Communism and Capitalism are the Same Thing: A Story

The Philosopher Between the Capitalist and the Communist

By Punkerslut

			Part I: The Philosopher

"...the idea underlying Fascism is irreconcilably different from that which underlies Socialism. Socialism aims, ultimately, at a world-state of free and equal human beings. It takes the equality of human rights for granted. Nazism assumes just the opposite."

--George Orwell, 1941
"The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius," Part II, Section I

		Chapter 1: In the Beginning

	In the beginning, there was only truth.  It had one admirer and defender, the philosopher.  A simple start, and necessarily, a simple end.

	After truth, there came civilization.  Humanity could not live together unless there was some sort of wisdom outside of ourselves that brought us into families, villages, towns, and peoples.  This is why the philosopher must've come first, and only then civilization could spring up.  And just as humanity learned to live in deeply organized societies, the rift between the rich and poor became the dominant theme of society.  "An eye for an eye, unless you're rich, then just pay the court fees!" [*1]  It may have been Babylon and its ruler, King Hammurabi, that gave this code of law, but it was the world that wholly accepted it -- every single last niche where a government could be found.

	But the world didn't have to be that way.  At about the same time that Babylon was passing its infamous 'Eye for an Eye' laws, they were passing some very different laws in Athens, Greece.  King Solon, and his descendants, established the trend of destroying Capitalism and completely equalizing all property every few decades [*2] -- and this is a trend that continued for centuries and centuries throughout Greece.  Along with philosophy, mathematics, and abstract thinking, ancient Greek Communism was completely ignored by the Roman Empire, [*3] and consequently, most of Europe.

	A historian today would describe the struggle between Communism and Capitalism as "relatively recent."  But the truth is much more complicated than that.  To understand the story completely, you must ask the only person who is wholly and fully devoted to the truth; you must ask the philosopher.

Resources

*1.  "The Code of Hammurabi," by Hammurabi, Translated by L. W. King, composed about 1780 B.C.E., Paragraph 196 and 198, http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/ham/ham06.htm.
*2.  "Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans," by Plutarch, ~ 1000 BCE to 1,100 BCE, Chapter: "Comparison of Poplicola with Solon," http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/674, quote...

"The remission of debts was peculiar to Solon; it was his great means for confirming the citizens' liberty; for a mere law to give all men equal rights is but useless, if the poor must sacrifice those rights to their debts, and, in the very seats and sanctuaries of equality, the courts of justice, the offices of state, and the public discussions, be more than anywhere at the beck and bidding of the rich."

*3.  "Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans," by Plutarch, ~ 1000 BCE to 1,100 BCE, Chapter: "Comparison of Numa with Lycurgus," http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/674, quote...

"...nor did he [Numa] endeavor to do away with inequality in this respect, but permitted riches to be amassed to any extent, and paid no attention to the gradual and continual augmentation and influx of poverty; which it was his business at the outset, whilst there was as yet no great disparity in the estates of men, and whilst people still lived much in one manner, to obviate, as Lycurgus did, and take measures of precaution against the mischiefs of avarice, mischiefs not of small importance, but the real seed and first beginning of all the great and extensive evils of after times.  The re-division of estates, Lycurgus is not, it seems to me, to be blamed for making, nor Numa for omitting; this equality was the basis and foundation of the one commonwealth; but at Rome, where the lands had been lately divided, there was nothing to urge any re-division or any disturbance of the first arrangement, which was probably still in existence."

		Chapter 2: The Struggle Between the Communists and the Capitalists

	King Hammurabi had his followers, and they were called Capitalists -- they are followers of Capitalism, the 'ism' of Capital, or the 'ism' of wealth, land, and economic power.  King Solon had his followers, and they were called Communists -- they are followers of Communism, the 'ism' of the Commune, or the 'ism' of community-held property, land, and economic power.  But these Capitalists and Communists were supporters of their kings.  As different as a Capitalist might be from a Communist, they could each be found secretly whispering, "Praise the King!"

	The Capitalist loved property; the Communist loved community.  The first cherished a small, tight-knit family; the second was in love with a world where everyone in society was a kind of family.  The Capitalist defended the rich as being the source of all wealth, the Communist did the same in regards to the poor.  The Communist spoke to the world of the evils done by the wealthy establishing themselves as an aristocracy, their domination of the poor, and how they took everything they could from the working class.  The Capitalist published on fine-stone slabs the errors and miscalculations of the Communist king's reorganization and equalization of Greek society.

	That early spirit of Communism was about fighting anything that gave the poorest, weakest part of society to the richest, like beasts of burden.  That early spirit of Capitalism was about fighting anything that got in the way of one individual's attempt to provide for themselves and, if fortune grant it, to achieve wealth and its power.  The haves versus the have-nots.

	The philosopher was exiled from Babylon, the land of the Capitalists, and told that he would be executed if he ever returned.  Greece and the Communists didn't ban or ostracize the philosopher, but a number of people there made threats against him if he ever dared to show up.  The world was young -- and so were ideas.

		Chapter 3: A Philosopher Among the Communists

	The philosopher was invited by King Solon to Athens.  "If a city like ours can house justice and equality, then there must be enough room for truth, as well," Solon told one of his advisors, "Send for him, and make sure that he comes.  The citizens couldn't be any more disappointed than to expect truth's messenger and not have him come."  But the philosopher was not easy to find, having neither residence nor job.

	The philosopher was never uncovered, but he found out about King Solon's request for his appearance in Athens.  Of course, the philosopher had to grant this wish; "Any who seek out the truth shall find it -- You must only be wanting it, and I will be there."  And so, the philosopher made that journey, struggling alone against the forces of nature for the only goal the philosopher could make, the eternal desire to spread the truth.

	"You have a visitor, sire," a servant informs Solon at his palace, without the faintest reaction.

	Walking down the long red carpet leading to Solon's throne was a man with deep eyes and long hair, moving without care or thought through the king's mob of armed soldiers.

	"Are you...  the philosopher?" Solon's eyes widened.

	"Yes, I am truth's guardian," the philosopher spoke, "You wished for my presence, but, more than that, I thought we might have an interesting conversation."

	"Truth's guardian -- in the Communist city!  I like the sound of that!" a joyous smile drew across Solon's face, "Come come!  Let us discuss outside of these formal settings.  You can't have truth suddenly pop up in the midst of a conversation about empire management, now can you?"

	The philosopher and the king walked side by side, with the Athenian palace to their backs, a pebble trail beneath their feet, and the clamors of the city people echoing out just ahead.  "How are you feeling, philosopher?  You feel welcome, right?  Because I want the city of Communism to accept you and the truth with open arms."

	The king went on.  "Now let me tell you about the land of Communism -- every working person has food to eat, every child is guaranteed what they need, and everyone buying in the marketplace knows that they'll only get fresh food and appetizing wines.  That's Communism!  What part about it should I tell you about first?  You must have a million questions."

	"I've heard that the difference between Communism and Capitalism is work, and that's why you put so much emphasis on the workers.  What is this difference?"

	"We work to feed ourselves and sustain our community -- the Capitalists work to feed themselves and sustain their mansions; that is the difference!  The workers here own the land, and when the land produces it harvests and the workshops their wares, these products are also owned by the workers.  Everything is owned by everyone.  Everyone has a reason for wanting greater productivity and increased output; everyone benefits when there's more bread for sale in the marketplace, everyone is happier when there's a physician around to take care of their children.  That's the difference between Communism and Capitalism!"

	"The Capitalists have productivity, work, and they share some of their benefits with the common people, don't they?"

	"Yes, of course, they share some benefits, usually just enough to keep the working class alive and able to reproduce, like animals in cages."

	"What specifically in the difference between their productivity and yours?"

	"Easy -- ours is people-owned, people-managed, people-operated.  Theirs is master-owned, master-managed, master-operated.  The people rule here; and there, it is the masters of capital who rule.  Not simply in the economic or social sense, but in the most important way – politically."  The king paused, "Don't just think of us as the home of Communism, because not everyone wants total Communism.  Think of us also as the home of Anti-Capitalism, because everyone the world over is trying to escape the Capitalism of Babylon."

	"Why do you hate Capitalism and the Capitalists?"

	"But, you're the philosopher, the holder and master of truth.  You must know the answers to these questions already."

	"The hold of truth, certainly, but I am the master of nothing.  And while I may have heard a thing or two about Communism and Capitalism, I thought I would get something unique to hear it from you specifically."

	"Ah, so, that means you have already asked the King of Capitalism this same question?  You've already visited and talked with King Hammurabi?"

	"No, I have not yet talked with Hammurabi."

	"But you intend to, right?"

	"Perhaps.  Shouldn't truth seek dialogue from all humanity?"

	"Of course it should, but, it's just good that you came here first -- you will get the real truth here.  There's no telling what lies that serpent would try to feed or what cunning he would use to get you to digest them.  If you do try to get a meeting with him, after meeting with me anyway, then I advise extreme caution.  You need a certain level of responsibility to go through that interview."

	"Do you think the truth is irresponsible?"

	"Well, I didn't mean you were being irresponsible, philosopher.  It's just that it's prudent to be cautious among serpents, that's all.  I know you will find your way there and back home okay.  The guardian of truth won't run into that unexpected disaster that takes life and fortune from ordinary men."

	"For a king, you seem awfully concerned with how truth views you."

	"Well, it's not just truth, but how the philosopher views me, and... well..."

	"Well, how the philosopher views you will influence how the people view you?"

	Solon blushed.

	"So, could you answer the question?" the philosopher asked, "Why do you hate Capitalism?"

	"The people deserve the right to be their own masters, without someone telling them whether they have the right to work or not, the right to be paid or not, the right to participate in society's production and consumption or not."

	"This is Athens," the philosopher smiled, "You can find that opinion in any cafe you look in from here to the city walls.  Like inviting me here, is that an opinion you hold only because of what other people may think of you?"

	"I'm not an Individualist like Hammurabi; I can accept personal insults if it means that everyone in society is guaranteed a meaningful existence they can be proud of with enough bread, wine, and luxury time to be fully satisfied."

	"The more you take this discussion personally, the more difficult it will be to arrive at truth."

	Just at that moment, as the king and philosopher strolled down the street, bodyguards trailing just second behinds, there was a great explosion of noise and commotion.  A wagon had cracked in half, freeing its cargo into the marketplace -- a thousand chickens running in all directions, and just a few, old farmers struggling helplessly to crowd in each last one, with the bodyguards swooping in to check in on the object of their occupation.  The king, not trying to lose any ground in the conversation with the philosopher, tried not to notice the scene, but knowing that he couldn't saying anything in depth, still replied, "Mmmm, the truth, right."

	Having passed the thick of the marketplace, the philosopher and king continued their conversation, every now and then with a chicken darting in between their legs, furiously clucking at any that defied its new sense of freedom.  "What was that, you were saying about the truth?" the philosopher inquired immediately.

	"Oh, you know, the importance of being able to arrive at it."

	"And what better way to praise the truth than to answer the question I had just asked several times.  Why do you hate Capitalism?"

	"I thought I answered that."

	"You told me why you love Communism."

	"I love it precisely because it is so un-Capitalist."

	"And what is it about Capitalism you despise so much?"

	"That there is someone in charge of your right to work or eat, and at any time, if they don't like you, either because you ask for too much or because you exercise your right to speak in opposition, then they can withdraw your right to work and eat.  That is why we hate Capitalism; it is not merely that this right is regularly exercised in exposing the common masses to the worst suffering experienced during droughts, natural disasters, depressions, or the like -- this right is used to persecute the boldest, most ardent resisters of Capitalism in those lands, and we forever feel their misery.  That is why we hate Capitalism in the Communist land; because every person wants to be in charge of their own lives and hates it when someone else is in charge of them."

	"But, I don't see anyone in charge of you.  What were you revolting against?"

	"Well, no, not me, specifically, but in the Capitalist land, that is how things work, and there are many here who fled that tyranny, describing exactly why they despise the miserable tortures of so-called market economy.  You should know."

	"I have heard something like that."

	"So, then?"

	"What?" the philosopher replied.

	"Don't you have anything to say about our hatred of Capitalism?  You demanded an answer so many times that I thought you'd have something to respond with!"

	"The truth doesn't always have an opinion on everything.  Sometimes the truth is less about knowing everything and more about having a good sense of curiosity."

	"After meeting the guardian of truth, I'll believe that."

	"So, you have equality?"

	"Of course.  That's the principle which has guided all of our actions in equalizing property: by guaranteeing that equality, we provide everything needed for the genius of each person to reach its maximum, while not overstocking the mind and body with so much luxury as to make for only idleness and waste.  Why would you doubt our equality?  We're Communists, you know."

	"It's just that...  I noticed you have police officers."

	"... what are you talking about?  What's that supposed to mean?  Why would you say something like that?  You're not plotting anything, are you?"

	"You do have police officers, don't you?"

	"Well, yes, of course -- every government on the planet has those.  Coming here to complain that we, a government, have troops is like coming here and complaining that we have taxes.  There is no government without its armed force and there is no armed force without that regular contribution by the common, working people."

	"Can there be a people without a government?"

	"Of course there can, but they wouldn't enjoy their lives very much, I know that."

	"Well, at least you know that you depend upon them and they do not depend upon you."

	"So?"

	"So, if you depend upon them and not them upon you -- doesn't that mean that a standing army and its tax-funded payroll are dependent upon the people's ability to provide recruits and the products of wealth, and not the people dependent upon their soldiers?"

	"Expecting a government without troops and taxes is like expecting grass without greenery, or a king with tentacles instead of arms, or a people with various, tropical fruits where their heads should be!"

	"Tropical fruit?  You mean, like a grapefruit?"

	"You're the purveyor of truth!  If there is one who differs so much from as in that aspect, then show it to us!  Show me a government on this planet without soldiers and public finances, I demand it!"

	"I thought this meeting was about you showing me your government."

	"Well, maybe it's about time you show me one that's better!"

	"That doesn't make sense, since all I'm asking is why yours is the same in that one aspect of imperial force and wealth.  I don't have a better one, necessarily -- but I do know a million that are exactly the same in that essential aspect.  What's best in a group of identical objects?"

	"But you already know our government and the traditions of its people -- you already know that we are the Communists, on the other side of the sea, they are Capitalists.  You already know we're not identical."

	"In management of policing and taxing affairs, aren't you, though?"

	"Yes, and we breathe air and eat food the same way they do, too; is that proof that we're identical governments?"

	"A million things the same, but that difference is what makes you unique.  And do you really think you are unique?"

	"Certainly!  We are the Communists.  There's not a single government in the entire world that has enacted social and economic policies like we have.  And it's not just that we hate Capitalism -- what we have accomplished has attracted anti-Capitalists from every culture and language.  It is not simply that what we have done is completely unique throughout all history; it is that others with their own ideas, even if they differ from ours, have been impressed and astonished at what we have done here with Communism."

	"Others?"

	"Yes, the other Anti-Capitalists, and there are plenty.  Socialists and Collectivists, Unionists and Cooperative-ists, Marxists and Stalinists.  If you can end it in -ist, you can bet that we have it, except for Capitalists."

	"The global home of Anti-Capitalism, I guess?"

	"You can be certain of that!  Athens?  Of course it is!  History will remember that, I guarantee you," Solon replied.

	"So, you accept non-Communists, as neighbors and friends and relatives and lovers, I presume, correct?"

	"Well, yes, but they are extremely Communist-minded neighbors, friends, relatives, and lovers."

	"How do you mean?"

	"Well, as Communists, we fight for the ideal of the Commune.  The Socialists don't want the commune to be at the center of everything, as we do -- they also want things like Family and Individuality and, I swear, some of them even want Religion.  Communists want complete equality among workers; Socialists are only saddened when they see the worst exploitation of Capitalism, and wish it didn't happen.  That's the difference."

	"And, the Collectivists?"

	"They're the most like the Communists.  They don't want the Commune, though, they want the Collective -- it's like a Commune, except there is greater emphasis on individuality and change.  Some Collectivists are our best friends; some of them occasionally get caught raising revolts among our own peasants.  We don't miss that kind when they walk past the rest of us Communists on their way to be hanged."

	"What about the Unionists?"

	"Well, the Unionists are all about the labor union.  They want workers to organize in the workplace, to seize power over whoever is in charge of them, and then to unite up into an unbreakable, widespread net of small worker revolts.  Clearly, there is not much thought behind it at all, not like the complexity required for our multi-level, Communist bureaucracy.  How are you going to collect taxes efficiently with a bunch of small revolts over a widespread area?  Not well, that's how.  But they hate the Capitalists, maybe more than anyone else here, and we like them enough just for that."

	"How about the Co-operativists?"

	"They painfully remind me of the Unionists.  A bunch of tiny revolts over a gigantic area; what more is there to describe?  Sure, their tactics a bit different.  Instead of merely fighting a Capitalist, they save up money, buy their own business, and become their own Capitalists.  The Unionists sometimes become their own Capitalist when they take over a business from a boss, but the Co-operativists are deeply motivated by the principle of self-initiative and long-term sacrifice, all great for a Communist movement needing people and labor.  Then again, Unionists aren't devoted to owning the business they work at, which the Co-operativists are.  One of them hates Capitalism a little more, the other loves Communism a little more.  But Athens takes them all, any fleeing Capitalism's tyranny."

	"And what about the Marxists?"

	"Don't even get me started on those Marxists.  They are so difficult to understand.  A Socialist wants to know when there's going to be an eight-hour workday; a Unionist wants to know when there's going to be a labor union hall in their neighborhood -- but the Marxist wants to know if the Communist movement has left the Era of Post-Manufacturing Socialism and has entered the Epoch of Utopian Socialist Reconstruction."

	"So, what do you say to a question like that?"

	"Sure, sure we've entered that epoch.  They accept that answer a lot easier than the answers I give to the Socialists and Unionists."

	"What about the Stalinists?"

	"They're the same as the Maoists and the Trotskyists.  All are complete Marxists, except they have different dates and names for the eras in their historical lineage chart.  Also, for some reason, Maoists, Trotskyists, Stalinists, and Leninists -- they all hate each other, at varying degrees.  Sometimes more than Capitalism, but they hate Capitalism enough to be welcome here with open arms."

	"Do you call everyone you hate a Capitalist?"

	"No, of course not.  If we don't know what kind of -ist someone we hate is, then we just call them a Liberal.  And if we really hate them, then we call them a Conservative."

	Just at that point in the conversation, the pair reached a turn in the road.  They had come to the end of the marketplace.  "Let's go this way -- there are some really interesting neighborhoods you must see!"

	"I'm sorry, Solon -- but it's time for me to leave," the philosopher replied.

	"Hey, you don't have a name, do you?"

	"What do you mean?"

	"Well, I'm the Communist King, but I'm also Solon; you're just the Philosopher.  Haven't you got a personal name?"

	"You can make up one for me, if you want."

	"Olmo!  You're Olmo!"

	"All right."

	"It's a name from Italy -- there was a boy persecuted for truth there once, with this name; I bestow it to you."

	"You have a good estimation of history.  I'll give you that."

	"Olmo, the Philosopher!  Just think of that.  When you're approaching a village in your travels, all of the children will be screaming and yelling in their high-pitched voices, 'Olmo is here!  Olmo is here!'  Don't you like the sound of that!"

	"It definitely seems like you made up a name for me."

	"You will be passing through our villages when you leave; there has to be some way for us to celebrate your presence, even as it vanishes before us.  You will be missed, philosopher.  Don't let the world forget it -- we Communists here in Athens created something unique, and when we did, we were friends of the Philosopher; we were friends of Olmo."

	"I won't forget our meeting, and I definitely won't forget the journey or the people I met on it.  Normally, my advice to kings that should have been sages is 'Let your strength come from your mind.' But to you, Solon, my advice is: 'The only person who is truly ignorant is the person who believes they have nothing left to learn.'"

	"Huh, that sounds familiar -- Homer?"

	"It's similar to something you've probably heard; but my meeting with you inspired me to give it a twist."

	"So, what's the original saying, then?"

	"That's something for you to ponder as I make my journey back home.  Good luck, Solon.  True fortune is yours, if only you want it."

		Chapter 4: A Philosopher Among the Capitalists

	"The communists are trying to get all of the truth to themselves!  They probably plan to communalize it, and give each person an equal and fair share of truth.  We need to get us some of that or there won't be any Capitalists with truth!"  This is how the day began at the throne room in Babylon.

	"Of course, sir," Hammurabi's servant replies.

	"Mobilize the troops right away.  Hunt down that truth by the point of the spear, if you have to."

	"Perhaps, sir, you should just invite him here.  He might come, as he did when he was invited by King Solon."

	"Ah, yes, brilliant plan.  He shows up, we seize him, and then there will be nothing he can do as we purloin the truth from him.  The very nature and plan of the stars in the sky, in their eternal luminescence and their hopeful brightness, all of that shall be ours, once we punch him in the stomach and then run off with it."

	There was a quiet calm in the throne room, until the king spoke again.  "Invite the philosopher here at once, I demand it!"

	"Do you want him to cause trouble?  That is what he is reputed for."

	"Do you know what the world will think when it becomes well-known that truth can be found in the Communist city but not in the Capitalist city?  Do you have any idea of the implications of negating and ignoring the truth?"

	"I'll send for the philosopher right away, sir."  But Hammurabi's servants had as much difficulty as the servants of the Communist King.  "We looked everywhere from the Nile to the Tigris, anywhere either sunlight touches the earth or breathable air can be found -- there was no philosopher to be found, there was no truth to be had," read his general's report.

	Like Solon, Hammurabi lost interest in his question, and eventually let the project fall to the side.  Many weeks later, when in the security of his palace and surrounded by his imperial guards, a soldier informed him that the philosopher had been spotted in the marketplace of Babylon.  "We have sent the police to bring him here," the soldier said.

	"And you made sure to inform the police that this person isn't a criminal and shouldn't arrive damaged, right?"

	"I promise the incident with the Egyptian diplomat will not be repeated.  Remember, you instituted the sensitivity training?"

	"That's right.  Well, once he's found, bring him here, waste no time, and don't hurt him."  The sun set and darkness covered the sky, and yet, there was still no philosopher in the throne room of the Capitalist King.  Hammurabi had difficulty sleeping that night, knowing that his forces were unable to apprehend one of the oldest people in the world.  He must've been humbly buying some grapefruit when troops rushed past him, not noticing that he possessed the only thing that could really threaten them.

	The next morning, Hammurabi's first official action would be to inquire into the status of the philosopher's freedom.  A police report was produced for his review, but it indicated the arbitrary arrest and imprisonment of an old woman.  She had been mistaken for the philosopher, "because she was wickedly old and hideous."

	After hearing this news, he went to sit down at his throne, but then stopped short -- "No!  I cannot accept it!  There is no reason why Communists should be allowed to have the truth but Capitalists cannot!"  The king stood up from his throne and walked toward the tremendous doors that guarded his throne room

	"Shall I fetch your coat and bodyguards, sire?"

	"Yes, and make sure to get Maurice, the one-eared guard; nobody messes with us when we're in the marketplace."

	The guards arrived and the national sovereign left the palace surrounded by his entourage.  Once at the market place, Hammurabi resumed his old position of directing the group: "This is a marketplace and we're looking for a philosopher, so try to think of any food that would satisfy someone who had their filling of truth."

	"Well, that depends really -- what does the truth taste like?"

	"You should know, you're the ones here who have most likely tried it."

	"I've never had any, but I bet it would be slightly or somewhat sweet, probably with a wholesome feeling after eating."

	The king retorted: "Are you sure it wouldn't be bitter?"

	"If you had a bitter one, you might've just had a really sour truth -- food?"

	"It would obviously be a fruit," Hammurabi replied.

	"Fruit's not filling like bread.  How can you have an unfilling truth?"

	And just then, a man walks past Hammurabi, "You can have an unfilling truth, because it just leaves you wanting for more.  Good day, sirs."  The figure disappeared back into the mass of moving clothing and flesh that is a marketplace crowd.

	One of the guards turned back to the King, "You know, it could be a vegetable.  I've had a few sweet ones."

	The king's eyes widened, "Just hold on there -- that's him!  That's the philosopher!  Get him!"  Like an alpha male from a pack of wolves leading by the snout, Hammurabi bolted into the crowd with his index finger waving wildly about in the air -- "Get the philosopher!  Get the man of truth!  Don't let him escape!  We must have him!"

	Maurice and the other bodyguards bolted into action, swinging wildly back and forth with their clubs at anyone who might obstruct their passage.  The crowd reacted, and a barrage of rotten fruit, most of them filled with stones, brought the guards of Hammurabi to their knees.  At the heels of the philosopher, Hammurabi looked back just in time to catch a glance of Maurice losing a tooth from a slingshot -- but Hammurabi felt no concern, for in Babylon, everyone citizen is consoled by the rule of a tooth for a tooth.

	"Philosopher!  Philosopher!" the voice cried, as the king grasped for a few faint glimpses of his invited guest.  Finally, Hammurabi made it to his friend, with his bodyguards long, long behind him.  "So, philosopher..." he struggled for a breath, "You've.... finally.... come, haven't you?"

	The philosopher took no notice of the king, turning occasionally from the fruit selection before him to look at Hammurabi.

	The king didn't care for being ignored.  "You came here through the marketplace?  You shouldn't be traveling through the common public like that.  It could be dangerous.  You need to learn to be more responsible, philosopher."

	The stranger finally replied, "Do I know you?"

	"I'm King Hammurabi."

	"So, I don't then.... oh, wait -- you mean, the Hammurabi who is going to punch me in the stomach and take off with my truth, eh?  Funny, I just checked my satchel when I was making a barter in the marketplace, and, it seems that I forgot all of my truth at home."

	"What?  You mean, you don't carry any spare truth on you, like, in case of an emergency?"

	"And what kind of emergency would I need truth for?  When meeting a king whose intentions are deceitful?"

	There was no response from Hammurabi.

	"You only want the truth because Solon wanted it.  Why is it that every time a Communist does something, that a Capitalist must do the same thing?"

	"Isn't every city made greater by the presence of truth?"

	"Yes, that I certainly can agree to," the philosopher replied.

	"Well, if you knew that I wanted you, and that I wanted the truth, why didn't you bring it with you?"

	"And just what are you planning to do with it?  What's your grand plan?  Are you going to inscribe it on great, huge monuments, like your laws?  Or shall you devote your time, your life, and your energies to it?  What use does a king have for truth?"

	"I could afford someone to make it useful to me."

	"You couldn't afford me; I don't accept payment in your tender."

	"It's a crime, you know, to refuse payment in Babylonian coin."

	"Are you threatening a man who somehow carelessly slipped through an army of your police and soldiers, with as much ease, as say, pealing a grapefruit?"

	"I hate you....  You must've been avoiding specifically me on purpose, right?"

	"Everything I do is on purpose, but I know you wouldn't accept my explanations."

	"What makes you say that?"

	"You are after me because I am the guardian and admirer of truth, right?  Because there is something in my possession that you envy, right?"
	"Yes, very true.  Please, let's finish this conversation in my closer quarters."

	"Are we going to discuss something that the general public should not be hearing about their king?"

	"Those are the only things I discuss."

	"And why should I even go with you?  Five minutes ago, all you were was just some other person in the mob of buyers and sellers."

	"What do you have to buy and sell here that's more important than having a discussion with the king?"

	"How do you know that I don't just give truth away, a little bit at a time, to everyone who asks for it?  How do you know that this isn't important?"

	"What do you want from me?"

	"Your humility."  Hammurabi stood there without making a word, still sweating from the mad dash through the marketplace.  After letting a moment, the philosopher said, "Fine, let's go."

	The philosopher of truth and the king of Capitalism took a short walk and without much time, they were at the imperial palace of the Babylonian Empire.  The king took time to impress the philosopher of the goods that Babylon could offer: silk, incense, spice, every metal imaginable melted and pounded into every imaginable shape.  In response, the philosopher was careful to give acknowledging gestures, without committing to any trade deals.  And just then, the two reached the palace, and the king was once again surrounded by a horde of curious, onlooking bodyguards, like a swarm of locusts.  "So, philosopher, what will it take for you to part with truth on behalf of what we here in Babylon want to give you?"

	"I already told you, I don't have any truth with me.  I left every ounce of it at home, but if you're intent on robbing me out of something, feel free to take these well-worn sandals.  Think of the story they'll tell in the villages after that -- the king, after finding out he could steal truth, beat up the philosopher to get it, and was too stupid to realize that he was walking away with a pair of heavily used footwear."

	"I've had children stoned to death to saying less to me, but your my guest, so I'm still going to invite you inside."

	The two walked up the stairway of the king's palace, toward Hammurabi's thinking room.  The king pulled the philosopher close to him for a moment, so that the two could exchange a few brief words beyond the earshot of the guards.

	"Back there in the alley way, before when we were talking to each other -- you had said, you would only come and talk with me if I gave you my humility.  Thanks for putting that tab on the house."

	"I'm not going to charge someone who can't be expected to pay.  If that's the type of personality I have, then I would've moved here to the home of Capitalism, here in Babylon."

	Hammurabi closed the doors to the room in the citadel's tower, with just a few guards in the hallway.  Now, the both of them were in each other's complete solitude.

	"Why can't you barter away truth like every other merchant who comes here with their wares?  What's so special about it?"

	"There's plenty that's special about it -- for anyone who has the time and the energy to seek it out."

	"Well, I'm seeking it out now."

	"You know...  for someone as prestigious as yourself, I might be able to spare, oh, perhaps a little bit of truth?"

	"Name your price.  And I want prices by volume, not by unit."

	"Well, let me ask you some questions."

	"That's what you want in trade?  Questions for truth?  Uncertainty for certainty?"

	"You're the author of 'An Eye for an Eye', aren't you?"

	"Of course I am, and I'm proud of it."

	"What's the disclaimer?"

	"How do you mean?"

	"Well, I've read it, rule #196 of Hammurabi -- an Eye for an Eye.  Right?"

	"Yes, that's what it says."

	"What about rule #198 of Hammurabi?"

	"What about it?"

	"Doesn't it say 'But if you poke out the eye of a poor person, then you shall pay a fine of 1 mina of gold.'?  Isn't that rule #198?"

	"Ah, you read past all of the popular and horrifying ones, right down to the technical language that most others pass over.  So what?"

	"Why not...  an eye for an eye, for everyone?"

	"Everyone must be afraid of those in society with the most status and power in society.  It's a natural law.  If someone knocks out the eye of the king, and another person knocks out the eye of a poor, illiterate, potato farmer -- would you really met out the same punishment to both offenders?  Would you convict them of the same crime and send them to the same punishment?"

	"I can see why you wouldn't sentence them the same -- but why shouldn't I?"

	"This is your damned question?  Really?  You don't sound a damned thing like those Communists.  Now I'm wonder what the hell my aid was warning me about."

	"So?"

	"What?  Oh, yes...  It's 1 mina of gold.  That's affordable.  Besides, most of the time, the fee is for knocking out the eye of a slave.  And at 1 mina of gold, even you could afford that."

	"I couldn't afford a fee over zero mina of gold."

	"Did the Communists teach you that trick?  Appearing humble and poor so that you can seem honorable and just?"

	"They're teaching me the same thing you are."

	The king turned and hesitated.  "Maybe you've spent too much time among them, and maybe I should've listened to my aid.  Is that really a question, or is it a complaint against the way I administer my empire?"

	"My point is that a restriction which arbitrarily treats identical quantities differently is ultimately against the truth."

	"Even Solon keeps slaves.  You know that, right?  Is that your problem with what I'm doing?  I know he hates it whenever I mention that."

	"Yes, I  know that King Solon is the owner of slaves."

	"So what's your problem?"

	"Truth isn't about seeking out problems to criticize them.  It's about getting behind, underneath, and around things, so that you can see them in a way nobody else does."

	"Isn't truth just what you need to understand?"

	"Truth is about equality."

	"There's equality!  Equality among the rich and the riches!"

	"Certainly not equality among the riches, and besides that, what do you think is going to happen when everyone knows the phrase an eye for an eye, believing it's about equality, but then someone looks it up, and discovers that disclaimer, 'an eye for an eye, unless the victim is poor, then there is a penalty of 1 mina of gold.' [*1]?  What do you think that person will think of you then, after having worshiped the Capitalist image of equality?"

	"Everyone equally has a right to pay that fine, and if they couldn't pay that fine, then they wouldn't be rich.  Isn't logic the basis of all philosophy, philosopher?"

	"I want the logic behind the logic."

	"You can't have that logic.  It's a forbidden logic.  I can give you the rationalization behind everything we do, but that -- I expect you'd know that yourself, anyway."

	"And perhaps I do."

	"Perhaps the punishment isn't meted out equally against and perhaps the punishment doesn't exist when the accused is rich -- but that type of inequality is the natural result when everyone has an equal right to stake their riches in the free economy."

	"Equality breeds inequality?"

	"It breeds it excessively!  If you see a marked difference between rich and poor, it's only an indication of how strong we believe in equality of the social and economic system.  Seeing men and women prostituting themselves out for a mere handful of bread is proof that we must have more millionaires than any other country on the planet."

	"How?"

	"Do you see either that type of suffering or power in any other part of the world?  It's because people either will suffer to make a living here or because the power they already have is too great to give it up.  We wouldn't be a hub of commercial, social, and political activity in the Mediterranean unless we had a vast population of people willing to suffer and cause suffering for the greatness of our country.  If we're not the greatest of strength and power, then why haven't we been overcome yet?"

	"How do you know you won't be overcome?"

	"You know the old saying -- the only person who has lost all security is the person who believes that they are completely secure."

	"Yes, I've heard it now and then."

	"So then you have your answer; citizens who have to maintain their own standard of living are going to be tough and responsible.  Any neighboring government that nourishes its people with 'bread for all' and 'everything to everyone who needs it' is going to breed a weak citizenry.  They won't have the cruelty to cut a man's throat in battle and they won't bombard a city's defenses if the inhabitants line up their children on the city walls.  As Capitalists, we are more fit than any other nation to lead and command the Mediterranean, because our people are fit -- our government makes them so."

	"Does that mean Capitalism is more fit for those who want to lead and command than those who want to live and work?"

	"It means that our people are better than the people of any other nation!  A society where anyone can build themselves up out of nothing and into someone important is the society that is going to rebuild the world out of itself.  There's no citizen in Athens who can build themselves up, except for Solon.  Everyone is given their home, given their bread, given their job.  There is no more private conquest and private ambition.  Just the moral character of the Communist people, their ease and carelessness, sickens me.  Running a Communist government is like being a father in a family where all your sons are failures and need you to help them live.  But running a Capitalist government is just about letting the ambitious and self-disciplined take whatever they could have claimed by force and violence, if they were allowed to use it.  It avoids the bloodshed, while not sapping our country of those who till the fields and fill the armies.  The dead are most valuable when they die in the fields, either of farming or battle, and not as a victim to a private king rising through the ranks of the economic elite."

	"You're not just a Capitalist, then, are you?"

	"Heavens no!  I'm a King!  Just like Solon!  That's the one thing we both have in common, between all of the differences -- we run our own governments, tell our people what to do, and kill or enslave anyone who gets in our way.  Sure, he may be a Communist, and I may a Capitalist, but we are both Statists.  We believe in the supremacy of authority and power above all else.  He believes in it 'so he can take care of his people.'  I do it for the same reason, but people are best taken care of when they have conquered every corner of the globe and have nothing to oppose them.  But we both do it."

	"I only wanted to know why you don't have equality -- and I think I have my answer."

	"That's right.  Now you know.  We have equality, except in the right way."

	"I think it's time for me to leave."

	"But you haven't agreed to give us truth in exchange for any of our highly prized goods -- pottery, silk, tea, spices, slaves.  We must have something you want.  That's the only reason we are as powerful as we are for a city-state.  Everyone wants what we have.  That's enough to rule the world."

	"And truth?  What do you have for someone who comes here seeking out truth?"

	"If everything works out right between us, truth will be ready in stores for purchase as soon you bring the first shipment."

	"I will do my best to devote my thoughts to the topic."

	"I have your guarantee, don't I?"

	"Hammurabi -- have I ever asked you for a guarantee of anything?"
	
	"You are right.  But before you go, I heard a rumor that you let Solon give you a name.  You need to be a self-made person and give yourself a name."

	"Do you have any suggestions?"

	"You know, I do actually, and it's much better than Olmo.  Long ago, there was a man here who worshiped the gods the way we worship them -- there was someone who prayed with the same words we use, in complete rejection of all that was well established all over the world at that time.  His name was Amin, and he was crucified.  There haven't been any like him yet, but in the middle of our conversation today, you made me think of him.  So, I bestow upon you the name Amin.  You shall be forever known as Amin the Philosopher."

	"It's just a name."

	"You know, Amin, today you made me think about a lot of things.  You made me think of my people, my empire, even my life, but -- HEY!"  Hammurabi turns around just in time to see the Philosopher slip down a rope hanging outside of the window.
	
	"Guards!  Guards!  Hurry in here!  The philosopher has disappeared!"

	A handful of guards, slowly swelled by others attracted by the commotion, burst into the room.  Each was equally curious about their visitor, "What happened?" ~ "Did you have problems tricking the guardian of truth?" ~ "You tried bribery, right?"  

	"You know, I'd like to be able to scream for the guards one time and not hear someone ask that question about bribery."  They searched everywhere for the Philosopher.  Like a pot of boiling water sitting by itself, they only produced heat and steam, but no sustenance.

Resources

*1.  "The Code of Hammurabi," by Hammurabi, Translated by L. W. King, composed about 1780 B.C.E., Paragraph 196 and 198, http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/ham/ham06.htm.

		Chapter 5: The Philosopher Was Always Alone

	"Communism and Capitalism are the same thing.  They only envy truth, but they could never want to spread it."  The philosopher talks to himself as he travels the lonely road.

	His mind wanders inwardly, as he thinks about his travels, kicking the odd pebble here and there that might otherwise get stuck underneath his sandals, "Learning is suffering.  I learned, I suffered, and I moved on, even if it meant sneaking through a palace window... again."

	In complete and total wilderness, surrounded by the chirping of birds, the swaying of tree branches underneath the force of the wind, the distant roar of some village's marketplace, the Philosopher was totally alone and at peace with himself.

	"I don't know when I'll get there, but once I'm home, I better not hear anyone call me Olmo or Amin.  I don't even know why I left.  It feels like those two kings used me up and threw me away, and the only thing I want now is to be in the company of anyone who's completely different from Hammurabi and Solon."

			Part II: The Anarchists

"You don't know your testament when you see it."

--Henry David Thoreau, "A Plea for Capt. John Brown," 1860.

		Chapter 6: Two Different Kinds of Philosophers

	In the beginning, there was only truth.  Its defender was the Philosopher, but once civilization developed and grew, two new philosophers were born.

	It was in 1984 BCE that the Anarcho-Capitalist was born.  And it was on the first of May that the Anarcho-Communist was born.  A year where an absolute, brutal government was feared gave birth to the Anarchist Capitalist; a holiday in celebration of working-class solidarity gave birth to the Anarchist Communist.  Like the Philosopher, the Anarcho-Capitalist and Anarcho-Communist were the subject of myth and legend.

	Like the philosopher, some say that the Anarcho-Capitalist and the Anarcho-Communist have lived forever from the moment of their birth, like perpetual characters in the conscience of collective humanity.  Others say, initially, they were both just Anarchists, but with the development of those two great cities, they had made their homes in Babylon and Athens, each abandoning the dream of Anarchism for the reality of a state culture matching their own.  Whatever truly happened, it is known for certain that the people of Athens gave the Anarcho-Communist the name of Emma, and the people of Babylon gave the Anarcho-Capitalist the name of Benjamin.

	But something new was happening in the lives of these two Anarchists.  It was just at that glimmering moment where the animosity of the Greek Communists and the Babylonian Capitalists had reached its maximum that these two unusual characters would suddenly appear and tear asunder the internal environments of their societies.  Something different was going to happen, and nobody would be able to predict the results.

		Chapter 7: Leave Behind Civilization

	"I despise the Communists!" ~ "I loathe the Capitalists!" ~ "I hate the Commies!" ~ "I detest the Cappies!"  The opinions of Greek and Babylonian kings had never matched up, but they were each increasingly making reference to the other in their speeches -- they were each increasingly talking about the other when making war preparations with generals.  The animosity had reached a seething point of intensity when Solon told his people, "It is better to hate the Capitalists than it is to be a Communist!" with Hammurabi reiterating a similar statement at Babylon.

	It was at this point that Emma and Benjamin both made up their own minds by themselves to leave behind their homes.  The Anarcho-Communist left the home of the Communists; and the Anarcho-Capitalist left the home of the Capitalists.  Emma left traveling east, Benjamin left traveling north, her following a random impulse, him listening spontaneously to instinct.  Like scarab beetles following starlight, they each followed their own inner light.

	Emma strolled past Thessaloniki, waving goodbye to the smiling young children who walked with her to the city edges.  Benjamin gave good wear to his sandals as he walked through Beirut, making conversation in the taverns and meeting sailors with thick, Cyprus accents.  Emma adored the beauty and simplicity of Istanbul; Benjamin couldn't even speak with the residents of Adana in Turkey.  She reached a constantly-moving social world at Ankara, he reached the perfect stillness and absolutely quiet at Lake Tuz.  As she breathed in, the pollen she smelled was also reaching his nose.  As he pulled his hands from the lake, the salt crystals were the same as those in the air vapor that caught up and tangled her hair.

	Emma was only a few miles south of Ankara and Benjamin only a few miles north of Lake Tuz.  One breaking through the brush, the other walk over the tall grasses in their way.  Then her walking was within distance of his hearing, just as he soon was within distance of her sight.

		Chapter 8: When Different Worlds Meet

	"Greetings!" the Anarcho-Communist said to the Anarcho-Capitalist.

	"Hello there!" the Anarcho-Capitalist replied.

	"Where are you heading to?  I have not seen a soul in about a day."

	"My destination is always changing as soon as I realize that there might be somewhere different and better.  I have no real destination, but I'm heading for Ankara.  Where are you going?"

	"I understand that there's a beautiful lake that I cannot miss in this direction.  I'm Emma, what's your name?"

	"Emma?  Do you mean the Emma, the Anarcho-Communist?"

	"Yes, of course, that is me."

	"I'm Benjamin, the Anarcho-Capitalist!  I have heard of you -- I know the stories."

	"I hope they're good stories about community sharing."

	"I remember one about piracy."

	"And I've heard stories about you -- I heard you mugged an old man who did nothing more than simply knock on your front door."

	"Goddamned tax collectors!"

	"You're an Anarchist, just like I am, but there's still a lot between us that is so extremely, extremely different."

	"You made your home in Athens, I in Babylon.  We have very different parents, so of course we're going to have very different customs."

	"Heritage is so difficult to shake off.  Are we more Anarchists, one and the same, or are we more economic enemies, one Communist the other Capitalist?"

	"You know that's not just the only difference between us.  Capitalism is about independence and individualism, Communism is about being addicted to the commune."

	"You're addicted to religion!"

	"And you're addicted to philosophy!"

	"You're terrified of new and different people moving in next to you just because they're from someplace that you can't sympathize with."

	"And you welcome them all on in, each and every one of them, limiting your personal space more and more, until what was once a quiet and calm forest full of creatures is nothing but a deserted, desolated desert, only populated by tremendous buildings and empty minded crowds."

	"You believe that individualism means owning lots of property that you can keep people off of except when you hire them to work it at starvation wages."

	"You believe that individualism means being able to choose whether to work the morning shift or the afternoon at the community-owned iron mine."

	"You throw yourselves against each other in ritual cutting ceremonies at your temples, like a cult organization that tries to dominate and control every member in a hierarchical manner."

	"You throw yourselves against each other in free love, sex orgies, inducing any and every drug you can find to lull or excite the senses, and then praising your destroyed bodies as proof of individualist accomplishment."

	"You Capitalists never stop praising the peasant, the backward, conservative force of society that has always resisted social change, upheld sexism and racism, and defended the government any time it was threatened."

	"And you Communists never stop praising the proletariat, the simple-minded, eight-to-twelve hours-a-day worker at the office, factory, or mine, whose only thoughts are either how to forget life through luxury or how to dominate fellow co-workers."

	"You love national distinctions, to the exclusion of all other distinctions, and it never matters if a human being can feel like you, if only they look like you, have an accent like you, or dress like you."

	"You despise any sense of localism, smashing the independent identity that self-ruling villages and communities have built up over centuries against the grueling oppression of empires trying to conquer them."

	"You praise the secrecy and intrigue of families, the selling of daughters, the domination of the father over the family, the abuse and neglect of children under the guise of letting everyone run their own family, and the exclusion of individuals without family from all social life."

	"In your system of social organization, the most special person an individual will every meet could be any neighbor, since you share everything in common, including those emotions that are most heightened when you focus them on a single object."

	"You perceive every form of social organization as a threat to the individual!"

	"And you completely ignore how little liberty is left to the individual after any such complex, organized, social organization!"

	"You would let Satan rape the world if it meant that each person could own their own piece of land."

	"You would be his summoner once you have established a society where every individual choice is determined by the community."

	She looked at him, her wild hair reflecting the state of her mind, and he looked right back at her, his unflinching eyes representing his boldness of thought.  They conversed like sword fighters trying to kill each other, bearing teeth not so much to make the noises necessary for the words as to express rage and anger.

	Emma and Benjamin then both opened their mouths at the same time to scream, but something stopped them.  Their eyes turned from bold brazenness to furled squinting, their minds turning from rage to curiosity.  "... you hear that, don't you?" ~ "Of course I hear it!"  And then, the sound finally became more identifiable, as it slowly approached.

	"Doot doot doot, mmmm -- doot doot -- doot doot -- doot doot doooo...."  Someone was singing.  "Mmmmm, doot doot doooo....."  With the two Anarchists in deep suspense, they both noticed as just over a nearby hill, there popped up an indescribable man with robe and cane.  "Doot doot -- doot doot -- doooo...."

	"Oh, it seems I have run into company," the man said, as he stopped in his tracks, "Pardon me, but I am the Philosopher."

	"Good to meet you," Emma said, "I have heard so much about you.  I'm Emma, the Anarcho-Communist."

	"And I, too, have heard much about your adventures.  I'm Benjamin, the Anarcho-Capitalist."

	The Philosopher replied, "Ah, that is why I heard so much noise in this direction.  I thought I had heard a small boy torturing a pig or something, but no, apparently I was only listening to a Communist and a Capitalist argue with each other."

	Emma said, "Olmo!  You must know that discourse is needed if you want to find out the truth."

	"Please, don't call me that!" the Philosopher replied, "And the only discourse you need to find truth is going to be between one part of the brain and the other -- the mouth need not enter into it."

	"I apologize," Emma replied, "Solon told everyone in Athens that you had abandoned the name the Philosopher, and had taken up the new name, 'Olmo'."

	"Yes, I heard that rumor," the philosopher replied, "I never tried to correct it, because anyone who knows me well enough would know that it's just a muse of the king and not anything resembling truth."

	"Interesting to hear," Benjamin said, "Hammurabi had told everyone that your new name was Amin, and he even said that you threatened people with death if they had called you anything but that."

	"Lies, lies, and more lies!" the philosopher rejoined, "This makes me think that we should abandon the tradition of letting other people name us altogether!  Call me anything you like, but if anyone's listening when you talk, then by all means, avoid any confusion and just call me the Philosopher.  It's who I am."

	"I've grown tired of hearing that oaf Hammurabi lecture us on how to live," Benjamin replied, "And he wasn't even right."

	"Anyone who is telling you how to live is probably not right, especially if they stand to gain anything out of it," the Philosopher replied.

	"So disobey everyone whenever they're trying to control you?" Emma said, "You sound like you're an Anarchist, Philosopher!"

	"I only talk about what I know," the Philosopher replied, "I let others generalize.  What issue was so important that we could hear you clamoring on about it down at the fire pit on the other side of the lake?"

	"You're the ones who started the fire pit?" Benjamin said.

	"Well," the Philosopher began, "I ran into some relatively tolerant and interesting people, and we decided to talk, to drink, to burn things, to inhale some of the things we burn, and the like -- until we were horribly disturbed by some argument in this direction.  So, I came up around here abouts.  Everyone else at the fire pit was too paranoid to check it out.  But I always like a good adventure.  Anything to soothe my curiosity."

	"What are you curious about?" Benjamin asked.

	The Philosopher said, "The damned noise that you think passes for conversation.  What are you arguing about?"

	"We are fundamentally different people, realizing that we look at the world in fundamentally different ways," Emma said, "Notwithstanding the fact that his view of looking at the world is wrong."

	"Mine?  Perhaps it is yours that is simply too narrow to capture everyone's feeling and thought," Benjamin said.

	"Well," Emma started, "Your words and ideology certainly have only offended and irritated my feeling and thought, and I doubt you'd find another Communist around who would react differently."

	The Philosopher spoke, "This?  This is why you disturbed the robins and blue jays that we were watching just beyond our camping spot?  This is why I had to leave behind a pipe and a bottle and a source of warmth?  So you could gas on and on about how Communists are better or how Capitalists are better?  Is that it?"

	There was no reply.

	"The robin and blue jay can sit on the same branch, because they're both just birds, and they don't have to claw each other's eyes out for having different colored feathers -- the one red and the other blue."

	Emma and Benjamin looked at each other.

	"What do you each want?" the philosopher demanded.

	"You know what we want," Emma replied, "I want an Anarcho-Communist society, and he wants an Anarcho-Capitalist society."

	"But why do you want them?"

	"It should be obvious why anyone would want an Anarcho-Capitalist society," Benjamin replied, "Because it best guarantees individual liberty, when anyone can own property, and it provides a social way of life where each person is sustained and, at the same time, independent from the others."

	"And why do you want an Anarcho-Communist society?"

	"For all of the reasons that civilization was founded to begin with," Emma responded, "An Anarchist society, where everyone can join or part with any organization they like, whether it's a workplace, community, or family unit, best provides for individual liberty, and Communism, where everyone own the tools they work with, absolutely provides best for personal, human necessity."

	"You, Benjamin," the Philosopher interjected, "Why do you want to guarantee individual liberty?  Why do you want each person to be sustained?"

	"Obviously, each person should have liberty and sustenance, because they are each essential to individual happiness."

	"You, Emma," the Philosopher spoke, "Why do you want to provide for individual liberty?  Why should everyone be provided with personal, human necessities?"

	"You know my thoughts on that, you have to," Emma replied, "Because it best contributes to human happiness.  Without either liberty, or the nourishment of life, there is no such thing as happiness -- there is no such thing as peace of the soul."

	"You, Cappie -- tell me this," the Philosopher's tone became less indicting and more companion-like, "What is the difference in value between individual liberty and personal human needs?  What's great about the right to dance how you want, if you can't eat enough to build a great body for dancing?  What's great about feeding yourself, if you can't direct how your healthy body works at the workplace?"

	"The importance of liberty is clear," Benjamin said, "You must have it, for the human soul only reaches its greatest heights, when there are no limitations to the practices of the body or the thoughts of the mind.  The importance of bread and wine is equally clear.  There is no greater deterrent to independent thought and practice than having no idea how you are going to guarantee how you will live."

	"You, Commie -- tell me this," the Philosopher turned to Emma, "Explain the difference in evaluating personal liberty against personal human necessity?  On your scale, how does the weight come out when you put the right to bread against the right to freedom of speech?"

	"Without liberty, the soul cannot move anywhere, and without bread, the body cannot move anywhere -- they each are different resources necessary for any particular individual to reach out and achieve what will make them most content," Emma replied.

	"Cappie, in one word, say what you want!"

	"Happiness!"

	"Commie, in one word, say what you want!"

	"Happiness!"

	"There you have it, you just argued with each other about who can better provide for humanity's hopes and aspirations," the Philosopher said, "Now I'm leaving.  Could you please discuss the rest of the matter without disturbing the peace of everyone around the lake?  Thanks in advance."

	"But wait, that doesn't solve all of our philosophical disagreements!" Benjamin shouted as the Philosopher had turned and started walking away.

	"It solves the philosophical disagreement I had with your arguing and shouting over nothing," the Philosopher replied, "Go on and do what you want, you'll be fine, but just do it quietly."

	"If you really are the Philosopher, then you could only have been out here on a quest, right?" the Anarcho-Communist catches up to the Philosopher, "The only thing that would bring you out to Lake Tuz must be some sort of adventure to preserve and empower truth, right?"

	"Ohhh, something like that, or maybe I was just wandering around."

	Benjamin shouted out, "You're not the Liar, are you?  The one who is renowned around the world for protecting and guarding every lie?"

	The Philosopher replied without looking back, "No, but I've been looking for that person and can't seem to find them anywhere."

	The Anarcho-Communist screamed out, "Philosopher, one more question!"

	"No!" the Philosopher walked into the darkness of a mountain with the sunset behind its peak.  The two Anarchists stood there, watching him walk away, keeping their silence, until he was finally gone.

	"I wonder if I will ever see him again," Emma said.

	"I've always known truth, but after meeting the Philosopher, I wonder if it's going to be the same," Benjamin said.

	"Truth can change, just like our perception of it," Emma replied.

	"So, Communism is all about happiness?"

	"We want everyone to have the fruit of life, stimulating entertainment, and an education that brings out their fullest potential," Emma replied, "Making each worker own the business where they work is the only way to certainly provide for that.  Capitalism must provide for it some way, right?"

	"In Capitalism, everyone owns the business where they work," Benjamin replied, "Except they own it directly, by themselves, individually, without having to depend on anyone else to run it.  The individual is still provided with what they need to live, just individually instead of as a participant of a group."

	"All of civilization is basically a society."

	"And anything that was ever history was done by individuals."

	Emma spoke, "I can see a small farm being run by a family or a shop run by a couple, but how can you have a mine or a factory owned and operated by a single individual?  How do you blast a thousand feet into the earth, extract several tons of valuable minerals, and sustain yourself with food and necessities during the large amount of time it takes before you make any money from it?"

	Benjamin replied, "How do you manage a small family farm or couple-run shop through a bureaucratic organization, when nobody but the family knows the character of the soil and nobody but the couple knows the community they service?  How do you expect a single organization to know every dialect, every sect, every culture, every custom, everything that might make you appreciate the simplicity of taking steps from the the forest to your home village?"

	"So maybe it's better that Communists run the factories and the mines."

	"And maybe it's better that Capitalists run the farms and the shops."

	"You know, I might actually agree with that," the Anarcho-Communist replied, "The Anarchist part of me wants me to just let people live life how they want to, and if people want to devote their character and soul to farming and shopping, then I would let them have it."

	"And maybe, I would even agree with you," the Anarcho-Capitalist said, "Why should I be telling a group of workers who want to associate together how they should run their factory, or how deep or shallow they need to make the trenches in their mines?  What do I know of it?  I should just let them decide for themselves."

	"It's more important for both of us to act more like Anarchists, instead of Capitalists or Communists," Emma said.

	"I was raised in Babylon, and you in Athens," Benjamin replied, "It's natural for us to have something personal about where we're from, but you and I know now know the truth that is Anarchism.  We should leave behind those toys from childhood."

	"You know, Benjamin, I think we should, too," Emma said, "Where have you been all my life?  Where has that Anti-Statist, Non-Communist rebel been hiding out?"

	"You make me ask the same questions, Emma," Benjamin replied, "Why hasn't there been any Non-Capitalists who know how to rip apart the oppressiveness of the state?"

	"I don't think we should let our energy wane in pursuing different directions.  We should unite and combine our forces.  We could create a revolution that will shake the pillars of every empire," Emma said.

	"Do you know how powerful that would make us and our cause?  We would have a social program that can appeal to anyone's specific interest."

	"You're absolutely right," Emma replied, "No matter the personality, whether devoutly Individualist in the sense of Capitalists or devoutly Community-based in the sense of Communists, our revolution would have something for everyone."

	Benjamin said, "The Unionists and Socialists from Athens would flock here, because of the openness and accessibility of Anarchist-styled Communism, and just the same, the small farmers and shopkeepers of Babylon do the same, because of the independence and self-rule of Anarchist-styled Capitalism."

	"But how will that even work?" Emma asked, "A whole, independent society, made by putting together two parts which are constantly separating from each other?  The Communists will constantly think they can do things better than the Capitalists, and the exact opposite will be true, as well."

	"Let the Communists live and work together as they would like, and let the Capitalists live and work together as they would like," Benjamin replied.

	"Communist participation can guarantee that everyone is 

	"Capitalist participation can guarantee that everyone is an individual."

	"But whenever there is an army at our gates, we die together and side-by-side, and any time there is a serious issue that confronts the entire community, then we decide it together, and not as individual section with differing interests.  In any life-or-death situation facing everyone, we cannot act individually."

	"I agree!  That sounds like the perfect revolution for Anarchists to engage in.  Let's do it!" Benjamin said, "Let's devote all of our energy toward creating an Anarchist Revolution.  Death to the Babylonian Empire!  Long live the Anarchist Revolution!"

	"I agree!  And death to the Greek Empire!" Emma rejoiced, "Long live the Anarchist Revolution!"

	Somewhere, at a distant point, far away from the society of the two people, there was a group of campers, still sitting quietly by the side of Lake Tuz.  One of his friends whispers in his ear the news, and the Philosopher, in response to the news that a revolutionary commune has declared war on the empires, sighs and thinks to himself, "All I wanted was for those two loud mouths to be quiet, so that I could sit back, drink from my bottle, and puff from my pipe, without a care in the world."  Then, with a long sigh, "Why are people always doing things?!"

		Chapter 9: The Anarchist City

	There was a tumultuous, unorganized group of people at the site of the new Anarchist adventure.  There were Anarchists, both Communist and Capitalist, but there were also Unionists and Socialists from the Communist camp, and Intellectuals and Small Business owners from the Capitalist camp.  Everyone had their own voice.

	"We shall call it a commune!  The Anarchist Commune!"

	"A commune, as in Communism?  Why not call it The Anarchist World?"

	"What?  Are you not daring enough to recommend the name The Anarchist Business?"

	Then finally, a wise voice broke out from the crowd, "Friends, friends!  We've argued too much before, let us be active now with our bodies where before we were active with our mouths -- let's just call it The Anarchist City!"

	This was the start of the first meeting of the Anarchist City.  It was formed just between Lake Tuz and the city of Ankara, a short distance for the members who wanted to visit the urban areas, and an equally short distance for those who only want to visit nature.  And once the group of people had decided on how they were going to live and where they were going to live, they had to come together and write a proclamation to the world.  By midnight, they had decided, and this is the pamphlet that circulated in the nearby cities...

"Communists!  We call on you to do away with your king!  Death to Solon!

"Capitalists!  We call on you to get rid of your king!  Death to Hammurabi!

"And once you have killed your governments, go back to living however you want, as Capitalists or as Communists.  It's nobody's business to tell you how to define yourself in relationship to the land and the world's people.  But if you want to keep living in freedom, we suggest you come join us, so that we can unite in mutual defense of our liberty.  We are waiting for you!  We always will be!  We will never close our doors to anyone seeking liberty!  Come soon!

"--The Citizens of Anarchia, the Anarchist City"

	A committee of Anarchists from Athens was formed to make a special announcement for the Greeks, and an association of Anarchists from Babylon came together to do the same for the Babylonians.  They were each to provide a unique voice for their own cultures, the one Communist and the other Capitalist.  Even though the Communists and Capitalists wrote their own statements, they were both subject to each other's review.  It took several days, the groups building their primitive huts during the days while arguing during the nights.  So much time was spent on simply exchanging views over the matter of changing a few words here or there.  But the people came together on approving a statement for each empire without splitting up the Anarchist City before it had even started.  Each statement ended with: "Communism and Capitalism are the Same Thing -- they both want what's best for humanity, but only when they are free."

	From Athens, there came miners and shipbuilders, architects and blacksmiths, factory workers and metal smelters.  From Babylon, there came farmers and professors, small shopkeepers and priests, intellectuals and writers.  And of course, they all brought their families with them.  They each entered a new world, they each left behind the old empires of Solon and Hammurabi.

	The Athenians surveyed the landscape, discovering sources of coal and iron within a short distance of Anarchia.  They quickly set up the equipment for extracting it, just as the smelters had blacksmiths prepared their tools to make useful items out of the metal.  And, along with giving the Anarchist City its first mine and metalworks, they gave it its first Cooperativists, Unionists, Socialists, and Collectivists.  They each had their own particular voice, they each gave their energy to the free air of ideas that surrounded the developing village.

	The Babylonians examined the soil and plants of the region, finding the habitat perfect for beans, apples, apricots, watermelons, tomatoes, and onions -- and most importantly, the climate was well suited to growing wheat.  Bakeries were quickly set up, using techniques they their parents had used for centuries, sometimes even with tools their parents had used for centuries.  Orchards were plotted and seed sown in the fields.  And in the city itself, they had sown the ideas of fierce individualism and independence from everything, with the only communalism being a deep one with the earth.

	When there were more hands needed in the field, sometimes the Athenians emptied out of the factories and mines to help in sowing or harvesting.  And when demand suddenly exploded out of proportion for the goods of the Anarchist City's manufacturers, the farmers likewise left their fields and the woods to take their positions in the factories.  Many of the Communists could claim at least one Capitalist friend, and the reverse was also true.  The miners and factory workers trusted their guides when avoiding poisonous plants and learning how to properly use a scythe.  The farmers and woodland travelers trusted the union stewards at the factories and mines who cautioned about the dangerously hot metals and the explosions from blasting.  Necessity of circumstance forged their bonds.

	There were even moments when their unity created something greater than the sum of their individual parts.  Professors and scholars from Babylon introduced the miners to new techniques and substances that could be used to produce explosions; similarly, architects and engineers from Athens demonstrated to the farmers better methods for transporting their crop from the field to the nearest port.  The little Greek children marveled at the stories told by the Babylonian elders, whenever their accents weren't too thick, and the Babylonian children would get excitement by watching miners blast rock by superheating it and pouring water over it, whenever they weren't told to go away because they were interfering.

	To declare Anarchia as their home, the Communists built a community center, the Capitalists built a church.  The Unionists from Athens had their own labor hall, the small farmers from Babylon had their purchasing cooperative, the Greek Cooperativists had their worker-owned businesses, and the Babylonian intellectuals had their own libraries.  Everyone had their own place to call their spring of inspiration, and no one group ever came to became a majority.  There was only one tendency, one thought, one idea which could be found in the minds of each citizen: anarchy.  In the corner of every group's flag, there could be found the Anarchist symbol, an A inside of an O -- "Anarchy is Order."

	Yet, at the same time, everyone remembered their own backgrounds, too.  Unionists would sometimes make jokes about the independent shopkeepers about the exclusive nature of private property, and professors would sometimes taunt the Cooperativists about the laws of economics.  "You Babylonians -- look at all the trouble you had getting the Philosopher to visit your city!" ~ "You Greeks -- you brag about freedom too much for a country where the majority are slaves."  Conversations like these were easily diffused, usually by a friend giving the advice, "What are you trying to get out of this argument?" or "Do you really think this is going to get us to where we need to go?"

	There is one part of society which cannot be forgotten about, and which most writers tend to completely overlook: the children, and in Anarchia, they formed a single, mutual, cooperative mass, instead of dividing into branches of Socialist or Capitalist or Unionist or Communist, like their parents.  For every parent who told their son or daughter, "You're a Communist!  Be proud of it!" or "You're a Capitalist!  Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't matter!", there were ten parents telling their children, "Play with any of the children you like, as long as they respect you and you respect them."  And by the education of experience, the gift freely given by their friends, those children with intolerant parents learned to laugh inside every time they heard, "You're not hanging out with those Communist boys, are you?" or "You're not seeing that Capitalist girl, are you?"  But there was more to how they raised their children than just that.

	Occasionally, the children from nearby villages would run away from the belt beatings of their parents, and it would be to Anarchia that they fled.  When mobs of angry parents, carrying pitchfork and torch, went to the city to find their children, they were greeted with, "Sorry, haven't seen them," before the city gates slammed closed on them -- just as the those very children were having supper in a warm home with friendly company, safe behind the city walls.  In a few cases, the mob would respond to this with, "You can't shut your doors on us!  We've got a police officer with us!"  The only response of the Anarchians, in that case, was to loudly display the snapping and cracking noise that occurs from loading a large number of crossbows at once.  There were too many eyewitnesses to such cases to deny that this ever happened, and it has been said, that even the Philosopher admitted once himself to knowing the stories as fact.  In one case, memorably retold by a messenger of King Solon, an Anarchian was even heard to say, "Don't forget how far away you are from the king."  Anarchia was just that sort of place -- an open sanctuary for the abused children of the world.

	Emma and Benjamin devoted their days to labor, but their nights to each other.  "You know, when I was young, someone in Athens told me this story," Emma was telling Benjamin late one night, "He said that Athens and Babylon were the first cities to have ever come into existence, and that they marked two distinct trends in humanity -- equality in Athens, and inequality in Babylon.  Humanity in Athens, and insufferable cruelty in Babylon.  He said that the struggle between Athens and Babylon was really about the struggle of mankind with its own soul, the one part trying to kill the other.  I think he said, exactly, 'It had to be this way, Athens hating Babylon and Babylon hating Athens, Communists hating Capitalists and Capitalists hating Communists -- it is the original conflict that ever rose up in humanity, the very first difference between right and wrong.  Don't hate them personally, but hate them vengefully, with a sense of pity, that they had to be the first to express to the world man's worst characteristic.'"

	"The original myth, huh?" Benjamin responded.

	"Yeah, something like that," Emma smiled.

	"Our elders used to tell us the same story, but not in exactly the same way," Benjamin said, "'In the beginning, everyone just a farmer, minded their own business, and worked their own land,' is what they used to tell us.  'There was no question of Communist or Capitalist, because everyone was a Capitalist.  We were all in it together, not like now, where we're at each other's throats with threats and hatred.  Everywhere there was peace, until some irreverent children decided to get some new ideas that they wanted to force on everyone.  Then the people split in half, the one Communist, the other Capitalist, the new thinkers blessing the bastions under Collectivism and the Conservative peasant reminiscing about a simple past where we didn't need states.  Thousands of years ago, every person held either a hoe or a shovel in their hands.  Today, we have to have men who hold battle axes, spears, swords, and bows, men who hold charts of enemy territory filled with small rocks representing groups of soldiers, and men who wear a brittle crown and give orders -- just so that we can continue living the way we have always lived, without fear of the Communist Revolution sneaking up on our shores and throwing everyone out of their natural place.'"

	"Our ancestors were idiots," Emma take a swig from her bottle.

	"They still believe in the first, original myth -- that mankind was split in half by the differences of Communist and Capitalist, between community-based personality and individual-based personality."

	"Between city-dwelling laborer who depends constantly upon complex social-economic relationships to satisfy the needs of mind and body, and the woods-hiking agriculturalist who depends constantly upon the Earth itself without much contact at all with other human beings," Emma said, taking another swig, "It's quite fine and well for people who are completely different in all ways to live and work, side by side together, so long as everyone is honest with each other."

	"These must be myths," Benjamin said, "There is no way that anyone could possibly know that far back in time, whether the first moral struggle was between property-owners and property-communalizers."

	"Between those who aggrandized private property and those who aggrandized community property," Emma replied, "You are certainly right about that.  They have to be myths, either set up deliberately to keep us under the thumb of a king, or due to the naive ignorance of the masses under the influence of some chieftain or local lord."

	"There may be differences in culture and personality between us, absolutely," Benjamin said, "But that's not going to stop us from realizing how much we need each other to survive in the face of oppressive and brutalizing governments.  If being different from each other is our sin, then tolerance will be our redemption."

	"You know..." Emma said, "We could make our own myth.  We could even openly recognize that it's a myth, a hoax, a joke that some people just never seem to get.  That way, when it turns out that our ideas for society are wrong, and somebody is ready to try out some different way of living in society, nobody will ever be able to say 'but our ancestors always said!'"

	"Our own myth!" Benjamin replied, "And we get to make it up!  It will be a delicious sacrilege against every state-serving church on this planet.  We can give a pure idea to the world of our own, without entrenching it in the Sexism and Racism of the past myths.  What do you think we should make up to pass off as religious truth?"

	"Well, we were always told that humanity's first conflict was between the Capitalist and the Communist.  The first myth is about the first conflict.  So, let's make up the opposite myth.  Let's make up a legendary story about the first conflict being between Governmentalists and Anarchists -- between Statists and Libertarians.  Humanity did not split because of property being classified as 'private' or 'community'; humanity split into one part and the other because one side was the oppressed and the other side was the oppressor."

	"But is it still a myth if I believe in it already?" Benjamin smiled.

	"Even moreso!" Emma took a swig, "The stronger your imagination, the stronger your hope."

	"The first conflict was between authority and its subject, between ruler and ruled, between oppressor and oppressed, between slaver and slave, between dominator and dominated -- that was the first conflict!"  Emma took a swig in response to Benjamin's enthusiasm, "The first struggle in all of civilization was not between this culture and that culture, this society and that society, these people and those people -- it was between government and liberty."

	"Our own myth for our own people!" Emma reciprocated his enthusiasm, "Culture isn't just made by people, it's made by people having ideas, so let's give them an idea!"

	At the next town meeting, when the audience allowed itself to have a speaker, Emma volunteered Benjamin, and Benjamin volunteered Emma.  Her words were direct and eloquent: "It has only been said to us, and we're not even certain of it, and there's really no reason to believe in it, and the evidence is scant, and all that you're about to hear is from someone repeating a story, and any quoted text we're about to mention will likely be extremely dubious, and there may be political and social motives behind what we're about to say -- but we have a religious myth we would like to give you."

	"In the beginning, humanity was free and at peace," Benjamin said, "There were no wars and there was no famine, families were not split apart by the rivalry of social factions, and societies were not ripped asunder by social obligations or economic necessity.  Every soul that wanted happiness was at liberty to take it.  The only barrier that ever rose up between an individual and their wants was the force of nature.  And then, there was government.  One part of society was perpetually cloaked in the darkness of a million laws, always expanding, growing, and colonizing.  The other part was stunned by how quickly freedom had vanished before just a handful of people calling themselves kings and queens.  The world has forever been split between those two sides -- those who believe in government and law, and those who believe in anarchy and freedom.  This is the original conflict within humanity.  It is not between people who treat property differently, it is between people who treat liberty differently!"

	The crowd of Anarchist citizens rejoiced with thousands of screams amid the endless sea of black flags.  For a few, brief seconds, the world heard nothing but the roar of Revolution.  Its rivers and mountains were quiet before the thunder of Anarchia.  Even the clouds, in their incessant drifting through a borderless sky, slowed down, just to take notice that a new people have birthed their own myth.

	Looking before the mass expanse of people standing and cheering, the two speakers caught the glint of an eye from an old man twiddling his beard within the crowd.  It was the Philosopher.  Intrigued and surprised, the two Anarchists headed departed from the view of their spectators and joined the masses, approaching perhaps the calmest soul among the jubilant people in the street.

	"It's good to see you again since that fateful day!" Benjamin greeted the visitor, "You look healthy and well!  I hope my senses don't betray me."

	"Welcome to our city, Philosopher!" Emma spoke, "Don't let a single plod of earth tread underfoot without feeling like you're in your own home."

	"It's good to see you both, too, since that day long ago, when I politely asked you both to be quiet so I could drink and smoke," the Philosopher grinned, "It's a nice city you have here -- a nice, Anarchist city.  I promise to treat all of the villagers like my family."

	"Would you like something to eat?" Benjamin offered, "The city has the greatest restaurants in the world, small and comfortable atmospheres with large and delicious portions."

	"Would you like something to drink, as well?" Emma also offered, "The lonely journey here must have parched your body for good spirits and your mind for good souls.  We have the best taverns in this part of the Mediterranean, most of them equipped with a hookah."

	Before the Philosopher had a moment to answer, Ben asked, "What brought you up to our humble village?  Was it the lure of our conversation?"

	The Philosopher replied, "Not exactly.  I haven't heard any disagreements yet -- any worth my attention, anyway."

	"Do you mean, unlike our first disagreement, between the Anarchist-Communists and the Anarchist-Capitalists?" Emma said.

	The Philosopher spoke, "That may have been a disagreement, and it may have had its merits in listening to, but for me at that time, it was just a disturbance to feeding liquor and smoke to my soul."

	Ben said, "And yet, such a world as we've made here, probably wouldn't have been possible without your interference."

	The Philosopher replied, "I've certainly taken that into consideration, too.  I've thought that maybe, things would be different, if I had simply sat there, under that tree with my friends, smoking my pipe, watching the glimmers of the lake, and not taking the least care about the world around me."

	"But, different in a bad way, correct?" Emma said, "Would you have really wanted there to be two different personalities, both within the same body, constantly raging against each other in argument?"

	"You couldn't possibly mean that you're not a friend of our city, are you?" Benjamin asked, "What could you have against a city that wouldn't dare enforce a single law against you?"

	"Is there any doubt here about my good will?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Of course not, the holder of truth is always a welcome guest in Anarchia," Emma replied, "You came, without us even sending for you, unlike those crude masters of Babylon and Athens."

	The Philosopher responded, "Kings send away for saviors when they need them, so noble saviors must look for those who do not have the power to 'send for' anything they please."

	The Anarchist-Capitalist said boldly, "We shall establish a revolution throughout the world, and we will pass in down to our children for a thousand generations!  Do you really think we need you as a savior?"

	The Philosopher replied, "You're both too excitable.  That's all it is.  Me, personally, I get excited when I feel in control of my garden -- a thousand generations is a bit too much for me to sift through."

	Benjamin spoke, "Are you another naysayer who has come to our humble town to tell us that we should go back to our kings, fall on our knees, and beg for forgiveness?"

	The Philosopher asked, "Do you really think I would tell you that?  Are you honestly arguing with me, or just disagreeing?"

	There was no response from the two.

	"I don't understand you Anarchists.  You're not like those of us who love philosophy.  It's not enough for you to hold truth.  You must use it to change everything you can touch -- your revolution is to convert the world.  That is your duty.  But the Philosopher has no other duty besides duty to truth."

	"Of course all of the old world must be changed!" Emma replied, "Rip it all from the ground, every root that sprouted up a weed of tyranny and deceit, every plant sown in the ashes of burnt books, every grain of wheat used to feed the empire's troops!"

	"It's not that, it's -- " their conversation was interrupted by a distant sound, and with a quiet whisper, the Philosopher said, "Is that the gallop of a steed?"

	The village was taking good notice of a single horseman heading towards the city, a soldier draped with a red sash from one shoulder to his side.  As he came closer, some of the villagers recognized the emblem of King Solon.

	"The echo of an empire's thunder has reached our humble, little homes," Emma said.

	"No, no, it's not just that," the Philosopher, "Turn around."

	Just in the opposite direction, another horseman was approaching the village -- except this soldier's sash was colored blue.  The closer his horse came, the more the villagers noticed the crest of King Hammurabi on the buckle of the beast's handle.

	"In one direction, you see the red, in the other, you see the blue, so be prepared for blood and royalty -- their appearance has invalidated my purpose here."  While the masses were focused on the approach of these strangers, Emma turned to pay attention to the soft whispers of the Philosopher, "You know, I wouldn't have come here, unless I had something to tell you -- unless there was some knowledge you absolutely deserved to have."

	The blue-sashed horseman held out a letter in the air, wrapped in one ribbon of gold and another ribbon of blue, and then proclaimed, "I don't know which one of you is in charge, and nobody seems to know -- so who is going to take responsibility for receiving this message from Hammurabi, King of All Kings?"  Benjamin, the Anarcho-Capitalist, realized that he had to be the one to take the offerings of his homeland, and reached out to take the letter.  Just as the parchment touched his hands, the Philosopher said, "I suppose you now know why I came -- what I needed to tell you."

	The Anarcho-Capitalist slowly unwrapped the letter, breaking the king's wax seal and unleashing the voice of an empire.  Holding in his hands several sheets of paper, each with carrying their own seal and authentication, Ben finally focused on the first page, and began to read the first paragraph, the words reaching his mouth at the same time they reached his mind: "Among you I count the villains and scourges of the world -- and if you do not disperse before the greatness of Babylon, we shall have to bear the strength of our rightness to you through force."

	Benjamin closed the letter, looked to the crowd, read the looks of the peoples' faces, and tore it into a thousand pieces, "Our bonfires weren't warm enough!" he screamed through the cheers of the mob, the horse underneath the blue-sashed soldier becoming restless and kicking back in anxiety.

	Next, the red-sashed horseman repeated the same ritual, instead declaring, "I have a letter here, addressed from King Solon of Athens, and I have orders to give it to whoever is in charge, and if nobody is really in charge, then I am to give it to whoever here has the most influence."

	"Give it to me," Emma said.  In her hands, she examined the parcel stamped in block letters "Official Communique from the Athenian Communist Party."  She tore off the short end of the letter, and then emptied the contents into her palm, a single sheet of paper, full of that Cyrillic-based language, Greek.  Speaking loudly, she read the first words to the people of Anarchia: "I should be such a proud king to have so many followers more adventurous than I am -- but when children are bad, as you have been, then you deserve the punishment of my wrath."  Her eyes closed with the letter.  "Let us fear no tyrant!" she screamed forth as she tore the letter up with tears filling her eyes.  The crowd uttered a final cheer, and by the time the letters were burnt, the messengers had disappeared, and the Philosopher approached the two Anarchists with a sad and dour face.

	"I must go," the Philosopher said, "I apologize so much for my delay.  I should have been here earlier, but for now, I must leave."

	"But why?" Emma pleaded, "Why won't you stay with us and resist?  You know our cause is just, don't you?"

	"How do you know that there's not some other village, just beyond the next mountain range, that isn't waiting to receive its final warnings a little early and by a friendly messenger?"

	"You will be missed, Philosopher," Emma said.

	"Our city will never turn you away," Benjamin gave his final farewell, "Visit whenever you like, come war or peace."

		Chapter 10: The End is Near

	Before getting the response from the citizens of Anarchia, the kingdoms of Hammurabi and Solon were both preparing for war, for a new flock of slaves, and another around of promotions in the military.  Never trust the words of a king, no matter the color of his couriers' sashes.  The clouds, in all of their dark and unseeable nature, will give better clues of what they want than any king.

	The Philosopher left Anarchia, and before it was out of distance, he could already see the townsfolk making preparations for defense against the Greek and Babylonian Armies.  "It is just their luck," the Philosopher thought to himself alone on his trail, "Those who live their own way must somehow irritate anyone who wants to command others."

	After just briefly establishing themselves, the Anarchists were already the enemies of the two, most powerful kings.  "It wasn't too long ahead when the city of Anarchia was just a dirthill," the Philosopher thought, "How did things happen so fast?  Almost nobody could've known.  Those two meeting each other was like a spark in a powder keg.  And I'm the one who lit the fuse.  Now there's this damned war."

	"I don't know if I act too much or if I think too much, if I'm here to change things or here just to think about things," the Philosopher pondered, eyeing the stones on his path and glancing at the greenery, "Or, if I'm even here to make my own way, against anything I've been made for."  A bird flew across his vision, leaving a moss-covered branch wagging back and forth from the force of its departure.  "To think, or to act," the Philosopher said, "I suppose it's something for me to think about as I walk."

			Part III: The War

"Where right and liberty are everything, disadvantages count for nothing."

--Jean Jacques Rousseau, 1762
"The Social Contract, or the Principles of Right," Book 3, Chapter 15

		Chapter 11: It Begins

	News of the war spread like a plague of locusts descending on a fresh harvest, taking everything of value that could be carried, and leaving everything once known behind forever.  Major cities around Athens, like Sparta and Istanbul, loaned their support to the Communist empire, and those around Babylon, like Thebes and Beirut, similarly offered voices of support for the Capitalist empire.  Almost overnight, the entire world was split into two sides, and while the chieftains were sufficiently scared of each other to launch a direct attack at each other, Anarchia began as a proxy-fight -- a way for the two sides to violently confront each other without any possibility for loss of power with all of the opportunities for expanding it.

	A fight that had been between two individuals in Anarchia and the governments in Babylon and Athens ended up being a fight between all Greeks and all Babylonians, between Turks and Italians and Europeans against Egyptians and Persians and Middle Easterners.  What had begun as a simple conversation between a few thinkers on society turned into a world war.  Even in distant parts, inhabited by people who would never see the capital of the either the Capitalists or the Communists, the news spread, villages divided, communities split, and everywhere, you could find the Capitalists fighting Communists and the Communists fighting Capitalists.  Everywhere -- except in Anarchia.

	In times of the past, whenever a fight rose up between those on the Left and those on the Right, there was someone there who had the courage to scream, "Don't you see that you won't solve anything by killing each other?"  Each village had its idiot and its chief, but every village also had its thinker.  And when the Anarchist City invited the entire world to come, it was these bold thinkers who quickly departed from their residences.  When the next round of arguments rose up between Red and Blue, between Communist and Capitalist, there was no one with either the rational thought or the courageous heart to scream against the cruelty.  Before, weapons were waved in the air before everyone went home, but now, weapons were used against people, and not everyone went home.  No corner of the globe was left unaffected.

	The citizens of Anarchia become known more and more simply as the Anarchists.  Differences continued to exist between the two opposing viewpoints on property, but a surge of creative energy burst through the people.  You didn't smell the attitude and resentment of a defeated people in the common areas -- you smelled strength, endurance, and power.  Immigrants continued to the city, bringing their tools and knowledge, swelling the population, despite all of the looming threats of war.  Hammurabi remained determined to extinguish the menace to his authority; Solon stood resolute in his opposition to deviations from his political party.

		Chapter 12: The Marxists and Militarists

	Not everyone of mind and health quickly left their homes to make new ones in Anarchia.  The Athenian bureaucrats knew their skills would offer them no material benefits in the Anarchist City, because there was no state, and the Athenian Marxists were too devoted to authority guiding humanity through "necessary revolutions" to accept a city founded on the principle of Anarchy.  Bureaucrat and Marxist were often the same person, but not always.  The end result was that Athens, depleted of its Unionists and Socialists and Cooperativists, quickly became governed, almost overnight, by the Marxist bureaucrats.

	Babylon also held back one of its famed occupations from the Anarchists: that of the professional soldier.  If colonels, captains, sergeants, and lieutenants went to Anarchia to apply their skills to the cities defense, they would each be given the same rank of Ardent Citizen and Lover of Liberty.  The uniform came with no golden tassels and their parades were just so clogged with "the common rabble."  The rift in occupation and ideology was too much for the Militarists, and so they became the leading force of Babylon, having more influence than the Capitalists and the Priests.  Soon, Hammurabi's entourage went from bankers, religious leaders, and military officers to only military officers.

	The Communists had their exception, Emma, and the Capitalists had their exception, Benjamin, and likewise, one influential Marxist from Athens came to Anarchia, named Pannekoek but choosing instead to accept the new name of Pan.  One powerful general from Babylon came to Anarchia, Rossel but choosing the new name of Roz.  But to the Anarchists, they were such bizarre specimens that they were often simply called the Marxist and the Militarist.  One of the Anarchists had welcomed Roz with, "We never thought anyone like you would come, but we let anyone join us if they want to defend liberty," the other had welcome Pan with, "I'm surprised to see such a firm wire desire so much to be among loose strands, but that's just the way loose strands are -- we are very accepting."

	The General offered his badges and his officer's cap to the bonfire of Anarchia -- the Marxist offered his party membership card to its flames.  This was the moment the world had its first Anarchist-Militarist and Anarchist-Marxist.  Pan was greeted with enthusiasm and genuine admiration at all of the Communist speaker clubs and union halls; Roz was saluted and welcomed with the devoted individualism he expected of Babylonian emigrants.  The Anarchist City promised the world that it would take in any person who was seeking liberty.  The appearance of Roz and Pan made the world believe in the promise.

		Chapter 13: Roz and Pan

	There was a code of honor they had among officers, not only in Babylon, but throughout the world.  Whenever Hammurabi's armies would seize land from a nearby kingdom, the generals on each side were cautious for the others' safety, and upon the eventual defeat of one side, the victor gave lashings to his enemies but cigarettes, brandy, a handshake, and an absence of handcuffs to the commanding officer of his enemies.  This 'comradery among each and every officer' ended for the first with time -- the first exception to the rule was Rossel.  Their plans were clear, "When we are done spitting on his corpse, we shall set it on fire, and the ashes from the most repulsive parts of his body shall be blown into the faces of his family members while they're being tortured."

	In Athens, there was a similar code of honor among Athenian Communist Party members.  "Once you are a party member, you will be accepted at any party meeting for the rest of your life!" was the old Athenian saying.  The first exception came, too, for Pannekoek.  "Let it hereby be resolved, and be known to the public, -- viz., the 14th and a Halfth, Annual Meeting of the Athenian Communist Party wishes to express to all who shall listen, that Pannekoek is in our eyes a coward and a traitor, an enemy of the working class and a threat to Social Revolution, and all True Marxists will do everything to respite him, his name, his associates, and, if it should advance the cause of Marxism, even his family."

	Both Roz and Pan heard the threats of their former masters, but they remained in pure resolve to accomplish what they had come here to do -- to guarantee the protection of this city against the aggressions of dominating empires, and, if the power of the people grant it, to also crush and dismantle those empires.  In some corners of the globe, Anarchia was simply called the City of Tolerance, because it accepted anyone, no matter the sex, the race, the social background, or even ideology.  When a political world dominated by Marxists and Militarists declared war on the tiny nation, Roz and Pan tore apart from their ranks for this reason.  They had to come to a completely alien environment and understand a people they never expected to meet.  Even though they came from opposite sides, Roz and Pan knew each other to be allies in another way -- nobody else in Anarchia was as different from rest than these two.

	"Forming the city here was a brilliant plan," Pan said to his audience, Benjamin, Emma, and Roz, "You need a homebase.  You need someplace where all true revolutionaries can come when they are weak and seeking an escape from oppression.  You need a hideout where you can sleep after fighting out in the forests and oceans.  You need some place where your ideas can grow and develop on their own in relation to your experience and foresight, and not under the influence of some government or authority.  If you believe in the Revolution and you hold steady in the homebase, then government troops will limit you at worst and guarantee the Revolution at best."

	"Pan is right," Roz replied, "There needs to be a resupply station for Anarchist soldiers who will also probably be dropping off wounded comrades, and everyone needs to know where it is at all times, while at the same time holding off the oppressive forces from every inch of our city.  If they force us into a siege position, where we are completely surrounded and have no access to Akram or the sea, then our defeat is a matter of time.  But if we use the forces we have available to us to now to guarantee that our city has that necessary breathing room, then we can really throw both empires right onto their backs!  To really do that, we need someplace where any soldier can stop and rest under complete protection, and without that, you will never have what it takes to match a professional army."

	"Are we really going to arm and send out soldiers regularly?" Emma asked, "Have we gone into the militarization phase of the Revolution already?  Why can't we simply improve our fortifications, train all adults in warfare, and prepare the necessary rations and artillery for a siege?"

	"Surrounded by enemy forces until you starve yourselves to the point of eating your own dead children," Roz spoke, "I have seen it happen.  If you allow a siege to happen, you're as good as dead."

	"But then what's the point of even having a homebase, then?" Benjamin asked, "Why not burn our houses down and always be constantly on the move, never here nor there, living off of nature's abundance, with no permanent property?"

	"Then you have also lost, but not in the same way," Pan replied, "You must have a people who are your own, who you can move through.  The Anarchist citizens here are the only thing you have.  You can't simply retreat north to join savaged tribes, east to the Chinese empire, or south and west into the seas themselves -- you need a constant regular supply of both food and troops.  Disperse now and whatever civilization you've built will instantly come to an end."

	"Death by siege or death by dispersal," Emma said, "Which one hurts less?"

	"Impossible to say," Roz replied.

	"I'm as terrified of the results of war as the war itself," Benjamin said.

	"That is a rational response," Pan replied.

	"You convinced me of the the value of a homebase, tactically and ideologically," Emma replied, "And, that's what we're trying to do, right?  To find the right strategy to win the Revolution, right?"

	"It seems like our best plan, maybe our only plan," Benjamin said, "Hope is a careless thing to receive and a desperate thing to lose.  I want to defeat our Authoritarian opponents -- to smash every last one of them to bits."

	"Then stick to the tactics of a homebase," Roz said, "Use the left hand to shield your heart and the right hand to thrust your weapon into your enemy's throat.  Don't fight without the tenacity needed to inflict death.  This is going to be no play fight.  If our armies are defeated, we can only expect the worst imaginable treatment by the enemy, not just for ourselves but for the people here.  This is not a war about national pride or independence or who shall become the next king -- this is the only war that psychologically motivates people to such extremes, the Class War."

	"Guerrilla tactics all of the way," Pan said, "You have the Taurus Mountain Range to the south, to guard you against the Babylonians, and to the north, you have so many trickling and trailing streams, that the enemy can't maneuver in your direction without constantly running into bottlenecks and weak points.  And the you have the advantage of the streams close to Ankara, which have only a one difficult passage to the Mediterranean Sea, which requires going through two other Seas first.  You have the capacity to launch sea vessels against your opponents through Sarkaya River, but for them, it will be incredibly difficult to reach you through the same route.  Fight and defend -- when the entire world is against you, then survival is victory."

	"I hope I didn't miss anything important," a lone voice can be heard in the distance, as the four people look up or over their shoulders, to see an old man wearing a robe.

	"Philosopher!" Emma shouted.

	"You're the Philosopher?" Pan said, "I have heard of you.  Mostly good things, too."

	"Indeed," Roz replied, "You would have to be a fool to turn on the guardian of truth, but there are some peculiar rumors about you that I've heard in Babylon."

	"Well, those rumors are probably mostly true, then," the Philosopher replied, "And I've heard of both you, too.  The city could use men like you to help the people defend themselves from those overwhelming, juggernaut empires.  I know of your work in Athens, Pan, in organizing the industrial workers to strike, when every other Marxist was against it; and I know of your military strategy in Babylon, Roz, when you organized a militia in a small village that repelled vastly greater numbers.  You are both the exact men that Anarchia needs at a time like this."

	"It's not that we're trying to turn Anarchia into the Militarist-Marxist City," Benjamin said, "We're trying to create it into the place where anyone can come to escape tyranny and work with others fighting for the liberty of all.  We're not anti-Marxist or anti-Militarist; we are only anti-State."

	"What is there to Militarism and Marxism when there is no State?" the Philosopher asked, "Has there ever been a rank awarded to a Militarist, except by the hand of some governor or officer?  And can't the same be said of Marxists, except by the hand of some party chairman or party officer?"

	"Militarism didn't become a part of a civilization for any reason until people realized they needed to defend themselves against the greedy and cruel," Roz replied.

	"Marxism has the same foundation, except in fighting off night attacks by raiders of villages, it's about fighting off day-and-night shifts at unsafe factories with low pay and an abusive employer," Pan replied.

	"People have been doing both of those for a long time without either Militarism or Marxism," the Philosopher replied, "Isn't it the role of the state that makes both of your philosophies distinct from what people have been doing since the dawn of civilization?"

	"We serve no state now, isn't that right?" Roz replied.

	"We may very well be the first stateless Marxists, too," Pan added.

	"We've had our own suspicions, too," Emma said, "Militarism and Marxism seem so opposed to Anarchy.  When you were both willing to take an oath to defend liberty and to live among us with your families, we had to let you in -- that was simply being responsible to our duties as revolutionaries.  But we really were confused, from the very beginning, why any Militarist or Marxist would arrive to the gates of Anarchia seeking an alliance instead of a war."

	"Some of us even thought you were insincere, that you had motives, that there you were simply rogues acting secretly as servants to your kings," Benjamin said, "But it was important to us to be sincere with our ideals, and to grant refuge to anyone willing to fight under freedom's banner.  In a society of free people, what could be the worst harm done by allowing a single person to believe in authority?  None, so long as they never have it.  We Anarchists certainly have agreed upon that."

	"We may have our own reasons, too," Roz said, "Reasons that aren't political or pecuniary.  Every individual has their own path; everyone makes their own decisions.  For us, we might be here for a very important reason, something that strikes very deeply close to the heart -- but if either Hammurabi, Solon, or even you the Anarchists heard it, you'd consider it a mere trifle, something entirely outside of the scope of the conflict altogether.  Anarchia seemed like the best place for someone who acts by themselves as an individual."

	"Marxism has always preached that Anarchism is its end purpose," Pan said, "We only seek power now so that we can defend ourselves and destroy Capitalism.  Nobody wants to live under a state, whether it's Hammurabi's or Solon's.  That's why we're here today -- so that no future generations will be the slaves of those monsters.  The state, as envisioned by Marxism, can take on some particularly amiable features, as it may be as simple as any decision-making organization that has control over the land and natural resources.  Solon has made his state into an absolutist-benevolent monarchy.  His Marxism is the cruel kind."

	"When ideas mean nothing, people mean everything," the Philosopher replied.

	"What do you mean by that?" Benjamin asked.

	"Maybe you're not really Anarchists or Militarists or Socialists or Unionists or Capitalists," the Philosopher said, "Maybe there happens to be about 150 different types of human personalities, maybe there's 100 of them, or maybe there's a thousand of them.  Or maybe there's just a handful of them.  And just maybe, you all have the same one."

	"What?  With the amount of diversity and tolerance in our city?" Benjamin said, "There are cults based on sex orgies and psychedelic drug use that make good neighbors with churches and synagogues."

	"But how many of the former do you have compared to the latter?" the Philosopher asked.

	"What?  What would that have to do with anything?" Benjamin asked, "You're making no sense at all, Philosopher.  Speak more clearly, so that we can understand."

	"You have plenty of rebels here, don't you?" the Philosopher asked.

	"We most certainly do!" Emma replied.

	"Then doesn't it seem like, if there's a group of people on this planet all sharing an identical personality type, that they're likely to end up filling the same roles, against all cultural and religious and national barriers?" the Philosopher asked, "Isn't it likely that an individualist-minded personality is always going to find its way to the prisons by means of government suspicion?  And isn't that personality going to escape by the same means always, by cunning and brilliance?  Isn't that likely to be the personality that leaves everything behind, to found a new world, to make wars with empires and emperors?"

	"Yes, I can see your point," Emma said, "But Philosopher, tell me, is that what you've come to tell us?  That we're not making a Revolution of Anarchists, but a Revolution of Rebels?"

	"Haven't you thought that your Revolution has robbed the world of its revolutionaries, that every town and city from Carthage to Beijing has lost its dissident voices and disgruntled agitators?"

	"You cannot kill your opponent by lobbing twenty or thirty dull sticks at him!" Emma said, "You need one, single, sharpened point to pierce a critical organ of the body and to do it all the time your enemy is trying to do worse to you!  How do you expect any type of Revolution to come about unless all of the world's revolutionaries swell up into a single, powerful mass?"

	"Do you really expect to make a Revolution when you get all of your ideas from Marxists and Militarists?" the Philosopher replied.

	"And is there anything you really have against us?" Roz asked.

	"We've given your our testimony and have given draped it in our oaths," Pan said, "What is it about Militarism and Marxism that would make the Anarchist City have no home for us?"

	"The state," the Philosopher replied, "That's all.  What you two want, and what everyone else around you wants, are very different.  That's all."

	"You're going to drive us apart for that?" Roz said.

	"Do you really think we've committed some crime that we should be exiled and ostracized from here?" Pan asked.

	"I'm not the type of person to ask anyone to leave their refuge," the Philosopher replied, "And more than that, Philosophy could never make me into the type of person who tells others what to do.  But I am the type of person who talks loudly whenever I hear a contradiction.  I am the predator of contradictions."  Then, after the Philosopher looked up at a cloud, darted his vision around in an uncoordinated space, and then returned to his listeners, did he finally say, "Perhaps it is...  my personality type."  The Philosopher smiled at his audience, without much response from either Pan or Roz, while both of the Anarchists were laughing.

	"If any contradiction exists, it has to be the one that everyone talks about," Benjamin said, "You know, the one between Capitalism and Communism.  We've destroyed that contradiction here.  We've made our conflict not into one of private property versus public property, but of liberty versus slavery.  You know that's what sets us citizens of Anarchia apart from citizens of other cities, right?"

	"Ignoring someone's protests just because they come from a different background, ideologically or socially or culturally or racially or politically -- that is the greatest contradiction to Anarchism," Emma said, "If you must hunt out a lie, stalk wherever they tell the people to believe in their village, their city, their country, their nation, their continent, or their race!  You will be so overburdened with contradictions, that you probably won't be able to say a thing."

	"If your logic is bad," the Philosopher said, "Do not begin its defense by mentioning someone else's logic with just as poor quality."

	"There has been so much vicious hatred between Communist and Capitalist, in every nation and in every time," Benjamin said, "We want to prove, once and for all, that the antagonism within humanity is not between propertied and propertyless, but between governing and governed.  If the Communist World and the Capitalist World are so suicidal enough that they would rather destroy each other than live, then let them meet here, at the borders of anarchy.  End the animosity finally!  Let there be a war!"

	"Aren't you paying attention?" the Philosopher said, "Now you're two nations almost hopelessly opposed to each in bitterness and hatred; with war, it will become an honor among both peoples to ravage and viciously destroy the families of their enemies, young and old, sick and able, left-wing and right-wing.  You at least had the chance of dialogue before; with war, you don't have the chance of anything."

	"We have the chance of victory," Roz said, "We don't beat our enemies with words, we have weapons for that.  It is force, and not philosophy, that makes up the prime instrument of all armies.  Philosophers like you may as well be talking tho clouds while we are slashing down those who would pretend to enslave us."

	"And what makes you think that the clouds have nothing important to say?" the Philosopher replied.

	"It's not just a chance at victory," Pan added in, "It's a chance at guaranteeing liberty for ourselves and the future -- a chance at defeating and humiliating those who would keep us in perpetual oppression.  Compared to our enemy, we may be tiny and insignificant and small, but so is the tip of a knife compared to the whole weapon.  We are not making one last stand so that we can be heroes to the future.  We are here to fight so that there still can be a future."

	"You're building a future by getting into a fight?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Tell me one movement throughout all history that has ever made any impact on humanity without the use of force," Pan demanded.

	"Not authoritarian force, naturally," Benjamin added in the disclaimer.

	"Fighting has made up the substance of all human change.  Not conflict, that ends in petty squabbles between intellectuals, but actual fighting -- actual violence," Roz reinforced.

	"Violence carefully decided upon and chosen by the self-organized, autonomous armies of the working class of the Anarchist City," Emma added in another disclaimer.

	"I'm not here to tell you to surrender, to squabble, to beg for mercy from kings and queens," the Philosopher said, "I'm not here as your enemy.  Any enemies you have are either next to your hearts or a thousand miles away.  But when I tell you that this is a war that has split the world into halves, your only assurances to me have been your own doubts."

	"Not a doubt here, not in the Army," Roz replied, "And not a doubt in our weapons."

	"Nor in the Communist Party, and our leaflets," Pan added in.

	"Truth was born from skepticism," the Philosopher said.

	"How is that even possible?" Roz asked.

	"Yeah," Pan said, "Isn't skepticism the doubting of knowledge, and isn't truth the knowledge of things?  How could there be doubt of knowledge, before there was knowledge?"

	"Ignorance precedes knowing," the Philosopher said, "But if what you think you know is wrong, then what facilitated that transition from ignorance to knowing will be just as likely to bring you straight back to ignorance."

	"That is the least coherent thing you have yet said," Roz replied.

	"Revolutions need organization, and here in -- " Pan stopped speaking, as a soldier of the Anarchist Army carrying an envelope ran towards the meeting of thinkers.

	"Important news from the front!" the soldier was gasping as he spoke, "There's news of three invasion forces headed in our direction.  The Greeks are launching an army from the North, through Istanbul... and..." still gasping for breath, "The Babylonians are launching an attack from the south, through Jordan.  The third force..." almost regaining his strength, "... the third force is coming from the west, landing by means of sea, an army made up of so-called 'Coalition Forces'.  Their regulars come from the a number of insignificant allies of both Hammurabi and Solon.  Egyptians, Italians, Cretians, Jordanians, Turks, Persians, you name it, the third force has everything, and barely a handful of Babylonians or Greeks.  Their combined forces outnumber ours by at least ten to one."

	"We don't have time for conversation," Roz said, "We only have time to defend those who seek out civilization as a refuge for liberty.  We will split the Anarchist Army into thirds.  I will take the First Anarchist Army north, to meet the forces of Solon and the Greeks."

	"I will take the Second Anarchist Army south, to meet and destroy the forces of Hammurabi," Pan said.

	"The Third Anarchist Army should be taken by you two, Emma and Benjamin," Roz said, "Head west and meet the Coalition forces before they've even landed on the beaches.  Crush every last one of them, with as few losses as possible.  We are tremendously outnumbered, so, I have one suggestion to you -- after your first engagement, accept the policy of strategic retreat.  Your army is our defensive unit, ours are the offensive units.  If you can defend your way all the way to the point of walling up your own houses for inner-city fighting, we will be just behind the enemy, ready to pounce on their backs and cut their throats."

	"Strategic retreat is the exact phrase to describe it," Pan added in, "We have to face attacks from three different directions.  We can get past these near-insurmountable odds, if only we can distract significant portions of enemy troops all at the same time.  Coordination, effort, and work is demanded."

	"Understood," Benjamin said.

	"For the liberty of the people," Emma said, "And you, Philosopher, where will you be during all of this?  What does the World's Thinker believe in?"

	"I am the guardian of truth," the Philosopher said, "We are in a city that was a small village only a few months ago, and we are about to get crushed between the might of two great empires.  There is nothing that could make someone like myself leave the cause -- not here, not now."

	That night, when rallying the troops, Emma's inspiration resounded through the ranks, "It is up to us to unite together now!  If we fail, our children will wear the iron collars of either Solon or Hammurabi -- whichever king proves more ruthless by defeating the other!"

	With Roz and Pan came the Militarists and the Marxists, with the Militarists establishing their own academy, equipped with a training ground and numerous banners declaring "We are fighting for your liberty," and the Marxists, too, established their own party headquarters, equipped with translators in twenty languages and a large sign mirroring the academy's, "We are thinking for your liberty."  They were an unusual element in the city, but they were not wholly and completely rejected by the Anarchians.  In every other city for a thousand miles, Militarists beat up Marxists with club and rifle butt, and Marxists beat up Militarists with pamphlet and book -- but in Anarchia, the Marxists and the Militarists were the two groups with the greatest affinity, as they both were unlikely candidates for citizenry who were accepted at the same moment.

	It was a time where Tolerance was at its height in Anarchia.  Benjamin even hit the pipe once or twice, and Emma even tried prayer.  The best intoxication that follows a victory in defense of liberty is liberty itself.  Everywhere else in the world, the defeats of Hammurabi and Solon's forces intensified their hatred of the opposing sides, and everywhere, from village to city, police officers were hanging suspected "Capitalists" or suspected "Communists", with little more jury than a rope and a tree, whether their badge was issued by the Athenian Communist Party or the Babylonian State.  Communist and Capitalist meant almost nothing inside the walls of the Anarchist City, and outside, it meant almost everything.

		Chapter 14: Split into Halves or Thirds?

	Emma, Ben, and the Philosopher had made their trek to the west, waiting on the beaches for the Coalition forces to land.  Ben spoke, "Don't you understand it, Philosopher?  Our revolution has the chance of succeeding, because have established a homebase -- a place where revolutionaries may rest, recuperate, and reload -- a place where we can provide food to any of our people, indulge our children in our ideas, and resist anyone who would try to enforce rule over us.  That is the basis for our success!  The homebase!"

	The Philosopher said, "There is no mountain fortress for fear, no safety zone for terror.  You will not be able to wall up any elevated area on this planet and expect that the weaknesses of your own mind can't get in.  It's possible that you could find someplace to defend yourself from rational thinking and analysis.  You might even be able to set up a tariff on truth and a tax on thoughts.  But there is nowhere you can go to escape your emotions.  They are always there, part of you in more ways than you can even consider, and while you can picture a marathon runner rubbing their legs to work out a pain, it's not quite so easy to picture the shattering force of someone trying to rub out stress in their mind by thinking, and simply breaking the power they were trying to soothe."

	Emma looked to the Philosopher, thought for a moment, and then opened her mouth to speak, "Life is stress --" but before she could keep speaking, she was interrupted by the sounds of explosions.  Across the walls of Anarchia, the soldiers of the Anarchist Army were firing rounds of Greek Fire, except it was the Anarchist-version -- the same chemical mixture in a gigantic, glass container, filled with almost pure alcohol, lit with a rag as a fuse, and fired by catapult.

	"The enemy vessels are approaching the shore!" an informant running through the ranks echoed, over and over again.  Each of the tiny vessels carried its own flag, Egyptian and Turk, Italian and Arabian.  They followed a single command, and their objective was to take the hill where there was one black flag flying with nobody in command.

	Heat, fire, tempest, storm, light, life -- the defensive battled raged on and on, until enough Coalition ships unloaded their human cargoes to outnumber the Anarchists by two to one.  At that point, the Anarchist forces began a quick and careful retreat, keeping always one or two sharpshooting archers behind every rock.  The element of surprise, each time, gave the Anarchists a greater advantage than numbers, and even though a single encounter might involve only a handful of soldiers, entire columns and divisions of the Coalition forces were halted, redirected, and reformed to try and handle the guerrilla tactics of their enemy.  It was still bittersweet.  The Anarchist soldiers knew quite well: every step they took backwards was one step away from the sea, it was one step closer to their homes and families.

	In the North, Roz and the First Anarchist Army carefully guarded the hills near several rivers, carefully awaiting the Greek troops.  And once the enemy had been caught making its way across streams in hastily-constructed rafts, sometimes making separate trips for themselves and their weapons, a squadron of the First Anarchist Army would rain a hailstorm of arrows upon the Greek soldiers -- they would be stuck, without a single form of natural cover, and with the only option of drowning as escape from Anarchist retaliation.

	Where enough Anarchist squadrons converged, they were able to keep the Greeks from crossing the rivers, and forced them to another spot, where another squadron would make a similar surprise attack.  And when there weren't enough Anarchist squadrons, they fell back to the next river, and repeated the action.  But with Roz's instructions and the dutiful volunteerism of the soldiers, the Anarchists only fell back three times, before a final engagement, where the enemy's troops were completely broken apart, and Roz swooped in to eliminate every last officer of the opposing army.  The Seventh Greek Army was destroyed that day; the First Anarchist Army was born.

	In the South, Pan and the Second Anarchist Army organized its squadrons around the Taurus Mountain Range and the Tahtali River, even building makeshift fortifications in the mountains.  When the Babylonian troops first encountered the surprise tactics that destroyed the Seventh Greek Army, and suffered miserable losses at the hands of Pan, the Babylonian commanding officers resolved to go through the mountains.  At the first engagement with the mountain fortresses built up by the Second Anarchist Army, the Babylonians were quickly beaten back and forced into the protection of the plains, still several hundred miles away from their target -- Anarchia.

	But the Babylonians had encountered bad weather before reaching Pan, and the Babylonian officers had believed that Coalition Forces were already linking up with the Seventh Greek Army, unaware of the strong resistance put up by the Third Anarchist Army and the the complete annihilation of the Seventh Greek Army.  "Push on!  Till you get every last one!" was the order, and there were merciless tolls, but once the Babylonians had gotten close to the one fortress, they were instantly within crossbow range of another -- and cut to pieces by the fresh, unused, impatient muscle of young Anarchist troops.  When a retreat was ordered, they were quickly cut down by the Anarchists waiting by the rivers.  The Ninth Babylonian Army was eliminated.  The Second Anarchist Army took the day.

	At Anarchia, the Third Anarchist Army had reached its final defensive position.  There was no retreating.  Emma, Ben, and the Philosopher stood under that one, gigantic, black flag, and while the Philosopher was given the advice to flee from the armed detachment of Anarchist soldiers, his response was too eloquent to get a statement, "Truth can always disappear.  Somehow, I also know how to do that at any time, too."

	Having taken better defensive positions at the perimeters of the city, the Third Anarchist Army held the advantage, for the time being.  The Coalition Forces were bruised and blunted, with numerous wounded and busy tending the wounded.  Before the final assault against the besieged town, the general of the Coalition Army pulled back from close proximity and regrouped, with the troops taking time to rebandage old wounds and clean the dirt that's been clinging ever since landing from the ships.  The Anarchist forces were still outnumbered.  But just to the North and South, there were the Anarchist Armies of Roz and Pan, each rushing towards the home city -- the home base.

	When the sun reached its peak, the assault began.  Coalition Forces outnumbered the Anarchist troops by three to one, but when they climbed the sturdy rock walls, they faced an entire population that was resisting them with everything from arrows and swords to boiling water and rocks.  With every civilian a combatant, the ranks of the First Anarchist Army doubled.  There was no doubling of armaments or skill, though, so the Coalition Forces still held the advantage.

	As the fighting raged on at the city gates, the Coalition Forces finally broke through -- they began making their rounds, building by building, city block by city block, executing anyone they could find, those who resisted and those who didn't.  Each time they made progress, they pulled the rear of the Army closer and closer, with the Army's cache of food and weapon supplies coming closer and closer to the city's gates.  It had become exceptionally close at the time when the general declared, "The first row of houses has been neutralized.  Move on to the next row."

	The first house was extremely stubborn, and when troops were constantly cut down every time they entered, the general ordered it burned to the ground.  The general picked out an arsonist and set him to it.  A torch and a will power were enough to get a few small flames out of the base of the building.  The soldier looked up and gave an approving smile to his commander, just as he saw three arrows rip through his chest and five dart across in random patterns around the body as it fell to the ground.  Just as the general looked up, a single arrow penetrated his chest, ripping through his heart, and killing him.  The First Anarchist Army had just beheaded the Coalition Forces, though its body still kicked and screamed.

	The next in command took control for the dead general, ordering Coalition troops to return and defend their rear, where their supplies and temporary hospital was located.  Many Coalition soldiers who were aiming to shoot an arrow through the window of one of Anarchia's buildings never even had a chance to turn around and see their own end.  They were caught completely surprised and without any defensive barrier at all.  In the city, they had their buildings, but just outside the city gates, Coalition forces were completely naked -- there wasn't even a pebble to cover them from enemy fire.  As soon as the Coalition Forces thinned out from around the buildings of Anarchia, Anarchist soldiers poured out in numbers overwhelming their enemy, pushing them finally out of the city.

	Roz incensed the Coalition Forces with every chance he had.  When going through the supplies, he ordered the food to be burned and the distillation pots to be shattered.  Before it was possible for there to be a truce.  But at that point, there wasn't enough food, or enough water supplies, for both armies to stay alive after the onslaught.  And with the echo of every shattering pot of clay, thirst could be felt in the throat of every Coalition soldier -- with the smell of burnt corn and bread, starvation could be found already festering in their guts.  With these tactics, Roz had put every type of desperation and terror deep into the hearts of his enemies.  It was one of the glowing moments, where one soldier may canvas an entire battlefield involving thousands of soldiers, and already confess, "All is lost.  The Anarchists have beaten us."

	Spilt blood provided its own incense to the fury and desperation every soldier was feeling, with these emotions mounting on both sides.  Roz's First Anarchist Army, by itself, was not enough to eliminate the Coalition troops.  There was an impasse, as Roz's troops were exhausted from rushing their long trek while Coalition Forces and the Third Anarchist Army were exhausted from fighting.  From within that last building of the second row of Anarchia, the one still smoldering with smoke from the arson attempt, Roz could see Emma and Benjamin waving at him, signaling for him to enter the city and regroup their forces together.  Roz looked them both in the eye and shook his head, and while he was too far away for them to hear, they could tell the one word he said: "Siege."

	Roz and his forces dug in behind every rock and corner where they could avoid enemy arrows, while the Third Anarchist Army from inside the city offered resistance towards all forward maneuvers by the Coalition troops.  The defensive attrition of the Anarchists finally became advantageous, as they were inflicting far more casualties than they were suffering.  Finally, the commander of the Coalition Forces called for an organized retreat, "Regroup!  Regroup!"  Roz caught every single soldier who straggled behind, taking every chance to reduce the numbers of his enemy.

	While Roz pursued the enemy, the Third Anarchist Army couldn't be easily moved or convinced to move from the holes they were hiding in deep in the city, where they had just nearly watched their homes burn down around them.  Roz slowed the speed of his pursuit, coming to a complete halt, when the last soldier of Coalition Forces had disappeared over the horizon and out of view of the city.  He let out a quiet breath, looked at his hands, covered in fragments of clay and burnt corn and blood and dirt, and said to himself, "... we could have had them."  Not for a single moment did Roz let his vision veer from that hilltop that the enemy had escaped over.

	The First Anarchist Army began to gather its dead and wounded, without much notice from their strategist and tactician.  Nothing could distract Roz from the retreat of the Coalition Forces.  Even the Third Anarchist Army started to pile out of the city to collaborate with the First Army.  All seemed perfectly calmed, until "Aaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!", a chorus of screams is heard by all Anarchians as a massive charge over the hill heads directly for the First Army.  "At your guard!" Roz screamed, his penetrating gaze unmitigated by the clamor and noise and distress.  His eyes focused, then widened, some of the others watching his gaze, as he noticed one of the Coalition forces carelessly drop his shield, but retain an iron grasp on his sword.

	"Holddddd!!!!!!" the scream comes out without a stutter or interruption from Roz, and all of the First Anarchist Army halts and crouches down.  A soldier from the Third Anarchist Army wielding a crossbow spoke up, "Hey, you don't have to follow his orders, you know -- nobody's in charge of you."  And then rushing straight headward to the charging onslaught, this one Third Army soldier disappeared into a mass of limbs and bodies, when the sounds of the explosions started.  From within the ranks of attacking Coalition Forces, fires were flaring up in every direction, melting some soldiers and exploding others into thousands of pieces.  Just as the last of the Coalition troops passed over the hill, the Anarchians could see a soldier wearing a black sash on his arm with the number two.  It was Pan and the artillery of the Second Anarchist Army.

	Anarchists were using their shields to protect themselves from arrows by the archers and body parts by the explosions.  The Coalition Forces found themselves hopelessly trapped between in an iron triangle of Militarists, Marxists, and Anarchists -- this is not how many of them had pictured their own deaths, which is a favorite pastime of all devoted soldiers, no matter how much the spirit of Militarism or Marxism runs through them.  With a bit more of loudness, and a little less enthusiasm, the commander of the Coalition Forces screamed, "Siege!!!"  Pan, Roz, Emma, and Benjamin all made eye contact with one another -- even though not a word could be heard, there was no disagreement when Roz and Pan nodded to each other, before charging their cornered enemy.  Every enemy soldier who fought was killed, and those who surrendered were given the option of joining Anarchia as a free citizens or joining it as prisoners.  Once every officer was dead, the entire Coalition Forces had surrendered -- it was a fourth of its original size.

	The Battle of the Anarchist City, between the Coalition Forces and all three Anarchist Armies, would become known as the greatest battle of Anarchia.  Roz's defeat of the Seventh Greek Army took several days and ambushes across multiple rivers to eliminate a much larger force.  Pan's defeat of the Ninth Babylonian Army took the same amount of time, and a series of maneuvers that cleverly utilized the difficulty of the enemy in passing through mountains and rivers.  But the Battle of the Anarchist City lasted for only one day -- and its dead reached for further than the eye could see.  From seeing the uniforms of the corpses, it was difficult to know which side had actually won.  There was yellow for Egypt, purple for Arabia, orange for Algeria, green for Italy, and everywhere, there was black for Anarchia.  Every Anarchist looking at the countless cadavers remembered the legend: At first, Anarchists wore white, to prove our innocence, but then they were all killed by oppressive governments supported by misled people, so now we wear black, to mourn for those who came before us. [*1]

*1.  Anakiseuteu, Park Wu-Chan.

	"We saw smoke coming out of Anarchia, so we tripled our speed," Pan said to Roz, as the two commanders finally met face-to-face after being separated for months.

	"We heard the clatter and screams of the first battle, and made it over the hill just in time to kill the would-be arsonist of Anarchia," Roz said.

	"Enough flame to stir up the Anarchist Army, but not enough flame to burn down the Anarchist City," Emma rejoined.

	"Screams loud enough to make your spirit rise, but not loud enough to drown out every other voice," Benjamin added.

	The battle had been won, and for many nights, there were celebrations.  In Anarchia, they celebrated their victory by declaring themselves the Internationalists -- a culture that would accept anyone who wanted to find a home for their liberty.  In carefully-worded, diplomatic dispatches between Athens and Babylon, Hammurabi and Solon decide to officially unite and forge an alliance to crush the Anarchists.  They took on the name the Globalizationists -- and then they declared to their peoples that there is no point on this planet where they had no right to spread their justice.  So, a new struggle began to take shape.  An infinite struggle, between Internationalism and Globalization.

	After the celebrations of the victory, the people of Anarchia needed to deal with the unique position of their city within world politics.

	"So, according to the rulings of the International Court of Justice at The Hague..." Ben started.

	"The what?" Emma asked, "Is that even a real thing?  It sounds like it was made up by a child, like the Space Marines of Planet Xylon."

	"Yes, it's a real thing, and sometimes countries pay attention to it, when it suits their interests," Ben replied, "So, for the most part, it gets ignored.  But according to their rulings, we are now a sovereign nation in every direction for almost a thousand miles."

	"Are you sure that's a real thing?" Emma asked again, "I was pretty certain that was just junk mail."

	"Yes, it's a real thing," Ben said, "So, what do you think we should do about it?"

	"Well, whatever you do, don't send them any money, because you definitely won't get it back," Emma replied.

	Benjamin led a group of Anarchists to Ankara, where he delivered a message to them on behalf of the Anarchians.  "According to the mandates of courts empowered by international powers, we are now the sovereign leaders of you," Benjamin said, "But we're Anarchists, so we don't know what the hell that means.  Do what you want."  This is the message that was plastered up over every Capitalist and Communist poster that could be found, no matter what tree, statue, building, historical monument, or tomb the original poster had been placed.  It was a very short period of time before the Anarchists learned that the message meant nothing, because of the presence of landlords and governors -- but then half of these were killed by native uprisings, without the support of their Communist or Capitalist "mother country."

	The other half of landlords and governors were either killed in fights or removed from their posts when the Anarchists provided arms to all of the disenfranchised and poor, often openly and in front of police officers and chieftains -- just to provoke a conflict that would end in anarchy.  Within a month, anarchy had spread to every corner of the Anarchia's thousand mile radius.  Like other vast stretches of landed with one social organization, it all started with one city, and then spread on and on; except the Communists and Capitalists spread themselves by force, while Anarchia grew by reason.  The first two empires of the world were carved out with a sword, but the first sphere of liberty in the world was molded by influence.

	In the thousands of villages accepting anarchy, some of the most revered thinkers had always held anti-Authoritarian attitudes on every subject.  When anarchy spread through all of their economic, social, political, and cultural systems, these wise thinkers found themselves quite surprised when young kids called them "just more Anarchist talkers."  After these groups of urchins had finished their cursing and laughing, you could hear a wisewoman or wiseman saying, "Kids these days.  They don't have any respect for those of us who always disrespected authority."

	As the light parted the skies on a world that had forever been shrouded in darkness, the Philosopher decided to leave.  "Where will you go?" Emma asked, "We are in communication with villages and cities for a thousand miles in all directions.  That's the framework of our defenses against the empire.  Pan's troops in the North have just wiped out a boatload of Greek troops that have been interrupting our communication lines for the past week."

	"She's right," Ben said, "Some Babylonian troops tried to seize some small village on the south of our boundaries, but Roz showed up with only one hundred troops, and the appearance of that number one across his black sash was almost enough to scare his enemy into retreat.  His tenacity accomplished their defeat and surrender, with amazingly few casualties."	

	For a moment, there was a bit of silence, as it looked like the Philosopher was studying even the curves and cracks in the ground, listening cautiously and carefully to anything they might have to tell him.  Then finally, he responded, "A group of people wanting liberty have obtained it.  I came to see what I needed to see.  It is time for me to move on.  I think the rest of it can be left up to you."

	Neither Benjamin nor Emma could find anything to say in response, but just before out escaping their sight, the Philosopher said to them, "I will miss the philosophical conversations."

	"We didn't have enough of them," Emma said, "We should've been scheduling discussions in philosophy in our daily plans, instead of allowing them to just happen whenever a free moment came up and the soul still had energy."

	"Somehow, a flower wouldn't be as beautiful, if it were completely planned, from birth to death, from blossoming to whittling," the Philosopher replied, "Don't you think so?"

		Chapter 15: Alone Among Dead Flowers and Black Smoke

	The Philosopher was alone, in between the hollow emptiness of the universe and the predator-filled darkness of the forest, almost in a natural place and a natural setting, between himself and the universe, when his thoughts began to flow.  "There is a new contradiction in the Anarchist City," the Philosopher thought to himself, "The Militarists and the Marxists are that contradiction.  There is no end to the admiration I have for both Roz and Pan, but I suspect that the Anarchist people may yet suffer from more contradictions.  Letting contradictions exist is the real basis of tolerance and compassion.  But hunting them down and destroying them is the real basis of thinking.  There are too many who execute people when they think they are executing an idea, and there are too few who kill irrational ideas when it means saving someone."

	A bird landed on a branch close to the Philosopher's head, bringing him to a halt and a cautious examination of his new friend.  The branch wagged back and forth, with the force of the landing, but as time acquainted both the tree and the Philosopher to this new creature, the force of the swinging weakened and weakened.  "And maybe it's just me, maybe just I don't get it," the Philosopher said in a quiet voice.  Chirp chirp!  And then after a quick exchange of eye contact, the bird disappeared.  "I wonder how the birds care for anarchy, or how they've cared for it among their stateless societies," the Philosopher spoke to himself, picking up his walking pace again.

	After reaching a good resting point, the Philosopher reached into his pocket, and produced a pipe and a small bag containing dried flowers.  "A little nicety while I walk has always gotten the mind out of any ditch that catches it," he quietly says to himself as he packs his pipe with the green substance.  "Smoking helps me enjoy the quietness of my own mind, letting me reach down into the deepest of thoughts with such ease and clarity.  I can't say what it has done for anyone else, but only what it has done for me.  A fog to the consciousness for those who don't think, but shining enlightenment for those of us who do."  His fingers carefully break apart the small pieces of flowers and rebuild them into easily-burned an structure in the pipe's bowl.  "Drink to forget the bad, smoke to remember the good.  And philosophy is full of the good."

	Alone as always, the Philosopher walked pasts the trees and the tall grasses, thinking to himself, "Communism and Capitalism are the same thing -- they are horrible, wretched beasts, who can be tamed and brought under control only by those with a fierce sense of liberty.  But like early childhood memories, it is impossible to erase them -- it is impossible to live to like they never happened.  It's now a war between one world of freedom and two very different worlds of slavery.  My interference shouldn't be necessary.  The people themselves should know what they want.  And if they don't, then they will suffer so much from their mistakes that they will want something different.  At least, I hope so."

			Part IV: The Stalemate

"In France we have to have traitors.  It is impossible to admit that we should be beaten without someone's treachery."

--Unknown, ~1871, Paris,
Quoted from "the Fall of Paris," by Alistair Horne, Chapter 7

		Chapter 16: Victory Has Its Ransom

	The Philosopher walked a thousand miles before households with the black flag and circled A became a rare sight.  The vast stretch of area under the influence of anarchy was bordered by only two sides: one carrying the red banner, the other carrying the blue banner.  There were three divisions that cut up the world, with the only colors that mattered being red, blue, and black.  These were the colors that humanity bled during the battles that raged on and on between the Anarchist Armies working in cooperation with local groups against the Armies of both the Communists and the Capitalists.  Hammurabi had to pull the Eighth and Third Babylonian Armies out of Southern Egypt, giving the Ethiopians a momentary break in the pillaging and slavery.  Solon had to retreat the Fourth Greek Army fighting the Sardinian Independence Forces and withdraw the Second Greek Army occupying an unruly and riotous Italy.  Everywhere, the armies of emperors were mobilizing against the armies of Anarchists.

	Villages were more divided than ever.  The amount of evidence required to convict someone of being a Communist or a Capitalist was being reduced day by day, with this being mostly a method used in feuds between families rather than actual political activists.  In some places, it became a social sin to even mention the word property, because one could be easily accused of either wanting to love it or hate it as an institution, and if anyone had even heard the suspect talking about "property," this alone has been enough to obtain executions by courts.  Conversations focused more and more on whatever was popular, or beautiful, or weird, or ugly, or peculiar, or outstanding, or horrifying, but when it came to questions of right and wrong, people spoke less and less.  It was only in Anarchia, the two-thousand mile stretch of anarchy touching the Mediterranean, that these conversations kept up.  But instead of ending in murderous hatred between factions, the talks concluded with simply live and let live.  For the Anarchists, it was infinitely more acceptable in social circles to be absolutely different from everyone else compared to making someone feel bad about who they are.

	Not every village under the rule of Solon and Hammurabi appreciated the gifts of their parents -- but every village in Anarchia was happy to live how they always have lived, while still having the advantages of security from a wide net of similarly-minded villages.  Everywhere underneath the black flag, every part of social life became voluntary.  The police and prisons were abolished alongside with servitude and poverty.  The only official opinion of the Anarchists was there is no official opinion.  Education and family, church and party, the spirit of free, voluntary choice to participate or not participate reigned.  Differences between Capitalist people and Communist people subsided into almost nothingness, as the villages were united not against Capitalism or Communism -- they were united against the Greek Empire and the Babylonian Empire, they were united in defense of all liberty and in offense against all authority.

	War was what everyone thought about.  The names of Emma and Benjamin were cursed in their native homelands, as the names of Hammurabi and Solon were made into jokes in Anarchia.  Pan was declared a traitor by the Communist Party of Greece, and Roz was declared coward by the Babylonian Officer Corps.  But there was one person who escaped the gossip and the speeches and the declarations and the manifestos: the Philosopher.  The mad rush for Truth by power-hungry emperors had turned into a mad rush to crush an independent uprising by those whose only motive was 'freedom.'  There was no more talk with merchants about bargaining over the value of what the Philosopher guarded, there was only talk with generals about destroying where the Philosopher had been.  As the madness built up between loud speakers and bold actors, the Philosopher slipped away to the side, quiet and unheard, careful and cautious, with a quiet smile, thinking alone to himself, "...now would be the perfect time to do something really clever -- my only hope is that I reach that opportunity before someone who doesn't believe in Truth."

		Chapter 17: A New Situation, or a New World?

	Roz and Pan were planning expeditions to Greece and Babylon, but they were each diverted in their attempts.  Every time they were about to depart in their voyage against the hearts of these empires, a village would be attacked within Anarchia, drawing them back towards the threatened area.  The Anarchist soldiers were always at the borders, partly preparing to launch an attack and partly preparing to defend against one, but for all of the struggle, all of the blood and hate and anger and humanity, they remained stationary.  They were constantly this thin line of soldiers responding and reacting to invasions by Statist Armies, but never could they amount to a power that could overwhelm either the Babylonian Empire or the Greek Empire.  The vast stretches of land gave the Anarchists a greater area of productivity, but also a significantly wider stretch of perimeter to defend.

	There was no more neutral territory where vast numbers of guerrilla troops could move into and out of without causing notice or alarm to the local, political elite.  Outside of Anarchia, there were no more villages where the Communists or Capitalists were an extreme minority compared to everyone who existed somewhere in between.  Inside of the Anarchist territory, there were no more villages where the Statists were in the majority and the Anarchists were in the minority.  Every speaker gave lectures to crowds that had already made up their own minds, every publisher produced books for readers who already knew what they wanted to read.  Even in the skies and among the clouds, the cackling hoard of birds diving and swooping doesn't resemble the grace of a sole creature wafting the winds, but they were more like an overcrowded assemblage of ugliness and discoordination and beastliness.  There were even a few citizens, some of them pretending to be philosophers, who would exaggerate that the air is so thick and full of polarized atoms, that you can't breathe in without needing to cough up something that has no reasonable purpose in your lungs.

	The more conflicts that erupted between Anarchist versus Statist forces, the Anarchist armies against the Communist and Capitalist armies, the more the borders became solidified -- the borders of the land and the borders of the mind.  The empires of Hammurabi and Solon were straddled with the various revolts of their overseas colonies and the infrequent mutinies from their slavemasters, but the Anarchist Generals, as Roz and Pan became known as, were constantly busy thwarting attacks against small towns and villages by Statist Forces.  Whenever the battle took place near Anarchist households, the Anarchist Armies almost always took the day, in terms of both victory and casualty count.  But whenever the Anarchist troops pierced through the walls erected by Statist forces, using every advantage of surprise and enthusiasm they could, they were still quickly repelled by a collaboration of officers, calvary, artillery, and even old veterans from the Veterans of Foreign Warmongering who volunteered as militia.  For an Anarchist breaking through the thin bubble put up around all the property of kings and landlords, it was quite a sight to see an old man running out of his house, carrying a sheathed sword under one arm, a shield under the other, with the top half of his militia uniform over his shoulder, struggling to get his trousers properly adjusted.  "The patriotic bigots who threw eggs at me when I went Vegan," you could hear one Anarchist soldier murmur, "We should've done this on day one."

	While Roz and Pan chased away the enemy any time it lurked near Anarchist land, Emma and Benjamin were back at Anarchia, organizing communication, education, work, healthcare, and trade among so many, separate and distinct villages.  There was one brilliant, Anarchist educator who had learned to speak six different languages fluently, in order to teach six different villages each within a short distance of each other, who they had nicknamed Ferrus, after the metal in iron ore -- a red metal was quite fitting in the case of this working-class teacher.  There was one daring, Anarchist sailor who had smuggled trade goods out of the city and essential supplies into the city more than one hundred times without detection by either Communist, Capitalist, or Coalition-Nation Forces, who they had nicknamed Aquas, after the reflections of the seas -- a color quite fitting in the case of this solitary captain.  Anarchia had its heroes, Communist and Capitalist, with every economic outlook in between represented by some bold, thoughtful, willing, compassionate, and spirited individual.  But no amount of sentimentalism could change borders that separated hundreds of millions of people from each other.  The divide was about to get thicker.

		Chapter 18: Give Me Someone Cruel!

	In a palace in Babylon, the halls were echoing with, "Alas, this world -- it distresses me!  I can feel its stinging pain in every last pore of my skin, like a parasite that works out every piece of energy and leaves me with only a little bit of sweat and blood," Hammurabi closed his eyes, wrinkled his eyebrow, and leaned forward, hesitating for a few moments, before finally shouting out again, "Guards!  Get me our best assassin!"

	"Of course, sire," a uniformed and armed soldier responded, "Should we use the assassin who killed your son when he tried to claim an extra fiefdom to his inheritance?"

	"No, that's the family assassin," Hammurabi replied, "I want someone special for this.  Assemble the lead general's assistants and entourage.  I'm going to need to have a meeting with him."

	"Roz was one of the best officers we had, he was a genius tactician and when it came to military strategy, he has no weaknesses," the General said, "But, personally, he did have a weakness -- he doesn't understand the difference between red, blue, and black.  I fear for the world he might try to bring his children up in."

	"This isn't an issue to moralize over, it's an issue to tactically examine," Hammurabi replied, "We don't want to convince Roz that he is wrong.  We want him dead.  Can you even imagine a soldier going off into the woods to join up with Anarchists and play a game of War of the Empires?"

	"Normally, your majesty, whenever a few anarchists rebel, they're quickly beaten up by the police and then brutalized by judicial authority in some fashion or another.  But, these anarchists are different.  They have mountain fortresses, jungle-trained soldiers, and a people who are deeply enthusiastic about their cause."

	"Is that really all that's different?  They simply have a place when they can evade your attack while attacking you?  They have club-wielding and dagger-carrying soldiers that know how to wade through marshes and how to dig with their fingertips to the tops of mountains?  They have a population that chooses to pay its taxes in blood instead of gold?  That's it?  That's the whole thing keeping the police and the army and the navy back?"

	"Yes, basically," the General replied.

	"Babylon won't be beaten back by a few hundred anarchists hanging out in the depths of forested mountains.  Burn their homes, kill their children, rape their wives."

	"But, sir!" the General interjected, "We've already tried the tactics from the Battle of the Nile, where we worked their captives to death and then flung the bodies over their city walls with catapults.  We ground salt into their fields so that their grandchildren would suffer for want of bread -- and we did it in the middle of the battle.  Do you know how few Anarchists surrender?  They either melt away into the mud of the mountains, or they bloodily end their existence in rage and fury.  It's not going to be enough to repeat tactics of murder, war, and killing.  Even our best assassins either deconvert from the state faith or they are intercepted by common citizens trying to preserve anarchy.  We've tried every possible use of force that could be expected to have a positive outcome in this conflict.  We need to find a different route for our troops to march into Anarchia."

	"It's good to finally see someone as ambitious as I am around here," Hammurabi replied, "What we do here today is going to directly effect the course of events in human history for the next ten thousand years -- I guarantee it!  So whatever plan we come up with, it had better save civilization.  This is not a risk we can chance to fail."

	"We sent in assassins with every type of weapon," the General said, "All they've ever given us back were their dead bodies or their letters of resignation.  If you can't find the machinery, then you need to dismantle it.  You need an assassin like a prophet needs a second god.  What you really need is someone who is loyal to, can gain the trust of the Anarchists, and can bring down their whole social order.  Anyone's allowed to do whatever they want in Anarchia, right?  Why hasn't there been a single attempt to destroy the city by its most obvious means?  Bring down their ordered system by bringing into question their ideals.  An assassin might cut a throat, but you couldn't expect one to even nick the thumb callous of an ideal."

	"Soldiers are just assassins who take orders more routinely," the King said, "What do you suggest in their place?  And whatever it is, it better be enough to hold up an empire."

	"Your soldiers already hold up that empire," the General said, "But your need is to take away someone else's.  Birthing an egg and hatching it aren't exactly the same thing.  You need something different to tactically handle the new situation."

	"What do you think is better than an assassin?" the king asked.

	"Get the best espionage agent you can," the General replied, "That's really what's needed here.  That's how we're going to solve our new problem.  You can't burst into the bubble from the outside, but we can fill it up with so much air from the inside that it bursts under its own natural pressure.  Because anarchy is unnatural to humanity.  It's as unnatural as birds trying to swim through seas and fish leaping through the air.  Humanity was not meant for anarchy.  It was meant for government and rule.  There are subjects, and there are rulers.  A land where there is neither subject nor ruler is a land that would frighten anyone who believed in government or military."

	"You're trying to say," Hammurabi turned to the General, "That we've done as much as we can in applying our force and influence externally, and now the time has come, for us to apply it internally?  Don't crush and stamp out the revolt like a fire that's spread beyond the hearth, pour water into it -- don't chisel at the granite, but superheat it and dunk it into water?  Don't execute the traitor, but lock them up in a cell with the worst tortures imaginable and the means to end their own existence?  Stop seeking truth, if it refuses you, and let it come to you, when it needs you?"

	"In other words," the General said, "If every attack from the west has failed, then try an attack from the east, or maybe the north, or maybe the south, -- or maybe use more artillery, or maybe balance out your calvary more, or maybe wait for additional supplies and reinforcements, or maybe wait for your enemy to starve a little longer, or maybe cut off their supply lines, or maybe anything, except attacking from the west again.  We need to act like professional men who know what we want and know how to get it, not like madmen and lunatics who escaped from an insane asylum, committing every type of indecency and sin you can imagine, just because it has been withheld from them for so long.  Where the lunatic, Anarchists individuals failed to get anything they wanted, they have now teamed up together, and now they are committing every crime imaginable, against state, religion, family, and society.  But in a way, this is our own fault.  We should've held a tighter grip on their leashes.  Now we truly are learning from our own mistakes."

	"I didn't even know they had leashes," Hammurabi replied, "Choke-chain seems like a more appropriate term for it, based on how the police interacted with them -- if the word interact is appropriate there, which it probably isn't.  The reason that they're rebelling now isn't because we didn't give them enough discipline.  If there's something different between today and yesterday, it's that the anarchists were a few scattered handfuls, here and there, with appeal to nobody, and certainly nothing even resembling disagreement among themselves, but now, they occupy an entire subcontinent, and if you push inwards in any direction against them using sword and catapult and spear, they will push you out with more force that exceeds the limits of human toleration.  And if I can't beat it to death, no matter how many soldiers I throw away onto it, then maybe we do really need to make it explode asunder from within, like a rotten watermelon bursting under the pressure of fermentation within."

	"What's the quickest way to make a watermelon rot?"

	"That's a good question and I don't think a brewer's going to help with it," Hammurabi replied, "Normally, a healthy upbringing would mean that the watermelon wouldn't rot at such a rapid pace.  But there's no need doubting that it's already beginning to smell and fill up the air with its noxious fumes.  If you want to burst that watermelon from its own pressure, let it sit out in the sun and swell up, then take a single pick to it with a sharp edge, and land its tip in just one single, tiny, insignificant, microscopic area -- you will blow the entire thing apart from one single blow."

	"And for something like that, you need someone more special than just police or detectives, assassins or spies, intelligence agencies or 'emergency teams responsible only to the executive branch'.  No, at that point, you need an espionage agent.  Not someone trained to kill a human being, but someone trained to kill an idea.  You're not trying to dismantle a human being, you're trying to dismantle an entire social organization.  That is precisely what we need," the General replied.

	"Good thing we have order and hierarchy," Hammurabi responded, "Without that, I'd fear that our own empire might be just as fragile and weak and full of critical points, that just a handful of people, or maybe even just one single person, would be enough to poke in just the right area, where not one single soldier would die, but every single law governing our thousands of miles of territory would dissipate into the air, like those laws had never even existed to begin with."

	A small amount of color reached the General's face, but as soon as he realized that Hammurabi noticed, he quickly looked out the window, and pretended to be distracted by something he saw.  "Marketplace looks tremendously busy today," he said, "I can see goods of every type being carted all about.  Must mean a good reaping for the tax harvest."

	"Yes, it always does," the king's tone became less demanding and ordering, more relaxed and light spoken, "If you had a child run away from you, tell you that everything you've done is wrong, and then they build up this new life, living how they want, without having anything to do with you, finding a spouse and having kids and raising a family, treating everything you say like fire spit forth from the serpent's tongue -- what would you think?  What would you want in that situation?"

	"Besides wanting to strangle my own child to death while reciting every verse from our holybooks on discipline and authority?  Nothing -- I wouldn't think another thing about it and there'd be nothing left for me to want," the General replied.

	"Not a single sense of remorse in your voice, not a single feeling of regret in your stronghold?" Hammurabi asked.

	"I would crush it quicker than I crush my child," the General replied.

	"You're a good general," the king said, "Nobody's calling into question your skills, abilities, or ambitious nature.  We all know you're completely and totally devoted to victory.  That's just the way you militarists are.  Fighting is prayer, and winning is a blessing.  I believe you and every word you say.  But for now, just respond to the question not like a General, but like a father."

	"I run my household like a barracks," the General replied, "The Father is the General in every home, as far as my opinion goes."

	"Of course it does," Hammurabi smiled, "And why shouldn't it?  You're right.  I must be asking the wrong person the wrong questions in the wrong order.  If you knew a priest, who was married to a rich landowner, who in turn had strong connections with the military, how do you think they should raise their son, so that no one would ever be disappointed in whatever they do?  And, how do you think they should punish their son, if they were ever disappointed in him?"

	"Raise them strictly, and punish them strictly," the General replied, "In one swing, unrelenting strike, but whatever you do and however you do it, do it strictly.  That is the only advice I can offer you, coming from both the father and the general of a happy barracks and a happy home.  You won't find one piece of disobedience in any of my holdings, not in one single realm of my dominion.  That is because we, in the home of Capitalism, offer better and more strongly what no other part of the world can offer: strictness and discipline to work, family, and moral values.  But strictness is really the key word."

	"Yes, I've heard that from Militarists before," Hammurabi replied, "How strictness is the key word.  I thank you for this input on this matter.  You've been an invaluable help in settling this matter.  Get me the best espionage agent we have.  Get someone clever, someone cunning, someone brilliant, sharp, and quick."

	"I will get us the best," the General said.

	"Now, remember, I want Roz dead," Hammurabi said, "He must die in the way that we have promised his death, with all of the misery and suffering that it entails.  Make sure that Pan dies, too.  They world needs to know what happens to traitors that turn their backs on their fathers.  And as for Emma and Benjamin, bring them back to me, and I don't care whether they're still breathing or not, whether they're in one piece or in thousands -- bring me the Anarchist Philosophers, the world demands that they disappear from all political affairs and so do I.  It will be I, the Capitalist King, who teaches all posterity the value of hierarchical organization."

	The General wrote jotted down a series of quick notes, handed them to his assistant, and gave the order, "Take this to the division commander of the Second Babylonian Army."

	"Yes, sir!" the assistant saluted and disappeared.

	The king walked to the window, watching a peasant woman dragging a wooden cart latched to her back, and then yawned as he stretched to the chandelier dangling from the ceiling -- and he then stopped in the middle of his stretch.  The king turned to the General, "Is your salute...  to the brow, or above the brow?"

	"It's above the brow," the General responded, "It has been for over thirty years.  I remember being in cadette school when it used to be to the eyebrow, and how everything was changed after the Civil War of 1848 BCE, then salutes above the eyebrow became mandatory."

	"Are you absolutely positive?  Are you sure?" the king asked, looking desperate.

	The General's face was flushed, as he began to realize, "... my assistant."

	Somewhere, nearly a mile away, an old man was exiting the Royal Babylonian Palace, departing with such depth of gratitude and welcome from his hosts, leaving behind those tall, tall doors of gold that kept the king separate from the common rabble.  And in his hands, there was a small piece of paper with just a few words on them.  Rubbing his beard as he hastily paced, he took in word by word, curiosity greater than fear.  At a safe distance from the majesty and his General, the old man uncovered his hood.  "Hhmmmmmm, I see," the Philosopher said to the note, folding it up, and putting it into his pocket.  Just like he disappeared through the trained crew guarding the citadel of the king, the Philosopher just as easily disappeared through the armed soldiers guarding the city's walls.

	Back at the palace, there was cursing and screaming and shouting, "Get me the Philosopher!  He was hanging out with the Anarchists when we tried to arrest them, we just saw him in here pretending to be trustworthy counsel, and he's probably somewhere far away at this exact moment, so we have every reason to suspect that he's up to something!  Bring him to me!  And make sure he's unhurt.  You leave that part of it to me."

	"You made an enemy... of the Philosopher?" the General inquired.

	"I didn't make him an enemy, he made me the enemy, and more than that, there was no enemy-making to begin with, so the question is moot," Hammurabi replied, "I made an enemy with a man, one single, human being.  That's all.  And I shall have him.  You know that."

	"You don't think..." the General's face showed just the ingrown lines of concern and distrust wrinkling into themselves, "....  you don't, do you?"

	"What?  Think what?" Hammurabi asked, "You mean about the truth?  Like I made a war on truth?"

	A wry, half smile crept out of the perimeter of the General's mouth.

	"I made a war against Anarchism and the Anarchists," Hammurabi said, "The guardian of truth is just a suspect as a consequence of our police's rudimentary, investigative procedures.  That's all.  Just a suspect.  And if a suspect resists lawful arresters, then for perhaps a few, single, violent, and bloody moments, we will declare war on him.  Leave those details to the police.  I just want him here, in my presence, and still breathing."

	"Emma, Benjamin, Roz, and Pan, are all to be collected by the vested authorities, and delivered over to your majesty.  Said authorities will make all attempts to make sure said individuals are delivered alive, but they are to be given orders to kill if necessary," the General hesitated a moment and breathed in, "And if the Philosopher is found, and refuses to be delivered, we should be arrested, forcibly restrained, and brought back here -- and the harm visited upon him in the arrest procedure shall not exceed the limits of the human body.  Are these the correct orders?"

	"Yes," Hammurabi replied, "Kill the rebels, every last one of them, rip up their arteries and splatter the mountains with their warm blood, but the talker, the one who has deflected every attack with a word and every assault with a phrase -- make sure he is still breathing when you bring him here in bondage, I don't care whether it's shackles or handcuffs or an iron cage, just make sure he can still talk.  Those are your orders.  Make them happen."

	"Yes, sir!" the General saluted the king, above the brow, and cordially exited the room.  The closing of the door to the king's office resounded with a thud, and the king quietly waited until he was certain he had heard footsteps going down a flight of stairs.  And then, he became more comfortable with his environment.

	"I wonder," he said, walking over to the window again, staring at the clouds.  He didn't notice how the peasant woman from before had broken one of the wheels of her cart, and how she was now reloading it again after a hasty repair, nor the police officer who was writing her a ticket for an unsafe vehicle.  He only noticed how that one cloud wound around itself again and again, spiraling through itself, covering a great distance of the earth in a single day and yet not seeming to move at all.

	"Why did the Philosopher come here today?" he thought to himself, "He's been here in the citadel before, he's been in Solon's palace, he's been in the first building of the Anarchists that governments tried to burn down, which is the closest thing those people will ever have to a capital building -- who's side are you on, Philosopher?  I know, it's not Truth, that foolish myth you use to control everyone into fearing your arguments or submitting to your implications.  It must be your own little ambitious nature to make a deep imprint on the world, without really knowing the great consequences that small minds can have.  That's what must be driving you.  I know.  It has to be.  I might've suspected you were curious before; but now I suspect you of being disingenuous"

	There was a knock on the door.  Hammurabi turned and squinted at the door, cautiously reciting style and volume of the tapping in his mind, "Who is it?"

	"It's your majesty's General," a volume echoed into the room.

	"Come in!" the king ordered, and at the appearance of his commander's face, he asked, "Did you get someone cruel yet?"

	"Here in Babylon, we have more than just a few strong leads in that case," the General replied, "Unlike our search for the Philosopher.  We believe he must've escaped the city."

	"That man has the patience to wait until the angels fall asleep to escape the universe," Hammurabi grumbled to himself, "Don't give up the search.  He must be found somewhere.  Check every village, every hut, every field -- even check the rivers, in case the old man preferred to kill himself rather than suffer the wrath of a man of greatness.  Bring me the Philosopher!"

		Chapter 19: Get Me a Cop!

	In another palace in Athens, one could hear, "Everything I built up -- it is gone, the winds of change beaten back by the storm of chaos.  How could my own children defy me so much?" Solon leaned back, stretched, closed his eyes, and then returned focus to his court, "Advisors!  Get me our best assassin!"

	"Of course, my king," a uniformed and badged party-member responded, "I'll make sure this assassin is hired from the highest-paying tier in our 37-tiered wage system.  There is no possibility that you'll find a better or more devout Communist assassin to destroy our enemies in Anarchia."

	"You actually, I don't think a high-tiered, party-member would be right for this job," Solon said, "Get me a magistrate!"

	"A what?" the advisor asked.

	He sighed, "You know...  a cop."

	"Oh, right, of course," the advisor replied.

	"Cops typically are somewhere between tier-11 and tier-18, depending on experience and loyalty.  We'll bump them up to a tier-37 if they can accomplish this job," Hammurabi replied, "Incentive.  How evil it is to a human being's private life.  And that's exactly what we need to spread across so thoroughly and deeply into the soils of that Anarchist land.  We shall make them repent, in a way that no other sinner has ever repented before.  They are have not just sinned against Communism -- they have sinned against all orderliness within society."

	"You intend for a police officer to accomplish this?" one advisor inquired, "If so, we shall have to make it the most fit, capable, disciplined, and strongest of all of our officers.  Almost like Hercules, he will break through those walls by punching out the bricks and kill their citizens by merely poking them."

	"Hercules wasn't like that," Solon replied, "And his real name is Theseus.  Capitalists and only Capitalists call him Hercules."

	"I wonder what name they have for him in Anarchia," one advisor quibbled to himself.

	"They probably don't have a name for him at all," Solon said, "Anarchists don't believe in the greatness of a single person, they only believe in the greatness of peoples.  The legend of Theseus wouldn't make sense to them in any way."

	"Or maybe the Anarcho-Capitalists still call him Hercules, and maybe the Anarcho-Communists still call him Theseus," one advisor replied, "But your idea about how the social organization of Anarchia excludes the spread of legends based on great kings and queens and rulers seemed like it was much better.  It must certainly have required much more thought."

	Solon turned his head to the advisor who had just spoken, half-squinted his eyes, and from his lips, everyone was quiet as they listened to each word, "What did you just say?  Just now?"

	"About the Anarchist legends?"

	"No, no, before that, what did you say?" small pockets of eagerness poured through Solon's face.

	"How the Anarcho-Capitalists say 'Hercules' and how the Anarcho-Communists say 'Theseus'?"

	"Yes, precisely!" Solon said, "You may have won this war for us.  Assemble the Communist Party Chairman and his Assistant Party Officers.  I need to meet with him in private."

	The footsteps of a messenger jogging through the halls could be heard echoing off of the king's chamber walls.  He stood there, in a room showered in sunlight, the smell of a few burnt candles, and just that one painting on the wall, standing before him: the Martyrdom of Olmo, a famous oil-on-canvas artwork known around the world.  It depicts the execution of one of the first Communists in the world by an angry, insensate, and compulsive mob.  Solon twiddled his thumbs behind his back, while watching Olmo's being broken off by a middle-aged, screaming woman.  The artist never told the world what she was saying, but after looking at the expression on her face for decades, Solon thought he had finally figured it out: "This is so you won't write a single word when you're in Hell!"

	"Solon?  I understand you require my presence and advice?" the Communist Party Chairman walked into the room, disrupting the mild hypnosis that the painting had put Solon under.  "What can the leader of the only right and correct Communist Party in the world do for you?"

	"You can tell me what I need to do to bring common decency and basic society back to human civilization," Solon boldly proclaimed, and then turned back to the expression on the victim's face in the painting, "It's no longer just about Communists or Capitalists, propertyless or propertied, worker or owner -- it is now a struggle between the State and Anarchy, order and chaos, destroyers and creators.  If there's anything you can do for me, please, by all means, be the physician to my social illness.  You know the symptoms, give me the diagnosis and recommend a medicine, but leave the ultimate decision-making up to me."

	"The recently-instated programs on Marxism from the educational department have brewed up a really passionate and hard-fighting crop of Communist soldiers this year," the Chairman said, "I have no doubt, within five years or less, we shall have everything necessary within our power to crush this Anarchist revolt -- for to us Communist soldiers, it is just another revolt based on measly insignificance and putrid worthlessness.  Not one against conservativism or liberalism, but one against all things social in civilization.  But within five years, I guarantee, we shall have the hard-fighting soldiers and the tax-paying citizens to finish this war on our terms."

	"Do you really think we have time for a five year plan?" Solon asked, "Do you think we can survive five years without courts and parliaments and kingdoms in a huge, tremendously important region of the world?  Especially when it borders our own empire?"

	"Politics is a game of time, it always has been," the Chairman said, "Time and influence  Battles may be won in a day, but not wars."

	"But why not this one, when it's so important to all of humanity and civilization?" Solon begged, "Why can't this one war be successful in a single day?  Why can't the forces of straightness and rigidness destroy the forces of incongruity and flexibility?  Why can't the arrow dash through the flesh of the deer?  What's to stop us?  Isn't their army just a bunch of beggars dressed in black?  Aren't they pure lumpenproletariat?"

	"Of that, you can be positive," the Chairman said, "But of victory in a day, you cannot.  If they're desperate enough to beg and sell drugs and mug people and prostitute themselves out, then they're desperate enough to die in battle in a single moment.  Their armies breath desperation, because they are not just fighting us -- they are defending some small village or town from being razed and pillaged.  They waste no time and do everything they can to eviscerate our forces in moments.  Do not doubt their enthusiasm to bring a dagger to our throats.  Because that is precisely the position that we're in.  If it wasn't, then you wouldn't need my advice on the matter.  Am I right?"

	"You are right today, as in you have been in many ways of the past," Solon said, "But if the ways of the Marxist past were good, would they really produce someone such as Pannekoek?  The one that the Anarchists call Pan?"

	"Pannekoek was an enigma, to himself as much to the party," the Chairman said, "That's probably what contributed to his legend so much, where they say he was once a well-revered and well-respected Communist Party member.  We're not trying to rewrite history so that a traitor always looks like a traitor, but we did have to rewrite his entry in the newest, fortieth edition of Who's Who In Communism?  But we're only doing what is necessary in our domestic affairs to guarantee what we want in our international affairs.  Will the Communist Party of Greece produce another Pannekoek?  Probably not.  I have learned the lesson of letting horses go wild and untamed; you have to break them in early otherwise they will be impossible to ride.  I am teaching the lesson to all party officers, they will teach it to all they come in contact with, and they will give each of their orders more of the same sternness that I give them."

	"But if it's all that simple, then why haven't you taken these steps before?" Solon asked, "I like your clever ideas on how to solve this, but I need to know how they're going to work before I can believe in them.  Why couldn't we have made a stricter Party to begin with?"

	"Millions of reasons," the Chairman said, "But they're all gone now.  The Socialists, the Cooperativists, the Unionists, the rebels who screamed 'property is death' while dangling from street lamps and the insurgents who threw Molotov cocktails at any bankers who tried to visit our city -- they've all left.  Athens isn't dominated by a coalition force of Leftist elements.  Virtually all of the positions of power are now held by strictly Marxist or Marxist-sympathetic individuals.  The entire Communist Party has been reworked and reformatted to account for this change-up in personnel.  The only way that someone like Pannekoek survived so long and received so much respect was because he knew exactly how to bounce off of any of the Communist groups he wanted to when he had to -- he could inspire a Socialist, a Social Democrat, a Workerist, a Fabian, a Titoist, and Wobbly.  At any point he irritated one of them, the others poured out their adoration onto their hero, like washing dirt off of a toy that fell in the mud.  But with Marxists in power, we're too grown-up to be playing those games.  You won't find another Pannekoek in our midsts, so long as we Marxists continue to dominate.  Of that, you have my fullest confidence."

	"Good, good," Solon replied, "That is a logical approach to the issue.  But, it causes other issues, as well."

	"Well, like what?" the Chairman asked.

	"A number of nations have backed out of the Coalition Forces," Solon said, "Some complained that they were merely reacting to dissent among their own people and even their armed forces.  But for some of the others, it seems like they might think that we're too Marxist.  It's okay to have a couple of Reds down at the local library, spending 12 hours a day reading and the other 12 hours sleeping, without leaving the premises during the whole day, naturally.  But when every building of importance in your city hoists that Red flag with Hammer and Sickle, some of the diplomats from the Coalition Countries expressed concern.  They felt like we were making this into a battle of Communism versus Capitalism, instead of a battle of Government versus Anarchism, which is what it's supposed to be."

	"Well, who do you hate more?  The Anarchists or the Capitalists?" the Chairman asked.

	"I only love the dream of Communism, and I love it so much that I would push anyone out of my way to get there, no matter who stands there," Solon said.

	"So, if there were two paths to that dream, one blocked by an Anarchist, and another blocked by a Capitalist, which would you take?  Who would you fight first?"

	"The Anarchist," Solon replied, "There's so little pretense and so much heart in that little beastly creature, that I could either push it aside or convince it to let me walk by.  But it's not just the ease and tactics and strategy of the matter."

	"It's not?" the Chairman asked, "From my point of view, that has very much so been the whole of the matter."

	"There's more to it than that," Solon said, "The Capitalist has to exist for us.  Without the Capitalist, there can be no Communist.  Our entire frame of thinking is based on how we're going to get away from that old way of society and get into a new way of society, how to escape the exploitation of the ancient era so we can land ashore on the beaches of a glorious and plentiful utopia.  You may as well call us the Anti-Capitalist Movement instead of the Communist Movement.  If every Capitalist were to disappear tomorrow, it would shatter the basis for the dreams of every Communist -- we would be water salesmen, without a drought for another thousand years.  We only retain our power by the fact that there is a Capitalism that needs to be destroyed."

	"Babylon is certainly a wicked and evil place," the Chairman said, "Child labor, shootings of workers on strike, imprisonment of independent journalists, you name it, you can find it there."

	"Right.  The only thing we have here are truant officers to snatch up children, execution by firing squad of citizens who refuse their labor quota, and rudimentary proceedings for Disrespecting an Officer to imprison anyone who writes a word against the state," Solon agreed, "Our two Communist and Capitalist worlds are as far apart as planets.  But at least there is a gravitational pull.  At one point, we were the same society, the same world, the same shooting star, but then we split apart, us from them, and them from us.  There is a way from the Capitalist side to the Communist side; just follow the stardust, and then enough of their citizens will be ours.  But the Anarchist is a black hole, sucking up those potential recruits in the class war.  The don't come out of Capitalism, because their gripe is with all authority, not propertied authority.  They have a hatred against something much bigger than either us or Capitalism; they've declared a war against civilization itself.  Communism cannot come out of Anarchy.  It has come out of Capitalism -- but never Anarchy."

	"We only have our laws regulating factory conditions because there were Capitalists who abused workers in their factories -- without the first abuser, the Capitalist, we wouldn't have that moral power that we currently hold, that we are protecting the world from this horrible evil," the Chairman said, "I totally and completely agree.  Hang the Anarchist; don't let a soul take the higher path with fewer specks of stardust and fewer of life's pleasantries."

	"Between us and ruling the world," Solon said, "There is only Anarchia.  Capitalism will fall.  It has to fall.  And when there's someone needed to pick up the pieces, and put civilization back together, we'll be the one's in the best position to do so.  Then when we look back, at how the Communists and Capitalists fought, and how there was this band of people called the Anarchists, we'll think of it all like it was some horrible nightmare, something parents tell their children to scare them to sleep -- 'Careful, youngin'!  Out of the darkness, any Anarchist could pop out, whether wielding a flag with the circled A, or a Molotov cocktail!'  The biggest opposition to our power now isn't the Capitalists, the Militarists, the Landowners, the Churches -- no, no, it's just the Anarchists."

	"Capitalism has so miserably abused people, that I'm not at all surprised that we have such deformed and deranged human beings as...  those so-called 'anti-authoritarians'," the Chairman replied, "Perhaps we should treat them like madmen who have just recently escaped the confines of some brutish torturer.  Their screams of laughter and bellowing of cries make sense to nobody, but they must be perfectly logical to the mind where they come from."

	"And what's so logical about hating authority?" Solon asked, "When people go mad, they should become more submissive, not more wild -- they should ask more for the help and guidance of father and mother, not resist more against their approaches and association.  Well, if human nature is broken, we will only have all of history and civilization to thank us once we Communists fix it."

	"It has to be us Communists who fix it," the Chairman agreed, "Only we have the foresight on how society works to build an entirely new one starting from where we are.  Only we truly appreciate the history of all of humanity.  It has to be us, because we devote more resources to state scholars than any other state.  Who else would you ask to build a new era for the next one thousand generations?  Nobody's even going to remember any of those insignificant countries that make up the Coalition Forces.  When people look back to history, they will only see Communists and Capitalists fighting.  If we do this right, they will also see that the Anarchists are just a hiccup during the fight."

	"I hope it is as easy as that," Solon said, "But we have the people on our side, and we have no right to disappoint them and their wishes.  We have devoted soldiers, dedicated farmers, and developed artists.  And, of course, we have devout messengers and assistants."  A small smile crept through the hood of one of the Chairman's assistants.

	"Our best assassins have failed, and I'm not prepared to wait five years to have another good crop wasted on removing influential Anarchists," Solon said, "Get an espionage agent.  Get a sleuth, a spy, a trickster.  Get someone who likes to gamble, but knows when the odds are too narrow to throw down a bet.  That's what you need to dismantle the little situation we've gotten ourselves into in this world."

	"Understood, your highness," the Chairman said, "We shall get the best agent we have to handle the Anarchists.  And what about the Philosopher?  And the Anarcho-Communist and the Anarcho-Capitalist?"

	"Capture and prosecute the Philosopher according to any treason violation he may have committed by working with Anarchists during the war, make sure he serves his time, and give him the most back-breaking tasks in prison, but not do a thing more," Solon said,"Kill the Anarcho-Capitalist.  If you can bring him back here alive, I will accept him here alive, but he will be cut down quickly.  The Anarcho-Communist, get her back here, and I want her alive.  But, it shall be considered no great loss at all, if she should arrive without a heartbeat.  Just make sure she arrives.  Even if you have to tell here that we're preparing for a war of the worlds, and that we are going to raise insurrections in every country against Capitalism, yes, just tell her that, tell her all about it.  She's inconsequential, except to Anarchia, which is extremely consequential to us.  Never forget where the pieces are or how they connect to each other."

	"Think of the Cassandra Complex," [*1] the king continued, "It's the ability to know what the future holds but the inability to do a damn thing about it -- all Anarchists have it," Solon said, "It may be better to force them into disillusionment than to defeat them.  Think of it like that.  They never would."

*1.  Twelve Monkeys, Terry Gilliam.

	"I never thought of them in a psychological light, but perhaps I may be ignoring one of the most important branches of state-sponsored research," the Chairman said, "But those Anarchists perfectly fit the symptoms for the Cassandra Complex. (1) A dysfunctional relationship with someone who believes in order and authority, (2) emotional or physical suffering, and (3) being disbelieved when trying to explain 1 or 2. [*1]  Why don't we just start calling them Cassandras and do away with the poetry of words like 'Anarchist' and 'Anarchy'?"

*1.  Laurie Layton Schapira, The Cassandra Complex: Living With Disbelief: A Modern Perspective on Hysteria (1988).  A 1988 Jungian study, by Laurie Layton Schapira.

	"You're right," Solon grinned, "It would sound so much more glorious if we told our children that we defeated Cassandra instead of winning the war on Anarchy."

	"To the glory of the party!" the Chairman smirked.  He turned his pen and pad, wrote down some notes, and held the note in his hand out in the air, "Would a squire please take this to the commander of the local barracks?"

	One walked forward, but he stopped to turn around at a noise behind him.  "Aha!" the Philosopher unmounted his hood, exposing himself to the others.  But before they could even make eye contact with him, he dove through the air and grabbed the secret messaged, somersaulting to the window, and before anyone could tell what had happened, he was already climbing down a rope from the window.  The guards began climbing down after him, none of them concerned that the rope appeared to be wet, except when it turned out to be wet with gasoline, and lit at the bottom by the Philosopher.  With a small flame and the path of the soldiers cut off, the trot of sandals against gravel disappearing into the distance was all that Solon was left with.

	But the trotting was interrupted for a brief moment.  Solon squinted to identify where the Philosopher had stopped, and then finally identified that mysterious, old man.  Once the Philosopher knew he was being noticed, he lifted his arm up very calmly, and gave the thumbs-up.  A moment of hesitation, and then another smile across his face, before he disappeared again into the thickness of nature.

		Chapter 20: Notes by Opposing Masters

	"Bring me back my birds, every last one of them, bring them back to the cage," the Philosopher spoke to himself quietly while studying the two notes of Hammurabi and Solon, "And it doesn't matter if they can't fly anymore, if they lose their grace, or if you only return with a bag full of feathers -- just bring me back every last flying creature, and make them remember that there are still places made out of metal and concrete."  The Philosopher's gaze drifts away from the scribblings made on a few sheets of paper, and towards the sky with its infinite endlessness and its herds of clouds and rain.  "I wonder how the birds would react if someone were really to say that..." his pace eased as he studied the curls of passing clouds, "I'm sure I'll found out, once I tell them."

	It wasn't quite a path that the Philosopher walked, not in the traditional sense of a well-traveled route between two points.  But it was a path, in the sense that others had made their treks along the same passage, others were on the same journey.  Maybe they didn't share a common destination, but they shared a common breathing space, at least for a little bit -- smugglers, runaway slaves, escaped convicts, and rebellious children, and then... the Philosopher, quietly walking by and through the occasional human being that would show up every day or two.  Some of them might've been birds, but at this point, there wasn't enough time for the Philosopher to pick a debate and engage in hours-long discussion on an issue like religion.  When any visitor or traveler tried to get him to ask questions or talk to them, pleading with this mystical "Philosopher" they had heard so much about, he could only say, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I must get to Anarchia."

	It was quite a sight, to see the old Philosopher trekking across such a great distance and with much more determination in each step.  Not a thing stopped him from taking more than the needed amount of time for each rest stop.  He even packed, smoke, and cleaned his pipe while walking during the trip to save on time.  "An old man shouldn't have to put up with this," the Philosopher mumbled to himself at once point when smoke flared up into his face while exhaling, "Communism and Capitalism are the same thing.  They would each drag an old man to death if it meant extending their empires by a single inch.  They would each make the world tremble in fear if it meant they could have power over one more village.  They would each destroy themselves and the world if it meant stopping someone else from winning.  They are such bitter grandparents for the rest of civilization to have."

	As the Philosopher walked toward his destination, grass and pebbles underfoot, a bird dove through the air and landed on a branch just a few inches from the Philosopher's head, stunning his motion.  A quick twerk of the neck muscles back and forth, a sputter or two of chirping, and the small, near-insignificant creature disappeared from sight forever.  "Passions rise quickly," the Philosopher said, "But hatred dissipates twice as long."  Then he carried on with his walk, taking a quiet puff from his pipe, "There are two empires that make such a great big fuss about property, and there is only one small section on this planet where the only thing they make a fuss about is liberty.  Nobody believes you when you tell them that what they are searching for is already inside of themselves.  But maybe they'll believe the vengeful hatred in these hand-written notes of tyrants and dictators.  Maybe the truth and Philosophy can do something about what is going to happen for the next few thousand years."

			Part V: The Divide

"And what would his people back home want if they ever learned just how far from them he'd really gone?  He broke from them, and then he broke from himself.  I'd never seen a man so broken up and ripped apart."

--Captain Benjamin L. Willard, 1985
Apocalypse Now

		Chapter 21: I Now Give Life To My Monsters

	Athens went through convulsions and spasms, the entire outer part shaking as the inner part boiled and steamed, a tremendous working-out and horrible paining-up, as the Communist Party thoroughly went through every potential applicant to break up the Anarchist City.  Like soldiers going from building to building in a raid, party officers went from membership to membership.  Vice was gauged as a weakness, unless it was accompanied by the appropriate degree of harnessing cruelty; virtue was associated with strength, unless it was the type of virtue that was deeply concerned with the truth.  No matter what ballerina ballroom they walked through or what down-and-out, underground bar they straddled, each person applying for the position showed every potential of getting ahead in the ranks of the party without completely resolving the situation.  Some of them doubted it whether a devoted Communist could stroll into Anarchia without being detected, but none doubted their willingness to serve the party.  Soon, they predicted that finding the right person to overthrow anarchy might be as difficult as overthrowing anarchy itself.

	But then...  there was Spargo.  He was devoted, he admired Solon, he loved the Communist Party of Greece, he was an extraordinary spy with an unbeatable record, and most importantly, while the Greek Communists were certain of all of this, there wasn't one Anarchist who even knew who this man was.  After getting their hands on him, the Greek Communist Party decided that the time had come to let the world know the name Spargo.  He was going to be trained to understand the ways of the Anarchists, and then he was going to be inserted directly into Anarchia.  His objective was simple, direct, and it had no heavy details: do whatever is needed to split the Anarchists apart.  Assassinate only if it alone will bring down Anarchia, disrupt only if it will separate the Anarchists, but do nothing unless it has the certainty of dividing Anarchia into meaningless strips of land that any army of any warlord can conquer.  With this introduction and training, Spargo was brought to the borders of Anarchy and released.

	Babylon convulsed and turned in the same way, like a victim of dyspepsia and dysentery, like a soldier deciding which is greater between the feelings of fear or rage, like a worker deciding on whether to satisfy some of their wants by going to industry or to completely forget all of their wants by going to vice.  The city screamed and howled like an untamed animal giving birth in the wilds, the columns and colonnades of Hammurabi's inner chamber shaking and stretching like a womb preparing to render a new creature into the world.  The military academies, soldier barracks, and veteran dens were thoroughly examined and investigated, not by the recruiters who were expecting to get anyone who would say yes to their country to give up their lives, but by higher-level officers who would know what traits to pick out in the potential applicant.  But before they could find the right person, she found them.  "Please, call me Ally." ~ "Is that your real name?" ~ "No, but it is for now.  That's why they call me Agent 354.  That is the one name I have that doesn't change."

	Her past experience was extensive.  When Communists took over several villages in Egypt, by means of printing mostly false stories and organizing rallies using deceptively worded pamphlets, she was able to organize a native revolt against the Red governments -- without the Babylonian Empire having to use a single soldier.  "I want her for this job," Hammurabi said to one of his inner counsel members, "It's not just about how long she's done this, or how loyal she is to Capitalism.  It's about this one important factor: she knows how to trigger the feelings of Conservatives and the Right when they think that they believe in liberty.  You will not find a better choice for this role in our city.  Give it to her."  From Athens, there came Spargo, and from Babylon, there came Agent 354.  They had the same destination, but different routes.

		Chapter 22: New Creatures at the Gates

	There was a path from Athens to Anarchia, just like there was one from Babylon to Anarchia.  The type of people you might find on these two paths held extremely different values in terms of opinion on morals, religion, politics, and economics.  But the closer and closer you came within the borders of Anarchia, the less and less did these differences matter at all.  At the beginning of the route from Athens or Babylon might be both similar in the importance they attach to their values, and at the end, the importance had diminished to an almost personal sentimentality.  The differences between Communism and Capitalism didn't cease at the borders of Anarchy.  They simply became less important in the overall life of the individual.  At the beginning of the trail, you could only find Communists and Capitalists, and those who believe greatly in it to those who believed even more greatly in it.  And at the end of the trail, you could find every type of person, who believed in every type of thing, but nobody tried to force others into believing it.  This applied to deeply personal issues like family and religion to community issues like economic and social organization.

	Spargo walked his own path, Agent 354 walked her own path, but when they looked up to center their balance and check their coordinates, they were both heading toward the same destination.  He carried the habits of urban life, she carried the ways of rural people -- his body was accustomed to eight hours of work a day, her body was accustomed to somewhere between one hour and sixteen hours of work a day.  His hands were calloused from working with tools, her feet were calloused from walking bare-foot for miles and miles.  The journey itself was such a lonesome venture for Spargo, who had always been used to being near many of his comrades, but for Agent 354, the journey was like taking the long way home.  She loved the smell of flowers and dirt and sweetness in the air, but he was either alienated or nauseated by it.  She adored the chance to sleep out naked in the wilderness of high grasses and tall trees, but he could only think about the last time he was in Athens and had organized a massive rally focused on advancing Communism.  Her dreams were full of vast, open areas, his were full of the clustered, cramped cities.

	But not every advantage was to Agent 354.  When she had been bitten by a wild insect, she chanted a prayer and performed a ritual, to rid her body of the "evil spirits."  Experiencing the same situation on his journey, Spargo merely cleaned the wound and applied antiseptics.  She looked to the clouds to receive signs from god in which direction she should travel, he looked to them to determine the weather and the direction of the wind.  His journey was prepared with bread-like crackers that could stand high temperatures without melting or going bad, along with jarred fruits and vegetables.  Her journey was prepared with a leg of some butchered animal, heavily salted and deeply smoked to keep it from rotting, causing stomach problems by the second week of her journey, along with one package of refined sugar and one package of incense.  When the buckle on his sandal snapped, he simply replaced it with an identical one from his backpack.  When a buckle on her backpack snapped, she went through cutting, drying, bending, and crafting wood to make the backpack carryable again, but at a great cost in time and comfort.

	The Capitalist spy and the Communist spy were both going to Anarchia, but their miseries were as far apart from each other as their hopes.  All that was about to change.  The Anarchist City was about to have its most unusual characters ever, two Statists who were deeply holding their belief in the State close to their hearts and far from their lips.  Honor and dignity in the name of either Hammurabi or Solon wasn't the topic of their conversation, and even the way they walked seemed to have changed, with Spargo thinking "it is best if I approach people slowly, so they don't think I'm trying to aggravate them," and with Agent 354 thinking "I should be careful not to have too good a posture, otherwise they will accuse me of being authoritarian and oppressing them."  And no point in their travels did Spargo or Agent 354 look down in their feet and think to themselves, "This is the trail that Pan followed," ~ "This is the path that Roz chose."

		Chapter 23: Authoritarians in Anarchia

	As Spargo walked through the market, looking through the goods and the commodities available, he found a rather talkative friend, who mentioned the Original Myth.  "The what?"

	"The original myth," the Anarchian said, "We don't believe that humanity is split in halves between one Communist part and one Capitalist part.  We believe that humanity is split in halves, absolutely, except that one part is Authoritarian and the other part is Anarchist."

	"But why call it a myth, if you think that it's true?" Spargo asked.

	"Well, maybe it's not true, and maybe it is true," the Anarchian responded, "It doesn't really matter.  We have our own piece of liberty here and now.  That's what matters."  Spargo gave a half-hearted smile to his friend before departing, thinking to himself "these Anarchists are as irrational as they are passionate."

	As Agent 354 walked through the wheat fields, examining some of the plants as they loomed before her intermittently at the will of the wind.  She brought one of the grains close to her nose and inhaled deeply.  "Not a bad crop this year 'round, huh?" a farmer suddenly appears out from the waving beams of golden wheat.

	"It is delicious in every way, to my nose and my eye," Agent 354 replied, "How do you keep such a valuable plant, just ready for harvest, out in the open, without a single police officer to protect it?"

	"You must be new here," the farmer said, lifting and resettling the straps on his suspenders, "I trust the local Anarchia soldiers to resist anyone who tries to steal anything of mine."

	"But aren't most of them Communists?"

	"Some of them, sure," the farmer replied, "But, they trust me when I tell them the actual value of the bread I'm selling them.  So, it's a two-way partnership, all based on trust."

	Agent 354 smiled, "Thank you for letting me investigate some of your crops.  But I must now be off to the city center."  She disappeared with a peculiar thought on her mind, "these Capitalists have been warped by Anarchism."

	Spargo walked some time through the market, replenishing his stocks, and then regained some of his composure after visiting the local tavern and inn.  But Agent 354 was driven by ambition and adventure rather than government stipends and state salaries.  Completely ignorant of Spargo's present, she went looking through the city to find the two responsible for everything -- Emma and Benjamin.  "They must be found, if there is to be any sort of peace and order to return back to humanity and civilization," she thought to herself, searching faces and asking by name in the market and at the Anarchist Square -- with "Square" being a phrase used to describe the mostly-concrete center of any city where people congregate in large numbers.

	"You're looking for Ben and Emma?" one citizen replied, "What for?  And what would make you think that you'd find them together at the same spot?"

	"Well, they're both the founders of Anarchia, aren't they?" Agent 354 replied, "Isn't it natural that the two who put their labor into building this city would be close to each other to coordinate their efforts?"

	"Sometimes I see them together, sometimes I see them apart," another citizen from the market replied, not looking up from examining the fruit from vendors, "But you can never tell with those two.  Sometimes they're side-by-side, sometimes they're on the opposite sides of town, sometimes their distance marks their industry and activity, sometimes it marks their leisure and docility."

	"Nobody can really guess what those two are ever thinking," someone said while weighing a watermelon in their hands, "Just like anyone else here, be they the person guessing or the person being guessed about.  You're new in town, aren't you?"  The person looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of Agent 354's eyes.

	"Oh, yes, you nailed the mark precisely," she replied, "Ben and Emma just sound like such fascinating personalities."

	"Attracted to the light?" someone in the market reached over a pile of oranges to grab a grapefruit, "Light never damaged a fire, but it killed the moth attracted to it.  Don't be surprised if they destroy everything you've ever deeply believed in throughout your entire life."

	"Some of us might be too calloused for that," Agent 354 returned a smile.

	"Oh, you should have something resembling warmth and comfort and trust and hope in life," someone said while comparing the weight of two pineapples, "If you don't have that, you won't have anything."

	"Thank you so much for your help," she said, "I'm sure I'll be able to find them with your advice.  Have a good day!"  All the while, she was thinking, "Now I'm even less certain about where I can find them."

	She had been at the market and the Anarchist Square, but she could not hunt down the two people most essential to her mission.  If there were any other more public places of discussion and discourse, it would have to be at a restaurant, preferably a cafe or a restaurant, then if no success is had, and only then, would she check out the bars and taverns.  She already had seen the Square, she was now looking for the Strip, the Promenade, the Waterfront, or even more simply and commonly, just "Downtown."

	Walking towards the main street of cafes and restaurants and bars, she noticed the lamps lit outside of the entrances, inviting people to come in.  There was as much moisture in the air as there was conversation, as much fog is the sky as there was light from the sunset breaching through it.  That's when she caught sight of it, a small streak of blackness darting through the air, her eyes suddenly drawn to it, tracking that dark blur splitting the sky in half.  It was a hawk, diving down on its prey, a small finch held to the ground by those deep claws.  But a pebble on the landing had dislodged the hawk's grasp, and the small bird flipped through several talons, struggling to free its leg and tail feathers from the final hold as the predator regained its grasp only by expressing its rage at the dirt.  Agent 354 was completely drawn to the scene, a single human being look out of the city walls while everyone else was minding their own business, buying in the market, carrying on their gossip, arguing about politics, the older citizens nursing their young and the younger citizens flirting about.  But 354 just couldn't turn her eyes away from that sight, almost betting on the hawk, wanting to see that small creature's intestines ripped out to feed the larger one -- the stronger building themselves out of the weaker.  But her frame of mind was interrupted.

	"Get the metal workers to put down in writing exactly what they want, and then we'll be able to have something to bash over the heads of those Mediterranean merchants," it was Emma talking to a laborer dressed in a worker's apron, "How else should we bargain with them?"

	And next to her was Benjamin, "It's a lot easier to tell someone to pay more for your goods when you can actually quote the people who's responsible for producing them.  It's not just a matter of you being able to express what you want. It's about the fact that we have the organization and order to guarantee that anything they pay for will be delivered with the deepest sincerity."

	"You make excellent arguments," the laborer said, "As their steward, I'll get back to my men, and women, and tell them that we can get a lot more bread for a lot less work if we put in just a little more brain.  I should have their answer sometime tomorrow morning or afternoon."

	"Emma, Benjamin," Agent 354 stood up from the city bench she was leaning across, "I've been looking for you.  I need to know more about your society, although I can see that you have your hands full with pressing and important issues."

	"Let's walk and talk, then," Emma said.

	"Always enough room for another gust of wind in the air," Ben added.

	"Well, I have so many questions about this new society you're building up," Agent 354 said, "My name is Ally, I'm from a small village on the outskirts of Lebanon."  She tried to disassociate herself from the Babylonian, cultural background without entirely surrendering it should her new friends probe into her past.  "I'm interested in helping to create this new order and civilization you have put upon this planet."

	"We didn't put anything anywhere except our own bodies and we did that by walking," Benjamin replied.

	"It's not so much that we created something, so much as we had an idea, we said it out loud, and then there were others, who also had the idea, or who just liked what we said," Emma said.

	"And what did you say to those who had doubts about it?" Agent 354 asked, "I mean, there must've been so many people used to the old ways and how things used to be.  What happened to all of those people?"

	"Some of them changed, some of them left, and some of them are still here disagreeing with us," Emma smiled, "We decided to do our own thing our own way.  Our Revolution isn't about making others do as we tell them, so much as it is making them realize that they could have always done what they wanted and that it was always something they could have done."

	"We didn't build a city to make hierarchy and control the basis of our existence," Benjamin added in another smile, "We made it because a city is the best way for highly-skilled professionals to exchange ideas and goods with each other, and because we always believed it could be done in a way where no one is dominating anyone else."

	"But, Ben, you're a Capitalist," Agent 354 said, "She's a Communist.  You're blue and she's red.  You want everyone to work for themselves and she wants the hard workers to work for the lazy majority.  How could you join forces and make a new society together?"

	"We're doing the same thing that we've always done," Emma said, "Whatever we want, which happens to be revolution all the time.  We're tired and angry about being told that we have to do anything, whether it's being told by a Capitalist or being told by a Communist.  We absolutely hate it.  We didn't join forces and make a new society.  We simply negotiated our differences and then applied our respective talents.  We didn't magic up this new world that you see.  We may have been the currents in the streams, but we weren't the water itself."

	"This city was never established to force people to believe this or that," Benjamin said, "Believe in god or don't believe in god, believe in drugs or don't believe in drugs, believe in society based on the family or believe in society based on communal, sex orgies -- do what you want, you have been doing it for a long time, I have been doing it for a long time.  Let's build a society not about authority or hierarchy or control or submission or domination.  Instead, let's build a society based on volunteerism and cooperationism!  I don't pretend to be the ripples of the lake, I am only a nominee for the brightness of glare on it."

	"Oh, come now, Ben," Agent 354 asked as Ally, "You want independence of the individual and Emma wants dependence on the community.  You're swords crossed at each other.  How could you think to build up a world out of these twisted differences?"

	"Ally, we must accept our differences," Benjamin said, "As it is time for us to part."

	"I am needed at the mills to redevelop a machine that separates the grain from the chafe," Emma said, "And he's needed to revise the accounts of the lead trader working with the Sicilians."

	"But, but, you never tried to answer my arguments," Agent 354 begged.

	"I'm an Anarchist Philosopher," Emma said, "Not The Philosopher.  He would answer your arguments to the tiniest peck."

	"And you wouldn't end up thanking him for it," Ben said, "Trust me on that."

	With a separation of two persons, so did Agent 354 separate from the rest of that Anarchist society, eating heavily at a nearby restaurant and then sleeping just as heavily at a nearby inn.  This is at the time that Spargo was waking up from his long, dreary sleep at the very same inn.  A cooked breakfast, a hot bath, and a set of washed clothes set him up for his operation that day.  Imperial agents can't just go overthrowing Anarchist collectives without having something wholesome in their belly and something clean on their back.  Spargo couldn't have a taste for anything besides the clean and respectable lifestyle, and if he approached those he wished to deceive without being comfortable, he would be a greater target of suspicion and distrust.  Walking out into the streets in the early morning with a inn sign just wavering over his head with the gentle wind breezing through the marketplace, Spargo went out looking for the two -- Emma and Benjamin.

	His search was just as difficult as Agent 354's, though.  He went through the same marketplace, the same rows of bars and restaurants, making conversation with the same people and getting the same, indecisive answers.  "Finding the lead Anarchist in an Anarchist city is like looking for a monster in some backwater, podunk, little village, where every grandmother describes a different way of it killing you and every grandfather describes a different way of warding it off," Spargo thought to himself, "I'm looking for a ghost, a myth, a supernatural beast in this stateless afterlife.  At least, that's how these people seem to live."

	Spargo walked through some of the workers' districts just near the downtown areas.  He saw carpenters and masons, millers and plumbers, mechanics and farmers, porters and sailors; he saw men and women carrying on conversations as they walked to their workplaces, he saw children being cared for in the streets by parents and elders; he saw the infinite bustle and underneath all of that, he tried to understand the firmness and rigidity of the society.  "Those same workers go in and go out of the same workplace everyday," he thinks to himself as he stares at one particularly sad-looking dwelling, fluttered with social clusterings of various sizes at random points along its edge, "You go in, you work, you put in your pain, you suffer your tears, and when the day is done, you punch out, take your paycheck, and go home.  And then you do this for a lifetime.  If only you learned the self-discipline to handle over just a little bit of that money to the Communist Party, then you might have yourselves a real revolution.  But now, you have nothing."

	His eyes became as dreary as the building was in his mind, until they flashed opened wide.  Emma and Benjamin had just walked out of the front door of the building.  He didn't take the moment lightly and rushed up to them as soon as the nerve endings in his feet received their electrical impulse.  "Emma, Benjamin, it's so good to meet you!" he spoke to them, "I'm a tremendous fan of yours and always have been."

	"I know you, don't I?" Emma said, to the surprise of Spargo, "Yes, I've seen you before.  At those meetings in Athens.  You were with the Unionists and Socialists, weren't you?"

	"Well, yes," Spargo smiled, glad that she only knew about those meetings in particular, "You spotted me perfectly.  I'm glad my reputation precedes me.  Do you have the chance to spare?"

	"We may have a moment," Emma said, still walking on with Ben, but only a bit slower, "You see, we're organizing a committee of voluntary, housing inspection.  Some traders from Corsica gave us dressed stone instead of granite, causing the collapse and disgrace of some of our peoples' homes, so we're making them fix the old buildings before we ask them for supplies to make any new ones.  We both have a million people to talk with today, you understand, don't you?"

	"Of course," Spargo said, hurrying alongside the two, "Communist Revolution has always meant an exchange of words and thinking."

	"Any Revolution has always entailed that," Benjamin said, "Otherwise, it wouldn't be a revolution.  It would just be a bunch of people fighting each other over who should be in charge of who else.  Our Revolution isn't like that.  Ours is the Anarchist Revolution."

	"You get what our revolution is about, right?" Benjamin added. "Communism and Capitalism are the same thing, but Anarchism and Statism are very different things.  That's the core of our revolutionary thinking, the basis on which our people have placed their confidence.  It is very different from the basis upon which the civilizations in Athens and Babylon were founded."

	"It's not simply about which system is right or wrong," Emma said, "It's about where you place emphasis.  Do you believe that one person owning lots of property is the problem, or do you think that any type of authority of one person over another itself is the true evil dominating society?  If you believe the first, then you are a typical Athenian Communist, but if you believe the second, you're an Anarchist, and you could come from anywhere."

	"That sounds like it's more grist for your mill," Spargo said.

	"What for my what?" Emma asked, "Did you just call it grist?  Look, we grow and harvest wheat here just like everyone else, and it's not the mill anymore.  Its actual name is the Self-Managed Millers' Center, so that's what we call it.  You are a Communist, aren't you?  Don't you believe in worker self-management?"

	"I always thought that the Communists in Athens wanted worker self-management, just like you do," Spargo replied, "Except, the Party doesn't think that the workers are ready for it, in objective terms of social and economic background and in subjective terms of cultural and political influence."

	"In the eyes of the Communist Party," Ben said, "The workers will be ready for worker self-management only at that point when they can pose absolutely no threat or objection or resistance at all to the rule of the One-Party State.  In other words, there will be no such thing left as self at that point, so how can you have self-management?"

	"Your objection is finely-worded," Spargo replied, "But if you asked the people of Greece or the people of Babylonia what they would like, they would each tell you they prefer what they were born into and what they will grow up in.  And that's themselves speaking, one Communist, and the other Capitalist."

	"Yeah, we know that we're different.  We've never denied that," Emma said, "It's just not enough of a problem for us to work together in overthrowing the greatest of all social evils -- the State.  We would love to murder that centralized piece of authority, that justifier of all prejudices, that imprisoner of thinkers, that enslaver of nations, that genocider of peoples, that priest of war, that merchant of human life.  Yes, we would absolutely do away with all state authority, once and for all.  That is the basis of how we live here in Anarchia."

	Her words sucked the air out of his lungs, and he couldn't keep up in the pace of walking or conversation, finally breaking down under his own weaknesses and unable to fight back against those two seemingly unconquerable temples.  One human being stopped amongst the bustle of laborers and farmers, of men and women, of communist and capitalist, but always just among a spontaneous, self-created, self-organized mass of Anarchists.  The two industrious and devoted founders walked away from him, as he sulked back to his room at the inn to recuperate and make plans for a counter-attack.  The people who worked factories were also the owners and masters, and the same was true of those who worked the fields and brought their crops into town at the marketplace.  One lone Statist suffering in an entire world of self-managed anarchy.  That is how Spargo retired that night.

	The thoughts running through his mind were relatively close to those running through the mind of Agent 354.  "It's not simply a matter of separating those two united forces," she thought to herself, "It's not just about pulling apart the two beams holding up this shaky, foundationless society.  It's not just about getting one of them alone so that you can make them believe you or even kill them.  It's about overthrowing anarchy and the powers of disorder.  You cannot destroy a tremendous boulder by throw pebbles and stones at it.  Something different needs to be done."

	"This isn't going to be something that can happen overnight," Spargo thought to himself, "This is going to require time and effort, pain and energy.  I need to get their trust, I need to get them to believe me, I need to hold their hearts in my hand so I can know whether they pulse in desperation of fear or in strength of rage.  And maybe sometime between now and when I'm officially offered a position as army general or garrison commander, maybe before I convince the stars that I'm worthy enough of reflecting some of their light and I convince the night that the shadows I cast are its own, maybe sooner than I think -- an opportunity will rise up where I can take this town as my own.  Or, maybe, I will get enough understanding of how things are here on the ground, where I can make the opportunity appear."

	And so weeks and months would pass, Agent 354 relearning the trade of harvesting wheat which she had mastered in her 13th year, and Spargo demonstrating some of his excellent blacksmithing skills at the forge in the local manufacturery.  Every day, Agent 354 looked a little bit more devoted in the eyes of her neighbors, and every day, Spargo looked a little bit more ardent in the eyes of his co-workers.  He held himself in remarkable shape during the hallucinogenic drug binge the Anarchists held once every few weeks, and she looked like the sincerest believer when praying with the parishioners of the local church.  Each of them blended in more and more, like the insect disguised as a tree branch or the fish camouflaged as sand, blending in more and more with the passage of time.

	But it was one day, when the heat was particularly bothersome, that the workers of the local forge were struggling to get every last bag of grain onto the carts going to the port.  Spargo had slipped out of the bustle, hiding in the back of the factory, smoking a cigarette.  At the same time, during a particularly long prayer ceremony, Agent 354 had also slipped out of the hustle of closed-eyed pastors and preachers, relaxing by stretching and having a drink from a concealed container.  The glint of the sun caught the tip of it, reflecting across Spargo's face, and when he looked up, she could feel eyes upon her, and upon bringing her drink down, they saw each other.  The one worker who had escaped hard labor and the one believer who had escaped intense prayer.  They noticed each other, and slowly walked to each other across the wide, open green of that field, compounded by the loudness of machinery on the one side and the loudness of chanting on the other.

	"You don't care," she said, "Right?"

	"Right," he said, "And you don't care either."

	Later that evening, there was one worker who had gone absent and one worshiper who didn't speak during roll call.

		Chapter 24: Bishop to Rook

	"If you want to trigger a revolt, focus on something that's tangible to the people," Spargo was adamant, "Exaggerate or fabricate some event, no matter how small or insignificant, and then use it as the basis for a battlecry."

	"Ah, you Commies are quite sophisticated in the political thing," Agent 354 replied, "Use something trivial that you can easily believe in instead of something substantial you need to think about.  You definitely have a grasp around politics."

	"And you Cappies are quite sophisticated in the economic thing," Spargo returned the compliment, "I wouldn't invest in a factory unless I knew it was operated by a true, hot-blood Capitalist."

	"Exaggerating an event seems perfect, especially the more that I consider it," Agent 354 said, "You're not going to deceive an entire population by running calculations by them on net-loss and net-gain that society has with authority versus without authority.  Have them focus on some jewel of obsession, something that can easily enter the mind without hitting too many barriers, that's going to be what will do it.  You can't chisel your way into the commoner's mind, you have to blast your way in."

	"That's it, a blast!  An explosion!" the Communist spy was getting excited.

	"To execute the two leading Anarchists?" the Capitalist spy began to question the revolutionary tendencies of her newfound colleague, "That won't do it.  Two others would just step up to take their place."

	"No, that's not what I mean at all, not a blast like an explosion but a blast like blowing up a social idea," Spargo replied, "I mean just blowing up any old factory or mine.  Nobody's going to suspect arson or espionage, since those places are always falling victim to those disasters.  And when they try to tally up the dead, we remind the workers that it was Capitalists who sold them their building equipment."

	"And we remind the local devoted and faithful that they're being called murderers and butchers by a youthful and ignorant upsurge of Communist rebellion," Agent 354 spoke fluidly and eloquently, perhaps almost honestly for a single moment, "We let the farmers that their farms are under constant threat of being confiscated under the name of 'collectivization' and we let the educated elite and their journalists and professors feel like they are about to endure prison life conditions underneath the words of 'equality of wages.'"

	"One against the other," Spargo said, "Communism and Capitalism mean everything to everyone the world over.  It's about time we bring that same difference to Anarchia.  How could they not appreciate understanding it?"

	"At least we have the privilege here of excluding that difference from this room where we discuss these things, don't you think so?" Agent 354 added in, with a half-grin.

	And Spargo replied with another half-grin, "I've excluded the difference from my heart, that's why I can manipulate it so perfectly in my mind.  For all that matters to people like you and me, who have always revered our mothers and fathers, respected our elders, and obeyed our masters, Communism and Capitalism are the same thing."

	"You must be the most interesting person I've met in a long while," Agent 354 said, and then after inhaling and exhaling deeply, she finally said, "All right!  Let's go kill some workers!"

	Within the Anarchist utopia, one needs the right connections and the deepest of convictions to get close to explosives of any type, either through the university professors of chemistry or through the chemical workers association, but once that connection is made, the choices were endless.  Spargo and Agent 354 acquired the necessary substances to produce an explosion and did so with leaving only the most minimal of proof that they had ever made such a request.  Their arduous months of working hard and praying dutifully slowly gained them respect and trust from the community, and that's when they spent it like a currency to hide themselves from the more suspicious and curious of the common people.  To gain the advantage again wouldn't be quite so easy, since there would be quite a few mysterious glances after the massive, public explosion, so this really was the only opportunity they could risk.

	Fire and smoke, embers and ashes, screaming and running, dust and debris -- the explosion struck at one of the deepest iron mines of Anarchia, with tools and equipment, and even body parts, found for miles and miles in every direction.  Agent 354 and Spargo made their mark.  The two weren't very far from the scene when the blast ripped asunder that deep hole in the ground, and they quickly arrived at the scene, Agent 354 digging out rubble and Spargo carrying out wounded from the those cavernous depths.  Both of them made certain that their activity would be noticed when Emma and Benjamin showed up, and it was this later fact that they were entirely depending upon.  They were not disappointed.

	"How many were there in the mine?" Emma asks the union stewardess.

	"According to these time reports," the stewardess flips through several papers on a clipboard, "There must have been at least twenty down there, and we've only recovered two alive, three dead.  And those alive are in horrible shape.  We still need to find the others."

	"Agreed," Emma replied, "We need to reroute the conveyor belts to hauling away rubble from the explosion.  We can't blast our way to miners buried in a mine.  We need to carefully pull stone by stone out of the way as we reach further and further down."

	"Understood," the stewardess replied, "We have mechanics here who are capable of doing that.  I'll explain to them the situation."

	"How many loads of rubble are we extracting at our current rate right now?" Benjamin asked the shipping clerk.

	"Approximately one ten every two minutes," the clerk replied.

	"We're going to need the carts and porters to guarantee that this extraction can continue at its current rate," Ben replied, "If the outflow weakens, it's going to create a bottleneck that's going to put the lives of these hard-working miners on the line."

	"We have a granite mine to the east and a lumber mill to the southeast," the clerk replied, "Both have been informed of the emergency and the dire need to borrow their equipment at this time, even if it means interrupting their work schedules.  They've both already agreed to help us."

	"Make sure the porters from the South Anarchian districts are informed of this calamity," Ben said, "Efficient communication may be the only thing that is going to help us save those laborers."  The clerk nodded.

	During the turmoil and the rushed energy of workers in desperation, Spargo looked up from a crevice in the mine and exchanged a glance with Agent 354.  A few moments later, Spargo screamed in agony carrying a body over his shoulder, "Someone, come quick!"  He wreathed as a body was held over his shoulders, and the many from the masses rushed quickly up to him.  And once they had just been within a few feet, the base of the mine's entrance collapsed, filling the crowd with a plume of dust and smoke so that nobody could see a thing.  Once the smoke had cleared, there was Spargo, holding the corpse of a miner, and a group of miners looking on.

	"Those filthy Capitalists!" Spargo screamed, "Just to make a little extra profit, they sold cheap, unsafe machinery to our workers and created this horrible tragedy we all must now suffer!"

	"We Capitalists are to blame!?" Agent 354 screamed from the other side of the mine where the porters and carters had been working, "It's you Communists who are always drunk and on drugs at the job, so why wouldn't a mistake like this happen when an important task is being handled by inept hands!?"

	There was a burst of roaring and screaming, the clerks screaming, "We had three porters down there when the explosion went off!" and the miners responding, "We had more workers injured than you!  Those porters were probably taking out safety beams so that they could sell them on the market!"  A violent, tumultuous air erupted, Spargo screaming, Agent 354 screaming, the workers screaming, the carters screaming, but amidst all of this madness, there two silent creatures in the roar of confusion, Emma and Benjamin.  And then finally, all fell silent when they finally opened their mouths.

	"An investigation will be made and the causes of this accident will be determined," Emma said.

	"We will find the person or the people responsible," Benjamin said, "And if we find that it's a mistake on behalf of human folly, then we shall take it upon ourselves to protect against such accidents in the future."

	"But this isn't about marketers against communards, carter against miner, or Capitalist against Communist," Emma said, "It's about a community rationally determining the causes of its own suffering and correcting those causes itself."

	"We're not against Communist or Capitalist," Benjamin added, "We're against the people or the accident responsible for killing these miners, the authority of mischief or accident against the liberty of the individual in mind and body."

	A quiet descended upon the masses.  "They're right, we need to get these human beings out of this disaster area as fast as possible," someone screamed, "Those miners down there are only waiting to suffocate."

	"They're not right at all!" Agent 354 screamed, "They're not digging to save lives, they're digging to find more corpses, they don't want to get people out of their alive, they want to tally them up as more victims of Capitalism."

	"We have lives to save here!" Benjamin replied, "And we don't have time to argue about this."

	"You heard them, didn't you?!" Spargo said, "They're talking about us like we're the Red Terror, inventing conspiracies and plots and assassination attempts and fables of poisoned wells.  Soon they'll try to make a law prohibiting us from even talking about Socialism!"

	"Save it for your newspaper!" Emma said, "There are workers at your feet who need your help right now."

	"More like corpses at your feet," Agent 354 said, "Go ahead, let the workers try and dig them up, see how many more fall in from their drunken stupor."

	"And we should let you help us in doing this?" Spargo chanted, "Your cheap, shoddy equipment crushed human lives, and now you're going to cart them away in cheap, shoddy wheelbarrows, just before the axle shatters, the body falls in a ditch, and you walk away with a shrug and sigh, your legacy nothing more than delivering a disgraceful funeral!"

	Others began to join in, as shouting and screaming made up the passions of the scene.  "Ever since you switched to the suppliers from Crete, all of our baskets rot through and deliver several pounds of rubble and rock onto your feet!" ~ "Yeah, I've seen those baskets being used, you sit on them when you're drinking and smoking that dope!  That's not how you're supposed to use it!"  Spargo and Agent 354 were a bit startled by what was happening, as neither of them had even known about the issue with the baskets, but they were now ready to make profitable use of anything that could be used to break up these people.

	"You know that we can't just pray for the metal to come out of the ground!  We have to work, with our hands and our minds, to make something useful out of something that's not!  You Capitalists could take a lesson from that!" ~ "You're the ones who can't manage your own finances!  Even if you could dig up a rock that was worth the world, you wouldn't be able to figure it out!  You'd just keep digging until your workshift was up!" ~ "There was once a time when a mine explosion would happen and we would throw rocks at you until you left town!" ~ "Oh, yeah?  Just try it, loud-talking Communists!  Throw a word, I don't doubt it, but throw something of substance, I don't believe it!" ~ "Take some responsibility for what you own, because you do nothing!" ~ "And you take responsible for what you do, because you don't own anything!" ~ "Save it for your sermons!" ~ "Save it for your pamphlets!"

	And once again, after much hesitation and thought, the roar and scream of a mob divided into halves was finally brought to stillness, as one man spoke, "The greatness of Anarchia is based on the fact that we can have conversations about such important issues and that we can become so deeply passionate about in those arguments, but at the end of the day, you still dig your friends out from the dirt of the avalanche."  

	"Don't forget the people you argue with are your neighbors," one woman spoke, "Don't forget that your children go to school with their children.  Don't forget that if you cut off everyone who's not Communist or Capitalist like you, you're going to need to explain to your child in extreme detail why they can't play with these children or those children.  You have a right to your thoughts, a right to think whatever you want, and a right to have heartiness about it.  But you also have an obligation to those that you work with to be honest, and there's nothing honest about letting your co-workers and neighbors die while you argue about politics."

	There was a stillness in the air, a contrast of black against white, a starkness of void against fulfillment, the humidity of the seas against the dryness of sun-scorched earth.  Again, the silence broke, not this time with either Agent 354 or Spargo, but with mutterings and grumblings amongst the crowd.  "Those Capitalists have always ripped us off in their dealings, have always walked into our mines telling us how to do things." ~ "Those Communists know more about how to talk revolution than how to dig out anything of value from this world." ~ "You know that if we fight back against property, then they're going to try and suppress us, in the most brutal and bloody ways imaginable." ~ "Can you hear that?  It's the threat of Revolution.  The Communists are coming, and no family is safe!  Guard your children and your belongings!  That's what they come for!"

	Benjamin and Emma stood side-by-side in that tumultuous churning of anger and words, constantly examining face after face, looking at expression after expression, hearing chant after chant and argument after argument and accusation after accusation.  The crowd itself was physically splitting into halves, those with Capitalist background standing closer to Benjamin on the Western side of the mine, and those with Communist background standing closer to Emma in the East.  The arguments became louder, the voices became angrier, the sound of feet and movement only added to the excitement everyone was feeling.

	"What about the original myth?  Don't you remember?" Emma said, "The division in society is not one between worker and owner but one between dominated and dominator.  If it's true that these laborers were misled in their purchasing decisions, and that they were exploited and put into a submissive position by greater powers than themselves, then absolutely, we shall rally to them one hundred percent.  But it will not be a battle between the workers and the owners, the Communists and the Capitalists.  It will be a battle between authority and liberty."

	"Just the same, we will rally to the cause of any merchant unjustly accused of selling defective goods or any trader inappropriately subjected to the torments of false gossip," Benjamin added in, "We're not Communists and Capitalists.  We're mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, friends, lovers, neighbors, and children, but who just happen to be either Communist or Capitalist or maybe neither or possibly even both.  Trust a Babylonian telling you that you need a Capitalist authority like you would trust a Greek telling you that you need a Communist authority.  Do you really want to bring in someone who is going to rule you, and let them convince you of their myth of Communism versus Capitalism?  Or do you believe in the Original Myth of Anarchia, that humanity was split into halves, not by property-owner or property-less, but by authority and liberty?"

	"It was a myth, though, just a myth," Agent 354 said, "You knew it was basically just a lie, but then you built up an entire society upon it, right before it broke beneath its own weight."

	"There was as much substance to it as any other myth," Spargo replied, "Stop pointing to Athens or Babylon when someone brings attention to your faults.  Maybe building a world out of an incorrect, mythological idea was unintelligent."

	"Sometimes it's what people believe that matters more than the actual situation," Emma said.

	"Never!" Spargo responded, "The subjective conditions can only ripen when the objective conditions have been achieved.  You can't save yourself from drowning by hoping for it.  You have to swim."

	"If it didn't matter what people believed, then why would any of them unite or separate?" Benjamin asked.

	"Necessity!" Agent 354 replied, "People come together when they need to and break apart when they need to, just like the workers breaking away from the Capitalists and the farmers breaking away from the Communists."

	The crowd grew ravenous and uncontrollable.  The two sides were separated physically and continually took advantage of this knowledge by making dirty faces or pointing at individuals coupled with indiscreet whispering.  Yelling and screaming, hollering and arguing, the mobs knew their own separation, their own division.  "You can't control people!" Emma screamed ~ "You can't change people!" Benjamin yelled.

	And then finally, someone made the suggestion.  "You threaten us with being responsible with this with such severity and hatred, that the only way I can feel secure now is if I know someone can protect me, someone like the state," said one Capitalist carter, in an almost joking manner.

	But the suggestion was already in the air.  It had already been said, and there was no way to unsay it.  "Oh, you need to be protected from us?" the voice returned was deeply serious.  "We're the ones who are dying miserably and horribly doing hard and painful labor.  You're the ones we need to protect ourselves against!" screamed back the Communist miner.

	"You want to make a government!?" Emma screamed, "Don't make yourselves look like ridiculous Anarchists."

	"You can't possibly want a state!?" Benjamin yelled, "You're only making your so-called sense of independence into a wide, public joke."

	"We workers need something better than what we currently have!" Spargo rejoined the public discourse, "We can't possibly survive under conditions like these."

	"And we lovers of independence must unite our combined effort into a single, solid, powerful force," Agent 354 added in, "We each have a flogging and burning waiting for us once the so-called Workers Revolution breaks out."

	"It's not about wanting power at this point, it's about wanting some way to protect us from your exploitation!" screamed one miner.  "It was never about power, it was always about you trying to uplift and overthrow any group of people with the justification that they're a 'system,'" screamed back one carter.  "Overthrow the rule of Property!" ~ "Resist the brutality of Revolution!" ~ "Awaken to the lies of their churches!" ~ "Don't forget the ignorance of their presses!"  Capitalist and Communist, one against the other, all of the intellectuals and small-property owners and farmers on the side of Capitalism, and all of the miners and engineers and technicians on the other.

	"You have no right to impose authority on -- " Emma spoke, but her words were drowned out by those of workers and laborers.

	"A state isn't going to make independence into -- " Ben spoke, but his words went up in smoke by the flaming roars of his clerks and carters.

	The argument went on and on, screaming and roaring, laughing and gesturing, even at points shoving and making physical threats, until finally, Emma screamed.  "If you want a state, then make your state!" she said, "Divide into halves, break up into insignificant pieces!  Forget everything you don't know, because it could threaten you!  But, I can't make that decision for you.  Only you can.  But right now, we have something to do.  We need to save those imperiled by this calamity.  Divide up when you want, but right now, do something about your friends."

	The miners and carters worked, the one on the East side and the other on the West side, each of them digging out the rubble and carting it away on their own, struggling with skills they've never imagined they would have to use, but the entire operation was done in complete silence, excepting the loud hollering that normally occurs with reaching those lost deep in the Earth's ravine.  By the day's end, they had recovered every person from the depths of the mine -- only one of them was still alive.  The Capitalists went their way with the cadavers of their friends, and the Communists went away with the corpses of their comrades.  This was the day that the difference between Communist and Capitalist meant something in Anarchia.  The separate activities could only produce one living, human being out of the rubble of disaster.

		Chapter 25: Half of a World

	The Communists and the Capitalists in Anarchia had split into halves.  Both Benjamin and Emma were begged by their people to do something about the situation.  It wasn't just the begging of a few revolutionaries.  It was the begging of mothers and fathers with families, it was the begging of isolated spirits of revolt amidst a mass of society, it was the begging of children who would never know their parents, it was the begging of the disenchanted, the lost, the forgotten, the ignored.  Emma and Benjamin felt every word.  "They are my people, so I must follow them," [*1] they each thought to themselves.  And so Anarchia was divided.  The one side Communist on the Left, the other side Capitalist on the Right.  Like a planet separated into two hemispheres by some cartographer's fingers, or a tree split down its center by lighting, there was no longer the world of the Anarchists.  There was only the half-world of Anarcho-Communists and the half-world of Anarcho-Capitalists.

*1.  Unknown, although often attributed to Alexandre Auguste Ledru-Rollin and a Maoist general from the People's Republic of China.

	Spargo had convinced Emma of an agreement and promise by Solon and the Athenian Communist Party that she could return and rejoin the city with her people, just as Benjamin had been convinced of the same thing by Agent 354, even if Benjamin only knew her as "Ally."  The Socialists, the Cooperativists, the Unionists, and even the "pure Marxists" and "out-and-out Anarchist-Communists" were all to be welcomed back to Athens, Spargo carrying a letter promising as much with a seal of approval from the Chairman of the Communist Party.  The Farmers, the Professors, the Small Shopkeepers, and even the "purely-military trained" and "entirely undisciplined Anarchist-Capitalists" were to be forgiven and accepted back at Babylon.  Agent 354 held signed letters from Hammurabi and the General from the Babylonian Military Academy to prove her claims to Benjamin.  The dreams of the workers in Anarchia now shifted towards Athens, and those of the poor peasant and the middle-class intellectual shifted back towards Babylon.

	"Oh, my friends, it is time for us all to depart, I suppose," a random voice could be heard among the crowds, breaking the silence of an overly solemn departure meeting with a turn of sarcasm and humor.  But it was this splitting into halves that both Benjamin and Emma were taking very seriously.  She gave speeches that confirmed the feelings of her people, he spoke in a way that touched the thoughts of his people.  Her pamphlets against his newspapers, her incantations against his reiterations, her activity against his dignity, the Anarchists were truly split.  Spargo and Agent 354 remained on scene to guarantee that they would accomplish what they were tasked with.  The rage and ferocity and tearfulness and argumentativeness of the atmosphere only tinged them more and more with secret smiles and hidden happiness.  As the suffering and disagreement of all increased, the happiness and pleasure of those two increased.

	The final decisions were being made, the votes were being counted, the Anarchists were making their future.  Emma stood with the Communists, Benjamin stood with the Capitalists.  It was already clear to everyone what the referendum results would be, everyone could already tell that the vote for splitting was going to pass.  It was announced, met with a mixture of grief and joy, some of the shouts not clearly one or the other.  The Anarchists had decided to no longer live in Anarchy, and to return their respective homes of Athens and Babylon.  And just at that moment, when Emma and Benjamin were shaking hands, in their parting moment of farewell, in the distance they could see something -- there was a hooded man rushing up to them, panting and out of breathe, sweat rushing down his forehead and vapor out of his lungs.  "Stop!  Stop!" he shouted, "You can't do this!"  It was the Philosopher.

			Part VI: The Explosion

"The night was disturbed... the enthusiasm, the confidence of the preceding day were as though carried away by darkness.  In the morning faces were gloomy, they exchanged sad glances, there were long, discouraged silences.  Frightening rumors spread, the bad news which the leaders had succeeded in hiding the previous day circulated without anyone speaking, propelled by the invisible mouth which throws the breath of panic into crowds.  They realized that they alone had risen, that they would become rebels; chased with guns like wild beasts.  They had dreamed of a great war, the revolt of a people, the glorious conquest of their rights.  Then, in confusion, without restraint, this handful of men cried, its faith dead, its dream of justice vanished...."

--Émile Zola, 1868
Paris en decémbre: Etude historique sur le Coup d`État Paris, Ténot

		Chapter 26: The Path to Metropolis

	Someplace, far up in the skies, and far away from all of these problems of humanity, a star is being born.  But it's not being born in seconds, or minutes, or hours, or days.  It's being born over the course of millions of years, all of that primordial substance mixing together to form something that can sustain a planetary system and maybe even life.  The atoms and molecules gather and fuse and compress in ways that not a single human being can truly and completely understand.  This goes on and on endlessly, no matter how the wind blows on the planet Earth, no matter which course of direction the politics, no matter what civilization is born or what society is destroyed.  You can always look up and see it, even if the only thing you want to do when in your public community is look down and see nothing.  On Earth, millions could be executed or saved from the perils of execution in a single second -- the stars don't care.  They don't flicker more or less, they don't shine brighter or dimmer, they don't lose their hydrogen-based core more or less because of what happens here.  You can always look up, and remember, everything still goes on, everything still exists, no matter what happens here now, no matter what happens here today.

	If you were to watch from a great height over a long enough time, the Philosopher's journey from Athens to Anarchia looked like a series of long hikes interrupted by small breaks of smoke plumes gracefully breaking through the canopy tops and making their way to the edges of the atmosphere.  He knew that his own journey was important, but he also knew that he needed to take care of himself, with enough rest and sleep and emotional release as one's spirit demands, otherwise his delivery of Philosophy would be considered defunct upon arrival.  The necessary stops were made at nearby villages to replenish food and other supplies, each time he would get more news and gossip about Anarchia, and the closer he came within the bounds of that territory, the more accurate the news became.  He heard less and less about the public orgies, the mass executions of property-owners and loyalists, and the imprisonment and brutality exposed to those who disagreed, and heard more and more about the open-air, never-ending 'market-parliament' and the worker-managed, ownerless factories.  But, he knew he was struggling against that limitation of time, only so that he could struggle against that limitation of human society.

	He still had his chance, in between panting breaths and sweating beads, to look up at night, and see that pearl in the oceans of the night sky.  Hands grasping against vines, fingers twinging between cracks in bark, eyes peering through vapors of fog, body pushing out air in the journey's path, the Philosopher still could look up and think for a moment that he might actually see his own reflection back.  The endless distance made the moon seem like an ornament against a drapery of infinite blackness, like a location that could never be reached, even by those with the purest of hearts and the cleanest of minds.  That one human being, draped in clothe over his head and around his appendages, that one figure of action and motion in a quiet and quivering environment, setting himself out from all that surrounded him, freeing himself of every mental and physical barrier, darting through the darkness and plunging through the branches, getting a step closer towards the Anarchist home and one further away from empires with each moment, the Philosopher was something different as the slow and natural changes were making him different over the course of his traveling

	There was always still the sky, where people could lose their thoughts and imagine that they might fly.  It still had its golden hews in the morning, its light blue in the afternoon, and its sparkling dots at night.  There was still something that people could focus their imagination on, there was still something people could based their inspirations on.  You could still stare at oaks until you saw geometric patterns and you could still count pebbles on the beaches.  There are still feathers that drift to Earth, cool breezes across the hottest parts of the planet, and cyclical rain activity anywhere you can find life.  There are still surprises, discoveries, moments of mercy, acts of kindness, love of families, and the bonds of community.  Wood from other continents was still drifting upon our shores and masses of air vapor still moved out with the changing of the tides.  On his way to Anarchia, a lot of things remained the same to the Philosopher since his early years.  Except, there was still Communism and Capitalism.

		Chapter 27: The City in All Its Glory

	Red bricks, wooden planks, and stone bases.  If you were far away, Anarchia looked just like any other city, and you really couldn't be certain that you were approaching it instead of Moscow or Istanbul.  It could be your home, like any other city.  But there was a lot about it that made it very different from the other urban centers sprawled out on the globe.  Just a collection of flickering lights at night and at a distance, like any other city, but the ideas and culture that breathed through it were something altogether different from all in existence at this point of time in history.  Every city is made unique, in its own way, by whatever cultural or social customs it chooses to adopt and cherish.  Venice was much more moist and Cairo was much more dry; Bombay was much more religious and what existed around what became Paris was much more rebellious.  But to Anarchia, you couldn't really ascribe any one specific attribute: independence, individualism, collectivism, society-ism, philosophy-ism, community-ism.  Every part of it was somewhat different from the rest.  Every piece differed slightly from the whole.

	Like a machine with levers and pulleys, with weights and ropes, with steam and heat, with light and sparks, the city of Anarchia was very much like the others still.  It had its city lamps, it street corner conversations, its open windows with garbled arguments, its highly-trafficked sidewalks of cobblestone mirroring the highly-trafficked roads of concrete and stone, and its most important asset, it had its own people.  They were the Anarchist People, sometimes called Anarchists, sometimes called Anarchians, or even dignified with the title Citizen of Anarchia.  They their own culture, their own customs, their own way of life, their own existence that separated them from the rest of civilization, in way that artificial boundaries of politics could never really do.  But every citizen, every member of every community, still sweats, still breathes, still excretes waste, still eats food, still emits odors, still offends neighbors, still exercises greed, still believes envy, still is cautious about hope, and still is lonesome in a crowd of people who refuse to listen or understand.  There was still plenty about Anarchia was the same as the rest of the planet.

	It was here that the Philosopher was coming to, it was here that he was about to enter.  The gates were made of wood and metal, like the gates to any other city, but they were also painted a dark black, and it was ornamented with white symbols sprawled across it, so that any potential invaders could see, that it wasn't black as a camouflage against the dirt and grime that comes with fighting -- it was the black of Revolutionary Anarchism, the ideal of liberation against the slavery of any government.  At the right angle, you could see on one wall the words "Communism Lives!" and another wall the words "Capitalism Lives!"  It's uncertain which was first, how much planning went into it, whether it was always planned or whether one was responding to the other, but nobody in the city decided to intervene and put any words about it in the middle.  There, one could only see circled A's, circled E's, circled N's, silhouettes of masked fighters, the occasional impersonation of Van Gogh using nature and revolutionary themes, and sometimes even a puppet or dummy stood up on the wall, holding a small spear and shield, covered in all black clothing.  This is where the Philosopher conversed with several of the city's guards, before being granted entrance.

	"At one time, there was nothing here, nothing at all," the Philosopher thought to himself, as he roamed those streets and passed by those buildings, "There are now houses instead of trees, people instead of animals.  I wonder how much has really changed, I wonder if they will listen to me more or less now."  He counted bricks in the buildings, measured planks of wood used for their window sills, and tried to calculate the masses of smoke coming out of their chimneys.  But this particular day, the city seemed somewhat deserted, until he passed Main Street.  And then he turned, looked, and saw this massive crowd of people, standing all together, although somewhat separated into halves, with one side listening to one speaker, and the other side listening to the other.  The Philosopher has found Emma and Benjamin.

		Chapter 28: I Wanted You Once, But Not Now

	For a few brief steps, the Philosopher listened to the group's discussion.

	"Hey, yeah, so just why are farmers all Capitalists?" asked one mechanic, "You live in dirty, grueling, brutal conditions like all of us.  You work twelve hours a day.  You have a master who comes along and collects the profits of your work, except you call it share-cropping or market-economy or something or other, while we just call it wage slavery.  Why aren't you peasants all Communists, just like all of us workers and laborers in the cities?  It makes no sense.  You should be the first to revolt, not the last!  You should be the one fighting the armies of the establishment, not enlisting as recruitments!  What makes you all so Capitalist?  Why is it that when someone digs in the ground everyday for a living, when someone kicks stones and turns trees, when someone works in streams and sleeps in the winters, why is it that all of these things can combine together to make a human being that is completely terrified of the Communist Revolution?  What made you Capitalist peasants like that?  There can't be any rational thinking about it."

	"Why are we farmers mostly Capitalist?" one peasant grabbed the crowd's attention, "It's pretty obvious, isn't it?  We each want to farm our own land, the way we want to farm it, when we want to farm, and how we want to farm it.  And we know that requires a lot of land, even if you're just growing enough potatoes to feed your family.  So the next person next to us is going to live miles and miles away.  We don't want to need and live on their dependence.  Calling a union meeting of all delegates of all farms in any region heavily dominated by a peasant economy is like saying their entire society should stop working for a week or several weeks, especially given the distance we might live apart from each other.  We don't want to have to call an international congress when the sink in our kitchen springs a leak, especially when we put in the kitchen and attached the sink ourselves -- what good would it come to then, if we were going to cry out for help from someone who could reach us after only a long and maybe difficult journey?  That's why I'm a Capitalist.  I want my own, I need my own, and the way I live demands that I have my own."

	"And the way we live demands that we have our own!" responded the Communist orator.

	"Let my crops rot for days so that I can show up and make attendance at the Communist Party meeting?" a Capitalist farmer lifted the brim of his broad hat, "That might sound appealing to those who live packed like rats in small tenements, where public transit makes every location just a walk down the street.  But to those who love fresh air and open sky, we could never have it.  We would never tolerate it.  You want to protect me from the merchant, the middle-man, the usurer, the creditor, the investor, and the corporation all at once, and your so-called 'worker parties' have always made that promise to peasants, and we always ignore it.  It's because we can grow our own food.  We might not be able to market yams and cabbage and bananas on an open-market dominated by a wealthy, trading elite, but we can live on it.  If someone tells us that they're going to deny us a fair price on what is rightfully our own, we can sit, and let our whole harvests go bad.  There's no life-or-death situation, like what faces any urban worker at 7:30 in the morning when the clock goes off.  We can always have the dignity to tell anyone that we won't do business with them, and we can be stubborn about it, and still live -- because we grow our own food.  But you workers don't know how to grow anything, and yet you think you're fit for building an organization that will change the world.  You will never understand why peasant revolts happen."

	"Stop!  Stop!  You can't do this!" the Philosopher ran, drawing one, then two, then a handful of a heads away from their speakers.  And then even Emma and Benjamin noticed.  The Philosopher had returned to them.

	"Philosopher!" Emma said, "Welcome back, but our city is no longer a city.  We now understand that we must disband, and why we must disband."

	"It's good for you to be here," Ben said, "But this is to a good place to be right now.  We shall soon desert these cottages and huts, leaving them to the torment of ravishing nature and professional armies."

	"You can't break up, you mustn't," the Philosopher's hands rested on his hands, as he bent over catching his breath, "The Anarchist City is too important, too valuable, too significant in the heart of civilization now to be broken up."

	"Philosopher, you argued with both of us when we first met," Emma said, "You said that my understanding of the world clashed too much with Ben's understanding of the world, that we fight each other over simple things when we should want important things, like happiness.  Then when we built a city, you said we were doomed, and then when we accepted Roz and Pan as heroes in the city, you said we were letting contradictions run wild on our streets.  And now, at this point in time, you've come to tell us that we can't break up what you've spent all of your time criticizing and questioning?"

	"Every word she says is true," Ben added, "You never walked through our valleys or our fields with even the slightest compliment.  You never were astonished at the tallest buildings we could erect or the most beautiful singers that we could give the world.  You never wrote a poem about love that mentioned our city or gave a lecture on truth that talked about anarchy.  These people you see here before you, these two crowds, the one are Capitalist, the other are Communist, but both were once Anarchist.  Not anymore.  And now you want to save the one thing in this world that you've never paid any homage to?"

	"Maybe I didn't ever come here to convince you of anything else before," the Philosopher said, "Maybe the only reason I came here, that I met with you two, was just so that we could talk.  Maybe I'm just someone who talks and talks, argues and argues, discusses and discusses.  Before I asked you why you got together, now I'm asking why you're breaking apart.  Don't either of you question the things that go on around you?"

	There was a quiet silence for a moment.  "It is the principle of Anarchism to question.  We question everything.  We question tradition and law and authority and the bureaucrats."

	"Of course we question things!" Emma said, "There is not one habit or prejudice or belief that we refused to question.  We questioned property and family and the nation and the gods."

	The Philosopher pulled out two pieces of parchment from the inner folds of his hooded, long coat, "Do you question yourselves at all?"  He threw them both to the ground, one marked in ornate decorations of blue and the other with a heavy, red stamp bearing the symbol of hammer-and-sickle.  "When you go through that carefully compiled list of things that deserve the suspicions of an independent mind, have you ever considered yourselves?"

	"Is that... an officially-sealed letter from the Party Headquarters in Athens?" Emma asked, "I can see the classification listing from here without picking it up."

	"That is the official letterhead and design of Hammurabi," Benjamin said, "Even the material.  I can tell that's papyrus from the Nile, not straw picked off of river ridges in Thessaloniki."

	"Why are you paying so much attention to this so-called 'Philosopher', anyway?" Spargo asked, "You know he has caused trouble before, don't be surprised that he just showed up to cause trouble again."

	"Who is this man, even?!  I've never heard of him!" Agent 354 lied, "Should we be listening to strangers on the streets who wear sandals and hooded clothing, or should we be listening to the virtues of our souls?"

	"You're a troublemaker, too, Spargo," the Philosopher replied, "Anyone can look up your past in a standard history book and make up their own mind.  And as for you, Ally, how would our souls even know of virtue, unless it had come from someone who was a stranger, because they had that blessed trait which we lacked?"

	"This is authentic," Emma said, "This letter from Solon indicates that an agent provocateur has been sent for us, to eliminate all revolutionary spirits and demoralize us to the point of either defeat or surrender."

	"The blue letter is from Hammurabi, that much I can guarantee," Benjamin said, "There's too much detail and eccentric uniqueness in the calligraphic designs.  It's too individualistic and talented to come out of a place as conformed and equalized as Athens."

	"I don't trust it!" Agent 354 spoke, "It comes from a man who claims to defend truth but does nothing more than plays tricks on his so-called friends."

	"If it's possible to steal a letter from Solon, then it must also be just as equally possible to steal an official seal and document where you can easily copy the king's signature," Spargo reacted.

	"And its intent is as cruel and crude as Solon's!" the Philosopher said, "That's the one fact you're refusing to accept when you decide to part ways to break the city into fragments."

	"Acceptance and refusal has nothing to do with it and never did!" Agent 354 responded, "That letter could have been conceived years ago and just never signed, until someone picked it up, forged Hammurabi's signature, and just passed it along, like any other letter.  You know you've had spies before, so just one letter indicating that you might have another one, shouldn't really surprise you in the least.  At least, it shouldn't, if you're really concerned about the security of these people and their families."

	"You'll accept anything written, printed, and handed to you, won't you?" Spargo added, "I once went to a village where a local commissar was using a potato half with the hammer-and-sickle inscribed on its flat side as a stamp for official party documents.  Take any old piece of parchment, print your message on it, stamp it with the potato, folder it into a ball and unwrap it a few times, and then you've suddenly got an authentic document that will get you the best seats in Athenian theaters and the highest wages in Greek mines.  You think we should base our future on something like that?"

	"You can't ignore facts!" Emma said.

	"The evidence is the most important thing, more important than any of us who examine it," Ben said, and then turning to the Philosopher, "At least, when it's the Truth that's being accused."

	"And, in all honesty," the Philosopher said, "I could be wrong.  Those spies mentioned in the letters might never have been sent, they might not have arrived, they might never have intermingled among your people, they might never even have been here.  It might be that no espionage agents ever fermented any disquiet among you to depart from each other.  Perhaps, the only thing that matters, the only thing that these letters really prove, is that there's a disconnect in the society of Anarchia that can be manipulated, controlled, and self-destructed at the will of someone who does understand that disconnect."

	"You think society is disconnected, but the reality of the matter is that the thinking, intelligent parts of society are just realizing how connected they are!" Spargo said, "We're just realizing how much we are Communist, and how much they are Capitalist."

	"Your hybrid nature of opposition is the disconnect, Philosopher," Agent 354 said, "You couldn't tell that this was the city you wanted to build when you first talked to Emma and Benjamin, you couldn't tell that this city was worthy of defense was Roz and Pan came, and now you can't tell why these discordant peoples should be kept together when separation is their only desire."

	"Independence was their only desire, that's what drove them away from Athens and Babylon, and that's what they think they're going to get by driving away from each other," the Philosopher replied, "For you intellectuals, it might matter, but for the rest of us, Communism and Capitalism are the same thing."

	"Don't you think it matters?" Ben asked, "Don't you think it matters if we have a Communist side and a Capitalist side?  Don't you think there's a point to it all when the side of property and individualism resists against the side of pillage and collectivism?"

	"Pillage is the antonym of property?" Emma asked, "I would call collective property the antonym of private property.  The antonym of property would have to be nothingness.  But that's just the way of you Capitalists, you can never imagine what it's like to have nothing."

	"One side resists the other, and the other side accuses the one of having no imagination," the Philosopher said, "So, which is it?  Do you fight the violence of the other party, or are you scared of its inability to sympathize with your suffering?  Are you aggressive, or are you timid?  Or, are all rebellious types of personalities equally guilty of this despondence between angered cruelty and compassionate curiosity?"

	"So what if spies were sent, so what if Communists and Capitalists can't make up their minds on the exact reasons that they hate each other, so what if they really agitate some old man just because they decide not to look at each other in the face anymore, so what!" Agent 354 spoke, "These are all facts that nobody will ever really be able to decide upon.  More than that, you forget what brought all of us to this point."

	"All of us?" the Philosopher said, "Didn't you just move to this city only a brief time ago?  Since when did you even show up?"

	"The explosion at the mine, that's what brought all of us to this point of splitting and breaking up," Spargo added in, "Dead workers who had struggled all through their life just to survive, that's why we're here now.  Those who sweat and struggle and work and suffer and build up every empire, those who bake the bricks then transport them then build with them and then admire those palaces from afar, those who dig the ore out of the earth and then remold it into something new and completely different -- that's why we're here now, and that's why we're breaking up."

	"Oh, the explosion?" the Philosopher asked, "Is that really it?  Those seem to be happening all over the place nowadays.  Even in Athens and Babylon.  Even when you're on the Greek plateaus or the Babylonian shores.  Even when you're talking officials who wear red sashes or officials that wear blue ribbons.  Even when you're in a land where every portrait is of Marx or you're in a land where every statue is some incarnation of god.  They all have explosions."

	"Athens is about building a new world based on Communism," Spargo said, "Explosions happen, in parliament and in party debates, absolutely, and sometimes industrial accidents or espionage occurs, but our vision of the future is one where no such explosions will ever occur."

	"Babylon always burns the fire its opponents despise," Agent 354 said, "Babylonian explosions do happen, but its usually the burst of catapult and sling, the roar of captains and lieutenants, the melody of wardrum and the marching with flag, even the open airs and the clear skies alone are enough to count as an explosion.  Besides, the capital of the Babylonian Empire gets most of its metal from imports, and if those nations treat their own people badly, then that's their responsibility."

	"Are you at least still responsible to yourself for what you do?" the Philosopher asked, "You've both asked me a lot of questions why I'm here interfering.  Now I have a question for you.  Why should the city break up?  You're the organizers of the coup.  Now explain its justification."

	"The people themselves decided, and they've always had it decided," Agent 354 said, "There never was any one people, but there were only two peoples, living side-by-side, the one Capitalist and proud of its hard work, the other Communist and begging for handouts.  We didn't break up anything.  It was like this when we got here."

	"There are two classes, the owners and the ownerless," Spargo said, "The difference between the two are so great, because the one is often the exploiter and the other is often the exploited.  The division of Anarchia into two separate parts wasn't something that just happened overnight.  It was something that was necessary because of the prevailing way in how historical changes sweep over all of humanity and civilization.  Nobody could stop it."

	"Changes?" the Philosopher smiled, "I think you two are just trolls, sent here from the ambitions of kings far away or maybe just from the illusions of success you get from receiving a response.  Let me tell you a story, not just you Spargo and Ally.  But, I want you, Emma and Benjamin, to pay attention."

	"An old man wants to turn a tale," Spargo said, "Go ahead, it's in your veins, you can't stop it and neither can we."

	"In the village where I'm from, we never heard an elder speak without first giving reverence to the generations of obedient soldiers who had passed while fighting for us," Agent 354 said, "But I'll let you have your words, since you'll have them anyway."

	"Besides, I want to hear them," Emma said.

	"So do I," Benjamin added in.

	"There was once a village that was on the border between the Egyptian and the Ethiopian Empires, the village of Aoeutuear," the Philosopher said, "It was full of landowners, most of them possessing only a small profit after sustaining themselves and their families.  But they were very proud, independent-thinking thinking landowners, each of them self-sufficient and quite hateful of the Communist regimes creeping up on them at any moment.  But then a war broke out, between the Capitalist Egyptian Empire and the Communist Ethiopian Empire.  The small village, full of landowners, chose to side with the Communists, almost unanimously.  And they fought harder than any other village among the Communists.  When they were ordered of surrender and retreat, they dug in deeper and held every position, suffering food and water shortages, before before sieged and finally stormed, with every villager being sentenced to execution.

	"So, what was it about this small village, Aoeutuear, that was different from the others?" the Philosopher asked, "Quite simply this: religion.  The Egyptians, while Capitalist, were going to impose a state-mandated religion on the citizens of Aoeutuear.  The Ethiopians, while despised as Communist, had let them do whatever they cared with religion -- which just happened to be nothing at all.  The villagers, their life, and their culture altogether was largely Atheist.  But they were small landowners who always lived as Capitalists but then fought and died for Communists.  If you understand how they could have fought so hard against such miserable odds, then you know more than I do."

	"You want to figure out which is better, Communist or Capitalist?  Well, fine!  But you have the time to take a thousand years to figure that out!" the Philosopher said, "In the meantime, you don't have to be killing each other at the marked orders of some imperial overlord.  That's all this is going to reduce to if you really decide to leave."

	"Why do you always show up to disagree with us about things?" Emma asked.

	"I've only been asking questions.  Maybe you've misinterpreted me this whole time," the Philosopher responded.

	"But Philosopher, we have to separate now, you know that," Emma said, "We're at a stalemate.  There's no way the Anarchians can win against the Greeks and the Babylonians.  There's nothing that we have to move against them and there's nothing they have to move against us.  Humanity can't make any forward strides until these borders can shift back and forth again, until old tyrannies can be disestablished and ancient customs of domination can be ripped.  When you're stuck in mutual grip with your wrestling opponent, you sometimes have to lose a little bit of a ground just to escape the grip -- we have to do this.  There's no other choice for there to be any real, revolutionary Communism in the world unless the Anarchist City splits."

	"Don't do this," the Philosopher said, "Just don't do it.  You're so impatient for humanity to make just one stride forward, that you'd sacrifice so much work and so quickly, so many hopes and homes, so much for the masses and so much for the individual -- but you're completely unlike me in that matter.  I'm prepared to sit and wait a thousand years, knowing that any human being who wants to be free can be free, and any human being who wants to be a slave can be a slave.  I don't mind waiting out that stalemate for any amount of time.  A situation like that can never last.  And even if it does, I would never treat the situation...like I was stuck and had no choice."

	"We are stuck and we have no choice!" Benjamin said.

	"Choose to look at this cloud or that cloud, choose to plant purple flowers or orange flowers," the Philosopher said, "Be happy that your children are free, and choose the damn colors you want in your garden."

	"I choose liberty for all of humanity, and I won't accept anything less!" Emma replied.

	"Then someone else is going to make the choice before you do," the Philosopher replied, "You're giving up so that you can get out of a stalemate.  What you're really doing is letting someone else make decisions for you.  Giving up now means that you have less heart that your opponent to wait it out.  Don't you believe in your own causes enough for that?"

	"We believe in our own causes too much!" Benjamin said.

	"Finally, something well-put by the Capitalist entrepreneur!" Emma replied, to the unpleasant smirk of her former colleague.

	"You have no right to do this to the people who always stood by you from the beginning," the Philosopher replied, "The carpenters and blacksmiths from Athens, the farmers and teachers from Babylonia, they moved their entire lives, their whole families, from one part of the world to another, just for you and your dream.  And what happens when someone finally listens to you, for once, out of a thousand years of miserable existence of being alone?  You end it, before they can.  Am I right?"

	"No, you're wrong," Benjamin said, "You never understood my motive or tried to understand it."

	"You've always run away when someone doesn't understand you," the Philosopher replied, "Did it save you before?  Do you think it's going to save you now?"

	"The problem with you Anarchists is that you've forgotten the diligence of your parents!" Spargo said, "Don't you remember what is worth living by?  'The early bird gets the worm'?"

	"I'm a Vegan," Emma said "How does that slogan even vaguely apply to me?"

	"And I'm a Vegetarian," Benjamin added in, "And the only dairy I eat comes from animals that I raised from birth."

	"It's symbolic!" Agent 354 shouted, "It's not supposed to mean that you eat an actual worm.  It just means that you need more drive and initiative in your life, and that's the real fault with this Anarchist society.  You have no initiative."

	"We live by 'Patience is a Virtue' instead," Emma said.

	"Saying 'The early bird gets the worm' is like saying 'The ambitious emperor gets the slaves,'" Benjamin said, "And that's the real fault with Statist society."

	"Do you live by the sayings of freedom, or have you only lived by them?  Apparently, not all Anarchists have resolved their differences.  Maybe only the first Anarchists did that, the rest simply followed along, until at a single moment, a rift was split open among their millions, when it was based on the solidarity and community of just two people," the Philosopher said, "Maybe two of you have resolved what's different about you and have come to peaceful terms with those differences, but for the rest, it seems like you've always been eyeing each other in evil ways, suspecting each other in crude fashion, and being almost quick to persecute those who seem too weird when asked the question 'so what do you think about authority and property?'"

	"Listen to me!" Spargo said, "You have to listen to me!  This man came here before to break the city apart when Roz and Pan showed up, and now that two new personalities are here, he wants to force you us to stay together!  He never came here with any purpose but to disagree with us."

	"He wanted to break up the city, when it could become something amazing," Agent 354 said, "But now he wants to keep it together, because he knows he's keeping its members from reaching their fullest potential."

	"You've heard the things I've said, haven't you?" the Philosopher said, "What are you going to do?"

	"I'm going to stay," Emma said, to large boo'ing from the crowd, "And if anyone out there wants to go, they should go!  I don't intend to keep you.  Statist-Communism is evil because it pretends to eliminate the suffering of Capitalism while creating its own unique form of suffering."

	"And I'm here to stay, too," Benjamin said, "If any farmer or professor leaves, by all means, your lecture hall and your fields won't miss you.  Statist-Capitalism is evil because it's based on the ancient tradition of the strong and powerful dominating the weak and vulnerable."

	There was some mild, disgruntled shoving and elbowing in the crowd, but the group finally calmed down.

	"Oh, it looks like some friends have come back home," Benjamin said.  The Philosopher looked up.  It was Roz and Pan, arriving with small contingents of the First and Second Anarchist Armies.

	"They are our friends, aren't they?" Emma said, "At least now, don't you believe it, Philosopher?"

	The Philosopher looked to the ground, measured a stone's distance across the dust of the city's market floor, and finally returned the glance, "No, this isn't right."

		Chapter 29: A City Welcomes Back Its Heroes

	"Ah, I see the Philosopher has returned to us," Roz spoke, "Come to break up our city again?"

	"No, not this time," the Philosopher replied, "Just the opposite, actually."

	Roz's eyes turned to Emma and Benjamin, just then noticing that a mass of Communist miners and blacksmiths stood behind Emma and a crowd of Capitalist farmers and intellectuals stood behind Benjamin.  "Is what he's saying true?" Roz asked, his eyebrow furled, "Are you really splitting in half?  Are you really breaking up?"

	"Of course it can't be true," Pan added in, "This must be another piece of mischief on behalf of this cunning man who seems to get so much pleasure out of arguing with people.  It's a joke, a ruse, an intrigue, a hoax!  You can't truly and genuinely be serious, Philosopher?  These people cannot be splitting up into halves.  We found the perfect social organization that accounts for each and every one of human kind's impulses and needs.  Why would a bunch of Anarchists break that up when its a social organization based on the abolishment of authority?"

	"We're not breaking up," Emma said, "We were going to, but then the Philosopher came, and said something things, and well, it seems like things are different now."

	"We decided to stay together, to keep the city and its people as one whole," Ben added in, "We're not going to tear down these walls or demolish our capital.  We're going to keep it all together."

	"You're making these decisions on your own?" Pan asked, "Just you two, by yourselves, are steering the course of the ship named Anarchia?  Did Anarcho-Communists suddenly lose all sense of Democratic choice?"

	"We've spent months and months in woods and hills, at riverheads and mountains, watching our best friends die and losing part of ourselves when we kill an enemy in vengeance, we've suffered and we've suffered a lot more than the farmers or the metalworkers or the professors or the social workers," Roz said, "And you?  Just you, and nobody else, you two, you're going to tear apart everything that we Marxists and Militarists have fought for?  You're going to say that our blood and our sweat isn't worth the same as your dreams and your ideals?  What makes you think you ever had the right to make this decision?"

	"I never decided anything for anyone else," Emma said, "I decided what I wanted for myself, expressed myself like I've always done, let others pick up some of my influence, and then went on my way.  I never told anyone to do anything.  I never tried to be in charge of anyone."

	"I made decisions for myself and nobody else," Ben said, "I didn't come here to master others, but only to master my own mind and soul.  If there are others who believe that their own minds and souls matter, then it is up to them to master themselves.  My quest is one with myself, and nobody else.  I'm not here for the others -- the Revolution, as far as it's come this far, is about my individualism, just like the others participate in it, because it is about their own individualism."

	"You were going to break up the city without the most important contributors to its liberty and independence?" Roz asked, "I can't respect you.  Either of you.  The unknown soldier.  That's who I respect," Roz said.

	"The unknown soldier is not unknown," the Philosopher said with a smile, "You simply forgot who they were."

	"I can hardly believe that you were willing to do this," Pan said, "You wanted to bring together humanity into a sort of Libertarian-style form of Communism and Collectivism, but now, when it comes time for that new humanity and its society to make a decision, all Communism and Collectivism is gone.  The decision is in your hands, coming out of your own so-called individual voice, like the written orders of a Capitalist General from Babylon."

	"Write down an individual's will like you're writing down predictions," the Philosopher smiled again, "And both pieces of paper will be equally inaccurate."

	"I can see why you're not married, Philosopher.  No woman in the world could put up with you arguing with her all the time," Roz said.

	"He makes a good point," Pan said, "You're the pure Individualist.  You're the one who wouldn't work the others here, while Emma and Benjamin were willing to make idealistic sacrifices to create what was unique.  You never worked with anyone, we have."

	"I worked with the Truth," the Philosopher, "That was the only partner I had when I worked with getting my own independence.  That was the only thing I needed to work with to get here.  That was the only thing that carried me."

	"Obscure phrases and uncertain ideas," Benjamin said, "That's what the Truth has been and what the Truth will always be.  As for our destiny, it's something that we need to work out for ourselves.  It's something that we need to decide because of our own experiences, and not because of our devotion to some idea.  If we were totally and completely devoted to either Anarchist-Communism or Anarchist-Capitalism, then it wouldn't have been possible for us to work together and build this city that you're so intent on keeping intact."

	"Benjamin's right," Emma said, "We built our city out of the intentions of reaching our goals, which was either Anarchist-Communism or Anarchist-Capitalism, and then we decided to break up, and go back home, to Athens and Babylon, for the very same exact reason.  We learned from our experience together.  We have that sharpened skill of knowing what type of people we can live with and what type of people we can't live with.  To stay together would be to let all of our social training to atrophy, to allow all of our emotional thought to decay.  That's why we need to split up.  To make use of what we learned politically."

	"You sometimes make me think that it really is better for an individual to pass out and lose all consciousness, making themselves completely vulnerable, if it means sparing them suffering," the Philosopher said, "So try to make use of what you learned politically.  What was the point of the original myth?"

	"What?" Pan said, "You're not here to argue politics.  You're just here to argue with us.  It's not about convincing us of this idea or that idea, you just want to stir up human airs like disturbing the peace of a pond by throwing rocks into it."

	"And since when have you ever wanted to be politically involved?" Roz asked, "I recall once you had said, 'The day I associate myself with a political ideal is the day you can accuse me of lying for it.'  Isn't that right?"

	"Yes, I said that," the Philosopher replied, "But I know the difference between a happy people and an unhappy people, I know the difference of what it's like to live in Anarchia against living in Babylon or Greece.  You're not just making a decision for yourselves, you're making a decision for a lot of people and for a long time to come."

	"The Original Myth!" the Philosopher screamed again, "What was the importance of it?  I know what you think, Spargo and Ally; I can pretty much guess what you think, Roz and Pan; but you, Emma and Benjamin, please, tell me what you think is important about it."

	"It didn't mean anything at all," Emma said, "All myths are just that, myths.  They're legends, not histories.  They're culture, not social decision-making."

	"We never believed they had to be the Truth, or anything like it," Benjamin said, "We invented an idea like the farmer who ties a rock to a branch to create the plough."

	"And do you really think you know everything that's going through my mind, without the least bit of doubt about it in yours?" Spargo asked.

	"What a wonderful spectacle we have here," Agent 354 said, "There's one person in this entire city trying to keep Anarchy all together, and now he thinks he can treat us like his subjects."

	"And there's at least two people here in the city who don't believe in what they're saying," the Philosopher replied.

	"Ha, Truth and the Philosopher," Spargo said, "You're like all conservative peasants, you sit idle with your hands on your lap and take every abuse from your masters, but at the moment a revolutionary shows up to break every chain that held you in bondage, then you show up in the cities and with great fury, burning and crucifying any rebels you can get your hands on."

	"The course of Truth is as trackable as the weather," the Philosopher replied, "Its thunder storms and hurricanes burst into cities from the woods with neither warning nor caution, and disappear into complete calm and quietness just as quickly.  Don't mistake careful thought for laziness and stupidity."

	"That theory about an original anarchist society is hilarious, anyway," Agent 354 added in, "You didn't even need any objective evidence for the theory -- you just basically convinced each other of it with your enthusiasm.  Isn't it time you left behind these childish pursuits of playing Anarchist, came home, and accepted the adult role of an obedient student?  If you think you can learn from staying here any longer, then you're dead wrong."

	"And what makes either you or Spargo think that there was anything really wrong with the Anarchist use of the Original Myth?  At least, how was it any more wrong than how than how Statists in Athens and Babylon use it?" The Philosopher said, "Using information to hurt someone is cruel.  Use information to expand your mind, to widen your consciousness, to start revolts and revolutions, to create inventions and discover universes, or just use it to keep the fire in your house going every night.  But don't ever use it to hurt someone.  You are disrespecting the person you hurt, and you are disrespecting truth.  And if you insult and curse and twist and bend the truth to do what you want, you may soon find yourself very far away from it."

	"And I'm not making decisions for anyone else, I'm only making decisions for myself," Emma said, "If others like my ideas and go along with them, then I'm as much a leader to them as any well-known painter, any hard-working farmer, any talented metalworker, any fluent intellectual.  We never told anyone how to do things.  We simply told others how we do things, and they decided that they liked our ideas as much as we do.  We're staying together in the Anarchist city because we all like think something nice of Anarchy."

	"Communism and Capitalism have to be the same thing.  I mean, just look at them, they each have the same number of letters!" a drunken voice chirped.

	"Well, I think the point of it is --" Emma was interrupted.

	"No, wait, no they don't," the same drunken voice resounded again.

	"The fact we need to bring ourselves to face is --" Benjamin was interrupted.

	"Oh, wait, yeah, they do have the same number of letters!" the drunkard spoke again, "Oh, wait, wait, wait, maybe.... maybe not.  I'm too drunk to count."

	"Explain it to Pan," Spargo spoke, "Emma, tell him -- tell him why we are deciding to stay together."

	"We're staying together because we hate the ideals of Statism, whether they come from Communist rulers or Capitalist rulers," Emma said, "It's that simple."

	"That's not exactly what you said," Agent 354 said, "Benjamin, tell Roz -- tell him why we are staying as one.  Explain it clearly."

	"Is the blindfold for the shooter or the victim?" the Philosopher asked.

	"You've got a saying for everything, Philosopher," Spargo said, "But questions don't look for coined phrases and popular analogies.  Questions look for answers.  Now do you, Emma and Benjamin, have an answer?  What made you want to go back to your homes in Athens and Babylon?"

	"It's quite clear to me, and it should have been quite clear to me a long time ago," Benjamin said, "Capitalism is just a game where individuals can use property to make them servants to their private empires, just as Hammurabi and Solon do to their own people."

	"But I'm a Capitalist," Roz said, "What's wrong with me having my own garden to tend every morning before departing for the bloodshed of your liberty?"

	"Before you finish, Roz, let Emma answer," Agent 354 said, "You know why the Anarcho-Capitalist wants to stay in Anarchia.  Now let's get an answer out of the Anarcho-Communist."

	"Communism is the same game as Capitalism," Emma said, "It's about using the seal of Officialdom and Bureaucracy to steal the fruits of another's labor while contributing nothing to the great masses."

	"I'm a Communist," Pan said, "Why can't we workers have a right to the factories that we built together, that we manage together, that wouldn't exist at all unless we had the fortitude, the will, and the power to coordinate together?"

	"You see now," Spargo said, "There is a big difference between Communism, as you and I believe in it, Pan, versus the Communism of the so-called Anarcho-Communist.  You going to let Emma break up the city whenever she wants to and for whatever reason at all?"

	"It's good for the mind to realize that, every now and then, you can be wrong, no matter how brilliant you are," the Philosopher said.

	"What instigated you to all of this anyway?" Agent 354, "Why would you take so much trouble to keep together these Anarchists?"

	"Some serve causes, some serve their own needs, and others serve themselves," the Philosopher said.

	"What did you say about Capitalism, Benjamin?" Roz asked, "That it was nothing more than a ploy to steal from hard-working people?  Is that what you think about me?  While you're here arguing and bickering and disagreeing, while I'm out there in fields and amidst the trees sacrificing every convenience for our city's sanctuary, while the Greek and Babylonian armies get closer and closer, while all of this is happening, you decide that Capitalists, and people like me, just want to use possession as a means to exploit other people?"

	"What did you say about Communism, Emma?" Pan asked, "That it was a myth, a superstition, a guise, a hoax, a ruse?  That it was just some veil that politicians and party members hold over themselves while their sheers are trimming all the flock and their cleavers are removing any black sheep?  That all Communism was just an impersonation of goodness while actually being Capitalism, that Communists were people who wanted to use property to take the labor from others?  Is that really what you believe of us Communists?"

	"What gives you the right to ask those questions?" Emma asked.

	"They have every right to ask them!" the Philosopher screamed, "They asked those questions when they showed here to help the city.  You didn't answer them then, you can't answer them now.  Even I asked that question, only nobody thought it was asked politely enough to merit a response.  You were all busy getting on with your Revolution.  What some old crazy man in the corner had to say was unimportant."

	"We were at war," Emma said, "We didn't have time for words, only time for fighting.  Maybe you had time for speaking, but our lives demanded that we make time for struggle."

	"Each one of us could have died if we spent time listening to your arguments instead of using that time to sharpen our blades," Benjamin said, "Communist or Capitalist doesn't matter much at a time like that, when those who believe in liberty are your family and those who oppose it want to kill your family."

	"You you you!" Roz spit to the ground, "You make decisions for yourself, not the group, Emma.  You do what you want, not what anyone else wants you to do, Benjamin.  It's all about you, like some cafe intellectuals who don't know a single thing about work.  You were going to break up an entire civilization just because of what you personally felt at heart?  Don't you think you should consult someone who believes in dying for what you feel?  Don't you think it matters what true Capitalists believe in terms of choosing who to fight with and who to fight against?  Why should I have confidence in you, when you have no confidence in me?  Why should I suffer for you, when you don't say a word in my defense?"

	"I have the same questions for both of you, Emma and Benjamin," Pan looked up from his disgust, "Here you are, these two statues and monuments of your own ideological faith, both of them Revolutionary Anarchist, one leaning to the Left and the other leaning to the Right, but neither of them really pointing in any one direction and neither of them really certain where they're going.  As soon as you lose that common weight holding you both together, you drift apart in your own directions and apart from each other.  You're like children that need to be looked after.  You want to know why Communists like me believe in Marxism?  It's because workers like you waste and disperse your energies so quickly and in such a frenzied, mad-rush, mob mentality."

	"What's come over both of you?" Emma said, "We've agreed to keep the city together."

	"We're here together, as Communist or Capitalist," Benjamin said, "But all of us are Anarchists.  We all believe in liberty.  That's the only faith our city needs."

	Roz and Pan looked to each other for a moment, and then turned back to their audience.  "If you're going to break up this city so quickly and without so much as a thought to send for my opinion, then we don't want you here."

	"Get out, both of you," Pan said, "Take your huddled masses with you.  The only people we want here are those who are going to fight for liberty, and who won't take the decision into their own hands to break up an entire city without calling for a vote."

	"You're seriously joking!" Benjamin said, "You can't make us leave.  This is our city."

	"Before or after you decided to break it up?" Roz said, "Because Pan and I never decided to split our city in half.  You did.  Now stand up to the promise.  The First and Second Anarchist Armies will assist you out, if you have trouble getting to the front gates."

	"You're going to force us out!?" Emma said, "How can you be Anarchists and use force against civilians!?"

	"How can you be an Anarchist and make a decision that effects in the most crucial and intimate ways that millions of people will live?" Pan asked, "Your continued presence here is just more and more of a threat to us."

	"Roz, what did you ever want out of your fight with Hammurabi?" Benjamin asked, "What did you think you were going to get out of fighting with the person who made you First Officer, then Lieutenant, then Captain, then Major, then General?"

	"I'd answer the question, if I knew I wasn't talking to some vagrant," Roz said, "Because even if we let you stay here, you'd just want to break up the remaining human resources available for our armies and the tilling of our fields."

	"Would you answer the question, if you knew that Truth wanted to know?" the Philosopher asked, "And if you're so harsh on vagrants, what are you going to do with me?"

	"You don't want to break up our city, so you're not a threat," Roz said, "Asking what to do with someone who comes here to talk versus what to do with someone who tears down the city's defensive walls is like asking what to do with water versus fire.  And you want to know why I'd fight Hammurabi?  Maybe it's because I know the true evil inside of him, because I've been closer to him than any other human being in this city.  Ben, if you want to go cuddle up next to your master, the door's open.  You can leave any time."

	"We have prerogative here!" Emma said, "We were here first!"

	"Prerogative is the word of kings and queens, and you're no queen, Emma," Roz said, "Get out now, or you'll be forced to leave."  Several contingents of archers from the First and Second Anarchist Armies took to the roofs of several residences and raised their bows in the air.  "Get out!  You filthy vermin, you couldn't keep a city safe on its own and even by yourself, you want to destroy it!  Get out, get out, get out!!"

	Emma spoke, "You're right.  We don't need you Capitalists.  There was on old Capitalist once who used to tell me, 'Nobody understands you Communists.  If you want to get paid more, ask for a raise, and if your boss tells you no, then you quietly and carefully listen to his reasons.'  I'm not demanding a raise, I'm fighting for a world where nobody has to ask for their right to live."

	"Like Roz, I don't get you Communists, but I'd never tell you to ask someone for what you should be just taking for yourself," Benjamin replied, "Why do you need to demand or even ask for anything?  You're the biggest obstacle to getting your own wishes, and you're too busy relying on those around you to realize it."

	"In Athens, we believe in equality so much, that we've equalized everything -- even knowledge is equally held, so there's on point in building a pillar with the rules on every street corner.  That seems like an awkward thing for an Anarchist to be proud of.  Are you even sure that you're really an Anarchist?"

	"Are you even sure of that yourself!?  I haven't seen more conformity and rigidity than in the lifestyle and order of Athens."

	"The only conformity and rigidity you can be proud of in Babylon is poverty and servility, and just look at the trouble you Capitalists had getting the philosopher to visit your city."

	"Please, don't let any of the responsibility for this evening's proceedings to fall on me," the Philosopher said, "But at the same time, I don't think any of you should be doing any of this.  Stop, don't break into halves, or thirds, or quarters.  Stop, don't do it,"

	"I've never listened to anyone who told me to stop before, and I'm not going to start now," Benjamin said.

	"You're not going to listen to truth?"

	"If the revolution moves forward, and the truth doesn't want to come along, then so be it," Emma replied.

	"You're going in the wrong direction."

	"The revolution has always moved in the same direction -- always forward, never backward; no struggle without the experience to overcome it, no victory without the enlightenment to appreciate it," Ben said.

	"You're going to argue with a compass about which way is north?"

	"Why do you disagree with everyone all the time?" Emma asked, "You disagreed with us when we decided to build an Anarchist City, but didn't say a thing when we defied the two most powerful empires in the world.  You disagreed with us when we accepted Pan and Roz, but didn't say a word when they brought us to victory.  And now you're disagreeing with us when we want to split up, and once you see the good that comes out of it, I bet you won't say a single word."

	"You can't expect the guardian of truth to judge people," the Philosopher replied, "Someone like me can only ask the right questions about the right problems.  And on that note, what makes you think that criticizing my character is going to help you find what you and the Anarcho-Communists need?"

	"Maybe I didn't say it because I thought it would help me," Emma replied, "Maybe I just said it because I needed to say it to you."

	"I remember you thanked me once, for this city," the Philosopher said, "And all I did was ask the right questions in the right order."

	"Curiosity was just a spark to our little Revolution here in Anarchia," Emma said, "You don't even know what I will be able to accomplish once I participate in the next revolt.  An Anarchist Revolution without Capitalist influence -- that will be very different from what you have seen so far."

	"That last part, I don't doubt it a bit," the Philosopher replied.

	"That's good," Emma said, "You doubt too much."

	"The world has always been yours.  If you think that just now you're reclaiming it, then you may want to consider other perspectives," the Philosopher responded.

	"And now it's time for us to break up this little party we've been holding," Benjamin said, "It's time for Emma and I to split up and accept our differences.  It's time for Roz and Pan to fight until not a single soldier on their cause stands.  And you, Philosopher, I'm assuming you have a chart of villages that you're always needed at, or at least, you always believe you're needed there, so that's probably where you'll be hurrying to next.  With your kind, it's really impossible to tell.  Philosophy has made you like a permanent transient."

	"You ever hear the phrase, 'a rolling rock gathers no moss'?" the Philosopher asked, "What do you think that means?"

	"I'm pretty certain it means that someone who keeps traveling from place to place will never get any friends or loved ones," Benjamin said, "They'll simply fall off."

	"I was actually just walking through that trail over the mountain that comes to town, thinking just that very same thing," the Philosopher said, "I stumbled across a patch of moss.  It wasn't even bound to the ground.  It was just this loose patch of moss that was getting kicked around, would soak up some nutrients from the ground, some water from the rain, some light from the sun, and then get kicked again another twenty feet away, without so much as a thought from the traveling strange or a reaction from the unexpecting moss.  If moss is so loose and can't attach itself easily, don't think it's the moss's fault that a rolling rock gathers no moss?  Mud sticks to a rolling rock just fine!  What the hell is wrong with moss like you that you don't have enough in you to stick to someone who knows where they're going and travels fast?"

	"Mud doesn't grow, though," Emma said, "It never turns green, it always remains its unpleasant self, a type of nothingness on this earth besides the air.  Trying to brag about mud sticking to you, as though it were a living, growing creature close next to you, is like bragging that the air travels through you and in you."

	"If the air never traveled through you and into you before, then yes, it is worth bragging about," the Philosopher replied, "Maybe you forgot where started, where we're all going to end.  By then, there will by neither the rolling of my rock, nor the lack of inclination on your part to attach to it.  There will be dust where I lay, and dirt where you lay.  We shall be the perfect mixture for someone, at some distant point, to roll right over us, and while the moss fails to attach to that rolling beast of stone, you and I shall attach to it quite nicely and without a single bit of disagreement."

	"Never underestimate the ability of an old man to ruin a conversation with visions based on ideas based on popularly-known sayings," Benjamin smiled.

	"And your flower will wilt, too," the Philosopher said, "It will also turn to dirt, just like everything else around you now.  There's a chance that rolling rocks in the future might just pick up a little bit of you, too.  Even if you don't want it, they'll find your words and your sentences, broken and shattered by this cruel and merciless war you're getting yourselves into -- and they might just put those phrases back in order, and they might just reconstruct your paragraphs, and they might even figure out what you were thinking.  They'll pick it up.  They need to -- they have to.  The immediate future is narrow and bleak, but the whole of humanity's future is wide and open."

	"This is your fault, Philosopher," Pan said, "You don't have either the resolution or the character to defend your own family."

	"I don't know why you ever came up to this hilltop to talk with a bunch of Anarchists, anyway," Roz said, "But now you've caused all of us and our own families so much trouble and misery."

	"I came here to keep your city together, like you two claimed to desire," the Philosopher said, "But now you have it, whatever it is that you wanted.  Good luck.  I'm sure you'll both think I'm being facetious about that, but I'm not.  Now I must leave."  The old man disappeared out from the masses.

	"Those who want to stay with us, follow Pan and I.  We are going to continue the struggle against any aggressions made by the twin empires of Capitalism and Communism," Roz spoke, "We will need to farm the fields, where raids can be expected at any time from any opposing army, because we lack the human resources to specialize in either agriculture or military, but this is something that can be done."

	"That's fine," said one farmer, "We're Anarchists, so, being ready to drop everything and fight comes naturally to us."

	"Yes, yes..." Roz rubbed his chin and hesitated for a moment as he thought to himself, "Sure, right, we are still Anarchists.  We're still an Anarchist Army."  As that group of fighters huddled around their lit fires, the few sources of light in an abandoned city, the night flew over them, and the moon passed with its greetings.

		Chapter 30: Trophies for the Defeated

	A mass exodus.  One group of people flocked around Benjamin, heading South towards Babylon, with Agent 354 as their guide, and a collective of people organized around Emma, heading West towards Athens, with Spargo as their guide.  Roz and Pan remained inside Anarchia, managing the city and its stretches of territory with the First and Second Anarchist Armies.  The Third Anarchist Army was abolished, and while there was talk among the common people in Ben and Emma's groups in regards to founding the Fourth Anarchist Army before the other had a chance to claim the number, nothing came of this talk.  Sometimes Armies are eliminated by their enemies, sometimes they're eliminated by agreement.  After that day, the Day of Separation, all Anarchist Armies were under the direct influence of either a Marxist or a Militarist.  The only directionless soul within a thousand miles, the Philosopher, disappeared the way he always had.  There was no trace of his departure but every suspicion about it.

	Anarchia became something of a ghost town, an abandoned fortress waiting for the enemies of decay and rust more than a capital of a growing civilization fending off the enemies of hired soldiers and officered armies.  Emma and Spargo continued West, along with their group, families using wagons to carry all of their past belongings, carpenters hauling chests of tools, miners wearing helmets, metal workers still with grease on their shoulders, and always, the many soldiers, carrying sword and bow.  Benjamin and Agent 354 continued South, along with their own group, farmers holding scythes over their shoulders, porters dragging their goods in carts, professors hoisting backpacks full of books, peasants holding ideas and intellectuals carrying food, and among them, too, many armed fighters of the cause, equipped with sabre and arrow.  With every step, the Anarcho-Communists became more Communist, the Anarcho-Capitalists became more Capitalist, and the whole of Anarchia itself felt less Anarchist.

	The Philosopher's journey wasn't as precise and direct as those of Emma and Benjamin.  If you were to look on a map with his movements outlined in red, you'd see a jagged, darting, intercrossing pattern.  But if you were to look from above the skyline, you'd see an old man in a good going North and then South and then West and then East, all the while breaking every now and then with small plumes of smoke from his pipe.  His was an undetermined and uncertain hike, a thrash against the openness of nothingness and a strike against the importance of vengeance.  Emma and Benjamin had paths they followed on their solitary travels, the Philosopher had a conscience that brought him to many places.  They were excited to put their resources and qualities to use in great causes, he was depressed by the lack of clarity and critical thinking on the part the world's so-called "great thinkers."

	As he was walking along, the Philosopher stumbled across a poster hastily attached to a tree, "Attention all Capitalists!  It is your duty to join the Capitalist side in the fight against Communism!"  Upon investigation, the Philosopher discovered that it was covering up another poster, which had the opposite message.  He continued on his walk, admiring the emptiness and space of the air around him, until he finally began talking to his conscience.  "Communism and Capitalism are the same thing... they both want what's worst for humanity and what's best for themselves."

			Part VII: The Revolt

"...there is no room for philosophy in the courts of princes."

--Thomas More, 1516
"Utopia," Book 1

		Chapter 31: Accuser and Accused

	When Emma and the other Anarcho-Communists reached Athens, there was a brief moment of hope and happiness, there was the brief belief in opportunity and liberty.  But soon, this group of Unionists, Socialists, Cooperativists, Anarchists, and general Anti-Capitalists found that Athens was no longer the same city they had left.  Everywhere, the Marxists were the elite power group.  Young apprentice Socialists were often turned away from the trades and metallurgical schools, ignored for less intelligent Marxist students.  Unionists with families were often turned down from jobs when they couldn't provide proof of Party membership, turned down for less skilled applicants with the accepted political background.  Cooperativists who wanted land and materials for their private workshops and manufacturies were turned down, often told that the resources were more valuable when deployed for the purposes of the state, which meant empowering Marxist officials and not Cooperativist enterprises.  In a way, it was the Anarchist masses against the Marxian aristocracy, and in another way, it was just a bunch of small, huddled groups, Socialists and Unionists and Cooperativists, each wanting something for themselves and unable to provide anything to anyone.  Athens was a Marxist city.

	When Benjamin and the other Anarcho-Capitalists arrived in Babylon, there were cheers and shouts and joys of happiness, a parade through the city to welcome back the forgiven rebels and the once-misled intellectuals.  But, troubles and indignities arose without much time.  The ideal farming land, all along the banks of the most important estuaries, had been claimed by the plantations of Militarists, leaving independent, family farmers the only alternative of a long distance to water and to market.  Professors and teachers applied to all of the academies and well-known universities, they showed up with the accomplishments of their chemistry and physics and mathematics, but they were all given the lowest positions with the weakest influence.  Teaching in Babylon elevated the Militarist theoretician to the highest level possible, and so chemists became teachers in how to make flammable material, physics in how to make weapons, and mathematics to show the best angle to fire a projectile to kill an enemy, but they were all subordinate to that ultimate purpose, the Militarist deans and principals.  Porters and carters, sailors and travelers, each found themselves access to roads they had always walked upon, and the property-owners carried heavy brass medals on their chests and peculiar emblems on their headwear.  Babylon was a Militarist city.

	Both the Anarcho-Communists and the Anarcho-Capitalists began to question the wisdom of their decisions.  The new immigrants in Athens were quickly influenced by the Marxist words found in every newspaper's page and every street corner's speaker.  The new immigrants in Babylon were similarly influenced.  But at the same time that the Anarchist masses grew closer and closer to their Statist masters, there remained a core of autonomous thinkers who grew bolder everyday.  At one point in Anarchia, there were Anarchists who would tell you that they only thing they know about Anarchy is harvesting wheat or smelting metal.  These very same Anarchists turned into something else, they became adamant and wished for those privileges they had once enjoyed in their past lives.  As the other Anarchists became more and more like law-abiding citizens, the truly Anarchist core became more and more criminal, rebellious, and anti-Authoritarian.  A revolution within the revolution.  The process began again, where a few who believed in liberty and the right to make for themselves what they wanted would separate and break off from the others.  In both Athens and Babylon, there grew the large, homogenized group of Anarchists who obeyed their leaders, and there also grew a small, highly individualized group of rebels who were preparing to execute their own masters.

	Emma and Benjamin became the most influential members of both groups, appearing to the masses like polished politicians, and showing up at underground, clandestine meetings spitting fire from their tongues.  The revolution in Athens grew at the same pace as the revolution in Babylon.  In the Marxist-Communist Athens, there was a current beneath the waves that washed in a different direction; in the Militarist-Capitalist Babylon, there was a divergent wind that bellowed out of control in its own directions just beneath the great storm.  As the days went by, the part of the Anarchists who believed they would reach something, who thought they had some sort of Capitalist or Communist utopia to finally arrive at, they each softened and softened.  And as the days went by, that small part which believed that their masters to be the true enemies, they each hardened and hardened.  The entire nature of the cities evolved, from multicultural centers of Communism and Capitalism, to Marxist-dominated and Militarist-dominated governments, to Marxist and Militarist domination over various factions of Communists and Capitalists, to the final form: a few on top who believe in red star and brass medal, the many in the masses who believed in their governments, and the few at the bottom who believed in black masks and Molotov cocktails.  As for Spargo and Agent 354, they were each awarded with such a tremendous lump sum of money that retirement was mandatory.  And so, not another useful or important thing ever came out of them ever again throughout the rest of their lives.

		Chapter 32: Revolution Among the Revolutionaries

	Roz and Pan had continued their battle against the forces of Solon and Hammurabi in what remained of Anarchia, but Emma and Benjamin were planning their own battles.  Athenian forces kept encroaching further and further against Anarchist rebels on the Eastern side of Anarchia, while Babylonian forces to the south were pushing against the revolutionary armies on the Northern front of Anarchia.  But in Athens and Babylon, there were different forces pushing against different obstacles.  There were different masses convulsing in different storms.  There were different wars beginning in different parts of the planet.  "Was it still Communism versus Capitalism, or was it really Anarchism versus Statism?  Was it both?  Was it neither?" the Philosopher chews on an apple in between puffs on his pipe, "If someone believes it but not everyone believes it, then I guess it must be somewhere in between.  Maybe even they didn't really know where they stood, because they were always so busy moving around and doing stuff."

	There was still Anarchia, but it no longer had vibrant, Anarchist personalities directing and organizing its own society.  The original Anarchists had sectioned themselves off at one point from the Communist and Capitalist empires in their own settlement, but now, they had sectioned themselves off from the great masses in Athens and Babylon.  The masses had become so bland and homogenized, and the minority of Anarchists in those Statist empires became hardened and alienated, sometimes called pseudo-intellectuals, coffee-shop intellectuals, déclassé intellectuals, or when someone wanted to be mean, then simply intellectuals.  A day of revolt was the only conclusion possible for the rebels in their determination and the majority in their obstinance.  It wasn't something decided by the efficiency of organizing among the rebels and it wasn't decided by the degree of police repression employed to keep "ringleaders" imprisoned, detained, or otherwise legally made inaccessible to their movements.  The day of revolt was something that everyone had a hand in making, those who participate in fighting for the state, those who participate in fighting against it, and the many masses who felt a need for nothing but security as the only satisfying garnish to their state-mandated liberty.

	"Put up the barricades!" Emma said, her voice full of enthusiasm and anger, with a small amount of disappointment showing through, "Make sure every house keeps every window open!  We can fight those cops, house by house and street by street!"  Large quantities of Unionists joined Emma in fighting, and while there was a handful of Cooperativists and Socialists among the new Anarchist guerrillas in Athens, it was the architects of the Cooperativist movement who provided the designs to the whole city's infrastructure to the movement, it was the Socialists who were the first to build the barricades and spill their blood upon them.  The police station was burned, the archive of property records was burned, the Embassy to Babylon was burned, the church was burned, and the university was burned.  Anarchist rebels were quickly approaching the palace of Solon, literally only a few hundred feet away from the king of all Statist Communism, when imperial soldiers arrived in the streets.  A group of young men, most of them between aged sixteen and twenty, had spent the past ten years of their lives training in how to kill human life -- and it was this group that permanently put to rest many men and women fighting in the rebellion.  But before Emma retreated with the Anarchist contingent, she looked up, and caught a glance of Solon watching her, just before disappearing down through a number of wiry and winding side-alleys.  Emma's Anarchist Army disappeared into the woods and mountains outside of Athens.

	"I object to that order!" Benjamin said, his voice full of rage and dignity, with a small amount of disillusionment creeping between the syllables, "This court has no right to tell a small proprietor that their three-hundred-year-old, property deed is now suddenly invalid just because a large company wants the land!"  Ben's battle was different from Emma's.  He was still called all of the same names, he was still ostracized from the same great mass, he was still just one person, and the state was still quite a few more, no matter how much sympathy he could get from people who had seen or heard of his struggle.  Ben was constantly being called out by judges and professional juries, he was constantly making small talk with the bailiff and counting bricks in a cell reserved for arrogant lawyers, he was constantly being the one voice that made any sense out of the screaming roar of the great many at any government office.  And finally, he was imprisoned permanently, although the phrase "indefinitely" was used to make something appear differently than it was.  The war of the Anarcho-Communist came to an end when professional soldiers removed stacked cobblestones called barricades by using forced labor with drunks they found at local taverns.  The war of the Anarcho-Capitalist came to an end when a man in a black robe swung a piece of wood in his hand against a piece of wood sitting on his desk.  Emma was a fugitive hunted by the authorities, Benjamin was a prisoner held by the authorities.  It was a world where there were no more free Anarchists.

		Chapter 33: Hello, Benjamin

	"This shouldn't be like this," the Philosopher said, "I shouldn't be here.  And I shouldn't be doing this.  But I will break the rules of convention and tradition sooner than I break with justice and integrity.  And you can't break from justice and integrity without breaking from Truth.  So, maybe I really should be here.  I'll figure that out later."

	"Hey, look!" Maurice, a demoted palace guard, tells another, "It's the Philosopher!  There's a warrant out for his arrest!  We should grab him!"

	"No," the Captain of the Guard said, "Look at where he is."

	"He's inside the temple talking to some priests, so what?" Maurice replied.

	"That means everything," the Captain said, "We're not allowed to enter those premises.  The Babylonian government has an agreement with the church never to enter its premises or to deny it the right to give sanctuary to anyone.  We can't go in there and get him."

	"Yeah, they give sanctuary to rapists and murderers," Maurice said, "All the more reason to ignore the mandate."

	"You're not in charge of deciding international law," the Captain said, "And if you want to be, I can let our superiors know how much you're willing to disobey orders."

	"He's not even talking to a Bishop or a Cardinal!" Maurice screamed, "I'm pretty sure he's talking to a Lay Priest, the lowest of the low on the ladder of authority and respect in the church's hierarchy."

	"That changes nothing," the Captain said, "We can't go in there.  We can't violate the church's right to give sanctuary."  Maurice's face turned sour, but finally relaxed into a regular expression.

	But inside the temple, another discussion was going on.  "Why does the guardian of the universe need eyes and ears when that guardian exists everywhere at all times?" the Philosopher asked, "Isn't real protection of the soul and body guaranteed by a mind that accepts universal truth?"

	"You always come here to debate us about religion, like we're going to afford you the right to sanctuary," the lay priest replied, "Sure, I want to hear your arguments.  But is that what you're arguing about this time?  That god has messengers and speakers, because his own creatures cannot even communicate with such a being?"

	The Philosopher turned the frontal joust in the debate, "Do you really think you're listening to the people so you can carry their wishes to god, or that you're actually speaking to the people like you were god's own voice?"

	"God's own voice?" the lay priest asked, "You know how pure and beautiful it would --"

	"And what makes you think it's going to be a voice?" the Philosopher asked, "What makes you think it's going to sound like anything?  What makes you think you could identify it?"

	"Which question should I answer first?" the lay priest pretended to be interested.

	"Answer any one of those questions, and you've answered them all," the Philosopher replied, "You couldn't satisfy human curiosity by only completing one corner of the triangle.  Our minds would demand that we see the whole thing.  Or, at the very least, that we would be able to imagine it."

	"Imagining a triangle isn't going to --"

	"Ah!" the Philosopher interrupts the lay priest again, "Who said it was a triangle and not a square?  Are you really listening for the voice, or just to my voice?"

	"What?" the lay priest replied, confirming that the Philosopher would have a certain time frame of safety within the Babylonian temple, "Look, perhaps you should stay around so that we can explain to you how you're wrong.  We know that you're an influential person, so having someone like you preaching the word as it really is meant to be understood might happen by god's grace.  Make yourself at home in the temple.  I'm going to speak with some other lay priests about how best to approach this."

	"Of course, of course," the Philosopher knew he had plenty of time, for his friend was going to confer with his co-workers, not his superiors.  There was too much heart and head in the untrained initiates of any church for them to be any real threat to someone who has always been known as the Philosopher.

	Walking outside of the temple, the one individual in all of Babylon stood on stone pavements that had lasted the past one thousand years and would last the next one thousand years.  "There he is, let's get him!" Maurice screamed to the captain of the guard.

	"You can't touch him as long as he is standing on one foot of property of the church," the Captain replied, "Not even just one foot, but even a square inch!  That temple doesn't exist to you, and it won't ever.  Don't try breaking in and arresting someone who you think might be the Philosopher."

	"I would never break the crown's orders," Maurice said, "But I am going to check around the temple to make sure that the Philosopher causes no trouble once he's outside the temple."

	"Don't forget," the Captain said, "Every paved stone attached to that temple is the temporal domain of the church.  If you think you spotted another drunk wino playing off of the sympathies of our dumb, local, lay priests, by all means, I want to see him thrown into the gutters of our prison and beaten into a respectable human being.  But don't do something stupid like violate international concordats of the church which protect and enshrine the natural power of our people.  They've hung people for that, soldiers, too, and they've done worse.  Never doubt the holy wrath of god's appointed father to humanity, the head of the church."

	"Understood," Maurice replied, before disappearing into the marketplace that separated the rest of the city of his guard post

	At the corner of the temple's outdoor, stone pavements, one old man with a hood was looking off at the setting of the sun as its rays of light struggle to break through a thousand vines and leaves.  Flocks of birds occasionally took off from the tree tops when disturbed by a caravan's noise or when threatened by a hunter's weapon.  One lone mountain top carved the sun's circular shape into a near semicircle at a diagonal angle, but there was still enough light to find your way through the world, at least for the next few hours.

	"Philosopher!" Maurice screams standing beside the old man.

	The Philosopher turns, "Mmmm?"

	"Ha!" Maurice said, "I tricked you!  I knew it was you, and now you confessed!  Step out of that temple, and you're mine.  As far as I'm concerned, the only way you can leave the church's sanctuary without being crucified is if you come out as a skeleton, and even then, we might make an exception to our crucifixion."

	"How are you so fast to make deductions?" the Philosopher asked, "You're a guard, not a Philosopher."

	"What?"

	"Ha, I tricked you!" the Philosopher said, "I wanted to know if you had the intelligence to catch someone like me if I left the temple.  You don't.  You can go away at any time now, I was just enjoying some natural forms of warmth and some natural scents of air."

	"You can't dismiss me!" Maurice screamed back, "You have no authority over me!"

	"Say," the Philosopher started to think again, "if someone out here on the street were interested in breaking into this well-guarded prison here, what you would a fella like you recommend?"

	"Ha, a troublemaker!" Maurice replied, "If you want to get in here badly enough, just steal some grapefruit from the marketplace.  Just don't take too many, or they'll march you right past the prison and straight to the gallows."

	"Is that the law?  I'm surprised that Hammurabi didn't add on any disclaimers, such as, 'Unless the offender is rich.'"

	"Why?  You don't look too wealthy.  And besides, what would the rich and powerful need to steal a single grape fruit for?"

	"Do you mean, as opposed to stealing entire nations at a time?" the Philosopher asked, "I'm certain that some of the cities that Hammurabi took had grapefruit in them.  Most positively certain, wouldn't you be?"

	"You want me to change my politics, don't you?" Maurice said, "That's rich, coming from someone like you.  I want you to be humbled before the Code of Hammurabi, and here you are talking Communist garbage to me, about how the poor and their grapefruit were somehow exploited out of them by some vicious ruler of some extremely successful, Capitalist empire."

	"My friend, you will see things that I could never see," the Philosopher said, "Thanks for giving me a new point of view."

	"You next and last point of view will be the edge of the guillotine's razor," Maurice replied.

	"You use guillotines here?" the Philosopher asked, "I thought that was something that only Communists did, and that you Capitalists preferred a hanging from the nearest tree or a death by firing squad, one or the other, so that whole crowds can see the event, rather than just an isolated few watching someone bent over being decapitated."

	"Every society has its spectacle, right?" Maurice replied.

	"And do you think it's rightfully so that it has to be that way?" the Philosopher asked.

	"And why wouldn't it?" Maurice said.

	"Because when you have a society, the spectacle and the spectator may actually be one and the same thing," the Philosopher said, "Thank you, Maurice.  I've loved our conversation, but it's getting dark, and I should make sure they've made proper arrangements for me this time.  Last time I was given sanctuary here, they made me sleep in the cellar, it was terrible, but that was before I was well-known.  Take care of yourself."

	"And you, the same," the sourness in the face of Maurice not diminishing by a hair.

	In between the acts of preparation, in between the flexing and the rehearsal and the retraining, the Philosopher still had a few moments for quiet meditation and careful thought, for insight to dance with motive and for truth to woo destiny.  Several hesitations and full sighs in absolute quiet, and then the philosopher said aloud to himself, "I'm ready for this."  He then disappeared from Temple of Babylon for the rest of his life.

	"Hey, who's that?" the Captain of the Guard points out a hooded man running in the mob near the marketplace.

	The Philosopher run by the group of soldiers outside of the prison holding Benjamin, and throws a grapefruit in the face of Maurice, screaming just before the pitch, "Hey, you gave me this idea!"  The entire gang of soldiers guarding the front post chased after him, and after running a quick circle with the pursuers always in chase, the Philosopher had arrived back to the entrance of an unguarded prison entrance, let himself in, and locked the door behind him.  The Captain of the Guard in Babylon had been locked out of his own fortress.

	After walking several steps through the hallways of the prison, the Philosopher turned and met an armed soldier wearing the blue sashes of Babylonian Military tradition on his shoulder.  "Philosopher!" he screamed, "I know you."

	The old man squinted at the young trooper, "Gabriel?  Is that you?  I haven't seen you in years.  So, my bribe reached you, I hope?"

	"The price of doing business is the price of doing business," Gabriel said, "Follow me, I can take you where you need to go.  And just so you know, I'm not taking any of the cut.  There is no profit for me.  Every part of your bribe is going to other soldiers in this guardhouse to suddenly disappear when they would be otherwise obligated to interrupt and apprehend."

	"Obligated to interrupt and apprehend?" the Philosopher said, "You're about to say that you haven't been made worse by being in the military, but I hear those words, and I doubt it."

	"Not every soldier is Maurice," Gabriel replied, "But not every soldier is Roz, either."

	"Perhaps not," the Philosopher replied, "Do you remember what I tried to teach you?"

	"Teach me?" Gabriel said, "I always thought of you as just an old friend, but if I learned anything from after talking to you, it was to rely on myself to get to where I need to be.  And if you want to know where to go, you'll take this next hallway on the left.  The prisoner you want is at the end.  There's no way you can miss him."

	"Is this --" the Philosopher started to ask.

	"Yes, you read the signs correctly," Gabriel said, "This is our detention hall for citizens accused of capital crimes.  They may be condemned to death, they may not, we're not entirely certain.  But every soldier should have a right to know what their job entails."

	"I was about to say," the Philosopher said, "The same thing about a citizen's right to know what it is that you do."

	"Those Anarchists really converted you, didn't they?" Gabriel smiled widely, "To think, the Philosopher was finally influenced by someone instead of influencing someone!  Sure, I may have changed, friend, but, I think, so have you.  Now go get what you want.  I'll make sure you're safe."  He tossed a key to the Philosopher before turning around and disappearing.

	A quiet walk down a hallway lined with faces of misery and suffering marked his journey to the final cell.  "You can't escape your past," the Philosopher thought to himself, "It's always part of you, and you'll run into it at the least expected moments.  And when it comes, you probably won't really know if it'll save you or sacrifice you."

	"Save you and sacrifice you at the same time," one prisoner chants back, letting the Philosopher know that some of his own thoughts were unconsciously slipping out between his lips in the form of words, "That's what you can account to the past, and nothing more."

	"Who are you?" the Philosopher asked.

	"I'm the one, the last surviving human being being to be pulled out of that wreck of a mine in Anarchia," the prisoner said, "That was me.  And now I'm here.  I'll let your imagination fill the in-between for yourself."

	"I'll..." the Philosopher stopped, looked at the ragged misery of the prisoner, examined the suffering of his companion, "...  I'll know you better when you're a free human being."  And the pace of the Philosopher kept on, from that starting point in the atrium of the prisoner to the final point at the ending of the hall.

	Finally, he was there, at the end of the prison hallway, staring between the thick iron bars, looking at a man using clothing as a type of blanket around his head and body, trying to sleep instead of being awake to the consciousness of his suffering.  "Hello, Benjamin."

	Ben looks up quickly and sees a hooded man outside of his cell.

	"I see that you are definitely the son of Capitalism," the Philosopher said, "How is the inheritance?"

	"What are you doing here?" Ben asked in between his rags and makeshift blankets, "Are you here to help me?"

	"Do you know what you want this time?"

	"Liberty," Ben replied quietly, "And yes, I am certain.  At no other point in my life have I been quite so certain when responding to that question."

	"There are several things you must do to be free.  1.  Escape.  2.....  nevermind," the Philosopher said, "There is only one thing you need to do to be free."  Using the key from his friend, he unlatched the jail cell, and with a loud creaking of rusted iron against rusted iron, he pulled open the barrier holding Benjamin from his freedom.  "Are you ready?"

	"I saw you throwing a grapefruit at one of the guards and running," Benjamin came out of the cell, "How did you do that?"

	"You know, just because I'm the philosopher, everyone thinks that I'm not going to be good at anything physical, as though I'm totally devoid of wanting good health in body," the Philosopher replied, as the pair walked down through the prison hall.

	"Ah, so, you are the Philosopher of the mind because you hold the Truth," Benjamin said, "And what great, fantastic legend explains your ability to run?"

	"I stretch in the morning," his friend said.

	"Yeah, but, like, wasn't there a god, like Zeus, who must've trained you to be that fast?" Ben asked.

	"The two hours every morning I do on my thighs and calves is what gave me that power," the Philosopher said, "Zeus must be jealous."

	The two then passed the one survivor from the mine.  "Oh, hell," the Philosopher stopped and turned to the prisoner's cell, unlatching the lock and pulling open the great big door, "You should follow me, at least for a little bit, if you want to live."

	"Thank you," she said, lifting up the matted clothing she had wrapped around her head while imprisoned, her red lips the one bright thing in the gray room, "And if you're going to free me, you should know my name.  I'm Clair."

	"That's a short name," Ben said, "I'm curious about your full name?"

	"Ben, this is the one survivor from that destroyed mine where you and Emma decided to break up Anarchia," the Philosopher said, "You owe her answers to her questions more than she owes you answers to your questions."

	"It's all right, there is nothing to hide," she said, "Clair is actually short for Voltaire."

	The Philosopher squinted his eyes and looked to her, "But in a woman's case, I guess that would be Voltairine?"

	"You are the Philosopher," she said, "I'm certain that you know."

	"Stay close to us," he said, "I will get you anywhere you need to go.  I have the certainty and agreement of the best law-breakers on this side of Babylon, and I'm not talking about the clergy of the Church."

	At the direction of Gabriel and an unknown guard, the entourage of the Philosopher, Benjamin, and Voltairine were directed toward a hidden path behind one of the large mortar stones in the breakroom of those employed at the prison.  "Head straight outwards," Gabriel said, "It'll look like you're walking into nothing, but you'll be outside and at safety once you reach the end."

	"Thank you, Gabriel," the Philosopher said, "You're like an angel."

	"You put a lot of trust on me," Gabriel smiled, "Now follow the darkness that you might be brought to the light."

	The Philosopher, Benjamin, and Voltairine disappeared into those dark, uncertain caverns, the cracked and blistering stones turning into nothing once any source of light had disappeared.

	"We're lost, it's that simple," Benjamin said.

	"You're lost," the Philosopher said, "I have directions, the same as yours, and I'm not lost."

	"Here, on the ceiling," Voltairine said as she lifted up her arms, "There's a wooden hatch.  Only a few flecks of light pierce through it."

	"What are you even looking at?" Benjamin asked.

	"Just follow the sound of her voice," the Philosopher said.

	"Got it!" the sound of an iron latch flicking open echoes through the caves with a brightness of outdoor light, along with endless conversation in the distance.  They were in the marketplace.

	"Fresh grapefruit!  Get your fresh grapefruit!" a salesman in the market is selling his goods widely and openly.  For a moment, he sees the few prisoners escaping through the hatch, and then immediately pretends not to see them, "You want grapefruit?  It better be fresh grapefruit, and you won't get it anywhere but here!"  Crawling on their hands and knees, the three made their way to the edge of the stand.

	"Guess one of us has to be first," the Philosopher whispered to the others as he plopped his head up like he was an ordinary salesman, "Grapefruit!  It's the best fruit available!"

	"Get outta here, you're killing my business," the merchant winked, as the three finally disappeared into that madness and chaos that is a market mob, making their way to some sort of safety.

	"I need to depart from you now," Voltairine said, "I came to Babylon, and now I know that I have to leave.  I've visited the home of Communism and the home of Capitalism.  Neither of them have anything for me, and I must free myself from these wicked empires."

	"I can guarantee your safety," the Philosopher said, "Transport is awaiting us if we keep traveling West toward the Mediterranean."

	"You have already provided for my safety," Voltairine said, "This is the point where I take my freedom into my own hands.  I must pursue my own course.  I thank you from the depths of my heart for saving me.  I wish you the best in your journeys."

	"And you, as well," the Philosopher smiled back at the woman as she disappeared back into the market crowds.

	"Philosopher, why did you save me?" Benjamin asked, "Before, there were a thousand kings willing to hire you for your services.  Now the world is going to find out that you tricked a king that had befriended you.  Not a single one will accept your job application now."

	"My application to a job I would never accept?" the Philosopher replied, "So, I guess nothing's really changed, then?"  He got up and stretched, "Except, now that you mention it, I might flex a little bit more in the morning -- I'm not as limber as I remember myself to be.  At least, if the king's a little less interested in my services, then maybe the world can forget about me a little more, and I can fall back into the reclusion that is devotion to truth."

	"So, you really have no reason to save me?"

	"Perhaps truth is always the servant to goodness?"

	"I'll humbly accept that answer."

	"Don't be humble.  Just accept it, live through it, and never be afraid of your own intellect's boldness," the Philosopher responded.

		Chapter 34: Hello, Emma

	The Philosopher made the right connections.  In Athens, he shook the hands of the right intellectuals and the right tavern patrons.  He joked about private property, laughed about Hammurabi, and more than once, he was sincere about it.  In Solon's city, nobody really knew who this old man was, where he came from, what he wanted, or that he was wanted by the Greek legal authorities for causing revolutions and revolts.  They just thought of him as this old man, with interesting ideas, good humor, and stimulating conversation, probably some "dinosaur unionist from back in the days of the coal strike of 1800" or some "editor whose editings have faded away like his writers."  He was well-accepted, well-greeted, and well-admired.  It took less than a week before he was able to find the location of where Emma and her revolutionaries were located, and apparently, even to the authorities, there was a certain degree of mystery and uncertainty on the exact coordinates.  As a soldier in the forests and among the mountains, she was much the same as when she was a worker among the factories and the mines -- elusive and quiet, but loud when morality demanded it and when calculation granted it.

	And from the core of that urban, Communist people, those angry steelworkers grumbling in the bars and the elitist students sipping coffee at the cafes and the boring schoolteachers waving their rulers, from all of this, the Philosopher departed.  His destination was marked.  He was looking for Emma.  The thorns of brambles and the hooks of bushes each darted at his heels and arms as he walked through that dense vegetation.  There was only a limited fear of being picked up by Athenian soldiers, because their locations, destinations, routines, and paths were easily purchased at any corner in the country of Greece, although the fear still existed.  The Philosopher could only rely on his senses to guide him past nature's own creations to get to those rebels.  But the vague information he was able to collect from the interested voices of Athens were all that he had to get to his destination.  He didn't just think it was enough; he felt like it was enough.  Not only did his calculations give him confidence; his memories gave him a sense of boldness.

	"If I was revolting against an authoritarian, top-down system of control and coercion, where would I look to find my refuge among the wilds?" the Philosopher thought to himself, "What rock would look best to hide under, what lake would look best to camp nearby, what elm and pine are most attractive to those fleeing tyranny and looking for their home near liberty?  There would need to be some pattern to that type of thinking."  He fumbled over vines and tore through tremendous leaves, cautious of his presence, cautious of where any threat might be found, aware of the depth of nature, conscious of the awe in its beauty, always remembering his path, never forgetting where he had been.  "I will find you," the Philosopher's thoughts continued like a stream, "You will get out of this awful hell surrounding you."

	And there, a breach in the sky, a tear of the clouds, of splitting of shadows, black against white and white against black, a small fire broke through that seemingly pierceless top of the earth.  Smoke.  And where there is smoke, there are people around it -- cooking, eating, talking, living.  The Philosopher noticed how it was such a curious smoke, being made in caves near a river with a constant wind gales flushing the local atmosphere out.  The smoke from the fires couldn't be seen, except by someone within close distance.  "The rebel hideout," the Philosopher said, "I couldn't have pictured nature being this accommodating of Revolution and its adherents.  But apparently that must be the case.  Whatever plan those rebels had, whether it was to disperse further into the woods up north, or to make a stand in the mountains of the East, they must've given them up, and taken refuge here.  They must've needed a moment to breathe."

	The hooded, old man walked close to the village, cautious of the crushing sounds of pebbles against sand as his sandals brought him closer to the sentries standing guard outside the camp.  They spotted him, much sooner than he had predicted, and he stopped in front of them, to show that he had no intention of harming them, but then he kept walking.  "Hello, Philosopher," one of them said with a quiet smile.  "You're very much welcome here," another said, "Consider our refuge and temporary home to be yours, too."

	"Every sanctuary deserves to be called a temporary home," the Philosopher smiled, "We are not forever shielded from the elements, so our shielding is only momentary, but we shouldn't forget who we are just because we're vulnerable.  Where should I go to find Emma?"

	"Talk to some of the people around the fire by the riverside," one sentry replied, "They'll bring you to where you need to go."  After passing an interview process with some drinking troops and some smoking intellectuals, he was granted access to Emma.  "There's a visitor here for you," one confidant introduced the Philosopher, "He's someone you know."  The Philosopher walked into a small tent on the side of the mountain, and Emma turned around, her face going from dread to surprise in a single moment.

	"I knew you'd come!" Emma said.

	"How could you know that?" the Philosopher smiled.

	"I had a dream," Emma replied, "And it felt too realistic to be dismissed."

	"So, what was in the dream?" the Philosopher asked, "Emma?"

	She looked like she was going to faint for a moment, and then asked, "Did you say... Emma?"

	"Yes, why?" the Philosopher replied.

	"It's just... I was positive you had said Cassandra," she said.

	He smiled, "So, what was in the dream?  What made you think I would come back for you?"

	"I went crying to everyone," Emma said, "There I was, trapped in this hole, having fallen down this well and becoming ensnared by a combination of human invention and personal mistakes, and I screamed and screamed and screamed.  Hammurabi heard me, but when I asked him to help me out, he only said, 'This is one of those situations where you learn to correct yourself by suffering your own mistakes.'  I kept screaming, and finally, Solon came by, but when I begged for his assistance, he only told me, 'You are down there because you're helping me prepare a world up here where nobody can ever fall down a well again.'  I yelled and hollered and cried, but nobody else came along, nobody else showed up.  And then, the Philosopher was there.  I could just barely make out the shadow of that hooded man standing over the well, and after I begged and pleaded for help with shouts and screams, the only thing I heard back was some shuffling noises, and finally the words, 'Seems like there's a rope up here.  I'm going to tie it to something sturdy and send it on down, but don't try climbing up it until you know it will support your own weight.'  The last thing I saw, before waking up, was this dusty, old rope slowly and confidently coming closer to me."

	"A cautionary disclaimer about the load-bearing weight of a rope is what brought you out of that deep subconscious mind?" the Philosopher's eyebrow raised with his smile.

	"When I was in real, real, real trouble, when I really needed someone to help me, all I got from those two creatures of the ancient world was a moral lesson about how to live my life," Emma said, "Not one of them would reach their hand out to help pull me out of the muck.  They'd each have let me drown in the dirt and mud.  They each would be quietly whispering to themselves, 'Maybe death is the best lesson for a rebel.'  But you?  When you showed up?  Not a word, not a question, not a doubt, not something like 'But how did you end up in the hole in the first place?' or 'What are you going to do from now on to guarantee that you won't be in the same situation next month?'  Not a thing like that.  You gave me your hand.  The only words coming from your mouth at that moment were the only ones necessary to save me, and not a bit more.  No politics, no economics, no sociology, no history, no lessons, no hopes, no dreams, just the basic functioning of what is needed to get a human being out of a deep hole.  I think that's why the dream ended there."

	"Oh, and what's so special about that part of the dream?" the Philosopher asked, but before his host could entertain a response, the explosion of artillery could be heard from behind them, filling their room with a small cloud of flickering dust.  "We should talk more about dreams later.  But for now, we should prepare to leave."

	"You know enough friends to get us out of here?" Emma asked, "All of us?  Each and every last Anarchist-Communist soldier here?"

	"Yes, every last one," the Philosopher said, "I do have friends that I can trust with such a deep responsibility.  You know, there are some people out there who actually listen to me when I talk.  You are certainly the daughter of Communism.  Quick to arms, but not as quick to skepticism."

	"Do you really need skepticism when you have thought?"

	"Skepticism is the measurement of thought," the Philosopher said.

	"That can't be right," Emma replied, "Without thought, I wouldn't have been able to correct my situation."

	"With skepticism, your situation wouldn't need correcting," the Philosopher smiled, "Now, let's prepare to move the camp up and out, get every last person out of here, nobody left behind.  Everyone!  I can guarantee your protection -- truth will take the responsibility.  It will guide us from the beast's fangs to the safety of a land without either Communists or Capitalists in charge."

	There was an uncertainty and uneasiness of the crowd outside of Emma's small camping tent.

	One rebel finally spoke, "What kind of witch have you allowed in the camp, Emma?"

	"Don't distrust the Philosopher," Emma said, "If we abandon truth, then we will have nothing to defend us in our moment of need."

	"I want to wake up in the morning with a bruise on my shoulder that's the same size and shape as the butt-end of a crossbow  If you're not waking up with that, then you're not a real soldier in the cause of Revolution," one voice was heard speaking, "Are we really just walking away from our protected bunker in the woods and following this mysterious man into the depths of nowhere?"

	The group quarreled for almost an hour, but by the end of it, they had all agreed to take up the Philosopher on his offer.  They were going to pack up, reorganize their forces, and head South, where a rescue would be provided for by sea captains that were known for having a disrespect for the law, most of them pirates, but more than a few were mutinous crews that had killed their captains and kept on their voyage, except making it a journey of no-return, since they would be executed if they attempted to return home.  This was to be the group of vessels that delivered the refugees from the horrors of persecution to a land where there was no suspicion or hatred for those who were somewhat different than the rest.  It wasn't going to be Anarchia, but if you walked down its streets, you might be reminded of it.

	"I remember the dream," Emma thought to herself on her journey to the coast, "I remember it like it's always happening.  My heart full of passions united with another individual's intellect full of ideas.  There was a complete asymmetry, my desperation and fear, his logic and calculation, my screams of horror, his testing of the rope's strength -- on the one side, heart gnashed itself against everything, and on the other, mind gnashed itself against everything.  On the one side there was the struggle for passion, on the other there was the riddle of making human devices achieve human ends.  Revolution and Technology.  The purely human and the purely inhuman.  I am surprised by the fighting power of the first, I am mesmerized by the discoveries of the second.  And for a single moment, the two act as one, and maybe the result is something like a civilization.  Or should I call it a society?  I don't know.  I question myself a lot these days, after the fall of Anarchia anyway."

	The group headed south, the Philosopher not really in the front or in the back, always moderating between the sides and pulsing between the edges, an enigma among the masses, and always side-by-side with Emma.  On only a few occasions did they run into patrols from Solon's troops, but these were quick skirmishes that ended in quick and stunning defeats of the Anarchists' enemies.  The one side was a group of people fleeing to freedom and safety with their families, the other side was a group of teenagers and young men who had been branded and whipped into submission since childhood.  Not a soul in the universe would've placed a bet on the Statists beating the Anarchists under these conditions.  A few miserable offspring of Statism with hopes of pride and honors versus many aged soldiers of Anarchism who had twenty years to master the spear while teaching their children literacy and mathematics.  Every reason for the first to cower and run, every reason for the latter to risk everything to protect the Anarchist children.  The journey to the seas took days, but the Philosopher was always there among the last Anarchist Army.

	"How often you dream of darkness?" Emma asked, "Or, if you have a dream, where you hear and see nothing, is it still a dream, or is it just sleep?"

	"If you're going to recollect anything from your past," the Philosopher smiled, "Analyzing it philosophically is the way to get the most out of it."

	"I remember being so hopeless, so lost, so alone," Emma said, "After both Solon and Hammurabi had passed by the well, I believed so deeply in my heart that it was like the entire world had passed me by, had let me slip down into this crevice, and was about to go on its way, building its empires and reproducing its generations, while I sit and starve to death, every moment becoming an easier victim for predators and getting closer to food for scavengers.  Left behind.  Totally and completely outside of the bounds of anything vaguely resembling civilization, and dying.  A true, deep sense of hopelessness.  I sat there thinking about what people might be doing, who might be making families together, which villages might unite together, how there must have been so much activity going on outside, and how I was so isolated, alone, incomplete, something different among them, something different outside of them.  And then I discovered Philosophy, or Philosophy discovered me, reached down a rope to me as I was trapped in the hole, and helped pull me out."

	"We can't have all this activity going on outside without you, now can we?" the Philosopher replied cheerfully.

	"It's a weird type of loneliness," Emma said, "There's really no word to describe that specific loneliness -- there should be a word to describe what it's like to feel forgotten.  Malaise, discontent, alienation, ennui, melancholy -- all of these words fail to express what I mean.  There's really no sentence or even series of sentences I can use to describe that emotion."

	"It would take a book, wouldn't it?" the Philosopher smiled.

	"Yes," she replied, "It probably would take a book.  Maybe a novel, maybe non-fiction, but it'll be a different type of book to describe a different type of feeling."

	"If it was just a dream, then it's the perfect material that books are made from," the Philosopher said.

	"It wasn't just a dream, though," she said, causing his eyebrow to raise, "Well, it was just a dream, just a thought that came into my head when I was sleeping.  But none of it, Hammurabi, Solon, or you make sense without some reference to something factual, without talking about something that really happened.  Otherwise, I may as well write a book of poetry, and then nobody would ever understand it."

	"You probably haven't had the thought that maybe you're the only one with this feeling, I suppose?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Well, if that were true, I guess that would make me insane, wouldn't it?" Emma smiled.

	"A lot of things can get you classified under that title, trust me," the Philosopher replied with another smile, "But, you are not alone in that feeling.  I understand it, too."

	"Oh?  What makes you understand it so well?" Emma grew curious.

	"Plenty of things," the Philosopher said, "I'm the Guardian of Truth, I'm a fugitive from the two largest empires on Earth, and I'm the only who might be trusted if I just happened to show up at any village on the planet.  There's more, I do have my own past, but there's hardly enough time for all of that.  You know as much of me as you need to know for me to get you from here in danger to over there in safety."

	"Every time I talk about the dream," Emma said, "You always come up with some rational, technically-accurate excuse for us to hurry up and keep going.  You should know that I'm hurrying.  It's my life and the lives of my people that are hanging from a thread right now."

	"You walk faster if you don't talk," the Philosopher said.

	"And what's just convinced you of that?" Emma asked.

	"Quite a bit," the Philosopher said, "Inaction leads to thought, because there's nothing else to do, but it works in reverse, as well.  The more you think, the slower you must move to gather what you're learning.  You can't focus on dodging tree roots and prickly bushes at the same time you're holding a philosophical discussion with yourself about loneliness and dreams.  In ways, those thoughts can give you energy that you can't get from any other source, but in other ways, they also take away your energy to such an extent that there is no simple way to refill it.  Focus on staying alive today, and maybe tomorrow, you can focus on how you live in dreams."

	"It's always about tomorrow with you," Emma smiled, "I wonder why they call you the Philosopher instead of the Historian."

	"The Historian couldn't be trusted to protect Truth," the Philosopher smiled back.  The group kept together until they finally reached their destination, the safety boundaries of the ships armed with pirates, mutineers, and criminal convicts.  It was this bond of trust, between this heavily illegal element and this large family-based army, that was going to establish the terms and basis of their journey.  They were both cautious and suspicious of each other, but time and experience reduced this while not wholly eliminating it.  Once on voyage, crossing the seas, bringing the Anarchist soldiers and their families to someplace safe, conversation began to roll again.

	"All right, we've now finally reached someplace that has some resemblance to safety," the Philosopher said, "What's this about a dream that you keep talking on and on about?"

	"The what?" Emma asked, "Oh, yes, of course.  I've already analyzed it."

	"Oh, you have?" the Philosopher smiled, "I hope it's only the analysis of it that you're done with, and not the memory.  Human beings are a dreadful weakness of forgetting all of their dreams, no matter how deeply they think of them.  It has to do with how the memories are created, the one from the mind, the other from the experience."

	"I still remember it," Emma said, "Other dreams may be forgotten, but not this one.  I feel like it acts as a compass, even, telling me where I've been and where I need to go."

	"In what direction is the arrow pointing now?" the Philosopher inquires.

	"Ever since we got into the boat, it's been spinning between north and south," Emma replied, "Half-way between mind and heart."

	"How do you navigate with coordinates like that?"

	"You can't," she said, "You just have to wait for the dream to come back again, I suppose."

	"You're going to dream again about drowning in a well with Hammurabi and Solon mocking you and I the only one who would save you?" the Philosopher asked, "That sounds unlikely.  Next time, it'll probably be a talking ostrich that saves you.  Or maybe a crocodile.  And it'll be an elf and a dwarf that ignore you.  And it won't be a well, it'll be a lake.  And you won't need to be saved, you'll need help learning to fly.  Dreams are so unpredictable.  They have as much variety as you find in human beings.  It's not so much that they have a point symbolically, as that they are random and spontaneous, they come from nowhere and are just as quickly forgotten.  Meaning, oh yes, they contain that.  But proper associations, symbolism, implications, and all of that, you can leave up to the dreamer.  Anything beyond what the dream felt like is probably only conjecture."

	"So what the dream felt like is fact?" Emma asked.

	"In a way, the fact of how the dream felt was always a fact," the Philosopher replied.

	"How can I be so sure that the Guardian of Truth has no bias in this area?" Emma asked, "Why would truth have so much to say about what goes on in dreams?  How can that which is focused only on the truthful take time to focus on that which is only fictional?"

	"It's not entirely fictional," the Philosopher, "And that's part of the point.  The other aspects of the dream are just details.  The real truth is in the substance of the thoughts.  It is always there.  It has always been there.  No matter how much they may look like deformed and disfigured creatures, dreams are all the children of Truth."

		Chapter 35: Free Yourself

	There was a pirate ship that left the South of Athens and a smuggler ship that left the West of Babylon.  Each carried their cargoes, their crews, and their captains, along with their risks and fears, but along with all of being transported, there were also rebels.  From the Greek Empire, there departed the Anarcho-Communist rebels, and from the Babylonian Empire, there departed the Anarcho-Capitalist rebels.  These weren't the same people they were when they lived back in Anarchia under the order of Anarchy.  They were much more cynical and hopeless, much more disillusioned and skeptical, and much more angry at themselves than they were with the world around them.  Defeated armies, not retreating from a horrible battle, but being saved by a man who was known only for the trade that he practiced, the Philosopher.  But the Philosopher himself was not on these vessels.  His dream had brought him from their points of departure to somewhere new and different, somewhere deep in the darkness of the ruins of the former Anarchist city.

	You might be able to picture yourself among the stars, dashing in between the cosmic beams of light and energy, dancing on the tops of planets and moons, answerable only to your own conscience and mind, limited only by what you can think up and imagine.  You might think that the darkness of those immense, black skies wasn't meant detract you from creating your own thoughts, that it was actually a quiet invitation by nature to join and participate in what happens around you.  But to really have a clear view of what it would be like, to have an avid imagination that actually focuses on the truth and reality, whenever you would picture the Philosopher, you would have to picture black smoke slowly embering out of the green substance packed into the bowl of a pipe.  You would have to picture this old, hooded, sandal-wearing, drug-smoking man, just as your mind's eye penetrated through those tree tops and tall branches.  The most wanted man in all of the Greek and Babylonian Empires, and not a thing in his mind could stop him from breaking the law, just as if you had been curious enough to understand the depth of your own footprints, you would understand that the wind blowing it away isn't dispersing your efforts but is accepting them.  And from those tremendous heights up in the sky, it would still be easy to stop believing in effort.

	Emma and Benjamin were rescued, the humble transport of pirates and smugglers, but where was the Philosopher?  Where was he going, if he still believed that Communism and Capitalism are the same thing?  Why was he going there, if he knew that time and space alone might outweigh the significance of his activity?  Why was the Philosopher's destiny so far into the North-West of the land, when the Anarchists' destiny was so far into the South-East of the sea?  When would he realize that his constant chasing and endless ambling was leaving behind a circular pattern on the globe, when others clearly knew that the imprints they left from their movements went in straight patterns across the planet?  Who was there still left behind that deserved the struggle of this one old man against the endless anguish of nature's elements?  There was still Pan and Roz, the two last dissidents still alive, the first two dissidents ever to be born.

	"Communism and Capitalism are still the same thing," the Philosopher said to himself, "Not a thing about them has changed.  The people changed, but not their ideas.  The people aged, matured, grew up, gave up hope, became listless, suffered from Depression, revolted with agitation, and escaped from their tortured miseries, but their ideas -- they're still the same exact ideas that they always have been.  They didn't age, they didn't grow, they didn't get experience, they didn't learn -- they didn't change.  Your feelings changed a million times, but your thoughts only once.  Communism and Capitalism are the same thing, but I don't know if Communists and Capitalists are the same thing anymore, at least after this and what has happened, at least after the fall of Anarchia.  These Communists and Capitalists are as different from their original selves as the butterfly is different from the husk and caterpillar.  The terms that defined their meaning and purpose have come and gone, but while the butterflies soar and glide, the people are dragged down by the weight and power of their own ideas, like the one butterfly that couldn't depart from its branch, because it tried to carry its husk with it."

			Part VIII: The Dissidents

"The citizen-soldiers of the guerrilla army had, in fact, lived lives in which the roles of peasant, worker, soldier, and intellectual intermingled to the point of fusion."

--Eric Wolf, 1969
"Peasant Wars of the Twentieth Century," Chapter 7

		Chapter 36: What is a Dissident?

	Emma and Benjamin were never dissidents, because they were always Anarchists.  There was nothing for them to dissent from, except their own sense and belief in liberty, which was more undefeatable than they were.  To be a dissident, you must first have believed in what you're rejecting, otherwise, you're not dissenting, and the title "dissident" would never apply.  In you never believed in it, you simply a non-believer, but if you believed in it once, but not anymore, then you've dissented -- you have become a dissident.  There is only one disclaimer that might prevent someone from being a dissident under these conditions: that is when a group of people dissent together.  At that point, you have a revolt and a revolution, your main character is a mass and not a personality, an idea and not an individual.  But when you disagree with all others, after having agreed with them for the longest time, and not one person in the group takes your side, then you're a dissenter and a dissident.  The mind of the revolutionary is different from the mind of the dissident.  They are entirely different people altogether.  The planet learned about revolutionaries from the original Communist Revolutions against Capitalism that happened in Greece, and after some time, then the planet knew the dissident type of personality.  The first of the dissidents came in the forms of Roz and Pan, the lead organizers of the Militarist and Marxist factions in the panoply of Anarchia.  Despite heavily intermixing with each other, the story and the idea behind Revolution is tremendously different from the story and the idea behind Dissent.

	When you dissent from a prevailing and popular myth, you have nothing to gain.  You initiate the action by admitting that you were wrong and then you complete it by claiming that everyone else is now suddenly wrong.  Anyone can lead a revolt if there is enough discontent and hatred and "class antagonism" and "social decay," and those who participate in those revolutions can find themselves at the top of the world when they born only being able to imagine what it was like to look up that far.  But to dissent, to be the only one apart from the others in the otherwise collective backdrop of society, it is something altogether and completely different.  Until it becomes a revolution, the dissident has nothing to gain by their refusal to participate in a society that they disagree with.  They have only the the anger, the hatred, the dislike, and the bitterness of those around them -- dissidents aren't trusted by their neighbors, they're the first to be accused when any crime is committed, and they often take their scorn with as much dignity as they take their punishment, even when it means facing the flames of the bonfire or the noose of the gallows.  The type of person who would become a Dissident is a very different creature from the person who would become a Revolutionary.

	The oldest political joke is "dissidents are only failed revolutionaries."  It is as true as saying that trees are only grass with wood, but honesty wasn't built out of jokes and the Truth wasn't born of humor, no matter how strongly a joke can compliment reality.  But the politically-sophisticated of the time also understood the real difference between the revolutionary and the dissident, between the bold breaker of old worlds and the lonely rebel oppressed by the majority.  These were different types of human beings.  And those accredited with era's wisdom always said "dissidents are just rebels who know they're going to fail, revolutionaries are just rebels who don't know the odds of success."  A sense of doom.  That's what distinguished revolutionaries and dissidents, that's what kept the two apart from their origins to their endings.  Revolutionaries couldn't tell which star would lead them North to South, but every Dissident was terrified at wherever their compass indicated.  There is the one that doesn't know, sees the fire, calculates the amount of expected burn scars, and jumps through, becoming a hero on the other side.  And then there is the one that does know, sees the scorching, deadly blaze ripping through the heights of the skies, and jumps through it anyway, with as much of a sense of triumph and glory as someone who might have survived.  The revolutionary and the dissident.

	Emma and Benjamin, or Roz and Pan.  Each were their own army, the one revolutionary and the other dissenting.  For moments, they worked together, at other times, they worked apart.  And there were even times when you could say that there is not one without the other, that they had merged into the same entity, that they had become the same thing -- at a place called Anarchia.  The Revolutionaries had been saved, but the Dissidents were still out there.  The small rebellion of Emma in Athens and the individual revolt of Benjamin in Babylon ended up in their departure, and with them, the departure of anyone in those capital cities who would ever have hopes of attaining any type of liberty under their governments.  But there were still the Dissidents, the groups of people who had revolted against an idea that they once believed in, now renounce, and accept all the futility of its designs.  These were the last of the Anarchists and the first Anarchist Armies.  They were farmers and soldiers, workers and sailors.  And their leaders, Roz and Pan, were Militarists and Marxists.  A Libertarian people led by individuals dissenting from Authoritarian ideologies.  The Dissidents couldn't be bought off by any offer of their former empires to go back -- they could never do what the Revolutionaries had done.

		Chapter 37: Why Would Anyone Dissent?

	The dissident knows that they are going to lose.  So why would anyone choose that path?  The revolutionary at least has the chance of success, no matter how small it may be at times, and the follower of the revolutionary has an even greater chance of satisfying some selfish need by participating, always allowed to hide behind that age-old chime, "I was misled by bad people."  The established authority has the best chance of success, based simply on the fact there are too many who depend on its continued existence for anyone to raise a flag against it.  The commoner, the non-voter, the non-participant, and the uninvolved sometimes shared in these benefits, too, with the mass slaughter of a working-class revolt followed abruptly by periods of low unemployment, or with their own children and families in shallow graves because they had been suspected of either supporting or opposing the Revolution.  Everyone stood somewhere with some odds of success, some benefits of winning, and some suffering with losing.  But this wasn't the case with the Dissident.  Unlike the Revolutionary, the Follower, the Authorities, and the Commoners, the Dissident knew that they were going to lose by revolting.  So why do it?  This is another underlying theme behind the joke that "Dissidents are just failed Revolutionaries."  Dissidents know that they're going to lose by dissenting, so why would anyone dissent?

	Some have argued that it's just one of the tens or hundreds of personality types available, depending on how specific you want to get with each type.  And this one particular personality type is a combination of loyalty, honor, and dignity, combined with the initiative to prove it especially at times when it contradicts authority, tradition, and convention.  For the very same reasons, others would classify them under the category of maniac or unresolved personality types.  There are others who have said that those with the heart of a Revolutionary and the mind of a Dissident are merely Insurrectionists, an entirely different type of personality altogether, and there are those who have said that those with the heart of a Dissident and the Mind of a Revolutionary are merely Rebels, their own type of personality and classification.  It is with minds like these that questions of "putting down the rebellion" or "ending the insurrection" became of extreme importance, in the thinking behind them as much as in the choice of words for them.  And there are still others who say that some have half the heart of a Revolutionary and half the heart of a Dissident, along with similar halves of the mind.  Truly inwardly divided people, they are sometimes called Individualists, but they are too difficult to count and categorize to really put a name on that type.

	What would make Roz and Pan want to to be Dissidents?  What was it about Athens that had repelled Pan so much, what was in Babylon that Roz couldn't stand for?  For the Revolutionaries, Emma and Ben, there was no need to ask this question.  The Revolutionaries were Anarchists and a social order based on authority and obedience would be incompatible with their Revolution.  But what was the ornament of scorn or the monument of hatred that compelled Roz and Pan to leave behind their native homes?  The Anarchists could neither understand nor believe the established way of their Authoritarian, Top-Down, Hierarchical societies.  But the Dissidents always could understand it, and even had gone to the point of believing in it.  We know why the one type of personality revolted against everything oppressive in their surroundings.  But why had the other type tolerated everything oppressive, until it became too unbearable, and then revolt not against the principle but against the authority overstanding the principle?  Why had the one type of personality cut itself off from everything, and the other type of personality only cut it itself off enough so that it only bled out the corrupted parts of tradition and authority?  If there are Revolutionaries, why are there Dissidents at all?

	You Dissent for the same reason that you start a Revolution: because it is something that you believe in.  But while every Revolutionary starts a Revolution, there is no Dissident who starts a Dissension.  People don't dissent for the same reasons that they revolt.  An individual who dissents does so out of an unhappy result of disappointment and sadness, while an individual who revolts does it out of a ritualistic combination of enthusiasm and anger.  Pan and Roz left their home cities of Athens and Babylon for very different reasons than those of Emma and Benjamin.  Together, they built an entirely new civilization together, but while their destination was geographically the same, it was not ideologically the same.  The Revolutionaries were building the new kingdoms of their Revolution, the Dissidents were escaping the hypocrisy of the old kingdoms of their Obedience.  One and the other fused together as one, along with many other tangent and referential components available in the area, to create something completely new and different within the city known as Anarchia.  But even if they could do this, the Dissident still remained a very different being from the Revolutionary.  So, why does one personality type revolt and the other personality type dissent?  Nobody knows.

		Chapter 38: The Last Dissident of Marxism

	The families of both Roz and Pan were included in the threats made by invading troops.  Roz and Pan's sentence was also their families' sentences.  The wives and children were to be executed first, in front of their husband and father, each executed by a different method -- some of the methods were from legends, others from rumors from distant countries -- and in some cases, if the victim was not technically dead, an additional execution in traditional fashion would be performed.  After that, both Roz and Pan would be executed as promised.  This was tho oath of the Babylonian and Greek empires.  But it wasn't only in the cities built on Authority where you could find orders for executing human beings.

	"If you have the insolence to send us another message like that, we shall invite the messenger to become a free citizen of our city," Roz threatened the messenger at the gates of his Anarchist foothold, holding a piece of paper politely requesting that he surrender and meet the Babylonian and Greek generals for tea and dinner.

	When Pan heard his response, he said, "I'm glad you gave them that response.  I thought for a moment that you were going to say you would shoot the messenger."

	"Well, I was going to say that," [*1] Roz whispered, "But then I realized that I was completely surrounded by my own Anarchist Army."

*1.  Quote from "The Fall of Paris," by Alistair Horne.

	And the Anarchists kept true to the threats they made against Imperialists.  After losing a number of their fastest runners, the kings made it a habit of only sending messengers to Anarchia if they were married men with families.  But soon, it wasn't enough to simple invite someone into Anarchy if they became a problem for the Anarchist Armies.  Soon, there were full orders for executions.

	"I ordered the execution of three of my soldiers today," Roz said.

	"Why?" Pan asked.

	"Because they refused to attack when given the order," Roz replied, "They cowered in their holes.  So we dragged them out, binded their hands, covered their eyes, and executed them each by crossbow shot to the head.  I never could have done such a thing before, but at that point in the battle, a stunning realization had crept into the mind -- I am no longer surrounded by an Anarchist Army.  These soldiers should expect executions."

	"You know that feeling you have, when you see a worker watching their comrades on strike, but doesn't join them," Roz said, "He turns around, and keeps working for the boss, the scab to deep wounds within society.  The traitor.  I know that feeling, and I sympathize with it.  It's the same feeling I have when I see a soldier tell me that they won't fight.  Mutinous scum who would lay down and get ready to die when the warlords of the world come to make slaves out of us and our children."

	"I sympathize with the way you feel about it, more than anything else," Pan said, "But you didn't have to kill them."

	"I did if I wanted to stay free," Roz replied, "That fact alone made my decision for me.  I'm the General of the Anarchist Army.  Why can't I have the right to discipline my soldiers the way I need to in order to accomplish my duties?"

	"It shows the soldiery how you really feel about them, who they are, what they want, and who you are and what you want," Pain said.

	"What?" Roz started to anger, "Don't you know that the generals of the Greek and Babylonian Armies all executed mutinous and deserting soldiers?  You know that some of their troops fight for years and years, under the worst of conditions, the worst food and the worst medical supplies, and one day, when they're ordered to throw themselves to their deaths, just to distract the enemy -- they revolt, and refuse to follow their orders.  They are shot there, right then, on the spot, and left to bleed to death in the dirt and mud.  And if a medic comes along, and resuscitates the near-dead person, and tries to carry them away in a stretcher, they get stopped by the General, who goes so far as to dismount from his horse in the middle of a battle, to walk over to someone almost dead and receiving medical attention, and put an arrow through the dying individual's head.  Don't doubt that for a single moment, whether their governments have kings or dictators, whether the executive is supported by the parliamentary or the aristocracy." [*1]

*1.  Fall of Paris.

	"I don't doubt it, I never doubted it," Pan said, "I always thought we were going to a world where that couldn't happen.  I thought that you were ready to build a new world out of the shell of the old, but it just looks like you want more of the old world."

	"You're going to break up a revolution over the right of the military to execute soldiers that refuse to fight?" Roz asked, "Don't commit such great, thunderous folly.  Then there will be nowhere for us to go, either you, I, or our troops.  Not the new world, not the shell of the old world.  Just the gallows, hanging side by side on a short, short rope."

	"I'm ready to do something," Pan replied, "I know that."

	"Look, Emma and Benjamin gave up, they disappeared into thin air," Roz said, "The Philosopher?  The man who starts up a city with a few words and then doesn't spend enough time to keep it together?  Nobody even knows where to look for him.  The sympathies of your lord, Solon, and the friendship of my lord, Hammurabi?  Yeah, those are the sympathies that are trying to kill us.  Spargo, the dirty Commie who worked with Ally, the filthy Cappie, to break up the city?  You can bet they won't even turn their heads to watch our execution.  At least the others at least feel something about us.  But those two would probably give more sympathy to a dying worm in the sand than to us.  You and I are the only, original fighters in this world.  Everyone else had to abandon us.  It was part of their legacy, just like it will be part of ours.  You and I, the Marxist and the Militarist, will show the world that we're not really all that different after all."

	"Communism and Capitalism are the same thing, right?  And all of that?" Pan said, "I don't know if I buy it."

	"Me, neither," Roz said, "But maybe Marxism and Militarism are the same thing.  They have the same spirit, the same tenacity, the same power and ability to distinguish the fog from the enemy."

	"The Militarist and the Marxist," Pan said, "Could anyone have predicted that the world was going to end like this, with the two dissidents of the greatest empires fighting it out to the last soldier?"  He turned to the window, while Roz paced the room, and then came to a stop.

	"So, you agree with me then, that I should have the right and should practice it next time there is a situation when executing a soldier would mean victory over the enemy forces?" he finally asked.

	"No, that's not going to happen," Pan's eyes searched the great emptiness of the skies, speaking with calmness and firmness, "I'm going to execute them.  Bring them to me, and I'll do it.  Only then are will every soldier either listen to your orders or find some way to secretly desert in the middle of the night."

	"Let's not get into an argument about authority over this," Roz replied, "I know how I like to organize my soldiers and I've always known that.  And it's not like I'm not doubting your organizational ability one bit."

	"It's not an argument about authority," Pan turned around, "It never was.  We both believe in government, or 'authority,' if you want to call it that.  Don't dress up these things in different words.  We all know what it is.  You know I believe in it just the same way you do.  A necessary evil.  We all know what needs to be done, so don't make it personal with your pride and your prestige.  If I execute a soldier, if a Marxist was the one to pull the trigger ending a soldier's life, there wouldn't be a single member of your troops who would expect mercy or clemency should they turn into a coward at that sudden moment in battle when lives are being sacrificed for nothing but orders and more orders.  You let me kill that rebel, and we won't have a single problem anymore with either mutiny or desertion.  Don't think of it as a matter of authority.  Think of it as a matter of strategy.  Do you want to be in charge, or do you want to win the war?"

	"You got through to me," Roz eased, "You're right.  The next mutinous soldier shall be executed by your hands.  I will make sure that they are delivered up to you, all prepared and readied, but still breathing, of course."

	"How far away is the heart of a genuine Marxist from authority?" Pan replied, "Not very far."

	"I shouldn't have doubted you," Roz said, "This issue should be resolved and completed sometime this week.  I look forward to your cooperation on this matter."  And with that final bit of formalism, Roz departed.  Pan turned back to the window, and examined the emptiness of the sky, in its depth and vastness, thinking quietly and solemnly to himself, "What are you revolting against now?  What are you killing for now?"

	That night, Pan disappeared.  A handful of officers and veterans from the original, Third Anarchist Army also disappeared.  In all, Roz lost fewer than fifty of his fighting troops.  But they were some of the angriest, loudest, and most determined of his forces.  It didn't upset Roz at all, to think that he had lost a few strands of muscle tissue in exchange for ignoring the commands of the heart.  But Roz knew more about war and orders than he did about anatomy or psychology.  His profession was that of a military commander, not a doctor that works with broken bodies or a psychiatrist that works with malformed minds.

	"I thought something was going to save me," Pan thought to himself, as he walked through the forest with his small cadre of loyal soldiers, "I thought that I believed in the light, and that was enough for me to find it.  I thought that if I could pick up a few stones and throw them at an old, dilapidated, rotting building that I might be able to knock it down.  I thought that the streams wouldn't resist my striding through them except for the strength of their currents, and I thought the winds wouldn't poison my lungs except for the power of their odors.  If I had fallen into those deep seas, or got sucked up into those whirling tornadoes, I thought I could quietly accept it, trust my own senses, and be rescued by some benevolent force that couldn't stand to see innocence sacrificed to cruelty.  I thought there was something, or at least someone, who wanted me to live and thrive and grow and expand, but no.  There is no one.  It was always just me, all alone, the whole time."

	"Pan, we got enemy reinforcements building up on the Eastern flank!" one of his comrades spoke, "We need to move fast!  We can make it past the gully and the rivers if we leave now!"

	"Then let's keep moving," Pan said, "If we fail, our dreams won't forgive us, destiny won't keep its promises."

	"Let's go, I can already see the enemy troops breaking through our perimeter," the soldier reiterated, "We need to move!"

	"With the wind," Pan replied, before the platoon of ex-Anarchist rebels had melted into the woods.

	"Pan, where are you?  I've been looking for you," a mysterious, hooded man mumbles to himself in the middle of the forest, "I know that a contingent of enemies broke off from the main siege to find you out, and that you're somewhere in these woods.  I know that you're here and all alone.  I know you're just waiting to die, but I hope you are more patient than the Anarchists."

	Thickness of green and brown, air filled with humidity and the smell of life, a sky unbreached by clouds and a ground undisturbed by footprints.  This is the environment where the Philosopher carries himself.  This is the world he walks into and through.  "Pan..." the Philosopher kept speaking, "I know you are out here.  I know you're staring at me in between the cracks of the rocks and the bark of the trees.  I know you're looking for someone to help you get away from here.  I know you need me.  Pan, where are you?"

	"Hurry hurry hurry!" the able-bodied assistant urges Pan on as they retreat from encircling forces, "We're not going to be able to survive this if we try to fight!  There's too many of them and there's too few of us!"

	Pan turned to his comrade while picking up his pace, "I've always thought that we only needed the subjective conditions to reach the point where they can reform the objective situation, but maybe --"  Pan is interrupted by a splash of blood across his face, opening his eyes just in time to see his arrow-filled friend collapse to the ground.

	Flipping around the bow over his shoulder into his hands and taking cover between a boulder and the corpse of his comrade, Pan releases three quick shots towards the front of the enemy's perimeter.  While making haste, he drags his friend from the sight of his enemies.  A hand grabs his wrist, the tightness of the grip causing the blood to rush out at an even greater rate.  "What happened, Pan?" he can barely open his eyes, "We were going to save the world.  We were going to be the heroes to everything that was good...  what happened?"  Pan struggled between the sources demanding his attention, a bright sun glaring in his eyes, cries of pain and suffering ringing in his ears, the tremble underfoot of moving artillery and running soldiers, the smell of fear and death.

	"I know you are close, Pan," the Philosopher spoke quietly to himself as he reached a mountaintop, "I feel it.  I know you have to be near me."  He scanned the landscape with his eyes, searching and seeking, uncertain of the either the direction of movement or the affiliation of the masses of soldiers in the distance.  "If you were an ex-Anarchian, Marxist who suddenly burst into a rage of fervent revolt and rebellion, how far do you think you could make it before being stopped by someone in authority?  Where would they land after facing the first brunt of the assault by the forces that be?  In what direction does the wind carry those seeds of Revolution?"

	"I need to find you," the Philosopher lifted his hood up over his head and disappeared into the quiet of nature below him.  And there, in the dense darkness of the wooded scenery, he looked up, and saw who he had been searching for.  He found Pan.

	"You need to come with me," the Philosopher said, "Your life depends on it.  We need to head south, then southeast.  I've got transport ready and waiting for us, but we can't wait around here too long."

	"And why should I trust you?" Pan said, "The only time we've ever talked is when you tried to push me out of Anarchia, to make me look like an Authoritarian among those living in so-called 'perfect liberty.'  You instigated the Anarchists to start a city and a Revolution without somehow taking any responsibility for it.  And then when they tried to defend themselves against the rapists and murderers of the world, you show up only to break up the city into insignificant fragments of nothing.  I don't know why they say you're the Guardian of Truth, but you certainly are the Guardian of Trouble."

	"There are too many human beings around for there to be any need of a Guardian of Trouble," the Philosopher replied, "It's not so much that someone guards trouble as that the many produce its existence.  But Truth was not produced by anyone or anything.  We have no truth-generators, no truth-farms, no truth-tanks.  What we have of it, we need to make it last.  That's why Truth needs a guardian."

	"Trust Truth's Guardian?" Pan asked, "How do I know that you're not actually the Guardian of Your Own Self-Interest?"

	"How has anything I've done ever improved my situation in this world?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Some people need bread and wine to be happy," Pan replied, "But you need discord and disorder.  Your personality thrives on it.  If the most popular personality with the greatest public confidence says one thing, you have to say the other.  You live on argument.  It's your only nourishment, like a beast that can't hunt other creatures or produce edible plant life, but must scavenge, looking for the remains of others, to fill the rotten, bloated gourd you call a belly.  Others build up monuments to their own legacy, but you only wait until time knocks it them so that you can cart away the bricks and resell them at wholesale rates.  You haven't left anything behind, neither an object of your own creation nor a memory that anyone would cherish.  Emma hates you, Ben hates you, Solon hates you, Hammurabi hates you, Roz hates you, even I hate you."

	"Spargo hates me, too," the Philosopher smiled, "So does Agent 354.  Oh, they definitely hate me.  It's good that you've found so many wonderful people to lean against as you ridicule and attack the man who's trying to save you.  Should I just see myself out of your forest while you go back to your fond, loving family?"

	"Why is everything such a joke to you?" Pan screamed, "Witty retort this, witty retort that.  Don't you have any action to back up those words?"

	"What words would you be referring to that need action to back them up?" the Philosopher asked, passively putting his hands behind his back and twiddling his thumbs.

	"Everything, in fact, just showing up and talking needs action to back it up, because if you don't act on what you say, others will, and they probably won't be acting the way you want," Pan said, "Who made you the Guardian of Truth?  Who says that you get to be that person?  Who elected you?  I didn't vote.  I didn't see a campaign poster or a candidate list.  I didn't see you get sworn into office or take an oath.  You just showed up one day, this mythical, unknown stranger, calling himself the Philosopher, claiming to be the defender of truth, as though you had some exclusive title, some heavenly mandate or king's approval or patron's patronage.  You're nobody, that's why you pick a name that can't be argued with and a cause that can't be attacked.  You will always be nobody, because you never took sides."

	"You're wounded, and we need to get you to medic soon if you're going to live at all," the Philosopher said, "And besides, I can hear the rush of enemy footsteps in the distance.  Are you coming with me, or are you staying?"

	Bleakness went across Pan's face.  "I'd never go with you," Pan replied.

	"Then that logically means you're staying," the Philosopher replied, "Do you have any requests before I leave you to the wolves?"

	"What?  You're just going to leave?" Pan beckoned.

	"Not just going to leave, I am leaving," the Philosopher replied.

	"But, what about defending truth, what about defending the working classes from the exploiters of the earth?"

	"Pan, you have your fight, I have mine," the Philosopher said, "Now you can take my hand, get up, and walk right out of this hell.  But I can't help you if you don't want me to help you."

	"I don't care if it's raining and thundering," Pan said, "I don't care if the dark skies rumble over the greenest parts of the planet; I don't care if the trees split in half and the rocks exploded into a thousand pieces; I don't care if the ground beneath me suddenly shattered, and let me fall into some burning, molten lava; I don't care if my lungs are flooded with putrid sea water or if my some iron-gloved fist chokes the life out of my throat.  I don't care about any of that, so long as I never shake hands with you, the human being who started a revolution on accident but could never stick around to watch it grow up or defend it, like some absentee parent hoping that birthday cards and days out of school are a way to raise a child."

	"Goodbye, Pan," the Philosopher said, "I won't forget you, no matter what happens.  I promise."  Just as he turned to flee from the ensuing armies, the Philosopher exchanged a glimpse with one of the attacking troops, before completely disappearing into the green of the woods and the red of the mountains.  Pan was captured without a fight, since he had barely enough blood in his system to even keep him conscious.  Everywhere among the search-and-destroy teams, there was heard the constant whispering, "Look for a hooded man with a fast pace."  Almost every rock had been turned over and the cracks in every tree's roots were shaken out, but the enemy troops could find no Philosopher.  The blood-soaked Pan was bandaged by a physician and then left on the floor of an iron crate that was dragged away at a careless and casual rate.  While on route to Athens the next day, Pan died.

	Only a corpse arrived in Athens when Solon was expecting the perfect prelude to grand parades of soldiers wearing Red stripes and chanting the Workers' Victory, a song written by one of the best known graduates of the literary program at the Athenian State University.  The dead body didn't remind Solon of victory at all.  "Disappointment," Solon said, "That's what you are and that's all that you give to my mind.  Pan, you are disappointment.  And no matter how tremendously strong and overpowering this emotion, no matter to what level of my soul it reaches and to what height in my mind it stretches, some of that disappointment is in myself.  Your world was horrible, what you did was horrible, but if I was right enough, maybe your world wouldn't be so miserable, neither would you, and neither would anyone else be.  Disappointment, in myself and my ability to govern and rule.  When I first invited the Philosopher to this city, some long time ago, I thought he would tell me everything I needed to know so that a moment like this would never come to pass.  And maybe he did, but I just wasn't listening."

		Chapter 39: The Last Dissident of Militarism

	"Roz, I need to find you," the Philosopher mumbled to himself, dashing through the woods and its forest air.  "Where can I find that Militarist and Fighting Tradition in these Bushes and Bogs?  Where would you find someone who believed in killing the enemy as the most honorable act?"

	"Probably where you can continue to live like that without much distress holding you back," the Philosopher continued thinking, "A fort.  The so-called homebase theory of Revolution.  I wouldn't doubt that he's floating through the vapor of canals and ravines, fading into forests and melting into mountains, but at a time like this, when the tides are rising and the sun is glaring, I'd expect to find Roz in the closest thing to a throne -- a fortress."

	Alone with the unexplored expanse of earthen scenery, the Philosopher paid close attention to any caution that would be given to either his eyes or ears.  These were areas regularly patrolled by anti-Anarchist troops.  Discovering someone in an area like this without an explanation was basically the same thing as being discovered as an Anarchist.  The Philosopher watched the grains in the wood and listened to the greens in the moss, navigating his destination and circumventing his enemy's location.

	The dust filled the room with the pounding of the artillery, the vibrations of shaking planks of wood and rumbling pillars of stone sending vibrations through the heart and body of every Anarchist soldier.  One soldier, a bit more confident and able-minded than the others, quietly approaches a narrow gap that the Anarchists had been using to pinpoint enemy locations.  "There's more artillery on the way, I can see them coming down the mountain.  We're not going to be able to simply route them and push them back into the forests before they disperse into vulnerable, scattering bands of cowards.  Our options are a bit more limited now, especially with our reduced manpower."  These were the last days of Roz.

	"We will hold them off, we always have, we always will, and we have to," another Anarchist fighter added in.

	"They're coming, the regiments from the gully are moving," Roz didn't turn from the eyelet to the world, "Quick, sharpshooters to the second floor!  The rest of us are going to cover you from our first floor defensive positions as best as we can.  You'll have the best shot, but you also might be their best shot.  Every type of suppressing fire will be used.  Now hurry!  We don't have time!"

	A mass of screaming people, tumbling legs and swinging arms, fidgeting hands and shrieking voices, the Anarchist fortress burst into activity and purpose.  Every window became an opportunity to eliminate one of authority's obedient little pawns, every action became a risk of death by the most murderous means.  It wasn't safe to take a shot from any point in the fort, but it wasn't even safe to breathe, either.  When the assault finally hit, it was Roz who kept reminding the troops of these facts.

	"I can find you, I know I can," the Philosopher mumbles in his mind, "Somewhere in between the shadows of the trees and the dark underbellies of the leaves, in between the floating specks of dirt and the thick humidity of the air, in between the thundering of storms and the crashing of earthquakes, in between the suffering of the weak and the resistance of the angry, in between the act of really dying and the moment of really living, I know I can find you.  Your heart is constantly boiling in the ocean that is your rebellious personality.

	"You made it through the academy, you made it through the officer corps, you made it through the campaigns of the Great War, you made it through screaming crowds of well-disciplined soldiers each trying to rip the blood out of your body, you made it through the deepest sands and the tallest mountains, the densest woods and the driest deserts, you made it through the personal and petty bickering of kings and the huddled clutterings of snobbish, social elites, you made it through everything, up and down -- you obeyed every single step of the way, but beneath all of that, I know who you really are -- I know that you were always just waiting to revolt, gathering your patience, building your confidence, consolidating your emotional and intellectual powers.  All that time you had existed on the outside as a respectable person, but always brewing on the inside, you were ready to overturn everything cruel and rotten in their miserable system.  If there is one person I will be able to find in this maze of human bodies between me and the end of the world, you are the one.  I will find you, Roz."

	The Philosopher grabbed a tree branch on his way down a sloping hill, using the momentum to swing him forward, "I know you too well, Roz.  I know exactly where to find someone like you."  In the downward slope, he hops over a large stone that appears in his way without losing his thoughts or his concentration.

	"What would the Philosopher do at a time like this, when the winds are pouring hard and the winds are beating mercilessly -- when the clouds seem to sheath the last sliver of hope out of the sun and the trees bow down before the turbulence in the air?  What would that great mind think up to get away from all this misery, servitude, and death?  How would brilliance find its escape from slavery?  There must have been some secret trick, some handle behind this wall of reality, that lets you grab everything in your hand, pick it up, and put it back down the way you want it.  When the skies growl, the earth shakes, and all wild animals take flight -- when the beating of terror in my heart has knocked every thought out of my head -- when torrential rains and high floods threaten to wash away everything around me, there is always that hope, that just maybe, somewhere, there is some hidden door that will take me far away from here."

	"The regiments are falling back!" one soldier reported.

	"Quick!" Roz shouted, "Send the assault teams to cut their heels as they run.  If they're giving us an opportunity to cut them in half, ignoring it would make us guilty of bad tactics.  Send the most hardened and aggressive soldiers in first, and make sure they are equipped with the deadliest weapons.  Since the enemy is fleeing and we're in a defensive position, a bare minimum of weaponry for us defenders is enough to eliminate any enemy scouts patrolling the area and to successfully withstand any moderate assault."  The soldiers looked to Roz, some of them exchanged glances with expressions of the utmost firmness, and finally, they all nodded and agreed.  The fortress burst into a frenzy of activity, just before the frenzy of blood.

	Behind the ferocious swinging force that resounded from his bow, Roz gazed the tremble and fear of the enemies as they fled, leaving behind their wounded and dead, their weapons and their ammunition, their equipment and their rations.  "Faster, faster," Roz grumbled to himself, "They are only begging us to kill them.  They've allowed themselves to be put into such a weak and vulnerable position, that it would be taking advantage of our honor to expect any mercy from us."  Some of the soldiers heard this, making them pause and think, and the only reason why it did not attract Roz's attention was because he was too focused on the retreat to be aware of the thoughts of his nearest troops.

	"Faster, faster," the Philosopher gives himself a mantra to keep pace with his breath as he darts and dashes through the dense and dark underwood, "I will find you, Roz.  You may aspire to be the Greatest Militarist of all time, like of the other great 'ists' and fighters for their 'isms'.  But it would be tremendously inopportunistic if the Guardian of Truth never heard the words of a traditional, devoted, god-fearing Militarist -- just as so with the Communists and the Capitalists, the Statists and the Anarchists, the Liberals and the Conservatives.  I will find you, Roz."

	"Hey, hold your firing!" a voice shrieked, catching Roz by surprise, and then another voice, "Someone's out there waving a black flag!" ~ "Look in the trenches, the black flag!" ~ "Who's waving a black flag on the side of the Statists?" ~ "It's just a trick, they want to lure us into a false sense of security!" ~ "Someone look close at the fabric; is that the stitching you'd find in the old mills at Anarchia?"  There were thousands of bodies in that fortress, but there were also thousands of minds.  Every possible thought was considered, every action under the community's discretion was extremely analyzed.  These were fighting men and women, and they were fighting with one of the world's most well-known Militarist of all times; they knew this, but the numerous masses of them did not forget that they were Anarchists.

	"Nobody fire a shot on that black flag unless it fires a shot at you!" Roz's screamed echoed through the fortress, "And besides, it just one goddamned flagwaver.  We've got more than fifty units within visibility on our Western flank just begging for arrows in their guts.  You should be fulfilling your spirit of anti-authoritarianism by cutting them down rather than arguing with each other about the meaning of one man waving a black flag."  The entire spirit of the fortress had calmed, but there was still fervent whispering and curious glances.  After the shouts and screams had quieted, the tatters of black cloth still kept dancing in the airs just outside the fort, this constant distraction, until it finally stopped completely.  Out of the trench, one could see the head of a hooded man slowly emerge and expose himself to the view of the First Anarchist Army.  It was the Philosopher.

	"Don't fire a shot!" Roz screamed, "That man is our friend!  Quickly, get him inside!"  As troops rushed to the multiple-bolted door and signaled the old man to come inside, Roz continued, "Make sure he enters unharmed!  Kill any Statist that you see within one hundred meters of him!  And don't do a single possible thing that could harm him!"  After a number of times where the soldiers and the Philosopher exchanged glances and hand suggestions, an old man in a hood huddled across the battle field while keeping his head down at near-waist height the whole time, ducking across that millpond of ferocious hornets and horseflies.  In the quiet of a battle between the Anarchists and the Statists, the Philosopher had entered the last battlehold of Anarchy.

	"I didn't think I was ever going to see you again," Roz said upon greeting the stranger.

	"I go where I'm needed," the Philosopher smiled, "I thought that maybe we could talk a little bit."

	"Talk, sure!" Roz said, "I haven't seen an amiable personality in... in..."  A thought of Pan comes across his mind, and he changes the subject, "What is it that you wanted to talk about?"

	"You can't survive here," the Philosopher said, "There are endless miles of soldiery on their here to destroy every last grain of grass they can find."

	"The only ones who are fighting so that they can live to breathe freely -- we are the ones who are doomed, when assaulted upon by those who fight to get their next pay bump or to avoid the lashings and punishments that come from retreat?  We're the ones who can't survive?" Roz's attitude became a little more incensed.

	"The dust and confusion of war is like that," the Philosopher replied, "It can easily blow up into your face and eyes and nostrils and leave you completely incapable of truly evaluating your situation."

	"But somehow you escaped the dust," Roz said, "Leaving you and only you with the senses to know who will live and who will die?"

	"You can't keep playing this game of running into the woods or the mountains whenever enemies fall down upon your wheat fields because you didn't have the labor force to build walls, since they were all busy just trying to feed themselves," the Philosopher said, "The contortions you perform to outwit a superior force of numbers are truly amazing, but it is one kind of fight when a weaker person manipulates a stronger person to their will -- it isn't even a fight at all, though, when it is a weaker person facing ten stronger people.  If you stay here, you'll be dead; if you retreat further into the woods away from your wheat fields, you'll be dead; if you surrender and ask for forgiveness, you'll be dead.  You have no choice.  Don't try to tell the wind in what direction to blow."

	"I never wanted to command the wind," Roz said, "I only wanted to give it my advice, and let it choose what it wants.  But I'm the person who just happens to have the temperament where I become extremely depressed and disappointed when the wind ignores my suggestions."

	"So, you're not going to ignore the unignorable, are you?" the Philosopher said, and while Roz's eyes fell into the depths of his thoughts like a pebble falling into a deep well, the Philosopher continued, "I have transport ready and waiting, at a distance and in a safe location.  I can save you and your troops, every last one, not a single one left behind --"

	But before he could say another word, "You think we need saving?  You think that your transport at a safe distance is going to take us away from this entire world of Communist versus Capitalist, Statist versus Anarchist, and return me back to my post as an officer, and these troops back to their positions as mechanics, carpenters, factory workers, and farm laborers?"

	"Don't try to undo your own nature," the Philosopher said, "You will only undo yourself.  You can't ever return back to the way things were.  It's gone too far at this point.  You know that more than I do.  You have to."

	"You're absolutely right about that," Roz said, "There is no undoing of one's self that doesn't leave the soul scarred and the heart functionless."

	"You'll be the one guilty of undoing yourself if you stay here," the Philosopher replied, "Then nobody's going to blame the Communist Army or the Capitalist Army.  They're just going to say that you chose a really slow method for suicide, that there was nothing political at all about it, that the whole thing was entirely personal."

	"And maybe they'd be right," Roz replied.

	"Please, convince me otherwise," the Philosopher's expression turned dire.

	"I didn't know what the rebels were fighting for, but I knew who they were fighting against, and that was enough for me," Roz replied, [*1] "Sometimes, I still don't know what they're fighting.  Some vague idea about how some vague thing should or shouldn't be accorded this right or that right or this privilege or that privilege.  Words are the weapons of thinkers.  But swords and arrows, those are the weapons of the actors.  I simply don't belong to the world of Revolution versus the Established Order.  Asking me to take a position and decide on matters that never belonged to me is like asking the birds to swim or the fish to fly, like asking the trees to give opinions on the stars and asking the rocks to give speeches about bugs.  Two completely different forms of matter can coexist together for a very long time, even if they only exist in contradiction."

*1.  Quoted from "the Fall of Paris," by Alistair Horne, Chapter 7

	"But not forever," the Philosopher said.

	"No, I guess not, maybe," Roz said, "I suppose the contradiction can sometimes swallow the situation."

	"Is there a situation that can overcome a lie?" the guardian of truth begged.

	"Truth fights for itself, so do I," Roz replied.

	"The truth doesn't fight for itself," the Philosopher replied, "It needs a very argumentative and crafty guardian to keep it safe from the purloins of this or that greater thinker who comes along."

	"Well, I fight for myself," Roz said, "You can protect truth all that you want, but me, nobody else will fight for me or for these soldiers surrounding me.  I've got to do it."

	"You're going to die doing it," the Philosopher said.

	"I'm a Militarist, you know that," Roz rebuffed the comment, "Dying is part of the life."

	The blast of distant artillery is heard nearby, the slinging of the catapult echoing in the distance.  Dust suddenly fills the room from the ceiling and the walls, as though the building itself was becoming exasperated under the pressure.  "I can guarantee your safety," the Philosopher said.

	"And I can guarantee yours," Roz replied, "When you leave, because we won't be."  A mild rouse of cheering followed for a few seconds in the background at these words.

	"My friend," the Philosopher said, "You must know that time is running out, don't you?"

	"I do," Roz said, "Let's set up some sharpshooters to cover your escape.  You did extremely well getting here, so leaving shouldn't be too difficult."

	"You really are making this decision?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Yes, I have to," Roz said, and with a quick examination of the clouds with his eyes, he added, "I've never met someone like you before, and I never will again.  Guard truth for as long as you want, if that's really what you want."  And like the dust that suddenly appeared and disappeared from the artillery firing, so too did the Philosopher escape from the scene.  But he did not quite leave the area entirely.
	
	He watched as they dragged out Roz from the last Anarchist fortress, heavily chained and surrounded by an elite troop of Babylonian soldiers.  He watched as he was marched toward an iron cage awaiting him in the enemy encampment.  For a single moment, his head turned, and his eyes met with those of a hooded stranger in the deep of the woods.  He turned away, as to not draw attention to the mysterious creature in the midsts of predators.  With eyes to the ground, Roz smiled, and there was only a small amount of hesitation, before the Philosopher caught him mouthing those words from across the great distance of their bodies, "I'm sorry."

	Holding him by the arms, the guards carrying Roz threw him into a rusty, iron cage, the rays of light penetrating through the bars now his only brightness in life.  Although appearing unhurt as he was marched to his cell, his body went limp as he struck against the floor of the crate.  Pan's fate was sealed, Roz was a prisoner of the great empires, and the last few inches of Anarchist Rebellion were crushed.

	"But was it even still Anarchist at that point?" an old veteran complained when interviewed by his captors, "It may once have been Anarchist, at some point in time or some location on this planet.  What it became, I don't know.  I don't think any of us knew.  I joined the Anarchists because I was tired of the conditions around me determining how I live, so I fought back against all authority, so that I would be the one who determined how I lived.  And here I am, a confused and idealistic Anarchist, fighting to the bitter end, with my only friends being a Militarist and a Marxist -- the conditions surrounding me making decisions for me more than ever.  I miss what we had in Anarchia.  It may not have been perfect, like a paradise everyone agrees with everyone else all the time, but I was happy there.  I never really trusted these swamps and bogs that we escaped to in the North East."

	Some Anarchists refused to let themselves be captured, and were killed only by brutal, aggressive, assault squads.  Others, when taken hostage, covered in the blood of their comrades and their enemies, stern and complacent and orderly and obedient, turned into sobbing, tearful creatures once they were placed in shackles.  Some said nothing, others couldn't stop talking, some took the pushing and shoving of their prisoners with acceptance, others fought back and suffered miserable tortures for it.  One group of Anarchist prisoners was tied to a tree, but the smuggling of a metal file by one of them led their escape.  Another group of Anarchist prisoners was marched out into an open plain, asked to sit on their knees without cramping their shackles, and were executed by a direct shot to their spines from an arrow.  On this day, Anarchy ceased to exist.  If it ever came into existence again, in the next few thousand years, it was only in momentary and uncertain moments, it was only through unexpected political alliances and an over-educated leadership that could never escape its wealthy upbringing.  Hammurabi and Solon had eliminated Anarchy -- but there were still Anarchists out there.

	And at Babylon, in an iron cage, there was Roz.

	"Get up!" Hammurabi screamed, "I said get up!"  Then, Hammurabi noticed, there wasn't a twinge or a blink or a response of any kind, even breathing itself had seemed to stop in Roz.  But at that point, he realized: it wasn't Roz anymore.  It was just the body of Roz.  The man had disappeared permanently from the world.  His relaxed posture was in contrast to the balled up fist he held out stretched.  After prying deeply through those cold, tight fingers, Hammurabi had finally ripped out a tiny, metal object from that hand.

	Hammurabi rolled the tiny, metal capsule in his hand, noticing the imprint on the side, "Babylonian Military Academy, Class of 1848: Live Fighting, Die Quietly."  Upon closer examination, he discovered that it was a standard-issued container -- for suicide pills, given only to the highest-ranking officer graduates, so that they wouldn't give up secrets if captured to be tortured by the enemy.  "You rotten piece of garbage," Hammurabi spoke to the corpse, "We made you.  Only we can destroy you.  Taking away our last right while you use yours?  Filth of the planet, you never should've been an officer!  You deserved to have your last memories full of Anarchists and Anarchy!"

		Chapter 40: Empty Hands and a Full Mind

	In the end, Roz and Pan were never executed in the style promised by their potential executors.  Neither were their families, who simply blended into the endless mass of what became known as to the world as just refugees and survivors, they were only the victims who had been displaced by the wars of mighty empires.  But Pan was dead, and so was Roz.  The way their lives ended was with enough choice on their part as it was on the part of the emperors seeking their deaths.  Dishonorable, despised, hated, and even pitied.  Everything that Roz and Pan had done was wiped from the history books or given an alternative and less meaningful telling.  Every war that Roz had fought in, every medal and decoration which he had earned by fighting, every part of that was taken from his legacy in Babylon.  Every meeting that Pan had organized, every workers' union he established and every lecture given to massive crowds, every word and every syllable were somehow turned toward discord and confusion in the presses of Athens.  Since the start of the war, their monuments were torn down, their posters were replaced with others, and the public buildings named after them were quickly renamed, but now with the deaths of their physical bodies, so too came the death of the truth about them.

	The Dissidents knew that they were going to lose.  That's part of what makes them Dissidents.  But did they really know the extent that their former masters would go to erase their memories?  Do Dissidents know that what they're going to do will be twisted and warped by interpretations of those with smaller minds and greater power?  Or is their struggle really a personal one against one particular force that has been the one only haunting in their lives?  If you Dissent, you know you're going to lose, so why would struggling against any single power make sense?  Revolutionaries and Dissidents both want a different world, but what was it about the latter that made it impossible for them to become the former?  Was it the dignity of dissenting, or the repulsion of revolting?  What was it about Emma and Benjamin that made it too difficult for Pan and Roz to be the same way?  What was so bad about the Revolution that Dissension would look more appealing?  None of the answers to any of these questions are going to be the exact same for any two human beings on the planet.  So it's almost a little redundant to even think that someone like either Roz or Pan could explain why dissenting was worth the story and legend behind the greatness of their character.

	The Philosopher was still alive, so was Emma and Benjamin, but so were Hammurabi and Solon.  The Individualism of Philosophy persisted, the Anarchism of the Revolutionaries continued, and the Masters of Capitalism and Communism reigned throughout the world.  The Revolt was crushed, the Dissension was destroyed.  There was nothing left but a globe that was part Red and part Blue, with small inklings of black being smuggled through its seas.  Nothing resisted the power of either the Communist Rule or the Capitalist Rule.  Everywhere, in every small village and in every great nation, there became one source of obedience and submission, whether it was to the inherit ambition behind capital or the undeniable purity of an individual working for the collective masses.  The last few individuals of any ideology were tucked away, hidden from this mass overflow of the sewers of authority.  As the world became more and more steeped in laws and police officers, so too did it matter more and more whether one was Communist or Capitalist.  Authority didn't matter.  That was taken for granted everywhere, as easily as some believe in scripture or proverbs.  After the departure of Emma and Benjamin, and after the death of Roz and Pan, the world was different.

	Communist and Capitalist.  That was all that mattered.  In a Communist village, that was the question, and in a Capitalist village, that was the question.  Communism and Capitalism are the same thing.  They each want to make sure you're not part of the other side.  It's not so much if you believe in them.  They're not testing you for purity of heart, they're testing you for heresy.  The suspected are interrogated not for how much they believe in what is considered truth, but for how much they believe in what is considered falsehood.  And the elites of these societies existed on the same boundaries.  They were not evaluated based on how much they loved their own society's order, but for how much they hated anything that threatened this order.  It wasn't a matter of whether they trusted their own people so much as whether they distrusted the enemies of their people.  It was Authority that allowed this attitude and mindset to flourish, grow, and consume everything that stood before it.  The Communist world and the Capitalist world, those two sides that had enveloped the planet, and there was nothing that questioned their power.  Except each other.  That's why there had to be another war.

			Part IX: The Apocalypse

"War.  War never changes...  The end of the world occurred pretty much as we had predicted.  Too many humans, not enough space or resources to go around.  The details are trivial and pointless, the reasons, as always, purely human ones."

--Ron Perlman, 1998
Fallout 2

		Chapter 41: A Final War to End All Wars

	War began between those two high and mighty powers of the world, Capitalism and Communism.  Every possible resource of humanity and material was utilized for the ends of destroying the enemy, and the rest of civilization was left with a world full of catastrophe and destruction.  Millions of people were displaced from their original homes, often dying in starvation, falling victim to slavery, being conscripted into the armies, getting abused by local natives, and suffering from new diseases and maladies that couldn't have touched them in their homelands.  Cities that had been important for thousands of years were burned to the ground, their concrete sidewalks broken up with ballistae, their buildings broken down by flame.  The war between Hammurabi and Solon raged on and on, with one side conquering part of its enemy, and then, after another long battle, a quick reversal, with the only result being the loss of human life, the destruction of cultural centers, and and the uplifting, dispersal, fear, and risk that all human life was suffered.  Everyone had this fear, it drew them away from the cities, it pulled them out of them the fields, it made them disappear to far away lands where they could escape such miserable pains.  It was this destruction that ended all of civilization, sometime around the year 400 BC, between Hammurabi and Solon -- between the Communist and the Capitalist empires.

	The Apocalypse is what it's called when the world ends.  But for ideas, the world is culture and civilization, and once that's gone, then so is the world.  It was thoughts that guaranteed that grain was cultivated, it was thinking that produced forged metal in the mills of the cities.  The Communist and Capitalist worlds weakened, partly from fighting each other, and partly from the severe repression their Authoritarian orders would naturally have upon their people's thinking, particularly during a period of severe war, or "the period of Artificial Famine," as the Philosopher had been known to knickname it.  Humanity decayed and decayed, capitals were reduced to rubble, the fields turned barren, and the everyone felt both fear and desperation, rulers and ruled, Capitalist and Communist.  That is what it is like for the world to end -- it is not necessarily one single struggle between two groups that leads to everyone killing each other; it's one single idea, which dominates two opposing groups, that causes them to chip off one piece from each other in every contact that they have.  Together, they share Authority, apart they differ on Property.  The Red and the Blue, but altogether, slightly stained in the White of obedience to Authority, and not the Black of defiance towards Authority.  So dark Red and light Blue -- the one to deceive the people, the other to disguise itself -- these were the colors that separated the dying world.

	"Communism and Capitalism are the same thing," the Philosopher thinks to himself, going down that lone path towards nowhere, "They both want to destroy each other more than they want to stay alive."  You can think about the personality type of the Philosopher, always Individualist against the many, or the personality type of the Revolutionaries, Emma and Benjamin, always wanting to make something new, or the personality type of the Dissidents, Roz and Pan, always honorable and always dignified, or even the personality type behind the Spies, Spargo and Agent 354 -- but what is it that fundamental difference which lies behind the Communist personality type and the Capitalist personality type?  Are we all these personality types, but only in degrees?  Where do the overlaps of these layers occur, where do their fissions break through convention?  At what breach of the egg does one find the true colors of its young hatchling?  At what angle do you get the right glimmer off of its scales, at what height can you best catch one of its feathers to closely examine it?  Are the Blue ones heavier than the Red ones?  Are the Red ones sharper than the Blue ones?  Which survives better in different environments, which adapts better to different climates?  You can examine particularities, individual people, among a mass of thought, but to identify the thought itself, within its entirety as it moves and acts as a mass of people, this is the skill for one who practices Philosophy, and even its master can't answer all questions.

	What makes a Communist and what makes a Capitalist?  A peasant in any village would have a million answers to this question.  But with the Final War, and with the clash of two mighty powers, there weren't many left to give a definitive answer to this question.  Solon and Hammurabi still had their own answers, and those that diverged from those two main streams still had their own answers, too -- but those two pulsing rivulets of water and wonder quickly merged closer and closer together in their own mutual self-destruction.  Soon society and civilization was not defined as a series of rivers joining each other at disparate points and making connections at unusual joints; soon it was nothing but a tremendous flood of suffering and violence, a tidal wave of hunger and hatred.  In the chaos and disorder, there was a drowning of those great minds that would've given us invention and science and art and thought.  There was an internal death to humanity, there was a quiet death-like hibernation to humanity's soul.  Everyone was busy fighting to talk.  Everyone spent more time in fear of dying than in enthusiasm at living.  The Apocalypse destroyed everything, entire villages deserted, cities reduced to humble gatherings, capitals full of pestilence and poverty.

		Chapter 42: The Breakdown of All of Civilization

	There was no culture left, only brutalized rubble and torched remnants.  But there were pirate ships bouncing around the Mediterranean with the original Anarchists on them.  After they had made the necessary detours to embark their main cargo, the refugees of Communist oppression in Athens, there were still two pirate ships carrying the first two Anarchists.  But the one carrying Emma anchored off of some unknown shore in the far, far Northwest.  It waited several days until another vessel, also bearing a flag with skull and crossbones, finally arrived.  At that point, they departed at once with their final cargoes: the two Anarchists.  There they stood, alone with each other, on the beach.  Emma screamed, "You!?" which was met with the same reply from Benjamin, and a moment of hesitation, before the Philosopher creeped out from behind some bushes, "No.  Us."  The two Anarchists counted the sand at their feet, "Emma," ~ "Benjamin."  And at once, they were in each other's arms, a single embrace.  The Philosopher was there when they had joined together, he was there when they defended their right to be together, he was there when they decided to split up, he was there when they agreed to stay together, and now he's here when they finally meet each other together.

	Those who had joined in the rebellion at Athens with Emma were now making a new living far from the source that had oppressed them.  But they never forgot what it was like to fight on the barricades, and it wasn't long before tiny, little rebellions of Anarchist-Communism exploded into existence, however small they were before their violent oppression.  The history of the followers of Benjamin in Babylon followed a very similar line.  With the departure of that one Anarchist-Capitalist from the city, it was automatically assumed and promoted everywhere in the presses that he was plotting for the mass annihilation of the Babylonian people.  Nothing was said of Voltairine, nor was anything said of Agent 354 and Spargo, with the history rewriting of Roz and Pan having already been completed by the empires, no matter how much they were just empires of dust by this point.  The final remaining amounts of Anarcho-Communists and Anarcho-Capitalists dispersed their energy and essence throughout the small few corners where they remained, somewhat untouched by the Apocalyptic events set in place by Hammurabi and Solon but not entirely.  After the Final War had reached its ending points, the only Anarchism that existed in the world could be found within a few square feet between Emma and Benjamin.

	The sun was beginning to set, the pirate ships had departed from their point of landing, and three people walked North.  They were leaving behind a sea that would be considered the basis of all civilization and culture to develop in the Western hemisphere of the world.  The damns were breaking, the towers were collapsing, and the whole foundations of cities seemed to be caving in on themselves.  But together, they were leaving behind a lull period, a time when no new thoughts are ideas would be created, where nothing innovative or different would be introduced, where culture would be dead, where society would be non-existent.  These were the three last human beings who escaped from the downfall of Hammurabi and Solon's Dark Ages who continued to have a positive impact on the rest of the world, at least where there the two empires or their allies, or even knowledge of the dispute and argument between them.  Emma, Benjamin, and the Philosopher had to travel quite far to reach that point, but there were still villages and towns who were untainted by allegiance to either the Greek Empire or Babylonian Empire.  The questions they would ask to all they could meet were very simple, "When is the last time you have seen someone around here with a red sash around their arm?  When is the last time you have seen someone around here with blue ribbons on their shoulders?"

	The answers the travelers received made them believe that it might take an eternity before they could reach somewhere on the planet where Property was not the most essential basis for living and existence.  "I know this area quite well, actually," the Philosopher said, "It took me a minute to realize it, then I doubted it when I had seen some new and overgrown underbrush, but then I saw that stone alignment, and I now know exactly where we are.  Follow me through this viny and dense valley.  We shall be as safe as possible from imposing authorities, and this is certain to be the fastest route possible."  Emma and Benjamin decided to trust the Philosopher, just as they had trusted him to save them from their failed revolts, but very unlike the distrust they had placed in him at the establishment of their Anarchist society, the Anarchist acceptance of Roz and Pan, and the final decisions to break up and disperse all that remained of Anarchy.  They gladly listened to the voice that they had once said only knew how to criticize other, they now took the hand of the man once known for the ability to argue against anyone successfully.  For the time, Anarchy was listening to Philosophy, humble students to the wondrous, nearly-invisible being who was only known as an Admirer of Truth.

		Chapter 43: One Last Dialogue With the Anarchists

	"We're stuck together, you know," Benjamin said, "No Communist village in this world would take me in, and the same applies to us and Capitalist villages."

	"You're probably right about that," Emma replied, "We're birds without a perch, chicks without a nest."

	"For revolutionaries, you did well -- you realized from the very beginning that success depended upon accepting people who are very different from you," the Philosopher replied, "But, you stopped realizing that as frustrations had built up when you had no tool or mechanism for handling, frustrations between those who believe in Property and those who don't.  And then, by attracting all of those with a rebellious attitude to your city, you had this upsetting effect on the natural balance in human, social ecology.  Authority won, conquered all, and now, with nothing left, it is eating itself."

	"You truly blame that on us?" Benjamin asked.

	"You never should've trusted Spargo or Ally.  They were agent provocateurs," the Philosopher replied.

	"They're what?" Emma asked.

	"They want to pretend to be like you, so that they can encourage and incite you to do things that are actually bad for you and your cause," the Philosopher replied, "That's what and who they are, and nothing more.  You trust your friends, because that's the type of people you are, but you don't know how to tell who your real friends are."

	"How come you never revolted against anything?" Benjamin asked, "How come you're the one who went around telling everyone what they should be doing instead of doing it yourself?"

	The Philosopher laughed, "When I was young, people called me a revolutionary, but then they got used to me, so now they just call me a philosopher, or even, the Philosopher."

	"I sometimes wonder what I would be called if there was no such thing as Anarchy or opposition to Authority," Emma said, "If there was no word for 'Anarchist,' I would call myself a Friend to the Friendless."

	The Philosopher caught the glint of her smile as he looked to the ground, "Do you remember, long ago, when I said that I hated being called Olmo or Amin?  And how King Solon and King Hammurabi had given me those names merely as tokens to gratify the impression of their empires?  Do you remember that?"

	"Yes, I remember you getting irritated when I called you Olmo," she said.

	The Philosopher asked, "Do you even know what really happened to Olmo?  What they did to him?"

	"No," Emma's face showed concern as her eyebrows furled, "I only heard what was told to me by Athenian speakers, and they only repeated the words of Solon.  What happened to Olmo?  What is the truth about Olmo?"

	"Just another wave of human ignorance," the Philosopher replied, "A child in his village was tortured, raped, and killed.  Olmo was a Communist, and the only Communist.  So all of the blame fell on him, even though no evidence existed at all.  That's why they crucified him.  All along, the crime had been committed by a Capitalist, his prime accuser.  That's the real story behind Olmo, and why Kings will only reference him, without really explaining him."

	"The real meaning of having names instead of stories, fables instead of books," Benjamin smiled back, "Sayings instead of substance."

	"That's what you have when you listen to kings instead of peasants," the Philosopher said, "That's what you have when you get advice from someone like Solon or Hammurabi."

	"How did you even escape from Hammurabi?" Benjamin asked.

	"I'm the Philosopher," his friend replied, "I should probably be better known for escaping from imprisonment than for possessing the truth.  I remember we were arguing about something.  And then he said 'isn't truth just what you need to understand?'  I wanted to scream at that old man, 'There's enough truth that you need understand, that I could beat you to death with it!'"

	"And what is it in the nature of Truth that you find?" Emma asked.

	"It is in the nature of Truth to hurt no one," the Philosopher said, "Which was something that a person like Hammurabi would never understand."

	"Didn't you throw a grapefruit at the face of a cop and then run away as fast as possible?" Ben asked.

	"I wasn't charged with a thing," the Philosopher replied, "So in the eyes of the State, it never happened.  Truth has quite a different set of eyes altogether, though."

	"Oh, and what did the eyes of the Truth see?" Emma asked, "Was it something completely different from what you would see in the heart of Truth?"

	"That might have to do more with me than with the Truth," the Philosopher replied.

	"Why did you do it?" Benjamin asked, "Why did you save our lives?  Certainly, I would have been executed, and eventually, Emma's revolt would have been crushed.  What brought you to such incomparable kindness?"

	"Maybe, I pictured the world, in a few thousand years, and even beyond that, maybe five thousand years into the future," the Philosopher replied, "I know there will still be kings then.  There will still nations.  There will still be empires and emperors, poverty and the poor; there will still be well-respected and honored professors amidst clamoring crowds of the illiterate; there will still be civil servants and cops, magistrates and soldiers, even Capitalists and Communists; there will still be private trade of wealthy merchants along with public trade of powerful governments; there will still be religion, drug use, tradition, rebellion, individualism, communalism, and everything that makes humanity what it is -- but, I would be saddened, if there were no more Anarchists."

	"Would you be saddened, too, if there were no more Anarchy?" Emma asked with a smile.

	"The future will need plenty of that, too," the Philosopher replied.

	"Aha!" Benjamin exclaimed, "So, you really have been an Anarchist all along?"

	"What's the difference, anyway?" the Philosopher smiled.

	"What about you, anyway, Philosopher?" Emma asked, "We haven't heard much of your story."

	"Yeah, who are you, anyway?" Benjamin prodded him on.

	"Was there one thing you wanted to tell me?  Isn't there anything at all?" Emma asked, "You've done a lot of talking about ideas, Philosopher.  You are a swordsman with thoughts as your weapons.  But there is very little that penetrates past your shielding.  Why haven't you said anything about yourself?  Why haven't you had a dream or a want or a hope?  Why is it just that you're someone who knows how to debate and argue well, and not someone who has some real craft and skill developed from some personal and often never-understood inner characteristic?  Doesn't the father figure of Truth have something that moves him deep inside personally?  Everything you've said so far has been so impersonal and direct and exacting.  What made you like that?  What crafted that instinct for arguing and that impulse for disagreeing?"

	"This may be the one time you actually used me or what I said in your argument, and it has nothing to do with Truth," the Philosopher replied.

	"Where the hell did you even come from, Philosopher?" Emma asked, "What the hell is your purpose, anyway?  Come on, we've asked politely far too much."

	"I've always told you that I'm the Guardian of Truth.  Do you really believe that millions of generations are brought up and put down, without a single soul watching?" the Philosopher asked, "Maybe I just wanted to hear what everyone was going to say.  Maybe I just wanted to know how everyone was going to describe their intentions.  And then maybe...  I never wanted to be here at all; I was only here as a servant of the truth."

	"The Truth, huh?" Benjamin asked, "That is the idol of your worship?  What the devotion of your personal powers can be found?"

	"I suppose, that is something I meant to tell you about the Truth, or to tell someone, at least."

	"What about it?" Benjamin asked, "What about the Truth?  What happened?"

	"Something happened to it all right," the Philosopher responded, "It may have been the truth at one point, pure and simple, but now, it is more like an idea, just a thought, about looking inward and discovering yourself, so that you cannot let the outside deceive you.  It's very much so a disfigured thing now compared to its once pristine beginning.  I feel like I'm carrying around the shards of some sentimental vase, broken and useless, although still beautiful and, at the right angle in the light, there may even be a few bits of glory in there, too, but still, regardless of all of its uselessness, I still carry it.  It still weighs me down, makes my footprints just a little deeper wherever I walk."

	"Ha!  So, it's not hidden away at in some rabbit hole in the middle of the desert -- you still do carry the truth with you, don't you?" Benjamin asked.

	"Of course, and every time I have been searched by the king's guards, soldiers, and cops, and their fingers grimed the surface of that broken object, they never knew what they were holding, or what it might have even looked liked in its original, working state.  They would sometimes even tell me, 'You're not the Philosopher, the possessor of truth -- you're just a vagrant, with a bag of broken glass.'  To imagine that soldiers don't even have enough poetry to come up with something like 'a bag of broken dreams.'"

	"Or 'a rag full of shattered misery,'" Benjamin said.

	"'The urn of my hopes,'" Emma added in.

	"'The pebbles that haven't fallen through the holes in my pockets yet,'" Benjamin wins.

	"They have always called me the guardian of truth," the Philosopher said, "I guard it like a night watchman guards the cemetery, 

	"Philosopher, you had mentioned truth's original, working state?  So, the truth had function at one point?  It was capable of doing things instead of simply being admired?  Have a really misunderstood the nature behind all nature?" Emma asked.

	"Oh, certainly it could do things," the Philosopher said, "The machine behind the machine -- the gear behind the gear; truth was always there, always working alongside the universe, never separated from it.  And then something happened, and while the universe was too sturdy to be destroyed, the truth died.  A sadness has draped the world, a depression that can be felt throughout the stars, since the universe lost its life equal, the Truth.  There was once a time when the sun would shine, and the waterfalls were glimmering, and the trees had rich and sweet and refreshing smells, and the truth was no less active in existing and working throughout all things.  But that is no longer so."

	"What happened, Philosopher?" Emma asked.

	"It was like a great flood of human ignorance," the Philosopher replied, "It swallowed all who could breathe a single effort of resistance.  All who spoke in protest were drowned in the rising seas, those who thrashed about with their arms were beat down by the angry waves, and while I was only a young man, fighting against the engulfing water and reaching out to save my friends, by the time the flood had receded, I was old, and there was no else left.  That's why they say that 'the Philosopher has lived forever.'  What they really mean is that I've lived long enough."

	"Tell us what happened," Emma said.

	"Long ago, there were many people like me, and we all spend our time discussing, exchanging, and trading every piece of truth we could get.  We were living in a community that disapproved of such an activity, and one day, they all of my friends disappeared.  And I never was able to trade truth with anyone ever again.  It was something that only I had, and nobody else would be able to trade with me again.  Nobody else would be able to listen to that amount of truth or to be able to handle its depth again, for the truth of the other Philosophers was executed alongside with them.  I was a carrier of the sacred wisdom.  For a long time, my significance was only that I was holding something left by someone no longer around.  But then, I started talking to people about what I know -- and then, that's when they gave me the name, the Philosopher."

	"I thought you existed before all civilization?" Emma asked.

	"Does anyone exist before all civilization?  Maybe the rocks and the trees, and if there are any real answers in the world, anyway, that must certainly be their source."

	"Does that mean you were an Anarchist at the beginning of everything?" Benjamin asked, "I would be angry about any centralized, organized, community effort that ended up in destroying my friends."

	"No, it doesn't mean that I was an Anarchist at the beginning of everything," the Philosopher replied, "There was a time when I blamed all of that pain simply on misfortune.  Or at least, I had hoped it was simply misfortune, and not an incident that would lead to deep implications about how society was organized.  But, you live, you suffer, you learn, you grow, you end up hating any obstacle in the way of Truth spreading itself, even if it is a broken truth now."

	"It must be worth spreading still, though, even if it is broken, right?" Emma asked.

	"I think so," the Philosopher replied, and then after a deep moment coupled with a few mmmm's, he said again, "Yes, I think so.  After all, how else is it going to get fixed, unless I let people know about it?"

	"Do you think it can be fixed?" Benjamin asked.

	The Philosopher replied, "Of that, I am absolutely certain..." and then after a pause, "I hope so, anyway.  What do you think?"

	"Haha," Emma said, "What if we don't think anything about it?  This is your story, right?"

	"It certainly is," the Philosopher replied.

	"What were your friends like in the beginning?" Benjamin asked.

	"I want to know, too," Emma added.

	"What did they talk about?" Benjamin asked, "What were your conversations like?  How did you really feel about them?  Respite or compassion, animosity or desire, frustration or love?"

	"There are nights when that is all that I can think about," the Philosopher said, "But most of them time, they are out of mind.  Thinking about them makes me remember how I lost them."

	Ben spoke, "I had always heard that... the Philosopher is always alone."

	"No, no, no, that's not true," the Philosopher replied, "It's not that I'm always alone, so much as ...  after so much, it's most comfortable to just be alone now."

	"So, the truth is broken, huh?" Benjamin smiled, "Then maybe you, the Philosopher, should go looking for the one they call, the Engineer."

	"Philosopher, you're such a weird person," Emma also smiled, "I sometimes think that I wouldn't have ever learned anything from you unless I disagreed with you."

	"Sure, you know me, the Philosopher, the one guardian of Truth," the Philosopher covered his giggles from the sarcasm of the Anarchists, "But what do you know about the guardian of Time?"

	"Not a thing," Benjamin said.

	"Nothing at all," Emma replied, "You're called the Philosopher because you guard Truth.  But what do you call someone who guards Time?  And what would such a guardian say?"

	"There may be no name we would understand for such a guardian," the Philosopher replied, "And perhaps, time's guardian is always speaking.  At any moment that you wish, you can hear the words.  You must only be listening."

	"Is this a friend you keep in your head?" Benjamin smiled, "Or is this some parable to explain some important truth to the world?"

	"Neither of the extremes," the Philosopher replied, "You shouldn't have such great distrust of truth.  Not at this point."

	"So what do we have to learn from the one who guards Time?" Emma asked, "I always thought time could take care of itself.  It sweeps before all humanity, without any objection, whether man, woman, or child, and carries all with it.  But Truth, it is constantly hounded, persecuted, tortured, abused, and destroyed, at any time there is someone with enough power to profit by doing so.  Truth needs a guardian, because it is constantly hunted, but Time needs no guardian.  There are none who can challenge it."

	"If it is something that society needs to exist, then it has a guardian," the Philosopher replied, "It has to."

	"Is that a commandment of Truth?" Benjamin asked.

	"Truth has no commandments.  That's a commandment of civilization," the Philosopher replied, "An order of the ability to be civil."

	"What do you think such a guardian sounds like?" Emma asked.

	"Oh, if you talked to her," the Philosopher rubbed his chin as he gathered his thoughts, "She'd probably sound a lot like me."

	"And what do we sound like to you?" Emma asked, "How do you like our thoughts in your ears?"

	"Yeah, what is your opinion of Anarcho-Capitalism and Anarcho-Communism, anyway?" Benjamin asked, "You seemed to give an opinion on every possible event from here to Babylon and beyond.  Why not give an opinion on that?"

	"Oh, there's something different between Anarcho-Communism and Anarcho-Capitalism?" the Philosopher asked, "Then maybe you asked the wrong question.  Maybe what you really meant to ask is what is different between Communism and Capitalism.  If the two systems you're comparing have no laws, then start comparing the other parts."

	"In Anarchia, at least we had the original myth of liberty against authority," Emma said, "At least we were built on something, even if it only existed in the mind, like anything that you build a society upon."

	"So, which was first, anyway?" Benjamin asked, "Authority versus Anarchism or Communism versus Capitalism?"

	"Honestly, I don't even remember," Emma replied.

	"So, I guess the Communists and the Capitalists are going to be in a war with each other until one side is completely destroyed...." Benjamin said, "Who do you think will win?"

	"Who cares?  It won't matter," Emma replied, "Do you even think that things like Communism and Capitalism are even going to matter in a few hundred years?  It's only 600 BC -- lighten up!  After a thousand years, there's no way that people are going to be so stupid as to kill each other over something like 'private property' or 'public property.'  Ideas are going to inherit the right to rule the world -- force is explicitly prohibited from the inheritance by the will of humanity.  That's what brought about the Communist Revolution, and that's what going to bring about the next Revolution, too -- whatever it's going to be about."

	"Are you sure?" Benjamin asked, "Isn't there anything at all that makes you think that the struggle between Communist and Capitalist is innate and essential, like the one side of the human character struggling against the other?"

	"Sometimes, you make me think that collective, social organization isn't such a terrible idea after all," Benjamin said, prodding her more.

	"Bah, forget about it," Emma replied, "If you hate Capitalism and think Communism is better, think of Capitalism with smiley faces painted on everything.  That's Communism."

	"So, it was a good thing that King Solon's regime will be overthrown?" the Philosopher asked, "And that he will be replaced instead with a group of conspiring and conflicting political parties?"

	"As long as none of them possess a dominant position over the others, then the situation better allows for true Anarcho-Communism to become established," Emma said, "As opposed to a situation where a Communist king controlled everything.  That's what I believe."

	"It opens up the possibility that Athens may cease to be the homeland of worldwide Communism?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Yes, yes it does..." Emma said, "The fact saddens me, certainly, but it is as necessary as one generation dying to give its place to the next.  But at least, there was Anarchism that Communist -- there was a type of Libertarian existence that was beyond the scope of Conservativism and the ancient echoes of the past."

	"Is that really your opinion about the past?" Ben asked.

	"It certainly is," Emma said, "Yesterday's Liberals are tomorrows Conservatives.  Real revolutionaries keep pushing boundaries, but when you have both feet stuck in the past, one in tradition and the other in convention, you can't move forward.  You have nowhere to go.  That's the true lament of the Conservative thinker."

	"At least I know where I've been," Ben said, "Do you even know where you're going?"

	"You Capitalists just represent the whole Right-Wing to me," Emma said, "You're all Conservatives.  Don't you feel like you believe in a hollow ideology, when in a hundred years, the Conservatives will have the ideas and beliefs of today's Liberals?"

	"And what do you think about your ideology?" Ben asked, "What do you think when you know that in a hundred years, tomorrow's Liberals would scorn you for being an absurd Conservative, proud of soaring above barely challenging and completely meaningless, social standards?"

	"We Anarcho-Communists are the original revolutionaries, updated to modern times.  Communism is the new thing.  Capitalism is the old thing.  We were ready to revolt against the old times, when it became apparent that Capitalism had outlived any sort of usefulness.  But the Anarcho-Capitalists didn't revolt yet.  They had to wait until the state had outworn its usefulness, before they would decide to resist.  And how could they even want to resist?  We Anarcho-Communists wanted to abolish an economic system when nobody else would and a political system when nobody else would -- those Anarcho-Capitalists only want to abolish a political system when it's inconvenient.  We Anarcho-Communists are different from the authoritarian cultures of the world in two, important, distinct ways; but the Anarcho-Capitalists are only different in that one, particular, specific way.  We oppose all authority; they oppose it when it interferes with anyone who has middle-class or above status."

	"You're a Revolutionary just like any other Communist," Ben said, "You get big ideas and think you can solve everything if only people listened to your ideas.  You're only a shade or two different from Solon."

	"And you, look at the people you made deals with!" Emma said, "You worked with the ultra-religious, fanatical cults!"

	"That's only because you Communists worked so closely with Freethinker groups!" Benjamin screamed back.

	"We can live without the irrationalism of your religion," Emma replied, "But we can't live without the logic of secular thinking."

	"You're right," Ben said, "And we can't live without the inspiration of something beyond us; but we can live without cold-blooded calculation."

	"I was wrong, Communism and Capitalism aren't the same thing," Emma said, "The problem with you is that you have a bad attitude."

	"A bad attitude?" Benjamin smirked, "What does that even mean?"

	"You Capitalists probably get your bad attitude from having such a bad upbringing.  I was raised by a Communist, someone who made themselves by revolting against the established order of all societies in the world.  So when they ceased to live by the graces of humanity and decency, I revolted against that Communist, without a doubt.  But you -- you're raised by Capitalists, the inheritors of tradition, and that makes you a traditionalist from your upbringing.  The only way you know how to revolt is by rotting in a prison.  And it wouldn't have been that way if you had simply been exposed to a non-Capitalist culture as a child."

	"And whoever said that Communism and Capitalism are the same thing, anyway?" Benjamin asked, "From hearing the anger in your voice, it's hard to tell you apart from one of the members of Solon's Youth brigade."

	"Communism and Capitalism aren't the same thing!" Emma screamed again, "They never have been and they never were.  The problem with you Capitalists is that you just don't have enough of the right spirit.  They shouldn't separate us into Communist Parties and Capitalist Governments -- they should separate us into those who rebel against all oppression and those who rebel only for their own freedom.  That's the difference between you and I."

	The Philosopher smiled at the words of the Anarcho-Communist, "That's the real difference between you and I!  You just have the wrong attitude!  If someone revolts, you say it's because it's easier than being lazy, but I say that it's something worth investigating!  That's the difference between you and me, and it always has been the difference between Communist and Capitalist.  That's the reason when the crowds split into halves, the one side Communist and the other side Capitalist, I chose the Communist crowd, and I belonged to it, heart and soul, because of who I am.  I'm the type of person who believes that every voice in revolt deserves to be heard.  The fact is that I could only find like-minded people among the Communists and nobody else.  You talk so much about how we've forgotten the sacredness of family; you don't understand the arduousness of being alone, isolated, and alienated in an incredibly public-based city, having nobody who understands anything besides their own wants, and finding that one place, this magical setting, where everyone believed that every injustice should be brought to light.  That's why I chose Communism.  That's why I still choose it."

	Benjamin looked at Emma, made a curiously stern face, said nothing, and then after a few moments, turned away.  "You simplify a lot of things," he finally said, "But you might be right, at least about some things."

	"Come on, Philosopher!  You and I!" Emma said, "I will harness the strength of Anarchist-Communism and you can use the power of truth -- together, we can take on both Hammurabi and Solon and crush their empires; I can just picture that glorious moment when I'm break into the Capitalist palace, look Hammurabi in the eye, and scream, 'Of all the governments I have overthrown, yours was the worst!'  Come on, you know we can do it!"

	"Now I think you know that's not where this story is going," the Philosopher replied, "You should know that I'm too old to make revolutions, now."

	"Older than civilization, if the rumors are correct," Benjamin smiled.

	"You know, all I ever wanted to do was write a manual on revolt, so that anyone anywhere could do it," Emma said, "Instead, this Revolution happened, and that seemed just so much more infinitely important to me."

	"Cities.  Maybe you should blame cities," the Philosopher said, "A large group of people living in a confined space without any control over their own lives, obeying whatever boss or overseer can pay the basis of their existence to exploit their skills out of them -- maybe that's why there's Communism, and why there always will be Communism.  A handful of people, living vast distances apart, each completely dependent upon themselves and whatever rare soul they can afford to help them -- maybe that's why there's Capitalism, and why there always will be Capitalism."

	"There will be always be cities, don't you think there will be a time when all villages mature into cities?"

	"There are places where cities have dwindled into absolute nothingness," the Philosopher replied, "With nothing but a crater to mark their former place, and there are perhaps more of these spots on the globe than all of the villages that grew up into great, big capitals that we still know about."

	"What kind of Original Myth did those places have?" Benjamin asked, "Well, certainly, they must've been Capitalists in the original Anarchist land, right?"

	"Capitalists?" Emma asked, "Developing a community without sharing is like raising a family without feeding them.  They had to have been Communists, or at least Communist-like, right?"

	The Philosopher looked listless for a moment, and then after turning away from his listeners, finally said to them, "It's hard to say..."

	"Really?" Emma asked with a degree of sarcasm, "Has history caught the tongue of Truth?"

	"No, it's simply that, well," the Philosopher shrugged, "They wouldn't understand your question, either."

	"Hey, you said you were the guardian of Truth, right?" Benjamin smiled, "You're telling us now that you don't know the Truth?"

	"It's not a matter of whether I know the truth or not," the Philosopher said, "You know, if you exercise free will, you could simply ask me how they lived, I could tell you, and then you could make up the decision for yourself.  Aren't either of you individualists?"

	"The world just ended, and now we're getting scolded by the Philosopher," Emma sighed with a smile, "Is this day going to get worse?"

	"You originally knew this?" Benjamin asked, "Philosopher, if you knew that there had originally been an anarchist land, without kingdoms, long before the Capitalist kingdom and the Communist kingdom -- how come you didn't tell anybody?"

	"I tell everyone what they want to know, and you never asked," the Philosopher replied.

	"So, did someone ask?  Is that how you know?" Emma said, "Who asked?"

	"I can't tell you that, obviously," the Philosopher replied, "And besides, so what if I had told someone?  I'll volunteer that answer to anyone who asks me that question plainly, as opposed to simply volunteering that knowledge to two anarchists trying to get over their differences so that they can create a revolution."

	"'There was originally an anarchist land.'  That's it," Benjamin said, "That's all you would have had to say."

	"That would've solved your problems?" the Philosopher asked, "Did you even understood the problems you were experiencing -- like when you were telling me them through prison bars?  Did you, Anarcho-Communist, even understand your problem when you had organized a revolt against Solon?"

	"All right, whatever...." Emma relented, "So, let's have it."

	"What?" the Philosopher asked.

	"How did they live in the Anarchist land?" Benjamin asked, "How did they live in Anarchist Africa?"

	"Do you really want to know?" the Philosopher said.

	Emma replied, "I will tell the world, I promise."

	"It's not a matter of simply how they lived in the past, so much as how it is that they're living right, as I'm breathing this air, the Philosopher replied.

	"So tell us!" Benjamin pleaded with his friend.

	"The fact is, there have been stateless cities, stateless territories, even stateless empires, and always have been," the Philosopher said, "Look at the city of Jenne-Jeno, which has existed without government in the heart of North Africa with neither kings nor masters, living like this for thousands of years." [*1]

*1.  Africa: Biography of Continent, by John Reader, page 225.

	"You mean, all of Africa is simply 'plain Anarchist'?" Emma asked, "There is no feud between the Anarcho-Communists and the Anarcho-Capitalists?"

	"If Communism and Capitalism don't exist, then there can't be a feud between their adherents, now can there?" the Philosopher replied.

	"Sometimes I don't think there are Leftists or Rightists, there are only good people or bad people," Emma said, "Roz wasn't a Right-Winger Militarist, the way they made him up to be in Babylon.  He was just a good person.  And Pan wasn't an Orthodox Marxist, the way they had once praised him in Athens.  He, too, was just a good person.  That's why, even though they were black and white when it came to ideology, Pan and Roz were perfect allies."

	"What you've done here with your lives will be remembered forever," the Philosopher said, "Judge people how you want.  You need to think about what you've done, too."

	"You get what he's saying, right?" Benjamin asked, "Athens in Greece shall forever be remembered throughout all humanity as the home to Communism; Babylon in the Middle East shall forever be remembered as the home to Capitalism; and Africa will never be forgotten by the world's people when they are thinking of liberty and Anarchism.  Right?"

	"Well.... you're right about Babylon -- I can verify that."

	"It will be so interesting at that point in time, thousands of years in the future; I wonder how much different things will be.  What are they going to have in the future, if there aren't things like Communism and Capitalism and the State?" Emma asked, "What new kind of 'ism with its devout 'ists will establish their own cultures while secretly plotting the destruction of the others?"

	"Things very much like those; that is what I believe," the Philosopher smiled.

	"You mean you don't know?" Benjamin asked, "How does the Guardian of Truth not know what the future holds for human civilization?  What happened to that certain wisdom you always had beyond others?"

	The Philosopher looked up at the skies, then checked his shadow on the ground.  "I'm sorry, but I must be leaving," the Philosopher said, "Just keep North and you'll find yourself away from any potential threat of the two Emperors.  Stay close to the river.  You may see me again."

	"The river?" Emma asked, "And how soon?"

	"You'll know when you need to know," the Philosopher said with a grin, "You've doubted me so much before, at least trust me now."  And after polite exits had been made, the Philosopher once again disappeared.

	And just behind the ears of Emma and Benjamin, they almost thought they could hear the calm whispering voice, "You can't kill me.  I'm an economic system.  You can only convince people to abandon me.  But I'll always be there, waiting for someone else to pick me up."

		Chapter 44: One Last Moment With the Emperors

	A wagon with gold hilt and blue banners carrying obscure religious symbols rolled through a village with a desolate economy and crops rotting in the fields.  On the other side of the village was a careless, old man, walking around in his hooded clothing, lured by a child's chant for a second, "Hey, Olmo!"

	"That's not my name, kid, so don't call me that," the Philosopher said, "And for at least a little while, pretend that you forgot seeing me at all."  He added in a smile as payment for his request.

	It was among the handful of dregs passing by on their entrance and exit of the local taverns, and among the few peasants and their children in the marketplace, that the royalty within the wagon could hear the echo of someone yelling, "Hey, can anyone here spare one mina of gold?  Just one, that's all I need."

	"Hold!" Hammurabi leans forward to the driver of his caravan, "We need to stop here.  I need to do something personal."

	"Will you require your entourage of personal bodyguards?"

	"No, I need to be alone, but stay on the lookout," Hammurabi said, "Keep the guards on alert.  I shall return."  He walked aimlessly in the direction of the yelling he had heard, some of the local townspeople exchanges glances, their dirty faces to the clean and pristine skin of his.  At the final edges of that village society, he saw nothing but green and more green, trees and more trees, vegetation and more vegetation.  "Well, as long as I am here," and he began to urinate, when he noticed someone in the town staring at him.

	"Excuse me, miscreant peasant, but there is a king here trying to relieve himself, and I order you to quickly and quietly disappear at once from my presence," Hammurabi's obstinance was not broken by his grip on his member.  And the dirty face disappeared, as his unbroken stream continued to fall into the roots of the great oak before him.  Quiet.  Too quiet, Hammurabi began to think.  He finished emptying his bladder and hoisted up his pants when -- BANG!  A small pebble bounces off of the tree just whizzing by Hammurabi's ear.  He turned around instantly, noticing a shadowy figure far, far, far in the depths of the woods.

	"Is that you, Philosopher?" Hammurabi asked, "Get back here right now!  I'm ordering you!"

	The Philosopher turned around at the ever-slowest speed, and just as his face came into full view of Hammurabi's vision, he gave the widest grin, then took off back into the forest.

	"I told you!  I can have you abused and tortured in ways you haven't yet imagined!  Get back here!" Hammurabi saw the object of his desires disappear into the thick green of the forest.  He wiped his shoulder against his forehead to catch the sweat, the gold tassels on his sleep becoming more like candle wicks than loose fabric.  Instead of taking pursuit, he looked deeply into the forest, before quietly surrendering to a seat on a large rock, examining the dirt on his hands while catching his breath.

	"Ow!" a tiny pebble bounces off of the king's knee.  He looks up to find the Philosopher, deep in the woods, grinning without any other motion in his body.

	"I order you here now!" Hammurabi screamed.

	The Philosopher made an O shape with his mouth, widened his eyes, and pointed to below his feet.

	"Don't you touch that rock!" Hammurabi instinctively responded.

	Without a word or change of expression, the Philosopher bent over and grabbed the rock, still looking directly at the king.

	"Put that rock down!  Right now!"  Swoooooshhhhhh!!!  The pebble bounced off the boulder that Hammurabi was resting upon.  "I'm coming for you!" Hammurabi screamed at the top of his lungs, but not before the Philosopher got a good shot at his pelvis.

	"You know, that's the problem with you, Philosopher," Hammurabi shouted as he ran, "You always got your head up in the clouds.  The advice you need is to go back to the beasts and learn to have some selfishness in your life."

	"Better save your breath for the run," the Philosopher turned around just quick enough to show his smile.

	"If you really are the distributor of Truth," Hammurabi finally stopped and lean against a tree, gasping for air, "If...."

	"Oh, finally done, are you?" the Philosopher quietly walks back to the King, panting just like his competitor, "No more running of the legs, just running of the mind?"

	"If you really are the distributor of Truth, then how come you weren't so impartial with your meetings with the Communist King and the Capitalist King?" Hammurabi asked, "How come you accepted the first so much, and despised the later so much?"

	"They are both different people altogether; and I dealt with them according to their differences.  I had to," the Philosopher replied, "How I dealt with you and how I dealt with Solon is like deciding how to deal with the flood and how to deal with the drought.  There is no refuting the Truth.  You can only refute how the brain perceives it.  That's the only place where your drapery and curtains can block the light from the one who wants to know."

	"That's ridiculous.  Nobody even knows how the human brain works, and the only ones who might would be those who couldn't explain it to others, people we might nickname Philosophers," Hammurabi said.

	"You're a humble patron, you deserve that compliment," the Philosopher replied, "At least you thought about how the human brain works enough to come up with some answer like Philosophy."

	"If you knew so much about how the mind really works, then I doubt you'd be getting into arguments so often," Hammurabi replied, "Who wants to argue?  It's a lot of talk and heat with no profit.  Action, that's what commands dignity and interest.  You're just the opposite of action, though -- you're all thought.  And your thoughts just get in the way of you and everyone you've ever interacted with, whether it was the rebel Anarcho's, the runaway Marxist and Militarist, the undercover Communist and Capitalist spy, both Solon and I, just about everyone.  You talk for a little bit to anyone, and they end up in an argument with you.  Now how does someone who know so much about the mind gets so uselessly engaged with it whenever the opportunity arises?  How do you disagree with everyone if you already know what everyone is thinking?   Tell me, now, so-called Guardian of Truth."

	"At what point did I say I understand people?" the Philosopher smiled, "Consciousness is one thing, being a human being with infinite flaws and endless dreams and ceaseless irritations and unknown impulses, that's an entirely different thing altogether.  It might be better to say that I try to align the two together, mind and action, or at least convince others of this.  I'm not talking so much about a difference of heat versus cold or pain versus pleasure, so much as a difference between rational understanding and impulsive needs."

	"Of course I can't get a straight answer," Hammurabi replied, "You just feed me another argument.  Another classic trap, I'm pretty much responsible for laying it.  Or maybe you're just on drugs.  Don't you consume the smoke?  That intoxicant herb that we find all of the kids hopped up on?  You know how many times we drag a kid into court and send them off to prison just for that?"

	"There are times I just want to sit down, lean back, drink, and smoke," the Philosopher said, "Any old stone or tree will do, any old hill where you can still get away with minor crimes, I would take any of them.  There are times when I'm going somewhere, obligated to do something, and seeing a path with no objective somehow just appeals too greatly.  If being the guardian of truth means anything, it means constantly resisting anyone who uses knowledge to abuse others.  And by the end of it all, after the very last round of thought has been spent, I need a place where I can collapse and rest -- I need a sanctuary of thoughtlessness."

	"And how do you know that it's a sanctuary and not a sewer?" Hammurabi asked.

	"Because I enter without the ability to retain anything in my mind," the Philosopher replied, "And I return with the ability to have deep insight into anything I interact with."

	"Oh?" Hammurabi asked, "And what makes you think you can trust those feelings?  What makes you think that it's not just another form of 'general rest' that all people need from time to time?"

	"Smoking is not just another form of general rest, because before it, I had never even thought of Philosophy," the Philosopher replied, "I smoke everyday, but it was psychedelic mushrooms that brought me to that supreme greatness, Philosophy -- Truth simply commanded me to share it with everyone around me. [*1]  That is why they call me the Philosopher."

*1.  Eleusinian Mysteries.

	"I don't believe you," Hammurabi said.

	"The king who wore no truth," the Philosopher replied.

	"It sounds like a ridiculous garment," Hammurabi said.

	"Everything about Truth sounds ridiculous to you," the Philosopher said, "Use it as a food, use it as a smoke, use it a medicine, use it a thought -- it all always sounded ridiculous to you."

	Hammurabi gave a keen eye to the Philosopher, "Are you trying to say...  that Truth is nothing more than your illicit use of drugs?"

	"That's my introduction to the thing," the Philosopher said, "But the thing itself is its own miraculous item.  I'm not here to give it away to you.  But there's no reason to bar yourself up from it.  Give an ear to truth's messenger -- don't stomp on the Truth just because it develops out of psychedelic drug use.  Consider everyone who wants to spread the Truth."

	And from out of the bashes behind them, they can hear a noise, several feet stomping over underbrush and thatched bushes.  Out from the crinkling noises, there appears a rather-dull faced peasant and to his side a much more cautious Solon.  It was the same peasant that Hammurabi had caught earlier.

	"Hello, Solon," the Philosopher said, "Good to see you here."  The peasant walked to the Philosopher, received several pieces of gold coin, and then disappeared into the woods without saying a word.  "I'd like to introduce you to someone.  Have you met Hammurabi yet?"

	"What is this?" Solon asked.

	"What did you do?" Hammurabi asked.

	"You have no idea what it took to organize this meeting," the Philosopher said, "You will never be able to imagine the cost in human labor, lost moments, imprisoned friends, efforts dispersed, and physical tragedy that was necessary to bring you two together right here and right now.  Can you at least pretend to appreciate the pains I took to put this together?"

	"But why would you want to trick us into talking to each other?" Solon asked.

	"Yeah,?" Hammurabi added in, "Why all of this deceit?  How is Truth's defender so good at lying?  Why bring us together like this if you never informed us of your true intent?"

	"Maybe I just wanted to hear what each of you had to say," the Philosopher said.  "In the beginning, you both requested a personal audience with me, and I granted it.  But I should have refused.  I should have required that we all meet at once.  I should have required this."

	"So, did you end up even having an actual opinion on Communism or Capitalism?" Solon asked.

	"Actually, it is probably best to moderate between the two," the Philosopher said, "But that's really just a guess."

	"I thought that was your opinion on everything," Hammurabi rolled his eyes.

	"And why am I so important anyway, Hammurabi?" the Philosopher responded.

	"But you're the Philosopher!  You're a great man!" Solon said.

	"What the hell are you talking about?" the Philosopher replied, "If, at any point, I acted because I thought I was being a great man, and triumphing over the inferior man, then there is nothing that truth could say in my defense."

	"What about that one point when you stole a private communique from the Communist Party in Athens, and then dove out of a window?  You climbed down a gasoline soaked rope, and when soldiers gave chase to you down the rope, you set it on fire at the bottom.  You burned one soldier's hands and another's legs.  You're not a harmless old man, you're a crazy ideologist defending something that nobody has ever seen," Hammurabi was beginning to get angry with his words, "You're just as dangerous as any terrorist."

	"Sometimes I don't want soldiers and cops to be following me, wherever I go, when I just want to know how the laws of the land are being made," the Philosopher replied, "Any amount of fire is justifiable to protect that right."

	"Do you know what a Philosopher's Stone is?" Hammurabi asked.

	"I should hope so, if it's mine," the Philosopher replied, "But yes, I've heard that phrase before."

	"It's the myth that a philosopher uses to control people, whether the philosopher is you, Amin, or some other philosopher.  But it's always a hoax, a guise, a ploy used to deceive and beguile others, to trick them into respecting and revering you for having planted a false idea into their head.  Your philosopher's stone is and always been the Truth!"

	"I sure wish it were a stone," the Philosopher replied, "I've got a good throwing arm when it comes to stones, but with ideas, you need to actually throw them at something for there to be an impact."

	"Admit it," Hammurabi insisted, "There is no truth, and there never has been.  Go on, say it.  Let Solon and the entire world know it."

	"Is this true?" Solon asked, "Is there really no Truth?"

	"Don't expect a straight answer out of him," Hammurabi said, "My spy network is vast and deep.  They can turn up some amazing and useful facts."

	"Philosopher, is that a fact?  Did you make up the Truth?" Solon spoke, "Did you really wrap the world around your finger and made the minds of its inhabitants your servile playthings?  Did you really establish Philosophy by deceit?"

	"If you wish to believe it, then I cannot stop you from believing it," the Philosopher replied.

	"See, how straight of an answer was that?" Hammurabi replied, "All I want to believe is whatever's necessary to manage, govern, and expand an empire.  That means wanting to believe nothing -- not a hope, not a dream, not a future.  I believe in what my spies tell me, and every fifth spy who returns me some juicy information, I torture him to death, arbitrarily telling him the information is a lie, just to hear his reply under the worst agonies -- then I can figure out the average rate of when my spies are lying to me."

	"Really?  I thought governing an empire required a bit more than ruthlessness and the ability to add or divide," the Philosopher spoke.

	"Not every King rules because they want to rule an empire -- some of us do it because we want to change the world," Solon replied.

	"Oh, really?" Hammurabi said, "You wanted to change the world?  You and everyone else with an idea!  Behind, world, the class of men who want to change the world -- drug-addicted musicians and kings, side-by-side, each ready to do their part to 'change the world.'"

	Solon replied, "And you wanted to keep things the same, the way they've been for generations -- slavers, nobility, aristocracy, capitalists, priests, and kings, all side-by-side, each working for convention and tradition and 'accepted morality.'  Those miserable elements are the heart of your 'Capitalist Society.'"

	"I flick some dirt at you, and you flick some dirt at me," Hammurabi replied, "But only you got offended.  Don't think like a commoner.  I know your society feeds and clothes its bureaucrats the way our society feeds and clothes its capitalist class.  You're just like me, in some ways."

	"You're both the same in one aspect definitely," the Philosopher interjected, "You're both responsible for bringing us all to this exact point in time -- the empires faltering beneath their shattered columns and the entire world ready to disintegrate underneath the pressure of military-based economies."

	"Is that what you think?" Hammurabi asked, "Now I know for a fact that you don't have the Truth.  What if I said that you, the Philosopher, who was the person really responsible for bringing us to this point in time?"

	"Do you really think Truth's servant would bring about a World War just so that he could see the two most powerful men in the world hurl insults at each other in place of rational debate?" the Philosopher replied.

	"Ah, 'the truth,' there you go again," Hammurabi replied, "You're arguing again from a point that has no basis."

	"Maybe if there was Truth, and maybe if it had a servant, and maybe I had enough experience and qualifications to be that servant," the Philosopher, "Then just maybe -- maybe the real reason why you're standing face-to-face with the one person with which you co-created the World War -- just maybe, then just maybe, against all of the odds and possibilities, just maybe -- Truth wants to hear what you're going to say."

	"So, the mythical being that nobody has yet seen, it even has ears?" Hammurabi chuckled to himself, "To say nothing of 'wants,' of course, as though it were a sentient being."

	"You have a good spy network," the Philosopher replied, "But so does the Truth.  Would you, a Militaristic, Capitalistic Emperor, ever dare talk to another soldier, or even an officer, of such a thing as 'sentience'?  Was there ever an instant, in your entire career, when that word graced your lips?  When is the last time you even talked with someone about 'why thoughts exist'?"

	Hammurabi's said nothing, but the Philosopher and Solon noticed his chest deflate a little.

	"That's why you both know nothing about the Anarchist philosophers," the Philosopher replied.

	"An Anarchist philosopher?" Solon asked, "That's like saying there's a philosopher of the birds."

	"And why shouldn't there be?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Whenever I heard the word 'philosopher,' I always thought of you, as in 'the philosopher.'  But with these Anarchist Philosophers, Emma and Benjamin, I'm totally confused," Hammurabi said, "Should I now call you 'the regular philosopher'?  Or how about just 'Regular'?  At a point like this, that seems much more fitting than Amin."

	"That was never my name," the Philosopher replied, "And what makes you think that there won't be Anarchist philosophers until the end of time?"

	"Never heard of them," Solon said, "Or, at least, I don't hear their names mentioned in conversations, I don't see their words written in books.  We have no Anarchist philosophers in Athens, Philosopher."

	"How come there's no Statist Philosopher?" Hammurabi asked.

	"I don't know -- how come there's no Philosopher of the Reptiles?" the Philosopher asked, "How much Truth is there in the state?"

	"What happened to your Objectivism?" Hammurabi asked.

	"Hey, ever been threatened with being punched in the stomach and mugged by the King of Capitalism?" the Philosopher turned to the emperor and smiled.

	"Fair enough," Hammurabi almost blushed.

	"Why did you feel like you had to punish the Anarchians?  Why did you have to wipe out the home of the Anarchists from the face of the Earth?" the Philosopher asked.

	"Those damned, rotten kids," Hammurabi replied, "We only sent them to school so that they could be educated, so that they could exercise their brains and make them more durable as you would do with your body.  They are definitely exercising their brains, except its only the lower parts of the brain, the underhanded side, the gymnastics of Revolution and the yoga of Individualism and the meditation of Collectivism.  So, they are like a misformed athlete, with their legs all brawny, and their upper body completely underdeveloped and underused.  Like literal monsters.  That's what you're dealing with when you have the mind of a revolutionary.  Maybe now you understand why we felt like we had to punish them -- it's because, they were our children, and we were disappointed in what they became.  We let them keep doing whatever they wanted for the longest time.  That's not why we punished them, because of what they were doing.  It was who they are, or at least, what they became that made them deserve it."

	"You perfectly said it," Solon agreed, "Like a judge handing down a verdict after each piece of evidence has been weighed and examined, your ruling on Emma and Benjamin is completely accurate.  Emma was just an Anarchist at first, like a newborn baby, no thoughts at all but the complete absence of them, and then she became a Communist, like the rest of us at Athens, but then, her Anarchist side grew more and more important to her, and her Communist side less and less.  By the time she started up that little embarrassment known as Anarchy, she was only Communist enough for her to make the rest of us Reds look bad.  She wasn't Communist enough to resist Capitalism, to fight Imperialism, to overthrow Militarism, or abolish Government by the Rich.  She definitely was Anarchist enough to draw away enough Socialists and Unionists and Cooperativists from our cause, like a hole in the pipe delivering water to Athens."

	"So, you, Hammurabi, hated Ben because he disappointed you, and you, Solon, hated Emma because it was politically advantageous to eliminate her," the Philosopher said, "It seems to me like your mutual hatred of them wasn't based on such a great, mutual understanding."

	"That's the problem with you, Philosopher," Hammurabi said, "You try to reconcile facts in a way that books will understand but that people won't ever comprehend.  When it comes to leaving behind a record, you, Philosopher, top the rest.  But when it comes to living in this world and changing it, you definitely can't reach that.  That may be your only weakness."

	"You simply are bad at judging the character in others, Philosopher," Solon added in, "You don't get Emma or Benjamin.  You never did.  And now you're trying to drag each of us, both Hammurabi and I, around in the mud, like we're responsible for creating all of tyranny, and like those two Anarchists are saints among angels in the heavens.  You overestimate their accomplishments, you ignore our achievements, that's always been your weakness, Philosopher.  I sometimes wished that I had attempted to name you Friend of the Anarchists."

	"Well, I was, wasn't I?" the Philosopher smiled, "And you don't go around calling one of the local farmers the Grower of Wheat.  You simply called them by their name."

	"And you have none," Hammurabi replied.

	"And you wouldn't accept one," Solon said, "We call you the Philosopher because we only know that you Philosophize.  No other craft or art is really applied to your activities."

	"You know, I have friends where I'm only known as the Poet, and that doesn't really bother me, it never really did," the Philosopher said, "But the way you use the word the Philosopher, the contexts in which you apply it, all of that makes me leery and suspicious of the true intent of your emotions."

	"So, we know plenty about your Philosophy," Hammurabi said, "But what happened to all of that lovely Poetry you said you could claim?"

	"Yes, what about that?" Solon asked, "Why would anyone look to the Guardian of Truth and call them the Poet?  That makes no sense at all."

	"You think the Truth is all Philosophy and no Poetry?  Please, don't make me pity you gentlemen," the Philosopher said.

	"Someone with Truth on their side pities us?" Hammurabi spoke, "You have enough self-pity to spread it around to the rest of us?  I'm sure you'll have enough left over for yourself."

	"Pitying is a controlling mechanism," Solon said, "You pity someone because you can't do anything else to them.  You can't argue them, you can't fight them, you can't kill them, you can't imprison them, you can't disprove them, you can't arrange for a misfortune to befall them -- you can only pity them.  It makes you think that you still are in control emotionally."

	"So, if you're both right, does that mean that I only have so much self-pity, because I'm trying to control myself?" the Philosopher smiled, "You compliment each other like fine wine and a delicious meal, or like raw timber floating down marshy waters."

	"You master words, we master empires," Hammurabi said, "I don't care how many thumbs up you get when you dance with your thoughts when we just fumble meakly with even the act of touching our ideas.  Millions of soldiers dance to the beat of our drums.  That's more than enough to satisfy us."

	"You philosophize, we act," Solon said, "That's the fundamental difference between you and I.  We are thinking, moving agents within this world, changing all that we touch, but you are this still, motionless being, understanding every change yet incapable of doing anything about it."

	"To philosophize is an action," the Philosopher replied, "You just never picked up the reverberations of its motion, and mistook deep thought for laziness and lack of clarity."

	"An action to you, of course," Hammurabi replied, "You're the Philosopher.  You Philosophize.  To you, it's an action, it's a doing, but to the rest of us, it's just a waste of time.  You're really just a troublemaker."

	"You need to feel your own importance," Solon said, "It's not really about interpreting the world around you, so much as in getting it to look back at you.  That's what you're after and what you've always been after.  It's in your character."

	"And when is the last time either of you got the world to look back at you?" the Philosopher asked, "When you were judging it from atop your thrones?  When you were accusing it from the safety of your palaces?  When you were carrying out its executions from the comfort of your infinite luxuries?  Did you ever get anyone to look at you and see a human being instead of some untouchable master of the lives of all citizens?"

	"You and I want different things," Hammurabi said, "That's all."

	"So what if the world looks back and sees your suffering," Solon added, "It doesn't change the fact that you suffer."

	"It does, if it means that you're suffering, because of lack of knowledge," the Philosopher said, "You might actually not suffer so much, if you were willing to pick up wisdom from those around you.  And if there's any suffering that really damages the soul, isn't it the suffering that comes from not knowing?"

	"Nothing but debate tactics," Hammurabi replied.

	"Argument by sentimentality," Solon said, "You stand on nothing, Philosopher."

	"The truth can stand on its own," the Philosopher replied, "It always has been able to stand on its own, and nobody ever calls out 'semantics!' or 'Ad Hominem!' when it speaks.  Mock it all that you like.  It stands out all the more because of your miserable shrieks and cries."

	"You're the one we should be listening to in judging our children?" Hammurabi asked, "You're so facetious and presuming."

	"Someone calling themselves the Guardian of Truth shouldn't be a counsel in a legal proceeding," Solon said, "I'd embarrass myself and the case just to mention the name of the person giving me advice."

	"You'd never let me into your courts, because you'd be too afraid that I would come in with words like mercy and leniency," the Philosopher replied, "The only thing that could compel you to let me in would be the possibility that you might possess truth, and not that you can consume it, but so that you can own it.  You want to possess it, pass it between your fingers and toss it between your hands, but not to use it, not to think about it."

	"And not to tell us how to raise our children, that's for certain!" Hammurabi screamed back.

	"For someone who's been friends with such well-known Individualists, I'm surprised that you wouldn't let your neighbor groom their backyard as they please," Solon said.

	"Oh, so you do think of Emma and Ben as your children?" the Philosopher asked, "And you think that your punishment of them was like lopping off a crooked, deranged branch from a beautiful oak tree in your yard?  Have you heard me at all what I said about your impulsive nature to possess things rather than indulge in them?"

	"Ben wanted to give the land to the peasant and Emma wanted to give the factory to the worker," Hammurabi said, "You might as well give your wife to the pervert and your children to the slaver.  How could we let that go unpunished?  It would be against everything we are."

	"You could have listened to Truth," the Philosopher smiled, a bit of redness in his eyes and almost daze in his posture.

	"I can tell you exactly why my empire was destroyed!" Hammurabi became angered, "The Philosopher was a Communist in disguise, sent here to cause trouble and stir up our animosity, to whip us up into such a great anger that we had to invade and take from our neighboring countries all that they have!  It was really all my fault -- for inviting the Philosopher.  I should have never sent for him.  I never should have sent for you!  The Anarchist Revolt is all your fault, philosopher!  I never should have invited you to my capital!"

	Hammurabi spit to the ground and walked passed the Philosopher down the stream, before stopping for just a second, to turn and say, "You claim to be the Guardian of Truth, yes we've all heard that story before, of course, of course.  Would you try to be unbiased maybe just a little bit once in your life?"  And Hammurabi had disappeared.

	Solon looked to the Philosopher, "What Hammurabi said before -- about how the Truth never existed -- he was lying, right?"

	The Philosopher opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, waited, looked at the ground, and then returned eye contact with a calm smile.  Solon's eyes widened, as he replied, "Really?  Really?  How?  But how?  And besides that, I really thought my spy empire was wider and deeper than Hammurabi's."

	"Please don't envy the Capitalist King," the Philosopher replied, "That's a very unbecoming act for the Communist King.  Learn from the lies as much as you learn from the Truth."

	"Or, whatever there is, at any society or point in time, that passes for Truth, I suppose, right?" replied Solon, and before the Philosopher could reply, "You know, actually, I think I need to catch up to Hammurabi and ask him some questions.  I'm in need of his answers.  Please do not mind as I disappear in quest of them!  I revere the Truth of the Philosopher, but I must also have everyone's truth.  Good, Philosopher."

	The Philosopher opened to speak, but before he could say anything, Solon's face turned around, and he ran down by the side of the river.  After a few moments of hesitation and after Solon had gained a good deal of ground, the Philosopher finally shouted, "If there was any wisdom I was going to tell you, it would have only been because you were going to listen to me!"  Solon's running pace remained at its steady stride.  He did not look back.  And then, once finally out of sight, the Philosopher whispered to himself, "...goodbye, Solon."

	"I will miss you, Solon.  Hammurabi, though, not so much," the Philosopher quietly listened to himself, "Maybe Communism and Capitalism aren't the same thing."
	Before disappearing back into the underbrush, he whispered to his conscience, "I don't know what I came here to do, or why I came here to do it, but I did it, and it's done."

	At one point, the world had been cut up into three colors -- red, blue, and black.  But when the Anarchists exited society through the one river that might lead to liberty, the stream would turn red at points, and blue at others.  It was in the depths of darkness that the Philosopher reappeared.  He saw the two walking side-by-side, Emma and Benjamin.  Rushing up to them with every piece of his energy, they took his enthusiasm by surprise and almost shock.

	"I need to ask you a personal question," the Philosopher was almost out of breath, "Are you armed?"

	Emma and Benjamin quickly exchanged glances, before their faces turned into wry smiles.  "What's wrong, Philosopher?" one asked.  "Do you need help?  Is someone bothering you?"

	The Philosopher studied their eyes, and then a wide grin drew across his face, "You're not armed, are you?  Here, take these."  The Philosopher pulled out two knives and then he gave each to one of the Anarchists.  "Sometimes being the servant of truth makes you look like a fool, sometimes it makes you look like a hero.  You will need these.  Trust me."  And before Emma or Benjamin said anything, the Philosopher dashed off.

	"But, what do you expect us to do with these?" Emma shouted out.

	"Your advice shouldn't be so obscure," Benjamin remarked, "Your instructions should be clear."

	"Here's my advice," the Philosopher stopped and turned around for a second, "Trust yourselves.  When the world is against you, that is all you have."  The two Anarchists securely gripped the blades handed to them.  "It has been a pleasure meeting you."  And the  Philosopher was again gone.

	And then, from the woods, one could hear two voices becoming louder and louder, "Well, at that point, I would just imprison anyone who disagrees with me and execute their leaders," Hammurabi said.

	"That's too harsh and you lose too many people that way," Solon replied, "If you have a traitor, sell his wife into slavery, that way, you still have the soldier and you still maintain obedience."

	Emma looked to Benjamin, and Benjamin looked to Emma.  There was a quiet hesitation, just before the prey realized the trap that had been set.  A violent struggle and desperation against force, and the emperors were no more, their empires falling to squabbling heirs, the deathblow to anything resembling order within civilization.  The Anarchists had killed their kings, but only because of Philosophy's guidance.  The rest of civilization, either ignoring Philosophy or holding it in contempt, ceased to exist.

		Chapter 45: Take Me To Jenne-Jeno

	The more specific you become, the fewer words that you use.  So after all of these words, what could anyone specifically point to when asked what they learned?  Hammurabi was dead.  So was Solon.  Benjamin and Emma stayed together heading north, until they decided to split up, Emma heading East and Benjamin heading West.  In the end, there is only myth.  Even the Philosopher had to die eventually.  When the Philosopher died, the Anarcho-Communist and the Anarcho-Capitalist split up, like parentless siblings that had lost the one thread keeping them together.  In some regions of the world, you find the fight for property and individual allotments of land alongside the fight for liberty, and in other regions, you find the resistance to property and monopoly over the productive forces of life along with the resistance to authority.  Different stories, different myths, different legends, different governments, and different religions all grew up, each taking parts of thought from each other, all having had some relation to the mutually antagonistic systems of Authority and Liberty, of Propriety and Communalism.  It almost seems like the original ingredients of the way we think and how we believe had been lost in that soup which makes up our society, so much so that our minds cannot even separate out the taste or texture for happiness and independence.

	Emma was her own type of woman.  There really aren't going to be any repeats throughout history that genuinely recapture everything about her.  It wasn't just her inner character that determined the course of the events through her life; it was the people she met, exchanged ideas with, and interacted with.  It was the sun and its rays of light, the rocks and streams that contoured through her planet, the forests and wildlife that surrounded her all of the time.  And Benjamin was his own type of man.  He was his own unique personality, incomparable to any other, whether Communist or Capitalist.  Some believe that Solon represent pure Communism, others believe the same thing of Emma; and still there is another entire section of people who hold similar myths in regard to Benjamin and Solon, and their relationship with 'pure Capitalism.'  But the real fact is that they were their own people, who were formed uniquely by their own world, and none who would come after them would be quite exactly like them.  It is in the nature of humanity to strive to be something that we are not.  Why we are like that, and how we react to that, is as much determined by the nature of our mind as much as the nature of the world we live in.  There will never be another Emma or Benjamin, because there will never be another Hammurabi or Solon.  But there may be others who are extremely similar.

	The Philosopher was his own type of thinker, dedicated to nothing but his belief in the Truth and readily pouncing on any idea or system that could pose a threat to it.  There was no side that was always his friend or always his enemy.  He had sipped wine with the kings of empires and drank hooch with the peasants who organized revolts in the fields or the miners who seized their mines.  He gave arguments to the leaders of Marxism and Militarism in the Anarchist Land, and he also was the only who tried to save them when their individual revolts had failed.  The only people who could have found any fault inside of him were those without any belief in the Truth, spies and saboteurs like Spargo or Agent 354.  To everyone else, he was either someone worth talking with, and to those with enough power, he was someone worth imprisoning and detaining.  There will be no one like the Philosopher ever again, not because the world is different, but because he was different, too.  There may be some who resemble him, walk like him, talk like him, argue like him, act like him, or maybe even think like him, but there will be none again who ever Philosophize like him.  He lived once, and he died once.  Humanity was left on its own to take care of the Truth.

	After the destruction of the Communist and Capitalist empires of Solon and Hammurabi, nothing important was discovered or invented for the next thousand years, as though humanity had forgotten learning.  Then there was the Roman Empire, a period of several hundred years where civilization existed at the same time as that classic conflict between the wealthy and the poor, or, in Rome, Patrician and Proletarian.  The world would end again, with the many tiny provinces of the empire breaking up into small manors, each ruled by a despotic and powerful owner, eventually called a feudal lord.  With the fall of the Roman Empire, the next thousand years were regarded by all historians as the Dark Ages.  But again, after some time to grow and develop, culture and civilization was born again, and so, too, the struggle for Communism and the struggle for Capitalism, the one led on by Revolutions in Russia and China, the other led on by Traditions in the United States and Europe.  But with the Fall of the Soviet Union and the Capitalization of China, people are beginning to think that the Class War is over, and that nothing will ever come into existence that could challenge Capitalism.  Despite that, the struggle over class continues to exist.  If the world ends again, it is going to be over the questions of Property and Authority.

Punkerslut,

"The love of independence is a sentiment that surely none would wish to be erased from the breast of man..."

--Thomas Malthus, 1798
"An Essay on the Principle of Population," Book 4