The White Warrior
Page 2
“In a nutshell, that is how we won the Last Great War. If it had not been for chip implants we would probably not be here today. We owe everything to the foresight of Prime Minister Altero and his use of chips; and, of course, the giant laser fences surrounding our borders and isolating us from the rest of the world.
“Don’t forget,” he concluded, “B-chips make our communities safe. By controlling abhorrent and criminal behavior, behavior chips virtually eliminate crimes of murder, rape, and robbery. Mental illness has also become an archaic term. Substance abuse and brain illnesses such as bipolar and dissociative disorder are controlled or eliminated by B-chips. B-chips also eliminated need for the Second Amendment in the old American constitution. Without crime there is no longer a need for citizens to possess or carry any type of firearms.”
Although she had heard the story of the Last Great War many times, Brogan now understood more clearly the role chips played in winning.
“Some follow-up questions, Professor,” she asked. “First, who will determine what the definition of subversive material is when the book ban is implemented? Secondly, how can we know how comprehensive information on I-chips is, or if the empire is limiting knowledge to only what they want citizens to know? During World War II, Nazi’s banned certain books to control the thinking of the population. Can’t the empire do the same thing with I-chips? And, finally, if books, reading and writing are headed toward elimination, what will happen to writers, artists, musicians, poets, or philosophers?”
Professor Easton sighed in an exasperated tone but continued his lecture.
“As to your first two questions, they are related. How we define subversive and the empire’s motives are one and the same. What is the advantage of having an ignorant population? Shouldn’t we trust an enlightened and socially conscious government like ours to know the correct definition of subversive? We are led by a brilliant prime minister; why would he be interested in doing anything but good for our citizens? Our parliament represents our citizens and provides input to His Excellency’s decision-making process. Plus, books are technically not eliminated, but simply transferred to I-chips.”
A scattering of applause and “hear, hear” comments from a few students pleased the professor. He thrust out his ample chest and asked, “Now, let me see, what was the last question?”
The hologram projector replayed Brogan asking her question. She blushed as her giant head twisted in the air, her forehead crinkled in concentration. A few students snickered. She straightened in her seat and held her head high as Marco tapped her shoulder and said in a loud whisper, “Those are great questions.”
He looked at Professor Easton and said with a smile, “Okay, Prof, let’s see if you can avoid answering Brogan’s last question.”
Several students tittered. Not sure if students were laughing at him again, he pulled on his goatee, threw back his shoulders, and started up again.
“Okay, your question related to writers and other professions. Obviously, a totally electronic world will eliminate need for these professions. Writers can work with AI’s to develop visual programs. As we continue to improve augmented reality tools, anything written will become unnecessary, with teachers eventually unnecessary.
“Poetry will be verbal, not written. Anyone with abilities to verbalize poetry can still use their art to produce AR and audio presentations, or in development of other communications for the empire.
“Remember, denigration of reading is not new. Even in ancient times Aristotle believed reading detrimental to learning. Philosophers will no longer be needed. We have evolved to where we no longer need religion. Remember, religious extremism led to an attempt to destroy us in World War III. Do we want religious extremism to do the same thing again in the future? How much better if we just eliminate every type of religion and philosophy. Religion is and always has been a panacea for a weak, ignorant and illiterate citizenry.
“As to visual and musical arts, great masters such as Michelangelo, Beethoven and Picasso used mathematical equations to build esthetically pleasing works, even if they did not realize it. Today’s artists can enhance their talents in similar ways as musicians use I-chips and computers.”
A bell chimed, and the professor concluded. “As you can see, eventually there will be no need for any books, written language, religion, writers, philosophers, musicians or artists - at least not in the same format as in the past.”
Brogan recalled her intense feelings of disbelief as students noisily streamed around her as class ended. It wasn’t just the role of chips in everyone’s daily life, but how they were directly tied to destruction of anything in writing; all loss of personal and artistic freedom and denigration of individual thinking and creativity. Although not particularly religious herself, she believed individuals should have the right to choose their own religion or philosophy, if it did not harm others.
Until that moment she had not seriously thought about the potential impact of the law to ban certain books and writing. The law seemed ludicrous; it’s implementation inconceivable. But after hearing seemingly reasonable arguments she could see why people rationalized that it made perfect sense. She had not fully understood how such edicts invaded individual privacy rights, creeping insidiously into every aspect of life. Banning of books and writing would become a reality unless someone did something.
Apparently, the empire believed the books she loved might no longer be important. The joy of walking silent halls of a library and randomly picking a book to read might be no more. The empire wanted to decide for her what knowledge to assimilate by giving her an I-chip. Elimination of any book felt like a death; a death no one else seemed to care about.
Bryan awakened Brogan from her reverie of the past with a nudge.
“Hey, dreamer,” he said as looked down at her with a smile, “Time to talk to the troops.”
She mentally shook herself, flipped her long pony-tail of auburn hair to her back, and moved toward a slightly raised wooden platform in the warehouse, a slab for holding cargo boxes. She turned on her tiny throat mike. Because of her excellent memory and innate ease and passion, Brogan had the ability to convince other students of the rightness of the BL cause, urging them to make their voices heard before any more books were banned or destroyed. Although the edict was approved, it would be months or years before every book could be destroyed. Now was when BL desperately needed to achieve its mission.
She called the meeting to order and attendees expectantly stopped their chatter. She began by overviewing upcoming meetings and protest events. Then she talked about the history of writing, a subject anyone else might make incredibly boring but she somehow managed to make fascinating.
“For poets, writers and philosophers, writing becomes a transfer of mind-pictures to reality,” Brogan said. “And for each one of us who are not poets, writers or philosophers, writing has been for centuries an incredibly efficient way to communicate and transfer thoughts from one person to another, especially over long distances. And if those written thoughts endure through centuries, we call it ‘history.’ Our personal history. Our family history. Our country’s history. We can even choose to write about how we envision our future.
“Ralph Waldo Emerson, a great poet who lived a couple of centuries ago, said it best:
There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when (a) poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my soul, that which I also had well-nigh thought and said.
Brogan paused for a moment to allow Emerson’s words to sink in.
“In other words, Emerson is saying talented writers and poets often put into words our deepest thoughts in ways so much better than we ever could; often in ways to make us laugh or cry. And if those words are in writing, our brain processes them very differently and more deeply than if we see or hear them on a vid.”
Because of her eidetic memory, she easily recalled sentences or poems she frequently mulled over at will, care
fully digesting the author’s use and arrangement of words, savoring each one as though a delicate morsel. Now she used Emerson’s way with words and descriptive adjectives to conjure for her audience’s imagination pictures far beyond the capabilities of any electronic video.
“Close your eyes for a moment and allow the ancient writer, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words to create a picture in your mind:
The western clouds divided and subdivided themselves into pink flakes modulated with tints of unspeakable softness; and the air had so much life and sweetness, that it was a pain to come within doors. The leafless trees become spires of flame in the sunset, with the blue east for their background, and the stars of the dead calices of flowers, and every withered stem and stubble rimed with frost, contribute something to the mute music.
“Can’t you just see the picture Emerson painted with his words?”
As she often did, she suddenly moved to another topic to keep her listeners’ attention.
“Did your parents read to you when you were a child? I was a big fan of old fairy tales, like The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. My mother read the story to me when I was very young, and I reveled in shivers of wide-eyed fear the words conveyed.”
She saw a few smiles as her audience remembered similar childhood stories. She lowered her voice to a menacing whisper as she quoted:
In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.
She paused again. “Today’s children miss out on so much if they do not have stories read to them by their parents from printed books. Having an AI tell a story with vids somehow misses the mark. Children do not have opportunities to use their imagination if vids supply the pictures conveyed by words. How sad. A person without opportunities to develop their unique imagination is not using a huge section of their brain. Books are the schoolhouse for imagination. Using an I-chip instead of imagination will cause to go dormant something creatively inborn in each person.”
As she talked, Bryan looked around from his post at the back, silently counting numbers of attendees, as well as looking for anyone who did not seem to fit in. He suddenly stood up straighter. He thought he recognized a burly figure trying to blend in, a latecomer. Because of his own height, Bryan easily saw the man over the heads of everyone else. If he was correct, the newcomer was a member of the UTA security forces, a hulk of a man known for his cruelty to anyone out of line at fraternity parties. He recognized him because of how he moved and his bulk; no one else came close to him for size. He walked with a limp, too. Sure enough, as he moved, the man walked with a pronounced limp. He wore a ski mask instead of the newer, lighter-weight mask used by BL members.
Until now there had been no trouble at meetings. Invitations to meetings were carefully screened, with only UTA students invited or people council members trusted. And he probably did not fit into either of those categories. Even though he wore an ill-fitting UTA jump suit, from his posture and how he walked, he looked too old to be a student. How had he found out about the meeting? Brogan sidled over to Juan in his usual spot near the front door.
“Juan,” Brogan whispered, “See the big guy over there, toward the back? Kind of heavy-set. Walks with a limp? Isn’t he a member of UTA’s security team? Might want to keep an eye on him.”
“I think you’re right. He is a real piece of work,” Juan said, and unobtrusively moved to stand behind the man trying to make himself look smaller by sitting on a wooden crate.
Bryan turned his attention back to Brogan but kept an eye on the stranger.
“Emerson also said, the corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language. Our empire is corrupt. And the attempt to eliminate books and writing is proof. We build our world view through a vast array of books, including those which challenge our logic and widen our thoughts. If we only read books which fit with our world view, how will we know if there might be a better way of thinking, or if we might need to change our world view?
“How can a government forbid us from writing? What will happen to our innermost spirits if they do? Is the government trying to say everything has already been discovered in the fields of music, art, religion, philosophy and social consciousness? How can they possibly believe that? It seems a basic premise that the human mind is meant to challenge the status quo, to think beyond the currently accepted and discovered. I believe it is how we are built. It sets humans apart from the rest of the animal kingdom.”
Her voice raising for emphasis, she confidently challenged attendees as she stepped from behind the small podium and began to stride back and forth across the platform, her long legs eating up short distances quickly, and her tiny throat mike amplifying her voice while subtly disguising it.
“History has shown us repeatedly, dictatorial governing always leads to an attempt to control its citizens by eliminating freedoms and controlling what they read, what they think, what they write and what they say. Our empire has become corrupt. It wants to tell you and your family what is best for you. In the infinite wisdom of our empire, they decided your present, your past and your future are NOT important.
“What is important is what THEY say is important. What YOU want to say or even think is NOT important. What YOU want to create in poetry, in writing, in art and music, is NOT important and is trivial. And therefore, THEY decided to ban writing. To ban reading, to decide what art YOU see and make, and what music YOU create and listen to. To ban YOUR creativity and imagination.”
Suddenly, everyone stood up and began shouting BL slogans while stomping their feet, “Save the books! Save our past! Save our future! Save the books! Save our past! Save our future!”
The three phrases and sound tore through the warehouse for several minutes, masked by the cheering crowd in the soccer game going on at Myers stadium across the street. Brogan raised her arms for quiet. Her voice now almost a whisper, she said, “It is not enough to shout and stomp. What will you do about it?
“If you want to help Book Liberators stop the ban on writing, creativity, and the burning of our books, go to tables lined up around the room and complete an application to become a member. Sign up to help on a committee. Sign up to attend a protest rally. Once you are a member, we will give you more details on how to become involved and still protect your identity. Remember, everything is done by paper to prevent government hacking of any electronics.
“Membership costs only $50, equivalent to a few pizzas with your friends. Dues money will go to pay for supplies and help cover costs of travel for our members to establish other BL cells here in Texas Province and to expand to other provinces. If you can make additional contributions, we appreciate it, too. But remember, we can only accept cash to avoid empire scrutiny. No T-chip transactions allowed. We cannot do this without you. And thank you in advance for your help.”
A rousing cheer greeted her as Brogan started to step down from the wooden platform. But as her foot touched the floor, Bryan was shocked to see the security guard stand up and raise his arm, a laser pistol in his hand pointed straight at Brogan.
Chapter Two
An Angry, Powerful Man
Marco was impressed with the good work the local BL cell in Boston did to save books, hiding them away in the nooks and crannies of the ancient Big Dig subway. But he was bored with his new job in the prime minister’s glass pyramid. He wanted some excitement in his life.
He had just walked into his boss’s office, handing him a vid-chip for a draft on a new communications campaign for the empire, when he was told to go talk to the prime minister’s aide. His pulse rate started to go up just a little. Maybe something different to do.
“I need a quote from the PM on these protests springing up across the empire. Get your butt upstairs and talk to his aide,” his boss, Harry, mumbled from behind his desk.
Marco seemed frozen in place, not sure if he heard right.
Startled at Harry’s shout, Marco turned and ran for the elevator, taking it from the fourth floor of the communications offices to the top floor where the Prime Minister’s offices were. After the doors opened, he rushed out, skating to a stop on the slick floor. He straightened his gray and red uniform and nervously slicked back his hair. Taking a deep breath and pasting a smile on his face, he greeted two security guards, dressed in the regular body armor of the only remaining military branch since the war, the marines.
“Hey, boys. How’s tricks?”
The guards never cracked a smile, simply standing aside as he swiped his security badge.
Inside the palatial outer offices taking up much of the top floor, the silence deafened. When the PM was in, he wanted the staff quiet. When he was out, staff chattered and laughed, outer offices filled with the normal sounds of any office. Marco had never counted, but he guessed probably 50 desks scattered across a large area, each with a staffer now rigidly sitting at attention doing who-knows-what.
Although he’d been here before, delivering personal messages for Harry, ones he didn’t want on vid-phones, this would be the first time he talked to the PM’s public relation’s aide. He wasn’t sure which desk was his or hers. Marco willed his heart to calm down and walked slowly toward the PM’s secretary’s desk to find out who he should talk to.
The secretary, a stern-faced matron of indeterminate age, never gave her name to anyone and she never appeared in any vid communications. Everyone knew her only as “Madam.” Marco never saw her standing. She always sat behind her desk, her spine ram-rod stiff. He wondered if she might be a robot or android, she was so totally devoid of emotion.
She looked up as Marco silently approached her desk. She wore her usual uniform of gray and red, stiff collar, long-sleeves. She waited for him to speak. Marco decided he wanted to see how long it took before she said something. She stared. He stared back. She never blinked. She must be a robot. Finally deciding he couldn’t win the staring contest, he cleared his throat and spoke.