Again dangerous visions, p.98
Again, Dangerous Visions, page 98
Ambassador from N’Transvaal, he rise in place, teetern a bit (that jug in front of his table been pretty down by now) and he say summin like this:—You cause is one of destiny, Governor Youngerman, and the white surn-blooded people of your planet have the unquestioning and unlimited support of the white bore-blooded people of N’Transvaal. As you know we haven a little problem of our own in gettin on with N’Kaffirstan. Now nothin we can’t handle ourselves, understand. Ole Chaka CVII he a markable smart man for a nigra & we get along all right. And you know ole N’Kaffirstan, they happen to have the biggest & fastest space fleet in the entire N’Afrikaans sector.
—But I’ll tell you the honest truth, Governor Youngerman, wud really rather not tread on ole Chaka’s sensitive toes. Besides, now, we haven full faith and confidence in the ability of N’Alabama, proud, free m white as she is, to hole her banner unstained & her purity unmixed.
—A thank you.—And he sitten down and everybody kind of looken at him and applaud a teeny bit, and then looken at Ole Gene Youngerman and blushen a teeny bit and then the room getten to be pretty quiet once again.
Ole Gene, he don’t give up but all he gets from anybody is expressions of solidarity (how much JD sippin quality will that buy you?) & maybe a half-headed pledge of some financial credits, which are nice but that’s not what Gene was really tryen 4.
Well they marchen back out past the Confederated Worm-Morayeel (or garbage bin, whichever you prefer to believe . . . if you don’t like either, how about a bicycle rack?) & gettin back into their jeescout gyrocars & Gord-3 & the rest of the gray-uniformed brass-buttoned spat & polished up honor guards, including their commander Captain Cal Koberly (soon to be lieutenant) and GLW’s pal Adam Aiken, they marchen back to Fort Sealy Mae bus & out to the fort & take the night off boys.
Gordon Lester Wallace III m Adam A. Aiken stain grays, they two bentfin boomers burnished, Gord haven a new hotspot on his boomer courtesy James O. Eastland’s recent (albeit unhappy) encounter with nigra spacefleet; they climb into Gord’s gyro & head down that beloved ole red rut road to Leto, past familiar places, seen familiar faces, parken in the street where the elite meet t’eat (or EAT, that’s near the B A R the longer-recollected set will recall). Gord puts a chumly arm around A. A. Aiken’s gray-covered shoulders m takes him up that certain staircase & they get t’the dirtyfrosted doorway Gord winks conspiratorily at Adam & goes:
:a-rap-a-tap-tap, a-rap-a-tap-tap, tap-tatty-rap-rap, rappy-tappy-tap:
:or something like that. Anyway, it don’t really matter none because nothing happens. He repeats the tarradiddle-de-de survural thymes, summat as he recalls his “erstwhile guru” (heh!) and friend, our ole sarge, having done, but is it a false recollection? Is it some smuggled half-bole dreadful Gord read behind the barn manly years ago rising t’cloud his mind with memories of unoccurred experiences? Leave us not spectorate on that subject too much.
Adam doubting, Gordon Lester he attempts to laugh it all off, maken a fist and on the wooden frame of the door pounden:
:ker-whumph:
(twicet)
:m footsteps inside, door opening a crack (chained) m thoo the crack peeren out a face, not holy unfamiliar, fat, cornsilky colored hair pasted flat to forehead wid perspiration, huffin in his plainbutton warsurp sweat-stained grays,—What can I do to be of service to you two obviously fine gentle, uh,—his eyes flicker down Gord, across at shuhite, up Adam A., lite on A’s face, smiles, cuts horizontally to Gordon’s mug, m he completes syncopated word—men?—
Gord speaking:—Wanna show my buddy here your fine floor show, haven’t seen Miss Merriass Markham in a long while, off in space fighten nigras, now I’m back . . .—Gord does rattle.
Blond feller:—I’m really sorry, sir, I don’t know you and this is a private club.—
Gord:—Whadaya, etc.—
BF: (in essence)—Amscray before I call the uzzfay, oysbay!—
Adam A. Aiken: (not in these words)—Let’s blow, Gord.—
Gord gives assent grumpily & down the creakies they creak.
Adam:—Howzabout a visita Piggy Peggy’s Pussy Parlor, GL?—
So they do, picking respective ways through crapped-up broken sidewalk & crossen rotten busted streets beneath busted streetlights (Letohatchie has not been bombed). Outsiden the good ole 4P Gord sees that same ole Letohatchie town John Darn plain with his can of insect repellant (or whatever), leaning as usual against a (n even nonfunctional) lamppost.
Inside, G&A are greeted by Piggy herself in finest old tradition of surn hospitality.
—Mighty busy night, boys, alla these visiting firemen in town for the big meet over ta Town Hall,—Peggy sayen, fixin her little-girl blonde curls (they been slippin all around her face as she talks, noddin her head continually)—but we aim to please. What’s your pleasure, boys or girls, S or M, plain or fancy, twosomes or whosomes, now or later, lesser or greater, front or back, top or bottom, bed or board, anal oral or genital, thin or fat, this or that, etc.—
(Peggy, she always tries to provide her customers with what they want, that’s her formula for a successful retail enterprise.)
Gord, aside to Ad—Leave this to me, Ad.—To Piggy Peggy:—Just a dark room, PP, a soft floor, open the door & a pleasant surprise.—
Gord & Adam shortly lyen side-by-side, stark naked & all up for excitement (assisting one another in the preparations). Lights low, door opens slow, in comes someone maken a show.
She’s a biggish lady, you bet; Gordon Lester’s eyes at the moment are somewhat shut but he hears appreciative noises from Adam; Adam he says—Willya lookit that, Gordon.—But Gordon bein capable of delayen gratification he squeezesis eyes shut m says—I wanna feel it first.—
Gordon waits in his homemade darkwomb & in a minute he feels something very surprising doing something very surprising someplace very surprising. He sayen something very original like (these are not his precise words)—What the fucken shitmother’s going on here?—
From Adam Aiken an unexpected bit of inarticulation.
Gordon opens his eyes and speaks with shock:—Miss Markham!—
All hell breaks loose in which Gordon Lester Wallace III, Miss Merriass Markham, Adam A. Aiken, and one or more surprising objects are variously tangled & tied, conjected complected & connected, interspersed interjected & interspected, banged balled blowed & throwed, socked cocked & knocked, rolled cold & holed, dabbed grabbed & jabbed, permutated germutated & spermutated, dipped tipped cripped & whipped.
But no details. If you think this is a story off over which to get your rocks you’re mistook.
Anyway, in the morning Gordon puts in for space duty again.
7. To the Nation We Know
Marius Goncourt personally verified the completeness of each conference kit shortly before the arrival of the first invited participant. Each had the usual lined pad and short pencil, the conference folder, the report of the preliminary taskforce on the experimental manpower resuscitation project, the meeting agenda and the departmental chit good for one free meal at the ministry executive cafeteria. Seating was carefully arranged, nameplates present at each place, refreshments
at hand.
After checking arrangements Marius waited in the hallway for the early participants. The first to arrive was Mme. Laveau. Goncourt greeted her, then asked a question: “Your superiors at Propaganda are willing to see this through? No last-moment hesitation?”
Madame nodded.
Goncourt continued: “As long as it’s just talk, they like to sound creative, aggressive, open to new ideas, radical thinking, but when it comes down to committing to action, you know how they are. Suddenly they go with the tried and true.”
“Bureaucrats,” Mme. Laveau said.
Goncourt nodded.
“Then what are we?” Madame asked.
Goncourt grinned ruefully, took her arm to guide her into the conference room. “Of course, of course,” he said. “But N’Haiti is starting to fall apart. If some plan doesn’t get us past this manpower crisis the blancs will be in N’Porprince within 18 months!”
“What makes you think they are any better off than we?”
“Perhaps they aren’t,” he agreed. “But then, shall we fight the N’Alabamians until both planets collapse from sheer exhaustion? Be assured, Mme. Laveau, I lose no sleep worrying over the fate of the poor enemy, but I also take no comfort from envisioning N’Porprince and N’Montgomery equally in ruins, both planets decimated, both worlds in chaos, unable to raise and distribute food even, for inability to put workers where they are needed.
“A modern planetary society is a complex and delicate structure. You cannot just remove a few pieces and say, ‘Well, most of it is still there, it should keep running nearly as well as it has.’ That won’t work. Take away too many of the skilled people who make the economy, the government, the law continue to function, and the whole thing won’t just slow down a little or go a little out of kilter.
“We’re pressing our luck now, both we and the blancs—they are human beings, you know. We have to get this thing cleaned up and return our attention to developing our planet and its trade and cultural relationships with others, or we’re going to find ourselves back in some kind of hunting and gathering society. Well, maybe not quite that bad but . . .” he permitted his voice to trail off.
“I know all that, Marius,” Mme. Laveau said. “Whose side do you think I’m on? It’s just that resuscitation is such a radical solution, it’s hard for people to accept. And our plan for selling it is even more radical. But . . . as you say, we are approaching a state of affairs where only a radical solution can save us. I think it can work, I have the backing of my Ministry, and if we can get through this committee, we’re in business.”
“The man who invented committees,” Goncourt said, “should have been contraceived.”
As he spoke the remaining participants in the meeting arrived: Goncourt’s own deputy for Exoneurobiology, Trudeau; representing Grand Admiral Gouede Mazacca, Captain J.-P. Girard; from the office of Governor Faustin of La Gonave, Deputy Governor Laurence.
At last, Jean-Jacques Adolphe Antoine-Simone, Minister of Military Manpower Procurement. Short, balding, round-faced, huffing as he strode to the front of the room self-importantly.
All rose. M. the Minister gestured them to be seated once again. He spoke:
“Madame, gentlemen—you are all aware of the problem. Captain Girard can tell us how badly the space fleet of N’Haiti is in need of additional men. Space warfare produces casualties in alarming numbers. For obvious reasons we cannot rob the munitions industries of workers to meet the military needs, so farmers are drawn away. Now M. Laurence can tell us that La Gonave is stripped to the bone. Agriculture on N’Haiti itself is equally as bad off.
“M. Goncourt tells me that Doctor Trudeau and his people in exoneurobiology have devised a method of reviving space casualties and returning them to duty. Now I am only a simple man, a simple servant of the government and the people of N’Haiti, but even I can see that such a program, if it is successful, will still have very serious overtones in the area of, ah, let us say public relations. So I have asked M. Goncourt to work with the Ministry of Propaganda to prepare a strategy for gaining public acceptance of this use of, ah, let us say reanimated corpses. Goncourt?” He waved a hand at his deputy and seated himself.
Marius said only, “Madame Laveau has represented Propaganda in this project. I will let her present our plan.”
The five men followed with their eyes as Mme. Laveau walked to the front of the room. She looked about, smiled slightly as her eyes locked with those of Goncourt. Then she began to speak, at first hesitantly, then less so as she worked into her presentation.
“We have all seen the remarkable work of M. Trudeau and his staff. Although his first subjects were only crudely animated, later experimental resuscitees have proved capable of performing routine military and industrial duties under supervision of normal persons. A certain percentage of space casualties, we have found, can be returned to useful assignments by the application of M. Trudeau’s implantation procedure. A far larger number can be reclaimed by the application of salvage techniques.
“Our surgeons have long held that there is no reason for an otherwise healthy person to expire when the implantation of an artificial organ or the transplantation of a natural one to replace a single nonfunctional organ could return him to health. We have now applied this principle more radically. Providing only that the size and general tissue structure matches, and with the application of anti-rejection techniques, we can take extremities, trunk, head, internal organs, from any number of casualties, recombine them, implant one of the NGC 7007 organisms—and have an effective soldier or worker. These resuscitated individuals—” she stopped as Laurence interrupted her sentence with a
single word:
“Zombies!”
“Yes,” Madame Laveau resumed. “Zombies. Sooner or later everyone associated with this project comes to that. Zombies. And that is our problem in public relations. Will N’Haitians accept this seeming return to O’Earthian primitivism? My Ministry has studied this question, and we have reached conclusions in three areas, leading to a proposed course of action.
“First, we must consider the reaction of our own general citizenry. The war is less than overwhelmingly popular as it is, and a major program which was rejected by the public would place the government in an untenable position.
“Second, the reaction of the workers and military personnel who will be in regular contact with the resuscitees. Because the subjects seem to manifest no will or personalities of their own, we have concluded that it would be best to isolate them into units of their own—field crews, industrial work gangs, even complete space ship crews, with only normal humans as supervisors. The latter will of course have to be selected for special psychological makeups facilitating this type of assignment.
“Third, the effect on the enemy. This is probably the most difficult aspect of the problem to consider, and yet potentially the most significant. If the enemy regards this program as evidence of desperation on our part, it will only encourage his war effort. But we believe that if we approach the resuscitation program from the right direction we can actually convert it into an effective psychological warfare weapon.”
Madame paused. From his chair Minister Antoine-Simone, squirming with eagerness, called out, “Zombies, yes! Tell them the plan!”
Mme. Laveau gestured placatingly. “Very well,” she said. “Yes, after long consideration we believe that this aspect of the procedure should be neither denied outright nor downplayed, but should be the main focus of our entire publicity campaign regarding resuscitees. We propose the full-scale revival of the O’Earth traditions of vodu, with public ceremonies emphasized, to gain support for the program as an authentic Haitian tactic. Further, we propose to broadcast information on the resuscitations—omitting, of course, clinical data of potential value to the enemy. We contend that this will make the space ships manned by resuscitee crews, which will carry special markings to make them visible to the enemy, objects of such terror that there will be a significant advantage to our forces.”
M. Antoine-Simone said, “You think there will be full acceptance of this, Madame? Intellectuals, philosophers, the religious minority . . . they will all go along with this?”
“Perhaps not without difficulty, but all can be convinced. The intellectuals are aware that our war with N’Alabama is of the enemy’s making, not of ours, that we are at war for our survival. They and the philosophers support the war, except for the total pacifists, who are opposed to it anyway, so their attitude toward the resuscitation program does not matter. We plan to emphasize the cultural and nationalistic aspects of vodu, the ties to O’Haiti. This should gain us their support as well.
“As for the religious, the problem may be more severe, but we must again emphasize the cultural ties to our O’Earth heritage. We may have to permit a few trappings of other mythologies to be grafted onto our vodu rites, but my ministry’s researchers assure me that in the historic practice of vodu there was a cross-mythologic flow anyway. The old vodu cult was based on a pantheon of nature gods originally found in a country called Senegal on O’Earth.
“Blanc slavers raided Senegal and its surrounding states to capture workers, and transported them to the nation we know as O’Haiti, our ancestral home. The slaves wished to retain their religion but to fool their masters they adopted some of the forms of the slavers’ religion, and grafted them onto their own rites. So you see—” she paused and looked about the room like a lecturer making a point in an undergraduate class “—vodu was a mix from the start, and we can use the same tactic as the O’Haitians to make vodu live again, serve again as the tool and focus of our national struggle against the descendants of the Christian slavers.”
* * *
Circling the green luminary NGC 7007 deep in God’s tri-di toy (called “The Universe” by the clerk down to Plenum’s Fine Toy Emporium where God’s fat old Uncle Dudley bought the thing for his sometimes bratty nephew), several pieces of junk. Dirt, slime, plasm and protoplasm, assorted fluids and gases and the rest of the crap God built with his tri-di toy. (Boy, did mama and papa let fat old Uncle Dudley have it after he gave their kid that little present . . . in the privacy of their connubial slime-vat, of course.)
One of those hunks of crap, remember, the shiny one. Ahh, N’Yu-Atlanchi. Or so its first human inhabitants had called it when they found the place a while ago. Of course their descendants don’t remember that. They don’t even remember their names, either singly or as a race. God does, though. Hey, otherwise who could have told you that Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn, that was her name?
