The First Love Of Alipang Havens
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Copperfox
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Chapter 27: Making Reservations on the Reservation
On that same Sunday morning, Bert Randall and Yang Sung-Kuo were provided with breakfast in the former Air Force dining facility at Ellsworth Airfield. They were served ahead of all the government personnel eating there, and were soon joined by no less than the Undersecretary of Eco-Sensitive Agriculture--with whom Bert got to do more talking than with the Deputy Commander of the Campaign Against Hate the night before.
"Excellent fruit mix here. Do the exiles get as wide a menu variety as this?" the Australian asked. He did not directly comment on the fact that he, the Major and the Undersecretary had all been served meat and eggs along with other foods, in contrast to the vegan diet they had encountered all over the Diversity States up to now.
"Not very far short of this; many of the items we're eating were produced BY the exiles, including all animal protein apart from this imported tuna I took," the woman replied. "Producing the variety is largely up to them. The Biblicals were so eager to lead an un-mutual existence, not fitting in with the collective; here, we've given them the chance to go their own way in many respects. Of course, since all their capitalistic property had been liberated from them for the good of the people, we had to provide them with various starter supplies when they were transplanted here. Much of what they needed was already present in the areas fenced off; but it was my department which provided the farmers among them with an especially precious gift: heirloom seeds."
Major Yang looked baffled. "AIR-loom seeds, you say? What are those? Something released in the air for cloud-seeding?" The Undersecretary had used an English-language expression which Yang hadn't learned.
"That's HEIR-loom with an H, though a silent H: a word related to heredity and heritage," Bert told him. "She means food-crop seeds which ARE able to produce plants which in turn produce viable seed again--as opposed to genetic alterations which cause the plants from seeds, though still edible, to be infertile where sowing another crop is concerned. The old agricultural mega-corporations in America would sell farmers the one-season-only kind of seeds, forcing the farmers to buy from them over and over." He turned a sardonic look at the Undersecretary. "Yet strangely enough, even after private enterprise was mostly eliminated, the Trevette administration still would not let the new farming collectives have heirloom seeds. I guess you saved them for here, which was a good break for the exiles."
"That is exactly what the President did do," she assured them. "She knew the history of collective farms in the Soviet Union--that they were such miserable failures, that Moscow was forced to let some independent food-growing be done, or the country would have starved. In our case, the new-generation seeds that would have come from heirloom-seed crops, would have been wasted, because the farm unions would have resisted making their workers do the extra work to recover those seeds. So the President accepted my department's recommendation to let farmers have the heirloom seeds who _would_ take the trouble to collect the new-generation seeds.
"Thus the heirloom seeds serve a purpose, while one more set of labor unions is kept happy. By facilitating strong independent agriculture in a region segregated from the rest of the country, we leave the collective mentality intact on the outside, while still working on a safeguard against nationwide famine. If things continue to go well here, the Department of Sustainable Energy will eventually consider allocating funds for permanently-assigned directed-radiation technology to maneuver clouds in this direction, boosting the low annual rainfall on these plains."
Bert swallowed the mouthful of eggs he had taken while she was talking, then said, "Of course, the exiles couldn't be brought all the way up to speed in the very first year of their exile; so meanwhile, you did what you could to counteract inefficiency in outside agriculture. This, not moral conviction, is the real reason why you require Americans to be vegetarians--because there is a real economic and productivity advantage to vegetarianism. Raising meat animals means growing food to feed _them_ until they're slaughtered, whereas if all the people are vegetarians, _every_ crop grown is food for people directly."
"Perfectly true, Citizen Randall. The vegan approach lightens the load, so that even with the associated unions fighting each other over precedence and funding, America's collective farms are managing to turn out enough food for the nation, provided the population is kept sustainable."
Major Yang tried not to show any reaction to the mention of "sustainable population." Decades ago, his paternal grandmother had been thrown in prison for wanting to have another baby besides the one who was to become the Major's father.
Yang still wondered sometimes what it would have been like to have an uncle or an aunt.
On that same Sunday morning, Bert Randall and Yang Sung-Kuo were provided with breakfast in the former Air Force dining facility at Ellsworth Airfield. They were served ahead of all the government personnel eating there, and were soon joined by no less than the Undersecretary of Eco-Sensitive Agriculture--with whom Bert got to do more talking than with the Deputy Commander of the Campaign Against Hate the night before.
"Excellent fruit mix here. Do the exiles get as wide a menu variety as this?" the Australian asked. He did not directly comment on the fact that he, the Major and the Undersecretary had all been served meat and eggs along with other foods, in contrast to the vegan diet they had encountered all over the Diversity States up to now.
"Not very far short of this; many of the items we're eating were produced BY the exiles, including all animal protein apart from this imported tuna I took," the woman replied. "Producing the variety is largely up to them. The Biblicals were so eager to lead an un-mutual existence, not fitting in with the collective; here, we've given them the chance to go their own way in many respects. Of course, since all their capitalistic property had been liberated from them for the good of the people, we had to provide them with various starter supplies when they were transplanted here. Much of what they needed was already present in the areas fenced off; but it was my department which provided the farmers among them with an especially precious gift: heirloom seeds."
Major Yang looked baffled. "AIR-loom seeds, you say? What are those? Something released in the air for cloud-seeding?" The Undersecretary had used an English-language expression which Yang hadn't learned.
"That's HEIR-loom with an H, though a silent H: a word related to heredity and heritage," Bert told him. "She means food-crop seeds which ARE able to produce plants which in turn produce viable seed again--as opposed to genetic alterations which cause the plants from seeds, though still edible, to be infertile where sowing another crop is concerned. The old agricultural mega-corporations in America would sell farmers the one-season-only kind of seeds, forcing the farmers to buy from them over and over." He turned a sardonic look at the Undersecretary. "Yet strangely enough, even after private enterprise was mostly eliminated, the Trevette administration still would not let the new farming collectives have heirloom seeds. I guess you saved them for here, which was a good break for the exiles."
"That is exactly what the President did do," she assured them. "She knew the history of collective farms in the Soviet Union--that they were such miserable failures, that Moscow was forced to let some independent food-growing be done, or the country would have starved. In our case, the new-generation seeds that would have come from heirloom-seed crops, would have been wasted, because the farm unions would have resisted making their workers do the extra work to recover those seeds. So the President accepted my department's recommendation to let farmers have the heirloom seeds who _would_ take the trouble to collect the new-generation seeds.
"Thus the heirloom seeds serve a purpose, while one more set of labor unions is kept happy. By facilitating strong independent agriculture in a region segregated from the rest of the country, we leave the collective mentality intact on the outside, while still working on a safeguard against nationwide famine. If things continue to go well here, the Department of Sustainable Energy will eventually consider allocating funds for permanently-assigned directed-radiation technology to maneuver clouds in this direction, boosting the low annual rainfall on these plains."
Bert swallowed the mouthful of eggs he had taken while she was talking, then said, "Of course, the exiles couldn't be brought all the way up to speed in the very first year of their exile; so meanwhile, you did what you could to counteract inefficiency in outside agriculture. This, not moral conviction, is the real reason why you require Americans to be vegetarians--because there is a real economic and productivity advantage to vegetarianism. Raising meat animals means growing food to feed _them_ until they're slaughtered, whereas if all the people are vegetarians, _every_ crop grown is food for people directly."
"Perfectly true, Citizen Randall. The vegan approach lightens the load, so that even with the associated unions fighting each other over precedence and funding, America's collective farms are managing to turn out enough food for the nation, provided the population is kept sustainable."
Major Yang tried not to show any reaction to the mention of "sustainable population." Decades ago, his paternal grandmother had been thrown in prison for wanting to have another baby besides the one who was to become the Major's father.
Yang still wondered sometimes what it would have been like to have an uncle or an aunt.
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Copperfox
Well-known member
The Deputy Commander of the Campaign Against Hate never breakfasted with his subordinates in federal service, apart from personal favorites, if he could avoid it. He would have joined Yang and Randall in breakfasting among those inferiors if Yang had explicitly requested it; but since Yang had not requested it, the Deputy Commander was just as glad to begin his grovelling for the day a bit later in the morning, and on a full stomach.
He took the Chinese and the Australian on the promised tour of the long-decommissioned missile silo, during which he did a little sniping at the Undersecretary of Sustainable Energy, who had not yet returned from Wyoming. He implied, without saying it outright, that she did not have nearly so much of the appropriate respect for foreign dignitaries as he had. Then it was back to vilifying the decommissioned United States. Had he known it, he was echoing part of the propaganda line Yang had encountered at the Smithsonian, to the effect that the American A-bombs had been wantonly dropped on a Japan that had already surrendered (Japan being afterwards rescued by China). The Major finally decided enough of this was enough.
"Sir, I am nothing but pleased that you so admire the People's Republic; but even though the People's Republic always intended to eliminate America as a geopolitical rival, now that we _have_ done so, we can afford to be fair to the American people and their history. More than enough testimony exists that Japan had NOT surrendered, but had _every_ intention of fighting on to the bitter end. And after what the Imperial Japanese military did to the Chinese civilian population over an eight-year period, my people were not able to feel much sympathy for the Japanese people when Hiroshima and Nagasaki were destroyed. Many Americans shed their blood for the good of the Chinese people in that war, sincerely regarding the Chinese as worthy of their friendship; and for myself, I find it not too much to ask that I should feel _some_ appreciation for that fact. What survives of the positive legacy of the former United States, has been inherited by several other countries, notably Mr. Randall's homeland; and I do not begrudge our former adversary that measure of immortality."
The bureaucrat sought to blend what was a correction of his untrue statements, back into his effort to be more Communist than the Communists. "Well said, Major. As every stage of class struggle is left behind, it becomes permissible, even edifying, to give some credit to the less-evolved merits of those who came before. The Soviet cinema showed this by making historical action films which portrayed Aleksandr Nevskiy and Ivan the Terrible in a positive light."
Bert now captured a share in the conversation for himself. "Deputy Commander, do you regard yourself as engaged in class struggle in your duties here? If so, who is fighting you?"
"Of course I'm engaged in class struggle. And of course it's the Christian looshes who are fighting us. Not in open armed revolt so far; but we can't afford ever to let our guard down. Some of them, like the Amish and the Mennonites, do an especially convincing job of pretending to be pacifists, but they really operate on the same fuel of hate and prejudice as the rest of the Biblicals. For that reason, I must insist on issuing sidearms to both of you before you depart this safe location to commence your exploring."
Bert and Major Yang exchanged a glance of genuine surprise at this. Then Yang asked their guide, "In the remote event that we had cause to shoot someone, wouldn't that constitute foreign interference in your affairs? Not, ahem, that we Chinese _haven't_ interfered; but we're trying not to interfere at present."
"This would be insurance for your safety, friends. It would be a _worse_ international incident if either of you two came to harm at the hands of religious fanatics whom we are supposed to have under control."
"Control, indeed," Yang suddenly muttered to Bert in Chinese. His interrogator's observational skill assured him that the Deputy Commander did not understand Chinese; so, after a few remarks in English about appreciating the man's concern, he said some more in Chinese to Bert: "His own service periodically sends airplanes over this reservation to dispense airborne chemicals intended to make the exiles docile. That's what their plane that crashed was doing before its engine exploded. Our satellite-imagery analysis confirms this. And though I was not _openly_ told to look into _this_ aspect of the reservation, I am interested to know how much the atmospheric drugging is affecting the exiles' minds. Now you say something to our friend."
So Bert told the Deputy Commander, "You'll find that I need no orientation to your weapons. I'm an expert marksman. In Australia, we learned the hard way that prohibiting firearms didn't prevent crime; so we re-armed our population. Of course, you folks already understand that criminals don't want to be shot; that's why, assuming that the exiles are potentially violent, your Overseers have particle beams to deter them."
He took the Chinese and the Australian on the promised tour of the long-decommissioned missile silo, during which he did a little sniping at the Undersecretary of Sustainable Energy, who had not yet returned from Wyoming. He implied, without saying it outright, that she did not have nearly so much of the appropriate respect for foreign dignitaries as he had. Then it was back to vilifying the decommissioned United States. Had he known it, he was echoing part of the propaganda line Yang had encountered at the Smithsonian, to the effect that the American A-bombs had been wantonly dropped on a Japan that had already surrendered (Japan being afterwards rescued by China). The Major finally decided enough of this was enough.
"Sir, I am nothing but pleased that you so admire the People's Republic; but even though the People's Republic always intended to eliminate America as a geopolitical rival, now that we _have_ done so, we can afford to be fair to the American people and their history. More than enough testimony exists that Japan had NOT surrendered, but had _every_ intention of fighting on to the bitter end. And after what the Imperial Japanese military did to the Chinese civilian population over an eight-year period, my people were not able to feel much sympathy for the Japanese people when Hiroshima and Nagasaki were destroyed. Many Americans shed their blood for the good of the Chinese people in that war, sincerely regarding the Chinese as worthy of their friendship; and for myself, I find it not too much to ask that I should feel _some_ appreciation for that fact. What survives of the positive legacy of the former United States, has been inherited by several other countries, notably Mr. Randall's homeland; and I do not begrudge our former adversary that measure of immortality."
The bureaucrat sought to blend what was a correction of his untrue statements, back into his effort to be more Communist than the Communists. "Well said, Major. As every stage of class struggle is left behind, it becomes permissible, even edifying, to give some credit to the less-evolved merits of those who came before. The Soviet cinema showed this by making historical action films which portrayed Aleksandr Nevskiy and Ivan the Terrible in a positive light."
Bert now captured a share in the conversation for himself. "Deputy Commander, do you regard yourself as engaged in class struggle in your duties here? If so, who is fighting you?"
"Of course I'm engaged in class struggle. And of course it's the Christian looshes who are fighting us. Not in open armed revolt so far; but we can't afford ever to let our guard down. Some of them, like the Amish and the Mennonites, do an especially convincing job of pretending to be pacifists, but they really operate on the same fuel of hate and prejudice as the rest of the Biblicals. For that reason, I must insist on issuing sidearms to both of you before you depart this safe location to commence your exploring."
Bert and Major Yang exchanged a glance of genuine surprise at this. Then Yang asked their guide, "In the remote event that we had cause to shoot someone, wouldn't that constitute foreign interference in your affairs? Not, ahem, that we Chinese _haven't_ interfered; but we're trying not to interfere at present."
"This would be insurance for your safety, friends. It would be a _worse_ international incident if either of you two came to harm at the hands of religious fanatics whom we are supposed to have under control."
"Control, indeed," Yang suddenly muttered to Bert in Chinese. His interrogator's observational skill assured him that the Deputy Commander did not understand Chinese; so, after a few remarks in English about appreciating the man's concern, he said some more in Chinese to Bert: "His own service periodically sends airplanes over this reservation to dispense airborne chemicals intended to make the exiles docile. That's what their plane that crashed was doing before its engine exploded. Our satellite-imagery analysis confirms this. And though I was not _openly_ told to look into _this_ aspect of the reservation, I am interested to know how much the atmospheric drugging is affecting the exiles' minds. Now you say something to our friend."
So Bert told the Deputy Commander, "You'll find that I need no orientation to your weapons. I'm an expert marksman. In Australia, we learned the hard way that prohibiting firearms didn't prevent crime; so we re-armed our population. Of course, you folks already understand that criminals don't want to be shot; that's why, assuming that the exiles are potentially violent, your Overseers have particle beams to deter them."
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Zella
New member
Whoa! I would never have guessed that!
Copperfox
Well-known member
The Overseers' shooting range was inside Harney's Peak. Both Bert and Major Yang proved more than competent with firearms, so there was no holdup with issuance of weapons to them. Each handgun had an inhibitor device, similar to those found on all cellphones inside the Enclave; the weapons would not fire unless the wielder's DNA was recognized by the sensor. (Bert chose not to complicate matters by asking how an Overseer would handle a gun when wearing gloves in winter.) Each of the guns being loaned to the visitors was programmed to work for either of the men. The Overseers had very little to worry about in issuing the guns, since the recognition could be cancelled remotely by an encrypted signal. Each weapon bore a fifteen-round magazine, but there were no reloads provided, since even the Deputy Commander could not convincingly claim that Bert and the Major were likely to be caught in a protracted firefight with bloodthirsty Nazi Christians.
Even after being shown around Overseer Headquarters, there still was some idle time, because--what with the Enclave having no hotels outside of Rapid City--it was taking a little doing finding satisfactory lodgings for the visitors in the smaller towns. Bert and the Major decided to have lunch meanwhile at the restaurant in the Rushmore Mall. For this, they were joined again by the Undersecretary of Eco-Sensitive Agriculture.
A surprise awaited the two men in the central walkway of the mall. A somewhat thin but handsome black-haired woman, appearing not less than thirty-five years old (meaning thirty-five as it would be _without_ state-of-the-art telomere preservation to slow the aging process), wearing what seemed an ancient Egyptian costume, was squatting on some kind of narrow mat in the middle of the floor. Two similarly costumed children, a girl of about fourteen years and a boy of about eleven, were standing on either side of her. Facing each other, the children leaned into each other in a fashion which formed sort of a living arch above the woman's head, the children's hands meeting and clasping above their own heads.
"Reverence the pyramids!" exclaimed the woman, whose face on closer inspection closely resembled the faces of both children. After all, this was the Enclave, where it still was normal for parents to have custody of their bioproducts. The children shouted together, "Pyramids both literal and metaphorical!"
Twisting and weaving her hands in odd ways, the woman continued: "The food pyramid! The gods give us the steamed-rice group, and the boiled-rice group, and the organic-lettuce group, and the distilled-water group!"
"The collective is a pyramid!" the children responded--rather non-sequitir, as far as Bert was concerned. "Who are these people?" he quietly asked the Undersecretary.
"This caregiver and her bioproducts are performance artists," the official whispered back. "It's a complicated story."
"Well, I think I'd be interested to hear it. I don't know if the food references are hinting to the audience that they're hungry, but would there be any harm in having them eat with us so I can talk with them? They certainly seem to be one of the more colorful examples I've seen of how children are being educated in America."
The Undersecretary turned toward Yang. "Major, do you have any objection to letting those three citizens be our guests at lunch?"
"No objection, Undersecretary. I'm curious about them as well."
Without more delay, the bureaucrat walked closer to the peculiar family. "Ma'at, Meretseger, Montu: these men with me are researchers, authorized to interview Enclave dwellers. They both would like you three to eat with us, and have some conversation." The eager way in which the mother--apparently Ma'at, since that had been the first name spoken--sprang to her feet upon hearing this invitation, seemingly verified that they had been hinting about being hungry.
Facing back toward Bert and the Major, the Undersecretary offered one more fragment of the desired explanation: "These performance artists come from the Great Lakes Cantonment." Both of the "researchers" knew that the Great Lakes Muslim Cantonment was a piece of territory overlapping the D.S.A. and Canada, in which Muslims were permitted to practice Sharia law; so it made a kind of sense that Ma'at and her children would have had to leave there if they were going to be free to play at being ancient polytheistic Egyptians. There was clearly more to be told here; it might not have any geopolitical significance, but the oddness was enough by itself to demand some attention.
Even after being shown around Overseer Headquarters, there still was some idle time, because--what with the Enclave having no hotels outside of Rapid City--it was taking a little doing finding satisfactory lodgings for the visitors in the smaller towns. Bert and the Major decided to have lunch meanwhile at the restaurant in the Rushmore Mall. For this, they were joined again by the Undersecretary of Eco-Sensitive Agriculture.
A surprise awaited the two men in the central walkway of the mall. A somewhat thin but handsome black-haired woman, appearing not less than thirty-five years old (meaning thirty-five as it would be _without_ state-of-the-art telomere preservation to slow the aging process), wearing what seemed an ancient Egyptian costume, was squatting on some kind of narrow mat in the middle of the floor. Two similarly costumed children, a girl of about fourteen years and a boy of about eleven, were standing on either side of her. Facing each other, the children leaned into each other in a fashion which formed sort of a living arch above the woman's head, the children's hands meeting and clasping above their own heads.
"Reverence the pyramids!" exclaimed the woman, whose face on closer inspection closely resembled the faces of both children. After all, this was the Enclave, where it still was normal for parents to have custody of their bioproducts. The children shouted together, "Pyramids both literal and metaphorical!"
Twisting and weaving her hands in odd ways, the woman continued: "The food pyramid! The gods give us the steamed-rice group, and the boiled-rice group, and the organic-lettuce group, and the distilled-water group!"
"The collective is a pyramid!" the children responded--rather non-sequitir, as far as Bert was concerned. "Who are these people?" he quietly asked the Undersecretary.
"This caregiver and her bioproducts are performance artists," the official whispered back. "It's a complicated story."
"Well, I think I'd be interested to hear it. I don't know if the food references are hinting to the audience that they're hungry, but would there be any harm in having them eat with us so I can talk with them? They certainly seem to be one of the more colorful examples I've seen of how children are being educated in America."
The Undersecretary turned toward Yang. "Major, do you have any objection to letting those three citizens be our guests at lunch?"
"No objection, Undersecretary. I'm curious about them as well."
Without more delay, the bureaucrat walked closer to the peculiar family. "Ma'at, Meretseger, Montu: these men with me are researchers, authorized to interview Enclave dwellers. They both would like you three to eat with us, and have some conversation." The eager way in which the mother--apparently Ma'at, since that had been the first name spoken--sprang to her feet upon hearing this invitation, seemingly verified that they had been hinting about being hungry.
Facing back toward Bert and the Major, the Undersecretary offered one more fragment of the desired explanation: "These performance artists come from the Great Lakes Cantonment." Both of the "researchers" knew that the Great Lakes Muslim Cantonment was a piece of territory overlapping the D.S.A. and Canada, in which Muslims were permitted to practice Sharia law; so it made a kind of sense that Ma'at and her children would have had to leave there if they were going to be free to play at being ancient polytheistic Egyptians. There was clearly more to be told here; it might not have any geopolitical significance, but the oddness was enough by itself to demand some attention.
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Copperfox
Well-known member
"Since this was my idea, I'll pay for our extra guests," Bert assured the other two members of the original party. As they walked along the promenade to reach the Rushmore Inn, he saw that the mother and son both strode in a theatrically dignified manner, while the daughter, who was just old enough to look sensual when moving in a slinky way, was moving in a slinky way. But Bert did not believe that the girl was trying to attract anyone--rather, that this was part of playing a role.
Major Yang, pointedly NOT looking at the girl, said to the mother, "I had the impression that the only persons exiled to the Western Enclave were either Christians, Jews, or persons having some secular motive to dissent against the Fairness Party and its entities of governance."
"Your impression was perfectly correct, sir. I dissented against the system by dissenting against its arrangement with the Wahhabi community. The Cantonment provides a good livelihood for its residents, financially speaking, because it collects the tolls and fees levied on surface shipping to and from the Saint Lawrence Seaway, and controls waterfront employment at all harbors to the exclusion of the regular labor unions. But this does nothing to protect local women and children from being abused."
"This is a matter of priorities," the Undersecretary interjected. "The greater good, both of the Diversity States and of Canada, is served by recognizing the socio-metaphysical autonomy of the Cantonment." She did not, however, seem annoyed at the costumed woman.
"I'm aware that Muslims can leave the Cantonment whenever they please," observed Bert, "which is more than the Christians and Jews in here are allowed to do."
"True, but Muslims cannot proselytize outside the Cantonment." The Undersecretary was almost telling the truth here, only choosing to overlook the regime's acceptance of Wahhabi spokesmen in the media.
The mother continued: "After years of beatings, I fled from my husband, escaping with my children into the Midwest Federal District, Indiana Sector. Going on public aid, I assumed the name I now use: Ma'at Wazir, the first name being the Egyptian goddess of order and justice. I renamed my daughter for Meretseger the serpent-goddess, and my son for Montu the patron deity of the ancient city of Thebes."
Major Yang raised his eyebrows. "Thebes? Wasn't that a Greek city?"
"There was also a Thebes in Egypt."
This was as far as they got before arriving at the Rushmore Inn. Ma'at Wazir paused at the entrance, struck a hieroglyphic-style pose, and chanted something in solemnly spiritual tones. The Major knew enough Arabic to know that what Ma'at said was IN Arabic, and that it included a mention of her former husband; Bert understood much more completely, and would fill the Major in later on the woman's colorful wishes for things that might happen to each part of her ex-husband's body.
After this, it was anticlimactic, but still pertinent, to hear that the Campaign Against Hate had told Ma'at that, although already divorced in absentia, she could be more secure against being forced back into her violent husband's clutches if she accepted internal exile. Thus, Ma'at and her children had ended up in Rapid City, where for the present they constituted the Enclave's entire professional theater community.
Everyone entered, and Bert immediately noticed a photographic mural depicting Mount Rushmore -- as it was SINCE the Fairness Party had ordered it altered. The faces NOW on the mountain were those of Mao Tse-Tung, Che Guevara, Margaret Sanger and Angela Davis. Bert supposed that Major Yang would be pleased to see Chairman Mao thus honored; but he himself liked none of the substitutions.
Major Yang, pointedly NOT looking at the girl, said to the mother, "I had the impression that the only persons exiled to the Western Enclave were either Christians, Jews, or persons having some secular motive to dissent against the Fairness Party and its entities of governance."
"Your impression was perfectly correct, sir. I dissented against the system by dissenting against its arrangement with the Wahhabi community. The Cantonment provides a good livelihood for its residents, financially speaking, because it collects the tolls and fees levied on surface shipping to and from the Saint Lawrence Seaway, and controls waterfront employment at all harbors to the exclusion of the regular labor unions. But this does nothing to protect local women and children from being abused."
"This is a matter of priorities," the Undersecretary interjected. "The greater good, both of the Diversity States and of Canada, is served by recognizing the socio-metaphysical autonomy of the Cantonment." She did not, however, seem annoyed at the costumed woman.
"I'm aware that Muslims can leave the Cantonment whenever they please," observed Bert, "which is more than the Christians and Jews in here are allowed to do."
"True, but Muslims cannot proselytize outside the Cantonment." The Undersecretary was almost telling the truth here, only choosing to overlook the regime's acceptance of Wahhabi spokesmen in the media.
The mother continued: "After years of beatings, I fled from my husband, escaping with my children into the Midwest Federal District, Indiana Sector. Going on public aid, I assumed the name I now use: Ma'at Wazir, the first name being the Egyptian goddess of order and justice. I renamed my daughter for Meretseger the serpent-goddess, and my son for Montu the patron deity of the ancient city of Thebes."
Major Yang raised his eyebrows. "Thebes? Wasn't that a Greek city?"
"There was also a Thebes in Egypt."
This was as far as they got before arriving at the Rushmore Inn. Ma'at Wazir paused at the entrance, struck a hieroglyphic-style pose, and chanted something in solemnly spiritual tones. The Major knew enough Arabic to know that what Ma'at said was IN Arabic, and that it included a mention of her former husband; Bert understood much more completely, and would fill the Major in later on the woman's colorful wishes for things that might happen to each part of her ex-husband's body.
After this, it was anticlimactic, but still pertinent, to hear that the Campaign Against Hate had told Ma'at that, although already divorced in absentia, she could be more secure against being forced back into her violent husband's clutches if she accepted internal exile. Thus, Ma'at and her children had ended up in Rapid City, where for the present they constituted the Enclave's entire professional theater community.
Everyone entered, and Bert immediately noticed a photographic mural depicting Mount Rushmore -- as it was SINCE the Fairness Party had ordered it altered. The faces NOW on the mountain were those of Mao Tse-Tung, Che Guevara, Margaret Sanger and Angela Davis. Bert supposed that Major Yang would be pleased to see Chairman Mao thus honored; but he himself liked none of the substitutions.
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Copperfox
Well-known member
While they were eating, a text message came to the dataphone of the Undersecretary of Eco-Sensitive Agriculture. She accordingly told Bert and Major Yang, "Your lodging has been arranged. You'll ride a train as far as Hot Springs, where my department has a large facility occupying the former Pioneer Museum. There are sleeping quarters there, mostly used by Agriculture personnel on temporary assignments. Afterwards, a helicopter will transport you straight to Sussex, since the passenger train would go a more roundabout way, down to Casper and then up to Sussex."
"Anything of special interest in Hot Springs?" asked Yang.
"There is a homeschooling cooperative. Some of the exiles there were the bioproducts of persons who used to serve in the fascist imperialist American armed forces. Their parents had homeschooled _them_ when stationed overseas, in order to prevent them from being weaned away from their primitive racist American exceptionalism. So these exiles are obstinately perpetuating their hate and prejudice, by teaching the Bible and other barbaric things."
"If it's that bad, why do you allow them to do it at all?"
The Undersecretary sniffed. "It isn't up to me to decide that."
Bert, meanwhile, noticed that Ma'at Wazir was keeping a low profile, trying not to show any particular reaction to anything that was being said. He also noticed that, while this actual or pretended Egyptian woman was not at all fat, she was putting away food as if there was no tomorrow, and so were her son and daughter. So when Yang and the Undersecretary turned back to eating _their_ food, Bert asked Ma'at, "What about you, Citizen Wazir? Do you have arrangements for schooling for Meretseger and Montu?"
Ma'at nodded, still eating. "Yes, Rapid City has a conventional public school district, unlike the rest of the Enclave. Because we are not Christians or Jews, and because we came here voluntarily, my chi-- my bioproducts are privileged to sit in the same classrooms as the bioproducts of federal employees, at Ho Chi Minh Middle School. Of course, we're very grateful."
"And is theater taught there?"
"Yes, it is: the _progressive_ theater of the last two decades. After the current break is over, Meretseger will be taking a comprehensive course in the plays of the great Judd Grovemore, starting with his early masterpiece, A Solstice Carol. Meretseger, of course, is most appreciative of the chance to savor the highest achievements of the evolving dramatic art. Montu is more interested in set design. This has a practical side: he could also get work in house repairs."
"No doubt; and here, he won't have to ask the permission of a union to work." Bert glanced at the Undersecretary; she was now listening to what he was saying, but showed no clear signs of annoyance. He continued: "Is there any rule against your kids learning about, um, _less_ evolved theater works?"
The Undersecretary answered for the performance artist: "Only progressive plays are allowed to be studied on the curriculum, but this does include corrected versions of primitive drama, like the Revised Shakespeare Series. And no one here is prohibited from _reading_ unenlightened plays on their own, they just can't perform them publicly."
When Bert looked back at Ma'at, she nodded in confirmation of what the bureaucrat had just explained. So Bert said to her, "If there's time during our fact-finding visit, I'd like to take a few hours to tell your kids about plays I've seen back in Australia. And if the authorities permit it, I could mail books of plays to you after I return home. Just to let the youngsters track the course of artistic evolution."
Ma'at shot a worried glance at the Undersecretary; but that woman was unperturbed. "Yes, you may mail such books to her. The censors can always remove any _really_ objectionable passages."
When Bert and Major Yang parted company with the Wazir family, Ma'at impulsively hugged both men, which was immensely embarrassing to the Major. Bert made sure he had the postal address to reach Ma'at from outside. Then the men took their leave, while Ma'at and her children resumed their begging disguised as art.
Later, when a suitable time came for frank talk, Major Yang told Bert, again in Chinese: "Our intelligence-gathering also shows that the Great Lakes Cantonment is another place which the Campaign Against Hate pacifies with psychotropic chemicals. Canadian authorities allow them to extend this operation to the northern part of the Cantonment. It works, as far as preventing the Wahhabis there from waging all-out jihad against the rest of the Diversity States. But cases like that of Mrs. Wazir show that it _doesn't_ prevent them from committing acts of domestic violence."
"So you're curious to know what determines the level of success enjoyed by the drugging program, aren't you?"
"Yes. Though it remains true that looking at educational methods is my main assignment, my government is not averse to my also learning what I can about the use of airborne chemical trails."
"Looks like you're tackling the age-old issue of free will."
"I suppose I am. And I might as well tackle it, since my own country is easing into more toleration of free will than has been usual for it."
"Anything of special interest in Hot Springs?" asked Yang.
"There is a homeschooling cooperative. Some of the exiles there were the bioproducts of persons who used to serve in the fascist imperialist American armed forces. Their parents had homeschooled _them_ when stationed overseas, in order to prevent them from being weaned away from their primitive racist American exceptionalism. So these exiles are obstinately perpetuating their hate and prejudice, by teaching the Bible and other barbaric things."
"If it's that bad, why do you allow them to do it at all?"
The Undersecretary sniffed. "It isn't up to me to decide that."
Bert, meanwhile, noticed that Ma'at Wazir was keeping a low profile, trying not to show any particular reaction to anything that was being said. He also noticed that, while this actual or pretended Egyptian woman was not at all fat, she was putting away food as if there was no tomorrow, and so were her son and daughter. So when Yang and the Undersecretary turned back to eating _their_ food, Bert asked Ma'at, "What about you, Citizen Wazir? Do you have arrangements for schooling for Meretseger and Montu?"
Ma'at nodded, still eating. "Yes, Rapid City has a conventional public school district, unlike the rest of the Enclave. Because we are not Christians or Jews, and because we came here voluntarily, my chi-- my bioproducts are privileged to sit in the same classrooms as the bioproducts of federal employees, at Ho Chi Minh Middle School. Of course, we're very grateful."
"And is theater taught there?"
"Yes, it is: the _progressive_ theater of the last two decades. After the current break is over, Meretseger will be taking a comprehensive course in the plays of the great Judd Grovemore, starting with his early masterpiece, A Solstice Carol. Meretseger, of course, is most appreciative of the chance to savor the highest achievements of the evolving dramatic art. Montu is more interested in set design. This has a practical side: he could also get work in house repairs."
"No doubt; and here, he won't have to ask the permission of a union to work." Bert glanced at the Undersecretary; she was now listening to what he was saying, but showed no clear signs of annoyance. He continued: "Is there any rule against your kids learning about, um, _less_ evolved theater works?"
The Undersecretary answered for the performance artist: "Only progressive plays are allowed to be studied on the curriculum, but this does include corrected versions of primitive drama, like the Revised Shakespeare Series. And no one here is prohibited from _reading_ unenlightened plays on their own, they just can't perform them publicly."
When Bert looked back at Ma'at, she nodded in confirmation of what the bureaucrat had just explained. So Bert said to her, "If there's time during our fact-finding visit, I'd like to take a few hours to tell your kids about plays I've seen back in Australia. And if the authorities permit it, I could mail books of plays to you after I return home. Just to let the youngsters track the course of artistic evolution."
Ma'at shot a worried glance at the Undersecretary; but that woman was unperturbed. "Yes, you may mail such books to her. The censors can always remove any _really_ objectionable passages."
When Bert and Major Yang parted company with the Wazir family, Ma'at impulsively hugged both men, which was immensely embarrassing to the Major. Bert made sure he had the postal address to reach Ma'at from outside. Then the men took their leave, while Ma'at and her children resumed their begging disguised as art.
Later, when a suitable time came for frank talk, Major Yang told Bert, again in Chinese: "Our intelligence-gathering also shows that the Great Lakes Cantonment is another place which the Campaign Against Hate pacifies with psychotropic chemicals. Canadian authorities allow them to extend this operation to the northern part of the Cantonment. It works, as far as preventing the Wahhabis there from waging all-out jihad against the rest of the Diversity States. But cases like that of Mrs. Wazir show that it _doesn't_ prevent them from committing acts of domestic violence."
"So you're curious to know what determines the level of success enjoyed by the drugging program, aren't you?"
"Yes. Though it remains true that looking at educational methods is my main assignment, my government is not averse to my also learning what I can about the use of airborne chemical trails."
"Looks like you're tackling the age-old issue of free will."
"I suppose I am. And I might as well tackle it, since my own country is easing into more toleration of free will than has been usual for it."
Last edited:
Copperfox
Well-known member
You are reading "The Possible Future of Alipang Havens"
Chapter 28: Summer's Children, and Autumn's Business
Chilena had put a video call through to Fort Stockton, where Melody and Emilio were both available to speak with Summer and Evan, Emilio being home again after his excursion to the former Phoenix, Arizona. The five adults would find enough to talk about, that Dan would be undisturbed in the closed office, at his own computer.
Now he could line up the results of all the searching done on his behalf by persons who owed him favors, or from whom he had been able to buy favors. Particularly seedy--not as an action inherently evil, but as an action that the Fairness Party would officially frown upon--was the deal Dan had made with one labor-union executive, transferring to that man most of Dan's own current unused healthcare credits. Dan was gambling that he would not get seriously injured or sick during the rest of this calendar year. It was of course to his advantage that he had none of the unhealthy habits of the man who needed the extra medical attention.
That union executive was one of many persons who had opened the doors and assembled the puzzle. Now, Dan had before him the placements of all of the Rand children. In the order of their finding:
Grant, the male one of the six-year-old fraternal twins, was in the former state of Oregon, where he was getting an early start at learning to become an animal trainer. This was not what his foster caregivers called it. Grant was being groomed for a career of training animals to pretend to be politicians in the All-Species Council.
Anne-Marie, age nine, was the only one placed outside the Diversity States; but she had not been much harder to find than Grant, for she also was being apprenticed for an unusual career. She was in Bolivia, being trained to be a low-to-zero-gravity ballerina. (Bolivia was part of the Venezuelan Alliance, and the Venezuelan Alliance was carrying on the Cuban Communist tradition of wanting to appear as a leader in performing arts.) Anne-Marie had already made two visits to the Orbital Palace, the Chinese-owned space-station hotel; if producers found her skillful enough, her future performances would take place there, being broadcast all over the Earth. It would cost more money to buy Anne-Marie's freedom than to free her three siblings combined. But Dan counted his blessings; if he had located her after her tenth birthday, her foster caregivers would not have been able to get out of their contract with the producers.
Michael, age twelve, was at a commune in the former state of Mississippi--at the north end of the state, which was now part of the Inland Southern Federal District. He had been subjected to treatment which, in some eras of history, would have caused the culprits to be put to death; but under the current American conditions, criminal penalties would be more likely to befall anyone speaking against the abuse. Grace, the other twin, was in Vermont, and had suffered similar or worse mistreatment at the hands of persons employed by the Department of Indoctrination. In both cases, those mistreating the chilldren were able to say truthfully that the mistreatment helped them toward eligibility for Party membership. Liberating Michael and Grace would have to be done delicately, never saying anything that might be called "hate speech;" but it would probably be a still greater challenge healing their devastated minds after freeing their bodies from captivity.
It could be done. Dan knew that God had not given him success to this point only to let any of Summer's children remain in slavery. And on this evening, Daniel Salisbury knew that all of his patience, all of his accepting of humiliation, had borne fruit. Without ever having denied Jesus Christ, he and Chilena had managed to stay sufficiently conformed to the system--so that now, Dan could use the system. It would hurt them financially, but they would recover.
He remembered Robert Redford's words at the end of "The Sting," when he and Paul Newman had succeeded in ripping off the gang boss: "It isn't enough--but it's close!" Well, though it would be nice to be able to hold the wrongdoers accountable for their wickedness, it was going to have to be good enough knowing that the children would be free.
Later, when the four kids were free, would be soon enough to figure out how those kids and their parents could live a life that wouldn't lose all the ground gained for them by Dan's efforts.
Perhaps the whole Rand family could stay for awhile with Melody and Emilio in Texas.
Chapter 28: Summer's Children, and Autumn's Business
Chilena had put a video call through to Fort Stockton, where Melody and Emilio were both available to speak with Summer and Evan, Emilio being home again after his excursion to the former Phoenix, Arizona. The five adults would find enough to talk about, that Dan would be undisturbed in the closed office, at his own computer.
Now he could line up the results of all the searching done on his behalf by persons who owed him favors, or from whom he had been able to buy favors. Particularly seedy--not as an action inherently evil, but as an action that the Fairness Party would officially frown upon--was the deal Dan had made with one labor-union executive, transferring to that man most of Dan's own current unused healthcare credits. Dan was gambling that he would not get seriously injured or sick during the rest of this calendar year. It was of course to his advantage that he had none of the unhealthy habits of the man who needed the extra medical attention.
That union executive was one of many persons who had opened the doors and assembled the puzzle. Now, Dan had before him the placements of all of the Rand children. In the order of their finding:
Grant, the male one of the six-year-old fraternal twins, was in the former state of Oregon, where he was getting an early start at learning to become an animal trainer. This was not what his foster caregivers called it. Grant was being groomed for a career of training animals to pretend to be politicians in the All-Species Council.
Anne-Marie, age nine, was the only one placed outside the Diversity States; but she had not been much harder to find than Grant, for she also was being apprenticed for an unusual career. She was in Bolivia, being trained to be a low-to-zero-gravity ballerina. (Bolivia was part of the Venezuelan Alliance, and the Venezuelan Alliance was carrying on the Cuban Communist tradition of wanting to appear as a leader in performing arts.) Anne-Marie had already made two visits to the Orbital Palace, the Chinese-owned space-station hotel; if producers found her skillful enough, her future performances would take place there, being broadcast all over the Earth. It would cost more money to buy Anne-Marie's freedom than to free her three siblings combined. But Dan counted his blessings; if he had located her after her tenth birthday, her foster caregivers would not have been able to get out of their contract with the producers.
Michael, age twelve, was at a commune in the former state of Mississippi--at the north end of the state, which was now part of the Inland Southern Federal District. He had been subjected to treatment which, in some eras of history, would have caused the culprits to be put to death; but under the current American conditions, criminal penalties would be more likely to befall anyone speaking against the abuse. Grace, the other twin, was in Vermont, and had suffered similar or worse mistreatment at the hands of persons employed by the Department of Indoctrination. In both cases, those mistreating the chilldren were able to say truthfully that the mistreatment helped them toward eligibility for Party membership. Liberating Michael and Grace would have to be done delicately, never saying anything that might be called "hate speech;" but it would probably be a still greater challenge healing their devastated minds after freeing their bodies from captivity.
It could be done. Dan knew that God had not given him success to this point only to let any of Summer's children remain in slavery. And on this evening, Daniel Salisbury knew that all of his patience, all of his accepting of humiliation, had borne fruit. Without ever having denied Jesus Christ, he and Chilena had managed to stay sufficiently conformed to the system--so that now, Dan could use the system. It would hurt them financially, but they would recover.
He remembered Robert Redford's words at the end of "The Sting," when he and Paul Newman had succeeded in ripping off the gang boss: "It isn't enough--but it's close!" Well, though it would be nice to be able to hold the wrongdoers accountable for their wickedness, it was going to have to be good enough knowing that the children would be free.
Later, when the four kids were free, would be soon enough to figure out how those kids and their parents could live a life that wouldn't lose all the ground gained for them by Dan's efforts.
Perhaps the whole Rand family could stay for awhile with Melody and Emilio in Texas.
Last edited:
Copperfox
Well-known member
Two...more...minutes...until the hydro-rationing dispenser would let her have another mouthful of water. The elderly woman reminded herself that she must not gulp it this time; she must hold the water in her mouth long enough so her mouth would _feel_ moistened. Then, when she swallowed the water, her body would not feel quite so cheated.
The speaker system was making the rounds of its program of stun-jazz ensemble music. Only nine tunes in the whole collection. Her favorite had just ended, and the one that followed it always seemed so disappointing by comparison. But she reflected that she still was privileged: the fact that stun jazz _was_ what the sound system played, was a gesture to her tastes, made by the management of the Joyous Fulfillment Manor. Yes, among all forty-nine senior women lined up in the seven rows of seven beds in this dormitory, it was she, Flora Lewiston, whose preferences in music had been given precedence.
After all, had she not been a heroic fighter for social justice, in those desperate and epic days when the sexist racist fascist capitalist United States had still existed to plague Mother Earth? Had she not poured herself out to make the young citizens at Smoky Lake East High School understand the proper balance of self-love with socialist harmony? Had she not stood up for students who tried to transcend prehistoric notions of property ownership and advance the cause of redistribution?
Just when some of the most troublesome of the Christian students had been safely graduated and out of her way, just when it seemed as if global progress would accelerate even faster, Flora had suffered a shock when the cause of change and equality had been dealt a setback. Reactionary bourgeois elements had made such a counter-push, that for a few years Flora had been afraid America would _never_ get rid of traditional marriage and other such anti-evolutionary anachronisms. But she had held fast, refusing to listen to any voices that urged her to change her mind. Fortunately, her union had backed her up all the way. And at last, the stupid cavemen leading the anti-progressive movement had lost momentum, lost interest. So, before she had retired from her principal's job, Flora had known the triumphant satisfaction of seeing the hated United States having to capitulate to the economic dominion of the People's Republic of Greater China.
Flora had looked forward to many years of enjoying the new order of oneness and peace; but somehow, the unlimited and flawless medical care that she had been promised--that _everyone_ had been promised--hadn't been there for her. She could only assume that holdouts of the old capitalist system had somehow been able to poison the well of the collective. So her health had rapidly deteriorated; and now here she was, awaiting her turn to have the completion of her life celebrated.
The dispenser gave her the mouthful of water she had been looking forward to. But in the urgency of thirst, she forgot that she was supposed to hold it in her mouth. She gulped it--and mere seconds later, her mouth felt as dry as before.
Almost weeping, or as nearly weeping as dry eyes would permit, Flora found it natural to think of something else unhappy. Her sons and daughters never came to visit her. None of her grandchildren ever came to visit her. She couldn't understand it. Hadn't she taught them how they should love themselves and indulge themselves and worship themselves? Shouldn't they now be showing her their gratitude for all those lessons in self-realization?
The only person who ever came to visit her was--the irony of it!--one of those obnoxious Christians. Not only a Christian, but a former _football_ player, as in _American_ football. Flora might have summoned up enough Marxist indignation to refuse his visits...if not for the fact that he always brought her an extra drink of water, water obtained at his own expense, so that the management had no objection to his giving it to her.
Where was he now? Suddenly, Flora wished that the canned music would be turned off altogether, so that she would hear him coming sooner, if he was coming today. What a joke: that a woman who had so correctly despised competitive athletics just as she despised the military, would now be yearning for the next visit of a patriotic football player!
There was movement in the dormitory, barely audible past the stun jazz. Someone was walking up and down the rows of beds, talking quietly to the inmates. There was some other sound as well. And then--
"Good morning, Mrs. Lewiston! Pardon me for being a bit slow getting to you. Today I brought water for _everyone_ here; you can't be too upset at me for sharing, eh? But now, here's yours. Part now, the rest when we're done talking."
The strong hands of Rick Pelham, once nicknamed Brickpile, gently lifted Flora's head and upper body, so she could drink without choking. The water tasted like--it tasted like a liquid version of the Heaven Rick was so fond of talking about.
That merciful relief began to be more real than decades of political indoctrination.
The speaker system was making the rounds of its program of stun-jazz ensemble music. Only nine tunes in the whole collection. Her favorite had just ended, and the one that followed it always seemed so disappointing by comparison. But she reflected that she still was privileged: the fact that stun jazz _was_ what the sound system played, was a gesture to her tastes, made by the management of the Joyous Fulfillment Manor. Yes, among all forty-nine senior women lined up in the seven rows of seven beds in this dormitory, it was she, Flora Lewiston, whose preferences in music had been given precedence.
After all, had she not been a heroic fighter for social justice, in those desperate and epic days when the sexist racist fascist capitalist United States had still existed to plague Mother Earth? Had she not poured herself out to make the young citizens at Smoky Lake East High School understand the proper balance of self-love with socialist harmony? Had she not stood up for students who tried to transcend prehistoric notions of property ownership and advance the cause of redistribution?
Just when some of the most troublesome of the Christian students had been safely graduated and out of her way, just when it seemed as if global progress would accelerate even faster, Flora had suffered a shock when the cause of change and equality had been dealt a setback. Reactionary bourgeois elements had made such a counter-push, that for a few years Flora had been afraid America would _never_ get rid of traditional marriage and other such anti-evolutionary anachronisms. But she had held fast, refusing to listen to any voices that urged her to change her mind. Fortunately, her union had backed her up all the way. And at last, the stupid cavemen leading the anti-progressive movement had lost momentum, lost interest. So, before she had retired from her principal's job, Flora had known the triumphant satisfaction of seeing the hated United States having to capitulate to the economic dominion of the People's Republic of Greater China.
Flora had looked forward to many years of enjoying the new order of oneness and peace; but somehow, the unlimited and flawless medical care that she had been promised--that _everyone_ had been promised--hadn't been there for her. She could only assume that holdouts of the old capitalist system had somehow been able to poison the well of the collective. So her health had rapidly deteriorated; and now here she was, awaiting her turn to have the completion of her life celebrated.
The dispenser gave her the mouthful of water she had been looking forward to. But in the urgency of thirst, she forgot that she was supposed to hold it in her mouth. She gulped it--and mere seconds later, her mouth felt as dry as before.
Almost weeping, or as nearly weeping as dry eyes would permit, Flora found it natural to think of something else unhappy. Her sons and daughters never came to visit her. None of her grandchildren ever came to visit her. She couldn't understand it. Hadn't she taught them how they should love themselves and indulge themselves and worship themselves? Shouldn't they now be showing her their gratitude for all those lessons in self-realization?
The only person who ever came to visit her was--the irony of it!--one of those obnoxious Christians. Not only a Christian, but a former _football_ player, as in _American_ football. Flora might have summoned up enough Marxist indignation to refuse his visits...if not for the fact that he always brought her an extra drink of water, water obtained at his own expense, so that the management had no objection to his giving it to her.
Where was he now? Suddenly, Flora wished that the canned music would be turned off altogether, so that she would hear him coming sooner, if he was coming today. What a joke: that a woman who had so correctly despised competitive athletics just as she despised the military, would now be yearning for the next visit of a patriotic football player!
There was movement in the dormitory, barely audible past the stun jazz. Someone was walking up and down the rows of beds, talking quietly to the inmates. There was some other sound as well. And then--
"Good morning, Mrs. Lewiston! Pardon me for being a bit slow getting to you. Today I brought water for _everyone_ here; you can't be too upset at me for sharing, eh? But now, here's yours. Part now, the rest when we're done talking."
The strong hands of Rick Pelham, once nicknamed Brickpile, gently lifted Flora's head and upper body, so she could drink without choking. The water tasted like--it tasted like a liquid version of the Heaven Rick was so fond of talking about.
That merciful relief began to be more real than decades of political indoctrination.
Last edited:
Copperfox
Well-known member
Rick had often wished he could tell Alipang, Jason and other old school buddies about his ministering to their old highschool principal. But he knew that his communications might come to the attention of the Pinkshirts; and anything making his ministry more public might cause them to put a stop to it, even perhaps arrest him. So Rick had been doing what he could, within the imposed limitations. He could not even share Jesus directly with the other women in this one big room, for that would again seem "public." The Joyous Fulfillment management was tolerating his one-on-one visits to this one patient who knew him personally.
Of course, they could not stop him from praying for ALL forty-nine women in the room, as he did routinely. And if he could lead Flora Lewiston to the light, even at the very last moment, it was a net gain for the Kingdom of God.
Not for the meaningless "Inexpressible Ultimate" of the Oneness Temples.
"Do you remember those words I recited to you last time?" Rick asked the old woman. On his previous visit--actually, on his previous FOUR visits--he had softly recited the words to the hymn "There Is A Fountain." Singing would have been too conspicuous, but saying the words many times over was an effort to impress their truth on this discarded fool, whose efforts to destroy that very same truth had been "rewarded" with contempt from the system she had always desired to establish.
Flora smiled faintly. "I remember 'There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Immanuel's veins, / And sinners plunged into that flood lose all their guilty stains.' I think I might even have heard the melody once, long ago."
"That's great, Mrs. Lewiston. Do you remember my saying to you that this is the real change everyone has always needed? You remember that 'Immanuel' is just another name for the Man Whose name the establishment hates to hear?"
"Yes, I remember. But tell me again why it ISN'T hate and racism for people to believe in Him."
"That's easy, Mrs. Lewiston, if you can just allow yourself to accept it. If you were back at East High now, and if you were confronting some white supremacists--" (there had not been even one white supremacist at that high school for fourteen years or longer, but Rick knew that this was an illustration the former East Principal could get her arms around) "--you would want to correct them, wouldn't you? And you would not be guilty of 'hate' for correcting their false ideas, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't be hating, just speaking truth to power."
"Exactly! Truth is not hate! Immanuel brings truth; and the more people follow Him, the less hate there will be. But remember that I don't mean ONLY following His example from the past, because He is alive NOW....."
Rick was giving it everything he could, because this was Mrs. Lewiston's last chance. When he had arrived at the nursing home, he had seen the cadaver-transport truck parked outside; its driver had told him that the cluster of which Mrs. Lewiston was a part was due to be euthanized today. So in a teacher-student role reversal, trying for her sake not to panic, Rick led her step by step through the essentials of receiving God's forgiveness for sin through faith in the resurrected Lord Jesus. At one point during this, while still talking, he gave her the rest of the water he had brought for her.
Too soon, the call came: "Visitors out! It's time to celebrate the completion!"
At that very instant, Mrs. Lewiston was asking, "But how do I ask--?"
Hurrying to get it across, even as the euthanasia crew members were approaching to hustle him out, he answered her: "Just by wanting it, wanting Him to KNOW that you want it! I don't have to be here; you can still ask, even as a thought in your head, and God will hear you! Ask, and it shall be given!" They were looming over him now, but they did not stop him from leaning down to kiss the old woman. "I love you, Mrs. Lewiston! Remember, it only takes that thought, as long as you mean it!"
Mrs. Lewiston's eyes were more lucid and comprehending now than at any time before in his visits. Her feebly reaching fingers brushed his waist as he was pulled away from her. "I understand now, Rick--just the thought!" Resistance would only have gotten him arrested for sure, so away he went. But just before the door was slammed behind him, he heard Mrs. Lewiston finding enough energy to call after him, "I love you, Brickpile!"
Going out through the lobby, Rick was told by a smarmy young woman at the front desk, "Don't be sad, Citizen Pelham; it's all part of the wonderful circle of life! The minerals of their bodies will nourish Mother Gaia!"
Restraining himself from breaking the young woman's neck, Rick went outside. Once he was off the actual property, he prayed: "God, I thank You for saving Mrs. Lewiston at the last minute, like the thief on the right-hand cross. Please remember all the prayers I prayed for all her roommates before now; please, even in this final moment, send Your Holy Spirit to remind each of them of every bit of Your truth they ever heard. Let the evil that ordered their murder have NO satisfaction in their afterlife..."
Of course, they could not stop him from praying for ALL forty-nine women in the room, as he did routinely. And if he could lead Flora Lewiston to the light, even at the very last moment, it was a net gain for the Kingdom of God.
Not for the meaningless "Inexpressible Ultimate" of the Oneness Temples.
"Do you remember those words I recited to you last time?" Rick asked the old woman. On his previous visit--actually, on his previous FOUR visits--he had softly recited the words to the hymn "There Is A Fountain." Singing would have been too conspicuous, but saying the words many times over was an effort to impress their truth on this discarded fool, whose efforts to destroy that very same truth had been "rewarded" with contempt from the system she had always desired to establish.
Flora smiled faintly. "I remember 'There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Immanuel's veins, / And sinners plunged into that flood lose all their guilty stains.' I think I might even have heard the melody once, long ago."
"That's great, Mrs. Lewiston. Do you remember my saying to you that this is the real change everyone has always needed? You remember that 'Immanuel' is just another name for the Man Whose name the establishment hates to hear?"
"Yes, I remember. But tell me again why it ISN'T hate and racism for people to believe in Him."
"That's easy, Mrs. Lewiston, if you can just allow yourself to accept it. If you were back at East High now, and if you were confronting some white supremacists--" (there had not been even one white supremacist at that high school for fourteen years or longer, but Rick knew that this was an illustration the former East Principal could get her arms around) "--you would want to correct them, wouldn't you? And you would not be guilty of 'hate' for correcting their false ideas, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't be hating, just speaking truth to power."
"Exactly! Truth is not hate! Immanuel brings truth; and the more people follow Him, the less hate there will be. But remember that I don't mean ONLY following His example from the past, because He is alive NOW....."
Rick was giving it everything he could, because this was Mrs. Lewiston's last chance. When he had arrived at the nursing home, he had seen the cadaver-transport truck parked outside; its driver had told him that the cluster of which Mrs. Lewiston was a part was due to be euthanized today. So in a teacher-student role reversal, trying for her sake not to panic, Rick led her step by step through the essentials of receiving God's forgiveness for sin through faith in the resurrected Lord Jesus. At one point during this, while still talking, he gave her the rest of the water he had brought for her.
Too soon, the call came: "Visitors out! It's time to celebrate the completion!"
At that very instant, Mrs. Lewiston was asking, "But how do I ask--?"
Hurrying to get it across, even as the euthanasia crew members were approaching to hustle him out, he answered her: "Just by wanting it, wanting Him to KNOW that you want it! I don't have to be here; you can still ask, even as a thought in your head, and God will hear you! Ask, and it shall be given!" They were looming over him now, but they did not stop him from leaning down to kiss the old woman. "I love you, Mrs. Lewiston! Remember, it only takes that thought, as long as you mean it!"
Mrs. Lewiston's eyes were more lucid and comprehending now than at any time before in his visits. Her feebly reaching fingers brushed his waist as he was pulled away from her. "I understand now, Rick--just the thought!" Resistance would only have gotten him arrested for sure, so away he went. But just before the door was slammed behind him, he heard Mrs. Lewiston finding enough energy to call after him, "I love you, Brickpile!"
Going out through the lobby, Rick was told by a smarmy young woman at the front desk, "Don't be sad, Citizen Pelham; it's all part of the wonderful circle of life! The minerals of their bodies will nourish Mother Gaia!"
Restraining himself from breaking the young woman's neck, Rick went outside. Once he was off the actual property, he prayed: "God, I thank You for saving Mrs. Lewiston at the last minute, like the thief on the right-hand cross. Please remember all the prayers I prayed for all her roommates before now; please, even in this final moment, send Your Holy Spirit to remind each of them of every bit of Your truth they ever heard. Let the evil that ordered their murder have NO satisfaction in their afterlife..."
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Copperfox
Well-known member
In a hospital room in Onitsha, Nigeria, sat Jennifer Williams Hyland, with her lap occupied by her youngest child, two-year-old Virgil, who had been born in Nigeria after she and Brendan had moved the family out of the clutches of "change." Standing around their mother were the other Hyland children, from thirteen-year-old John-Paul down through Bridget, George and Claire. All of them had their eyes on the husband and father of the family, who right now looked like one of the Borg from old "Star Trek" programs. Fitted over the socket of his missing eye was a cuplike affair, with two tubes and a sensor wire leading from it.
Two Nigerians, a female doctor and a male technician, were performing the last inspections required before detaching this apparatus, which had been feeding the Marine veteran's regenerating tissue for the past eleven days.
"Normal in all parameters!" the technician declared.
"Then deactivate and detach," the doctor ordered.
As the Hylands held their breath, the Borg apparatus was removed from the face of the sedated Brendan, to reveal no metallic prosthesis--but a normal human eye where the bullet-wrecked socket had been. Jennifer crossed herself, and wept with happiness for her beloved.
Also in the room was the Romanian-Polish Colonel Tiberiu Parnescu. "Mr. Hyland will find the sight of all of you still more wonderful when he wakes up and sees you in three dimensions," he remarked.
"You're right, sir," said John-Paul, whose name honored both a Pope and the patriarch of the U.S. Navy. "Dad has never had two eyes to see any of his kids with."
"There'll be plenty for him to see now, in more than one place. Tissue regeneration is still a costly procedure; neither Nigeria nor Poland can afford to provide it to very many people. Your father was moved to the head of the line because he volunteered to serve ten years on--special assignments."
"Yes, sir. We know that he'll never be able to tell us some of the things he'll be doing. But we'll know that everything he does is in a good cause."
"And we'll try to ensure that it always IS a good cause." The Colonel would wait until he could speak privately with Jennifer alone, to mention a detail which was good news, but which needed to be kept quiet lest its benefit be lost. While regenerating the eye Brendan had lost in Afghanistan, the specialists had altered the iris pattern of Brendan's remaining original eye, the new eye likewise differing from the original pattern. As a result, where iris scanning was concerned, Brendan would now have a new identity to use. He might or might not have need to assume a fake personality on some future mission; but the foremost thought motivating this alteration was that now, in case of returning to the Diversity States, it would be that much less likely that any authorities there would try to claim jurisdiction over him.
Brendan returned to consciousness four minutes later. His reaction to the restoration of his binocular vision was humorous to watch: closing the old eye and looking around with the new one, then reversing this, then looking at everything with both eyes, then holding his own hand in front of his face at different distances.
"Excuse me, Brendan," laughed Jennifer, "but I always thought it was other women I had to be jealous of. Now I'm jealous of the attention you're giving to your new eyeball!"
"Don't be," replied the former leatherneck. "Both my eyes are in love with you." From where he sat on the bed, he held out his arms, and Jennifer soon was in them.
Two Nigerians, a female doctor and a male technician, were performing the last inspections required before detaching this apparatus, which had been feeding the Marine veteran's regenerating tissue for the past eleven days.
"Normal in all parameters!" the technician declared.
"Then deactivate and detach," the doctor ordered.
As the Hylands held their breath, the Borg apparatus was removed from the face of the sedated Brendan, to reveal no metallic prosthesis--but a normal human eye where the bullet-wrecked socket had been. Jennifer crossed herself, and wept with happiness for her beloved.
Also in the room was the Romanian-Polish Colonel Tiberiu Parnescu. "Mr. Hyland will find the sight of all of you still more wonderful when he wakes up and sees you in three dimensions," he remarked.
"You're right, sir," said John-Paul, whose name honored both a Pope and the patriarch of the U.S. Navy. "Dad has never had two eyes to see any of his kids with."
"There'll be plenty for him to see now, in more than one place. Tissue regeneration is still a costly procedure; neither Nigeria nor Poland can afford to provide it to very many people. Your father was moved to the head of the line because he volunteered to serve ten years on--special assignments."
"Yes, sir. We know that he'll never be able to tell us some of the things he'll be doing. But we'll know that everything he does is in a good cause."
"And we'll try to ensure that it always IS a good cause." The Colonel would wait until he could speak privately with Jennifer alone, to mention a detail which was good news, but which needed to be kept quiet lest its benefit be lost. While regenerating the eye Brendan had lost in Afghanistan, the specialists had altered the iris pattern of Brendan's remaining original eye, the new eye likewise differing from the original pattern. As a result, where iris scanning was concerned, Brendan would now have a new identity to use. He might or might not have need to assume a fake personality on some future mission; but the foremost thought motivating this alteration was that now, in case of returning to the Diversity States, it would be that much less likely that any authorities there would try to claim jurisdiction over him.
Brendan returned to consciousness four minutes later. His reaction to the restoration of his binocular vision was humorous to watch: closing the old eye and looking around with the new one, then reversing this, then looking at everything with both eyes, then holding his own hand in front of his face at different distances.
"Excuse me, Brendan," laughed Jennifer, "but I always thought it was other women I had to be jealous of. Now I'm jealous of the attention you're giving to your new eyeball!"
"Don't be," replied the former leatherneck. "Both my eyes are in love with you." From where he sat on the bed, he held out his arms, and Jennifer soon was in them.
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Copperfox
Well-known member
The Deputy Commander of the Campaign Against Hate, interviewing Dana Pickering some while previous to the arrival of Bert Randall and Yang Sung-Kuo, had not exactly been delighted about the way Dana had willingly listened to Christian talk. But it counted in her favor with him that she had wished to steal a Christian woman's husband, so he had agreed with Captain Butello's recommendation that no adverse evaluation should go on the young Overseer's record. He had even given her complete freedom in requesting her next assignment.
Now, therefore, Overseer Third Class Pickering was enjoying considerable freedom of movement, patrolling a very long stretch of the open-space buffer zone....right outside the Enclave which had been her beat. The Deputy Commander had not worried about her lenient inclinations compromising the security of exile containment, since it was impossible for any exiles to escape even AS far as the area she patrolled. If anyone from outside attempted to breach the perimeter for any reason, Dana's goodwill toward the exiles might even increase her diligence in stopping that action, since she could thereby be preventing trouble from befalling the exiles. And her generally friendly personality would be a plus for inter-agency cooperation with the Forest Rangers.
Dana's early days on the new assignment had been uneventful: warning off curiosity seekers here, helping to put out a grassfire there. It gave her time to enjoy the outdoors...and to reflect upon everything that Kim Havens and Lorraine Kramer had told her on that fateful Sunday. She had not yet been to a Oneness Temple since leaving the Enclave, but it was on her mind.
This afternoon, while watching the sky for signs of the unusual heavy rainfall which was predicted for today, Dana suddenly heard a dog barking cheerfully. Turning in the direction of the sound, she saw a handsome border collie walking toward her--followed closely by a handsome black-haired Forest Ranger driving an overland four-wheeler, electrically powered like her motorcycle.
"Good afternoon, Overseer! The collective is all, but the collective may be getting wet soon!"
Dana had not felt even the least bit of interest in flirting with strangers since she had first conceived her infatuation with Alipang Havens; but Alipang was now even more inaccessible to her than when she had been inside the perimeter. Therefore, she removed her helmet, shook out her hair in movie-star fashion, and replied: "Hello to you too, Ranger. Are you saying this because there's a place where I could get out of the rain?" At the same time, the collie drew closer to her, tail wagging; but he clearly had the good manners not to throw himself all over humans uninvited.
"Well, yes, actually, there is a Ranger station less than a kilometer behind me. You're new here, aren't you?"
"Yes, my name's Dana Pickering. But in a way, not so new; my previous duty station was in the Enclave, Wyoming sector."
"How about that?" the Ranger parked his four-wheeler and stepped up to shake hands. "My name is Mark Terrell; and my canine associate is named Whiplash." At this, without prompting, the border collie put out a forepaw to offer a handshake of his own, which Dana smilingly accepted. Mark Terrell added, "Whiplash was turned down for a seat in the All-Species Council in Seattle; they only take animals who DON'T have enhanced brains."
"Ranger Terrell--I've heard your name someplace," Dana murmured. "I know where it was! Just before my transfer out of the Enclave, I saw an inter-agency report that mentioned you! You had found arrows that were shot over the fence from inside. The Deputy Commander agreed with the assessment of your own superiors, that some exiles were testing the sensitivity of the perimeter security system. Since then, they've stepped up the imagery surveillance, to pre-empt any escape attempt; and it seems to have worked, since there haven't been any escape attempts."
One last time, the dead-end yearning for that manly Filipino Christian intruded itself on Dana's mind. She imagined Alipang Havens with comicbook superpowers, flying over the fence to find her, and---
But even if Dr. Havens had such powers, he would not be using them for purposes of cheating on his partner Kim. Besides, Kim's own explanation of monogamy had made its own impression on Dana's mind, blending with memories of the exclusive bond shared by Dana's own parents. Goodbye, then, to the already-claimed Alipang Havens. Maybe some available man would turn up here on the outside who (though the odds were against it in the Diversity States) was interested in exclusive partnering.
Maybe one had just now turned up?
"If you're free to come over to the station," Ranger Mark Terrell was saying, "we could come up with some dinner for you while we wait out the rain. And with a little help, Whiplash can even play cards with you."
Now, therefore, Overseer Third Class Pickering was enjoying considerable freedom of movement, patrolling a very long stretch of the open-space buffer zone....right outside the Enclave which had been her beat. The Deputy Commander had not worried about her lenient inclinations compromising the security of exile containment, since it was impossible for any exiles to escape even AS far as the area she patrolled. If anyone from outside attempted to breach the perimeter for any reason, Dana's goodwill toward the exiles might even increase her diligence in stopping that action, since she could thereby be preventing trouble from befalling the exiles. And her generally friendly personality would be a plus for inter-agency cooperation with the Forest Rangers.
Dana's early days on the new assignment had been uneventful: warning off curiosity seekers here, helping to put out a grassfire there. It gave her time to enjoy the outdoors...and to reflect upon everything that Kim Havens and Lorraine Kramer had told her on that fateful Sunday. She had not yet been to a Oneness Temple since leaving the Enclave, but it was on her mind.
This afternoon, while watching the sky for signs of the unusual heavy rainfall which was predicted for today, Dana suddenly heard a dog barking cheerfully. Turning in the direction of the sound, she saw a handsome border collie walking toward her--followed closely by a handsome black-haired Forest Ranger driving an overland four-wheeler, electrically powered like her motorcycle.
"Good afternoon, Overseer! The collective is all, but the collective may be getting wet soon!"
Dana had not felt even the least bit of interest in flirting with strangers since she had first conceived her infatuation with Alipang Havens; but Alipang was now even more inaccessible to her than when she had been inside the perimeter. Therefore, she removed her helmet, shook out her hair in movie-star fashion, and replied: "Hello to you too, Ranger. Are you saying this because there's a place where I could get out of the rain?" At the same time, the collie drew closer to her, tail wagging; but he clearly had the good manners not to throw himself all over humans uninvited.
"Well, yes, actually, there is a Ranger station less than a kilometer behind me. You're new here, aren't you?"
"Yes, my name's Dana Pickering. But in a way, not so new; my previous duty station was in the Enclave, Wyoming sector."
"How about that?" the Ranger parked his four-wheeler and stepped up to shake hands. "My name is Mark Terrell; and my canine associate is named Whiplash." At this, without prompting, the border collie put out a forepaw to offer a handshake of his own, which Dana smilingly accepted. Mark Terrell added, "Whiplash was turned down for a seat in the All-Species Council in Seattle; they only take animals who DON'T have enhanced brains."
"Ranger Terrell--I've heard your name someplace," Dana murmured. "I know where it was! Just before my transfer out of the Enclave, I saw an inter-agency report that mentioned you! You had found arrows that were shot over the fence from inside. The Deputy Commander agreed with the assessment of your own superiors, that some exiles were testing the sensitivity of the perimeter security system. Since then, they've stepped up the imagery surveillance, to pre-empt any escape attempt; and it seems to have worked, since there haven't been any escape attempts."
One last time, the dead-end yearning for that manly Filipino Christian intruded itself on Dana's mind. She imagined Alipang Havens with comicbook superpowers, flying over the fence to find her, and---
But even if Dr. Havens had such powers, he would not be using them for purposes of cheating on his partner Kim. Besides, Kim's own explanation of monogamy had made its own impression on Dana's mind, blending with memories of the exclusive bond shared by Dana's own parents. Goodbye, then, to the already-claimed Alipang Havens. Maybe some available man would turn up here on the outside who (though the odds were against it in the Diversity States) was interested in exclusive partnering.
Maybe one had just now turned up?
"If you're free to come over to the station," Ranger Mark Terrell was saying, "we could come up with some dinner for you while we wait out the rain. And with a little help, Whiplash can even play cards with you."
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Copperfox
Well-known member
Cassandra Jefferson had never been greatly enthusiastic about ocean cruises, but she appreciated the honor of the part she and Samantha were playing in demonstrating their government's recognition and support of the new Republic of Alchatka. With their bodyguards and miscellaneous assistants, the two women had been given the most prestigious suite of staterooms on a magnificent quadrimaran cruise liner, one which before now had carried such Diversity States V.I.P.'s as the Chairwoman of the Entertainment Unions Coalition. This cruise on the Bering Strait was the very first time a luxury surface ship had sailed under the new Alchatkan flag.
The first night at sea had been a spectacular party; the word "orgy" might have come to some people's minds. For sure, hardly anyone present had failed to obtain any pleasure they desired--though the guests of honor had vaguely noticed that the actual Alchatkan citizens didn't seem to need nearly as much pleasure as the Diversity States contingent. This morning, Cassandra was surprised at herself for waking up as early as she did.
Keeping quiet so as not to awaken Samantha, she picked up her data device and began reading incoming text messages--also listening to voice messages, transmitted directly into her ear implants. It struck her as a little odd that no hint at all seemed to be coming from the Rainbow House about the report she and Samantha had sent. The Aztlano informant Felipe Contreras had alleged that Supreme Court Chief Justice Sherman Lake was plotting a genuine coup d'etat, the first really grave threat to the Fairness Party leadership since it had been installed in Washington. The Trevette administration would not want to act on the foreign gangster's accusation without more verification; but Cassandra would have thought that she and Samantha were entitled to _some_ hint of the progress of the investigation.
After all, she and Samantha could conceivably be among those marked for completion of life in the event of the coup being real and succeeding. But--still no news.
Farther down the queue, however, was a message on quite a different subject; and this warranted awakening the Ambassador-At-Large almost as surely as a confirmation of the takeover plot would have done.
"Samantha, wake up. I'm sorry to get you up so early, but remember it's later in Boston."
"Wha'zis 'bout Bosson? Y'mean the boss is onna ship?"
"Samantha, I mean the _city_ of Boston. The Tolerance House has messaged you. It's about Daffodil."
What passed for maternal instinct in Samantha Ford's brain was not so stunted that the mention of her ailing son was entirely ineffective at concentrating her groggy mind. "Daffy? Thought he was better, didn't Randall visit him, cheer him up? Thought he was discharged from the hospital."
"Yes, he was discharged, and was able to resume his duties at the Tolerance House. But he had a relapse of the convulsions."
Samantha sat up, getting more of a grip on comprehension. "How could he relapse? He had the best of care!"
"I only know what they wrote in the message. This morning--remember, breakfast time's already come and gone in Boston--Daffodil was leading coordinated eating as usual, when two new girls both swallowed food at the wrong moment in the drill. Both girls apparently had been at a harsher Tolerance House before, and expected actual punishment for the mistake; so they each tried to deflect punishment by blaming the other one. A moment later, they got in a physical fight. Daffodil was the only authority figure near them, so he jumped up to separate them--"
"Gutflak, surely _they_ weren't able to do anything to hurt my son!" exclaimed Samantha. However much feminist orthodoxy demanded that she deny this fact, she really _knew_ it was a fact that very few teenage girls anywhere could hope to withstand her son in any contest of strength, if Daffodil actually _used_ his strength. She never intended to tell Daffodil anything about his male chromosome source, but he had been a _very_ strong man, and the boy had inherited that muscular power.
The deep instinct for self-justification, of course, was blinding the mother to everything she had done to _prevent_ her son from using his strength; but what Cassandra said next was to make it harder to remain in denial.
"Daffy almost had his hands on them, to push them away from each other; but all of a sudden, he froze up, froze tight and stiff--then he went into convulsions, even worse than the time in New Haven. He's back in the hospital now; and the Director of the Tolerance House (she wrote this message personally!) doesn't think he's going to be able to continue as adjunct faculty."
If the thought of Daffodil being miserable were not enough to rouse his mother to action, the thought of Daffodil not rising high in service to the Party supplied what was lacking. "Oh, Cassandra, we're going to have to shorten this goodwill tour!"
"Yes, of course. Do you want to be airlifted off the ship?"
"Um, probably soon enough if we fly out from Petropavlovsk once we dock there. But I'll put a call through to that Director now."
The first night at sea had been a spectacular party; the word "orgy" might have come to some people's minds. For sure, hardly anyone present had failed to obtain any pleasure they desired--though the guests of honor had vaguely noticed that the actual Alchatkan citizens didn't seem to need nearly as much pleasure as the Diversity States contingent. This morning, Cassandra was surprised at herself for waking up as early as she did.
Keeping quiet so as not to awaken Samantha, she picked up her data device and began reading incoming text messages--also listening to voice messages, transmitted directly into her ear implants. It struck her as a little odd that no hint at all seemed to be coming from the Rainbow House about the report she and Samantha had sent. The Aztlano informant Felipe Contreras had alleged that Supreme Court Chief Justice Sherman Lake was plotting a genuine coup d'etat, the first really grave threat to the Fairness Party leadership since it had been installed in Washington. The Trevette administration would not want to act on the foreign gangster's accusation without more verification; but Cassandra would have thought that she and Samantha were entitled to _some_ hint of the progress of the investigation.
After all, she and Samantha could conceivably be among those marked for completion of life in the event of the coup being real and succeeding. But--still no news.
Farther down the queue, however, was a message on quite a different subject; and this warranted awakening the Ambassador-At-Large almost as surely as a confirmation of the takeover plot would have done.
"Samantha, wake up. I'm sorry to get you up so early, but remember it's later in Boston."
"Wha'zis 'bout Bosson? Y'mean the boss is onna ship?"
"Samantha, I mean the _city_ of Boston. The Tolerance House has messaged you. It's about Daffodil."
What passed for maternal instinct in Samantha Ford's brain was not so stunted that the mention of her ailing son was entirely ineffective at concentrating her groggy mind. "Daffy? Thought he was better, didn't Randall visit him, cheer him up? Thought he was discharged from the hospital."
"Yes, he was discharged, and was able to resume his duties at the Tolerance House. But he had a relapse of the convulsions."
Samantha sat up, getting more of a grip on comprehension. "How could he relapse? He had the best of care!"
"I only know what they wrote in the message. This morning--remember, breakfast time's already come and gone in Boston--Daffodil was leading coordinated eating as usual, when two new girls both swallowed food at the wrong moment in the drill. Both girls apparently had been at a harsher Tolerance House before, and expected actual punishment for the mistake; so they each tried to deflect punishment by blaming the other one. A moment later, they got in a physical fight. Daffodil was the only authority figure near them, so he jumped up to separate them--"
"Gutflak, surely _they_ weren't able to do anything to hurt my son!" exclaimed Samantha. However much feminist orthodoxy demanded that she deny this fact, she really _knew_ it was a fact that very few teenage girls anywhere could hope to withstand her son in any contest of strength, if Daffodil actually _used_ his strength. She never intended to tell Daffodil anything about his male chromosome source, but he had been a _very_ strong man, and the boy had inherited that muscular power.
The deep instinct for self-justification, of course, was blinding the mother to everything she had done to _prevent_ her son from using his strength; but what Cassandra said next was to make it harder to remain in denial.
"Daffy almost had his hands on them, to push them away from each other; but all of a sudden, he froze up, froze tight and stiff--then he went into convulsions, even worse than the time in New Haven. He's back in the hospital now; and the Director of the Tolerance House (she wrote this message personally!) doesn't think he's going to be able to continue as adjunct faculty."
If the thought of Daffodil being miserable were not enough to rouse his mother to action, the thought of Daffodil not rising high in service to the Party supplied what was lacking. "Oh, Cassandra, we're going to have to shorten this goodwill tour!"
"Yes, of course. Do you want to be airlifted off the ship?"
"Um, probably soon enough if we fly out from Petropavlovsk once we dock there. But I'll put a call through to that Director now."
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Copperfox
Well-known member
Chapter 29: Digging Down into the Light
Ten-year-old homeschooler Debbie Gross was fortunate in one respect to be living when she was. By this third decade of the 21st century, the _word_ "gross" had mostly stopped being used to describe something disgusting. Perhaps this was because mainstream Americans had mostly stopped _regarding_ anything as disgusting. Anything, that is, except disagreement with the ruling party; and no one in the homeschooling cooperative in Hot Springs was going to fault the Gross family for disagreeing with the ruling party.
Debbie was the first child to greet the two foreign visitors as they arrived at the appointed time in the former American Legion hall, and she did it with considerable graciousness.
Accustomed to seeing Chinese children taught in a more tightly controlled manner, Yang Sung-Kuo needed to stretch his mental envelope a bit to perceive any advantages to the spontaneity of what was being taught and reported on during the group session he and Bert Randall were allowed to attend. Homeschooling being what the name said, these children were usually taught in twos and threes at home; but larger sessions were held periodically at this Legion hall in the South Dakota town. There were some remarkable jumps onto tangents: a discussion of fossils led to a discussion of bas-relief sculpture, classic opera led to Viking expeditions by way of Norse mythology, and so on.
When Bert got his chance to jump into the act with linguistics, the two visitors were left in no doubt of the quality of homeschooling. Debbie Gross and several other children engaged the Australian in some _real_ examination of the mechanisms of human communication. These children understood things like the origins of the three separate written languages within Japanese, and the use of reflexive verbs being similar between the Russian and Spanish languages.
When lunchtime came, the adults in charge asked Bert and the Major (not that Yang was addressed by his paramilitary rank here) to stay and eat with them. Debbie almost tackled people in her eagerness to sit near one of the visitors; and capturing a seat almost exactly opposite Major Yang, she found the Chinese man looking at her with something like respect.
"Young citizen," he told the schoolgirl in his mildly accented English, "when I listen to you talking with so much intellectual alertness, I wonder again why my country still has parents who don't want girl babies. Just so you know, my wife and I have all daughters back in Beijing, and we're happy with them."
"I don't suppose your daughters could come visit here sometime?" For the first half-second after Debbie said this, Yang supposed that the ten-year-old had not yet grasped the probable permanence of her people's isolation from the rest of the planet; but then he realized that young Citizen Gross was in fact speaking with deliberate irony.
"Not likely, I'm afraid--at least not until they're old enough to start their own social research projects. By that time, you might be an administrator, able to exert some influence on invitations to tour the Enclave. I imagine you can master the knowledge needed for that, or any job that could ever exist in this community."
Debbie gave him a sly smile. "Sir, I'm glad that you see how well our schooling works. I hope you write a _long_ dissertation about it. And just in case you might run into skeptics who think my friends and I were simply taught things by rote to impress you, how about you ask some of us here some completely random questions? No one but God knows _everything,_ but I think you'll find we do know a good deal. That way, your dissertation will be more convincing."
Yang uttered a small half-laughing grunt. "Are you _sure_ you're only ten? All right, here's a random question for you first. Who _really_ flew the first powered airplane ever?"
Debbie's smile grew brighter. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I think you expect me to say the French, who got one into the air a little ahead of the Wright Brothers. But New Zealand was ahead of the French. A New Zealander named Richard Pearse, the last name has an S in it, flew a powered aircraft in 1902. And his design had ailerons, a feature of wing construction that the Wright Brothers didn't think of on their first plane."
Yang shook his head, impressed. "Child, you are a great natural resource. I wonder if Americans outside this reservation realize what a resource you are?"
"Maybe more of them will realize it if they get to read your dissertation, sir. I shouldn't monopolize you, you should give other kids a chance. But I do want to tell you one more thing."
"What's that, Debbie?"
"One of the things that have been said about people like my Mom and Dad is that they were blind and stupid about their loyalty to the United States, so they always just automatically assumed that everything American was always better than anything else. But that isn't true. You see that I knew about one example of another country being ahead of America in something; and it was my _American_ mother who taught me that. We're confident enough in the overall goodness of what our country was, that we can let _other_ countries have credit for things when they deserve it."
"Indeed. I promise you this, Debbie: if your parents have no objection, I will be mentioning you by name in my report, and to my family in China."
Ten-year-old homeschooler Debbie Gross was fortunate in one respect to be living when she was. By this third decade of the 21st century, the _word_ "gross" had mostly stopped being used to describe something disgusting. Perhaps this was because mainstream Americans had mostly stopped _regarding_ anything as disgusting. Anything, that is, except disagreement with the ruling party; and no one in the homeschooling cooperative in Hot Springs was going to fault the Gross family for disagreeing with the ruling party.
Debbie was the first child to greet the two foreign visitors as they arrived at the appointed time in the former American Legion hall, and she did it with considerable graciousness.
Accustomed to seeing Chinese children taught in a more tightly controlled manner, Yang Sung-Kuo needed to stretch his mental envelope a bit to perceive any advantages to the spontaneity of what was being taught and reported on during the group session he and Bert Randall were allowed to attend. Homeschooling being what the name said, these children were usually taught in twos and threes at home; but larger sessions were held periodically at this Legion hall in the South Dakota town. There were some remarkable jumps onto tangents: a discussion of fossils led to a discussion of bas-relief sculpture, classic opera led to Viking expeditions by way of Norse mythology, and so on.
When Bert got his chance to jump into the act with linguistics, the two visitors were left in no doubt of the quality of homeschooling. Debbie Gross and several other children engaged the Australian in some _real_ examination of the mechanisms of human communication. These children understood things like the origins of the three separate written languages within Japanese, and the use of reflexive verbs being similar between the Russian and Spanish languages.
When lunchtime came, the adults in charge asked Bert and the Major (not that Yang was addressed by his paramilitary rank here) to stay and eat with them. Debbie almost tackled people in her eagerness to sit near one of the visitors; and capturing a seat almost exactly opposite Major Yang, she found the Chinese man looking at her with something like respect.
"Young citizen," he told the schoolgirl in his mildly accented English, "when I listen to you talking with so much intellectual alertness, I wonder again why my country still has parents who don't want girl babies. Just so you know, my wife and I have all daughters back in Beijing, and we're happy with them."
"I don't suppose your daughters could come visit here sometime?" For the first half-second after Debbie said this, Yang supposed that the ten-year-old had not yet grasped the probable permanence of her people's isolation from the rest of the planet; but then he realized that young Citizen Gross was in fact speaking with deliberate irony.
"Not likely, I'm afraid--at least not until they're old enough to start their own social research projects. By that time, you might be an administrator, able to exert some influence on invitations to tour the Enclave. I imagine you can master the knowledge needed for that, or any job that could ever exist in this community."
Debbie gave him a sly smile. "Sir, I'm glad that you see how well our schooling works. I hope you write a _long_ dissertation about it. And just in case you might run into skeptics who think my friends and I were simply taught things by rote to impress you, how about you ask some of us here some completely random questions? No one but God knows _everything,_ but I think you'll find we do know a good deal. That way, your dissertation will be more convincing."
Yang uttered a small half-laughing grunt. "Are you _sure_ you're only ten? All right, here's a random question for you first. Who _really_ flew the first powered airplane ever?"
Debbie's smile grew brighter. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I think you expect me to say the French, who got one into the air a little ahead of the Wright Brothers. But New Zealand was ahead of the French. A New Zealander named Richard Pearse, the last name has an S in it, flew a powered aircraft in 1902. And his design had ailerons, a feature of wing construction that the Wright Brothers didn't think of on their first plane."
Yang shook his head, impressed. "Child, you are a great natural resource. I wonder if Americans outside this reservation realize what a resource you are?"
"Maybe more of them will realize it if they get to read your dissertation, sir. I shouldn't monopolize you, you should give other kids a chance. But I do want to tell you one more thing."
"What's that, Debbie?"
"One of the things that have been said about people like my Mom and Dad is that they were blind and stupid about their loyalty to the United States, so they always just automatically assumed that everything American was always better than anything else. But that isn't true. You see that I knew about one example of another country being ahead of America in something; and it was my _American_ mother who taught me that. We're confident enough in the overall goodness of what our country was, that we can let _other_ countries have credit for things when they deserve it."
"Indeed. I promise you this, Debbie: if your parents have no objection, I will be mentioning you by name in my report, and to my family in China."
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Copperfox
Well-known member
On Tuesday morning, the day after Yang and Randall had met the homeschoolers in South Dakota, John Wisebadger had his first official meeting as an Agricultural Ombudsman with Okokeso Vekeseha, the Cheyenne woman who was Agricultural Consultant for the Wyoming Sector of the Enclave. She and her counterparts in Nebraska and the Dakotas reported directly to the Undersecretary of Eco-Sensitive Agriculture. The Grange Association had already presented requests to this department in the past; but now, all Grangers were hopeful of better results, with some of their members more explicitly recognized by the power structure as worth listening to.
John was quick to notice, but slow to comment on, a wall poster in Ms. Vekeseha's office: a poster which had been created by the Department of Indoctrination for the benefit of the Department of Distribution, and which had been adopted by other federal departments as well. It read--
"From Each According To Her Ability;
But They Surely Could Be Working Harder.
To Each According To Her Needs;
But They Don't Need As Much As They Think."
The Arapahoe Ombudsman and the Cheyenne Consultant started out with prosaic matters, such as numerous requests by Wyoming Sector farmers for increased availability of large-animal veterinarians to care for their livestock. After all, as John pointed out, many American veterinarians had been put out of work by the Trevette administration's draconian reduction of people's freedom to possess animals. It was gratifying to John that Ms. Vekeseha (who, he felt certain, did not know as much about farming as he did) acted receptive to the petitions for veterinarians. She even remarked, "With meat from your farms already being consumed by federal employees, and the exile farming industry only expected to grow, these requests are perfectly reasonable."
On the other hand, she brushed off the suggestion submitted by some of John's fellow Arapahoes, that Agriculture should ask the Overseers to use their modern weapons against some of the dangerous carnivores which were a threat to livestock. The Grange riders did well against bears and wolves, but they could not be everywhere all the time. "That simply is outside my jurisdiction," said Ms. Vekeseha, as if she could not still have passed the request informally.
But the Consultant, as a good neo-Marxist, had no experience with bargaining. She didn't know that John and his tribefellows had cooked up the request for Overseer aid SO THAT she would refuse it...after which, a more modest "alternative" might get a hearing. John already knew what he was really hoping to obtain, but he would only bring it up later, possibly by telephone (for he had permission to call this office), after someone had supposedly just thought of the less-ambitious request.
If some of the exile farmers could be permitted to own a quite minimal form of firearms, like single-shot fowling guns, these would pose no danger to the armored Overseers; yet they would be a great help against crows and raccoons in the grainfields, and against foxes raiding poultry pens. What was more, since the Supreme Court Marshals possessed non-lethal flesh-permeating tranquilizer-pellet ammunition for crowd control, it should be easy to load some shotgun shells with these pellets, which would work against beasts also. This would STILL be no danger to the Overseers, yet it would add to the farmers' defense against wild carnivores.
John aimed to secure the Consultant's backing for Alipang's article about Avery Glass and his daughter before making the request for the lightweight shotguns. And when the time did come for the weapon request, John would be able to argue truthfully that in the WHOLE time of the Enclave's existence up to now, there had not been ANY acts of serious violence committed by any exile against any other exile. The Overseers had never even bothered CLAIMING that there had been any. So, besides the guns posing no threat of armed revolt against the regime, they also posed no threat of exile-on-exile crime.
If the shotguns seemed too much for the regime to approve, John had a further fall-back position. He would ask if any working specimens of muzzle-loading MUSKETS could be obtained and made available inside the Enclave. The longer loading time of these guns made them even LESS of a threat to the enforcers of tyranny, provided that the muskets shot no more lethal ammunition than those tranquilizer pellets. John himself would be able to instruct people in handling black-powder weapons--a skill he had taught to Explorer Scouts back in the United States era. He could even make the concession of suggesting that the muskets be held only temporarily by the users, like books borrowed from a library, for periods of time when wild-animal activity was intense. And every exile using a musket could be brainwave-scanned to prevent them from hiding any plan of making more-lethal solid bullets to fire from the weapons.
All this firearm business would come later. The current meeting concluded with Ms. Vekeseha going so far as to say she WOULD say a word in favor of Alipang's proposed newspaper piece.
John started for home confident that he had done the right thing by accepting this liaison position.
John was quick to notice, but slow to comment on, a wall poster in Ms. Vekeseha's office: a poster which had been created by the Department of Indoctrination for the benefit of the Department of Distribution, and which had been adopted by other federal departments as well. It read--
"From Each According To Her Ability;
But They Surely Could Be Working Harder.
To Each According To Her Needs;
But They Don't Need As Much As They Think."
The Arapahoe Ombudsman and the Cheyenne Consultant started out with prosaic matters, such as numerous requests by Wyoming Sector farmers for increased availability of large-animal veterinarians to care for their livestock. After all, as John pointed out, many American veterinarians had been put out of work by the Trevette administration's draconian reduction of people's freedom to possess animals. It was gratifying to John that Ms. Vekeseha (who, he felt certain, did not know as much about farming as he did) acted receptive to the petitions for veterinarians. She even remarked, "With meat from your farms already being consumed by federal employees, and the exile farming industry only expected to grow, these requests are perfectly reasonable."
On the other hand, she brushed off the suggestion submitted by some of John's fellow Arapahoes, that Agriculture should ask the Overseers to use their modern weapons against some of the dangerous carnivores which were a threat to livestock. The Grange riders did well against bears and wolves, but they could not be everywhere all the time. "That simply is outside my jurisdiction," said Ms. Vekeseha, as if she could not still have passed the request informally.
But the Consultant, as a good neo-Marxist, had no experience with bargaining. She didn't know that John and his tribefellows had cooked up the request for Overseer aid SO THAT she would refuse it...after which, a more modest "alternative" might get a hearing. John already knew what he was really hoping to obtain, but he would only bring it up later, possibly by telephone (for he had permission to call this office), after someone had supposedly just thought of the less-ambitious request.
If some of the exile farmers could be permitted to own a quite minimal form of firearms, like single-shot fowling guns, these would pose no danger to the armored Overseers; yet they would be a great help against crows and raccoons in the grainfields, and against foxes raiding poultry pens. What was more, since the Supreme Court Marshals possessed non-lethal flesh-permeating tranquilizer-pellet ammunition for crowd control, it should be easy to load some shotgun shells with these pellets, which would work against beasts also. This would STILL be no danger to the Overseers, yet it would add to the farmers' defense against wild carnivores.
John aimed to secure the Consultant's backing for Alipang's article about Avery Glass and his daughter before making the request for the lightweight shotguns. And when the time did come for the weapon request, John would be able to argue truthfully that in the WHOLE time of the Enclave's existence up to now, there had not been ANY acts of serious violence committed by any exile against any other exile. The Overseers had never even bothered CLAIMING that there had been any. So, besides the guns posing no threat of armed revolt against the regime, they also posed no threat of exile-on-exile crime.
If the shotguns seemed too much for the regime to approve, John had a further fall-back position. He would ask if any working specimens of muzzle-loading MUSKETS could be obtained and made available inside the Enclave. The longer loading time of these guns made them even LESS of a threat to the enforcers of tyranny, provided that the muskets shot no more lethal ammunition than those tranquilizer pellets. John himself would be able to instruct people in handling black-powder weapons--a skill he had taught to Explorer Scouts back in the United States era. He could even make the concession of suggesting that the muskets be held only temporarily by the users, like books borrowed from a library, for periods of time when wild-animal activity was intense. And every exile using a musket could be brainwave-scanned to prevent them from hiding any plan of making more-lethal solid bullets to fire from the weapons.
All this firearm business would come later. The current meeting concluded with Ms. Vekeseha going so far as to say she WOULD say a word in favor of Alipang's proposed newspaper piece.
John started for home confident that he had done the right thing by accepting this liaison position.
Copperfox
Well-known member
Tuesday evening:
"If you look down there on the right," the female helicopter pilot told Bert and the Major, "that former warehouse, the one with the gray roof, contains offices and miscellaneous facilities for both the Energy and Agriculture departments. Collects utility payments, does occasional food inspections, houses the town's telephone switchboard, things like that. Notice that the single loop of light rail passes next to it. It is the only government entity in the town of Sussex."
"No police presence?" asked the Major.
"It isn't needed. Of course, Overseers pass through town routinely, but there simply ARE NO crimes here. The people spend their time doing constructive things of their own accord."
Yang--and also Bert, since Bert was in on it now--both wondered to what extent the absence of crime was due to the pacifying airborne chemicals, and to what extent the exiles' beliefs deserved credit. Neither man had a Christian commitment himself, but each had some knowledge of Christianity, especially Bert.
"Have you spent any time on the ground in Sussex?" Bert asked the pilot.
"Not worth mentioning. But by all accounts, the exiles here are about the same as in the other towns. Within the Christian majority, the only obvious divide is between the absolute pacifists, and those who would fight under the right circumstances."
Major Yang perked up. "Are they ever allowed to practice any, well, combative sports?" Yang had worked out with half a dozen Overseers while he and his Australian companion had been in Hot Springs. Practicing unarmed combat moves while clad in the latest protective gear (akin in technology to the impact-survival systems now common on airplanes), the Chinese security officer had taken them on one at a time, then two at once, and finally one bout against three at once. Only tactfulness had prevented Yang from telling them that they were pathetic. In a real hand-to-hand fight, with no rules, he could almost certainly have defeated all six of them at once, provided he could avoid being hogpiled. The only Overseers in the gym who had given him the slightest challenge had been two men just passing through, enroute to some assignment in the Nebraska sector: two men named Huddleston and Vargas, of whom Yang had not otherwise heard.
Bert Randall had been invited into the workout, and Yang's respect for the Australian had increased. While not able actually to beat the Major's kung-fu, Bert had given him a much better fight than any of the Overseers had. Yang privately wondered whether Bert's duties for the Pacific Federation really were limited to diplomacy and academic projects.
Yang also wondered whether the exiles realized what easy targets most Overseers would be if they didn't have their technology to hide behind.
"If archery counts, they can practice that openly, since it's used for defense against wild animals," the pilot was saying. "That Grange volunteer, Dr. Havens, is very good at it. And he spars with sticks now and then, non-lethal matches with friends, all informal. But no organized, competitive sport of person-against-person fighting is allowed."
"Too bad," muttered the Major. He would have liked to try out Alipang Havens in a friendly fight, just to keep his own skills fresh. But of course, that wouldn't be fair, because Dr. Havens would certainly assume he needed to hold back on his efforts, lest he bring reprisals upon his family in the event of winning the match. This was what happened to persons under a totalitarian regime: they were inhibited from displaying personal excellence. Yang was glad that his own country was trending toward more freedom; but he still wasn't sure HOW MUCH freedom was for the best.
And that question was doubtless on the mind of General Shuei as well, which was why the General had sent Yang to America to see the exiles.
"If you look down there on the right," the female helicopter pilot told Bert and the Major, "that former warehouse, the one with the gray roof, contains offices and miscellaneous facilities for both the Energy and Agriculture departments. Collects utility payments, does occasional food inspections, houses the town's telephone switchboard, things like that. Notice that the single loop of light rail passes next to it. It is the only government entity in the town of Sussex."
"No police presence?" asked the Major.
"It isn't needed. Of course, Overseers pass through town routinely, but there simply ARE NO crimes here. The people spend their time doing constructive things of their own accord."
Yang--and also Bert, since Bert was in on it now--both wondered to what extent the absence of crime was due to the pacifying airborne chemicals, and to what extent the exiles' beliefs deserved credit. Neither man had a Christian commitment himself, but each had some knowledge of Christianity, especially Bert.
"Have you spent any time on the ground in Sussex?" Bert asked the pilot.
"Not worth mentioning. But by all accounts, the exiles here are about the same as in the other towns. Within the Christian majority, the only obvious divide is between the absolute pacifists, and those who would fight under the right circumstances."
Major Yang perked up. "Are they ever allowed to practice any, well, combative sports?" Yang had worked out with half a dozen Overseers while he and his Australian companion had been in Hot Springs. Practicing unarmed combat moves while clad in the latest protective gear (akin in technology to the impact-survival systems now common on airplanes), the Chinese security officer had taken them on one at a time, then two at once, and finally one bout against three at once. Only tactfulness had prevented Yang from telling them that they were pathetic. In a real hand-to-hand fight, with no rules, he could almost certainly have defeated all six of them at once, provided he could avoid being hogpiled. The only Overseers in the gym who had given him the slightest challenge had been two men just passing through, enroute to some assignment in the Nebraska sector: two men named Huddleston and Vargas, of whom Yang had not otherwise heard.
Bert Randall had been invited into the workout, and Yang's respect for the Australian had increased. While not able actually to beat the Major's kung-fu, Bert had given him a much better fight than any of the Overseers had. Yang privately wondered whether Bert's duties for the Pacific Federation really were limited to diplomacy and academic projects.
Yang also wondered whether the exiles realized what easy targets most Overseers would be if they didn't have their technology to hide behind.
"If archery counts, they can practice that openly, since it's used for defense against wild animals," the pilot was saying. "That Grange volunteer, Dr. Havens, is very good at it. And he spars with sticks now and then, non-lethal matches with friends, all informal. But no organized, competitive sport of person-against-person fighting is allowed."
"Too bad," muttered the Major. He would have liked to try out Alipang Havens in a friendly fight, just to keep his own skills fresh. But of course, that wouldn't be fair, because Dr. Havens would certainly assume he needed to hold back on his efforts, lest he bring reprisals upon his family in the event of winning the match. This was what happened to persons under a totalitarian regime: they were inhibited from displaying personal excellence. Yang was glad that his own country was trending toward more freedom; but he still wasn't sure HOW MUCH freedom was for the best.
And that question was doubtless on the mind of General Shuei as well, which was why the General had sent Yang to America to see the exiles.
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