided her down the steps into the Birthing Pool. When she was hip deep, they each grasped one of her breasts, gently squeezing spurts of milk into the swirling water as a final Blessing.

Tatti slipped herself between the padded armrests and relaxed against the Pool's wall. She then focused on Parvati, her daughter stirring within her womb in anticipation. Tatti had spent ten and half months monitoring and shaping her child, guiding nanites here and there. In the last two months basic verbal communication had become possible, though Parvati herself could still only send feelings.

Tatti smiled at all gathered, kissed Murphy and Lalanna. “I'm ready,” she said, took a deep breath, and sent the Birthing Command to her physiocomp.

The first thing it did was flood her with endorphins. Then it blocked most, though not all, pain sensation in her lower body. It would monitor all body functions, which both Murphy and Lalanna would follow via link. Tatti knew she'd be sore later, but that mattered not in this moment.

She was semi-delirious as her brain swam in pleasure inducing hormones. She gathered what focus she could and talked to Parvati, who was also bathed in her mother's endorphins, dampening any fear she had.

The physiocomp handled all the 'heavy lifting'; regulating contractions, dilating the cervix, and the 'push-push-push'. All Tatti had to do was guide Parvati down and out.

Parvati 'crowned' within five minutes and then popped out into the water in seconds. It gave her a slight shock as it was twenty degrees cooler than her mother's womb, but that sharpened her senses and she bobbed about below the surface, blinking her eyes open.

Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of nanites rushed into Tatti's womb and birth canal, repairing damaged tissues and breaking down the placenta for reabsorbtion or excretion, all guided by her physiocomp.

Lalanna submerged and took hold of Parvati, lifting her to the surface. She spat and coughed a bit, making faces as Lalanna wiped off the afterbirth. She then looked directly at her mother for the first time, smiled and mumbled, “Tatti.”

Everyone laughed with joy. Lalanna handed Parvati to Tatti, where the child latched quickly onto a nipple and began to suckle. Her mother sighed deeply, as did everyone else. All present murmured, “Blessed Be.”

After a moment, Parvati mumbled, “Bessibee,” around her mother's nipple. And The Sisterhood grew that much stronger.