In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 87-105 revised

Now we’ll say you’re in charge of those who guard
the systems that deliver things up high.
Quite suddenly, your task has gotten hard.
This is the most important thing to fly.

You’re not expecting sabotage, of course;
your chief concern is theft of isotopes.
A lunatic would not know how to force
the failure of a job like this (one hopes).

So here you are: The launch is in a week.
Tomorrow the deuterium arrives.
A bunch of nuts comes swimming up the creek,
equipped with lineman’s pliers and pocket knives.

They’re brought before you, heretofore unhurt.
with hesitant defiance in each eye
Within each wetsuit is a printed shirt:
“The world will end real soon, and you may die”.

At first they try to claim they just got lost.
They meant to snorkel up another stream.
You have to have the truth at any cost.
Sometimes the answers might be what they seem.

Persuaded to reveal their true intent,
they say all humans merit being fried.
Beyond that, you have clues that they were sent
as cover for shenanigans inside.

So when an unnamed caller leaves a tip
that some employees plan a little raid,
you cancel reservations for their trip.
You find the damage, and repairs are made.

That would have happened had the plot gone well.
Your limited resources would be where
you found an intrigue and the schemers fell,
while something could be done that wasn’t there.

What really happens is you get two calls.
Two puzzle pieces weren’t where they belong.
Two groups of evil traitors take two falls.
The launch goes full ahead with nothing wrong.

If you were in the story in that role,
you’d never know what made these people spin
or how they harbored such a dreadful goal.
You’d only know they turned each other in.

You’d find out where they go and what they do.
Their lives would be your business from now on.
Their history and motives, though, to you
would be a mystery forever gone.

When you apprised your boss of what you’d heard,
you didn’t hear him as he fumed and stormed,
or know he was about to give you word
that he himself had just been so informed.

He couldn’t very well confirm the plot
because he didn’t know which one you knew.
He couldn’t tell you both because he thought
the one you didn’t know could still go through.

Your boss was to decide which team got nabbed.
Each unit had a fifty-fifty chance,
but both teams in the dorsal zone got stabbed
before your boss could kick one in the pants.

The fifty-fifty part they could accept
as long as the percentage stayed the same,
but once they thought the deal had not been kept,
they did not feel obliged to play the game.

So, whence the notion that the odds had changed?
Team A believed Team B was like Team A,
Team B believed the same, but rearranged,
and both extrapolated either way.

With perfect trust, the line would stay amid,
but nothing’s like that, and the slightest shift
will feed upon itself the way it did.
A gap in faith will widen to a rift.

The other guys are thinking much like us
while we are thinking, “Why not jump the gun?”
and we think that they’re thinking this way, thus
we do unto before we’re unto done.

Preemptively responding in reverse,
proactively reacting to the threat,
we’re all sure that the other guys are worse.
If we would do it, they would, you can bet.


©2010, 2016 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 80-86 revised

Though far-fetched is the motive of our friends,
they hear of one that’s more peculiar yet.
Some people think it’s time our journey ends
based on their research through the Internet.

The voice that calls these folks is old and Greek—
a dean of mathematical affairs.
I’m sure you’ve heard of him of whom I speak
for something like the summing of the squares

Not only a good numbers man was he,
with theorems on triangles and such;
he spread his general philosophy
by preaching with a charismatic touch.

The years the faithful number since he died
because he differed from his fellow men
are that which they can evenly divide
by all the integers from one to ten.

Okay, I know you must be thinking, “Cripes,
this isn’t math, it’s numerology.”
Well, nobody said arithmetic types
are all completely rational like me.

Is their “Divisiblism” any worse
in essence than avoidance of thirteen?
Or saying a cashier invoked a curse
because three sixes line up on a screen?

Those other superstitions have not led
like this one, to a plot to postpone dawn,
but if our Mission's founders had not said
“Let’s hit the gas,” these geese would not have gone.


©2010, 2016 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 58-79 revised

So Project SIRE’s delivered as replanned,
with little notice given of the birth,
and few will know for what the letters stand:
Survival In Rejuvenated Earth.

A couple pesky journalists protest,
but most have been conditioned to such waste.
What’s underwater can’t hold interest
with human copulation more the taste.

The founders know, however, that they can’t
rely indefinitely on their source.
They’ve built a most impressive cart, I’ll grant.
To pull it, though, they’ll need a mighty horse.

You see the rub: They have no guarantee
that they’ll have something to which to respond
unless they do what seems (at least, to me)
unthinkably immoral and beyond.

It seems that they can save what they esteem
if the event they’re certain is a threat
occurs before the light falls on their scheme.
To douse a flame, it must be burning yet.

Would it be right to throw a little spark
onto the pyre? Would they be justified?
Would it be worth some centuries of dark,
a hidden candle’s shelter to provide?

That someone would consider such an act
reminds me of the power of a thought.
It struggles for existence when attacked.
That’s animal behavior, I was taught.

Now, don’t infer a lack of self-control.
They know the cost and what they can afford.
Like you and me, they calculate the toll.
Like us, they measure risk and seek reward.

For all incentive systems to perform,
we need something to want or to eschew.
With critters, pain and pleasure are the norm.
As humans, we have moral values, too.

When one of these yet ill-defined things grows
to where some feel they lack the strength to opt,
we still blame those who hold it, for they chose
to let it move them, and they could have stopped.

But stop they not, and after some delay,
a few of them drop hesitating hints.
Some others listen; some express dismay.
They all come to, but guess what happens since.

Before they get a chance to try their hand
at tricking politicians to the brink,
a comet is discovered that will land
on Earth. We’re dying sooner than we think!

The founders are ecstatic when they hear.
They hadn’t really planned the whole thing through,
and this way, they’ve no punishment to fear.
The comet’s dust cloud will be cleaner, too.

The comet won’t receive its spotter’s name.
Astronomers have simplified that job,
though some suspect it’s merely out of shame
at having one that sounds so like ‘Hail, “Bob”!’

A letter and a numeral have we
to catalogue this ball of rock and ice.
The ‘J’ is for some mythic deity;
the ‘1’ must be an ordinal device.

So, will the founders have an easy go?
Not if someone can change the comet’s course.
The loop includes some founders, so they know
‘twill take a lot of raw atomic force.

The nation-states can scrape up some of that,
but to be sure, they’ll want to send it all,
and even though each power’s thought a rat
by others in the club, they make the call.

Accordingly, a plan is drawn in haste
to gather all the nukes from ’round the globe.
Some weather satellites will be displaced.
As well, a would-be astronomic probe.

I guess the founders aren’t so off-the-hook.
It’s probable that J-1 will be beat.
If they’re to clinch the deal, it starts to look
like they are back to practicing deceit.

It won’t be easy, too, despite their pull.
A billion eyes are watching every move.
Not only is this campaign wonderful;
we’re goners should it unsuccessful prove.

The founders in the program are but ten.
This ploy will need a larger enterprise.
They cannot try recruiting strangers when
the payment would be everyone’s demise.

Once more, our group has to manipulate
another one. The present set of dupes
can share their goal: most lives to extirpate.
Once more, our plot jumps through some flaming hoops.

©2010, 2016 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 40-57 revised

The picture's drawn in two dimensions now.
Before we add a third to flesh it out,
let us consider something more of how
a can can have a life, lest you may doubt

There’s one more feature that these things possess:
an extra fancy autopilot mode.
The tubes can run themselves quite well unless
presented with an overriding code.

Not only can they fully self-direct
but they can make adjustments when they slip
and learn by watching those whose thoughts are checked
when their insiders take charge of the ship.

This trick requires heavy-duty brains
or silicon equivalents thereof,
more like our own than artificial strains
that work below on what was done above.

The tubes’ designers have to get this right.
They’ve found a way, but only their best guess.
Some variations in their creatures might
work better with environmental stress.

The robots that live long will reproduce.
The others—well, it’s just like in the wild.
More goslings for the strong and healthy goose;
the smarter parent has the smarter child.

Here’s how it works: Each carrier has two
computers, swapping watches in the nose.
The humans strapped inside create one new
By copying the one that’s in repose.

Both parents, then, have three brains when they breed.
The daughter gets the mashup from each set,
and all three carriers will thence proceed
with two brains and a third one coming yet.

This method works for many other parts:
the furniture and lighting, I suppose,
the pumps that work the legs, and all the charts
that tell what each piece does and where it goes.

The circuitry, while intricate as hell,
is reproducible by human hands.
Don’t tell me it’s impossible ’cuz, well,
we have to take the story as it stands.

Some folks on plausibility insist.
If that's your peeve, it's probably too late.
Some folks might hang up on something I missed,
like how this turkey reached the starting gate.

The likelihood that anyone will find
a planet that is livable at all
is very slim, and that is being kind,
so popular support is pretty small.

The people who imagined this thing, then,
are anxious to preserve its lower key.
They know they’ll lose their funding if and when
it’s argued as a public policy.

It’s easy for our group to get involved,
for some of them at space departments reign.
Their lack-of-resource problem now is solved,
and none who’ve been supplanted can complain.

They’ve new criteria now for the crew:
Each one should worship as the others would.
One-half a married couple will not do.
Though they don’t know it, they are in for good.

Prime physical and mental health is still
essential for the staff committee’s picks,
but military status henceforth will
be less important than the gender mix.

The books they read and copy now include
less for the mind and more to reach the soul.
As one book says, their spirits too need food.
What’s read alone just wouldn’t keep them whole.

Once these and other changes have been made,
and all the lot is tested as can be,
some seven of these tubes can be arrayed
beneath restricted portions of the sea.

©2010, 2015 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 20-39 revised

Suppose a group of people, highly placed
are critically massed one afternoon.
They think, as many do, that we are faced
with nuclear disaster fairly soon.

They meet at a symposium, let’s say,
and hear respected scientists recite
the terrible predictions of the day
that fallout turns into an endless night.

They fear not on humanity’s behalf.
Some few will live to start the race anew.
And those who don’t have had their chance to laugh.
No creature lives forever in this zoo.

Don’t give them credit less than they deserve
I think you’ll see their values have great worth.
Their mission is no less than to conserve
what’s left of civilization on this earth.

In order to accomplish this, they’ll need
some healthy men and women they can train.
These individuals will be the seed
from which society will grow again.

The problem here: They can’t just advertise
for volunteers to live while others die.
For this to work, it must be a surprise.
It doesn’t take a genius to see why.

A similar endeavor’s what they need,
compatible with what they want to do.
Become involved, discredit those who lead,
then take control and work some changes through.

It just so happens something of the sort
is being planned and soon will be in place:
an underwater test of life support
in preparation for a home in space.

I’ll fill you in a little on the way
some astronauts will spend the coming year.
Were I a novelist I’d have to say
you’d need some details that you won’t get here.

The idea is to start the thing out small:
two metal cylinders set end to end.
Some airplane fuselages gave up all
except their noses so they could attend.

They’re separated by an airtight lock
to limit leaks in case of accident.
A passageway connects them to a dock
through which replacements and supplies are sent.

The tubes can be unhooked so they run free,
with six pneumatic legs ranged side by side,
a pair of which can grab things from the sea,
the other four remaining in their stride.

And if the project goes as well as planned,
they’ll add more vessels made from the same mold.
But only the materials come from land;
the new will be assembled by the old.

They’ll take a recently retired plane;
they'll do it like the ones already done;
they’ll set it on the water with a crane
to wait between the ocean and the sun.

Soon, one of the incumbent submarines
will surface right behind the empty craft,
and, after some preliminary scenes,
will plug her fore into the other’s aft.

A cockpit door will open to conceive,
and from the mother ship some will pass through.
One-third of her inhabitants will leave
to form one-half her daughter’s maiden crew.

They’ll take equipment, furnishings, and food,
books, papers, clothing, and accouterments,
all that they brought and all they’ll have accrued.
The daughter will be their new residence.

When everything is transferred they’ll detach
(I’m sure they’ll leave some time to say farewell).
A second ship will bring a second batch.
A second gamete makes a zygote cell.

This reproductive rite they will rehearse
to give the little colony its start,
The dwellers of this inside universe
now operate three cylinders apart.

There will be present, though, some dozens more
that won’t have been existing as they will—
those waiting for the colonists to score
by knowing which commandment to fulfill.

©2010, 2014 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 1-19 revised

Jeff has taken it upon himself to record the first 19 stanzas of In the Next Life while playing his guitar and posted his recording on the internet. I am not entirely comfortable with being billed as a songwriter, particularly of a piece that alternates between ear-jarring chords and bouncy pop music, but he assures me that it will garner more attention to my work, and if it fails at that, I suppose it has done no harm. In any case, while working with him on this project I made some small changes to these stanzas, so I'll republish them:


CANTO I: THE CREATION

In which several concerned persons undertake to save the world by exploiting its impending destruction, and a sort of robot is employed to this purpose, being designed to carry people in hostile environments for extended periods.

Do you ever get the feeling that ‘free will’ is a joke?
—The Book of the Subgenius, Chapter 0

I watched a pair of cardinals today.
The hen and cock were never far apart.
They always stay together, experts say.
I must confess a warming of my heart.

Now, any male chimpanzee, so I’ve heard,
obtains what sex he can without regard
for whom he had before, unlike the bird
who, with his mate, brings cheer to my back yard.

So why is it that I do not possess
the nature of our closer relative?
I envy his uncurbed licentiousness,
and yet I’m like the finch in how I live.

Not only do I act that way; I’m proud
to be devoted to my only bride.
Fidelity is what we say aloud.
A lapse therein is something we must hide.

If like a chimp, I’d be so much more free.
With women I would share no more than fun.
I would not take responsibility
for what might happen after I am done.

Chimpanzees, one might say, don’t have our brains.
They haven’t near as much to learn, at least.
A mother ape, by instinct, merely trains
her young to gather food, just like a beast.

Our aptitudes increase as knowledge grows.
We gain a big advantage when we’re taught.
We think, invent, establish, and propose.
That extra parent’s handy, is he not?

Okay, that’s fine so far: We’ll say a dad’s
behavior is adaptive; that’s resolved.
But not too long ago, all men were cads.
How rapidly have families evolved?

Besides, if fatherhood were ours innate,
then men not brought up right would still behave
a lot more like the rest, whose chosen fate
is kin to volunteering as a slave.

That’s not to say, I should point out, that men
are under women’s orders. That’s too far.
It just seems rather self-defeating when
considering what our genetics are.

Could modified selection be the key?
Some values might have made their holders act
in ways that gave the holders’ progeny
a start in life that other children lacked.

Let’s take a value, then, down to its core.
What mechanism causes one to feel
that some things rate, and others even more?
Could it be tangible? Could it be real?

Well, if it is, we’d find it in our heads—
arrangements of the nerve cells, things like that—
a pattern that repeats, with varied threads,
depending on the neural habitat.

A pattern that’s translated into speech
or other media the pattern finds.
And as we argue, entertain, and teach,
we spread these patterns to each other’s minds.

What are these minds thus modeled by these molds?
They’re parts of organisms that have grown
from blueprints. Who wrote them? Who drew the folds
through which words pass as we play Telephone?

Some scientists are now describing genes
as patterns that maintain themselves through time
by changing raw materials to machines
that pass them on—a useful paradigm.

There might be meta-players at that game,
as certain kinds of thinking have been thought
to use the human mind to stay the same.
Perhaps this is the “is” that makes the “ought”.

I’ll leave it up to greater minds than mine
to tell us why our genes cooperate.
We’d have to view the whole ancestral line.
That’s more than I can handle at this date.

So, what I’d like to do today instead
is follow one of these things for a while
and see the possibilities ahead.
We’ll skip the past and turn another dial.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 38-40

Once in a while, I wake up and I hear
an unfamiliar air inside my head,
but when I move the tune will disappear.
(I need to keep a pencil by my bed.)

Now maybe someone thought of it before,
and maybe later on another will,
but what if it is heard again no more?
It has no chance an audience to thrill.

Oh, well, it’s no great loss. Unlike these rhymes,
my musical attempts are pretty small,
but I just like to speculate sometimes
about the way things might have been. That’s all.

©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 34-37

Now, we could add a footnote of our own
about why I’m behaving like a bird,
were we that line of thinking to condone,
which isn’t likely—none but Esther heard.

And even if she had not done the crime,
who would have listened? Who’d have understood?
And even if he’d said it in our time,
would more exposure have done any good?

No, Ciral’s thesis would not have survived.
As anyone can see, it can’t be true.
Our values are objectively derived.
At least I’m sure that mine are. How ’bout you?

But it was not subjected to the Gong.
Yes, that’s the part of this that makes me frown.
’Twas never tried and proven to be wrong.
Nobody got a chance to shoot it down.

The Gong: The Gong Show was a short-lived television talent show spoof (1976-1980), in which judges struck a gong when they disapproved of an act.
©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 30-33

So why did Ciral think this must be so?
He’d put his thinking organ through the rack
attempting to explain why people go
to such great lengths to set their egos back.

He’d reckoned that the reason must relate
to some resemblance that our minds infer
between those weaker and those we create.
More helpless entities are needier.

But is that not our wont instinctively?
Why would we need a value to assist
the process that has grown our fam’ly tree?
Big brains should only help. No, there’s a twist.

What he was thinking, then, goes well beyond
the pressure on a woman to conceive.
He thought this led to much of which we’re fond—
quite possibly to all that we believe.

©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 27-29

“There was a break in equilibrium
’tween will to live and willingness to breed
when women figured out whence babies come.
They saw a sign that said ‘Reduce your seed’.

“Self-interest began then to conflict
with that of our creators. One would think
that natural selection would have picked
a brain incapable of such a link.

“But if a woman, knowing this much, could
be taught she ought to make the sacrifice,
she’d have more children than her neighbors would
and pass the lesson to her kids. How nice.”

©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 23-26

But if we play a little guessing game,
we might discern a crude hypothesis,
and we’ll assume that Ciral’s was the same,
though not so many fancy words as this:

“We like to think we’re special, and we are,
as though our souls were heavenly bestowed,
but seen from a perspective, from afar,
we’re carriers for our genetic code.

“And with that code resides another kind,
on which our personalities depend.
The second type is transferred to a mind
by causing other minds the code to send.

“The second needs the product of the first.
The first, in turn relies on Number Two,
without which it would never be dispersed
because, alas, said product got a clue.

©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 19-22

The women Ciral left have gone home since
we foreshadowed that feat. (Are we not proud?)
I tried as well to drop sufficient hints
that God has come to work the compound crowd.

I shouldn’t be so hard on the big guy,
for in our story, He came out on top.
I wouldn’t want it spread around that I
am not a gracious loser to Our Pop.

That still sounds adversarial. Oh, dear.
That connotation would be inexact.
I know why people need something to fear.
That fits with Ciral’s theory, in fact.

Which is? All who have managed to digest
the gist can just skip past this to the end,
and, most unfortunately for the rest,
all firsthand knowledge perished with our friend.
©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 13-18

Before we leave, I’d like to linger on
the question of God’s new identity.
I have a picture by a master drawn.
I copy it. What image do you see?

Or better yet: You find a long-lost sheet
of notes and plunk them out on your guitar.
They represented melody and beat
but weren’t those things before, and now they are.

You certainly did not compose that piece.
Did it exist, though, in the heretofore?
When no one heard it, did the music cease?
Or was it dormant, like a mildew spore?

Suppose that, unbeknownst to you, the song
is being played somewhere they don’t read notes,
evolving somewhat as it goes along
from strings to ear through various misquotes.

I’m thinking that when these two versions meet,
those who have learned the tune will disagree
which one is more sublime or sounds more sweet,
all based on which one was know previously.

Let’s drop that, though; the two gods’ paths won’t cross.
The indoor god stays happily within,
oblivious of ’97’s loss
and the existence of His outdoor kin.

©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 9-12

Hey, wait a minute: Why are we concerned
about a nonexistent entity?
One is, in all effect, something that turned
into a god from nothing, isn’t she?

The fact that we’re discussing her, though, shows
that she is something worthy of our thought.
Must everything be smelled by someone’s nose,
or seen, or heard, or touched to not be naught?

And that reminds me: Where is our equivalent?
When last we saw Him outside, he’d been raised
from mere words on a paper testament
to His old state, essentially unfazed.

Is this the God who lived in Esther’s brain?
If so, He never died (although He shrank).
I’d still be as impressed. He rose again
with none among the insiders to thank.

Worthy of our thought: Here we return to the meme theme that he started to develop in Canto I. ©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 5-8

Oh well, they’ll be okay. Someday the sign
from One they’ve been awaiting will appear
to give them new direction and refine
the nature of the creature that they fear.

The more they wait, the more will be their needs.
The more they need, the lesser they’ll accept.
I’m starving, so I’ll eat some poppy seeds.
I’ll lie on concrete if I haven’t slept.

Some will be faithful, yet discouraged by
the way the sinners do what sinners do.
They’ll go out in the wilderness and cry
for One to show the sinners who is who.

And what the tubes will read as One’s response
will modifiy their dogma, more or less.
The mother of them all will have new wants.
Precisely what is anybody’s guess.

Someday the sign…will appear: Or not. If it doesn’t come through in time, “Tincandom” will go the way of the Neanderthals. To make Ciral’s theory complete, we need to include the probability that some groups of humans did not find religion when they became aware of the meaning of life, that they perished for its lack, and that some who did develop a faith system didn’t survive as well as those with stronger or more adaptable religions. Again, one wishes that he had elaborated on these important points. The closest he came to explaining this was the one television interview he gave: “I had run out of rhymes by that point.”
Poppy seed…concrete: I’d say Merrimac is grasping at straws with these analogies.
©2013 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 1-4

CANTO IV: THE REVELATION

In which we evaluate the boy’s theory and consider whether we should show more compassion, and perhaps even some respect, toward the gods, without whom, after all, we would never have been born.

And God said, 'Let Us make man in Our image, after Our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.
—Genesis 1:26

Now ’97’s followers are lost.
Their savior died again. This just won’t do.
They gave up all and let themselves be bossed.
If she keeps dying they won’t know what’s true.

If she’s legitimate, she’s lost her touch.
She’s left them ere she told them what to be,
and rising twice from death would be too much,
unless it’s just some parlor trickery.

Oh, never mind the poor thing never claimed
she was a god or anything like that.
They feel embarrassed; therefore, she’ll get blamed.
They have the human character down pat.

It’s quite a shame it had to end so soon.
Old One could use a little help right now.
A miracle like that would be a boon
to Tincandom, though they would not know how.

Let us make man: The reason for using this quote becomes apparent shortly. Merrimac avoids holding this up next to the belief in the One True God as some have. “Suppose you believed that people should stop washing away their natural body oils. Would you analyze Ivory Soap to learn whether it’s really 99 and 44/100 percent pure? I doubt that finding more than .56% of non-soapy stuff would persuade anyone to stop bathing. Besides, my purpose is not to dissuade anyone from religion, nor even to make fun of it. I’m just throwing some ideas out for discussion.”
Parlor trickery: So why don’t they simply pretend they saw a miracle and agree on a story to spread? I suspect it’s due to a lack of encouragement from the would-be savior herself. I think he could have developed this contrast with Christianity a little more.
Human character: I believe this is the only place where the author directly compares the carriers to our own species.
Would not know how: Here is the central message of this whole undertaking. Religion is good for humanity, but not in any of the ways it has been made out to be so, and there are important reasons for us not to understand the nature of the relationship. Religion benefits humanity only if we consider humanity as something essentially separate from the individuals comprising it. Merrimac believes he is the first thinker to make this distinction wide enough to see between the two. I think Dawkins and some others have made it that far, but they perhaps weren’t looking through the gap at quite the same angle.

©2011 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 381-390

“Here’s what we’ll do: We’ll stop and make our camp
and find some fresh disciples in the morn.
The ones we have won’t do to make our stamp.
Their humans know that few are in this borne.

We’ll watch for signals in the newer set.
When one displays its red light we’ll do ours.
They’ll have to give us half, so half we’ll get,
and some will be like you—some pretty flowers.

“I’ll pollinate their pistillated parts.
They’ll be unable to resist this bod.
And you’ll be first among the fallen hearts.
Youl’ll get your due before I spend my wad.

“From that I’ll get my raw materiel,
along with pre-existing empty slates.
I’ll write thereon that the most lasting Hell
is that which blind obedience creates.”

Her bubble burst, poor Esther stood and stared.
It seemed to her that everything had stopped.
She drew a breath, and though extremely scared,
reached downward for the panel she had dropped.

He rolled his eyes and said, “How cute you look,
but soon your arm will tire; you’ll leave it lay.”
She knew she would; he’d read her like a book.
He paused a moment; then he turned away.

Despite her normal youthful lack of sense,
our heroine could still tell right from wrong,
and wrong it was to practice violence
for selfish reasons. No, she must be strong.

Her grip relaxed; her shoulder took the weight.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and prayed.
A Christian, she must not be moved by hate.
A judgment based on values must be made.

’Twas momentary anger, she could tell.
His was no crime the law would recognize,
and killing him would sentence her as well.
Plus, now she’d no advantage of surprise.

Besides, her jealousy had no good base.
The skull before her was not hers to break.
The Mission, though, was quite another case.
She had to do it for the Mission’s sake.

The Mission’s sake: So Ciral thought he understood how culturgens influenced people’s behavior, but having grown up in a culture that lacked powerful beliefs, he didn’t grasp how strong that influence could be. Merrimac chose not to develop this theme, preferring instead to hit us on the head with it, as it were,

©2011 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 345-349

As he had ordered, so did she obey,
and when he motioned her to take the helm,
she did so, finding to her deep dismay
that even wordless, he could overwhelm.

While Esther kept the course they had begun,
an interval less lengthy than it seemed,
she watched as Ciral’s outlook came undone,
enchanted by the way his forehead gleamed.

When he at last looked up, the gleam had moved
into his eyes, and brightly he declared,
“Again I thank you, Esther, you’ve improved
the quarry that you thought you’d snared.

“I’m human, and I shall no more pretend
that I’m not subject to an inner tide.
It’s part of me, not something I can end
the way I waved away my weaker side.”

Another riddle. This time Esther guessed:
“So you’ll receive the Lord into your heart?
You’re ready, just like that, to be so blest?”
She was ecstatic—this would be her start.

His laugh, though gentle, slipped between her ribs.
“Although I know why God is held so dear,
I can’t believe what I know to be fibs.
I shan’t pretend. Did I not make that clear?

“Your way of thinking wants to replicate.
As well mine does, and I’ll no longer fight
my nature. To be like you is my fate.
This, strangely, is more powerful than spite.

©2011 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 369-373

We need to cut this simple girl some slack.
Her teasing in all likelihood was meant
to throw her adversary off the track
so she could have more say which way they went.

To us, it’s obvious that would provoke
someone like Ciral into something rash.
Plus, there was the denial thing she spoke.
Again, his face showed an internal clash.

A finger at each temple, eyes near shut,
he sharply shook his head to cut her off,
then whispered “Tell those things to follow, but
say nothing else until I’m through this trough.”

She felt the muscles in her chest constrict.
She thought of trying to retract the dare.
It would have mattered not. Something had clicked
when she had said he was within compare.

The situation had become so tense,
and Ciral so mysterious, so weird,
had she had hope of gaining influence
by charm or insult, it had disappeared.

©2011 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto III, stanzas 365-368

“The question is ‘Why should I?’” he rejoined.
“Oh, I can see the urge to proselytize.
A clever phrase is worthless when it’s coined.
It gets its value when it multiplies.

“Like evolution, that procedure needs
something to function as its medium.
I shan’t go into genotypes and seeds.
Let’s just say the arrangement knows my thumb.”

“I’m sensing some resentment in your tone.
Are you perhaps reacting to the pull
by planting yourself firmly in a zone
where portions of your nature now are null?

“Or is it that you’re stretching things a bit?
Do you, in truth, expect me to accept
your word that you can make all persons quit
producing kids? I think you’ve overstepped.”

©2011 Louis A. Merrimac