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zzambrosius_02
“All governments suffer a recurring problem: Power attracts pathological personalities. It is not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible. Such people have a tendency to become drunk on violence, a condition to which they are quickly addicted.”— Frank Herbert, Chapterhouse: Dune
They sat outside the Booth, facing the path. Sparrow and Luisa and Ambros made one end of the line, Ambros’ chair and Luisa’s canted slightly toward Sparrow in the center. Other booth-mates straggled along the curtains that indicated that the booth had closed.
In the distance Ambros could hear ragtime music, very slowly closing in from the right, down Strawberry Lane. Some other form of jazz sounded from in front of them somewhat to the left.
“I can hear Sweep Music,” said Sparrow.
The sun dropped behind the trees, cooling things significantly. Little sign remained of the flooding that accompanied Saturday morning’s thunderstorm.
Sparrow sighed: “I was out and about today, when the crowds were bad. Why do you suppose it is that people make such traffic jams when there is room for folks to get past?”
Luisa shrugged: “I try not to even go out during the day.”
Ambros said: “Here at the booth, we have counters between us and the crowd. But I have noticed what you are talking about.”
“Why do you suppose it clogs up?”
“Well, in part it must be the natural disorganization of the hippie subculture. Not that that subculture is a bad thing, per se. The hippies had a point, when thay rejected establishment forms of organization.”
“I get what you’re saying,” said Sparrow: “But most of the crowd on the paths are paying customers and most of themhave no hippiness about them at all.”
“Yeah, that’s a point.” Ambros fell silent. After a long pause, he said: “Say that the opposite were true: everyone on the paths couldlook around, see the line they ought to take for the convenience of themselves and others, and then imagine that they took that line. When someone wanted to check out a booth, they’d move aside; when the path narrowed—naturally or because of an ambience performer—they’d string out a bit, and leave room for people to go both ways, and also space for people to shop at the booths.”
“Why don’t people do that?” asked Luisa.
Ambros shrugged: “Global Malaise?”
“What?” Luisa said, but Sparrow was nodding.
“Anomie rules,” said Ambros: “We need a new Social Contract.”
“Like we have in the Commonwealth!” Luisa exclaimed.
“What?”
Luisa said to Sparrow: “Sort of a fantasy thing that Ambros and I are into.”
Ambros made handsigns that meant: good catch.
Sparrow let it go.
For all of the sweat, effort, and time-consuming bureaucracy needed to get the whole booth packed up and hauled off-site, they eventually got it done.
“Done and well-done,” Ambros declared.
He wondered to himself whether the Fair would go on after the beginning of the end, which he could see coming. He shrugged and thought: ‘Least of my worries, really. Will there be any peopleleft after the End, that’s what I oughtta be worrying about...
‘And also: I’m supposed to visit Madrid and Barcelona on Tuesday...’
Madrid had been a bust: “I can’t believe how obtuse some of the labor movment is, at times, anyway. The Confederacion Nacionál de Trabajois technically a Syndicalist organization, but all those years with Franco in charge of Spain made them pretty timid. Not anything like what they once were...by reputation, amyway.”
He walked slowly down the main drag in Barcelona, enjoying the sights and sounds of a bustling city with a (relatively) thriving socialist/capitalist economy. The Gaudi Cathedral caused him to wince: ‘That’s a monstrosity. I’m mostly in favor of avant-garde architecture, but that thing...’
He strolled along the park’s pathways, present while appearing absent-minded. He carried a heavy holly staff that day, and leaned hard on it. A boy of eight or so years rose from a bench and blocked his path. He spoke English with a Catalan accent: “Are you the man from America?”
“I am aman from America. Who are you?”
“I am Andrés. Come with me.”
The contact was thus made and the correct words exchanged.
They walked along, Andrés directing Ambros in whispers.
Andrés led Ambros to a building with no windows and a garage door next to a personnel door. When inside, in nearly pitch dark, Andrés said: “Wait here.” He vanished into the darkness.
Ambros drew his pistol from his pocket and backed up against the entrance. With the weapon pointed at the ceiling he activated his MPS and used it as a lantern, illuminating all but the furthest corners of the room.
Lawn mowers and other landscaping equipment filled most of the space inside. At the back of the building stood an office, barley visible in the dim light.
The office lights came on, and then the flourescent lights in the garage. Six people exited the office, one at a time, so he could see them. They wore balaclavas and each was armed, visibly.
‘Well,” Ambros said: “At least you are not going to object to my pistol.”
“Every person has the right to self defense,” said a woman, in Catalan: “How was your sojourn in Madrid?”
Ambros replied in Spanish: “Less than useful.”
She chortled. She switched to Spanish: “The CNT is not what you hoped for, anymore.”
“Understandable, I suppose.”
“They were cowards,” she judged, emotionless.
“The FAI was not, then?” Ambros wondered.
“There were cowards among us, but we did what we could,” a man replied. “Why are you here?”
Ambros put his pistol away and spoke his usual piece, in Spanish, this time.
The Faistas absorbed it all with no sign of emotion or doubt. When he finished, they glanced at one another. The woman said: “Our sister-worker Marcia in Birmingham told us these things. It is a good thing you give us the same message. We know how you answered each of the questions put to you by her comrades...we have no other questions of our own. We have been continuing our work inside the CNT and infiltrating the other unions, as the opportunities arose. We will speed this infiltration up. Are we finished?”
“You in a hurry?”
She smiled, just a bit: “The CNT is legal again. The FAI is considered a ‘terrorist organization’ by the government of Spain. We are all anonymous, and none of us knows the names of more than a few outside of our affinity groups. Also...there are a large number of Basques and Catalans in our ranks.” She looked around: “This is the largest gathering of us I have been in for some time.”
“We go now.” This, in Catalan, from a man who had a very new ‘smart phone’ in his hand. One by one they approached Ambros, each looking closely at him, and then left through the door behind him.
The woman was last: “Wait here for two full minutes, then leave. Andrés will meet you at the road. Follow, but don’t speak to him. Understand?”
“I do.”
She passed him, moving as silently as the rest of them had.
Back in Eugene, he set to work on mundane tasks: sweeping his Salon, vacuuming the office, doing laundry.
As he fnished moving the fighting clothes from the washer to the indoor clothesline, he heard a car outside.
His MPS beeped at him and showed him a view from one of his securtiy cameras: Deputy Dan knocking at the door.
Ambros invited him in: “Been a while, Dan.”
“It has.”
Ambros led the way to his office. When the tea was ready to pour he said: “Just dropping by?”
“Wish I could be. The Sheriff has cut back. Sent a couple good men away, reduced the number of hours we patrol...but it means twelve hour shifts for everybody on rural patrol duty.”
“You’re a busy man, Dan.”
“I am. I came with a messsage from Chief Black.”
Ambros shook his head: “I have nothing to say to him at this point.”
“He wants your help...”
Ambros laughed. The he shrugged: “What could I do for him? Why isn’t he here himself?”
“He says he tried to contact you, but you never answered the phone. He’s hard put to it, Ambros.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The Springfield Police Department is pissed as hell at him; the Mayor over there is threatening lagal action.”
Ambros frowned: “Whatever for?”
“A gang of homeless folks that formerly ‘infested’ the Swamp—Springfield Mayor Pete’s words not mine—have moved over to Springfield, and camped along the edge of the river by an old folks’ home. The gang is doing their best to blend in to the forest of blackberries and bracken along the river, but they are failing miserably. They’re mostly that lot you call Borderers.”
Ambros laughed again: “Well, a certain amount of drama and violence sorta goes with that bunch.”
“Yes, indeed. The bigshot businessmen in Springfield are not happy.”
“What am I supposed to do about it? I’ve never even crossed the river into Springfield yet.”
“Chief Black thinks you can get Arlen to intervene. I told him I didn’t know whether you could influence Sarge or not.”
“I probably could, but Sarge has very little pull with Andy O’Malley or Sharon Kennedy. Assuming they are still the leaders in that bunch.”
“Huh. Got any advice for the Chief?”
Ambros shrugged: “Springfield authorities need to go to the camp, talk to O’Malley. Find them a better spot. They really do want to stay outta sight. That they are not out-of-sight is the fault of the Bureau of Land Management, not to mention former Mayor Thomas of Eugene and Chief Black himself.”
“Okay. Black won’t be happy with that, but I see where you’re coming from. Now...”
“Yes?”
Deputy Dan drew in a big breath and sighed it out: “You know a guy named Roberts?”
“You mean Burt? We’re...acquainted.”
“He’s been nosing about and asking questions about you.”
“Pretty much nobody in City or County government knows anything pertinent about me. Not the sort of things Burt Roberts wants to know, anyway.”
“Yeah, Sheriff Burr figured that out. Roberts hasn’t yet. Just thought you’d like to know...”
“Yes, thank you. Let me know if you hear of him getting on Chief Black’s good side.”
Dan raised his chin and looked askance at Ambros: “Why is that?”
“Maybe Chief Black has a little of the sort of info that Roberts wants.”
“Huh.”
“More tea?”
After Dan left, Ambros sat down on the mat in the Main Hall of his Salon and began to work on stretchiing out his legs.
“Damn-it-all, that’s still pretty painful.“
Stretches that he’d done easily right up to moment of the Posse’s attack on him were a nightmare at that point: ‘Even my right leg is resisting me, I guess from failing to work it out while I had the prosthetic on the other leg.’
“No more of that!” he said aloud. He worked for an hour at the exercises, his own old ones and the new ones that the Commonwealth PT had ordered. By the time he had finished, he had soaked his work clothes with sweat.
He got up and went back to the laundry area by Randy’s room. He stripped out and put on drawstring workout pants. His work clothes went into the next load through the washing machine.
He returned to the mat and spent another half hour working on his falls and recoveries. By then, he was physically exhausted as well as in more pain than he liked to be. He stopped, did a few cooldown stretches, and then went for a shower.
He entered his office, feeling better for spending forty minutes in a hot shower; the landline phone rang.
“Ambros,” he answered.
“This is Burt Roberts. I have some information for you.”
“Spill it...”
“Not on this unsecured line. Where can we meet?”
“I’m supposed to meet someone for a date at the Benham Avenue Block Party...”
“Can’t do that. I’ll get back to you in a day or two.”
“Whatever. See ya.”
Arrenji leaned back in the chair, until she looked precariously close to tipping over. She smiled, her dreadlocks bouncing a little as she nodded in time to the music drifting in from the street in front of the pub.
“I like this music,” she said: “Reegay, you called it, right?”
“Reggae,” he said, then spelled it: “That’s funny,” he added.
“What is?”
He gestured: “Your hairstyle, the slight accent that you still have, the graceful way you move: people assume you are from Jamaica. That’s where reggae comes from, originally.”
“Ah,” she said: “That is amusing, isn’t it? I knew about Jamaica and the dreads even before I met you, from studying the US Imperial Lines. I hadn’t heard any of the music, though.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s really the lyrics that I admire. Listen to her plea for community; the first thing Commonwealthers notice when we visit US Imperial Lines is the lack of true community among your people.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, in an ironic tone.
She ignored the irony: “Sure. The money economy is what fosters it, of course. All of your interactions, even gifts and conversation, become infused with the spirit of exchange. This for that, tit for tat. Mine and yours, I owe you. You owe me. You pass someone in the street, and because she owes you naught, she exists only as a face passing by. She…and you…both adopt an expression of neutrality, showing no emotion: she cannot ‘afford’ to show respect for your apparent age; you may not even hint at an appreciation of her youth and beauty. This is not one encounter in the course of a day, but hundreds, thousands. Then you see a friend, and for a moment the spell is broken and love fills the void between. But your respite is brief: your affairs call you on. One by one the people you must ignore pass you by, each one placing a weight upon you: a gram of unresolved and unrealized debt. The alienation each of you feels from the others turns inward…and outward, slowly crushing your spirits and driving your humiliation in the face of the System. One man snaps and shoots up a stoa…a shopping mall; a child cries herself to sleep because of bullies in her Skolo; a boy twists a rope around his arm and injects a drug into himself, secretly hoping to wake not at all, to escape the blank faces all around him.
“Here in this Line, even in best of times, even at a festival like this…” She looked at him quizzically.
“Benham Avenue Block Party,” he supplied.
“Yes, that,” she said, nodding. “Even here, while the neighborhood pulses with the sound of song, and dancing people fill the alleys and yards, and that singer cries out for love and understanding, lamenting the fate that holds her separate from her sisters and brothers, still the instruments of exchange rule, driving your interactions with others.”
“I know that. I’ve railed against it most of my adult life.” He grinned: “You talk like Vaneigem, you know.”
She closed her eyes, seeking the knowledge imparted by RNA induction: “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do. Most Commonwealthers would, you know.”
He grinned: “I do know.”
“Yes.”
They sat unspeaking, nearly immobile, while the broken rhythm of drums and bass pounded at their ears. He could feel the bass vibrating in his ribs; the singer began again, one love, candles in the darkness, I and I.
He got up and went to the bar, where he got Arrenji another beer, and himself a shot of Jameson’s. He pushed the cash across the bar until the woman’s fingers touched it: he thought of Vaneigem’s story, the waiter, so long ago in Paris.
“Thank you,” he said, deliberately, smiling. He caught her eye, nodded; he tried to break the spell, to cross the void between them, to make the money disappear for a moment.
She looked into his eyes: “You’re welcome,” she said. She searched his gaze for flirtation or other hidden motives, and didn’t find it. He smiled again, and she returned the expression. “You’re welcome,” she repeated.
“One love,” the singer cried: “Let’s get together and be all right…”
The song ended, and a much larger round of applause followed.
They finished their drinks and left the pub, beginning a stroll through the neighborhood. Most people were having a good time; even some of Ambros’ friends among the homeless looked happy.
They passed along a street closed to automobile traffic for the day. People selling all sorts of merchandise occupied booths on both side of the street.
“This is very unlike the Country Fair,” said Arrenji, apparently fascinated.
“Like and unlike. The profit motive is higher profile here.”
“Yah, and the goods are of lower quality.”
“Significantly,” he pointed out: “Lots of this stuff is just tchochkes, trinkets manufactured in low-wage situations, purchased on international markets and intended for quick sale.”
“That booth, though,” said Arrenji, gesturing: “Amazing use of electronic waste. The artist is working even as she minds her wares.” They stood a while, watching, as a dreaded and pierced young woman soldered and snipped and glued at a sculpture of a woman on horseback, all made of scraps of motherboards and pieces of trashed cell phones and other such stuff.
A bluegrass band began cranking out the repetitious vamp of that style of music, and the fiddle player started soloing. Some kind of ska-punk group fired up behind them, back near Samuels B’s. “This part,” he commented, raising his voice, “where the two bands overlap, that’s kinda Fair-like.”
Arrenji nodded, but stayed focused on the sculptor’s table: “If I wanted to—acquire—a piece of her work, I would need currency, yes?”
“Most likely. Ask her, she might barter.”
Arrenji said: “I admire your work, Magistri. May I examine these pins more closely?”
“Hey, sure. Look all you want. Love yer dreads, by the way. Howdja get ‘em so small and even?”
Arrenji slid her fingers through her hair, finger walking along her scalp: “Just grows this way.”
“Oh. You gotta be an aborigine, then, huh?”
Ambros leaned to Arrenji’s ear: “She thinks that you are an indigenous inhabitant of the continent we call ‘Australia’. Or a descendant.”
“Oh.” Arrenji turned back to the sculptor: “Yes, the genes come from there, originally. I really like this style pin, right here.”
“Ten bucks.”
Ambros reached for his wallet, conscious of Arrenji’s complete lack of funds.
Arrenji said: “I don’t have any of your money...” and drew a silver Token out of her belt pouch.
The sculptor took it and stroked it, bit gently at the edge: “That’s silver,” she said: “Ninety-nine fine, I think.” She examined the images, front and back, then said: “I’ll go four pins, for this. Where’s it from?”
Arrenji grinned: “Hellas. That is Greece, you would say. In a sense..”
Sculptor Woman shook her head, puzzled: “I thought Greece was on the Euro. This looks new-minted.”
“Yes. I said, it’s ‘in a sense’ from Greece. It’s not ‘money’ it’s just silver.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Arrenji pinned two of her new acquisitions to the front of her tunic and put the others into her pouch. They continued their walk.
They turned right before reaching the bluegrass stage, and strolled at their leisure along the sidewalk. A warehouse on their right muffled the sound of the next band; the music echoed off the backs of buildings across the railroad tracks.
“Really loud!” Arrendji hollered, as they came around the corner into a parking lot that had transformed into a mosh pit.
“Yeah, that’s part of the aesthetic. Genre-wise this a mix of goth, punk and metal.” The lead guitarist began a screeching, feedback-laced solo: Arrenji covered her ears, but she was tapping her foot in time with the drummer.
“Okay that guitar player is pretty psychedelic. It’s an odd combination.” He grinned.
She said: “It’s interesting, but it’s too loud for me.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They passed through the next “we can hear two bands at once” zone and found themselves at a stage called “Girlz Rock.”
The band onstage had three young women singing in close harmony while a couple of boys played guitar and drums behind them.
“Obviously, not every member of the band has to be a girl,” said Arrenji.
Ambros shruged: “I guess as long as the band is fronted by a female...”
“Ooo-oooh-ooh-oooh have another hit...of fresh air!” sang the girls.
Ambros laughed: “That’s Quicksilver! That’s great!”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, Quicksilver Messenger Service. A band from San Francisco back in the 60s. Like I said about that guitar player: very psychedelic.”
“I don’t see the similarity,” said Arrenji.
Ambros nodded: “It’s not very similar in this context. But the style has certain common points.”
“Endaxi.”
The band finished its set and bowed off. The next group began setting up. A boy set up some drums, a young girl just pre-teen tuned her guitar and a bass player noodled a bit until her sister (obviously her sister) had completed the tuning.
“Shall we move on?” Ambros asked.
“Nah, let’s hang out. Look, there’s a bar. Got outside seating too.”
“Yeah, my leg could use some sit-down time.”
They got drinks and sat down. By the time I they were settled the next band started up.
“This is blues,” said Ambros. “You’re getting quite an introduction to genres of American pop music today.”
“Explain ‘Blues’ “, said Arrenji.
“Originally music made by black people: formerly enslaved people. White people took it up. This girl can really sing it. She’s a good guitarist as well. But the bass player is even better.”
They listened for a while. Arrenji said: “There is a similarity with the reggae stuff, isn’t there?”
“Yeah. Reggae is sorta like blues from the island of Jamaica. Hear that note?”
“I do.”
The band played three songs, which appeared to be the limit at the Girlz Rock venue. Once offstage, folks gathered around the young singer, praising her loudly.
Ambros went over to the older sister and said: “You are a veryskilled bass player.”
She looked at him, on the verge of tears: “Oh, thank you! I mean...” She paused; she was obviously very shy.
Arrenji nodded: “Your sister gets a lot of attention, huh?”
Bass Player said: “Yeah...”
“I play a little bass, or I did once,” said Ambros: “I just wanted you to know that someone noticed how good you are.”
“Thank you so much,” she said.
Arrenji tugged Ambros away: “That’s about all she can process.”
“You’re right.”
She led the way along Fourth Avenue, then turned right toward the grocery store. Ambros watched her flirt with, bypass, and/or frown down people passing her. He noticed how smoothly she dealt with a drunk who made a very crude pass at her, how merrily she interacted with the children she encountered, how her mere presence stopped a couple men from fighting. She interacted, in one way or another, with many more people per minute than anyone he’d ever seen.
He pondered her ‘aura’ or whatever it was: ‘People are drawn to her, in part because she is always “present” wherever she is. And yet...with nearly any weapon in either hand, or barehanded if it came to that, she can kill...anyone. Or she could embarrass the hell out of someone without hurting anything but their feelings...verbally or physically...’
He decided to stop thinking about it: ‘Makes me feel like I haven’t accomplished anything. But she’s nearly one hundred years old; she’s had a lot more time to get her shit together. Maybe if I live so long...’
Instead of thinking about what she was doing, he began to copy her ‘style’. He made eye contact; he bumped fists and slapped hands with people who spoke to him.
‘It doesn’t feel natural to me,’ he thought: ‘But neither did jiu-jitsu when I first began to learn it.’
He persisted. It occurred to him that this sort of Festival, which was an occasional occurrence in his world, was the default mode in the Commonwealth: ‘The feelingof it, anyway...the spirit of constant joy, and the way people fill the streets, ignoring the usual traffic patterns...
‘Of course, in Athino, there are so few cars that there areno “traffic patterns”; people fill the streets and move in random fashion all the time...that’s the modethere.’
He put it all out of mind and followed Arrenji. She moved easily, turning her body to avoid obstacles, smiling at everyone. He never could predict her next movement: ‘That’s because she’s not planning ahead...this is what the Situationists would call a dérive, but she’s not in opposition to the people or the corners.’ He slipped into the same mindset, as much as he could.
They turned another corner and saw Samuel B’s ahead of them. Ambros said: “Let’s go back to the pub. My leg hurts.”
He stopped inside the door, leaning on the stick. He noticed that Tom from Fooloish Mortals was setting up a drum kit onstage.
“That’s right, Sam and the gang are playing here this afternoon,” he said, pleased.
“Friends of yours?”
“Yeah from a couple decades back. I used to sub for some of the band mambers when someone got sick or whatever.”
“I never realized that you were a professional musician. It’s not in your Kyklo bio.” Arrenji looked sideways at him.
“Because I was not a profesional musician. I was a roadie—what you’d call a ‘roustabout’—for a couple years...but my partner at the time hated the travelling, and so did her daughter. So I gave it up.”
Judy carried her main keyboard in, and George and Allen started running cords.
“Let’s sit back here,” said Ambros: “Better they don’t see me too soon. They’ll get ideas.”
“What kind of ideas?” Arrenji seemed amused.
“They’ll want me up onstage with ’em. They’ll be all nostalgic.”
“So? Why not play with them?”
“I haven’t lifted a stick in twenty years, that’s why. And the hi-hat pedal would be a wash with my leg still screaming at me.”
“Sure...how’s the leg doing, anyway? Seems like it’s worse today than it has been recently...”
“Yeah, I went for PT in Athino this morning. Foolish, since I knew we had a date to walk all over the Benham Neighborhood this afternoon.
“It has been better, though. I’m hoping to fight a little at Pennsic in a couple weeks, when I go to hear Grim’s Saga. Maybe a light practice in Athino in four or six days.”
“ ‘Grim’s Saga’? That’s right, you wrote an essay about that guy and published it on your blog. I guess he was a good friend of yours?”
“He was.” Ambros looked right at Arrenji: “I’ll link you to the Saga, after Celia debuts it at the event.”
“I’ll watch with interest,” she said: “After our visit to that tournament in May, your calendar, I have a litlte more respect for what the SCA is doing.”
“You could attend a fight practice, sometime. Wednesday afternoons, I think.”
“I’ll consider it. I enjoyed fighting in that, what did they call it? A ‘Cut and Thrust’ competition.”
The band did a sound check and Samantha stepped onstage to get her mic set up.
Of course, she spotted Ambros immediately.
She laughed and pointed him out to the others; everyone waved at him.
Arrenji took Ambros’ wallet out of his pocket, slick as a whistle, and went to get drinks.
After a quick sound check, the band started its set.
Arrenji handed him a whisky and sat down with a beer in front of her.
“What would you call this sort of music?”
Ambros laughed: “They say they do ‘Kick-ass Pop-rock with a lyrical edge’.”
“Do you agree with their self-description?”
“Pretty much...” Ambros rocked his left leg back and forth, slowly; ‘That exercise does ease the pain a bit,’ he mused.
“How’s your training going?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of visualization and slow form. Full-speed stuff really has been hurting, but that’s getting better. I’ll be ready for lessons from you again after I test things out at Pennsic. I hope.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
“Got that right...”
They settled in to enjoy the show.
Two days passed, with Ambros in his normal over-scheduled bustle. He finally had a moment to breath, and got a message from Kim summoning him to Athino for “lunch and a hard converstaion”.
He walked along The Street of Winds in Athino, headed for his favorite plaza. As he turned to enter he saw several of his family gathered at his usual table. Luisa and Marie and Kim were in a serious conversation with Jimmy. Vree, of all people, sat nearby, listening intently. And Randy arrived even as Ambros did.
Ambros went to his usual café and got a rice and veggies bowl. Randy had his lunch in a cloth bag. Averos arrived and ordered the same thing Ambros had. They all gathered at the round table, the one Ambros usually used.
Ambros sat by Vree. She nodded to him, but seemed grumpy.
“How are things?” asked Ambros.
Vree said: “I am apparently well enough now to walk around the City...but I am not trustworthy, seemingly.”
“Really?”
She tipped her head to one side: “Pretty sure that’s my ‘minder’, over by the pancake booth...”
Ambros checked it out: “Yeah, she’s carrying a pistol and keeping her eyes on you. The War Guilds mean to keep you away from the Command Complex and a few other places, I guess.”
“Oh, yes. My limits were carefully described for me. The Library is out of bounds; so is anyplace with cross-Timeline communications access. They gave me a list,” she said, waving a paper copy.
“This pisses you off?”
“Some. I got shot fighting your war for you...”
“Stop it.”
“What?”
“First, it’s your war, too. Second, you planned the operation, and third, you were the one left your communicator—the one from your Timeline—you left it on while you were Shifting. It interacted with your Shifter. Averos says that’s how the ATLs got hold of you.”
“He told me that. Won’t do that again.”
“That’s good. How is your work going?”
“Meh,” Vree said: “Renéos and Virgilos are doing fine. I make sure there’s no ATL military presence where they go for sabotage or recruiting. Don’t want to make that mistake again, either.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Meds say maybe I can get back to Commanding operations myself in another year or so.”
Ambros raised an eyebrow.
Vree shrugged: “I guess I was...still am, I suppose...more messed up on the inside than they told me at first. Bullets went into bad places and at least one of them was depleted uranium.”
“Theosae,” said Ambros.
“Not my idea of a good time, anyway,” she said, bitterly: “My only consolation is that we aregetting ready to crush their nuts, as soon as they attack you.”
He nodded, then turned to check out the other conversation.
As he tuned into it, he heard Marie say: “The best way to show that a stick is bent or twisted is not to argue about it but to stand it alongside a straight stick.”
Vree started, and Ambros turned back to check on her. She sat staring at Marie; the look on her face communicated a sense of horrible satori.
‘Like she’d had some revelation that caused her great distress,’ Ambros thought.
She got up and said: “ ‘Revoir, maitre.”
“Then eemay Magistros,” Ambros averred.
“That’s what they tell me,” she said. She walked slowly away, shivering.
Jimmy said: “So what, I’m like a twisted stick, now?”
Ambros turned back to the other side of the table. Kim leaned in to Jimmy, grasping his shoulder: “And Ambros and Randy are the straight ones. You need to figure this shit out, love. Model yourself on men like them, and like Averos. If in doubt, imagine how Arrenji would react to whatever peice of bullshit you you feel like pulling.”
Jimmy stared across the table at her, glowering. When he got no change from her, though, he wilted: “Okay. I really don’t want to blow this opportunity up.”
“You did so well at the end of the Fair, I thought we wouldn’t have to do this again,” said Kim: “But then, you started up with Marissa again—I guess thinking we wouldn’t notice—and then you blew off Randy when he came to talk to you about it.”
Randy spoke, a little bit diffidently: “See, when I was still a minor by Seventeen standards, the family only engaged sexually with me when we were here in Athino. In this Timeline, where I was considered an adult! So, while I’m not pissed about Marissa deciding to fuck you, I am upset that you kept it a secret, and told her to, and didn’t consider that she’s still seventeen.”
“So what, I should bring her here for...”
Randy interrupted him: “That might be best, it might just work. That, or just cool your jets for another two-and-a-half months! And we’re being harsh with you because the other things we’ve tried have failed.” He raised his fist to his ear, Commonwealth-style and said: “He’s just a kid, you are saying to yourself. He’s...”
“Stop it. I get it. You—Randy—you are doing better than I am at...fitting in to this family.”
Randy shrugged, palms up: “I’m younger. I had less to unlearn.”
Jimmy put his face in his hands. After a moment he got up: “I have a lot of thinking to do. “
“You do,” said Luisa and Marie at the same time.
“I’m going to my bunk.”
“Shall I come by?” asked Kim.
“Not till tomorrow,” Jimmy said. He walked away, headng for their room at Open Quarters.
Ambros drew a deep breath: “Well done, everybody.”
Kim had started crying. Luisa comforted her. Marie went to get her a drink. Randy sat there with his hands folded in his lap, looking uncomfortable.
“It had to be done,” said Averos: “In my opinion anyway.”
“It had to be done,” said Kim through her tears: “But I don’t know how many more times I can do it. It just better work this time, that’s all.”
“That was a nice touch, though,” Ambros said: “Telling him to consider Arrenji’s reaction to the kind of stuff he’s doing.”
“She’s kinda awesome, you know?” said Randy.
“Yeah,” said Ambros: “I kinda did notice that.” After a moment he continued: “Got some bad, or baddish, news from home.”
Marie asked: “What’s up?”
“The Republican convention nominated Romney on the fifteenth ballot.”
“Shit,” said Randy.
“Ambros...” said Marie: “You said that guy was bad news...and I guess that’s why the news is bad.”
“Yeah,” said Ambros. “Yeah, it is...”
Ambros came out of his Physical Therapy appointment cursing. Arrenji met him at the door of the Temple.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
He shook his head, growling: “The PT Magistri says I was walking better because I’ve let some tendons and muscles get...sorta fused. ‘Adhesions’ she called them. She gave me an injection or two to break a couple of them up, and a whole new set of painful stretching exercises to work everyhting loose again.”
“That’s too bad,” she said.
“Yeah it is, but I still want to do a lesson with you. I have a feeling...”
“Yes?”
“I may be able to break more of the adhesions loose if I go full speed with you. It may well be very painful, but I’m tired of this shit. I can’t still be limping around like this when the Big Day comes.”
“A point,” she said: “Well, let’s go over to Anni’s and get some work in.”
Ambros swung the reedsword back into guard, thinking: ‘Don’t give her that opening again, just don’t do it.’
He stepped the opposite way on the next pass, chopping futilely at Arrenji’s arms, desperate to keep her point out of his eye. She spun through a 360—just out of range of his cut—and cut at him, forcing him to step through.
That’s when it happened. His foot hit the ground at exactly the correct angle and she shoved him in the back, making every muscle in his foot twinge and sending him to the ground in complete agony.
“That do it?” she asked.
He sat up, moaning: “I think so...” He grabbed his left foot and began moving it through the exercises that his PT had ordered. “Oh, yeah,” he said, relieved. His tears began. He shook his head.
“Now that’s stupid...”
“What?”
“I was trying not to cry because of stupid memes inside my mind. It’s not like you’re gonna think less of me because I’m crying. Right?”
“When you are in that much pain? Of course not.”
“Any way, I’m glad that worked. I don’t want to do it again.”
“Better keep up with the stretching, then,” she advised.
“Yes, Magistri.”
“And, you know,” she said: “I am very pleased with your improvement. I know it’s been hard for you to practice...”
“Yes, it has. I’ve been reduced to slow work and visualization for a while now. Glad to hear it’s working.”
“It is. You have no stamina at the moment, so best you ramp back up to full-time, full speed practice quick as you can.”
“No time like the present,” he said, rising.
He saw her grin through the grill: “Hit me, Spathos!”
He cut without warning, slicing only air.
‘She somersaulted backwards, at an angle away from me, and hit my foot on the way over...how is that even possible?’ He shook out the ankle again and cut downright, just hitting her right arm with the tip of the sword.
“That’s the way to do it!” she cried, leaping to the attack, sword in left hand.
He found himself forced to squat-duck, and shoved his point between her thighs, then dove forward under her arm, yanking the sword across one way and then back and up as he rose again to his feet. He took one step and turned to meet her again.
He stood there as she took off her helm.
“You know,” she said, staring at him in consternation: “That technique would pretty surely kill with steel or APS. There’s very little armor at the inside back of a fighter’s thigh. And I have never had anyone cut me in bothlegs that way. How did you learn that play?”
Ambros stared at her: “Didn’t learn it. Just did it.” He shrugged: “There was nothing else I could do.”
She closed her eyes, visualizing: “That is true. Let’s work on how to do it, and how to teach it. It will work best if you have disabled one of your opponent’s arms. When we get it to where it’s reliable, you’re going to teach it to the SB Master’s Council.”
“I am?”
“Oh, yes,” She said with a grin: “Yes, you certainly are. And they will teach it forward until every soldier in the Commonwealth can do it on demand. ‘That’s how we roll’ as you say it.”
He shrugged: “Well, we better make it perfect, then.”
Hours passed before Ambros was satisfied that he could teach the play properly. Only then did he and Arrenji head for the Baths.
They arrived at Plataeo Sokratosena, showered and in clean clothing. Kim and Averos were at the usual table. They hailed the new arrivals; Arrenji picked up a piece of fruit from a stand as she passed, and Ambros went for a sausage-on-a-stick.
“We were just talking about the nature of the Multiverse, and the Commonwealth’s place in it,” said Kim.
“We’ll be interested in what you have to say about that,” said Averos.
“Which one of us?” Arrenji laughed.
Averos made a handsign that meant no ironyand then appended the sign for please.
Arrenji shrugged: “Endaxi. I think we—our Commonwealth—we sit within this particular...region...of the Multiverse in a place of observational command. Our allies all grant us this place, and we accepted the burden because we really do have more resources and better information about what is happening than any of our ‘neighbors’ “
“Correct,” said Averos: “It’s an interesting power dynamic, being non-hierarchical but mutually supporting.” He looked at Arrenji with slitted eyes: “It’s also interesting that you mention ‘observational command’. You are...” He paused.
After a moment, Arrenji said: “Yes, I see what you are pointing at. I will be in such a position vis-a-vis the entire project, when the bombs start falling. I will command Keenafthono Prima’s troops, mostly from ‘behind the lines’ and also deeply influence all of our allies by my decisions.”
“Mostly?” Ambros asked.
“Well, when things are winding down I may want to be there at the front. For instance, when we liberate the Nazi death camps. Or when we take down his Imperial Assholiness Jean IV.”
“Endaxi, I can see that.”
“I was wondering...” Kim waited.
“Yes?” Averos said.
“Well, in most of the USITs the countervailng power is Russia...either in a nationalist or Soviet version. Are there Timelines where the USSR prevails?”
Ambros laughed: “There are no soviets in the Soviet Union!”
Everyone stared.
“Oh,” he said, stifling his laughter: “Old Anarchist joke. The word ‘soviet’ in Russian means ‘local worker’s council’. One of the first things Lenin and the Bolshies did was suppress the local councils. The USSR stopped being about Capital C Communism right about then. They weren’t even anything like a Socialist country...’State Capitalism’ is more acccurate.”
Averos nodded emphatically: “And State Capitalism is a fool’s errand. No such government or economy has lasted more than a hundred years.”
“Well...” Arrenji looked thoughtful: “No one has tried it in the absence of a global crisis of overproduction. That would be an interesting Timeline to find.”
Ambros looked at Averos who nodded just a bit. He realized that Arrenji would probably be searching for such a Timeline: ‘in her copious free time’ as the saying went.
“At any rate,” Ambros continued: “The fact that the Soviets called themselves ‘communists’ when they were a dictatorial state economy caused no end of confusion among Americans.”
“But that’s in the nature of that kind of conversation,” said Kim: “When we use shortcut signifiers to tell one another what we believe, we inevitably foster misunderstandings.”
Ambros grinned sarcastically: “Especially when we use such shortcuts to lie to each other...or to ourselves.”
“But the Commonwealth really is communistic,” said Kim: “Why does that work so well?”
“Our education system makes sure people understand economics, on the fundamental level of energy,” said Averos: “The Commonwealth has found a way for a human society to recognize maximum freedom while encouraging collective action. We have seen nothing better. Doesn’t mean that something better does not exist. Creatures with other biologies may do some things better than we do.”
“You mean like the Squids...” Kim ventured.
Averos shook his head: “The Squids are still finite beings. Alien life—the most alien of all—might be so advanced that it's indistinguishable from the laws of physics.” He grinned a pale grin: “Squids introduced me to that idea.”
“Egad,” said Ambros.
“Indeed,” said Arrenji.
“But what I was getting at was that we in the Commonwealth have separated power from hierarchy and created ground-level, horizontal power structures. We have set things up to deliberately avoid allowingceremony and symbolism to take the place of thought and ethics...”
Arrenji said: “And it’s also important that we have, from the beginning, recorded every word of every debate in every Guild, Polis, and Deme. We made sure we didn’t have to rely on memory, or re-invent simple things.”
“Memory reconstructs reality,” said Kim, nodding: “Any external framing always falls short of true recreation.”
“And any mistake that you forget, you are nearly certain to repeat,” said Averos.
Kim sat frowning, then looked at her wristy: “I’m teaching in one-third hour. Better get moving.” She kissed Ambros, then Averos, and strode off, muttering to her tech.
“I’m heading to the Library next,” said Ambros.
Arrenji saluted and he returned it as he rose. Averos waved a good-bye. Ambros touched his left patch pocket, making sure he had his Commonwealth laptop, then went off towards his goal.
Ambros thought quite a bit about that conversation as he went about his usual bustle over the next couple of days. He wrote the beginnings of an essay about the concepts involved, then set that aside in favor of preparing for multiple teaching roles.
Saturday night rolled around. Ambros walked from Rose House to Samuel B’s. He got his usual drink, and sat in his usual place, where he could see both doors.
Before any of the “regulars” could show up, Burt Roberts did. He smiled cheerily at Ambros, got himself a beer, and sat down across the small table.
They remained silent, each watching the room.
“Information for me...” Ambros prompted.
“Yeah...I have two names for you to think about.”
Ambros waited silently, a little nervous though he was careful not to let that show.
“The first name is ‘Carlo Charles Scharffen’.”
Ambros put his hand in the patch pocket of his cargoes, touching the Commonwealth firearm he always carried there. He said:
“Who’s he?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s you. Chief Black agrees.”
“Can you prove that?”
“No, but I don’t have to. I’m not in law enforcement; I’m in Intelligence, remember?”
“Okay,” said Ambros: “You think you know something. What are you gonna do about it?”
Burt laughed and shrugged: “Nothing. I reported it to my...superiors, but while we think it’s true, it’s not actionable. Scharffen is dead, provably so, and your current ID is seamless. We could do something extra-juducial, but I told my superiors that it was inadvisable.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well...you are tough to pin down, and people who cross you tend to go missing. Or wind up dead. Risk-benefit analysis says...”
“Yeah,” Ambros interrupted: “Hard target, no real benefit to removing me.”
“Pretty much.”
“What’s the other name?”
“Harvey.”
“Harvey? A tall guy, blond muttonchops, favors three-piece suits with a day cravat?”
“That’s the guy.”
“What about him?” Ambros spoke out of surprise.
“If this guy is not on your side, watch out.”
“I’m watching him already...”
“Good.”
“That’s all? Good?”
“Yes. We—the people I work for—still think you’ll be useful to us, sometime in the future. It’d be a shame if someone took you out.”
“Other than you, you mean.”
“I just told you...”
“Yeah sure. But you could change your minds at any moment. Right?”
“Well...yeah, we could,” Roberts admitted.
“And someone in one of the agencies you hang out with could go rogue, too. So don’t pretend that you are a benign presence in my eyes. Everyone on your side of the goverment/anarchist divide is clear and present danger to me, and to many of my friends. Don’t ever think I’ll forget that.”
Burt’s eyes narrowed: “Of course not.”
Patrick and Jonie came into the room, and Burt got up: “See you next time,” he said.
Ambros gave his customary (to Burt) French-style left-hand salute, and said: “I’ll look out for you.”
Jonie sat down where Burt had been: “Who is that guy? A friend of yours?”
“He’s a spook,” said Ambros.
“What?” asked Patrick, as he handed Jonie her drink.
“A spy, an agent of US intelligence.”
“Why’s he always talking to you, then?”
Ambros laughed: “He sayshe thinks I’ll help him out someday.”
“What do you think of that?” Jonie asked.
He laughed again: “Unlikely, but just barely possible, if things go bad enough. He and I would be roughly on the same page if there were Nazis involved, for instance. Not everyone he works for, or with, would be, but if I’m any judge of spies...”
Patrick laughed in his turn: “Well are you any judge of spies?”
“Moderately. I usually spot them, even if I don’t know which part of the ‘Department of Spies’ they work for. In my twenties, I missed a couple of them, but I learned.”
“People been spying on you for a while, then?” Jonie seemed amused.
“Considering my opinions, yeah. Maybe at times when I didn’t spot them.”
“Which of your opinions are they—interested in?” Jonie asked.
He sighed: “I believe that if the human species doesn’t evolve past the need for governments, money and war within the next couple of decades, that we will be extinct by 2050. The global ecosystem is so fragile now that any war, struggle or revolution that fails to bring down those institutions will only speed the extinction up.” He laughed, bitterly, then continued: “Anyway, if I were you, I’d be careful what I said to Burt. As I just told him, he’s not a benign presence in this town.”
Jonie still seemed amused, but Patrick said: “Okay. We’ll keep that in mind.”
More of the regulars arrived, and they all moved to a bigger table.
no subject
Date: 2020-08-08 06:21 pm (UTC)sp. flourescent should be fluorescent
typo 'Fooloish Mortals'
'Yeah from a couple decades back.' -comma after 'yeah'
typo “Because I was not a profesional musician"
typo 'peice of bullshit'
typo “lunch and a hard converstaion”.
typo 'work everyhting loose'
typo 'the countervailng power'
missing space 'avoid allowingceremony'
no subject
Date: 2020-08-08 06:28 pm (UTC)She got up and said: “ ‘Revoir, maitre.”
“Then eemay Magistros,” Ambros averred.
“That’s what they tell me,”
no subject
Date: 2020-08-08 06:40 pm (UTC)