“Heretic! Do not defile our president!” Ms. Duncan seethed, purple veins skimming the surface of her forehead. The principal’s gray hand restrained her from rising to her feet.
“If you do not recant, Mr. Wilkerson, perhaps you will be the one facing criminal prosecution.” Sullivan’s eyes were black suns, and her voice suddenly was severe. “You are not Americans, you are Aliens. As such, you have no standing to bring a civil cause of action in the courts of the United States. And don’t count on a criminal action by the State of Pennsylvania against Ms. Duncan; the beneficent President Swan has given teachers, professors, and principals necessary powers to convince students to Americanize. Some teachers, like Ms. Duncan, choose intimidation to help their students make the proper decision. Your child wasn’t injured—don’t expect anything to come of this.”
“This is BS. You’re crazy. You’re all crazy! I’m going to get the best damn attorney I can find and have you both fired! I’m going to the superintendent, the police, the . . .”
“Mr. Wilkerson, please,” said the principal soothingly, “you are upsetting Ms. Duncan. Listen to my advice—become Americans. You, your wife, and Blake must be treated.”
“Treated for what?” demanded the father. “This Americanization has only been out for how long, like a year? All I know is that it turns your skin gray and makes you act crazy, like you two.”
The principal shook her head in disbelief.
“You, in fact, are the one who is insane, Mr. Wilkerson. You, your wife, and Blake are the biological scions of the most vile race the planet has ever known. You are the sons and daughters of imperialistic, cruel, and contemptible maniacs. You should be eager at this opportunity to disrobe from your white loathsomeness and ethnocentric, racist, lunatic worldview.”
“Eager at this . . . what?” Mr. Wilkerson laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “What the heck do you know about my worldview? Or my family’s worldview?”
“I know much about your worldview by your ancestry. I know what ideas you are predisposed to embrace. I know what books you naturally gravitate toward. I know what art you find most appealing. The list goes on, all part of your collective racial unconscious. You’re a slave to predisposition based on your genetic racial matrices—your biology—which manifests in your culture. And those predispositions are insensitive, supremacist, and abominable. Therefore, you must have them expunged. You must become an American.”
“I am an American, you crazy bitch! I never want to look like you, got it? I’m never going to look like you, my wife is never going to look like you, and my son sure as hell is never going to look like you. Come on, Cathy, let’s get out of this nut house . . .” The couple headed for the door.
“Mr. Wilkerson,” challenged the principal, sweat beginning to gather on the ridges of her crew cut, “already there is talk of deporting Aliens of Caucasian ancestry back to Europe. There you will be enslaved, if you’re lucky, by your homeland’s Muslim inheritors and conquerors. You had best give serious thought to becoming American.”
“Go to hell,” shouted Mrs. Wilkerson, and the couple walked briskly from the room. As they were leaving, a Hispanic couple was entering. They looked distressed, but ready for a fight.
Chapter 3
President Swan reclined in his armchair, his flesh dry and gray. A mane of black hair fell around his shoulders. With a swipe of his head he whisked the hair from where it rested on his shoulders and chest to his back.
“Don’t want to obscure you,” he spoke to himself, patting a rainbow-colored emblem pinned to his lapel. His lips and cheeks were full, and he breathed through a wide nose evolved for optimal respiration.
Doors burst open, and Hommler staggered in, his face efflorescing with lavender bruises.
“Terry, Terry . . . look what those bastard Aliens did to me.” The emissary slumped into a chair near the president.
“Yes, I see,” said Swan, observing him with eyes of slight ascendance. “You told me over the phone it was bad, but it’s worse than I imagined.” The president’s voice was melodious.
“They’re going to pay for this, Terry. Oh, by the gods, they are damn well going to pay for this.”
“Herbert Hommler! I’m surprised at us! What, please tell, precedes all discussions in the House of Color?” Swan’s eyes widened and he placed a hand to his ear.
“Terry, look at me! I can barely think straight my head is throbbing so badly. I can’t think of a diversity moment right now.”
“Well, I suppose you’re excused due to your injury. But that doesn’t excuse me. You can atone for this omission by saying three prayers to Divine Color later this evening when your head has cleared. I’d like to share with you the following diversity moment.” Swan cleared his throat and stared at the table. Within moments a grin won his face and he folded his hands. “Well, late last spring I had the pleasure of attending Yale Law School’s 2084 graduation. As I scanned row after row of those brilliant legal minds, I was dazzled by the diversity before my eyes—not one Caucasian was among the graduating class!”
“How wonderful,” the secretary of state commented half-sarcastically.
“Oh, yes but . . . but . . .” The president’s face contorted as if pained. “You see, Herbert, that’s when Divine Color first revealed to me that . . . that . . . being non-white isn’t enough anymore.”
“Isn’t enough for what?” Hommler sighed and folded his arms.
“Isn’t enough to be diverse,” Swan said somberly, as if the impact of his words could level buildings. “More and more I’m beginning to realize that we are still in our infancy with regard to our understanding of diversity. Within a year I want every student at the next graduation ceremony to be gray—to be American. And not just in law school—at every collegiate institution in the country. Isn’t it logical and reasonable that American students graduate from American universities?”
“It is,” commented Hommler. “I suppose you’ll implement this plan according to the standard admissions point system? You know, you receive something like an additional thousand points if you’re American when a perfect standardized test score only gets you ten points—something like that?”
“No,” Swan said coldly.
“Well, then how?”
The president threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “I’ll simply declare that all institutions of higher learning are not permitted to consider Alien applications! We needn’t complicate things with more point systems to justify our diversity—this isn’t a hundred years ago, Herbert.”
“You’re becoming more aggressive—I like that.”
“Well, tough times demand tough measures. When our polychromatic redeemer completes Its interstellar journey to Earth we must be prepared. Divine Color will only admit us into Its pluralistic sphere if we have attained true diversity. Therefore we must continually seek ways to improve upon our diversity—not cling to some outworn definition from our grandparents’ era. The new criterion for diversity has been set by our marvelous Americans. Those who fail to aspire to our gray piety, those who fail to kneel to Divine Color, have no right to partake of the fruits of this great country.”
The secretary of state digested the president’s words then grinned with smashed lips. “It is fortunate, then, Terry, that . . . Divine Color,” he repressed a laugh, “blessed me with the intelligence and knowledge to devise the Americanization project.”
“I know, my friend,” Swan nodded, “I am in your debt. Your brilliance has guided our ascent to power from the beginning.”
“That’s right, so indulge my desire for revenge. I want their blood, Terry. And I want it soon. I want Guerrero, in my dungeon, in a cold iron maiden straight jacket. And after I pry out his pierced body I want to catch his spouting blood in a flask and savor it.”
“How absolutely ghoulish!” Swan gasped. “Please, please Herbert, don’t tell me such things.”
“I apologize. But I want to assure that Aztlan doesn’t trouble us. We m
ust make an example of Guerrero.”
“Herbert, I feel a bit awkward telling you this, but I believe candor is always best.”
The emissary studied Swan suspiciously.
“When you told me what happened over the phone,” Swan began, “and seeing you here all bruised, and now your talk of revenge . . . it reminds me of an insensitive, white school child after his first day of class at an urban school of Color. The students of Color are resentful of the white boy’s elitism, privilege, and supercilious airs. They vent their frustrations, their rage over decades of oppression, by beating him up. That’s the presumption that comes to mind, Herbert, and you are still a white man. Please attempt to rebut my presumption.”
“Your presumption?” Hommler bared his sharp teeth and ground them together. “I was very polite, and highly complimentary of their religious predilections. I demonstrated a familiarity with and acceptance of their culture by referencing some of their deities specifically by name, but was firm when it came to their reintegration back into the fold.”
“And they just assaulted you, unprovoked?” The president rubbed his soft, gray chin.
“Utterly unprovoked.”
“Well, perhaps they just couldn’t stand to be in the presence of a filthy white man any longer,” theorized Swan with a silly laugh. “I sympathize with them, if that’s the case. Please don’t take offense, Herbert, I know you have more than atoned for your Original Sin of whiteness. I know you are one of us on the inside, I just wish you’d become one of us on the outside.”
“As I’ve said, I will Americanize in good time.” Hommler’s swollen eyes averted those of the president. “But for now I want to summon up my troops. Let their army try to handle the Order of Tiamat.”
“Ah, your vaunted Order of Tiamat. Always trying to sick it on our adversaries like a dog. Which reminds, me, Herbert, I’ve been studying your Order’s membership roster and am horrified by my findings.”
“Which are?” The secretary of state raised his lip exposing wicked teeth.
“Your gender ratio is noncompliant with the Thirty-First Amendment. For six months now American women have outnumbered American men in the Order’s ranks by a percentile of fifty-two percent to forty-eight percent. I want you to bring your troops into gender equilibrium and I want you to do it soon. The Amendment allows for a ‘reasonable’ amount of time to achieve harmony, with an acceptable deviation of one percent to account for vicissitudes, fatalities, resignations, et cetera. You exceed the deviation allowance, so you must achieve, minimally, a fifty-one to forty-nine percentile within a reasonable period or face repercussions.”
“That Amendment is procrustean, Terry. And it hasn’t even passed yet! Besides, has it ever dawned on you what people might say about us? Years ago, you and I and Smith were just three disaffected white men. Yes, you and Smith are gay. But we’re all men. The three most powerful people in America are men. So much for your gender equilibrium.”
“Yes, I know, it’s disheartening—I’ve thought the same thing on numerous occasions. I’ve consoled myself by noting that, but for our rise to power, egalitarianism would still be in its infancy. Besides, I’m contemplating a sex change. You see, the three most powerful people in America could soon be one woman and two men.”
“Well, whatever the gender percentile of the Order, and our power structure, I want to liberate California,” said Hommler. “I want to punish those who believe in its severance. The Hispanic secessionists have these grand dreams of Aztlan. They know nothing of Aztlan! The Aztlan they are instituting is a watered-down mockery! Terry, I want to strew the land with their blood and offal. If we beat them badly enough, perhaps the Muslims will think twice before they set sail for America from Europe.”
Swan exhaled, and sank into his chair. “The armies of nationalism and bigotry are arraying against us. They hate us because of our justice, our equality, our perfection, and our peaceful ways. But damn it, Herbert, I won my election years ago by promising to extricate America from its wars. I’m not about to plunge us into new ones without several offerings of the olive branch.”
“Suit yourself, but give my dog, as you call it, a long leash.”
“Herbert Hommler! Are you insinuating a punitive expedition? We are not barbarians and will not counter violence with more violence. And I mean that!”
The emissary’s triangular nails dug into chair leather, then slowly withdrew.
“Well, perhaps it won’t be necessary to invade Aztlan, because Aztlan may be planning to invade America. In the event Aztlan struck the first blow, what would the Command in Chief’s response be?”
“To defend ourselves, of course.” Swan grimaced. “It would only be temporary, anyway—once Divine Color completes Its interstellar journey to our planet there will be no more hatred, crime, or war. And I swear, Herbert, It has been contacting me lately via psychic reception and Its arrival is imminent. So we must prepare to accept Its advent, we must . . .”
“President Swan,” Hommler interrupted, “your hair looks wonderful today. I trust you are enjoying your Protean Phenotype System—your PPS?”
Swan’s face posed as if savoring a rich chocolate candy.
“Oh, it is exquisite. It is godly. You provided me with my apotheosis. My face is a divine rainbow of races, always in flux at the push of a button, and the feeling . . . the feeling is unimaginably euphoric. Before you blessed me with the PPS my flesh was gray but my features were still Caucasian. No longer!”
“I see that at the moment you have selected the ‘classic’ phenotype of West Africa and the ‘nuance’ phenotype of North Asia. Such a complimentary medley. You have wonderful taste, and look stunningly beautiful.”
Swan smiled broadly, his cheeks flared lurid crimson, and his head dropped.
“Herbert, you’re too kind. I know I’ve only had the PPS for a week, but I can’t imagine living without it. I feel as if it brings me closer to Divine Color. I . . . I only have one request.” Swan flashed him a plaintive look.
“Anything, my friend.”
“I know you provided me with the remote control to select my racial phenotypes according to my preference, and that I can select a maximum of two phenotypes at once. I know I can further select from classic, moderate, and nuance for each one. And I commend you for your brilliance and engineering mastery to offer me such a tool. But I feel guilty, Herbert. I really do. I feel absolutely awful when I select one phenotype over another. Like, right now I mourn my absence of certain phenotypes. It pains me that I selected West African and North Asian rather than, say, Central American and Greenland Eskimo.
“And if I were to select Central American and Greenland Eskimo, I would feel guilt-ridden over my lack of African diversity, Pacific Island diversity, ad infinitum. The part that galls me the most is that each phenotype gets unequal attention. And then there is the question of degree—should I analyze why I chose classic West African rather than nuance West African? I mean, I could foresee, based on my oh so busy schedule, wearing two phenotypes, notched to the same degree, for a whole week without changing. And that would neglect the rest! Is there a way you could make each phenotype and each degree have equal time, so that no phenotype is favored above the others?”
“I believe I can do that, Terry. May I have the controller back?”
The president produced a rectangular silver device from his suit pocket, and handed it to Hommler.
“Oh, and I was a bit offended by these buttons right here.” Swan pointed to the bottom of the controller where the following was written in bold: European—Northern, Southern, Eastern, Western. Each corresponded to a button. “I don’t think I’ll ever be pressing those buttons, Herbert.” Swan wiggled his nose. “Please have those buttons removed. Actually, you know what? I don’t want that controller anymore. I want you to try to fix the PPS so my phenotype changes automatically, with each regional phenotype and degree having equal time.”
“That’s not a problem. I should have it perfected in a we
ek or so. In terms of complexity it should actually be a step down from controller manipulation.”
“That’s fabulous—I’m so excited with your progress in this area! I’ve been spending all my time this past week steeping myself in the literature and culture of all these blessed races. After all, I can’t just be another lovely face! If I have the phenotype of a West African, I want the cultural literacy of a West African, too. Oh, Herbert, Divine Color smiles down on us. Your Protean Phenotype System is wonderful. When our Rainbow Regent arrives I will hail It with open arms—I will embrace It and shower in Its love! Hail to the Rainbow Regent! Hail! And woe to the Caucasian filth that has refused to Americanize, for they will be wiped clean in a catharsis of Color!”
Chapter 4
The moon was a cold pan of milk, and night black cats rushed in to lap with quick tongues of mist. A pickup truck rumbled over an old country road. Within the vehicle, two men reclined in their chairs, hands cradling their heads. The truck obeyed its autodrive system, the wheel turning spectrally on its own.
“I still don’t know about this, Bob. I mean, I’m thinking I should try the police one more time, or maybe we should just pick up and move. Head to Canada or something. If we get caught at this place tonight who the hell knows what might happen. And we both have families . . .” Rick Wilkerson stared languidly from the truck window.
“Don’t worry, Rick, this place is safe. You’ll be glad you came once we get there. Besides, Canada is ripe for the same kind of crud that’s happening here. It would only be like turning back the clock 5 years. We’d still face the discrimination at work, the media persecution, the hatred. They just wouldn’t be forcing us into mad scientist labs to turn us gray yet. But that, or something similar, will happen there too.”
“Bob, you ever think about whether the Aztecs would let us in, treat us decent? It seems like they’re the only ones with the guts to stand up to Swan and his crew so far.”
The Gods of Color Page 3