“To mine the ice is nothing,” Dickens had said, the reflection of a dark red nebula on his scared face. “It’s the softness of that Aaronson. He’s not like us; he lacks the killer instinct. When the time comes, Aaronson will be the weak link. Trust me, I’ve seen it before. We need to mine the ice, and I’m not letting him get in the way.”

Always the paranoid security officer, thinks the Commander. But he’s my security officer, and I like him being paranoid. It’s safer. His job is to protect all three of us, after all. He pours himself two fingers of scotch from their dwindling supply into his crystal glass. The blue planet hovers below in its own shimmering light, the plains, the mountains, the stars ablaze above.

Dickens grabs the scotch bottle with a flick of his eyes. “Have you seen his right earlobe? It’s the mark of a mystic. He hides it, but it’s typical of his kind, his race. He swears, what a joke, there’s some kind of life on the planet. He says he dreamed about them. Hallucinating is what I think. And we scanned for planet heat, nothing. The entire planet is absolute zero. If there’s a THEY, can they be absolute zero? There’s a reason Sector 12 threw out the mystics you know, why you don’t see them. They shipped them off, good riddance I say.

The Commander throws back his scotch. Corporate’s command was simple. Go to planet 87689-B, mine as much of what you can, bring back the mythical ice that doesn’t melt. Imagine the repercussions of a product with endless refrigeration? Fill the storage bay, bring it back. Zing, Pop, we’re all rich. Or, I’m rich. Corporate is already rich. The commander puts his hand on Dicken’s arm to assure him. “We mine the ice, fill the payload. Then we get the hell out. Aaronson will be fine.” And once I’m rich, I can retire to Absolom 7, the furthest from the insanity of the Federation I can get, a place without thought control, a place with hardly any people at all. What’s going on at Sector 12 is really not my business.

***

As the two men descend, their propulsion vests hold the descent, a hissing sound from the fuel, a blue flame. At the bottom of the shaft, Aaronson waves up to them in the blue glow, the channel now carved out at the bottom like a cathedral. It’s then the commander realizes the protruding vein of ice in front of him IS the core product, the color of the distinctive blue giving it away. The ice gives off a ghosting blue, fog like, the surface seeming to have a thin frothing skin. Ice that won’t melt. Corporate could mine this for decades. Who knows how long?

Aaronson’s voice breaks in the Commander’s headset. “I’m at your two o’clock. You have to see this. I’ve run the carbon dating spectronics.”

The science officer is standing at the entrance to one of many spidered tunnels off the base of the main dig. Behind him are the images of a junkyard of random space debris, dozens of pieces of metal embedded in a clear ice wall, as if a human expedition on a prior mining exploration had abandoned their probes, a launch vehicle, digging equipment, backhoes, mining tools. Ancient technology embedded in clear ice.

The Commander joins Aaronson in front of the ice wall. “I’ve never seen equipment like this. What’s the reading?”

“2.5 million years. Our earth was not yet civilized when these artifacts were brought here Commander.”

Aronson puts his hand on the ice wall in awe of what they’d found. “It’s a shame we can’t stay. Imagine what we could learn. And there are inscriptions on the equipment. There, on what looks like a backhoe, do you see?”

Just looking at artifacts from so long ago sends a shiver through the Commander, a déjà vu, a murmur, a whisper from an ancient past.

Aaronson speaks quietly to the Commander. “You sense it, don’t you? Can we stay?”

Dickens looks disgustedly at Aaronson. “No way science man. We’re not here for your witchy bullshit. If there’s intelligence, we’re in danger.”

Aaronson ignores Dickens, his eyes on the Commander. “Give me just three days to complete an archeological study. All I’m asking is three days, John.”

“Pfff,” Dickens snorts. “You’ve been whining about missing your family for the entire trip out. Now you want to stay?”

“I do. But there’s more.” Aaronson hesitates like he was holding back. “You both need to come with me.”

They follow Aaronson down an ice blue tunnel and enter a cavern opening up with caves on an ice cliff. Ice ladders access what looks like homes, abandoned cliff dwellings. Structures in ice of all sizes, a blue sheen to the ice, ghostly, present, unknown. But what really stands apart are the carvings. Circular discs of etchings, sculptures of some abstract design. Like Picasso of ages long past, or Phillips on Horizon’s Horn in the 8^th Quadrant. The brightest spot is a centerpiece on a small pedestal. There sits what looks like a pulsating diamond, sparkling white, about 20 centimeters tall. Around it is an artistically designed ice carved shrine. The diamond hums, it glitters organically.

Aronson puts his helmeted face inches from the diamond. “This is ice but like a queen I think. See how she produces ice from the base like tiny glaciers. The ice is the eggs. They don’t melt, we know that, but the queen is this diamond of ice, birthing the ice. This shrine is to worship the ice diamond, is my guess.”

Dickens picks up the diamond, examines it. “If they can’t protect it, they don’t deserve to keep it. Why are we only taking the ice when we can also take, as you say, the queen?”

Aaronson steps in front of Dickens. “We only came for the ice. We don’t know the ramifications. We need to study it.”

Dickens glances at the Commander who gestures to return the ice diamond. He sets the crystal diamond back on the pedestal.

Returning to the derrick, the three men prepare the container for some hours, collecting ice, storing it for the transfer.

The Commander closes the portal on the container. “Ok Aaronson, trigger the container to ascend to the surface. I’ve programmed the ascent to Novac 3.”

Aaronson and the Commander strap on their vests. Dickens joins them. Before he triggers the propulsion, Aaronson stops Dickens.

Aronson raises both of his hands. “He’s hiding the ice diamond in his pack Commander. Not a good idea Dickens. There’s more to this than you realize.”

“Don’t tell me science boy, we can take this. But… but…” Dickens grabs his helmet with both hands. Whatever is in his helmet eats on his face, his flesh is breaking up like black microbes gnawing on him.

He draws his laser sidearm, fires at Aaronson, whose chest lights up with a red flash. The charge dissipates in an electrical charge, Aaronson collapses to the ice. Dickens falls to his knees next to Aaronson and his hands desperately claw each side of his helmet. His screams pierce the Commander’s headset as the whites of Dicken’s eyes go black. His face in the clear visor helmet DISSOLVES, the flesh of his face dripping away, blood flowing down his cheeks with the white bones of his skull protruding. Finally, his mass slides down into the interior of his suit like sludge in a drain and his suit crumples on the ice.

The Commander thinks in a second. It was so simple. Go to planet 87689-B, mine as much as you can, fill the storage bay with a ton of the stuff. Bring it back. He takes hold of the pack. Carrying Aaronson, he stumbles to the main channel and fires his vest. The weight of two men may be too much. He turns the nozzle full on. But he’s rising too slowly and falls back a meter for every two he ascends. Aaronson moans on his back. As they rise up the channel, the sides of the shaft begin cracking like a crevasse closing in on them, the ice splintering, cascading down the channel. Pieces of ice reach out to strike at his legs, his arms, the iced sides moving in on them like a closing fist. The planet itself knows I have the queen.

Once on the surface, the Commander lays Aaronson in the shuttle. As they take off, the gravity of the planet seems to bend with an aurora of light, blues and pinks reach for them, a colored gravity aching to pull the shuttle back. But they dock on Novac 3 and soon all of the ship’s engines are firing, blasting in a blue-red fire, but the planet strains to hold the ship. 87689-B is not giving up. It seems to scream to pull the ship back, like a mother fighting for the return of her children, her queen, the ice. Finally, the planet lets go, spent with exhaustion. The planet gives out a collective gasp of loss. Novac 3 snaps into space, the stars streak by.

***

Two months later, Aaronson still hasn’t died. The commander has set him up in sickbay, the portrait of his wife, his two young children taped to the bulkhead above him. He has no consciousness, thinks the commander. He’s dying, a coma. He’ll never last a month, certainly not a year.

As the days become weeks, the Commander holds Aaronson’s sweating head in his berth. He feeds him food carefully ground so he can swallow. He washes Aaronson when he needs to be washed. And finally in desperation he lies next to his friend, begging to transfer his own heated life force. Wake up, Aaronson. Wake up. You’re the only friend I’ve got.

But strangely, the Commander meets him in dreams, an apparition in his sleep, coming to him out of a blue iced fog. “The ice melts,” Aaronson says in the dream. “Melts”. But how can this be? The ice does not melt, the crystal births more ice. But Aaronson says over and over, “The ice is the absence of heat,” his eyes unfocused, the light in his irises dying. There must be a message. Novac 3 rockets through space and the Commander drinks scotch on the observation deck, first two fingers, then four, then he’s out of counting fingers. He just drinks. There is no day. The nebula of greens and browns and pinks, the infinitum of space, silently watches. He drinks until the day he looks in the mirror of his cabin and examines his red-veined eyes, his face. Then he knows what to do.

********

Aaronson’s near lifeless body lies in the outstretched arms of the Commander. He stumbles with the weight, falls, rises again. He struggles on, the weight heavy. The propulsion vest he wears can hardly hold them both from plummeting down the mineshaft. He finds the ice caves, the ladders, the art. He then lays Aaronson carefully down at the altar where the ice diamond used to be, the queen. After taking his pack off, he removes the ice diamond and places it on the pedestal and kneels in front of it.

Behind the commander stands a blue presence, at least ten feet tall, a figure in raw ice, nothing more. The man is clear blue, the ice of his body shimmering like the planet itself. There is a crackling, like tinkling ice, as the man’s arm moves. He places a hand on the Commander’s shoulder, his arm joint re-forming as the ice breaks and splinters. Lights like nail-heads shine from his eyes. His head turns, a crinkling in his neck, a thin frothing crystal skin. Your man will be fine. He’ll get to stay, study us as he wants. Then we can get him back if he chooses. But not for you. Yours is a different path.

The commander turns. Half of his face is blue ice, he is transforming. He knows in his heart that soon the suit won’t be necessary. He smiles to himself. But what will happen when Novac 3 reaches the frontier of the Federation, passes the ashen worlds destroyed by war, the planets stripped of all resources and lain to waste? What will happen when the sickened and bitter society discovers the ice that won’t melt? He’s completed his mission. The ice is overflowing the container within the ship, and in another eighteen months it will reach the frontier. They will harvest a rare commodity, solving the refrigeration needs for the Federation.

Now he more than smiles, he laughs. The ice has a little surprise, he thinks. A little gift to the Corporation. It will spread throughout the Federation of Planets. And then he remembers his dream on Novac 3. He remembers the dream asking him, what is the absence of hate? He now knows the answer. The ice will spread, and those who have the emotion of anger, or vengeance, or loathing, or bigotry, or so many other tortures in the souls of humanity, will, like Dickens, MELT.

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For your enjoyment.

Well, Japanese warfare is a different ballgame from Chinese warfare.

If I may offer an analogy, studying the history of war in Japan next to the Chinese is akin to a controlled lab experiment vs. the chaos of the real world beyond.

Let me explain.

Japanese warfare, in sum, has been an endless wave of civil war, among a population that only reached 35m in the 1870s. It was 8m entering the sengoku period in the 1460s.

Now, Japan lies north, with the home islands sharing the same latitude as the Koreas and the northeastern Chinese provinces of Jilin and Heilongjiang. One of the most important cities in the latter was Ningguta, literally the numeral “six” in Manchu, and it was where the Qing dynasty sent exiles, because of its desolate nature.

Life in Japan is incredibly harsh, not least because the conditions were exacerbated by the mountainous terrain. My shifu described Japan as “Yunnan with Heilongjiang weather”.

Large-scale warfare in ancient Japan was rare, because the scale was limited by available resources, harsh winters and lack of connectivity over challenging terrain.

Competition over centuries consolidated power from tribes, to clans, daimyos and finally the shogunate, before passing back to the emperor during the meiji restoration.

In such a limited microcosm, warfare was necessarily stylized, and ritualistic. Wars of extermination and destruction were rare, and tactical evolution became a laborious race to improve weaponry, because neighboring states all fought and organized the same way.

Japan’s harsh winter and short growing season attracted men to blacksmithing. The standardization of the Japanese arsenal with the katana front and center allowed blacksmiths from all over Japan to optimize the form factor and recipe over millennia, resulting in the katana being ranked as a top blade of the ancient agrarian world.

The katana is not just a weapon. It is also an important ritualistic symbol of bushido, and extensively used in stylized personal combat among the samurai.

It is this sprinkling of sacred religion that drove Japanese sword culture towards an apex of quality.

China’s population heft, continental range of latitudes and numerous neighbors along a long border means weapons standardization and shared rules of war are practically impossible. The Chinese adapted arms that could counter the enemy’s strengths, instead of pursuing the refinement of a single form factor.

Japan probably made the best katana, or the curved narrow blade in history. But the best Chinese straight swords (jian), broadswords (dadao) and longswords (kanmadao) were no slouch, having been tested in combat against the best armies of the time.

Hello animal lovers how do u deal with having too put ur cat too sleep..

buster was hes name buster was 18 and was my world..

what help you get thru this harrowing time..

and did u get burial or cremation..

Havent sleeped or eaten 2 days now..

I dont have any family supports witch sucks..

I need a hug but no one too hug..