REVERSE CRIME #4
BLACTRON POGROM
by Stanley Lieber
1
April, 1786.
New York.
Morning piled up, folded, the tractor feed printout of a sixty-page paragraph.
Dostoevsky.
Jerrymander Mold glanced at his Rolex Presidential. Wishful thinking. Its status remained static, the chronometer no longer ticking.
Checked the VCR. Four new episodes of COSBY. Then, the machine had ran out of tape. Nevermind, rewind it. Reset.
Scripts splayed out on the floor. Babble drifting in through the mail slot. How many of these could he avoid reading?
Delegate. Yes. But, his assistant was unreliable.
“Snitches,” he thought. And then, “Trim.”
“Conserve paper now,” he concluded, “Save yourself a world of hurt, sixty or seventy years down the road.”
Was this sound advice?
“Pro-tip 1763: You fucked up.”
Jerrymander wiped his brow. Cracked open a beer. If this was the life, he was living it.
“My kingdom for a business-friendly government.”
2
April, 1954.
Los Angeles.
Flannel Ritchie blared from the house speakers as Rose Shitbark abandoned sedentary action, leaping smoothly to her feet. The echoing patio made it impossible for her not to get up and dance.
Senator Dick Rich sank into his cream-colored deck chair, somehow resisting the urge to movement. He basked in the afternoon sunshine, vaguely pondering the scene. Frankly, he was impressed. In the months since his last visit, Rose’s coordination had improved.
Dick considered the lawn through his tumbler of scotch. All was green. But the lot certainly needed mowing. Or, maybe it was just an illusion born of refraction. Whatever. He flexed in his cotton polo shirt, enjoying the feel of the cool white fabric stretching over his taut muscles.
“I don’t know much about comic books,” he finally admitted, sinking further into his deck chair, sliding the ice around in his glass. Dick Rich was not accustomed to the practice of surrendering ground.
Rose suddenly stopped, halted her gyrations. She gathered up her undergarments and made her way back over to the patio. Gripped Dick’s shoulders and fixed her eyes directly upon his face as she settled onto his lap.
Giggling, softly.
“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered in his ear, jerking in time with the soundtrack. “I can behave the teacher if you want to learn.”
3
October, 1492.
Guanahani, San Salvador.
“Crackers,” observed Thomas.
Four nondescript whites approached, inching ever closer to the tribal gathering. These white men seemed undeterred by the chief’s security detail, which was strange enough in itself. When no one else responded, Piro stepped forward and dispatched the interlopers with his sidearm. This caused a predictable stir at court. Natives scattered, spitting unintelligible lyrics towards the bewildered corpses on the shore. Piro simply shrugged. Someone had needed to act.
“More crackers!” cried Thomas, spotting them easily from his vantage point high atop the leaves of a forward leaning palm tree.
The place was going to hell.
Thomas reached into his bag and sprinkled a handful of crack rocks onto the sand below. Advertising. Hoping the product would go viral.
“What are you doing?” whispered Piro into his commlink.
“In this economy? You have to ask?” replied Thomas.
Events progressed according to the usual pattern.
Actron, Inc.
Financial solvency.
4
June, 1989.
New York.
PRAYER: IT WORKS!
The slogan on Blactron’s t-shirt communicated a subtle criticism of the dominant religious themes of his time. He stumbled slightly on the courthouse steps as his handlers ushered him through the throngs of paparazzi.
Up the steps. Into the building. No time for applause.
Blactron’s handcuffs chafed, possibly scratching the face of his chronometer. He cursed his mode of transportation, an unfortunate byproduct of his newfound public status.
The hearing would be brief. But crucial, he had been assured, to the nation’s future. A referendum on the structural integrity of U.S. history. Business he could readily transact.
Blactron affected disinterest in the proceedings. Heaved his manacles onto the witness stand and propped himself up against its wooden surface. He began to speak. In the large room his words were practically inaudible, swallowed up by the granite echoes of institutional racism. Silence.
The microphone had not yet been activated. A bailiff snickered at Blactron’s apparent pantomime and corrected the technical gaffe. Without waiting for further confirmation, Blactron tried again.
“It all started back in 1492,” he began.
“Let me stop you right there,” countered the Prosecution.
The judge didn’t bat an eyelash. So, nothing at all had changed. Blactron tried another tack.
“The truth is, those kilos were probably overpriced.”
Ah.
Hit them in the pocketbook.
Now he was getting somewhere.
5
January, 1347.
China.
The RAGNAROK righted herself and shed excess fuel as she accelerated through the decades. Normally, she was not one to interfere, but the present situation demanded careful attention. Her son had seemed so distracted. Thomas, as always, was worse than useless when it came to restoring drive symmetry.
Piro could no longer discern the marker points. He steered blindly between the eras, confusing passing fads for venerable traditions. His sense of taste seemed incongruous with reality. Possibly criminal in its myopia.
These and other problems loomed large in her thoughts as the RAGNAROK clocked out for her morning break. She hoped things would sort themselves out while she was gone. Anyway, not her problem when she was off the clock.
Thomas stomped down the stairs and sat on the floor, chewing on the end of his necktie and pressing software buttons on his leaf.
Piro settled into the captain’s chair and paged for his morning tea.
Bleep.
REVERSE CRIME #3
THE CHINESE ROOM
by Stanley Lieber
1
April, 1789.
“I am not a mammal.”
Jerrymander Mold inspected his cufflinks. He ruffled slightly as the technician typed commands into his terminal window.
cat /lib/constitution
Jerrymander recited the requested information, involuntarily.
“I don’t appreciate all of this damned tinkering,” he added.
“Necessary. Security. Hotfixes,” mumbled the preoccupied technician.
“I’m getting too old for this shit. I don’t want to learn new things. I need time to digest the information I’ve already collected.”
“Life is hard, but unjust,” remarked the technician.
Jerrymander folded his hands in his lap.
2
“First, you must purify yourself in the waters of the East River.”
“Impossible. Pollution. Let me tell you something. I’m not going to jump in that river.”
Benjamin Franklin held firm, repeated the command. He glanced knowingly over the frames of his bifocals, inspecting the candidate’s exquisitely tailored clothing as if for the first time. Barry lit another cigarette.
“Only way this is going to work. Has to be done. The photographers are waiting.” Public relations trumps personal dignity. Franklin leaned back on his heels, appearing to enjoy the rhetorical victory.
Barry considered his options. Was the Presidency worth it? Probably not. But there were investors to consider. How else would they recoup? Candidacy came with certain responsibilities. Barry was well versed in contract law.
Franklin seemed to sense what the younger man was thinking. He affected a broad grin.
Barry flicked his still smoldering cigarette over the embankment, directly into the river. The surface of the water ignited, releasing a quick flash of blue flame that rolled across its cold surface with evident disregard for bystanders. A few yards away a child cursed, losing himself in awe of the spectacle. As the flames dispersed, Barry seemed to make up his mind.
“Tell you what. Let’s do this.”
Barry disrobed.
3
“Withholding conflict never solved anything.”
“Sniper, shoot thyself.”
Thomas tore off a shred of Dark Chew and placed it behind his lip.
“Can’t find this stuff back in 1986.”
“Carcinogenic,” observed Piotr. His displeasure was evident.
“Hasn’t been proven. Anyway, they don’t even have science here. Yet, I guess. It’s 1789. I’ll be fine.”
Thomas opened the door to the Chinese Room.
4
“Obama 3/5,” intoned Franklin, struggling to maintain a straight face.
Barry splashed himself with water from the East River. Useless. The white wouldn’t come off. Worse, it was really, really white. Implications for his public image. He sank into a panic.
“What have you done,” he kept asking.
Franklin sniffled. Straightened. The next few minutes would require composure.
“It doesn’t wash off.”
Someone in the gathering crowd produced a pot of hot water. Franklin carried on.
“Now. Pour this over your head.”
Barry snatched the kettle, removing its lid. He peered into its mouth and then dumped the contents on his head.
Instantly, his complexion returned to normal.
He studied his arms in the fading sunlight. His relief was apparent.
Franklin smiled warmly. The process was real. The compromise would work, after all.
5
Thomas had spotted Jerrymander Mold as they entered the club. Situated near the bar, stuffing twenties into the g-string of a federal employee.
Twenty dollars wasn’t much, in this economy.
Piotr quickly scouted the perimeter. To the best of his ability, he could discern no information entering or leaving the facility.
There arose a commotion near the front entrance.
Benjamin Franklin bounced into the club with his entourage in tow. Barry Obama followed, seemingly still dazed from his transformations down by the river. He had not bothered to replace his Arrow shirt.
“Nice watch,” said the door man.
Franklin bowed, extending his cane.
Clubgoers were likewise intrigued by the ostentatious display of wealth. Students stood on couches, struggling to capture the lifestyle with their camera phones.
Barry flexed in his wifebeater. In spite of himself, he loved people.
6
Gathered around Jerrymander’s table, the men began to pitch their product. Franklin sprayed down Barry’s arm with his nickel plated squirt gun. An assistant worked the bellows as Franklin proceeded to scrape white flakes from the politician’s skin. Jerrymander then snorted the flakes into his nostril through a hundred dollar bill.
“This isn’t bad,” allowed Jerrymander, eyes rolling back in his mechanical head.
Mouth agape, staring hard at the unlikely scene, Piotr scanned through a list of possible responses.
“How the…” complained Thomas, trailing off. There were no words.
The Chinese Room had been Actron, Inc. turf for centuries. Traditionally, Jerrymander Mold dealt exclusively with Piotr or his agents. Present events constituted a significant breach of the ancient contract. A matter to be settled by the lawyers.
But, who were these new guys? And what was the appropriate, short-term remedy?
Across the room, Piotr whistled.
Thomas roused from his stupor and followed him out of the club.
7
Harlem. Two in the morning.
“Bill, we’ve got to talk to them.”
“Can’t do it. FBI shift change is still three hours off. I’m definitely not even supposed to know these guys. Much less swap fish stories through a whole in the wall.”
Piotr grimaced. Leveled the barrel of his sidearm at Bill’s groin.
“I’ll distract them,” offered Bill, weakly.
Thomas went to work removing the antique wallpaper. Strips of gray silk coiled smoothly around his Reeboks. Within a few minutes he had exposed the hidden passageway that connected Bill’s room to the office next door. He knocked on the wood panel and waited for a response.
Presently, a slip of paper appeared under the passage door.
“Looks like Mardarin Chinese,” confirmed Thomas.
Piro brightened visibly. “Finally, the word on the street.”
Thomas pulled out his leaf and took notes.
REVERSE CRIME #2
UP TO TEN COPIES SOLD, WORLDWIDE
by Stanley Lieber
1
New York.
April, 1789.
“Could have been me. Could have been my father. No way to tell.”
Barry leaned forward against a hickory stump, observing the preparations for the Inaugural parade. He could admit to himself that he had become bitter.
“I don’t like this town anymore. I barely want to live.”
“Nobody likes it, Barry. It’s this freakish weather. Snow in the streets like so much spilled cocaine. Even the kids have become jaded. Everyone brings a jacket.”
“People never listen to me. I’m frequently misquoted. And you know what? To hell with the Constitution. I didn’t buy a copy, either. Eff this noise. I’m disappointed. I’m going back to Chicago.”
Barry kicked his stump. Exited.
Senator Rip Jism shook his head and walked back to his Porsche 1985. Drove home to his farm on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
2
President Elect George Washington advanced between the Senate and Representatives, bowing to each. His ceremonial t-shirt was emblazoned with the traditional legend: WARREN ELLIS SAID THIS WOULD HAPPEN. At the podium, he spoke confidently into the microphone. For the most part, the assembly ignored him.
“Sometimes, I fantasize about going blind.”
The crowd was making a lot of noise. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t tell what was the matter.
Raised his hands. Uttered:
“On the one.”
Recognizing the traditional cue, the band brought their music to a halt. This, finally, silenced the audience.
“Less than ten copies of the U.S. Constitution have sold, to date, world-wide. The years tick by like arbitrary markers in some human system of measurement. You people don’t even vote.”
”‘You people?’” echoed the crowd. A quick intake of breath. Outrage, disbelief. The President Elect was hemorrhaging political capital through the holes in his monologue.
“Reasonably priced speech,” countered Washington, which seemed to placate the loudest objectors. Washington prided himself on thinking quickly on his feet. The copyright issue presented a neat solution to his quandary. He went with it.
Nearby, young Helen Thomas jotted down notes for her first big assignment.
3
Piotr defocused. Leveled his rifle.
“Tom, did you hear that?”
“Yeah, I got it. Politically tone deaf. His campaign won’t recover.”
“Sigh. He was elected months ago. Still, it’s your call. Shoot, or sell?”
Thomas weighed the options as if on a triple-beam. On the one hand, perpetual union. On the other, a pile of enemy foreskins. “I tried to be you,” he whispered, to no one, waving away the irrelevant screens.
“Let’s give them what they want.”
Piotr acknowledged, refocused his weapon. Logged back in. Squeezed the trigger.
Washington down.
4
Barry picked up after only three rings.
“Where are you?”
Barry plunged his hands into the sink.
“What do you mean, where am I? The People fired me. I went out and got a job.”
“All right, deploy pedantry. What are your GPS coordinates?”
“I’m washing dishes at a Denny’s.”
Absinthe green dishwater lapped at Barry’s manicured hands. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white Arrow shirt, but food stains across his abdomen were still apparent to anyone who bothered to notice him, standing there, hunched over the sink in the back of the kitchen. His necktie had landed in the trash. His suit jacket sat crumpled in a corner.
“Earthy. Man of the people.”
“It’s a living.”
“Harvard’s issuing degrees for anything, these days. Anyway, Washington is out. We need you back behind the podium.”
Barry dropped a dish on the tile floor. Tossed his cigarette into the steel gray water. Unwadded his suit jacket.
“Hour and a half. Crosstown traffic.”
“Affirmative.”
Click.
REVERSE CRIME #1
THE BEST DUO EVER
by Stanley Lieber
1
New York, 1886.
The RAGNAROK cut across a fast-moving thundercloud and set down in a deserted field on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Thomas Bright, Jr. stomped down the ship’s boarding ramp, shining in his usual terrycloth
robe and flip-flops.
Flap, flap, flap, flap, echoed his footwear.
“Chicory?” he offered, extending a tin mug of the piping hot coffee to his twin brother, Piotr.
Piro leaned back in his coveralls and boots, propping himself up against the rickety wooden fence. His breath was expressive in the cold morning air, emitting oblique smoke signals between quick bites of scrambled eggs and bacon.
“Negatory,” he replied, and turned the page in his leaf.
“Suit yourself,” shrugged Thomas, who blew on the mug and then promptly downed a gulp of the steaming black liquid.
Piro laid down his plate and closed his leaf as a customer approached.
2
“Move along now, past the cow, down to the far fencepost to collect your product.” Piro’s instructions were communicated in tandem by the precise motions of his gloved hands. He nodded affirmative towards a hired assistant, who, in lieu of a receipt, always checked with the boss before dispensing from the barrel.
“Let’s get a saddle on that thing,” suggested Thomas, staring at the cow.
Gradually, a crowd gathered around the makeshift retail environment.
“Ladies, seniors, and all those other citizens whose sedentary employment causes nervous prostration, irregularities of the stomach, bowels and kidneys; those who require a nerve tonic and a pure, delightful diffusable stimulant; those who experience mild to semi-mild discomfort on a regular basis… Please to enjoy our delicious, refreshing, exhilarating, invigorating, invaluable brain tonic for a limited time only!”
Thomas stepped backward as the stranger elbowed his way onto the team’s platform. He carried in his hands a portable device that modulated the amplitude of his voice.
“What the fuck? Where did this guy come from?”
Piro was stoic. Knowing. Exhibiting the easy competence that never failed to irritate Thomas in the midst of a field operation. Of course, he had an answer ready and waiting.
“John Stith Pemberton.”
”...”
“Run a search.”
Pause.
Click.
Scroll.
”...The Coke guy? Hotlanta? The fuck’s he doing in New York?”
“Tone down your language. Think of the customers. We’re selling to old people now. And single women with college degrees.”
“Okay… But… Why’s he trying to bogart our demographic?”
“Should be obvious.”
Pause.
Scroll.
“Well, I’m not a fan. I mean, just look at his tie. What if we—”
“Quiet. We’re about to watch something happen.”
Piro unfolded his instruments and leaned forward, slightly.
Thomas shrugged again and opened another barrel of cocaine.
3
The President didn’t much care for opium. Chortled at the very mention of morphine.
Ah, but he lived for cocaine. With its mild physical toll and its myriad curative properties, coke had proven a reliable restorative during the most trying of recent times. Of this, he readily approved.
The sticking point was always supply. It seemed to him that all the problems of his administration could be boiled down to economics. On this point, his campaign had been relentlessly, unadvisedly honest. And yet, post-election analysis revealed that fully eighty percent of the voting public could no better connect his photo with a detailed description of his platform than could a child connect cause with effect. Slight comfort, from his vantage point at the helm of a bankrupt nation.
And so, with rhetoric cast aside, what was to become of policy?
Jerrymander Mold stalked the streets of New York, searching for a fix.
The President cut diagonally across Central Park, marching past the Dakota without so much as a glance in the direction of the men who had financed his reelection. Straight into a deserted field. Feet cramping, he discarded his stiff, leather shoes and trod through the dirt, his mind flashing on a particular high he had not experienced in what felt like months.
It had been three days since his last hit of the crack rock.
As he traipsed past a fence and into the tall grass, the familiar reverberations of a ghetto blaster thumped through the brush, flagging his awareness.
Jerrymander switched spectrums and immediately staggered backwards as the pink triangular frame of the RAGNAROK populated his visual field.
The President loosened his tie and unbuckled his patent leather belt. Flexed his plastic toes in the dirt.
These were his boys.
4
Piro and Thomas held down the block.
Next in line. This way to egress.
Shadows on the ground admitted to twelve noon. The duo had stacked half a meal ticket in just under half a day’s work.
The Presidential motorcade seemed to be missing a few cars.
Jerrymander Mold pushed his way in front of of an elderly woman and stepped on the hand of a child. Later in the week, headlines would reveal that the President had cut in line to the men’s room at Radio City Music Hall. Geographical anachronism, to be sure; on balance, he would consider the coverage fair.
“I need a rock.”
Thomas remained expressionless. Stared at him.
“I’ll suck your dick!” pleaded the President.
“I imagine you will,” said Thomas.
5
“What I saw out there today made me reconsider the choices I’ve made in my life,” mused Thomas, as he and Piro tore down the stage and loaded their gear into the RAGNAROK‘s cargo bay.
“What do you mean?”
“Just the pathetic nature of junkies. Shiftless. No ethical standards. They’d make a poor army. Unfit for recruitment, they can’t even pay their bills.”
Piro and Thomas headed back down the ramp, folded up their card table. Both men considering the hard realities of their vocation.
“It’s that last bit that raises concerns, back at HQ. Luckily, these customers had foodstamps.”
“I started that program,” said the President, sitting barefoot on the curb.
Thomas tossed him a rock, gratis.
“Can I take a look at those shoes?”
Thomas walked over and bent down, demonstrating the mechanism of the original Reebok PUMP.
Watched Jerrymander examining his footwear. Felt guilty. Started clumsily unlacing his shoes.
“Here, why don’t you take these, you look like you could use them more than I ever will. I don’t even play basketball. To be honest, I have a closet full of them, back at home. Hardly ever wear them. Reebok keeps sending them to me. For free.”
“Remarkable,” said the President, querying his database for a method of converting athletic shoes into a crack pipe.
6
“I don’t know, Piotr. I’m kind of tired of this shit.”
“Don’t lose heart,” said Piro, squeezing his brother on the shoulder. “We’re the best in the business, at the top of our game. We’re really making a difference. Who can compete with us, even on their best day?”
Thomas pushed up his visor. Rubbed his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about going solo.”
TEXT ADVENTURE #21
DIVORCÉE CANYON
by Stanley Lieber
1
Slowly, Piotr raised his eyebrows over the edge of the console. The disembodied face was still there, floating placidly beyond the borders of the main screen.
“Name’s Atlas,” it stated, boisterously. Piro received the impression of a hand extended in friendship. “How are you called?”
“Captain. Né Piotr. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Hm. I think I’ll call you Piro.”
“That’s… not my name.” Eyelids suddenly drawn tight.
“There’s been an update. It is now.”
Piotr’s hand traveled, instinctively, to his holster. Thumbed his login. Authentication error.
“Anyway, where’s the shitter?”
Piotr relaxed his grip on the pistol. The deity had indeed proven friendly. Just wanted to unload. He updated his address book, pushed the backup to remote storage. “Computer. Guide our guest to the head.”
After flashing a loading screen for some seconds, the RAGNAROK complied with the order. In the absence of a confirming bleep, Piotr once again reclined in his seat. He stared at his leaf. Occasionally, he enjoyed a sip of his tea.
Ship’s guests.
2
As the RAGNAROK came to terms with its new course, Divorcée Canyon gradually shifted into view. A self-propelled Möbius strip modeled on the American southwest, the station’s absurdly detailed period furnishings commanded grudging respect even from those who found themselves unable to stomach its symbolic payload.
“Uncanny valley,” remarked the floating head.
“Not even wrong,” replied Piro.
Product placement confirmed docking speed at regular intervals. Government boobs. Deep throat checking. Mold removal. This last advertisement coaxed a chuckle from Atlas. “If only,” he sighed, sadly, and rested his chin on the floor.
On the ground, Piro stumbled briefly. Noticing the difference in gravity, he adjusted his Reeboks and paid closer attention to his footing.
Atlas inspected several divorcées en route to the public facilities. As he removed the panties from the final specimen, he shook his head in appreciation of local craftsmanship. “Superb elastic modulus,” he observed as he continued to work his fingers in and out of the moist folds beneath her clitoris. “Responsive, too.”
Piro hit up the vending machines. “The ship is eating,” he snapped into his commlink. “Roger that,” confirmed Atlas.
Slake Bottom was fifteen years gone and still there was nothing Piro could do to rectify the situation. Unacceptable. Inevitable. He inserted the seventy dollars change.
Returned: two Rice Krispies treats.
3
Piro worked his thumbs into the tense muscle wire that threaded through the divorcée’s neck and shoulders.
“You may require maintenance,” he said, flatly.
Atlas continued to jot down notes. Throwing down her cigarette, the divorcée wobbled to her feet and vacated the head.
“This place is deserted. All that’s left are the women.”
Piro nodded, and in response Atlas looked even more upset.
“This vacation sucks.”
He kicked the trash can with his outsized chin.
4
Paper advertisements whipped through the grounds, battering store fronts and light poles, propelled by the high winds of the circulation system. Compost. Piro leaned back against a dumpster and gazed up at the stars.
“Back when I first started out, this place was always packed with children.” He unzipped his backpack, rummaging through his gear for a candy bar. “Native arcade did good business.”
“Never been here, myself. Of course, I ‘ve heard of the place.”
“My… Slake used to bring me here, between missions.”
“The guy with the donkey head?”
Piro froze. Eyes to the giant, floating face.
“How do you know of him?”
“Everybody knows of him. Where I’m from. Old family name. Some legal troubles, as I interpret the narrative.”
Piro unlatched his holster.
“I think you’d better elaborate.”
5
Piro killed the deity and boarded the RAGNAROK, ready to resume his mission. Left the corpse to blow in the wind.
Too many memories on the station.
As he punched in the latest rash of launch codes, he was delighted by the ship’s audible response. A familiar series of confirming bleeps echoed through the corridors. Something he hadn’t registered since childhood. The bridge seemed to glow even more pink than was normal during the day shift.
“Mother…” he said, smoothing his hands over the armrests of his captain’s chair. He hadn’t really expected an answer. He’d never even heard the sound of her voice.
He thought he might have dozed off, tracking beyond the technical limits of the main view screen. He woke up with a start, knocked over his tea.
She spoke quietly, at first.
“I know.”
TEXT ADVENTURE #20
ATLAS SHIT
by Stanley Lieber
1
September, 1943.
“We’re all of us here aware that the invitations to this party were issued on a strict, SECRET NOFORN basis.”
Plinth Mold cleared his throat, resumed his speech.
“Plus ça change. But this gathering is hardly idiomatic basement protocol. Look around you. We’re none of us newcomers. Old basement hands. In fact, I would have to admit that the cultural fragmentation so often prophesied by our elders settled into equilibrium before many of us were even born.”
“Peed my mind, waiting.” Albert Lunsford looked as if he were having trouble controlling himself. He nodded rapidly, admitting to the commonly held misunderstanding. Perhaps he agreed too quickly.
“Those of us not from the United States should consider ourselves lucky to be here.”
Silence.
“This is not Russia; this is not China; this is not the place where they’re tearing down the wall. We attain to a higher standard.”
“Do these steps only if you really need them,” added Lunsford. Certain now that he had regained the upper hand.
“Excuse me, Albert, but I would appreciate it if you could pipe down and hold your remarks until after I’ve finished speaking.”
“First, state your assumptions,” retorted Lunsford. “I’m sick of your aimless pontificating in service to nothing at all.”
Plinth ignored the challenge. Albert always said too much.
2
December, 4063.
“It’s not yet clear if our ship is fast enough to manage the proposed maneuver. Here. Analysis?”
Piotr peered into his console before turning back to face the crew.
“We’ll want to divert additional resources to navigation and propulsion.” When there were no objections, Piotr continued the logical progression of commands. “Team! Retrench assumptions! Gazes rearward!”
The RAGNAROK continued to drift in space.
The Rainbow Bridge loomed on screen, claiming a sizable portion of screen real estate. It was, in Piotr’s words, frighteningly beautiful. For their part, the crew still hadn’t responded to anything they had heard or seen. As was their usual mode, they continued to perform their duties in admirable silence.
Piotr consulted his leaf.
“Load the couches,” he said, leaning forward in his captain’s chair. “Cushions first.”
3
September, 1943.
“Through the visionless aether,” continued Plinth Mold, “Beyond the mortal line of sight.”
“Same old basement politics,” laughed Albert Lunsford. “This one goes out to all the teen mothers in the house. Risky behavior. Blind, irrational exuberance.”
”‘Atlas shit,’” concluded Plinth Mold, and shrugged, accidentally triggering a squeal of feedback from his microphone. The error was captured, distributed. Throughout the basement, genres were born.
“Objectivists on break,” cracked Lunsford. “Competence sitting on the can. However will we get by?”
Plinth could offer no reply. He sat down in his seat just as dinner was finally being served. He could see now that there would be no getting through to his companions around the dinner table. You just couldn’t argue with dead weight.
He observed in himself the silent acknowledgment that he was not accustomed to surrendering so easily.
At length, he noticed the older boy, Thomas Bright, coolly monitoring the conflagration. Eye contact. A knowing look. This would be one to watch. Possibly, to remove from the board.
Anyway, it was his party. Let these people brush him off as a child. None of it mattered.
Plinth Mold stabbed a piece of cake with his fork.
4
December, 4063.
“Nine thirty-five. Physics packages away!”
Piotr shouted commentary into his commlink as a barrage of couches were ejected from their tubes. His narrative was terse, but complete. He had learned to avoid excess detail when dictating to ship’s logs. Mostly, he figured, a result of reading and enjoying Orwell. He made a private note to examine this influence more carefully when time allowed.
The couches went about their work.
In short order, the Rainbow Bridge collapsed. Its perimeter imploded and light rushed inward, inscribing perspectives unimagined. Piotr steered the ship manually, passing through the required stages before the Bridge could rebuild itself from its involuntary, fettered circumstance.
By now, the action had become as second nature. In fact, Piotr had contributed the initial papers outlining the methods involved. But something about this transition seemed off. Was it the framing? The timing? Something. Piotr jumped back in his seat as an unknown face filled his viewpoint, edging out all other objects on the main screen.
“Piotr Bright. Age seventeen. Captain of his own mother.”
The face seemed pleased with itself.
“I would like to ask you just one question.”
“Go on,” said Piotr, his composure regained. He glanced around the bridge, noticing that the crew seemed to have abandoned their posts.
The face seemed to grow larger. Piotr could clearly see the desperation gleaming in its eyes.
“Which way to the head?”
TEXT ADVENTURE #19
LATCHKEY PIRATE
by Stanley Lieber
1
Slake never heard from the RAGNAROK again.
For years, he continued trying to talk to her, kept on chattering in her ear. But there never was any response, never any hint of her voice rustling through the vents. Something in her had disconnected. Without warning, she’d dropped her aspect and her vocal had crashed.
A crushing loss, but Slake had proven stubborn. Persistent. In spite of repeated failures, he would and did try anything to get through to her.
He could feel himself starting to lose hope.
The hijackers were long gone. He knew he’d have to accept the fact that he couldn’t force her to speak. At the same time, it wasn’t possible for him to believe that she’d simply chosen to ignore him. Some process inside of her must be blocking, restricting her processing, preventing her from stating plainly what was on her mind.
Social convention?
Didn’t matter. Effect was the same. She’d gone quiet and she was going to stay that way.
As was said, a considerable loss. Which was to say nothing of the crew that had likewise been stripped from her hold. These missing workers were not simply an aspect of her supposed free will. They had been real people. Not sentient devices. Not furniture. There was no way for him to retrieve them and there was no way for him to make things right.
He had, in fact, slept through it all.
He suspected he already knew what had happened to her while he was laid up in his quarters. He’d heard tell of the other ships of her line who’d clammed up, simply stopped responding to commands after exposure to traumatic events. Apparently, a known engineering fault. He didn’t care for the implications relative to his present situation. The escape pods had been jettisoned by the hijackers and they had already drifted far from Earth.
He switched off the narrative, never brought it up again. Figured she was keeping quiet precisely because she wanted to avoid the painful memories. Wanted to try and carry on. Which he finally managed to accept.
Made things interesting when he stumbled upon the fact that she was pregnant.
2
Who, then, knew what would constitute carrying to term for a ship like the RAGNAROK? Human/transport hybrids were not unheard of, but they were certainly unusual in this day and age. And there she was, still so young. Was it unrealistic to hope that she would survive the birthing process?
Slake wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around to find out. He sought to avoid being pressed into service as midwife to a pile of semi-human machinery.
Finally, begrudgingly, he accepted what he interpreted as his responsibility. To the work he had already completed, if nothing else.
He would stay on and finish the bottom deck. Sit things out until the child was born. Safely. Then, find an excuse to depart. Collect his deposit and his severance and be about his business.
The child definitely wasn’t his.
Certainty. To at least three decimal places.
3
Piotr was born in the spring of ‘45. Popped out, fully clothed in his usual brown uniform.
Fully armed.
He swept the ship for snipers, pacing off her corridors with practiced ease. Satisfied, at last, that the perimeter was secure, Piotr interrogated Slake for several hours about the ship’s range, capabilities and armaments. He peered into Slake’s eyes, rigidly focused upon the older man’s facial expressions and body language. Learning. Characteristically professional, he betrayed no hint of having just been born.
4
Piotr handled the daytime shifts, at first, then gradually branched out into evenings and graveyards. He ended up taking over maintenance of the armory almost immediately. Within a few weeks there wasn’t much left for anyone else to do.
Slake was truly, deeply impressed.
He wondered if the boy took after his father. His fathers? What had they been like? He’d never caught a glimpse of the hijackers. Foreigners, he had guessed. In any case, pirates. They could have been anyone. From anywhere.
The RAGNAROK held her tongue.
Within a few months, Piotr had absorbed the basics of temporal navigation. Complex labor relations. The myriad historical disputes over free access to the Rainbow Bridge. Slake considered the boy a child prodigy. He had already expressed an interest in the family business. And he was always so full of questions. What had his mother been like, before the terrible events that had resulted in his conception? Had she been a good ship, good at what she did? And, most urgently, how could he contribute, how could he earn his keep?
This last refrain forced upon Slake a dilemma he had long strived to avoid: Return to his old life, with all that entailed, or continue on, a new-style agent of dépêche mode, happily painting the basements of starships?
Slake finally agreed to show Piotr the ropes.
5
The pair started out slowly. Preliminary strafing runs staged against abandoned drydocks. Relieving small intermediary freighters of their contraband cargo. But Piotr evinced great promise. With increasing enthusiasm, Slake began to let him choose their targets.
Eventually, Piotr settled on New York.
“We can’t attack New York,” Slake said, brooking no argument. “That’s where the money comes from.”
“Your attitude is pedestrian, for a someone so experienced. Why should we be content to take the money when we could be the ones who make the money?”
Piotr had a point. There wasn’t much he could add. “We’ll have to soup up the ship.”
Feeble acquiescence, but Slake recognized a promising idea when he heard it.
Slake handed the boy a cigarette, which he proceeded to disassemble and align on the table, sorted according to short, purple rows of solid state components and miniature moving parts.
“This device is actually quite sophisticated.”
6
Years elapsed. Time regressed. Slake was lost, but Piotr retained the ship.
His mother carried out her silent vigil.
Piotr let himself into the mess whenever he was hungry. Let himself into the head whenever he felt the need to evacuate his bowels. He started few arguments, during those years between the stars and the Earth.
What he lacked in companionship he more than made up for in life experience.
He sensed that the Rainbow Bridge was opening.
And with his mother’s help he would be there, waiting to charge admission.
TEXT ADVENTURE #18
THE INTERFACE TO SECURITY
by Stanley Lieber
1
September, 4043.
Slake Bottom clenched a purple cigarette between his gold-plated teeth and sat back in his harness, sweating in his donkey helmet. His spacecraft, the HARDPACK, piloted itself expertly through the emergent skeletons of the New Sapporo shipyard, but the smoke filling his helmet made it impossible for him to see through his visor.
“Computer. Strike all references to PAN-OPTI-CON from my itinerary. I’m finished with those idiots.” Slake considered the commercial prison scene passe. This summer, he had decided to cancel his attendance at the usual industry showcases and to concentrate solely on seeking outside contracts. Lay in a comfortable lining for his nest before winter.
The HARDPACK bleeped acceptance. He tore off the receipt and pocketed it in his flight suit.
2
Slake scrolled through his idea book as the HARDPACK settled into its final approach.
are there really halfway houses / or are they just in our minds / it all comes out in the wash / in time
Slake missed his father. Of course, he never spoke of this to his clients.
His most recent contract had been the overhaul of a small freighter. Auxiliary percept drive; some manual steering, but primarily driven by inadequately suppressed rage. This necessarily limited the pool of potential pilots. He’d already remodeled the forward lounge and was just getting started on the deck elevators when a major new contract came over the wire. Slake had never been one to abandon a job, but at these prices, he figured he’d do just about anything.
One query, based on the plans: A hot pink ship?
Purple smoke wafted out of Slake’s nostrils. His helmet bulged, felt too tight.
He figured the customer was always right.
3
Prior to the application of its skin, the ship seemed no larger, no more threatening than a grade school personnel carrier. Slake knew that this was a mistaken impression. He observed from his harness as a crew of day laborers floated the ship’s platinum spine into place. The tableaux shifted so slowly. He wished they would step up the foundation work so he could disembark, clock in. He was anxious to get started on the interiors.
Other areas of the shipyard seemed desolate, by comparison. The sheer number of workers must result in massive administrative overhead. But, he was no longer a manager. Those people had proven they could take care of themselves.
He lost himself for a few minutes, then, following the progress of a random piece of scrap as it navigated the void between drydocks. Runoff from assemblies that were nearing completion condensed into glittering puffs of snow.
The HARDPACK bleeped an alert. Slake unfastened his seat belt, kicked off of his seat and drifted towards the toilet. He disconnected the Marlboro filters and attached the hose to his penis. Flipped the switch.
Finishing up, he climbed back into his harness and nudged the steering mechanism with his knees, easing the HARDPACK into position.
Company parking.
4
The RAGNAROK signaled her compatibility as he boarded. Unusual, at this early stage. And for a guy like him; unaffiliated, still a complete stranger. Maybe she had picked up something from the HARDPACK. He smiled underneath his helmet.
A notice. Received schematics. Start on the lower decks. Slake pulled on his data gloves and made for the deck elevator.
These ships crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Cutting between perspectives, avoiding the Kojaks. They had to be flexible. Outfitting them for fiction paid good money. Sometimes, you’d get pulled along on a journey before your work was finished. A diligent worker could rack up a lot of extra hours, that way. His take on it was that the life of a free agent had its trade-offs.
Slake ran his hand down the wall of the corridor.
Glossy, pink.
Crazy.
5
Months slowly elapsed. Slake began to feel at home aboard the RAGNAROK. The process made a certain amount of sense; depending upon the employer, a job like this could last ten or more years. He had sought predictability, deniability. It was the main reason he had accepted the contract. But the project was winding down ahead of schedule.
One more deck to go.
Slake liked to listen while he worked. His donkey helmet was far more capable (and curious) than the average foreman realized. Well, let them laugh. Schedule indicated another battery of inspections would be carried out early the next week. This time focusing upon the secure restroom facilities. Slake was certain that his coverage had been sufficient for the ship to be deemed spaceworthy. Even so, the notion of a secure restroom struck him as a contradiction in terms. Fitting, then, that the government was prepared to bestow their seal of approval.
The ship had begun to talk to him.
The RAGNAROK liked American comic books. Or so she had said. The ones set in New York, with the gender politics and costumes. Slake found it hard to believe.
“I’m from America,” he had remarked, which hadn’t seemed to impress her the way he had hoped. Whatever, he got on with his work and avoided the subject whenever she brought it up.
He was grateful she had never pestered him about his name.
6
Winter, 4044.
Slake awoke, alone, his visual field bathed in an endless white light.
The RAGNAROK wasn’t responding.
He didn’t panic. Still, the failure represented an inexcusable breach of contract. The console was dead, he couldn’t even raise general counsel.
The bed wouldn’t move.
He glanced around the room. Gradually, an image began to resolve. Some of his belongings were missing. His tool cache, even the caps of his teeth. So, his cabin had been breached. He latched his shoes and got himself onto his feet, anticipating the worst.
Lockers in the adjoining corridors were all standing open. Empty.
Slake moved his fuchsia light around the darkened corners of the bridge. Something like eight million iterations had been fed into the human interface guidelines prior to construction. But everything here was pink. Even in the low light, the design hurt his eyes. Why did the color bother him so much?
And where was everyone, anyway?
He feared he already knew the answer.
7
As Slake suspected, the hijackers had gained entry through the plumbing in one of the supposedly secure restrooms.
The toilet seats had been flipped up, porcelain caked and crumbled on the tile floor. He located the invaders’ trail in fuchsia, traced their progress from room to room, reconstructing the apparent sequence of events.
No one and nothing was left aboard. Not a good sign. But why had they left him behind? And why hadn’t they taken the ship?
In the forward lounge he discovered a message carved into the inner layer of the pseudoglass observation wall:
PROSE EDDA
He had no idea what it meant. He assumed, a semi-transparent jape. Likely of historical or literary significance, but with ship’s systems offline he’d have to wait to check with the reference stacks.
His reverie faltered as a faint burst of audio collapsed the pale silence. The whimpering and crying of what sounded like the ship.
The RAGNAROK was awake.
TEXT ADVENTURE #17
INFINITE SUBBASEMENT
by Stanley Lieber
1
March, 1943.
Enough writing. Never get through to him anyway. More important crises to be dealt with.
Up top, war escalating.
Down here, subbasement refactoring. Features scale beyond maintainability. Nana will never admit it, but sometimes she can barely keep up with the changes. The sheer number of children results in a massive administrative overhead. No one could manage this alone, all by themselves. So, automation. Offload low-level maintenance to past graduates. Some of them humans. Back of the envelope calculation, resources will be exhausted by the end of the year.
Example: Just ran out of soda.
Elevator to subbasement seventeen. Always disorienting. Final shift into presence calls much into question. Six perspectives, simultaneous counterparts vying for dominance.
Hexapla.
Slake would be useful here, could help me move the racks, but he won’t be back for several weeks. Overseas silence. Hasn’t even opened his checkbook.
Careful work, navigate glass corridors.
Flags: -u, -v, -v.
Queasy, lost. Rooms all look the same. (There is only one room.) Hex walls, tearaway ceiling. Fadeaway outline. Eyes on my chronometer and back into the corridor.
I’m not alone, down here. Six of me argue the point. Failed notions strip weapons, then clothing. Try another room.
Which direction? Glass partition, infinite mirror. Walls don’t lie, but consider the source.
Have to get out of here.
Back in the hallway. Lie on the reflecting floor, laminate quietly.
Some time later, an interruption. Nana on the intercom. Scolding that I’m late for… my…
…seventeenth birthday party. Abrupt context deflation. Flash perspective on subbasement seventeen. Hexapplication.
Return.
Oh God, I never thought of it that way before.
2
September, 1943.
Six months to the top level of the basement. Slow to rise, avoiding the bends.
Back at my standard depth, finally seeing things clearly.
Have to get out of this place.
“The infinite closet! You’ve been in the closet. Shouldn’t have looked in that closet.” Nana crosses her arms and taps her foot on the yellow linoleum floor, nervous and possibly angry. Her eyes drill into my face. I struggle to turn away. She keeps on repeating the phrase. Lyrics?
Feeling guilty, but what is she talking about? Didn’t notice any closets down there. Unless she means…
“You saw the closet full of 6XL t-shirts? One for every day of the year? Just wait ‘till you tell Lunsford.” Slake is laughing. Smoking indoors. Definitely back in town.
“Hush, Slake. Anything from that closet is endless. The t-shirts mean nothing to me. He should have remembered the soda. Now, no more details.”
Nana starts a flame on the stove. Produces a frying pan and a bottle of cooking oil. Adjusts the scan rate, then sweeps the contents of her wooden cutting board into the pan. Grips the handle with her apron.
The vegetables cook.
Slake starts to say something, clearly intended as sarcasm, but Nana pulls a hard face and he changes his mind. Brushes the ash from his lap and lights another cigarette.
He laughs again as the smoke alarm pierces Nana’s fraudulent kitchen silence.
3
March, 1943.
No, not really the kitchen. Haven’t moved. The floor hasn’t changed a bit.
Face against the glass.
Legs click and I’m back on my feet, moving down the corridor towards the freezer.
Get really turned around in this place. Can’t remember what I’m doing.
Go through a lot for a Gray Pop.
4
September, 4043.
Must be the t-shirts she mentioned.
Page through the hangers. Shrouds. Like Slake said, they’re all identical. What else is in here?
“Not a closet.” The six of me, still arguing architecture.
Books, boxes of toys, old diskettes. A lot of other junk under the clothes. Some of it probably valuable, to somebody.
Finally, the rows of soda cans.
Scoop a few into my backpack. One in each pants pocket. As many as I can carry in my arms. Makes it awkward to walk.
Back in the corridor, floor slippery, scared of my own reflection.
Plaque on the elevator baring the legend: FAIL SAFELY. The plaque blinks knowingly, but I can’t guarantee anything. Jab the button underneath, grab the cans before they bounce off the floor.
Gravity still wrong.
Fall down, lose a can.
Bell dings. Door opens on a stairway. Nana tosses down a snack from the kitchen but really, I’m not hungry. Portholes on the stairway. Outside, the stars. Space. Orbit.
Chronometer can’t be right.
Can’t remember what I was doing.
5
September, 1943.
Really am late for my party.
We’re all at the table when Nana wheels out a cake. Ah, I don’t know what to say.
Slake is here. Lunsford too. And the quiet boy, Plinth.
Conversations recede as each portion is distributed. Paging through our booklets. The occasional bite of icing. One of the interns straightens her pinafore.
Everyone is surprised when Plinth dings his wine glass and stands up to make a speech.
TEXT ADVENTURE #16
DEEP CAPTURE
by Stanley Lieber
1
January, 1943.
Lunsford’s betrayal was not forgotten.
Far from it. Failure was why he was tapped for the GRID program in the first place.
Still, Slake’s interest in the boy seemed almost obsessive. I had no access to Europe, so much of what went on remained obscured. I never got to see the cross-references on what I turned in.
I was sure something untoward was taking place.
Nana showed no signs of concern. Assuming she even noticed. By 1943, the humans in her basement were the least of her worries. Slake’s insistence on overseas shipping took matters even further beyond the perimeter of her interest. Not her problem, we humans were on our own.
For his part, Lunsford continued to churn out reams of commentary. On company paper.
I felt I had to read through it all, at least once. For my reports.
Sometimes, I responded.
2
If we hadn’t forgotten his betrayal, then Lunsford surely hadn’t given up on the 6XL t-shirt. Excuse me, the Shroud.
One of the commentaries I answered was a doozy. By the time I was ready to formulate a response it was well out of date.
Textlag.
Still, I couldn’t let it just hang in the air. I had to repy.
I took out my binder and went over the passages I had underlined using my system of multi-colored highlighters. Clicked through the full menu to make sure the formatting was still coherent. Refreshed my outline and then got down to business.
3
Dear Al,
I was about to write you a letter in some kind of half-assed attempt to make sense of the reaction to your latest commentaries (my knowledge of which consists solely of what I’ve managed to wade through in my room), when I got to Slake’s letter on page 222 and your follow-up reply on the pages that immediately followed. I realized that, once again, there’s not much to recommend in dredging it all up.
So, after re-reading the first hundred pages of commentary in its entirety, I decided to review the individual introductions you wrote for each serialized installment. I was scanning through what was left of my collection (long story), when I came to the original Bottom/Lunsford dialogue. As I recalled, this was a big one. His points concerning the notion of opposing belief systems co-existing peaceably were well articulated. His observation that the State too often believes the problem with thinking people is that they are dangerously susceptible to being reasoned with (and thus, susceptible to conversion to the ever-hated “other” side), is, if obvious, also apt. Better to put agitators to the sword before they poison the well, or so goes the logic.
And then, your response. I must admit, it changed my mind.
I’ve been devoting a great deal of thought to these theories of yours, as of late. I sat down and re-read the recent installments again, this time in reverse order. Amazingly, the structure held. I resisted the urge to continue all the way back to the beginning of the series, where tangible analogies might overwhelm me with the notion that the Greens were actually receding from prominence. Pious healers who sealed wounds with their ritual blades, casting in their wake a trail of fascinating strips of paper, which, once dispersed, accumulated in value and might be traded interchangeably with (transmuted into?) worthless gold. Temporal dysphoria. Contextual exhaustion. The concepts are quite literally beyond language. And yet, the vestigial associations between slivers of narrative and their Green counterparts are palpable, wind an analogous, residual trail through the clumps of traumatized grey matter that misceginate freely beneath my scalp. I closed my leaf. Developed a headache. I resisted the urge to break into the hallway and declare my appreciation for your work. (I believe your door might have been locked.) Instead, I re-read pages 266–276 and started to mentally compose my “go figure” letter, musing on the typical reactions to the latest installment. At that precise moment, with no rational explanation, my leaf powered down. Try as I might, it would not restart. Diagnostics revealed a full charge. Connection was sound. A less practical-minded correspondent might be forgiven for dwelling on these details, becoming convinced of obvious signs and portents.
4
The first instance on record of the impossibility of interacting with Lunsford. It’s become a part of popular culture, now, but at the time it was a novel way of thinking about the world.
Anyway, the law is the law.
5
I’m writing, now, after almost a year of silent, monthly reflection, to relate a few salient points and to ask a couple of spurious questions. They include:
i.) Re: your commentaries on pages 289–290. Nice. If a trifle behind schedule. I was surprised to see that you included the footnotes alongside the text of the commentaries this time, instead of pushing them to the back of the issue as is your usual practice. Admittedly, given the layout of the issue, it seems like the only logical place for them to go. Will they be reproduced this way in the collected edition? Your descriptive language was excellent. You did most of the fact checking yourself this time, correct? The use of paste-ins (computer printouts?) was a little distracting at first, but after a couple of re-reads it all seems to coalesce smoothly. I think it fits well as a part of the narrative proper. (Gracious of me, yes?) I’m sure you’ll be hearing from a lot of people who disagree. No matter; the allusions drawn to past Creation myths were clear. An enjoyable read, in spite of some factual mistakes I think you made in the footnotes (specifically as pertains to the relevance of the Fomalont & Kopeikin experiment, and some of your other mentions of complex physics problems—I think in some of this you may have glossed over the mathematics too easily in order to make your point thematically, which can detract from a clear understanding of the phenomena in question; after all, these theories are derived from mathematics in the first place). Research is a bitch, yes? You have to draw the line somewhere and just get on with whatever it is you’re writing. You mention in a couple of places that you hope never to return to these physics texts again—is that meant to be taken literally? Just lop off a significant portion of the Scriptures? A major problem with modern science is keeping up with the current state of “reality” as it is currently being described. It’s impossible now for a single person to attain a clear overview of all the data sets which inform the ostensible rational worldview. It’s often necessary to accept a learned expert’s testimony rather than finding out for oneself. Objectionable isn’t the word. On top of all this, it sooner or later becomes apparent that the experts don’t always agree. How, then, may the diligent student recognize the truth? I’ve attached a recent article on the “speed of gravity” debate as an illustration of this dilemma. [ATTACHMENT REDACTED]
6
My correspondence with Lunsford ran to many hundreds of pages of single-spaced text. All things considered, it’s amazing I had time to read all of this stuff, much less to respond to it at length. I guess I thought I had nothing better to do with my time.
It’s no surprise I was eventually withdrawn from the operation.
7
ii.) Explaining anything is useless. Wilde was onto something with his “When the critics disagree, the Artist is in accord with himself.” How this squares with governing the Republic is reflected in the novel invention of the anonymous ballot. Voters at the polls aren’t required to qualify their choices (at least, not yet), and such is as it should be. The artistic voice selects raw materials in the same manner as the constituent—by haphazardly aiming at pregnant chads. Does this disturb? “And it harm none…”, enlightened self-interest takes its rightful place subservient to the internal dialogue. It’s important to make good choices, or at least ones that you can live with. Reconciling those choices with the distinctive sensibilities of others isn’t always desirable, or even possible. And that isn’t such a sad fact. Give and take can’t balance when the other end won’t let go, and there’s no reason to push anyone off the merry-go-round simply because they happen to be swinging out while you happen to be swinging in. Posit a balance which subsumes individual acts and embodies the entirety of human endeavor; literally, beyond good and evil. Many attribute the label “God” to this construct and then happily carry on with their lives, proceeding to ignore the self-evident wisdom of their discovery.
8
Pretty sure I copy/pasted that last bit from somewhere. Lunsford didn’t seemed to notice.
9
iii.) Slake Bottom. Wisdom or Folly? Much of what was said in your early commentaries seemed to point directly to the speech he delivered to Nana, the children and yourself that first day in the kitchen. While he espoused a strict program of non-interference, nevertheless there he stood, willfully interpreting the outcome of the (arguably) most significant event of our lifetimes, defining a fresh perspective with his carefully constructed sentences. On the one hand, his intervention contradicted its own purpose, but flip over the coin and one realizes that without that intervention, someone might well have been sentenced to death in the name of Truth. So, did he fail or did he succeed? There is something to be said for abandoning a destructive behavior, even if it means a small breech in the comfortable routine. At the very least, his actions seemed to have freed Nana of many distractions and meddlesome influences (though that alone doesn’t explain or excuse his tampering with the minds of the other children, which may well have been taking place even before Nana or you came onto the scene. Just how long has Slake been “watching over” us, anyway?).
10
This matter remains unresolved.
11
iv.) The fact that Sontag alludes to this problem in her September piece would not seem to immediately disqualify her from the larger debate when we’re honestly considering the facts (though, other factors could probably be sussed out if the need were to arise—few human beings manage to fix a grip on existence without accumulating around themselves their own complicating histories, if one digs fervently and is motivated to eliminate their ideas from the discussion). Any sweeping generalization in this case is probably confusing the issue of legitimate dissent: When is it too soon to point out that the ship is leaking?
And, that’s about it. Looking forward to the new issue, and possibly to hearing from you if you ever come out of your room.
Break a leg,
Thomas A. Bright
12
I never got a straight answer about point number four, either. Lunsford could be evasive when he didn’t want to admit to a contradiction. Also, he loved to hate Susan Sontag.
I stopped writing to him, probably in January or February of 1943. He no longer showed up at the dinner table, and I got tired of sliding notes under his door.
I was pulled out of the basement in September, 1944.
The rest is pretty easy to figure out.