The skies were falling.

            Flaming wreckage, spent shot, and wounded aeronauts rained down on the roofs and streets and squares of Aldreach.  The air was full of cannonfire’s distant roar, like the coming of a summer storm.  The morning sun shone in wan streaks through a haze of steam and smoke, and the sky flickered and rumbled.  Now and then, some great comet of burning wood streaked down to kick up a spray of tiles or shingles or cobblestones where it landed.

            What was left of the Tern ground down against a temple spire in the western part of town. A gust of wind tugged at it, but it had lost too much lift.  More and more, its weight settled on the temple’s roof until the clay tiles stove inward and the arches below cracked and the whole mess crumpled inward.  A few last balloonet cells escaped the wreckage, bobbing upward like bubbles from a drowning man’s lips.

            Far away to the east, just outside the city walls, the Lanius settled to an awkward semi-landing against the foot of the Little Bull.  The leaderless aeronauts threw out a makeshift anchor, and began the arduous task of gathering up the bodies of the slain.  Their decks were slick with blood.

            The Culver spiraled downward, still sinking despite the loss of her engine. Midshipman Renatus Brigg clung to the binnacle with both hands and screamed.

            In the station-yard, two trainloads of stranded refugees huddled for what shelter they could, cringing at every roar or boom they heard from the combatants above.

            In the north, Argan soldiers marched down from the ruins of the battery on Paega’s Top, forming a column five abreast.  They met with little resistance as they tramped down Cobbler’s Row, between streets of boarded-up shops and empty townhouses.

            And always,everywhere, I continued to act out my function. I stood beside an Argan aeronaut as he was caught in one of Goshawk’s broadsides.  I wrapped my arms around a Raelunder soldier as he tumbled over the ship’s side.  I sang my song to the engine crew of the Tern as her boilers blew.

            I take no pleasure in my function.  It simply is.  I simply am.

Impending fatherhood affects one’s perspective in several ways. Let me walk you through a personal example.

At 4 weeks — 5 out of 6 pee-sticks agreed that we were pregnant.
At 5 weeks — Jess went for a very early sonogram. We saw a tiny-white-blur-inside-a-tiny-dark-blur, with the former being the baby and the latter being the amniotic sac.
At 6 weeks — Another sonogram: we could see a pulsing that was the baby’s heartbeat. (An embryo’s heart is pumping blood through a closed circulatory system by 21 days after conception.) Facial features start to form. Buds form that will become arms and legs.
At 7 weeks — We could *hear* the heartbeat on the sonogram machine. The heartbeat at this point was about twice as fast as an adult’s. By this point, with the right equipment, we could have detected his or her brain waves.
At 9 weeks — We watched the little minion kick his or her legs. He or she had a head, feet, arms, all the usual things. Eyes are visible. By this point, he or she has all the equipment necessary to feel the sensation of pain.
By 11 weeks — The baby looks very baby-shaped. The baby also reacted to the feel of the sonogram, bouncing and kicking off the walls. He or she also gave a smile of sorts, probably just a grimace as he or she experiments with muscle control, but still. Typically, genitals begin to develop by this point.
At 13 weeks — We watched the baby suck his or her thumb and “wave.”
At 14 weeks — The little minion starts forming his or her own fingerprints.

With me so far?

Then I find out that all this fuss in Texas is about whether the deadline for an abortion should be moved from 24 weeks to 20 weeks. Knocking it back from 24 to 20 is being spoken of as a gross violation of rights.

Wait, what? Come again for Big Fudge?

24 weeks is still over two months away for us. We’ve known about this little minion for months already. If this was *not* something we wanted, if we were pro-choice and wanted to abort this baby, what possible confluence of circumstances would lead us to wait that long?

By 24 weeks, he or she can hear, can swallow, has a startle reflex, has a hairline, has a sleeping-and-waking cycle, makes faces, can respond to the sound of your voice, can survive delivery with today’s medical technology… If she is female, she already has begun developing her own uterus and ovaries… Not that these things add or subtract intrinsic value to a human, but to wait even 20 weeks seems unnecessarily cruel.

I believe that open dialogue leads to understanding of the other side of an argument, even if disagreement continues. In this case, however, even assuming the pro-choice postulates, I still do not understand the pro-choice conclusions. If I was not pro-life before, impending fatherhood has made me doubly so.

I started my Xanga when I was in college, over ten years ago.  I’m glad it lasted long enough for this announcement.

This January, the House of Russo will have a new member.