Personal Log: Adrian Rodd

The coding is confusing me, so I can't post this here. So here's a link to what I wanted to say.

Sir Paul McCartney is [url=http://www.google.com/hostednews/ukpress/article/ALeqM5h4Z1sVCFYUNwtkLV9CXcjCCHzchg]urging people to stop eating meat one day a week[/url], for environmental reasons. Predictably enough, Internet readers are reacting with blubbering anger, both in English and in French; comment sections in the news are filled with their moronic, furious and irrational rejection of the idea. Part of the press are doing the same; an opinion piece in [i]The Telegraph[/i] is whining about McCartney "taking the meat out of our mouths". Yet another example of the idiocy of the masses; no big surprise there. The meat-eating fundies are out for blood.

In this particular case, however, idiocy takes the familiar form of selfish denial. Denial of the obvious environmental benefits of vegetarianism is oh-so-similar to climate change denial. Along the lines of "the truth would force me to make sacrifices in my selfish and unsustainable lifestyle, so the truth can't be true". The ability of irrational and selfish minds to convince themselves of the absurd (or rather, to reject the obvious) will never cease to amaze me, or appall me. It's basically the same mental mechanism as the one behind literal creationism: reject the truth if it challenges one's irrational preconceptions or intrudes on one's comfort zone.

Philosophers used to say that human beings are creatures of reason. I think not. Some of us are, or try to be despite our limitations; most human beings are not, and make no attempt to be.

No wonder our planet's future looks bleak.

As a reminder, McCartney is, of course, entirely correct. The impact of the meat industry on the environment is devastating. And not only because of methane gas. Animals for the slaughter are produced in their billions, and need to be fed. Forests are chopped down to use land for agriculture - not to feed human beings, but to feed animals destined for the slaughter. Deforestation is due, in great part, to the meat industry.

And there's another tragic irony. Agriculture produces more than enough food to feed every human being on the planet. Yet people are starving. Why? Two reasons. The first is economic: there's no profit in feeding them, so the capitalist "ethos" dictates that they should starve. The second is that we prefer to divert food away from them and use it on cows and other animals instead, to keep meat production going.

Leaving aside, for a moment, the horrific cruelty of the meat industry -in which cows sometimes have their hooves chopped off and their skin boiled off before they're actually dead- ; eating meat destroys the ozone layer, increases global warming and accelerates deforestation.

McCartney was well aware that he wouldn't be heard if he suggested vegetarianism. So he's simply pointed out that cutting back on one's meat intake just a little bit would be a positive step towards helping the environment. It's not much to ask, and it should have appealed to every rational person's understanding of the obvious.

Instead, it's brought the frothing morons out to whinge.

I spend most of my time these days working on my thesis. I've written close to 650 pages now, but I'm only on chapter 6 out of 9. I had initially set out to finish my thesis by June or July 2009; I'm way, way off the mark. I have a massive amount of work left to do, and I just can't see the end of it. I'm going to have to ask for an extra six months or a year to do it in, which I was really hoping not to have to do. Added to that is the problem that it's going to end up being ridiculously long, despite my leaving out many things that I'd have liked to include. It's... frustrating.

Equally frustrating is a presentation I've agreed to do at an international conference in Paris, where I'll be talking about the evolution of the perception of non-indigenous New Zealanders on Maori (basically; I'm calling it "From the 'white Maori' to biculturalism?"). I found out, belatedly, that I would have only twenty minutes to talk in. I've been struggling for ages to condense my notes into something that I can present in that short amount of time, without it becoming devoid of all meaning. My notes now are, for the most part, pages of crossed-out text, and I still can't find a way to cover the topic meaningfully with so little amount of time at my disposal. Either I'm going to run out of time while talking, or I'll just be giving brief mentions of vague facts and trends without figures or quotes to back them up. GAH!!

Anyway... As you may have guessed, I'm feeling frustrated.

And I've got nowhere else than this blog to vent my frustration.

Ever since I locked myself out of Wikipedia, I seem to be getting on better with my thesis. I've also cut back on my FF posting, which has helped. And today, I finally finished the first draft of the first of the three parts of my thesis! Yay, a milestone! I've completed the huge chunk on identity issues in the pre-colonial Pacific - close to 270 pages, including indigenous socio-political and identity systems, and the impact of pre-colonial White settlers (merchants, missionary, and so on). The differences between the stateless societies of Melanesia and Australia, and the establishment of the Kingdom of Tonga by Taufa'ahau, not forgetting the messy condition of 19th century Samoa...

Now I can finally move on the the colonial era, and to the changes it brought. Starting with why Britain, which was a reluctant coloniser, ended up with a bigger colonial empire in the Pacific than the three eager colonial powers (France, Germany and the United States) which were, at that time, snapping up as many colonies as they could.

Well I was once, many years ago, in the heady days of my youth. With two friends, I made a video in which one friend and I battle it out in a breathtaking, terrifying lightsabre duel, complete with dazzling special effects and at least two lines of dialogue.

The video lasts 21 seconds. It took 5 hours to make.

I'm the guy in the ridiculous costume with a face you can't really see, with the red lightsabre.

This scene was initially supposed to be part of a longer film, which would have included droids (i.e., hoovers meants to be droids), and holographic aliens (me in a mask with a filter effect). We never got round to doing more than those 21 seconds, though.

The full video is now available on my Facebook page, here.

A few weeks ago, my father surprised me by saying he wanted to watch a Harry Potter film.

That is absolutely not like my father, which goes to show, I suppose, that anyone can still surprise you.

My mother and sister have seen all the films (and I think my mum has read the books), but I had not read or seen any of them. So I settled down to watch the first four with my dad (not in one go, of course). I was unimpressed at the very beginning. Harry's foster family are one-dimensional, flat stereotypes who are simply impossible to accept, no matter how much suspension of disbelief you try to conjure up (no pun intended).

But then it gets better. A lot better. And I've had to admit that it's actually very good. (With one caveat nonetheless: Why on Earth did Draco Malfoy suddenly turn in a wimp in the third film?)

Anyway, for some obscure reason, I decided to try the sorting hat on myself. I saw myself as being closest to the Ravenclaw House, and three seperate online "quizzes" all confirmed it. Not only that, but they put me in the order I expected: Ravenclaw first, Hufflepuff a close second, Gryffindoor third, and Slytherin last.

So what are YOU?

In an endeavour to get more work done per day, I've been trying to cut down on time-wasters. I've left NationStates (almost completely), and all FF dutystations other than the Cal. I also stay away from Facebook. And Second Life. I've succeeded in staying off that. Now I also need to avoid editing Wikipedia too much. Hopefully putting this in writing will help accomplish that: NO MORE EDITING WIKIPEDIA for at least a week.

There. We'll see what happens.

SEASON THREE

Almada, Portugal. The dark-haired young man strode down the steps of the court building at a quick pace, his dark glasses shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, and also enabling him to avoid making eye contact with any of the few reporters milling about at the bottom of the steps. One thing he had learnt was never to let your gaze meet a reporter’s when they were intent on catching your attention. He brushed aside their questions with barely a glance, continuing on his way down the street, until he turned into a narrower alleyway, and waited. It was not long before a second man joined him. He was a little plumper than the first, a little less fit perhaps, and his sandy hair hinted at possibly foreign ancestry. He smiled, extending his hand, which the first man shook mechanically.

“[You nailed the bastard],” the sandy-haired man said, with feeling, pumping his hand in a firm grip. He spoke in Portuguese. “[Nicely done. Fancy a beer?]”

The leaner man shrugged. By contrast, he appeared decidedly unenthusiastic, and even a little preoccupied. “[Yeah. Why not. I’ll be glad when I’ve got this day behind me.]”

“[Why?]” The first man was cheerful. “[Enjoy the sunlight, my friend! Soares won’t be seeing it except through the bars of a cell window. Not for a long time. Twenty years. The best you could have hoped for.]”

“[Yes. Well, now that’s done, I can move on to another case.]” They turned into a larger street once more. It was late afternoon, and shoppers and businessmen crowded the pavements, while cars hooted occasionally amidst the traffic. Children gathered round an ice cream vendor.

“[What’s the matter with you? I don’t understand you. You should be celebrating!]”

“[Celebrate having locked a man away, perhaps for the rest of his life?]” The dark-haired man shook his head. “[No. No, Raul, I don’t think that’s something I particularly want to celebrate… or feel particularly happy about, to be honest.]”

A hint of irritation entered Raul’s voice. “[Then why on Earth did you become a public prosecutor?]” When he obtained no answer, he went on: “[You did your job! And what’s more, you’ve done a service to the community. You got Soares for rape, assault and unintended homicide. The bastard deserves to rot. Don’t you dare tell me you have any sympathy for him.]”

The first man’s voice hardened in turn, as did his dark eyes. “[I’ve never had any sympathy for criminals.]” He stopped suddenly, and sighed, rubbing the side of his skull. “[I’m sorry, Raul. It’s just been a long, stressful day. Thanks for the offer of a beer, but I think I’d like to go home and get some rest. I’ll be in touch with you soon. Okay?]”

The sandy-haired man nodded. “[Sure],” he said kindly. “[I understand. The stress gets to us all. You have a good night’s rest. But remember!]” he added, as they parted after a quick handshake. “[Be proud of yourself. We’re all that little bit safer now thanks to you.]”

Manuel Covilhã gave a somewhat forced smile, and said nothing as he watched his friend leave. He waited until he was out of sight, then leaned back against the wall in the street, and let out a deep sigh, wiping pearls of sweat from his brow in the hot air.

“[Damn],” he whispered, to no-one in particular.

He wondered whether a cold beer might have helped numb his troubled conscience after all.

* * *

On a presumably unnamed island lost in the South Pacific, beer was a distant and almost forgotten luxury. In its place, Manuel breathed in the cool, refreshing evening air, the warmth of the fire flickering over his face and bare hands, the heat causing his eyes to ache a little as he stared into the soothing crackle of ephemereal flames. A low hum of activity surrounded him at some distance, the reassuring, slow-paced rhythm of nightly routine.

He had his place here. Nobody knew him. They accepted him, based on first impressions and the image he had built for himself over the past weeks. Polite, helpful. Friendly. The foreign guy with the accent who’s always willing to lend a hand. In a way, his obvious foreignness, his fluent but sometimes hesitant English provided a wall behind which he could safeguard some measure of privacy – and keep some thoughts to himself. They were also a constant reminder of where he had come from, and who he had once been.

He stirred the edge of the fire thoughtfully with his shoe, his gaze lost in the hazy flames, the air distorted ever so faintly by a shimmer of heat. The past belonged to another world, it seemed, and yet that world whispered to him from the not too distant future, too. If Sarah was right, there was a distinct hope that they might all soon be rescued. The past would become the present once more, with all it implied.

He stood. There seemed no reason to stay up any longer. This would not, in any case, be his last night on the island, even if Sarah and her crew could sail in the morning.

As he walked to his tent, he realised suddenly he was smiling, very slightly. The isalnd, despite all its dangers, held some appeal in its simplicity, its remoteness from the outside world. Perhaps, with rescue now looming in the forseeable future, he could learn to appreciate that while he was still here.

* * *

The lawnmower thrummed, spluttered then leapt forward seemingly of its own accord, eager to tear over a patch of wild grass after an initial moment’s hesitation. Lucas Alfred Noble, a young man with a thick bowl-cropped mop of brown hair, restrained it firmly as one might an over-enthusiastic steed. He muttered something irritably about decaying equipment and spare parts.

It was a beautiful day, the skies warm, clear and bright, a perfect time to mow the lawn. Not that it was a particular hobby of his, but when you were living in a small community –particularly in unique circumstances such as these– it made practical sense for everyone to chip in and do their bit. Besides, Ben did so dislike disorder, and the close-cut lawns of their small village, neatly surrounding their well-equipped if somewhat blandly designed homes, were perhaps the most striking symbol of human agency and order, in contrast with the wild woods stretching out on all sides around them.

The lawnmower spluttered once more, then accepted its task tamely, with no further protest. Lucas –or Luke, as he was known to almost everyone here– manoeuvred it deftly round Juliet’s house, waving to her through her window as he passed. He turned his head as another young man approached him, heading towards him purposefully. Luke acknowledged him with a nod of greeting, and silenced the hum of the lawnmower.

“Matthew. How goes?”

“Not bad. I’m got news.” His expression was serious. With his long, thin face, blue eyes and ginger hair brushed into spikes, he had always conformed to Luke’s admittedly unknowledgeable idea of a typical Dutchman. He spoke without the faintest trace of an accent and might, in fact, not have been Dutch at all. Luke had never asked him. “Dawson did his thing. The bastards killed Jim, but we got’em. Shephard, Austen and Ford are being taken to the Hydra.”

Luke’s face turned sombre, and he nodded gravely. “Right. Well, at least that went according to plan.” He looked at his friend curiously. “Why the Hydra?”

Matthew shrugged. “The ways of Ben are impenetrable,” he quipped. “He knows what he’s doing. Anyway, Cindy’s rather excited. She remembers one of them from the plane.”

“Yes, I suppose she would,” Luke said, surprised that the thought had not occurred to him until then. “Although none of those three are anything like her.”

“Maybe they will be, eventually.”

“I doubt it,” Luke disagreed dryly. “Jacob would have known.” He shook his head. “I don’t want anything to do with them, really.”

Matthew smiled faintly. “I don’t think Ben is going to be allowing them out and about just yet. Especially Austen and Ford.”

“Good,” Luke stated firmly. He decided to change the subject to one less distasteful, tapping the handlebar of the lawnmower idly as he did so. “Remind me, are you still the one organising Christmas this year?”

Matthew smiled. “I will be. I haven’t been thinking about it much yet. It’s still over a month away... you overgrown kid, you.” He grinned, and Luke returned the grin easily.

“Ouch. Well, you go off and start thinking about that,” he said with humour. “I need to get on here, and there’s a heck of a lot of lawn in this damn village.”

“Oh, didn’t I say?” The young, ginger-haired man gestured towards the path leading out of the village. “Ben wants us to pop over there.”

Luke sighed. “Whatever for?”

Matthew shrugged. “Pack your bags. It’s quite a hike. I’ll go and tell Juliet.”

* * *

Sarah brushed a clump of damp sand off the bottom of her right leg, hopping for a moment on the other before steadying herself and continuing on her way to the water’s edge. She had felt a little tense for most of the day, primarily because there had been no sign of Jin or any of the others who had gone off with the boat, or on foot. She, Neil, Steve and Tracy were all set to leave the island, but the means to do so, the boat, had still not re-appeared. It was now about tweny-four hours since the sky had turned a whitish purple, and the hatch had spiralled down onto the beach. To her knowledge, nobody had yet gone back to the Swan, and she had no intention of wandering into the jungle to see what unimaginable force might have hurled its hatch so high into the air. She had tried to occupy herself with routine tasks, but it was difficult not to be impatient or pre-occupied.

Until now. Now she had finally spotted the absentee she had most hoped to see, and she wasted no further time before striding up to him. He was standing with his back to the camp, facing the ocean, tossing pebbles into the surf, an odd, distracted look on his face.

“Desmond!”

He turned as she called his name, his eyes only slowly focusing on her, and it was a second or two before he acknowledged her with a nod. He tossed his last handful of pebbles sideways into the water with a faint splash.

“Sarah. What can I do for you, sister?”

“I didn’t realise you’re returned. The whole camp is feeling a bit deserted. Jin, Sun, Sayid, Hurley, Jack, Michael, Kate, uh... John, Eko, Sawyer... Nobody knows where any of them is. It’s a relief to see you.” She noticed that he still looked troubled. “Are you okay, mate?” she asked kindly. “You don’t look all here.”

Desmond’s eyes locked with hers, as if he had just become fully aware of her for the first time. He hesitated, then nodded, and sat down on a dry stretch of sand, motioning for her to do likewise. Sarah moistened her lips, and came straight to the point.

“Neil hasn’t talked to you yet?”

“Neil?” He glanced at her curiously. “Who’s Neil?”

“Oldish guy. Grey hair. Quite thin.”

“Not a word.”

Sarah held back a sigh. “Never mind.” She shifted a little, turning herself to look at him more easily. “I need to ask you… Would you mind if I took your boat? That is, me and a few others. Now that there’s actually a boat here, it would seem absurd not to try our luck with it. The sea lanes are crawling with ships. We should try our luck, at least.”

Desmond barely reacted, as if the prospect left him indifferent. “Your pal Sayid and the two Koreans have taken that, sister.”

“Yes, but they’ll be back,” she pressed. “From what I’ve been told, they’ve just gone round to the other side of the island.” She looked at him earnestly, a little anxiously. “When they come back, would you mind if we took it?”

The dark-haired Scotsman shrugged. “Sure. It’s of no use to anyone anyway.”

Sarah smiled. “Thanks,” she said, warmly. “You can come with us, of course, if you want. I mean, it’s your boat, and… Well, anyway, you’ll get it back. We’ll be careful with it.” She stopped, as the rest of what he had said sank in suddenly. It brought back to mind what Manuel had told her three days earlier. ‘Desmond yesterday was telling us why he came back here. He didn’t choose to. He left here intending to make for Fiji, leave the island behind for ever’… She hesitated. It seemed like the perfect moment to ask… “Is it true that you ended back up here by accident?”

“By accident!” he echoed, and laughed, grimly. “No, sister. I don’t know what brought me here, but an accident…”

“Manuel said you set sail in a straight line. That you know how to navigate. How could you possibly have turned round and come back, without wanting to, and without realising you’d changed course completely?”

He looked at her. There was a hint now of mixed humour and resignation in his eyes. “You don’t believe me?”

“I see no reason not to believe you,” she protested, “but I’m trying to understand. And if I’m going to be taking the boat myself–”

Desmond stood, abruptly. Sarah followed suit, automatically. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, sister,” he told her evasively. “Could we talk about this later, please?”

She gazed at him queryingly. There was no arguing, of course. Like so many others on this island, Desmond wanted to remain a closed book. The opening pages she might be able to skim through, but the inner chapters of his life, his secrets, his thoughts were hidden, the pages torn out and concealed. Sarah could only nod.

“No problem. Look after yourself, mate. And thanks for the boat.” She walked away, hesitating long enough to glance back, before she spotted Manuel at the camp, and left the preoccupied Desmond resolutely behind her. By the time she reached her friend, she was grinning. Desmond’s secrets were of little importance, after all. They had what they had hoped for.

“We’ve got the boat,” she said simply, a grin lighting up her face. Manuel’s eyebrows rose, and he smiled.

“That’s great. The supplies are all ready. All you need now is the boat itself!”

Sarah smiled. “You don’t mind not coming, do you? We’ll send help back as soon as we find anyone at all out there.”

“Oh no, I prefer terra firma. It’s very brave of you to want to go out onto the ocean.” He looked round quickly. “I was wondering, though, whether it’s such a good idea to take Neil. He’s not young, and you should all be fit to go on this trip.”

Sarah shrugged. “He knows how to sail… a bit… from what he told me. I’m not too worried. I don’t think he’s ever fallen ill since we got here. He just looks skinny and fragile. I’m guessing he’s tougher than most of us give him credit for.”

“Still, you might want to ask Jin. Or Sayid. Or why not Desmond?”

Sarah glanced back over her shoulder to where she had left the mysterious Scotsman, but he had vanished. She frowned slightly, and shook her head. “I don’t think he’d want to,” she said. “Not if he really thinks there’s no point.”

“You don’t believe he didn’t want to come back here?”

“Mate, who would want to come back here? No, I think he’s probably telling the truth. But maybe not the whole truth.” She stopped, and nodded past him; he followed her gaze. “Everyone seems to be drifting back,” she commented, as Hurley walked past close by. Sarah ran up to him. “Hurley, wait a sec’!”

He turned, giving her a mildly worried look, then appeared to relax. “Dudette,” he acknowledged her with a nod.

“When did you get back?”

“Uh, a few minutes ago. We… sorta…” He gestured in some indeterminate direction. Sarah tried to follow, but soon shook her head.

“Never mind,” she said, rather impatiently. “The important thing is, have you got Walt back?”

“Walt?” Hurley looked surprised, as though it had completely slipped his mind. “Oh, right. Yeah. No, we didn’t.” He grimaced, his large face scrunching uncomfortably. “Well, everyone will know soon anyway. Walt… Let’s just say he’s OK. I think. He’s off the island.“

Sarah blinked, utterly confused.
“How can he be off the island? What are you talking about?”

Hurley sighed, scratching the stubble on his cheek, then took a deep breath. “See, it’s like this,” he began, sounding almost apologetic. “We got captured by the Others, see. Then it turned out… No, actually, it turned out before. Anyway, what happened is Jack worked out Michael was actually working with the Others. So they shot us with… something that knocked us out, and they took Jack and Kate and Sawyer, and Michael and Walt left. They gave him a boat. Oh, and they told me to come back and tell you all about it. So, here I am. That’s what happened.” He grimaced again, uncomfortably. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Sarah stared at him, stunned, her mind swimming as she struggled to process everything he had just told her.

“Wait, wait, wait…” She held up her hands, asking for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “So” –she looked into his face– “you’re telling me Michael sold us out?” she asked incredulously. “But he was one of us!”

“Dudette,” Hurley said gently, “I think he wanted his kid. But yeah. He traded us for Walt.” He shuffled his feet. “I suppose you should know,” he added, looking increasingly unhappy. “Michael was the one who killed Libby. And Ana-Lucia. That guy we were holding at the hatch – remember? I think he’s the Others’ leader. Michael let him out, and killed Libby so she couldn’t tell us. I. . .” He stopped. His face was a picture of strained emotions. Gently, despite the confused turmoil within her too, Sarah placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, softly. “I’m very sorry.”

Hurley nodded, miserably. “So now they’ve got Jack and the others.” He paused. “Oh, Locke and Charlie have found Eko. In the creepy jungle. He’s not looking good. He’s out cold. I dunno what happened to him.” He shook his head, and gave the stunned Sarah a look of sympathy. “Dudette, want some advice? Stay in your tent. This is turning into a really bad day.”

* * *

The sun was bright the following day, and the air dry with dust stirred up from the hard ground of the quarry. Luke took a brief swig of water, drying his lips with the back of his hand. He grimaced as he tasted dust, and wiped the back of his hand on his chequered blue shirt.

He would have prefered not to be here. It seemed Ben had gathered most of them to watch the prisoners as the two captured criminals faced their first day of work. There was no sign of Ben himself, but then Ben was a thinker, and the quarry was not a place conducive to thinking. Luke coughed a little in the dusty air, and looked over at the prisoners. Two survivors from the plane crash. Two murderers. Kate Austen, and James Ford – known to his campmates as “Sawyer”. Danny was explaining to them what they would have to do, hoeing and hauling rocks. Not exactly hard labour, perhaps, but not the most pleasant type of work, in this heat. Luke smiled slightly. He liked to think of it as belated justice.

He glanced at Aldo, who stood watching a few metres away.

“Somehow, those two killers don’t look quite so dangerous now we have them, do they?” he commented with a smirk. Aldo gave a quick grin, and nodded.

“Luke, how are you?” Juliet approached, her expression calm and a little distant, enigmatic, as it often was. “I never said thank you after you did my lawn.”

“Don’t mention it. We all have to help out.” He handed her his gourd of water. As he did so, he saw Danny thrust his taser into Ford’s chest, causing the man to fall over, twitching. Luke gave another smirk.

“So what’s the long-term plan?” he asked Juliet, nodding in Ford’s direction. Juliet took a moment to drink before answering.

“I think Ben’s just going to use them to get at Shephard.”

Luke frowned. “Jacob isn’t concerned with what these two have done? I’ve seen their files.” It seemed odd to be holding them only for secondary purposes.

“How should I know what Jacob is concerned with?” Juliet reminded him. “He only speaks to one person, and we all know who that it.”

Luke nodded, accepting that. It was sometimes frustrating to be kept out of the loop, but they all knew and accepted the reasons for it. Everything they were asked to do was a component in the machinery of a great purpose, a cause more noble than any other he could imagine. They were, quite literaly, part of something greater than they could fully fathom. And within that scope, the assortment of thieves and murderers who had crashed onto the other island were an irritant. A very real irritant. Their presence, beyond the reach of conventional justice, bothered Luke more than he cared to admit.

He glanced over at them once more.

“Ford’s looking at us,” he commented disdainfully, and shook his head. He would try not to think about the prisoners too much.

They were, ultimately, not all that important.

It was a while later that Ford did something very stupid. Luke had been standing within a small, open shelter with a desk, where Danny had been showing him the latest sketched map of the beach residents’ camp, with names matched to the locations of several tents. Locke’s tent and Ng’s would both be relatively easy to get at for a stealth party, if Jacob so required, but of course the problem was not raising the alarm. Locke and his people had guns.

It was Danny who noticed first. Ford had stopped hauling rocks into his metal wheelbarrow, and had locked Austen into a lingering kiss. Luke’s eyes widened in anger.

“Hey!” he yelled. Danny echoed his shout, and grabbed his rifle; the two of them ran for the insolent couple. Ford did not even turn; he was smiling, and had eyes only for the Austen woman. Luke’s indignation shifted away into a grin of vicious anticipation. Ford had just given them the perfect excuse to discipline him. And Luke had read the man’s file. Unlike Luke himself, Ford had no karate training.

This is going to be good. Time to teach the bastard a lesson.

Danny reached the prisoner first, and slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of the man’s head. There was a loud thud, and Ford went down. As he got to his feet –with surprising speed– Danny aimed to hit him again. Ford parried the blow with one hand, and struck him across the jaw with his spare fist. Taking note, but without pausing to hesitate, Luke circled him. He was able to land a blow to his ribs before Ford spun round and hit him in the face. Stunned, Luke staggered back, shaking his head to gather his wits once more.

Ford engaged in a brief struggle with the heavyset Peter, who punched him, sending him sprawling. To Luke’s astonishment, ‘Sawyer’ rolled and was back on his feet in a moment, snatching up Danny’s fallen rifle as he did so. Luke moved forward, but Ford was already pointing the gun at them.

“Back off!” the killer snarled. Luke raised his hands quickly and took a step back, glaring angrily.

“James!” By now, quite a crowd had gathered, and they all turned at the sound of Juliet’s voice. Calm as ever, she was holding Austen by one arm, and pointing a pistol at her. “Put the gun down. Right now.”

Ford looked at her. There was a long, tense moment. Luke, standing closest to the armed prisoner, began lowering his hands very slowly, preparing to jump and tackle him if he tried anything stupid – again. He hoped it would not come to that. Nobody’s ever pointed a gun at me before, he realised suddenly. He hadn’t thought about it in the heat of the confrontation, but now that the frenzied struggle had faded into a taut stand-off, it occurred to him suddenly that the situation was a remarkably dangerous one. He eyed the prisoner carefully as the tense moment lingered on.

Juliet’s face was astonishingly calm, as was her voice as she repeated: “Put the gun down.”

Ford hesitated a while longer, then surrendered to the inevitable and tossed the rifle aside. Luke lowered his arms the same instant. He was tempted to strike out immediately, but stood still and defered to Danny, who approached the prisoner, spat out blood, and tasered him. Luke smiled faintly as Ford twitched and writhed in pain on the dusty ground.

“Next time,” he suggested, catching his breath and rubbing the swelling on his cheek, “why don’t we just shoot him?”

* * *

In the relative cool of a small, pre-fabricated structure near the quarry site, Luke poured himself a glass of guava juice and leaned back, idly looking over the sketched map Danny had provided him with. The prisoners had not been brought in yet today, and were presumably still in their cages. He hoped Ford was still aching from yesterday. He rubbed his own jaw, and grimaced.

The map of the beach campsite was reasonably detailed. Ben, for some reason known only to himself –and to Jacob– seemed to think that taking Locke would be a good idea. And perhaps Littleton again, but she would obviously resist. Ben had also mentioned Ng, and, judging from her file as well as Bea’s encounter with her, Ng seemed promising. She also seemed to have a tendency to wander into the jungle, where she might be caught unawares. Luke reminded himself to bring the matter up with Ben once more.

He put the map and his glass down when the door swung open soundlessly and Diane stepped in. Luke nodded at her, and smiled, but his smile faded when he took in the grave expression on her face. He got to his feet, almost stumbling as his chair straightened itself.

“What is it?”

“Kwon Sun-hwa shot Colleen,” she said bluntly, sounding stricken. “It looks bad.” Luke’s face paled.

“How? What happened?”

“The crash survivors, they have a boat. Don’t ask me how,” she added upon seeing his look of surprise. “Ben sent Coll, with Matthew and a few others, to take it. They found the Kwon woman on board. She shot Coll. They’ve brought her back, and she’s alive, but. . . as I said, it looks bad.”

“Matthew? The others?”

“They’re all right. It’s just Colleen.” She paused. “Luke. . . She was unarmed,” she said in anguish. “Coll was unarmed, trying to reason with her. Kwon just. . . just shot her.”

Luke felt a surge of fury swell up within him. His jaw clenched, his hand gripping the side of the table; he resisted an urge to hurl it over.

“We’re gonna make’m pay. We’re gonna make them pay!”

“Calm down.” Still clearly distressed, Diane moved closer to him, and put at hand gently on his shoulder. “Luke, calm down. . .” She looked up into his face. “Revenge can come later. After they’ve saved Colleen. Juliet is going to try and save her. For now, there’s nothing for us to do.”

“If those bastards hadn’t already killed our only doctor!” Luke said through clenched teeth. Ethan’s death, a tragedy in itself, had made everyone else’s life that much more precarious. He glanced back at his chair, then motioned for Diane to sit down. She was shaken, while he was mostly furious. Sitting down and not moving was not going to do him any good. “Juliet’s not a surgeon, she’s a fertility doctor! We’ve got Shephard, we have to use him.”

“You think Shephard would want to save Colleen?” Diane moved over to the chair, but did not sit down. Her voice sounded both hopeful and dubious.

“He’s a doctor. He’s sworn the Hippocratic Oath. He has to save her! And if he won’t, we can always put a gun to his head.”

Diane nodded slowly, and bit her lip. She seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, her gaze lowered, but then she looked at him. Something within the sudden and artificial calm of her eyes, almost unnerving, reminded him surprisingly of Juliet.

“You’ve developed a lot of anger against them, Luke,” she remarked finally. “You’re not as. . . I don’t know. Not as quiet, not as reserved as when you first joined us.”

Luke met her gaze. The comment was unexpected, but it helped him calm a little too. It invited his mind to cast itself back, away from the here and now of Colleen’s tragic encounter, and back instead to– He was quiet for a moment, then said, at last:

“A lot has changed since then.”

* * *

Lucas Noble walked off the main campus of San Diego State University, the sun heating the mop of messy brown hair atop his youthful face. The calls and chatter of busy students filled the background, lessening slowly as he walked down the street, away from the university’s bustling life and activity. He passed several benches which were already occupied, as well as two empty ones, before finally stopping and sitting down, slouching onto a public bench and dropping his worn, battered bag onto it beside him. For perhaps a minute or two, the young man seemed content to watch the traffic flash past, his eyes a little glazed either in deep thought or idle indifference. Then, he appeared to remember his bag, sighed, and rummaged into it until he withdrew a 1.5 litre bottle of cheep beer; he opened it by popping the lid against the back of the bench. He guzzled back a long swallow, and resumed his passive contemplation of passing cars.

He had been there for no more than ten minutes, barely moving other than to lift the bottle to his lips, when he was joined by a youngish, dark-haired, clean-shaven man with a square, firm jaw and a not unkind expression. The man smiled as he sat down.

“Hello, Luke. I thought I might find you somewhere along here.” A pause, as Luke acknowledged him with barely a nod. “Have you considered my offer?”

Luke laughed – briefly, without humour, then shook his head without a word, and finished his bottle. He considered returning it empty to his bag, then simply toyed with it absently. He did not even glance at him. The man appeared undeterred by his behaviour.

“I hear you’ve completed your PhD. Congratulations.” He smiled once more, and extended his hand. At that, Luke did look up at last, an air of surprise on his face.

“How do you know that, when I’ve only just found out myself?” he asked, suddenly wary.

“I have friends in useful places.” His brown, fairly warm eyes revealed very little. “So, are you going to take the job?”

Luke shrugged.

“We’re offering you almost 40% more than you could ever hope to make with any other employer,” the man reminded him, patiently. “Even with your qualifications.”

“Yeah, see, that’s what I don’t get. Why me? There are people more experienced out there.” He scratched the side of his head, running his hand through his thick hair with a puzzled frown. “And you. . . I looked your name up on Google. Richard Alpert, right? You’re someone quite important in that company of yours. Yet you’re somehow the recruitment officer, too? And you’ve come to me? I don’t get it. So as I said, why me?”

“Because you’re good,” Alpert told him, calmly and patiently. “You could become one of the world’s leading experts in chemistry research one day. I’m dead serious,” he added when Luke laughed. “You’re smart, you have inovative ideas. . . and you fit our pyschological profile.”

Luke gave him an incredulous look. “You want someone who’s unsociable, borderline depressive, and spends half his time drunk? Piss off,” he said irritably. “You don’t know anything about my ‘psychological profile’.”

“I know more about you than you think,” was the reply. “I know you don’t get out much, you’re shy, and compensate by being unsociable and even rude. . . as you’ve just demonstrated. You have few friends, no girlfriend. . . few ties, few commitments. For us, that’s an asset. And, Luke. . . Part of the reason you’re depressed is because you’ve been wondering where you’re going with your life. I can give you an answer to that question which is beyond anything you could ever imagine. I can have you working on secrets that the rest of the world doesn’t even know are being studied. I can change your life completely. If you don’t like the one you’ve got, isn’t that all the more reason to try a new one?”

Although he had not really intended to, Luke eventually found himself listening. He gave Alpert a long, searching gaze. The man merely held his gaze, and smiled very slightly, perhaps reading the first hints of genuine interest in the younger man’s eyes. Finally, Luke put down his bottle.

“What did you say the name of your company was?”

Alpert’s faint smile remained steady.

“Mittelos Bioscience Corporation”

* * *

In the small, pre-fabricated building near the quarry, as he stood by Diane, Luke’s face and eyes were hard, hinting at the cold anger which had smothered over some of the hot rage burning within him.

“Coll dies, we’re gonna have to hit back. We haven’t got the Kwon woman, but we’ve got two murderers locked in cages. I’d say handing out justice is going to be easy.”

* * *

Luke remained at or near the quarry until gone nightfall. He did not trust himself near the main Hydra complex or the cages. He did not trust himself to accept Ben’s judgement about the prisoners without an argument. It was dark outside as he sat, the chair leaned back against the prefab wall, an empty glass bottle of guava juice in his hand. As he had done earlier that day, he glanced up when Diane walked in.

The look in her eyes said it before he could even ask.

“Colleen’s dead.”

Luke’s grip on the bottle tensed, and he forced himself to put it down without smashing it. He stood, the chair slipping and falling with a clatter behind him.

“Bastards!” he spat. He looked at her. “Did Shephard do nothing?”

“No, Shephard did help. He did everything he could, with Juliet. It just. . . There was nothing to be done. There was never any real hope.” She swallowed, painfully. Luke nodded. He pulled his chair back up, motioned her over to it, and sat himself on the edge of the table. He poured her a glass of water, and drank from the pitcher. They both sat in silence for a long while.

“Ben,” Luke said at last, his voice dark and slow, quiet and deliberate, “is going to have to stop tolerating them being on this island.”

“Not all of them are bad,” Diane pointed out in a similar tone.

“No, I know.” He looked out at the dark sky through the window. The window pane rattled slightly in the breeze. Outside, all seemed deceptively quiet and peaceful. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

* * *

It's Christmas! And if you get tired of sunbathing in the snow, how better to celebrate than by... ice-skating with a friend? The conditions are perfect. Ice, snow, atmospheric skies, and Christmas trees. Everything Karida needs to have a great time!

How could I have forgotten this one? Shanghai, 2007. Most of the city is a mix of decrepit buildings from the 1920s or 1930s on the one hand, and huge skyscrapers on the other. The CBD glistens with tall, ultra-modern buildings: business headquarters and luxury flats for the ludicrously rich. Old quarters built during the era of European incursion are being torn down in a drive to modernise the city and house its expanding population. In this photo, an old quarter from before even the European period has been preserved and renovated, while you can see tall blocks of flats in the background.

This may correspond to what most people imagine Shanghai looks like. In fact, most of it is clogged up with cars pumping pollution into the air. Similarly, in Beijing, there are a great many cars, and very few bikes.

About this photo: We were herded into the shopping district, which makes a poor attempt at replicating pre-colonial China, but basically is just a crowded, modern area packed with tourists and stinking of consumerism. So I slipped out and wandered into the city itself. That photo is what I found just outside the "tourist quarter". While in the tourist quarter, I actually ran into a former student of mine from Sydney! If anyone wants to calculate the odds on that, they must be absolutely staggering...