Conscience of a Blackened Street

“We’re moving out in ten minutes,” announced Robert Watts, striding into the locker room before realizing it was nearly empty. “Oh, it’s just you, Jollenbeck. Where are your men?”

Astor Jollenbeck did not look up from where he sat on the bench. “All set to go, sir,” he responded, sounding attentive even as he remained immersed in the book under his nose. “They’ve completed their equipment checks twenty minutes ago and are lined up by the designated exits.”

The Colonel took a seat next to him, chuckling. “I always liked your initiative, Jollenbeck.”

“I can’t take all the credit. Everyone’s been waiting for this day to come. We’re all itching to get to work.”

“You most of all, I imagine.” Watts peered more closely at the book clasped in Astor’s hands, titled Preludes. “Yet here you are, reading T.S. Eliot. Bit of an odd choice in perspective, I should say.”

“It calms my nerves, sir. It’s been many years since I came back to Eridanus II. The Insurrection was in its infancy when I left.”

“Looking for insight into a pre-world war civilization?” Watts surmised. “These poems were written in an age when industry and artifice had became the drab foundations of modern society.”

“That’s part of it, but there’s more to it than that.” Taking the Colonel’s silence as a prompt to continue, Astor elaborated, “Eliot was famous for exploring the relationship between people and their environment, and more importantly, the way we perceive the objective state of existence.”

Watts nodded. “Very good, Jollenbeck. It’s not we who have inherited the galaxy, nor does it wait for us to shape it. Our place in it is minute, and before all the politics and demand for higher authority there was something thrilling about discovering something new amidst the unknown. There aren’t many who realize it, but humanity today is sitting in an existential rut, just as they were during the so-called ‘Industrial Revolution’ from which Eliot writes. And they damn near destroyed themselves trying to crawl out of that rut.”

“Do you think we’ll end up destroying ourselves?” Astor asked quietly. “We had the public’s sympathy at the beginning. But the things we’ve done since then have changed a lot of their minds. You know what they call us...terrorists, not freedom fighters.”

“‘And when all the world came back, and the light crept up between the shutters’,” Watts recited, without glancing at the book, “‘and you heard the sparrows in the gutters...you had such a vision of the street, as the street hardly understands’. The people see only that which is in front of them, what’s easy to quantify; war, peace, stability, chaos. They are frightened by concepts that are much more complicated, like principle or sacrifice—and above all, purpose. Complacency is easy, and so they attach themselves to it, choosing to forego the freedom that comes through risk and perseverance.”

Astor sighed, closing up the book and standing up. It was time to go. “So how do we make them see? That we were meant for more than this?”

Watts placed a hand upon the younger man’s shoulder. “That’s the real question, isn’t it? We only know that we must fight against oppression, even if it turns us toward fear and even certain death. Through striving to find the answers, we fight because in standing up we can inspire others to see it for themselves as well. Until then, ‘The worlds revolve like ancient women...’”

“‘...gathering fuel in empty lots’,” Astor finished. “I’m ready, sir. Let’s take back Eridanus II.”