Strange Times at the Oregon Country Fair
A short story by A.M.Brosius
They dropped in to the Fair site in the wild area near Daredevil Palace. With his Shifter still active, Ambros Rothakis could see hundreds of overlapped Traces, the spoor of Commonwealthers visiting the Fair over the years. He sent a mental command to the Shifter, shutting it down. It bore a distinct resemblance to a hockey puck, though it was fractionally lighter. He stowed it in a patch pocket on the front of his kilt.
He looked his companion over and thought: ‘It’s a Giant Ant, for all practical purposes. Oh, there are a lot of small differences...and big ones, too; like the Squid sticking out of the top of its head.’
He knew as well that the creature had an internal skeleton as well as its chitinous carapace. ‘...and the cyborg aspect, don’t forget that part. Most of its memory is in the mechanical-biological computer set in its thorax.’
Two metallic tentacles dangled from the silvery rectangular panel set into its carapace. Occasionally these waved around, often in sync with the antennae on the “Ant” part’s head.
‘The machine stores memory and works logically. The Squid feels emotion—exactly what sort is hard to say— and provides motivation. The actual Ant part is more or less a biological bicycle. And these three organisms have been a commensal and collective intelligence for at least several million years.’
He spoke aloud: “This is gonna be a riot. I hope not actually...”
“Rrrr-iot.” The Ant part rotated its head back and forth in that odd way they had: “Thisss isss ‘a metaphor’?
“Yes.” It was hard not to think of the thing as the Ant, even though the ant part was by far the least sentient of the three bits.
The Ant hissed again: “Ssss. For research purposes this-unit has submitted to this...” It rattled the chain attached to a collar around its “neck”.
“Yes,” said Ambros: “You want to know more about humans? This is one aspect of human society. A festival, where some societal norms are absent or reversed, as a contrast to ordinary life. The collar and chain will make you look like an ‘ambiance performer’ rather than a dangerous and unpredictable alien life-form.”
“This-unit is intensely curious. Let us proceed.”
Ambros led the way out of the drop-in site, careful to disturb the vegetation as little as possible. The Ant seemed to understand that: it stepped as carefully as he did. As they approached the edge of the path, the Squid part of the organism shrank to an alarmingly small size, all of its tentacles tucked within itself and its cowl drawn down almost within the Ant’s carapace.
They appeared out of the shrubbery without any warning to the crowd. As people became aware of them a hush fell over the area.
‘That’s an almost eerie thing,’ thought Ambros: ‘It’s never really quiet anywhere on the Fair site during the day.’
His companion’s head swiveled back and forth and its antennae waved and twitched as it sampled the air and listened to the sounds of far-off voices and music. It took up almost the whole of the Upper River Loop as it moved across a narrow bridge and up a slope towards the Eight. Ambros stopped their progress as soon as he got to a wide enough spot on the path.
The crowd nearby was focused to a person on the spectacle of a bearded, longhaired, top-knotted man in a psychedelic kilt, white cloth belt, and long open vest crocheted out of fine white yarn, leading an eight-foot-tall Giant Ant on a chain.
The Ant rose onto its rear legs and waved the front ones about: “Hello humans. Z-z-t.”
The crowd exploded in cheers and applause. The Ant slowly settled back onto all sixes and squatted to the ground.
Ambros grinned and led the Ant onward through the tree-shaded paths and into a larger open space along the edge of the Eight.
The crowd followed; they gathered round, inching closer bit by bit.
A woman in a fairy dress with a feathery wand asked: “Is that a puppet? I mean, an...an automaton? Or is there a person inside it?”
“That’s a good question,” Ambros replied, truthfully. He continued in the same vein: “It’s a person, of sorts.”
“What’s its name?” asked a little boy of six or so.
Ambros pursed his lips: ‘It calls itself ‘This-Unit’ most of the time. I usually call it ‘You-Unit’, but I sometimes call it Bruce just for fun.”
“May we call it Bruce?” asked a girl, about the same age as the boy.
The girl reached out tentatively and touched the Ant’s palps: “May we call you Bruce?”
The Ant rose up a little, so that its front legs were free of the ground, and said: “This is satisfactory.” It leaned forward and let its palps range over the girl’s face, which caused her to laugh. After a moment, its mandibles spread wide and clicked, locked in the open position. Ambros sighed, relieved.
The other kids giggled. More children gathered around, since there seemed to be no danger. Parents hung back, allowing the kids room for exploration.
The Ant turned its head towards Ambros: “This is immature human? Of which sort?”
“I’m a girl, obviously!” the child preempted.
“That is not obvious to...sssBruce-unit.”
Ambros stared at the Ant, astonished: “You never called yourself Bruce.”
“Immature human asked ‘May we’. Immature humans may.”
“Children,” said Ambros: “Or kids, more informally.”
“Data filed. Children. Kids. Girls...”
“And boys. Sometimes, though rarely, both or neither. When in doubt wait for the child to say.”
“Understood. Humans are fascinating.”
“I know,” said Ambros: “After all, that’s why you are here. Look about you...”
The creature swiveled its head: “Thezzse humans in zzshelters...” It waved its front legs
“Booths,” said Ambros, understanding what the Ant found puzzling.
“Booths...these they have in the Commonwealth, yesss? For distribution of goods and foodstuffs, this-unit recalls.”
“Indeed. Like a Thenoma Plataeo in the Commmonwealth, this festival functions as a craft fair, in part. This is a money economy, though. Things work differently as a result. Do you see how?”
“Mmzzss. We do. Our-unit...our collective judgement finds each of thezsse systems unnecessarily complex.”
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
Some people had wandered off by then; apparently comparative economics was not as amusing as their earlier interaction.
“Show this-unit more things...other aspects of this festival.”
Ambros nodded: “Can you hear the music? Let’s go dancing.”
“What is ‘dancing’?”
The remaining kids laughed uproariously at that question, and their parents laughed a bit, too. Then all the children began to dance, hopping and wriggling and saying: “Like this! Listen to the music!”
The pulsing bass of a reggae band carried from Mainstage to where they were hanging out.
The Ant twitched and its limbs moved rhythmically. Then it said: “Is it wise for this unit to...jump...like that?”
Ambros said: “Maybe not. I’ve seen you jump. Can you hop just a little bit? As in a few centimeters off the ground?”
“SssBruce-unit will try...” The creature flexed its legs and seemed to ponder. It jumped about six feet in the air; the kids leapt away, in some dismay. The Ant pulled its legs in tight so as not to land on any children. Then it stood to all sixes and said: “This-unit will practice in less crowded conditions. Immature humans are each separate intelligences...sssyes?”
“Indeed, they are. Best to do them no harm, under any circumstances.” Ambros gazed sternly at the Ant, which got its attention.
Ambros led the Ant along. A man slapped Ambros on the back, saying: “That’s an amazing performance, dude. You gotta leave out the middle part, though...”
The Ant rose partway and Ambros said: “Chill.” They’d arranged code words for certain aspects of human behavior. Ambros had explained: “Humans often engage in ritualized violence. ‘Chill’ means I am not in danger, however it may appear to you-unit.”
Eventually they reached Sally’s Alley and approached the stage.
The stage was built in the same rustic style as the booths, though of much sturdier materials. The foundation of the construction looked to be enormous logs, cut into pillars and set so as to uphold the stage. The band played a slow reggae beat; the musicians and singers all wore dreadlocks, and performed in various states of undress.
“Is this too loud for your sensory apparatus?” Ambros inquired.
“This-unit hasss already adjusted.” It waved its antennae at the stage, and its metal tentacles echoed the movement: “D-dreadlocksss?”
Ambros shook his head vehemently: “Not the same meaning here in this Line. Those people have no connection to Eleni Leontari. Or Arrenji-unit.”
The Ant seemed disappointed, though Ambros wasn’t sure how he could tell.
“Okay,” said Ambros: “So, ‘dancing’ consists of rhythmic movements of nearly any sort, sometimes prearranged between two or more partners, sometimes improvised on the spot.”
“This-unit has accessed ‘Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary’ via your ‘Webz’. This-unit does not know how to begin...dancing.”
Ambros grinned: “I recommend that you begin by bending your limbs and straightening them, in time to the music.” Ambros demonstrated; The Ant made shift to imitate him, though six segmented legs made the movement quite odd by human standards. People nearby stared, and tried not to stare, and by various means displayed their curiosity. The Ant seemed not to notice.
“Now try lifting one or two feet from the ground...remain in time with the music...”
“How isss thisss?”
“You are definitely dancing. Never seen anything like it, but it is dancing.
A cloud passed across the sky, blocking the sun briefly. Ambros looked around the horizon, frowning; a chilly breeze passed through Mainstage Meadow, and then dispersed, leaving the temperature somewhat lower in its wake.
A group of children, of both genders and several ages, came twirling along, dressed in full-circle tie-dye skirts that floated out around them as they spun. They laughed and squealed as they changed course; they circled the Ant and Ambros twice before twirling away again.
Ant asked: “Should This-unit spin also?”
“If you do, make sure your limbs do not contact any humans...”
“Understood. This-unit’s visual field is...you would say 345 degrees. This-unit could spin safely...zzzz-but perhaps We will not.”
Ambros nodded: “The better part of valor, and all.”
“This-unit does not understand...”
“Hmm. Maybe some other time would be better to explain the concept of ‘Valor’.”
“This-unit concedes. The definition in ‘Webster’s’ is...ssszz-ridiculous?”
“I can’t argue with that statement.”
Ambros danced for a while. The Ant did its best, but soon squatted down in the position that meant: “No aggressive intent”.
“Would you like to do something else?” Ambros asked.
“We could go down East Thirteenth, look at the various crafts on display...we will have to approach the stage closer, then go into the shade on the left.”
“This-unit agrees.” The Ant stood, but stayed on six legs.
The two of them passed along a row of food vendors on their left, weaving between groups of people: some separated by age or gender, some wildly mixed. At least five percent of those they passed wore some sort of outlandish outfit. The Ant stood out even among them.
One man stopped them: dressed as a policeman and walking on short stilts that lifted him head and shoulders above most of the crowd, he spoke mock-officiously: “Do you have a license for that Ant?”
“Chill,” Ambros whispered. Then he replied to the ‘officer’: “For Bruce? He doesn’t need a license, he’s a Free Ant.”
“I see. Well, go about your business then,” the fellow said. As Ambros and Bruce went past, the not-cop said: “That’s the most convincing insect costume I’ve ever seen. Unless it’s a robot...”
Ambros laughed: “Technically a cyborg, actually.” He noticed the guy staring at them as they proceeded. Not-cop frowned, seemingly nonplussed.
They passed a pushcart selling ice cream bars. A girl of about ten years approached, holding a half-eaten chocolate covered treat. She said: “Would you like some ice cream, Bruce?”
Ambros shook his head: ‘Of course, every kid on site knows the Ant’s name by now.’
Bruce hesitated: “Bruce-unit is not scheduled to take nourishment this...zzcycle. But...we will tassste it.”
The girl held the stick high, and the Ant carefully abstracted a dollop of sweet from the end. It touched the stuff with its palps, quivering in reaction.
‘Not sure how I know a shudder of pleasure from any other sort...’ thought Ambros.
The Ant slowly placed the ice cream in its mouth; its mandibles worked, though there was nothing to bite.
It legs straightened, and it shook all over. The girl giggled and other people laughed as well.
Some adults frowned and became more alert.
“You okay, Bruce?” asked Ambros.
“O-o-o-kayyy. That is very high-energy food. Must pauzsse...and control this-unit’s reaction.”
“Got it.” Ambros gently moved the crowd back a bit, saying: “I think Bruce could use a little space, folks.”
Ambros spotted Jake From Security, whom he had met the previous year; Jake watched them intently, occasionally speaking into his radio.
Thunder growled and rumbled. A moment later the sky lit up with lightning off to the west, and very shortly another peal of thunder rolled over them.
People looked to the west in alarm. One woman said: “This wasn’t in the forecast...”
“Precipitation will lassst approximately one of your hours, then dissipate,” Bruce-unit declared: “Many low-lying paths will flood. This Meadow is safe...”
Several people stared openly at the Ant, clearly wondering.
One woman said what many of them were thinking: “How could that thing possibly be a costume or a robot?”
Rain began to fall. Many people scattered in search of shelter; others danced and reveled in the shower, which slowly developed into a downpour.
Ambros said: “Y’know Bruce, I think we better get out of Dodge.”
“Ambros-unit’s reference is obscure. But This-unit comprehends the meaning.”
Ambros led the way back towards the traditional drop-in and jump-out point. He kept his head high, grinning at anyone who stared at them. The rain sluiced from the Ant’s carapace; Ambros soon found himself soaked to the skin.
The Ant suddenly halted, touching Ambros’ shoulder with a foreleg. The machine in the Ant’s chest beeped loudly, forcibly reminding Ambros that the ‘Ant’ was not the sentient part of the organism. The machine said: “Unit-Ambros: this path is flooded ahead.”
“You mean Upper River Loop?”
“This-unit would not risk stepping in the flow...”
“Right. Let’s head back via East Thirteenth, we’ll send you home from the woody end near our booth.”
They sped up their pace; as they passed Jake, Ambros said: “I guess there’s some bad flooding near Daredevil Palace, Jake. Maybe you should call that in, huh?”
Jake paused, indecisive, then began talking into his radio: “...flooding at URL reported to me by passerby...check on it...barricade...”
Jake’s voice faded as they proceeded to East Thirteenth.
They moved along as fast as Ambros could walk; he slowed the alien down with murmured code words whenever it went too fast for him: “I don’t want to be running. That would just draw attention. And I desperately want to avoid further attention.”
“This-unit agrees. Too many of the humans now doubt that We are a robot or a costume.”
It did not surprise him at all that Jessica, also from Security Crew, picked them up as they passed Community Village. She began to tail them.
Many places along the hard clay path had pools of water, sometimes reaching from one side of the way to the other. Where the pools did not reach the footing was treacherous, and people slipped and slid as they moved about.
The Ant ignored the pools and ponds that blocked the way, striding straight through them. Ambros followed, still holding the end of the chain: ‘Now my boots are soaked through as well.’ He thought.
Suddenly Jessica passed them, at a trot. Her radio squawked at her and she sped up, running and slipping as she went.
Ambros and the Ant soon caught her up: she stood by the side of the road, yelling into her radio as thunder drowned out all the voices nearby.
The wind kicked up again, and it began to rain harder yet.
Nearly everyone standing about was looking up, shading their eyes from the rain. After a moment, Ambros looked up too. Among the leafy branches tossing in the freshened gale, he could see what had to be a child, clinging to one of the larger boughs.
His immediate instinct was to climb after the kid. He looked at the tree and said: “How the bleep did the kid even get up there? There are no side branches for thirty feet!”
“I don’t know how he got up there!” cried a woman standing right next to Ambros: “He has really strong hands! He’s always climbing things!”
Lightning struck a tree less than a hundred yards deep in the woody area nearby. That tree splintered and briefly caught fire, until the downpour snuffed it out. Thunder rolled over them and they felt the shockwave hit them; the ground shook.
The woman screamed and buried her face in her hands.
“Bruce-unit could rescue this child,” said the Ant. “We can summon aid...”
Ambros put his own hand over his face, as the wind howled louder yet and the tree swayed and creaked in the blast. He nodded:
“Do it. Whatever you have in mind. Do it.”
The Ant didn’t trouble to unfasten the chain from around its neck: it just used its mandibles to snap it off short and tossed the broken end to Ambros: “M-m-move these humans back!”
Ambros complied: “Move back a bit please, come on, folks, give the Ant room for whatever it wants to do...”
Two other Ants appeared. Several people screamed.
“That blows our cover...” Ambros shook his head, but continued with crowd control: “... keep back, please...Bruce has a plan...”
Jessica joined him in calming and moving the growing crowd back.
The other two Ants were smaller than ‘Bruce’, one of them significantly so; that smallest one had a distinctly brownish tone to its carapace, and a smaller abdomen.
The Brown Ant scuttled over to the tree and went up like any ordinary sized ant would. The middle sized Ant followed. Bruce went towards the bole of the tree, picking Ambros up with the pincer on one middle leg: “Unit-Ambrose must stand here!”
“Whatever you say, Bruce.”
The Ant climbed until it was a good four feet above Ambros’ head. Then the child shrieked, and all the adults nearby ran towards the base of the tree, trying to see what was going on.
The kid cried out again, then came into the sight of those on the ground. The Brown Ant, now oriented head down, held the kid’s belt in one pincer and passed him to the middle Ant, which creature passed him from one pincer to another until it could pass the child to Bruce, and hence to Ambros where he stood on the ground nearby.
Ambros held the child firmly by the waist, looked into his eyes, and asked: “You okay, kid?”
The boy burst into fresh tears. Ambros yielded the child to his mother, who began alternately scolding and kissing and hugging and ranting.
Bruce turned itself round on the tree trunk, so that it, too, clung to the tree head down. The fashion in which Bruce did that made it clear to all that Bruce was neither a robot nor a costumed human.
“This-unit should ‘Get out of Dodge’. Yes?”
“You and the horse you rode in on.”
The Ants vanished one by one, with the whooshing sound that their exits from a Timeline always made. Most of the people roundabout were concentrated on the rescued child, and heard nothing over wind, rain, and thunder.
But Jessica From Security happened to be looking right at Bruce as the creature faded from sight, until it was simply gone.
Ambros caught Jessica’s eye: “To report or not to report. That’s the question, right?”
She stared bleakly at him. She shook her head: “No way I can make anyone believe this...” she waved her hands: “...no matter how many witnesses I have.”
Thunder grumbled to the east of them.
“Well then,” he said: “I guess I’ll just go on about my own affairs.” After a moment he said: “Dry clothes. That’ll be first...”
He walked away as the wind died and the rain passed to drizzle.
You know what I think is funny? I mean, really, REALLY funny? Hilarious, even?
A newly "elected" POTUS chose an agent of a foreign gov't (I'd go so far as to say "A Russian Spy") as his National Security Advisor. Think about that.
For someone with my political positions, that's...just wonderful. By which I mean: a cause for great wonder and amazement. Not to mention hilarity.
If I were to write that into a novel or story...it would only work in an obvious farce.
Alyssa Battistoni is a PhD candidate in political science at Yale University and an editor at Jacobin magazine.
Hmmm...Marian and I were loading our groceries at Gross Out when a man on a bicycle cruised by. He stared for a second and then shouted in a sarcastic voice: "Ah, yes, Islam, forcing nine-year-old girls to marry forty-year-old men on penalty of death for mumble mumble years!"
I looked up from loading, and stared at him. He was thirty-ish with short brown hair and a scruffy beard. I looked around, puzzled. No obviously Muslim folks anywhere in the lot. I turned my puzzled (Quizzical, Bemused?) expression in his direction.
I gotta admit, my puzzled stare is frequently interpreted as threatening by other people. Anyway, he took one good look at me and pedaled away as fast as his little tootsies would go.
I was wearing a hat that looks a bit like that hat customarily worn by the former President of Afghanistan, so maybe he took me for a refugee or immigrant.
But...Marian was there, and she didn't even have a hat on, much less a headscarf or anything more modest. So that hat, all by itself, apparently convinced Mr. Ignoramus that I was a muslim.
Epilogue: Some By Dint...
Ambros dropped in to the Country Fair site in the Alcatraz Quiet Line. He had his tent, salvaged from his camp in the Swamp, and a pack full of food and drink. He walked slowly along the muddy or flooded trails, until he found an elevated booth, with what must have been a sleeping room well above ground level. He climbed slowly up, shoving his tent before him and following, grimly.
He set up his camp, laid out his sleeping bag and made himself a meal. While eating it, he contemplated: “I’m here, I told everyone, to get away from things for a while. I need some alone time, and a bit of deep meditation. Bloody PTSD. Fucking Squids.” He thought about what he’d said to the Ant when he’d upbraided it: “…raped my brainstem.”
“Yeah. This is probably something like how a rape victim feels. Can’t get the feelings out of my mind, little things set me off. Always lookin’ around for a damn Gate to pop up. Lose track of what I’m saying.
“I was good as long as I was busy. Armored up, with weapons in hand…Now everything feels scattered; I feel like I’m flailing around, and I’ve certainly seen some personal failures lately.
“Time to assess my strengths and weaknesses, and by extension the strengths and weaknesses of my side in the War. Probably spend a deal of time crying my eyes out, as they say. We’re gonna start, though...with a little trip.”
He extracted the little lump of mushroom sporoid he’d carried around for years. ‘It’s marvelously potent stuff, a mind-blowingly powerful hallucinogen, but the effects last only a couple-three hours. Or a day and a night, if I take enough. I better do that.
“Been about ten years since I took a trip into my subconscious, and I could sure use some insight about now. Fungus, don’t fail me this time...”
With his pocketknife, he carved away a hunk of the stuff. He’d got it so long ago that he couldn’t recall the date, from a fellow named Steinetz, a mycologist of some renown. In the thirty-some years since, he’d tripped on tiny bits of it about eight times: ‘About eight? I should check my journals, once I’m home again.’
He rubbed the sliver between his fingers to break down the fibrous mass a bit, rolled it into a pill, and downed it with a drink from his canteen.
He crawled into the tent and then into the sleeping bag. He wrapped a silk scarf around his ankles, and put his hands in the patch pockets on his thighs, maneuvering the velcro partway closed, so he couldn’t pull his hands out without concentrated effort. He closed his eyes.
He waited for the stuff to take effect. He felt himself drifting, and slowly fell asleep.
He could not tell whether he woke or not. He could not ascertain whether his eyes stood open or stayed closed. He seemed to float, in a sea or atmosphere of red.
So..."SALTAROS: Shadows and Light" is nearly all posted; only the Epilogue remains. That will lead readers directly into the third and final book in the series. No title for that one yet. What is to be done? In partial order, since #10 is ongoing, and short stories happen when they will:
1. Re-read SALTARAE/SALTAROS. Make notes into the Chapter outline for Book Three. Probably expand Chapter Five of SALTAROS with some food-porn and Chapter Sixteen for other reasons. (Correct any remaining typos on the way)
2. Format for paperback publication.
3. Upload paperback; slow read on editing copy; make final changes; publish paperback.
4. Arrange for "Novel Release Party" at local pub.
5. e-book formatting, first for Lulu, then for Am*azon.
6. Publish e-books.
7. Finish writing "SARÁYI: a Story of Ambition" Repeat above steps for that book. (This book is about 1/3 written.) Finish early 2018?
8. Write and serialize Book Three in Saltarae/Saltaros series. Work concurrently on "PYRKAGAE: the World in Flames" which will be the fifth and final book in the "13th Century Series" (That book has a partial chapter outline and I know the end.)
9. "A Separate Reality" and "Waiting for the Revolution" are projects that I will work on as time and inclination allow. I refuse to set a deadline on either one. Also occasional short stories. (I should decide what to do about that novella I wrote about Clementine and Eleanor and Nicholas. (If Tor fails to actually call for manuscripts, that is...))
10. GET OFF MY ASS and sell these damn books, cause they're good books and entertaining and more people ought to enjoy them and also think about the polemics that I hide in plain sight in every damn one of them...
CHAPTER TWENTY: When the Fecal Matter Hits the Air Conditioning Unit
Ambros and Kim approached the Downtown Athletic Club. A man in a pseudo-military uniform swept the front door open. They strolled through. He glanced at his MPS, which showed him the time in several places. ‘Nine PM on the dot, here in Eugene,’ he thought. He looked at Kim, who was holding his arm in the time-honored fashion. She grinned. Her gown was an off-the-left-shoulder stunner, slightly off-white silk with gold threads woven in. She had pearls and gold wire (provided by Aunt Clem) braided into her hair.
He looked around quickly, noting the men’s clothes: posh, even sumptuous, but pretty much all the same: white shirts with just so much ruffle to their stiff fronts, white bowties, white tailcoats, trousers with knife-sharp pleats, and every cummerbund the same shade of red and perfectly pressed and tied.
His outfit stood out in every way possible, though it was sharp. He was not, however, ruffled in any way, cummerbunded. He wore his newest kilt; its pleating was, if anything, sharper than that on the other men’s trousers. The red and black check looked good with his coloring. He wore a black jacket of Commonwealth cut, more like a vest than a tailcoat in its rectangular construction. His red Spathos’ and white Knight’s belts gleamed and the bronze buckle of the white one practically glowed from polishing. He’d chosen the linen ‘river boatman’s shirt’, and donned a shiny white silk ascot over the button placket rather than under. ‘This way I can flash this fancy stickpin, which is also a camera,’ he thought. His Free Walkers he’d polished to a high gloss; his longsword he’d strapped and cross-strapped so it sat perfectly upright and immobile, the hilts belt high, the pommel right in front of and a little below his left armpit. The brooch that secured the end of the great kilt over his right shoulder glowed like the belt buckle. He’d put his hair in the usual topknot, but it was fresh out of a tight braid and fly-away fluffy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Various Ceremonies, and that Hearing
Ambros pulled his socks on, and then donned a pair of Commonwealth-issue harness boots. He checked himself in the mirror: All in dark green and gray camo, black boots, and a dark green balaclava.
He reflected on his appearance: “Better. Not good. But Better. A mostly good night’s sleep helps some.”
Kim came out of the women’s room into the main hall of his Salon, similarly dressed.
“Ready?” she asked.
“I’d better be. Don’t want to be late.”
It was the Eve of Winter Solstice; it would be a day of unpleasant errands, he knew, to be followed by the Ceremony of Darkness and Light in Athino.
Ambros drew Kim close and got out his Shifter. He concentrated on the spot he’d scouted earlier that morning, and then Saltated the two of them up into the south hills of Eugene.
“This way,” he whispered, taking her hand. He led her down a little ways, on a seldom-used path near the cemetery.
He stopped. She stayed behind him, waiting.
“Right here,” he said, still whispering.
They waited; he scanned the scene with his binoculars. He could see, about forty yards away, the gravediggers making their final preparations for the graveside service.
Ambros sat in his office at the Salon, ciphering his life.
The Commonwealth-augmented Mac G5 that he worked at pinged him. The office door stood wide, and by leaning back he could see the main entrance on the west side of the building. He leaned back.
He frowned: “That’s...oh, that’s Bradley, the guy who owns the Tae Kwon Do dojo just south of here...” He pondered: ‘I wonder what he wants. Let’s go all formal on him.’
He tapped the G5 to sleep and headed for the door.
“Come on in, sensei. What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering how you were doing...”
Ambros said: “Let’s go back to my office. I’ll make some tea.”
Ladies and Gentlemen and those between and "out there": On Sunday you may read CHAPTER EIGHTEEN of "SALTAROS: Shadows and Light". Same Fire sign, same Fire station: on my blog at DreamWidth! Stuff is happening fast, now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Blood and Boom and Bugs
In which Ambros answers sensei Bradley’s questions; sees Hannah D’Angelo arrested; has a confrontation with some Posse C remnants; pays off his mortgage; detects and avoids a dangerous situation; has a talk with Magistri Gennasi, with satisfactory results; agrees to attend the meeting that so many people want him at; sees Zazu blow ‘Hector’s’ cover, destroying the agent’s career; posts his essay on Deep Flanking to the Kyklo; takes heart at the slight stir caused by his family’s e-zine; and has a deeply disturbing confrontation with Giant Ant/Squids.
We sit in a metaphorical theater
compelled by circumstance and the will of our "betters" to watch the sh*tshow they perform.
There are exits from the pit, lit with the fading candlelight of past ideals.
Most of those are "False Gates":
multifarious Religions and other addictions of various kinds.
The true exit lies within
and among us;
but who believes we can turn from the squalid play that is meant to distract us?
Who believes that we can educate ourselves,
discuss our ideas and differences,
reach some consensus about the future?
If we did, could we organize and collectively bring down the walls that surround and imprison us?
Could we turn from the Spectacle and live in the world again, authentically?
Could we drive the 1% from power, absorb them and become them,
and live our Daily Lives as free people,
encumbered only by our assembled and creative Will?
Is there any hope of this?
As long as I can still say it,
and imagine it,
there is a sliver of hope.
BUT every person who exits by a false gate comes back to the theater sooner or later
diminishing that sliver of hope by a bit.
I read the work of thoughtful, knowledgable people and
then I express my opinions and write my novels and stories;
and I hope.
A Fool's hope, perhaps, but it is still there.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Chiefly about Swordplay
Ambros dropped in to the courtyard at Canada Prison in the Guatemalan countryside. It was just sunrise, full light perhaps fifteen minutes away. Arrenji and Voukli appeared moments after he did. A quick glance at the other two, then Ambros Shifted into the corridor where their spycam was hanging out.
He heard a series of explosions and a rattle of gunfire from out in the yard: Voukli and Arrenji beginning their combination distraction and destruction plan for the prison proper. He looked up and down the hall; he stood alone, for the moment: “So far, so good.”
He started his part of the operation: ‘This is a simple plan. One, two, three. Hit fast, get out.’ He had his Commando sidearm out, preset for microwave projection. He fried the mundane security cameras at either end of the hallway and put the pistol away. He dropped a marker on the floor where he was standing, then ran down the corridor, counting cells.
‘Simple plan, part two,” he said, deploying his APS. “Cut my way into Jaime’s cell...’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Run in Circles, Scream and Shout
Kim said: “I’m ready, I guess.”
“Yeah, I love seeing Sarah and Aspen and the Aunties but Eddie makes me crazy.”
Ambros grinned: “Well, thanks for getting me off the hook. I don’t need crazy in my life right now, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. But with the Jeep in the shop, I still need a ride.”
“Happy to oblige.”
He took the main streets until he got to Greenbrier Road where he turned south and began to negotiate the first winding stretch of pavement.
Kim was chattering happily. He smiled and made listening sounds as he flicked on the headlights and wipers.
A large truck shot past them, engine growling. From the corner of his eye he got the slightest impression of green and white; he gritted his teeth, thinking: ‘Uh-oh.’
Another truck, perhaps a bit smaller, roared up behind them, then slowed down and tailgated.
Ambros had become fairly familiar with Greenbrier Road in the past few months, and he knew there was a fork up ahead. He spoke quietly but firmly, interrupting Kim: “Check your seat belt, bend forward at the waist and duck your head down as far as possible. Hands over the back of your head...”
She stared at him eyes wide and he said simply: “Do it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Run in Circles, Scream and Shout
In Which Posse Comitatus makes another attempt on our hero’s life, again endangering Kim; John Masters gets some comeuppance; Ambros visits a nasty Timeline in pursuit of rare old coins, then goes to New York to sell them; finds a replacement pickup truck, and has a pleasantly adventurous afternoon; visits Samuel B’s and creates the usual stir when he expresses his true opinions; and receives news of an unpleasant sort, from two sources.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: When in Danger or in Doubt
Ambros woke up, and almost immediately wished he hadn't. His head was hurting: aching, pounding, splitting. No cliché described it. He rolled over, grunting.
He could smell damp soil. He opened his eyes and saw nothing.
"Dark," he said: "Where is it this dark?"
He bit his lip hard enough to draw a little blood, by that means distracting himself from the headache: "Six. USIT Six," he whispered. "I was visiting the New York settlement..." His suspicions immediately went to Ed the bully: "Hit from behind, maybe." He began to feel like he wouldn't die right away, and his wits slowly returned. He explored the back of his head, tentatively. He felt a lump the size of a walnut: ‘Hit me right on the button.’
He had no armor, and that was wrong. He touched his crotch; his cup clung to the skin there: "I wonder how they got the rest of it off me," he said, grumpily. "Shouldn't come off without a touch from my hand...” No armor meant he didn’t have his weapons belt, with all of the other tools that Commonwealth Commandos carried: “Well, they can’t use any of that stuff, but...I oughta try to get all of that tech back before they hurt themselves trying to pry the cases open.’
”Let's see what we can find out, shall we?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Turn and turn and turn again
He showered and changed into fresh clothes, but put his armor back on: ‘This suit goes home with me. To the Salon, I mean.’ He packed his filthy fighting garb into a bag and sent it via Jump to the cargo area in the basement of the Command Complex in Athino. ‘It’s got my tell-tales on it, it’ll end up back in my locker.
‘Blood doesn’t stick much to this ceramic-metal alloy,’ he thought, as he went down the hall to the ‘Most Secure’ room, where he guessed that he’d find their prisoners.
“...not merely propaganda,” Arrenji was saying, as the BWG guard palmed him into the room. She didn’t look back; with her helm on a table beside her, she knew who had entered.
She had not changed clothes. Her gambeson and the clothing under that padded tunic stank of the sweat from a six-mile run. Her dreads lay in disarray about the shoulder plates of her armor. She snarled as she twisted one strand loose from where it had stuck, then shook her head.
“It’s just mostly propaganda.” She stared at the three prisoners, then glared hard at the Captain: “If we can’t find a way to make you harmless, we will kill you.”
The Captain opened his hands wide and asked: “Why not now? Get it done with.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Turn and turn and turn again
In which our hero plays Good Cop to Arrenji’s Bad; visits the Swamp, and then the Akropolis; prunes an overgrown hedge, and answers a call from his mentors; helps to kidnap a madman from a castle in a strange place; with Marie and Luisa, visits his attorneys, and makes plans; and, under the influence of his family, reconsiders a decision.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Bad Guys Multiply, But One Might Turn...
...and with that essay on Deep Flanking open, he got nowhere in a big hurry.
A man entered the pub, looked around, and spotted Ambros. The fellow tipped his cap—a baseball cap with some amorphous left-ish symbolism where a team logo might ordinarily be—and nodded knowingly at Ambros.
Ambros’ hackles rose immediately, and his instincts started yelling at him: ‘Cop! Cop!’
The man nodded at him again. He groaned internally: ‘Another interruption...? Well, I am in a public place.’
He reminded himself that he’d got a lot done already, in the times between interactions: ‘New Pismo says...twenty pages, approximately 8000 words. Really? Excellent!’
He looked away, but kept the man in sight peripherally. He could see the man buying a pair of whiskies, and beginning to weave among the tables in his direction. He looked over his shoulder, confirming that his bug-out route remained clear.
He heard the sound of two shot glasses hitting the table; he looked back and found the man standing in front of him, left hand on the back of the facing chair. Ambros sent a mental command to his laptop: ‘Record this encounter’. It beeped quietly, acknowledging the command.
“Ambros Rothakis? Hector Miller,” the fellow said, holding out his hand: “Friends call me ‘Heck’.”
“Mr Miller,” said Ambros, pointedly, shaking the proffered hand.
“May I sit down? I bought you a Jameson’s...” Miller pushed the shot across the table towards Ambros.
Ambros shrugged: “I’ll accept that. Sit down. Do you have some business with me?” He did not touch the glass.
“I thought you might be interested in a project I’m developing...”
HOW many people would be willing to risk the destruction of society in order to transform it?
Part I- An Introduction; Some Definitions
First of all, the following essay is chock-full of opinions, that is, unsupported assertions. Some of them (most of them?) I could support with citations, and perhaps in future versions of this essay I will do so. Right now, I’m doing a first draft, and sharing it with some of my friends.
When I mention historic events, such as the Paris Commune, I am interpreting those events from an anarchist-syndicalist perspective. ‘Utopias’ that begin with non-anarchist premises, such as philosopher kings or a technocratic ruling class, I will dismiss as non-utopian. If that troubles you unduly, you should read some other essay.
[AT SOME POINT in this essay, I need to write about how and why money economies are irrational. For now, I will state that I’ve never researched any part of history where money economies did not constantly and consistently move resources or the access to resources from the Whole to a small class of people at the ‘top’ of the social scale who no longer needed more resources, which is (I hope you see), a fundamental irrationality.]
In this essay, when I speak of “the System”, I mean to indicate the economic, political and cultural complexes that control our lives, whether through limiting access to resources, via outright regulation, or by Spectacle and censorship.
Now before I go any further, I suppose I need this disclaimer: when I say that the whole world is now run by crony Capitalism and Stalinist bureaucracies, I mean the Whole World. And I don’t mean that some places have one and others another of those Crimes Against Humanity, but that every nation on the planet has both, to one degree or another. Everywhere I look, I see Stalinist-style bureaucrats ‘regulating’ incestuous profiteers or the profiteers buying off the bureaucrats.
The System we live under is fucked up in a lot of depressing ways, but trying to enumerate them all is a waste of time. In a nutshell, though (or in a nutcase, if you’ll have it that way): we are suffering from our politics, our economy, and our culture. Together, these three constructs* are destroying the ecosystems on which we and all other living things depend. To save ourselves and advance the cause of human freedom and, indeed, the survival of the species, we need to advance on these three fronts simultaneously. I was going to write that “it goes without saying” that these three problems are deeply intertwined, making it necessary to advance upon all these fronts together. But it doesn’t go without saying: too many people focus on one at the expense of even thinking about the others.
[*We humans constructed our politics, economy and culture. Politics is the only part that we have even begun to see as a construct, that is, as something we can consciously alter. Think: "the right of the people to alter or abolish", applied to an economy or a culture.]
Past suggestions for utopian societies have usually been too limited. That is, one or the other of the three problems mentioned above is seen as paramount. Also they have been too narrow: early risers think everyone should be up at the crack of dawn, philosophers think the world should be run by philosophers, jealous spouses... well, you get the idea. And yes, Ursula Le Guin and William Morris have done better on those particulars, mostly in the realm of fiction. [That’s the area I usually work in.]
I ask myself what would constitute a Utopia (a “better place”) in my opinion. So far this is what I’ve come up with:
The basic anarchist/syndicalist/situationist project is ‘generalized self-management in a moneyless economy’. As a minimum program this still strikes me as usable. The idea that those working on a project have the best chance of completing it if they control it themselves seems to me obvious. (Of course, if your project is going to do harm to other people, those other people will have something to say about it.)
The fact that I felt like I had to put that last sentence in tells you how truly absurd the System is.
So anyway, here goes:
I. Politically I think we can’t do much better than the old French revolutionary slogan: “Liberty, equality, fraternity”. I know we need a better, more inclusive word for ‘fraternity’. I also realize that I am writing this in a country where we have a modicum of liberty. I can write and even publish something like this and not get gitmoed for it.. Yet. But equality, even just equality before the law, is a bad joke in America, and I would say we haven’t ever really gotten started on fraternity.
Fortunately, or inevitably, depending on how you view History, an organizational form has already emerged which can be adapted to the administration of a truly free politics. Called the ‘Assembly-Council-Committee’ system, its advocates have carried it into many anti-establishment movements in recent years. The ‘councilists’ or ‘assembyists’ as they call themselves, have done a fine job so far of explaining (in theory) what they envision, and have made progress in practice in a number of different places, and within various organizational settings. For now, suffice it to say that the Assembly is also the executive; no power inheres in Council or Committee; and members of the Council or the Committees can be removed, individually or all at once, at any time, by the Assembly.
The details of how such a politics would function, I leave to my readers to imagine or research. But if every neighborhood has an intentional character, with such an assembly for solving problems, and every workplace, every school, every city and village, every institution whatsoever also have such, then they can federate regionally and ecosystem-wide, or even globally for the solution of the few really global problems that exist.
This organizational form, Assemblyism, is not something that sprang from the fervid imaginations of anarchist cranks, but is rather seen in its early form in every rising of the people since it first appeared in the mid-nineteenth century. (Or earlier: see “Luddites”.) More precisely, in 1871 in Paris, during the time of the Paris Commune, the people of that city took significant steps forward; and even so biased a source as Wikipedia cannot hide the inspiring nature of the various actions that the people there took in support of one another in a time of great stress.
II. Economically we need to emphasize such production as will fill human needs first, and then seek to fulfill our desires.* We may indeed never obliterate greed from our hearts individually, but we can at least not encourage it collectively (more on this under ‘Culturally’ below). We also need equity, which is not the same as equality; which is to say: only once everyone’s real needs (food, drink, housing, clothing) are fulfilled do we individually or collectively seek to fulfill our desires, and never in such a way as to deny others the opportunity to do the same. And finally, I think that economically speaking we need a good way to estimate Status, by which I mean the esteem or lack thereof in which others hold a person. I think Sir Geoffrey de Charnay’s slogan, “whoever does more is better, whoever does the most is best” at least gives us a clue there. The key, I think, is to reward effort with regard, with reputation, rather than with unequal access to resources. And the increase in one person’s Status must not lower someone else’s. Status should not be seen as a zero-sum game.
***Write about the workplace as a major source of oppression and discontent; syndicalist “Industrial Unionism” as a starting point for organizing in spite of our manifold differences; “Divide and Rule”.
***The origin of the phrase “from each, to each”.
***Liberating that phrase from the Authoritarian branches of the Left.
[The problem is, in part, Productivism. We can already, right now, produce anything we need or want in quantities far beyond what our corporate masters could ever sell. The "Crisis of Overproduction" means, to a large extent, that we are transforming food and fuel into objects and concepts that are of dubious use to the Whole of humanity. This is one of the bent and twisted cards at the bottom of the house of cards that is the global political/economic/cultural System.]
***From here: explain how “concepts” are a product and how such concepts (or maybe Constructs is a better word?) (Concepts become constructs?) when they do not align with science, facts and reality, lead societies into extinction.
***The global reach of our politics/economics/culture…the global crisis of overproduction and the concomitant poisoning of the planet.
III. Culturally, in my Opinion, no society could be a Utopia that did not emphasize, in it’s cultural institutions, (including most crucially the educational system): Logic, Emotional honesty, and Empirical Evidence in the service of individual choice. And no society could approach Utopian status if the use of these virtues led any large number of people to feel Greed or Jealousy of the attainments of others.
Another requirement of such a culture is that it be mostly at peace, within and without. Many theorists have questioned whether such a culture could even exist without being global in it’s reach; not necessarily identical worldwide, but with at least the vast majority of the populations of the sundry regions of the planet committed to the basics of the project. A fistfight, or even a more serious duel, would not perhaps be a threat to the Whole. More general violence would be, and some means to alleviate the threat of that would be in order. I trust that people, given the advantages of real freedom, from want as well as from coercion, will find a way forward that does not involve war. It is want, poverty, lack of security, or the fear of these things that inspires Greed and leads one group of people to attack another, hoping (mostly in vain) to wrest these things from them. Only when the world is free of want can it be free from coercion and the waste of large-scale warfare.***
A culture that expects some level of effort from all people and rewards extra effort in non-material ways, embedded in an economy where everyone’s basic needs are the first priority of the whole people and within a politics based on real equality, and where decisions are made, as a matter of principle, at the most local level possible, seems to me to be as close to the idea of Utopia as humans are likely to conceive, at least at first. What people would be like who would be born into and raised within such a culture, economy and political system is probably beyond our limited capacity to imagine. Surely they would at least regard us as profoundly insane; and before we could incite and carry out a revolution to establish such a society, we would have to first imagine it, not just a few of us, but ALL, (or nearly all) of us. Then we would have to learn to live in it. I expect it would be a tumultuous time, with plenty of disagreements, and lots of errors and starting-over moments. The details of ‘anarchist’ organizational principles I leave to you to imagine or research. (Opinions and proposals on such matters are not very hard to find, especially in the modern world. A few keystrokes and you are at an article about the Paris Commune. I invite you, then, to follow the links and learn.)