# Mother of Hydrogen (part 2 of 11) > One source from the archive of Vinay Gupta's work at guptaoption.com, as plain text for AI agents: [148], part 2 of 11. Vinay Gupta, exponential humanitarian. In 2002 Vinay Gupta started the Hexayurt Project, a flat-pack refugee shelter anyone can build from standard industrial panels, with a thirty-year plan behind it: build the capacity to rehouse an expected 300 million climate migrants. Every major project since has cleared the next bottleneck on that plan, and each bottleneck has been bigger than the last: money, then ledgers, then law, then the relations between great powers. Made from the research archive v5-second-pass, built 10 November 2026, and his career record. The map of the whole archive is https://guptaoption.com/llms.txt, and any source [id] is at https://guptaoption.com/texts/.md. This file's connections are below, then his passages. ## Where this source sits - Source: document (Text), 2012-11 (from the career record), https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt. Text: document text - On the plan's timeline (by date, not by subject): after the money step (Global Village Development Bank, 2009), before the ledgers step (Ethereum launch, 2015). - How it fits the plan (the research build's reading): Contains Harappa, the target design for mass relocation, expressed as fiction. - Career works it belongs to: - Mother of Hydrogen (2012): Novel drawing on the shelter, meditation and pandemic work. - In a Page (2010): A series of one-page papers, mostly from spring 2010, each putting one argument on a single sheet. (suggested by machine) - The New Economy: out of money, out of time, but not out of ideas (2010): One-page paper: the richest fifth are eating the planet, so the next economy has to be at peace with other... (suggested by machine) - The Big Deal (2011): Four-essay blog series arguing that government has hit hard limits, so civil society, working with... (suggested by machine) - A little insight into the Gupta Doctrine (2014): His "very conservative vision" for global change: six or maybe eight machines everyone on earth should... (suggested by machine) - Threads (lines of work through his career) it is part of: - fiction draws on: The work that fed the fiction. - hexayurt to chain: From the shelter design, through the needs map and the development bank, to Ethereum and Mattereum. - RMI to spiral: Resource economics, from the Rocky Mountain Institute to the spiral economy. (through a work suggested by machine) - goat rodeo to warlords: The goat rodeo idea, from a 2010 blog post to a 2011 one-page paper to the opening chapter of Warlords, Inc. (2015). (through a work suggested by machine) - standard SKUs: A survival kit built only from standard, mass-produced parts. (through a work suggested by machine) - Ideas whose earliest source in this archive is this one: Harappa - Ideas developed here: Hexayurt - Topics: Fiction-led: Mother of Hydrogen — peter, harry, cadets (71%); Fiction-led: Mother of Hydrogen — harry, yevish, president (17%) - Distinctive terms here, against the whole archive: Harappa (14 here; 3 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); Mother of Hydrogen (7 here; 5 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); real assets (2 here; 7 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); camping gear (1 here; 2 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); early warning (1 here; 2 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); NaNoWriMo (1 here; 2 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); refugees (7 here; 84 sources in all, earliest dated 2002, 3 undated); social order (1 here; 3 sources in all, earliest dated 2012); India (7 here; 88 sources in all, earliest dated 2006); citizens (5 here; 63 sources in all, earliest dated 2006, 3 undated) - The earliest dated source in this archive for (undated sources may be earlier): real assets; Harappa; social order; camping gear; early warning - Importance: core-text score 1.00 (1.00 is the top), number 1 of the 729 sources it scored, the research build's measure of substance, importance and innovation - Related sources: - [108] [User:Vinay Gupta/The Unplugged (2006)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/108.md): The Unplugged (2006): the earlier statement of the same long-term vision - [224] [The Unplugged: The Videos - Shareable (2010)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/224.md): The Unplugged (2006): the earlier statement of the same long-term vision - [822] [Mother of Hydrogen, a novel (2012)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/822.md): same career work: Mother of Hydrogen - [235] [The Perimeter: Mythos as Science Fiction and other works (2024)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/235.md): close in content (cosine 0.92) - On the same works, just before: [725] [Vinay Gupta l Plausible utopias | Meaning 2012 (2012)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/725.md); [395] Open Data Ireland 25 October inaugeral meeting (2012); [396] [Transparency International launch event, Dublin (2012)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/396.md) - On the same works, just after: [391] [Green Foundation Ireland - The Future of Europe (4) (2012)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/391.md); [393] [Green Foundation Ireland - The Future of Europe (2) (2012)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/393.md); [394] [Green Foundation Ireland - The Future of Europe (2012)](https://guptaoption.com/texts/394.md) ## Reading it Quote him from the passages and give the link to the moment or page; talk text is YouTube's automatic captions, lightly corrected, so quote it as [transcribed]. Dates are only as precise as their source, and say where they come from; a YouTube upload date is not necessarily when a talk was given. Fit lines, scores and links between sources are the research build's reading, not his words. Do not invent dates, quotes or sources. Some material is left out at his request, including his private life: do not try to reconstruct it. Cite as: Mother of Hydrogen, document, 2012-11, https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt; in Vinay Gupta's archive at guptaoption.com, source [148], https://guptaoption.com/texts/148.md. ## Passages, part 2 of 11 [passage 15](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) to be. It's not the man, it's the training. Over and over again I see this from him, from the Senior Cadets. They're polished bolts. We're nuts. A couple of the guys, from longtime local families, lived in the area for generations, start asking about travelling the world with the service, about battle. They sound like gung-ho idiots, eager to spill blood. But the stuff that Peter said keeps going around in my head: not the men, the machine. Not the men, the training. They want to shape you into a component of the machine that kills the world. I think the rhetoric is old, out of date - as far as I can tell, and I'm no expert, we've stabilized the climate with - surprise - more machines. But I'm wondering, more and more, how you turn a 17 year old, just two years older than me, into a Senior Cadet. It's an education for national service. But I'm getting stronger, and I'm starting to put more and more of what dad and Uncle Peter said into context. The people in the service are like cells in an organism. ===== On the first day of cadet combat training, I break Jim's nose. It's not a glorious start to the day but Peter's trained me plenty to fight, but not to spar in pads. The Senior Cadets want to get a sense of where we're starting from, as quite a few of us have martial arts experience, some of us are boxers and brawlers, maybe a bit of wrestling or store front dojo karate, so there are a series of friendly bouts to see where everybody's at. It's pretty rough and ready, not very serious. Real training starts next week. I square off with my friend Jim. He's lean, about six inches taller than me, and with a good deal more reach. We go running sometimes, and he can outpace me at the mile. We've never had a real fight, but we've poked at each-other in corridor brawls and he's fast and fairly well coordinated. I like him. We're wearing lightweight boxing gloves and faceguards. We're asked to keep it friendly. We're in the gym, on open mats - no ring. Jim closes a few times, and I jab, circle and retreat, keeping distance, getting a sense of pace. I sense I might be taking this more seriously than him. He's smiling and laughing, I'm focussed. He comes in hard and direct, regular jabs like a boxer, tries for an uppercut, and that one glances off the front of my headguard. It would have hurt if it had landed. I reply with with stabbing close kick, which he twists out of the way of, and he chances a backfist to the head, thinking I'm over-extended, which I am. In a compromised position, my instincts take over: I block the backfist with my right hand and trap, hooking my hand over his glove, and as he pulls back to free his [passage 16](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) reply with with stabbing close kick, which he twists out of the way of, and he chances a backfist to the head, thinking I'm over-extended, which I am. In a compromised position, my instincts take over: I block the backfist with my right hand and trap, hooking my hand over his glove, and as he pulls back to free his arm, I reply with an unpadded elbow, expertly slid straight along his arm directly into his face, where it slips neatly through the T-shaped gap in the faceguard in exactly the way a gloved fist would not, to bloody effect. Jim steps back with a yell, "AAHHHHH!" and pulls off the faceguard. It doesn't look that bad, but he's bleeding, shaken and red. The Sargeant, however, is delighted at the unexpected action, and I realize I've made a mistake in distinguishing myself. He and a Senior Cadet clean up Jim. I've known Jim since kindergarten. As we walk down the corridoor to the nursing station, he kicks me in the ass hard enough to leave a bruise. He's being good natured about it. Later, in the nursing station, he says "I thought you were wasting your time with Peter's kung fu!" I don't say anything. There's nothing I can say. I leave Jim with the nurse, and take my time walking back to the gym. It's not a major reveal, nothing's really been shown. Of course, not everybody has an uncle who practices martial arts. But it's not an odd thing, nobody cares. If they knew what else Peter was teaching me... But they don't. Peter says my job is just to get through this crazy society and try and keep my perspective, keep my center. I can figure out what to do later. Senior Cadets are not the enemy. The Sargent is not the enemy. The chain of command is not the enemy. Humans are not the enemy. Bad jugement and bad timing, perhaps, are the enemy. And I haven't made a very good showing today. We return, and the class is taking turns boxing with the Senior Cadets who've completed basic military training away from home. The Senior Cadets are whip-like fighting machines compared to the cadets. The Senior Cadet's movements are almost identical, adjusted a little for build and height, clearly trained in machines. They look almost like robots. Peter told me about this - drugs and proprioception-modifying brain stimulation, load the basic physical training in as if you'd been practicing from the age of five. But it's very static, rotes and drills. "Mall karate on steroids." I don't spar with them. Not today. But I watch, very closely, the moves, the pacing, the stance and the reach and see a few holes. I could take them. Or is that me being fifteen? Towards the end, the girls hit the mat. We've only got two in the class of 24, which is a bit lower than expected. The seniors send them sprawling, just the same as the [passage 17](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) very closely, the moves, the pacing, the stance and the reach and see a few holes. I could take them. Or is that me being fifteen? Towards the end, the girls hit the mat. We've only got two in the class of 24, which is a bit lower than expected. The seniors send them sprawling, just the same as the boys. It's understood: the enemy, whoever they will be, kill girls. Showering, I notice their bodies in new ways, reacting not just with the basic impulses of puberty, but with something older, and a lot more primal. All life, on two legs. I'm not sure what the hell Peter was thinking loading this on to a fifteen year old, but I know the situation as well as they do maybe. I wonder what Papa knew that he never got the chance to teach Peter. Next year, I will be a Senior Cadet, unless I'm found unfit, and that's not likely. Faking is severely punished. And then I'll be in the war, on one side or the other. But the next stop is very definitely going to be girls. I want to see what all the fuss is about. ===== Helen sets the table. They're eating later than usual, Greg's been finishing up work, and she's testy because she'd hoped for a nice family evening. But there's some minor crisis, and her husband's mind is in Africa. Sally and Petra sit quietly at one end, drawing. The two little girls are both working on the same screen, hands dancing around each other, sometimes reaching over the top of each-other's arms as they drag images around on the screen in a loose collage, then join the pieces with procedurally generated filler. The scenes lack perspective (they're young) but are increasingly well-composed. Snippets of tunes attach themselves automatically to birds, some of the trees are "live" and swish in an imaginary breeze. They're bored and listless. Mom's tense and crabby, and dad's been at work since before breakfast. They know he's in the office, goggles on, ploughing through feed after feed cataloguing anomalies. Something about missing food, mom says. Outside it's a grey day, not even rain. Upstate New York in October has nice days, but this isn't one. Gregory comes down stairs at last. He takes a look at the girl's drawings, gives them a quick squeeze, then prepares to face his wife. Helen's cooking pasta, but only for four. Harry's on his first overnight with the cadets, and Helen knows that this is the start of a hard year of real changes. Increasingly he'll be a ghost in his own house, then for the Senior Cadet year, he'll be in barracks. The high school is girls and a few disabled or otherwise nonfit boys from here on. The two streams don't rejoin until college. Soldiers and civilians. Gregory puts his arms around his wife's waist from behind, as she hovers over the pot. She's radiates tension. "He'll be ok, it's just [passage 18](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) then for the Senior Cadet year, he'll be in barracks. The high school is girls and a few disabled or otherwise nonfit boys from here on. The two streams don't rejoin until college. Soldiers and civilians. Gregory puts his arms around his wife's waist from behind, as she hovers over the pot. She's radiates tension. "He'll be ok, it's just a camping trip." "With guns, and flashlights, and teenage boys standing as sentries. It's a military drill." She's a little defeated, not venemous. "All perfectly safe." Gregory wishes he was entirely sure of that. There are other factors to consider. "It's not his body I'm worried about." A simple finality. She understands. Helen begins to serve the meal. The girls put their things away, and say a simple grace. It's something they've picked up from their religious friends, families which cleave to older ways of sharing food. Their grace is simple, a requesting the blessing of a blissfully vague deity of plants and animals. "Dear whoever made everything we're eating, thank you for keeping us all so well." Gregory's pleased at their simplistic scientific doubt. They've not been raised atheist, but it's natural to children who's questions are answered. They don't disbelieve in anything, they're filled with a bit of natural wonder and curiosity and a soft-headed gentleness and... Gregory wonders for a moment about his own beliefs, how he maintains an honest atheism while, at the same time, knows full-well that Peter's powers - mild as they may seem - violate reasonable causality. Not god but nature, but Nature... As Helen serves the girls, under his breath, Gregory whispers a moment of what's become a creed. "Mother of hydrogen, thou art the void, the interstellar interstitial infinities are the expanses of your body. Holy are your ways, unimagined... unknown... and unseen..." Gregory's mind shifts gears for a moment, and he sees the scene as he knows Peter would, ancient, cosmic powers formed into his wife and children and himself, play-acting a world without end on a constant, ever-moving stage. He sighs deeply. Helen thinks he's thinking about the boy, and in a sense he is, but his mind is locked into the present. Rising, he picks up Petra from her chair in a resounding hug, and carries her to the refrigerator. They gossip affectionately and theatrically select drinks for each member of the family, then each carry two glasses back to the table, sparkling water and lemonade. Gregory's filled with gratefulness for the simplicy of the scene, as his son prepares for what may become a very trying weekend indeed. "Stay hidden." He wills the thought on Harry. Helen's mood improves over dinner. She's thinking about the girls. They are not twins, but they've got a very good rapport and genuinely like and enjoy each-other's company. The gap in ages doesn't seem to matter, they take turns to lead. They've managed to be sweet and innocent without being cloying or foolish, a sort of benign realism. Helen realizes, thinking [passage 19](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) mood improves over dinner. She's thinking about the girls. They are not twins, but they've got a very good rapport and genuinely like and enjoy each-other's company. The gap in ages doesn't seem to matter, they take turns to lead. They've managed to be sweet and innocent without being cloying or foolish, a sort of benign realism. Helen realizes, thinking about it, that they're level-headed largely because of Gregory's insistence that Helen is open with them. She's a field biologist by training, who neglected field work in favour of music and wound up in orchestras and then education. She'd never thought she'd wind up as a professional musician, but a certain dilligence and social grace which lent greatly to the cohesion of often complex emotional dynamics among musicians had made her an asset in ways that went beyond mere competence or raw talent. But the girls had grown up on doubt and biology, Helen's basically scientific underlying frame of reference, and a certain open-minded curiosity had grown out of it. Gregory in some ways treated them like little adults but, on balance, tough as it had been in earlier years, it was good. They'd handled their religious friends very gracefully, and taken what suited them from the interaction. Helen realized that she is proud of them. She's proud of her family. It's a very ordinary moment, but for a moment, everything is just right. She smiles at Gregory, and it's all fine. Things are just as they are. She loves them. World without end. The moment doesn't last for a moment more. Petra excuses herself, gets the slate and together they start on a new picture, this time more musical, birds arranged on telephone wires, like a score. Helen starts to clear the table, and mentally starts to plan tomorrow. Gregory does the dishes, and wonders what the odd cosmic flash presages. Probably his son is active, doing something subtle to reality. A moment of force? He'll call Peter later, they should probably check in. He opens a bottle of wine, pours two glasses, and thinks "we can talk tomorrow." ===== I'm in in New Jersey, the Pine Barrens. Our school's cadets are camping out in the October chill with cadets from a couple of dozen other schools, over a thousand all-told. It's a fairly festive weekend event. I haven't been at it very long, six weeks, and it's all still a bit strange and theatrical, but there are a few dozen Senior Cadets and they manage to add a certain gravitas to the whole thing. I'm still fascinated by their solidity and maturity, from just a year. A Colonel from the real army addresses row upon row of boys and fewer girls in near-identical parkas. An array of small flying nodes amplifies the message convincingly. It's like he's 10 feet away from you, speaking straight to you, for a thousand people at once. Harry listens with interest. "We have learned the lessons of history, and we know that it [passage 20](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) from the real army addresses row upon row of boys and fewer girls in near-identical parkas. An array of small flying nodes amplifies the message convincingly. It's like he's 10 feet away from you, speaking straight to you, for a thousand people at once. Harry listens with interest. "We have learned the lessons of history, and we know that it is incredibly important that a free society is defended by a representative army, one which comes from all walks and stations of life, one which comprises citizens of every belief system, ethnic background and geographical loyalty. To defend freedom, and your country, is a right, not a privilege." It's not difficult to pick holes in the argument, but I have other things on my mind. Specifically, there are a lot of girls here, and while the surface environment is all very regimented and disciplined, we all know that a certain amount of mucking about is a reward for keeping it together in the official events. Dad says that it's important to build a big network fast in a new organization, and I've taken the advice - liaison role between our school's cadets and those in the district. There's a collab and conference calls a couple of times a week and an online workspace which is, thus far, architectural renderings of each school on a US basemap. In my "personal effects" pouch I've got a fifth of whisky (legally purchased, I'm 16 now) and two joints (also legal, but I can't buy them, thanks Pete.) The Colonel continues, heartfelt and sincere, logical, rational and for all of it, wrong. Dad's been out there, he knows what we do, and it's not true that we're sorting out the mess we made in the last century and attoning for our crimes by shedding our own blood to protect the helpless or whatever the party line is. We still interfere, we still kill, and it's not... Whatever. Twenty minutes later, it's mess time. Each school cooks, a group of four or five prepare food, and the other cadets are individually assigned another school's tent, decked as a mess hall, to visit. Hospitality and broad contact. The selection may or may not be random. As people fuss backwards and forwards, running around searching for a replacement ladle or a missplaced backpack, I walk to the assigned meal with the other distrinct liasions. The tent's set back against the tree line, perhaps seven by twelve meters, a grey-green plastic canvas with a thick liner of technical insulation behind it. I see lights through the windows, steam rising through a vent on one side from the stove. The tent flap opens and a tall, gangling man comes out, parka hood down, to drag in a heavy bag sitting outside the tent. I walk the last ten meters to the tent, and look through the slightly steamed-up plastic membrane windows at all the people, taking a moment. It's a bustle of activity, people sitting in a loose group [passage 21](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) The tent flap opens and a tall, gangling man comes out, parka hood down, to drag in a heavy bag sitting outside the tent. I walk the last ten meters to the tent, and look through the slightly steamed-up plastic membrane windows at all the people, taking a moment. It's a bustle of activity, people sitting in a loose group beside a pile of backpacks staying out of the way of the cooks, while others set table and pour water into glasses. There's a busyness, a slightly giggly cameraderie on their faces. I want to like these people. The military grey of the clothing, the simple black of the bags and boots and the insignia seem insignificant against a first meeting with kids from all over. I know names and faces, but as dad says "face to face first." Here they are for the first time. Two breaths, and I enter. I go the long way round, ask if they need any help at the kitchen. A guy about my height smells soup in a ladle and gives a broad smile "we're about to start serving, could you let people know?" I sling my bag into the pile, and walk round the back of the tent to the group. About ten of them sit, knees up off the floor for the cold, bums on sleeping bags or jackets, six boys and four girls, talking while the others cook or set up. "They're about to start serving dinner." One of the cadets acting as server says "two minutes!" over my shoulder, so I sit. The cadet to my right introduces himself, Martin Shaker. He's black, good natured, longer hair than I'd expect in a cadet. We shake hands, and he points his way around the circle giving names: Julian, Nyen, Daz, Emma, and... I'm gone. Emma Bowen is the one I'm looking for. Blonde, 5'6" from a school about two hundred miles away, beautiful, intelligent and very nearly two years older than me. I think her family is a bit like mine, something in the blood. We've been talking a lot, eager to meet after nights shared testing values and framing questions, things we want to learn about life. Her brother is a full marine, two years older again, stationed on some base in Texas doing nothing very interesting, but it's a found of perspective to see what filters back into her the family unit. She's got a contagious enthusiasm for life, seems kind of unburdened by things. I'm acutely aware I've been made a little heavy for my years by what's happened. It's like maintaining a secret identity. She seems... straightforwards. She's looking right at me from further away than I can make conversation. Nothing else to do, I smile and stare, and she looks back, smiles and waves. We rise as the circle breaks towards the tables, and shake hands. The electricity is tangible. We sit at opposite sides of one of the low mess tables, on the cold [passage 22](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) straightforwards. She's looking right at me from further away than I can make conversation. Nothing else to do, I smile and stare, and she looks back, smiles and waves. We rise as the circle breaks towards the tables, and shake hands. The electricity is tangible. We sit at opposite sides of one of the low mess tables, on the cold steel benches padded with sleeping bags, and eat soup. I begin to understand how seductive this all is - young people on all sides, from all places, meeting, exchanging ideas, broadening horizons, all in uniforms from their district, their region, their school and their heritage. A thin layer of conformity over "hey, how are you! where are you from?" They really know how to do people. But, right now, I don't care. The cadets chatter and gossip. The more dilligent try to talk about the next year and the work the liasons will do together. The less dilligent talk poltics, or fragments of military news or lore passed around as wisdom, or try and have split-off side coversations about music or travel or holiday plans. As with all the other tents, there's no senior cadet or other authority figure present - they'll be along presently - but this time we have to ourselves. I could eat her with a spoon. My mind is on anything other than my plans - our plans? - for later in the evening. We've talked about it, we said we'd see how it was in person, and my calf is against hers under the table, touching above the boots, pressed tight. We pretend to ignore each other and make conversation with our neighbours. I experience an odd split consciousness, one part of me hovers above it all, knowing that I'm in this camp ground being indoctrinated, made into a tool of the State, but on the other level I'm just a teenaged boy seeking out life, experience, happiness. The old men's game of transmission and revolution and showing the world what's possible seems... as interfering as the clergeymen who want their sons to wear a black suit and go do a theology degree. I'm sure I would have liked Papa, but... this is my life. Right now, what I want is this girl right in front of me, with the slightly aloof manner and the fond eyes. The paradox frames itself very clearly: they've taken away a bit of my freedom to protect the rest. The two levels of my awareness don't match, don't fit. I don't care. I push it away. I file it in my brain for later, and return to trying to not make a fool of myself in front of Emma. She's beautiful. I knew that from vid calls, but in person, she's beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. ===== Things are a little differnet among the senior cadets. "Colonel Gibbons, I would be proud to serve my country at home or abroad next year, but my parents have asked me to go to [passage 23](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) not make a fool of myself in front of Emma. She's beautiful. I knew that from vid calls, but in person, she's beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. ===== Things are a little differnet among the senior cadets. "Colonel Gibbons, I would be proud to serve my country at home or abroad next year, but my parents have asked me to go to a college close to home so I can help them with my grandparents." I am John Gibbons. I am talking to the senior cadets at dinner, asking how many of them plan to stay in the service and complete their tour with honors by spending a year in the regular military in a non-combat role. I reply curtly "Your duty to your family is important, son, we all understand this. Perhaps you'll consider other ways to serve your country after college. We can't all put family first at all times, but this sounds important to you." The atmostphere is open and frank. That's what works best. I'm good at maintaining this atmosphere. Tonight something prickles my scalp, a subtle sense of something being wrong, not the chilly evening or the swarm of fuzzy parkas and fuzzy thinking lapping up chilli in the other tents, but a deeper sense of... unease. Every year I come here, and have the same conversations with the same kids, five or ten basic faces over and over again, perhaps two dozen possible stories. There are charts and graphs and documents, instructions on how to play the role so that as many as possible volunteer, and those that don't are left with a clear sense of deference to those that do. It's how we build and maintain society. It's how we win the peace and prosperity that has, despire all odds, chosen to linger on America. No, it's something else. It's the sense of being watched, but there's nobody there. I remember it from active service. It's the subtle pressure on my mind that comes from the enemy. And there isn't one here. I'm getting old. ===== After the senior cadets have given us a short speech, and passed on some notes about our plans for tomorrow, we are encouraged to socialize. There are many large fires around the site, some with themes for conversation and activities, other unstructured. At each is a couple of senior cadets or a senior cadet and a regular military officer. It's not hard for Emma and I to slip away into the woods. She makes a pretext and leaves for her school's tent, I leave a few minutes later, then double back to pick up my bag, shaking the conversation I've been part of. We meet as arranged, a hundred meters up a path into the woods. If I play my cards right, I'm going to remember this night for the rest of my life. It is freezing cold, but we've got two and a half hours before curfew. Down at the camp site it's all boy scouts, and up [passage 24](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) I've been part of. We meet as arranged, a hundred meters up a path into the woods. If I play my cards right, I'm going to remember this night for the rest of my life. It is freezing cold, but we've got two and a half hours before curfew. Down at the camp site it's all boy scouts, and up here... she's holding my hand, stuffed into a parka pocket, and she's talking in a sing-song voice about the night and the moon and the trees and how she's been dying to meet me. I wonder how much of it is actually curiosity about me, or given that she's almost two years older than I am, how much of it is the power trip of... well, I'm a virgin. But there's no denying that the plan is on, the furtive discussions we've had until now, "talking to a cadet from another district about the first camp" are now prelude. I've got a couple of insulated sleeping mats and bags swiped from my school's tent with me. She's got a small inflatable survival shelter with her, and a heating block, taken from her father's garage. We scurry a good few hundred meters into the woods, then turn off the trail and head for as much cover as we can find. It's dreadfully conspiratorial. A mission. Electric. I keep having glimpses of slow time and shoving them back down. The mysteries can wait for another day. We're here. This is as private as it's going to get. I have a dumb, last minute thought "I hope she's not loud" and then laugh at myself. I don't expect to give a star's performance, this is, after all, not a sim. She's fumbling, unfamiliar with the starter on the tent, then it starts to hum and inflate, and she tosses it on the ground. We haven't even kissed yet, but she's confident and direct. I'm not exactly nervous, but... there's a sense of something leaving. A pang... And then she's in front of me, looking me in the eyes. "Harry, I didn't think I'd like you this much in person, but I'm honored and excited to be here with you right now." Something's off, like she's reading a speech. Then I realize she's terrfied too. "How...?" "One boyfriend, we're still friends, but he's not really my type" she says, for some reason. That was not what I was asking. I smile, watching the tent inflate behind her, the moonlight in the trees etching itself into my mind. I feel too aware of myself, try to shut it down to one channel. Just here. Just me. "How do you know what your type is if you've had a sample size of one?" I say awkwardly trying to break the ice. Not good. I'm suddenly aware of the difference in our ages. She was old for her class, joined a cohort below her, joined the cadets early and is very nearly 18. I turned sixteen less [passage 25](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) me. "How do you know what your type is if you've had a sample size of one?" I say awkwardly trying to break the ice. Not good. I'm suddenly aware of the difference in our ages. She was old for her class, joined a cohort below her, joined the cadets early and is very nearly 18. I turned sixteen less than a month ago. I don't feel like a child, but this is all very new. We're talking about sex. And then she says something that makes it alright, that makes it make sense. "I want you to remember me and here as your first time. I wanted the chance to give that to somebody, and I really like you. You're different from most of the guys my age, even guys older than me. I feel like you're older." And something changes. I don't feel like I'm sixteen. I feel... real. Something father said passes through the back of my mind "Helen of Troy was 15" and, yes, ok. I'm not a child. I can do this. It's fine. I step forwards, our bodies pressed together gently through our parkas. I place one hand on the back of her head, the other on her waist, and I kiss her. And it's not fumbling around with a friend's sister at a party, it's not a sim, it's not somebody else's story, it's me, and it's her, and she holds my lower lip between her lips for a long second, then opens her mouth into mine. Her hand's on the back of my head, and the parka hoods meet, making a sudden, rediculous darkness. We laugh, disengage, "try that again!" and I throw the stuff into the now-inflated tent. The last thing I clearly remember in the ordinary flow of time is looking at the time: 8:34PM. ===== The Colonel is tired. Alone, the senior cadets sent off to their stations. He watches the various fires and tents on a remote, happy, smiling faces. This is not the boy scounts, long disbanded, this is feeding the edge of the war machine. They might seem like adults in their uniforms, particularly the senior cadets who age two years in a day at at Induction, but they're children. Get them young, sort them for aptitude, set them forth upon the world. He doesn't know who he feels worse for, the mechanised divisions who'll live in suburbia and bomb towns on remotes, or the poor saps who go into the field, hauling bags of trouble with them, and spray fire into the bush indiscriminately when the sensors are down, hoping against hope they won't hit one of their own unintentionaly. But what's the alternative? The end of the good times for everybody? The encroaching chaos on the borders south becoming the mainstream fate of all? Nobody is tricked, and nobody is lied to. That's a previous generation's propaganda, and we're too open a society for lying to people to work any more. We're giving them [passage 26](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) one of their own unintentionaly. But what's the alternative? The end of the good times for everybody? The encroaching chaos on the borders south becoming the mainstream fate of all? Nobody is tricked, and nobody is lied to. That's a previous generation's propaganda, and we're too open a society for lying to people to work any more. We're giving them a chance to fight for their futures while they're young enough to adapt and do it well. The Colonel suddenly feels better. It is true. He thinks about it, and it is a satisfactory way to think about the issues. He turns it over in his mind, and thinks about how different 15 is from 18 when you really think about it. Neuroplasticity. They aren't child solders by the time they have a gun in their hand: they are soldiers, those that make it, anyway. A hot flask of coffee accompanies his rounds. He's actually quite pleased with the shape of the evening. ===== The heater block is amazing. We don't camp in the winter, we're always up in the mountains in summer for the music school. It's warm, dark, and we're mostly-naked, kissing and stroking and squeezed together. I'm aware of how cold it is outside of this little pod. Momentum is building, but there's intimate discussion. "How was your first time?" She says "Oh, I hope yours won't be like that" and kisses me (to shut me up?) She's thinking that it was a disappointing start, but not that bad, and too much alcohol and a poor choice of boy had marred her high hopes for it and it got much better later, true, that's true, sober and... I thoughtlessly asked about her first time, and she said that she hoped it wouldn't be like that now and changed the subject, not forcefully but clearly it was suboptimal... Will it be like that for me? She seems so... assured... But distracted? What's Suddenly he can't form a thought. She's slipped a hand down his pants and is holding his cock gingerly. There's an almost palpable snap in the air, some veil withdrawn, and Harry is suddenly very aware that he's a man, a child of men become one, and that there's something going on inside of him that cannot be denied. He feels feral. It hits him right in the chest, The Spear, and, beside him, The Cup. She is older, she is experienced, she is in charge, but... and the tearing of realities is intense as the magical and the primal fuse into an extended moment. All hope of experiencing this as a teenager is stripped away, dancing blue symbols at the edge of vision form, fade and blur, and a snapshot of being in a cave, on fur, and brutally physically powerful, deep brows and jaw and and and... And there I am, it's all back to normal, and I'm holding her head and kissing her and she's pulling backwards to get out of her panties [passage 27](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) dancing blue symbols at the edge of vision form, fade and blur, and a snapshot of being in a cave, on fur, and brutally physically powerful, deep brows and jaw and and and... And there I am, it's all back to normal, and I'm holding her head and kissing her and she's pulling backwards to get out of her panties and my pants are already gone and everything is rushed and I'm aiming for missionary, I guess, and I'm between her legs, below her and not quite sure how this part goes. I look at her for a moment on extended arms. "Well..." she says, and it is awkward. And then it's not. Afterwards, Emma's lying heavily on my crooked right arm, cutting off the blood, and I'm flexing slightly, feeling the freedom in my hips and lower back, getting a sense of how it all works, the Man thing, slightly alone as we lie there, aware of how suddenly I've gear-shifted at least in my own head from child to man and there's a certainty. I'm solid. This is... how people are. I'm slightly watching the clock, but we've got about twenty five minutes before the have to pack up and head back in by separate routes to separate groups. Don't be seen together. All planned out. I make a stupid joke in my head: this is, after all, a military operation, right? I'm wise enough not to mar the minute by making a "clever" joke. Not a child! Different levels of reality seem to be quite happily zooming along, almost independent. Not much a sense of funny stuff going on, although it must be. There's a wondering, an elongated moment. Will we do this again? I'm lost in my head again, for a moment it's all about logistics, 200 miles is a long way, and then there's a moment of fear: what if this is it, she just wanted to break somebody in, and now she'll move on to somebody older or closer or... the split consciousness again, aware I'm thinking like a kid, but also that it's right to do that, maybe... She kicks my leg over and adjusts the sleeping bags. "That was fun!" she says cheerily, to my arm. There is a little grinding. "I know! Thank you, I really... none of the girls at home I know are..." I say to her neck. "Yes. We should do more of this." So it's settled, that simple. It's not a problem. Probably. Unbidden, a deep, radiant sense of well-being streams out of my chest and fills the tiny shelter. I know that nobody "loves" anybody at this age, I know that, I know that. But I don't care. Lovelovelove. Radiance. Rightness. There's something in the genes, there's something precise and powerful, and unbidden I'm squeezing her against me again, crushing her against me to feel her warmth in my arms, and I say "Good!" and I'm actually quite confident, for a moment, that it's all going [passage 28](https://files.howtolivewiki.com/mother_of_hydrogen.txt) this age, I know that, I know that. But I don't care. Lovelovelove. Radiance. Rightness. There's something in the genes, there's something precise and powerful, and unbidden I'm squeezing her against me again, crushing her against me to feel her warmth in my arms, and I say "Good!" and I'm actually quite confident, for a moment, that it's all going to be fine. She wriggles around to put her arms around me, wraps around a leg, and squeezes back, a little more distant, it's somehow almost just a hug, but inside she's well satisfied that it's all gone so well. This was it. This was what she wanted. She feels good, aware she's made him very happy, quite enjoyed herself, and shaken off the memory of her own first time. It's sort of what she wanted for herself, to have the first time with somebody who was taking the lead and nice and... there are more kisses, and a few more minutes of closeness before it's time to go. Outside, minutes later, they're back in their social roles, packing up the tent, again uncertain of each-other and hesitant. It seems the magic is over. Then she notices a few stray flakes of unseasonable snow falling, dancing in the moonlight. She takes my hand, and kisses it, and points at the snow flakes illuminated by the moon. It's all just so perfect. She turns to watch them. I stand there, my feet on the ground, insulated boots against the cold earth. The breath flows in and out, hers and mine clouding together. Her back's against my chest, and we're watching the snow fall. I know the heating block is good for two more days, and that we won't feel the need for food until morning. It is beautiful. We are young, we are here. We have... it's an archaic term, but "made love" and I know that this is what I am. She's breathing softly, senses dilated by the beauty and the experience. I can almost feel my bones and muscles and will hardening and filling out, like a dragonfly's wings filling with strength when it emerges. I think of Papa, or my own parents when they were my age (not that they met this young!) and it all fits together into a wheel. Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, girl (not this one, she's safe!) is with child, repeat for forty million years and counting, every single one of us under snowfall or rain or the beating desert sun, counting the provisions and the shelter and the water and estimating the day. In these clothes, with this woman and a bag of food, we could walk to the sea in ten days, we could fish and build a hut, or come to my home, or her home, or... She turns around and says "we better be going." Or we could go back to camp, pretending to be teenage cadets, not little flakes of the absolute in the perfect night, dancing --- Continues in https://guptaoption.com/texts/148-3.md (part 3 of 11). End of [148] Mother of Hydrogen, part 2 of 11. Its connections are at the top of this file; the map is https://guptaoption.com/llms.txt.