But even then, countermeasures exist to combat that eventuality: the Security Service, the Institute for Family Values, and the Holy Sanhedrin.
Maximus understood all of this, but he was powerless to change the system. He could only allow himself one little act of deceit: Given the fact that his individual operating system allowed for multitasking, he was able to launch several programs at once, some of them performing the operations for which he was being paid, and others—or, say, just one—allowing him to meditate upon forbidden topics.
Everything is fine so long as you can close the subversive windows in time.
Maximus had already figured out the Khazar problem, more or less. But his study of the history of the Khaganate had spawned another problem for his inquisitive mind: the problem of the elites, how they replenished their ranks, and the basis for their legitimacy. He would have written an essay on this topic as well, but his new virtual friend Hakan spared him the unnecessary labor. On Hakan’s site Semipyatnitsky discovered a lengthy manifesto that answered all his questions about the secrets of the elect.
This manifesto was so much like Maximus’s own thoughts on the subject that it even seemed to him that he could have written it himself.
And maybe he had.
Iron Balls and Elven Magic
Ever since Jason’s quest for the Golden Fleece and Robinson Crusoe’s journey to that uninhabited island lo those many years ago, all possible variants of the sea-odyssey plot have been repeated over and over in world literature. And even the plot of repeated plots has been exploited by the genius librarian Jorge Luis Borges.
The third millennium after the birth of Christ holds no new themes, heroes, or plots. All we can do is write about what’s already been written and about what’s been written about what’s been written. Our books no longer contain people, things, and places. We are now writing books about books.
But books themselves have become heroes, plots, and settings in our lives. We are no longer interested in criticism. Texts, ancient or modern, have become parts of our contemporary reality and thus have entered the virtual world; we now judge texts based upon the validity of their premises more than their other qualities: That is, we judge them based upon whether they’re able to create a more complete sort of reality than the one on this side of the screen . . .
Where we’re currently located.
The only fantasy novels I can get through are by Terry Pratchett. I think he’s British. The back cover of the one I have here bears a photograph of the author surrounded by drawings of his heroes: He’s a jolly-looking fellow with a bushy white beard. If the bio is accurate, he quit his job in an office ten years ago and devoted himself exclusively to writing fantasy novels about this Discworld that he dreamed up.
Unlike our world, which has any number of different theories purporting to explain it, everything is much clearer with Discworld. It’s a disk resting on the backs of four elephants, who themselves stand on the back of the Giant Star Turtle A’Tuin. The dirtiest and most densely populated city on the Disc is called Ankh-Morpork. The Disc is populated, along with people, by gnomes, trolls, elves, werewolves, and a whole bunch of other creatures traditionally found in fantasy novels.
There are writers who seem to be describing our own reality, but in fact are creating a completely impossible world. A world in which Cinderellas inevitably marry princes, where savvy and noble investigators always catch criminals, and where the chaste supermodel Maria spends her whole life waiting for Juan, the noble stockbroker . . .
Terry Pratchett created what would seem to be a completely alien world, floating on a tortoise’s back, but in fact he’s describing our own reality. In his Ankh-Morpork (New York, of course), speciesism (racism) is rampant and the gnomes hate the trolls, which feeling the trolls fully reciprocate. Cinderellas here do NOT marry princes, though this fact causes them a great deal of suffering; modest tailors do not instantaneously become successful businessmen, but remain just what they are, modest tailors; in this world, professional hit men have the right to take anyone’s life with impunity so long as there’s a contract involved (and presuming they’re up to date on their Murderers’ Guild dues), and those who don’t have someone out there trying to kill them scrupulously pay a special tax supporting the Murderers’ Guild to keep it that way. So Terry Pratchett’s world is no more fantastical than Saltykov-Shchedrin’s Foolsville with its seats of power occupied by bears.
One of Terry’s novels, Lords and Ladies, tells the story of an attempt by elves from a parallel universe to invade a provincial town in Discworld. These elves are not like those cute storybook elves that we’re used to. They are cruel and bloodthirsty, power-hungry, envious, greedy, and heartless. Ugly, too.
They strut around looking like improbably beautiful, elegantly dressed, mythological heroes with perfect physiques, astride fierce warhorses that instill dread and respect in all who see them—but occasionally their spell weakens, and people see them as they really are, with their ugly triangular faces, their awkward bodies clothed in gaudy, tasteless garments, and their scrawny nags. But then the spell kicks in again, and again the mortals are cowed.
What makes elves so powerful is their ability to make people feel weak in their presence. The elves slaughter everyone in their path, and the people can’t raise their weapons and resist. The mere sight of the elves renders people utterly powerless.
Yes, we the people are absolutely nothing. We are losers. We are pathetic, lowly creatures; nothing ever works out for us. And that’s as it should be. It’s fate. Whereas they, they are great and beautiful; they are on top of the world, and so on top of us. They’re free to do whatever they want, and we have no right to resist. For they are successful, and we are losers. So it has been, is, and always shall be. O how beautiful they are, how worthy of our adoration! What are we by comparison? No, give in, submit, endure; nail horseshoes on your door, abase yourself, go outside at night with a bowl of your finest, most delicious cream, and stand there by the doorway waiting to give it to the first elf who comes along. Stand by quietly while they deign to ravish your wives and daughters. Afterward, should they choose to bestow on you their unbearable mercy, they will put you out of your misery and kill you.
This is how people think.
This is the secret of the elves’ magic.
Yes, the elves’ magic takes different forms. Tales of their divine origin, of the supposedly completely different, even “blue,” blood of those in power. Silks and satins, velvet, gold, diamonds, pomp and circumstance. All for our benefit. A spectacle for the losers to watch. Lest there be any doubt. We are the losers; they are the elves. They are different. It’s their destiny to be on top.
They make history; the press reports all the details of their lives (and in their lives, as opposed to ours, everything that they do—what they eat, who they sleep with, how they defecate—is vital and full of significance); they appear on TV. Their tastes are an example for us to emulate; their life stories excite and entertain us; their actions are above reproach. We are different. Because if we weren’t, we would be who they are; so instead we are who we are, and they are who they are. What other proof do we need that they are the salt of the earth, and we are the losers?
Every once in a while the system breaks down. System error. The elves are seized and dragged to the scaffold. And to our surprise we learn that their blood is the same color as ours—just plain red. And they soil themselves on the electric chair, and when they do, their shit does not smell of roses. It stinks.
King Charles I of England’s last word before his death was supposedly this: “Remember.” Who was he talking to? Was he instructing new generations of elves to work with systems administrators and purge dangerous viruses from the network? I don’t know. All I know is that the system does get overloaded from time to time, and when that happens, those standing closest to the scaffold are the next to put on the bright-colored garments and proclaim themselves elves. And it all starts up again.
&nb
sp; To survive in this world you need iron balls. Otherwise there’s nothing for you here. Your self-confidence, your arrogance and cruelty have to be stronger than the elves’ magic. If they are, you’ll be able to look them in the eye and not give in. If you hit an elf in the face, blood will pour out of his nose; if you shoot him in the head, gray, viscous brains will spatter out onto the ceiling.
But when you do . . .
When you do, the elves will launch “Plan B.”
When you resisted, you showed that you were different from the others. You’re special. You really do have iron balls. Take a look around: Can all those losers, that common herd, really be your equals? You’ve proven that you are one of us. Now you’re an elf too. Hold your head high.
This is why the elves are invincible.
If you’re going to stand a chance, you need to learn everything you can about them. First, as you know from fairy tales, they have long pointy ears. And they’re afraid of iron. Not gold. Gold is a very soft metal. But iron interferes with the elves’ sorcery; iron shreds their innards and exposes what they’re really made of to the world.
Elves are diamonds set in gold, if you put your faith in gold. But if you put your faith in iron, then you discover that elves are made of shit.
One more thing. Just one word. One word, but it’s the most important one, the key to the elves’ psychology, their energy source, their heart of hearts. That word is TERROR.
Elves are afraid; that is their essence. And they base their sorcery on that same terror. They surround themselves with luxury, come up with strange principles and rules: why certain clothing brands are better than others; how a man’s car determines his social status; where a true elf should spend his vacation; which other elves he should associate with—all this because they’re afraid. Elves aren’t stupid, no, not at all; otherwise they couldn’t have become elves. And they understand that they have nothing, nothing at all that makes them REALLY different from the rest of us. A simple inventory would expose their inner bankruptcy. So they need to publish glossy magazines, host talk shows, win elections. The show must go on. They can’t ever let up, can’t stop for a single second. If they did, the first person who came along could brush off the elves’ sorcery like a sticky spiderweb dangling from the ceiling in some damp, fetid cellar.
And values are very important. The elves must instill “values” in the masses. They keep the real values for themselves, but for everyone else, they offer flimsy concepts. Family. Country. Honor. Conscience. Diligence. Obedience. The elves believe that the people have nothing of any real value, so they have to be provided with a substitute. Otherwise the people could get very dangerous.
People like me don’t believe in anything. We have no roots, no foundation in this world. Undoubtedly, because we have feelings, we sense that things aren’t as they should be in this game. Everything is Maya, illusion. Samsara. We don’t really believe in the sanctity of those “family values” being preached by overweight, complacent men whose own parents are tucked away in some distant, out-of-the-way village, while they run through a succession of nubile young lovers—and when that gets monotonous, they find some cute boys to screw in the ass or indulge in a little pay-per-view bestiality porn involving burly English Great Danes and little girls. We don’t fall for patriotic songs performed by “true believers” who are in fact selling out their Motherland wholesale and retail on the raw-materials markets. We don’t believe the most elementary truths, for example that the latest D&G jeans for sale in a boutique on Nevsky are any different from the same style of jeans by Collins, bought in a cheap outlet on Sadovaya at a triple discount. For us nothing is sacred.
I’ll wipe the floor with any elf who gets in my way, and will crush the delicate, finely calibrated inner works of his expensive watch on the ground under my dirty old shoe without the slightest reverence. I’m dangerous, it’s true. My energy needs to be neutralized—I need to be convinced that I’m a nobody, a loser, that I Do Not Have Anything Against Outlet Stores. That’s Plan A. And if that doesn’t work, remember, there’s always Plan B.
Sometimes Plan A works and I’m overcome with a sense of my own insignificance. And at other times, Plan B works.
The elves’ magic is very effective: Ordinary policemen who earn a pathetic salary fervently defend the interests of the wealthy and blatantly ignore us losers. It’s just some kind of instinct.
It’s not that difficult to toss a stone through the windshield of a Mercedes parked in your building’s lot; no one will know who did it. You can even murder the tycoon just outside your apartment building and the investigation will lead nowhere, because it will concentrate on his business competitors and his lover, not some schmuck in the street. But you won’t do that. Because he’s an elf, and you feel only the most reverent awe in his presence.
You’re far more likely to take out your aggression on your drinking buddy by slashing his throat with a broken bottle. He’s as much of a loser as you are, and sure enough, they’ll track you down with no trouble at all, just by asking around, and before you know it, you’re in prison.
The law-enforcement system doesn’t defend the weak against the strong; it defends the strong against the weak, and no one bothers to question whether the strong are really as strong as they would have you believe. In spite of their magic, they are weak. And they are afraid. TERROR.
In Terry Pratchett’s book, the people defended themselves successfully against the attack and the elves slunk home with their tails between their legs. But the people themselves are no angels. They lie and cheat, are cruel to one another, and they love money; they all really love money. But take a look inside—all they want is earthly happiness, to the extent that this is possible. They want to make their loved ones happy, to let them enjoy a little beauty and comfort in this short, all-too-short life. For them, piety and nirvana are infinitely remote. But they do their duty, they simply do what they’re supposed to. And so they are closer, if only by a couple of inches, to Heaven than to Hell.
This world is ours. And in this world, the elves are powerless.
Brother, maybe you’re having a good laugh reading these lines. For you cast off all of your doubts long ago and are convinced that your sharp-tipped ears and elfin status are a just reward for those iron balls of yours.
Or maybe you’re still slaving away at your measly administrative-assistant job for a few dollars a day. But you’re still young, and everything will change; there’s still time. You’ll get another job, you’ll be given some responsibility, and one day someone will bring an envelope to you with your first kickback, a tidy sum with more than a few lovely zeroes at the end.
You’ll take the money. Of course you will, you’ll have to. What then? What will you do next? Invite your buddies to a bar to celebrate? Send a couple hundred bucks to your cousin?
Or . . . right, of course. Why bother? . . . They’re losers.
Well, go up to the mirror and take a good long look.
Especially at your ears.
Maximus had already reached the end of this lyrical manifesto when the Cold Plus security officer materialized behind his office chair.
“Semipyatnitsky! You are in violation of Cold Plus company policy, which prohibits use of the Internet for non-work-related purposes.”
Maximus didn’t have time to close the blog window. And he wouldn’t have tried to anyway. It would’ve been demeaning, and it wouldn’t have made any difference.
“Your violations have been systematic in nature.”
The security officer had brought a printout with him—a report from IT—and he laid it on Maximus’s desk. It listed all of his transgressions against Office Policy: the addresses of websites, along with the times he’d visited them, and even the exact volume of his traffic, in megabytes.
“We have no other option but to fine you, in accordance with the Sanctions Policy, one hundred dollars for every instance of wrongful personal Internet use, plus ten dollars for every downloaded megabyte.”
Maximus thought, that’s just stupid. If the Internet didn’t exist, these corporate fascists would have needed to invent it. The Internet is the ideal place for employees to pour out all their irritation, anger, and negativity, to let off steam.
If he were in the elves’ place, he would even have funded a couple of special websites himself—for extremists and anti-establishment types. Let all these workplace philosophers type away at their blogs, where they can insult anyone they want to—the authorities, corporations, and one another—to their hearts’ content. That way they can feel as though they’re part of an Opposition, without posing any real threat to the existing order. And when the time comes for an actual revolution, the only people who’ll show up will be half-dead retirees who don’t have Internet access, and maybe a dozen or so anarchists—completely insane, of course. Some revolution: nothing a few billy clubs in the hands of helmeted OMON “cosmonaut” riot police couldn’t deal with.
Maybe the riot police themselves might sponsor such sites. Maybe they already do.
So mused Maximus. But he said nothing. The security chief turned and left. Maximus took out a clean piece of white paper and wrote:
Declaration
On account of my own unimaginably strong fucking desire, I request to be relieved of my job, effective immediately. Any outstanding salary owed me may be used to cover these fines, and the remainder you can shove up your ass. Don’t neglect that part; I’m going to come and make sure you do.
Date.
Signature.
Signature deciphered as follows:
Maximus P. Semipyatnitsky, the Great Khagan.
PS I know all about the pills.
When he finished writing, Maximus placed the Declaration on his desk, on top of the IT report. He raked all the coins out of his desk drawer and tossed them into his briefcase. Picked up his car keys. Walked out.
On the other side of the security point he ripped his smart card in two and tossed the pieces into the nearest trash can.
The Maya Pill Page 21