States of Change Chapter 45: Beehive (Utah)

 

States of Change is an ongoing work of serial fiction.

The speculative story-line seeks to inspire thought on ethics, culture and our planet's future.

The year is 2076, decades after Oosa's defederalization. 

Fifty independent States have forged unique societies from 

revolutionary technology and ideology

The midday sun beat down on the corrugated roof of the Beehive Nutrition Complex, casting a harsh, white glare across the salt flats of western Utah. Inside the control room, the air hummed with the deep, rhythmic thrum of the bio-reactors—a sound that locals called the "Great Buzz."

Elias stood by the glass, watching the thick, amber fluid cascade through the transparent processing tubes. It looked exactly like the wild honey the pioneers had written about decades ago, but this substance was different. It was the product of engineered cyanobacteria, fed on raw crushed shale, desert minerals, and the relentless Utah sunlight. A single liter could sustain a human for days.

Across the console, Martha checked the pressure gauges on Reactor Seven. Her hands were stained a faint, mineral gray from the morning maintenance shift.

"The silt feed from the hills is running high in magnesium today," Martha said, not looking up. "We’ll need to adjust the bacterial culture, or the sweetness will turn bitter. People in the valley will complain."

"Let it turn bitter," Elias said softly, his forehead pressed against the cool glass. "Maybe a little bitterness would remind them where it actually comes from."

Martha paused, her fingers hovering over the manual override. "They know where it comes from, Elias. It comes from here. From us. We keep the valley alive."

"No, we keep the valley isolated," Elias countered, turning to face her. "Look out there. We’ve turned the most beautiful, brutal landscape on earth into a closed-loop laboratory. We scrape the rocks, trap the sun, and brew our survival in a sterile tank. We aren’t even part of the Earth anymore. We’re just parasites using it as a footstool."

Martha let out a short, dry laugh, the sound lost in the ambient hum of the reactors. "Parasites? Elias, before the synthetic synthesis, people starved out here when the aquifers dried up and the topsoil turned to dust. The old agricultural ways broke the land. This complex saved Utah. We don't over-pump the rivers, and we don't clear-cut the brush. We take sunlight and stones. How is that being a parasite?"

"Because we don't give anything back," Elias said, his voice rising above the machinery. He walked over to her station, pointing out the window toward the jagged outline of the House Range mountains. "Being part of an environment means participating in its cycles. It means living, dying, decomposing, and feeding the next generation of life. A real bee takes nectar, but it pollinates the flower. It’s stitched into the fabric of the desert. What do we do? We sit inside our air-conditioned pods, drink our synthetic honey, and treat the outside world like a toxic painting we’re afraid to touch."

"We touch it every time we harvest the shale," Martha said firmly. She wiped her hands on a rag and stepped closer to him. "And frankly, I prefer the painting. The environment isn't a benevolent mother, Elias. It’s an indifferent furnace. If we step outside our 'pods' and try to merge with it, the desert will swallow us in a week. Human intelligence is a product of nature, too. This complex—this synthetic process—is just our version of building a hive. A beehive is external to the dirt, but it’s how the bees survive the winter."

"A beehive is made of mud, wax, and spit, Martha. It decays. It returns to the earth," Elias said, shaking his head. "If this complex collapsed tomorrow, the bacteria would die, the glass would shatter, and nothing in the desert would benefit from it. The lizards can't eat our plastic tubes. We’ve built a wall between human existence and ecological reality. We’ve made ourselves gods of a very small, very sticky kingdom."

"And what’s the alternative?" Martha asked, her tone shifting from defensive to genuinely curious, though her eyes remained sharp. "Do we dismantle the reactors? Do we go back to wandering the sagebrush, hoping to find wild roots that haven't been scorched by the climate? Do we let the population dwindle until we’re just another layer of fossils in the canyon?"

"I'm not saying we commit suicide," Elias said, his tone softening as he looked down at the amber fluid swirling in the nearest tube. "I'm saying we should change the architecture of our survival. Why does the honey have to be synthetic? Why can't we engineer the bacteria to live symbiotically on the skin of the desert shrubs? We could wander the hills, harvest it directly from the rocks, and live with the heat instead of hiding from it. We could become a natural extension of the landscape instead of its masters."

Martha sighed, a sound of deep weariness mixed with affection for her colleague’s retro idealism. She walked over to the main terminal and tapped the screen, bringing up the regional health metrics. A long, steady green line stretched across the monitor.

"Look at that stability," Martha said quietly. "Zero malnutrition in the entire basin. No crop failures. No resource wars over fertile soil. You want us to be a part of the environment because you think it’s romantic, Elias. But nature is a meat grinder. By placing ourselves external to it—by creating a predictable, synthetic buffer—we allowed human empathy, art, and community to survive. When you don't have to worry about the frost killing your harvest, you have time to sit on your porch and look at the stars."

"But when you look at the stars from behind a pane of glass, do you really see them?" Elias asked.

Before Martha could answer, a sharp chime echoed through the control room. The automated voice of the system cut through the debate: “Batch Forty-Two synthesis complete. Quality metrics optimal. Initiating valley distribution.”

The heavy thrum of the reactors shifted an octave higher as pump stations opened, sending thousands of liters of the nutrient-dense gold flowing through underground conduits to the nearby towns.

Martha looked at the screen, then back at Elias. She offered him a small, wry smile. "The villages are hungry, Elias. And whether we're inside the world or outside of it, we still have to feed the hive."

Elias looked out the window one last time, watching the sun dip lower toward the salt flats, painting the mountains in shades of bruised purple and gold. He walked back to his station and picked up his testing kit.

"Yeah," Elias murmured, adjusting the nutrient valves. "But tomorrow, I'm adjusting the culture. Let's see if a little extra wild iron awakens their omnivore memories."

Octopeus Ex Machina (Prison Prodigy) *redux*

I recently watched the Netflix adaptation of the novel Remarkably Bright Creatures. The viewing inspired me to reread my satirical short story and revise a touch to brighten up my ending a tad. Enjoy!

Pulpo Gallego thrust-glides from air tank to air tank, her eight arms, a veritable polishing machine on each habitat's primary viewing surface. The large center air tank features three American buffalo, a snow leopard and twelve pangolins, all rescues. Two of three of her hearts quicken while imagining how the lumbering antics of these frightful land creatures entertain and educate larval and juvenile octopodes.

As a sixty month old Pacific Giant Octopus, Pulpo is nearing reproductive maturity. Still, she thrills at immersing herself in sanitation duties at Lazy Ledges Landlife Museum. The North Pacific facility is nestled in a remote inlet adjacent to the San Juan Islands. Without her dedication, thousands of paralarvae and juvenile octopodes drifting through the museum daily would leave lasting, gelatinous suction marks and excrement streaks everywhere. She takes great pleasure in keeping the glass surfaces sparkling and transparent.

The currents in the main observation area generally take the young octopodes through a scenic spiral that favors the central tank and a view of the bluffs above, Pulpo favors the often forgotten side air tank areas which feature habitats for would-be broiler chickens, bacon piglets and her personal favorite, a single member of the hominid family, a human by the name of Erik.

The plaque outside his tank is tentacle-etched with artistic flair. The colorful swirls detail how Erik was rescued as a mature juvenile.

Erik the hominid and his mate were retrieved from an adrift dinghy by Activist Team Kraken during a marine-life slaughter vessel raid in 1989. The female was immediately released once she was found to be healthy and vegan, although irresponsibly impregnated, ostensibly by Erik.

Unfortunately, Erik's psychological injuries were considered extreme as he suffered from exposure to life-long, carnist indoctrination. As such, this remarkably bright creature has been cared for diligently by museum staff for the past thirty years. No expense has been spared. Erik is fed healthy kelp salads flecked with algae crisps and tossed with sea ginger vinaigrette. The ambitious thirty year hominid mission envisions Erik being released back in the wild with a more compassionate mindset on his fiftieth birthday.

Our hope is that Erik might inspire his world-dominating species to refrain from slaughtering millions upon millions of octopode-kind for Greek Food festivals and French Fusion chophouses.

Year 29.7 of Captivity Hi, I'm Erik. I haven't seen another human for 29 years so forgive me if I'm a bit brief in my story. I was kidnapped.

Pulpo Gallego presses her tentacle to the hominid's observation glass wall. Her arms pulsate colorfully wondering if the barking hominid understands any of what she intimates. She has devoted her many months to the museum's cleanliness. Sure, the vending machine which boasts plant-based, pickled sea cucumbers and peppered scallops is a delightful bonus. Between mopping and scrubbing, Pulpo often contemplates how octopus-kind transcended their survival-of-the-fittest evolution over the past few centuries. She wonders if Erik and his species are even capable of compassion. While she has worked at The Ledges, Erik has shrieked, banged, and spat from inside his habitat. Regardless, she likes to think she has a special connection with the bipedal primate. Of course, his cryptic grumbling and flailing may simply be too foreign for her to understand.

Pulpo and all her cousins' emotional intelligence has been hard won, especially since octopuses evolved without the need for significant socializing behavior. Despite having evolved to survive mostly alone, modern octopodes developed their social skills and ethical predispositions artificially, which has enabled Pulpo Gallego to meet up socially each week with her chatty "Arm-Marms," allegedly to arrange shells and sip algae oil.

The Arm-Marms frequently speculate with trepidation upon what being an octopus mother might be like, since as mature females, each of them are mere weeks away from the joy of being offered a male's spermatophore nodules. Pulpo herself daydreams of Not Cala Mari, the male octopus who drifted in two weeks ago and made a home in the sunken death seiner at the south end of the inlet. Her mantle quivers in waves of seagrass green at the thought of his nodules detaching inside her.

If honest, her deeper orgasmic thoughts center on her would-be clutch of 180,000 eggs. Of course there won't be time to get acquainted with any of her paralarvae since she will perish soon after they hatch. And sadly, after hatching, marine elements and predators will claim 99 percent of her offspring before they gain a full foothold on life. And sadly the human deathships will over time hunt down 99 percent of the ones that do survive into young adulthood. The destinies of thinking, feeling octopodes by the millions across the world are destined for the deep freeze and/or charcoal grilling by psychopathic land hominids.

Over the past months her shell craft group has grown close. Sharing exhaustive rainbow flashes of primal fears has unified their sentiments on their species' likely extinction due to the ever-present hominid culture of violence. Nevertheless, at the end of the last Arm-Marms session a gentle mellow signaling is exchanged symbolizing the empowerment of their aggregate life-times of reproductive planning. Final tentacle-tip goodbyes are twined flush with fluorescent pastels of hope.

Year 29.8 of Captivity I managed to get out of my prison cell once about twenty-seven years ago. My intent was to escape up the bluffs and return to civilitzation, but then I saw several fattened chickens in a nearby cell. Sure, I've gotten used to the tasty, and apparently healthy, kelp salads the octopi monsters feed me. Alas, I was taught as a youth that I need animal protein sources, so before I knew it I had gnawed my way through three hens. I was so entranced I barely noticed when the octopi security pulled me off them and double-sealed me in my prison cell for good.

Pulpo makes one final visit to The Ledges facility. I look at Erik in his air tank habitat and deep down I know this isn't the life he would have chosen for himself. I squish my eye up against the viewing glass to size up his hairy alien form as best I can. Evolution by natural selection has dealt his species a severe tribal set of cards compared to we octopi. Does he have family landside that misses him?

He no longer cowers behind his mock-up entertainment box as he did when we first met. And he rarely shrieks or grumbles anymore, which I take as a sign that he's adjusted. Today he simply lifts his two upper arms and extends both center tentacles in my direction. I'm smart enough to sense it might be a gesture of displeasure. I respond with a full-body orange glow implying the hope that the kindness shared over our many-month connection will serve as a bridge to interspecies harmony.

Year 29.9 of Captivity Communicating with the latest octopus prison guard outside feels utterly useless; it seems a new one is rotated in every few years. I collapse on the slimy camper-van mattress next to the fake console TV in my cell. I used to stare at that TV pretending Flipper or Love Boat reruns are on. Keeping my imagination fresh is probably how I resisted dementia all this time. Though, some of the daydreams I used to have were pretty wild! I imagined the US Navy blasting apart this insane prison and rescuing me. Sometimes I pictured myself as the head butcher at an octopus slaughterhouse, personally de-leggifying thousands of my pseudo-intelligent captors! Mostly though I dreamt about being reunited with friends and family, Daphne and my mom primarily.

Pulpo Gallego side-strokes out of the museum entrance portal and catches the outgoing current. An expanse of dead coral glides beneath her and her body sighs with pink and cobalt flashes, conveying subconscious sadness at not being able to attend Erik the hominid's upcoming release party. She'll probably have hatched her clutch and be long dead before Erik even reaches his atmospheric civilization. Empathy surges colorless within her mantle.

The tidal current pushes Pulpo forward and her daydreams shift to how her offspring might one day be truly loved by hominid kind, and not with a wasabi rub and side of basmati rice. She chuckles darkly. Seriously, maybe with Erik's help the human herd will finally pick up the diplomatic slack and work to forge a healthy planet full of healthy ecosystems.

As the kelp forest and its multitude of sea urchins fades behind her, Pulpo's eight arms tingle in harmony. Her mind anticipates the ecstasy of securing spermatophores inside her. In the distance, through the swirl of ocean debris, Pulpo sees another octopus form. It isn't Not Cala Mari but an older male who seems to have an undulating swagger about him, as if he had bested a tribe of hominids single-handed. Approaching him in an arm crawl along the coral reef she shimmers a joyful greeting wrapped in that hypothesis. His body glitters back in a flirtatious rainbow pattern while correcting her assumption. His arms and body ripple with laughter wrapped in the truth that indeed he had bested several hominids...by befriending them.

Reminiscing #FalseKeyRocks

Wow, it's been 8 years since my first publication in South of Sundown. It was fun rereading this story from that anthology. Enjoy! 

#FalseKeyRocks

by Brian Bohmueller

The sun eased into the ocean’s horizon. Some might contend such an observation was inspired by a geocentric frame of reference and reinforced by millennia of convergent storytelling. Others, schooled in modern astronomy with an awe toward real world physics, might relate instead that the Earth’s shadow terminus approached with speed from anti-spinward.  Either way, the result was the same; the transition from day to night had begun at False Key.   

As dusk seeped ashore on the remote and rocky beach of False Key’s western most point,  a gathering of figures assembled.  It wouldn’t be unusual for a beach party to start so late in the afternoon. The evidence seemed to favor this premise, given the makings of a bonfire at their conversational center. Then again, perspective is everything; a mosquito that dared fly close enough might assess that a junta of extraordinary creatures wearing human glamours had in truth gathered.

Swack!

“Who has the damn bug spray?” Mike complained, wiping the bloody carcass of a monstrous mosquito, now mangled and flattened, to the sandy ground.  Mike left the meteor streak of blood drying on his rather flabby, pale arm in favor of catching the bottle of DEET-Tastic tossed to him.

“Shoulda sprayed earlier, ya wanker!” Soucray chastised, her voice a new age rapper’s sampled mix of seashell echoes.

“It is finaleee sunset. Can weeee get on with theees?” Bha’ ja whined impatiently while scratching at the scalp beneath her short-cropped gray and black coiff.

“Notta chance, until da last of da eight arrive.” voiced Soucray. “Saiphon...will be da last.”

The obsidian skinned man on Soucray’s right bellowed, “You have called in a lot of favors for us to wander in human guise this day, Soucray.  Best you not hold us here longer than prudent.”  His sparkling eyes impaled Soucray with a gaze of accountability.

Indeed, Soucray had invoked her one-time right to unify the power of many demesnes this Summer Solstice eve. To power her incantation she had tasked those present to take human form this day and discover, steal, or otherwise obtain human painted rocks from the inaugural False Key Rock Festival. The festival celebrated the viral meme of the moment, art abandonment in the form of custom painted river rocks left for others to find in the wild. Whether left on hiking trails, in cafes, or any other place  a human might stumble serendipitously, these objects were meant to be selfless joyful gifts. The rocks painted at this festival in particular harbored a uniquely mystical energy. And each was conveniently labeled by their creators on their reverse with the rune-like hashtag “#FalseKeyRocks.”  With these special stones collected by her peers Soucray would appeal to the Universe for a boon. 

Soucray replied to the group’s impatience, “We wait fer Saiphon. Widdout him dis ritual be bound to fail. In seven dair is indeed mystery and strength. By heaven’s need, in eight dair can be an undertaking uv real power.”

“Your ritual is teeedious...” began Bha’ ja only to be interrupted by a sudden roar. A large swell had crashed high on the coquina outcropping upon which the circle of seven sat. The swell broke ferociously on the craggy limestone causing an eruption of radiant orange globules to defy gravity.  As if summoned by this intermixing of elements, a creature the size of an elephant seal waddled in several hopping lopes through the retreating ocean foam and onto the coquina platform to join the circle.

In actuality, Saiphon was indeed an elephant seal, and simultaneously the physical incarnation representing the Deep Sea demesne. Having disposed of his human guise already he announced his presence with a pointed two-tone bark. Saiphon’s towering silhouette seemed quite at odds with the human forms present.

“Very well, Saiphon,” answered Soucray. “Welkum den. Jus’ be aware dat ye be da last. And yes, da rest uh ye can shed yer human skins if ye like. Your day among da humans collecting stones is at its end.”

Saiphon barked again and the seven other ostensibly human creatures melted into shadow, shifting into forms that were aligned with their true natures. In the fading grays of twilight the pile of wood at their center writhed fluidly and sprouted toward the starry sky. The amorphous sapling continued to grow and twist as its thickening trunk spiraled into a great wooden loop, all while extruding branches of needles and pinecones that aged and shriveled with such speed time itself shuddered.

Beneath the now towering loop of tree Soucray proclaimed, “Zen let us begin. Each uv us shall profess da name given ye and da demaine ye dun represent. Den put da two stones you ahv acquired in da circle ‘round da portal tree jus’ as I do.”

The shortest of pauses followed before the incantation proper began.

“I be Soucriante’ known to me peoples as Ole-higue. I be uv da Elder demaine and deez be da stones I awfuh.”

Soucray’s hand extended to the tree’s periphery, a hand whose skin resembled more the pinebark than human skin. Her naked torso, though humanoid, had the texture of wizened driftwood, cracked and bleached from toe to breast to brow. She placed her two stones upside down displaying the rune-like lettering “#FalseKeyRocks” on each. Then as if the offering to the tree had been accepted each stone flipped to its more artistic side. The first stone depicted the two dominant orbs of the sky in opposition: Sol and Luna, while the second portrayed a blueish heptapod, adroitly painted by the artist to resemble a sea star spinning like a galaxy in starry space. Each stone glowed dimly with its acceptance.

Soucray nodded to her right and without pause the deep voice of the obsidian man continued the incantation. “I am Phosh-an Aswol of the domain Night and these are the two stones I retrieved from the mortals today.”

Two stones glided from within the pool of darkness that hung in the air where the obsidian man had sat a minute before. The floating stones turned slowly end over end landing softly and precisely at the tree’s base. Each “#FalseKeyRocks” emblem sat exposed for a second, then as if on cue, flipped together revealing a glossy depiction of Mercury next to an oblong rock dabbed with seven blue blotches, each blotch embossed with a wavy black glyph.

Around the circle the ritual proceeded. Leptos, Vangeaux Quetz Kubilay and Dimmel reporting in for the domains of Stellar Origin, Whimsey and Eternally Broken Things.  Each stone, after being placed adjacent to the tree flipped silently from its “#FalseKeyRocks” side to the side decorated by human hands.  In sequence, a golden pentacle, a bouquet of six roses, the planet Venus, a cartoon octopus, a blue-green Earth, and a single candle were revealed. As each stone was placed the glow emanating from each increased at the tree’s base.

Bha’ ja, now in striped bobcat form, leaped down from her driftwood perch and approached the center, dropping her two rocks from her jaw with impatience. Disregard notwithstanding, they both landed exactly in the spots apportioned for them.

“I am Bha’ ja of the domain Predator and present these stones,” purred the feline in a vibrant tone that lacked her earlier whininess, yet still managed to convey impudence.

A silence descended upon the evening’s quiet that had been punctuated by rolling surf and ritual words. Those who had eyes, raised their brows, as each noted the new stones had not flipped over. Unlike the other stones this one read “#MartinCountyRocks.”

Bha’ ja who had regained her perch on the driftwood log turned toward the silence of the circle and interjected with an annoyed growl, “Whaaattttt!?”

“Da offering ye gave is failed, Bha’ ja. You be now da last,” Soucray coldly pronounced. “On da honor of yer demaine, silence to ye, cat. Now, let us continue da incantation.”

Bha’ ja froze where she stood quite literally; her eyes, mouth and every last hair on her hide stood unnaturally still like a mosquito frozen in amber. Mike’s palpable gulp and sideways glance at Bha’ ja didn’t slow his quick retrieval of stones with a clack from a pocket of his soiled and torn shorts. The only human form now in the group, Mike stepped forward and placed his stones with extra care before the tree.  Both read “#FalseKeyRocks” and Mike exhaled relief before choking out his scripted line.

“I’m Mike of the Homeless by Choice and I give these stones to the circle.” Both stones then flipped revealing Mars and Jupiter rendered in swirls of acrylic color.

Saiphon next waddled forward to the tree at their center. He promptly vomited forth an acrid pool that reeked of digested fish containing the two stones he had held in reserve. Defying probability they landed squarely and wetly beside the tree finishing the circle of stones.  The “#FalseKeyRocks” moniker showed true and in turn flipped, one revealing the ringed planet Saturn and the other painted with three blood red crosses which seemed to convey the brutality of crucifixion --  that or a child’s rendition of tic-tac-toe.

Artistic clarity notwithstanding, the completed circle of stones glowed intensely like fiery coals from volcanic depths. Flames whooshed at their center, then swiftly ran up the ceremonial tree, looping around the tree trunk and throughout the branches and needles. Engulfed by mystical flame, the faux bonfire actually radiated coldness,  giving off no smoke whatsoever.

Soucray raised her hands to the tall fiery tree and exclaimed “Wit’ deez offerings, we submit to da Universe our respect en trust. En we submit da sacrifice of da last, tuh show we understand da seriousness of what we ask.”

Bha’ja’s eyes might have gone wide if they hadn’t been frozen wide already. Tendrils of fire from the tree snaked across the ground to the unmoving bobcat form, twining its form in fiery vines. The vines then retracted the feline, now afire,  with a savoring pace back to merge with the tree’s fiery trunk. The whole tree erupted into a forty foot high inferno that lit the beachhead as if it were day. The tower of flame settled down leaving the vertical loop of the tree trunk afire, fueled by the energy of the stones and sacrifice.

With a hesitation she sought to conceal, Soucray approached the flaming loop and addressed that maw of fire directly. “We ahv served da Universe fer many rotations en revolutions come en gone, en we will do so fer doze yet tuh come, still it remain unclear on how dun best tuh serve.”  

Then, raising her voice in a crescendo that echoed off the fire itself Soucray let loose her emboldened query. “In da names of duh demaines here represented, we ask dat ye show us da true nature of our creators so dat we may better fulfill our destinies!”

The tree’s radiance surged as if in reproach, but within the loop the fire receded, replaced by a window that opened into a foreign realm. The remaining six came as close as they dared to the tree to get a glimpse of the scene within the portal.

Therein shadowy figures could be seen moving about in a harshly lit interior room. Each was human by all appearances and many were sitting at low tables with steaming drinks in the foreground. Central to the scene a metallic stalk stood silvery with a single bulbous, black flower atop.  A figure in flowing green cloth and spectacles of wisdom confronted the black bloom, tapping it twice resulting in two loud thuds and a banshee shriek. The woman’s voice invoked powerfully, “Can we turn the amp down a bit? Thanks. My name is Serena Schreiber, and we want to welcome you to our monthly Howl at the Moon event!  We have several writers here tonight that will be sharing some of their stories, tales crafted to enchant and entertain, and each takes place in the imagined world of False Key…”

The audience present in the cafe, plus seven, watched to see what might unfold.

Subjective Ethics Unbound

We chase a moral imperative, each one of us, in our own way, as we interpret the sentiment of good. 

Too often those "good" moral targets are set in stone. Commandments from a mountain top or a gut feeling about what is right. Often, such righteousness is entirely self serving. When we stick to an absolute moral high ground, we have chosen a less mindful path that denies our agency to refine the the definition of goodness that can change with experience and reflection.

Each of us has a different backstory, a different point of view, and unless we want to embrace solipsism (the idea that the individual is the core center of the universe) consideration of the world around us is essential. We are part of a network of other conscious beings, perhaps all the way down to the quantum level. Such molecular consciousness, panpsychism, is lacking in evidence or mechanism, still I think the thought experiment is a useful reflection when considering our individual impact on the world around us.

On a daily basis, each of draw lines in the sand as to what is good or bad, but it is never black and white in reality, only in our minds. Subjective ethics might seem a copout if you can choose what is moral for any situation, but the ideal protocol is to be interactive and iterative in our living assessment and to adjust our values as we go for the best outcomes of all.

Dismissing supernatural beings as is a good start, as we have plenty of conscious beings to work with on Earth as is, and no good evidence for the gods and ghosts organized religion base their business models on. Placing our species ahead of others is as sensible as placing our tribe or family or nation ahead of others. There can be a practical reason in doing so, but when we recognize our end goal is to make the world a better place for all, we can adjust our actions to expand the goodness for all parties.

As sapient beings our judgement has a quality more refined than other species and so our actions ought to be more refined as well. We can avoid choices that we know would cause pain to the ones we love, those similar to us, and those nearest us physically. A black or white response might be easier, but a subjective response is better aligned with the intelligence and compassion of which we as humans are capable.

When the processes of compassion, reason, and desire become evident in our lives we are best able to optimize our ethical thinking and actions. Sorting evidence effectively, recognizing the conscious experience of others leads to an expansion of our ethical reach. Thus human individuals can grow beyond their inherited ethical systems, and pursue tolerance, humanism, sentientism, veganism, stoicism, and beyond toward better and better outcomes. 

The trick is staying every curious, reflective and open to change, as we reflect on the evolutionary and nurtured baselines that never quite go away.