Entry 89. The End – an editors' note

One planet’s journey to freedom has now been told via this blog, from the perspective of Ray Kaliber, who has received much of the credit for bringing about the Commonwealth of Sirius 4. The task that remains for us is to compile these sometimes rambling thoughts into a coherent narrative for you, the reader. Our goal is to make this available for your purchase and perusal on Dec. 15, 2012.

Why that date? This is a story of liberty, and on Dec. 15, 1791, a new nation on Earth ratified a Bill of Rights, intended to affirm the rights of the individual by prohibiting the new nation’s government from violating those rights. In the centuries since, that list of 10 tenets has been the subject of much discussion.

The nation had been forged a few years earlier by violent revolution against a far-off state that had routinely trampled on the rights on the list, as states are wont to do. The Bill of Rights was championed by people not so concerned about that far-off former threat as about making sure the newly formed state never behaved as tyrannically, ensuring that the revolution did not turn out to be an imaginary one.

To release the story of The Imaginary Revolution on Dec. 15, then, is a nod to the anniversary of that revolutionary document. The extent to which Ray Kaliber’s story is relevant to the ongoing discussion is entirely up to the reader.

Watch this blog and warrenbluhm.com for updates about how to obtain your copy of The Imaginary Revolution.

Entry 88. Unlikely brothers

I consider one of the greatest proofs of the Tenets of Common Wealth to be my friendship today with Fred Masterson. By trying to reason with him instead of cowering in fear, by settling for disarming him after he took the shot instead of returning kill force with kill force, I reached something inside him.

“I thought you were a dangerous lunatic,” Fred told me some time later, an ironic statement if I ever heard one. “A world with no government, sovereign individuals working out their differences without the force of law to compel them – it sounded like an false idea of a utopia just waiting for a strong dictator to swoop in and convince people otherwise. In fact, I was pretty sure you expected to become that dictator.”

“Me?” I said, and apologized immediately for laughing at him.

“Sure. Who better, if anarkhia didn’t work, to be the benevolent dictator who would step in and make it work? You were telling us and showing us how it could work anyway, so you knew we’d turn to you and beg you to become the leader and force us to behave. And if I was wrong, if you weren’t planning to set yourself up, someone else could come forward and say he was taking over because the commonwealth wasn’t working.”

“If I was dead, maybe the consensus would be that we need a government after all.”

“Exactly.”

“What changed your mind, my friend?”

“You called me your friend.”

“Of course, that’s what you are,” I said, confused.

“No. That’s what changed my mind: You took me as your friend, after I tried to kill you and put a hole in your shoulder. I saw no ambition for power in you. You really believe those tenets you talk about all the time.”

“I do,” I admitted. “And if I didn’t treat you with love, if I didn’t respond to your violence with love, if I didn’t give you more than you were willing to give me, we wouldn’t be friends, would we? I believe in those tenets because I’ve seen them work time and again.”

“As have I – now,” Fred Masterson said.

One night not long afterward, I walked the beach near sunset looking across the harbor at the oxygen-nitrogen generator and hearing the distant hum of its machinery, my arm around a beautiful red-haired woman, both her arms around me, and I felt a sudden throb where the slug had gone through my left shoulder. My cry of pain ended with a joyful peal of laughter, knowing I would always carry a reminder of my deep friendship with Fred Masterson – a friendship forged by an errant bullet.

Entry 87. The third time

“Oh! It’s you.”

If Fred Masterson had pulled the trigger at that moment, those would be remembered as my last words, and the historical conversation would be ablaze with speculation about what I meant. Did I know Fred before that moment? Was I aware that an assassin was afoot? Why didn’t I act more surprised? Conspiracy theorists would seize upon it as evidence I knew all about the plot and perhaps even faked my own death, choosing to live out my remaining days in peaceful obscurity.

But somehow, my lack of surprise and seeming acceptance of the moment made Fred Masterson pause, and those would not prove to be my final words.

If my calm kept me alive for a few seconds, I would strive to stay calm until we could get the barrel of the fun pointing somewhere other than the center of my chest.

“Here’s the thing, sir,” I said as cheerfully as I could – which was more cheery than I ever imagined I could be in those circumstances. “You can’t kill an idea. In fact, if you martyr a man who has an idea, you make the idea stronger. If you kill me here, the nonviolent revolution will continue. The commonwealth will go on.”

The assassin hesitated for only a moment. I saw his eyes glaze over with confusion, but they sharpened again almost at once.

“You may be right,” he said with conviction, “but they’ll have to go on without you.”

I had to admit, he had a point. I prepared to die.

Fortunately, John Hemlock and Buffalo Springsteen realized what his answer would be, and they had already sprung when he fired.

They barreled into his body together just as the weapon went off, knocking his aim aside so that instead of blasting a hole in my heart, he blasted a hole through my left shoulder. John Hemlock had saved my life for the third time, this time with the help of my beloved.

I had barely an instant to stare stupidly at the jumble of bodies in front of me, and then the pain receptors in my shoulder connected with my brain.

I have to say, I do not wish to be shot again. Ever.

Entry 86. The fall of the Sirian state

One of the basic principles of free enterprise is that the market determines the survival of a business. If you don’t deliver a quality product or service, if you don’t listen to your clients, if you abuse your clients, if you price yourself out of the market, your business will sputter and fail.

Governments through the ages have been immune to this principle – to a point. People endured products and services of questionable quality; governments ignored the wishes of its clients or even abused them; fees and taxes were increased without regard to the taxpayers’ ability to pay.

At some point in the decline of a business, the customers lose their trust in the product and stop buying it. Often they turn to a competitor, but sometimes they realize they no longer need the product. Centuries ago businesses and industries thrived around products that depended upon horse power; when horsepower became a unit of mechanized energy rather than a literal description, those businesses dwindled to nothing.

At some point in the decline of a government, the customers lose their trust and change the regime.

The most clever governments gave people the option to switch leaders on a regular basis through the voting process; that relieved the sense of hopelessness that comes when a leader seized control for life. It also reduced the violence with which governments were overthrown.

But when our violent revolution turned out to be illusory, when Silas Fredersen was replaced by Badiah Sinclair and almost nothing improved, and when 35 Sirians were killed by the forces of “free” Sirius 4, a different switch was thrown in people’s psyches.

Yes, our lives depend on choosing the right leader – but we came to understand that means leading our own lives, not handing the reins to someone else.

Yes, we need to work together and respect each other’s boundaries, but no one need dictate to a free people how that happens.

And so, in the aftermath of my trial that was not a trial, people realized that the power of government resided in their cooperation – what a wise man once called “the consent of the governed.” Simply put, we withdrew our consent en masse. Government began to sputter and fail without taxes, without support, without the people’s cooperation and participation.

Badiah Sinclair thought of doing what many a leader has done in the past – go after the dissenters with security forces to intimidate people into compliance. Two problems presented themselves when he called his generals together to discuss the options. First, there were too many dissenters; I was right in saying that if we work together, they can’t arrest us all. Second, as we saw at my trial, people refused to participate.

They were happy to help fight off an alien invasion from Earthians bent on subjugating the planet. They had no desire to threaten and kill people whose only motivation was to live their lives free.

As I said at the beginning, I always thought war was stupid. Finally, one day, the people of my planet agreed. Badiah Sinclair and the council resigned and disbanded the government, and life went on.

Entry 85. The Trial: Choices

The Sirius 4 courtroom was a carryover from Earthian customs and, specifically, the courts of the Europe and North American continents. Presided over by a judge in black robe, tables in front for the prosecutor and defense attorney, stern bailiffs by the door, clerical staff seated in front of – but below – the judge.

An area along the side held 14 comfortable-looking chairs for the 12-person jury and two alternates. At the end of the trial, two people who had listened to all of the testimony would be thanked for their efforts and dismissed. Or, if for some reason as many as two jurors were unable to continue, they had backup.

It appeared to me that almost no one in the room wanted to be there. As prospective jurors trickled into the gallery behind us, they spoke in hushed tones with one another and any laughter sounded to be of an ironic or grim humor. The bailiffs looked around the room with baleful eyes, and the clerks rarely looked up from their clerking.

I put on as friendly a face as I could muster, but none of the government workers made eye contact with me. The prospective jurors, on the other hand, looked me straight in the eye. Their expressions held mixed messages: encouragement, sadness, defiance, anger, embarrassment.

The murmuring undercurrent whispered into silence when the white-haired judge in his black robes appeared from behind a door no one had noticed near his high desk at the front of the room.

“All stand,” said the bailiff, and launched into a chant that has echoed down the centuries and across the stars: “Hear ye, hear ye, Public Court No. 17 is now in session, the Honorable Chandler Pearson presiding – silence is commanded.”

“Be seated,” muttered the Honorable Chandler Pearson. “This is the State of Sirius 4 versus Raymond Douglas Kaliber, case number 145-CF-389. The state is represented by Prosecuting Attorney Sandra Kim, and the defendant is present without legal counsel. Are we ready to proceed with the selection of the jury?”

“Yes, your honor,” Kim said.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, fully aware that the proper response was “Yes, your honor.” The judge scowled at my breach of the ancient chant protocol.

“I thought I asked for a jury pool of 100,” Pearson said, scanning the gallery. “I see about 50 people here, if that many.”

“Notices were sent; we received a number of – objections – but they don’t account for this turnout. A number of jurors are simply not here.

“Objections? What do you mean by objections?”

“I’ll send them to your screens,” Kim said.

I scrolled the messages from jurors refusing to appear for jury duty. I saw with grim delight that all of them contained the words, “I choose not to participate,” or some variation.

The judge did not change his expression, but I noticed a flush to his cheeks.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Pearson said. “The bailiff will draw the first name.”

The bailiff punched his screen and a number appeared at random.

“Juror number 31,” he intoned.

An older woman, white-haired, a little stooped, rose near the front row, steadying herself with a cane.

“Step forward and be sworn,” the judge said.

“No, your honor,” she said loudly and deliberately, leaning forward with both hands on the cane. “I was going to send a note, but I decided I wanted to come here and tell you in person: I choose not to participate.”

And with that she stepped into the aisle and began to walk to the back of the room.

One step. Two steps. Three.

“Guard, that woman is in contempt of court. Please arrest her and remove her from the courtroom pending further action.”

The guard nearest to the woman looked at her, winked – winked! – and called to the judge, “No, your honor. I choose not to participate.”

The guard opened the door for the woman, and they walked out together.

“Hank, go after them,” Pearson said. “Arrest them both.”

But Hank said, “I’m sorry, your honor, but I’m not going to participate, either.” And he started out of the room.

“I refuse to participate!” This was a young man who stood in the gallery and began to make his way toward the aisle.

“I choose not to participate!” This was a middle-aged woman whose voice broke on the word “participate.”

From all over the room came the call: “I choose not to participate!” Respectful and orderly, they rose and started going toward the door.

Pearson slammed his gavel and called for the doors to be locked and the courtroom sealed. One by one, each of the bailiffs and guards and clerks turned to the judge and said, “I choose not to participate,” and left the room. Some of them helped escort older prospective jurors out the door.

The judge turned red in the face and banged his gavel repeatedly, calling on his interlink for more guards. But the only response he got was “I choose not to participate,” over and over from different voices and different places. The prosecutor turned pale. Buffalo Springsteen grinned and held my hand. John Hemlock giggled like a little boy.

At last the three of us, Sandra Kim and the Honorable Chandler Pearson were the only ones left in the courtroom.

“It appears,” said the judge, “that the jury has chosen to nullify the charges against you, Mr. Kaliber. You’re free to go.”

“Your Honor?!”

“You saw what happened, Ms. Kim. Every one of the jury pool and most of my staff refused to participate. A jury is not going to convict this man. Case dismissed.”

Entry 84. The Trial: Arrival at the gates

Finally, there was the matter of putting me on trial for 35 counts of incitement to riot resulting in death. In a lifetime a person tries to share thoughts and insights with those around them, but you never really understand how much influence you have had. Oh, perhaps you’ll hear something you said or wrote repeated in another way, in another form, but the opportunities are few to gauge the impact of your life. That is why I look back on my trial with such gratitude.

The day broke with bright sunshine, a dazzling orange and blue display of beauty. The air itself felt sweet; as I wrote before, yes, it was the great machines at work, but I imagined the sweet smell of freedom on that day when a trial was to begin to determine whether I would spend the next several decades in incarceration.

As always Buffalo and John Hemlock accompanied me into the courtroom, she with her beautiful scowl and he with his peaceful grin.

“It’s an absolute crime that you’re the one who’s standing trial,” Buffalo said, looking back at the empty gallery that would soon be filled with prospective jurors, journalists and the curious.

“There’s a reason why everything happens,” John replied. “All things work to the good for those who believe.” I have to admit his confident smile may have begun to wear on my nerves. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t the one who might end the week serving a life prison sentence.

But: “I sure hope you’re right, John,” is what I actually said.

In hindsight it wasn’t that he was right, but how he was right, that makes me laugh telling the story.

Entry 83. And afterward

Editor's note: As with all of these posts, this is from the upcoming publication The Imaginary Revolution: Memoirs of Raymond Douglas Kaliber, Founder of the Commonwealth of Sirius 4. This excerpt was chosen in observance of Election Day 2012. The book is scheduled for release Dec. 15, 2012.

With the toppling of Badiah Sinclair and the reigning council, the question – seemingly inevitably – became: What sort of government will we have now?

I hoped my grin did not look too mischievous as I answered the question with my own question.

“Why do we need a government at all?”

Entry 82. Backlash

Entry 82. Backlash

Badiah Sinclair was quick to attempt to mollify the public outrage. I was surprised at how unwilling people had become to trust the great hero of Sirius 4.

In his address to the planet, he made the same arguments he had been making all along.

“I had no choice.”

“Like hell!” people barked back at the screen.

“ImagCorp intended to defend its business, and we were forced to comply with their demands.”

“Like hell!” people scrawled on walls and pavement.

“We could no longer allow Imaginary Structures to continue operations without concessions to ImagCorp.

“Like hell!” people roared in the streets.

And another phrase began to work its way into the public consciousness.

People receiving tax bills began to respond not with payment but with, “I choose not to participate.”

Building inspectors who visited construction sites were met not with a properly filed building permit but with, “I choose not to participate.”

Even marriages were performed without a license. More than one officiant who asked, “Well, shall we sign the license now?” was greeted with, “We chose not to participate.”

None of the speeches I had given about nonviolent noncooperation was as effective in convincing people as Badiah Sinclair’s violent cooperation with ImagCorp. Others took to the streets, but with gentle words, not implements of destruction. Most remarkable to me as I reflected in my cell: No one at Imaginary Structures had met fire with fire. Of 6,500 people in that crowd, surely some of them had brought their personal weapons to the scene. None fired back at the security officers.

As word spread beyond Sirius 4 about the incident at Ganges Pass, so did the outrage, and it soon became apparent that Sirians were not the first to wonder why ImagCorp still needed to license its basic technology 200 years after developing it.

Because ImagCorp left Badi Sinclair twisting in the wind.

“Like the people of Sirius 4, we condemn violence,” read the official statement from ImagCorp. “If Sirius 4 and Imaginary Structures Inc. wanted exemptions to our licensing program, all they had to do was ask. Those exemptions are hereby granted.”

I am tempted to write, “It was that easy.” But there is nothing easy about the sacrifice of 35 souls.

Entry 81. The night before

(Editor's note: This entry fits between entries 76 and 77.)

Badiah Sinclair called me the night before the Ganges Pass demonstration.

“This thing they’re going to do, you have to help me talk them out of it, Ray. I need your help,” Badi said.

“It’s a little late for that, Badi, they have to do what they have to do,” I replied. “You don’t give people their hope back and then jerk it away again arbitrarily.”

“This isn’t arbitrary. You don’t understand – ImagCorp could destroy Sirius 4’s entire economy if it withdraws all of its licenses.”

“Why don’t we withdraw? What if we refuse to play by their rules anymore? Will they really risk losing an entire planet’s worth of business?”

“You say ‘an entire planet’ as if our population is equivalent to Earth’s, or even Barnard’s Star. The risk is on our side. I can’t allow people into that facility.”

In hindsight I should have listened less to what Badiah Sinclair said and more to the tremor in his voice and the anxiety in his eyes. But his words were defiant, and I matched him word for word.

“You can’t allow this to happen? It’s out of your hands. You’re going to have to arrest us all.”

“Ray, please, I’m begging you, don’t force the issue.”

“Sorry, old friend. The issue is forced. I couldn’t talk the workers out of doing this if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

He still seemed to be trying to form the right words when I broke the connection.