by Owen Stanley
“That’s bloody disgustin’,” burst out Cyril, who had been listening to this nightmarish monologue with horror and disbelief. “Givin’ our womenfolk to a bunch of murderin’ savages?”
“Well, of course, if it’s against your principles, you can simply all be slaughtered together. Oh, excuse me, I think I see my kidneys coming.”
All eyes turned to the kitchen door, where Moia, his best chef’s hat slightly askew, entered with a steaming plate of devilled kidneys and placed them proudly in front of Oelrichs. As the fat man leant forward to inhale the aroma, and picked up his knife and fork, a wave of choking revulsion swept through the room and there was a general stampede for the door.
Prout had been tightly bound to a pole, in the manner of pigs and cannibal victims when carried to a feast. At first, in a torrent of garbled pidgin, he had tried to explain their mistake to them, until, tiring of his noise, they had stuffed a wad of leaves into his mouth. After struggling uselessly for a few minutes, he gave up and allowed them to bear him unresisting down the track.
As they walked along, it struck Garang that Prout had no idea why he had been so roughly handled, or what was going to happen to him, and, philosopher that he was, Garang considered that explaining this to Prout would add greatly to his agony. Looking around, his eye fell on young Padiang, whom he knew had some knowledge of Pidgin, and told him what he was to do. The young man came up alongside the Special Commissioner and, as they walked along, told him with relish why the people hated him and the Mission for betraying them by all their promises about the Houses of Filth, and despised them for their weakness, their cowardice, their folly, and their stupidity, and finally, gave him a concise but vivid summary of their general intentions that afternoon: the plunge over the great precipice that was intended for Prout, and the burning, the raping, the pillaging, and the general carnage that would follow at the Mission.
Prout was distraught and in tears, not only due to the horrors that awaited him and his fellow members of the Mission, but by the full extent of his own folly. Of course, his terrible mistake had been to allow the bestial Fletcher to remain on the island and turn the people against the Mission, instead of expelling him and his vile regime at the first opportunity, as he had been advised. The Moroks, too, he now realised with disgust, had deceived him, and under their amiable veneer, they were deeply reactionary and irrational peasants, utterly unworthy of the enlightened aid that he had sought to bring them, devious and ungrateful. They had let him down.
They soon reached Oiburi-Naiburi, and under the expert direction of Garang, who picked some leaves of the tovapa plant sacred to Golumbuk and tied them round the pole, they prepared to launch the Special Commissioner on his final journey. He, unfortunately, was rather too distracted in his last tormented moments of life to appreciate the beauty of the scene: the brilliant blue sky and the cool breeze that wafted over the edge of the precipice, rustling the grasses at the edge and bringing with it the distant roar of the Ungabunga river; the scent of some unknown flower all around them, and the cry of a bird-of-paradise from the forest above. The capture of the Special Commissioner and the fiery destruction of the helicopter were turning it into a lovely day for the Moroks, too, and they were so engrossed in preparing Prout for his departure that the sudden arrival of Fletcher and his men took them quite by surprise. Fletcher held up his hand in greeting.
“Men of Laripa, men of Dolivi, my friends. Ye have been betrayed by the Father of Nyikang, as I foretold. Did I not speak truth, eh?”
There were shouts of agreement.
“Aye,” shouted Marbek, “But behold, O Tikame,” and they brought forth the Special Commissioner, still trussed to his pole and ready for sacrifice. When he had recovered from his astonishment Fletcher said:
“I may be a bit dense, Prout, but what the hell kind of theory are you trying to prove now?”
Prout, gagged and writhing, could only stare malevolently.
“Father of Nyikang is my great enemy,” Fletcher roared, “my persecutor, the burning hate of my heart, and he is mine to do with as I please. Know ye all this!” He fixed them for some moments with an inflexible gaze. Not a single voice was raised against him.
“As for his people of the Mission, they are but chickens under my protection, and ye shall not harm them. But ye shall have all that was promised you, their houses, their riches, their pressure lanterns, their scents, their shirts, their flash-lights, their motor-bikes, their brilliantine, their baby powder…!”
As the vista of wealth was unfolded before their limitless avarice the Moroks’ thoughts of carnage gradually dissipated, and by the time Fletcher had exhausted his recitation of the red man’s baubles, they were wholly converted to the new strategy. The sergeant-major had been told to use the same arguments with the Niovoro and Lavalava, and they found them equally persuasive.
Fletcher and the sergeant-major managed to keep up the Morok spirits, and by the time the two mobs reached Ungabunga, at about mid-day, they were actually in a jovial mood, some of them even breaking out from time to time in jolly pillaging songs. The police had gone ahead and were waiting, as on a land-dispute day, at the entrance to the station to quell the over-exuberant, and to allow Fletcher and the sergeant-major to catch up together with the main body.
Moncreif and Southall managed to quell the panic that Oelrichs had sparked among the Mission staff, and after packing them all off to the police barracks for safety, the two men had gone up to the top of the strip where they were waiting with the police in the shadow of the Gas Works when the Moroks arrived.
Fletcher, standing before them, raised his hand for silence, and addressed his children.
“The words of Tikame are true. The words of Tikame never fail. What he has promised you, this day he will deliver into your hands. Go, now, into all the houses of your enemies, and seize what you desire!” With a mighty wave of his arm he gave the Mission over to be sacked and, like a dam bursting, the flood of screaming Moroks poured down the strip and engulfed the homes and warehouses. When Fletcher saw that they were happily occupied, he rode over to Moncreif and Southall with Prout being carried along behind him by the police.
Southall was extremely agitated.
“I thought you were going to save the Mission, Fletcher. What have you done?”
“Saved your bloody lives, mate, that’s what. The deal is they take all the goodies they like and they lay off your people. O’course, they could’ve taken the goodies and put you in the stew pot as well, but they were willing enough to take what was on offer.”
“Yes, yes,” said Southall. “I quite see that. It’s the best that could have been done. In fact, in the circumstances, I must congratulate you. Now Moncreif and I have been discussing this question of independence…” and they went on to explain their plans for Fletcher’s elevation to the Presidency of Elephant Island without delay.
There was a strangled cry of rage from the trussed bundle on its pole, and Fletcher smiled coldly.
“Hadn’t we better ask Dr. Prout about that?” he said, and he pointed to the Special Commissioner.
“Good God, what on earth has happened to him?” said Southall, who hadn’t recognized the unfortunate figure suspended from the pole. Fletcher gave them a brief explanation of how he had saved Prout’s life, and how the Special Commissioner had got himself into that predicament in the first place.
Southall looked down at Prout. “I’m afraid you’ve become a serious embarrassment to the United Nations, Sydney. I would suggest an extended period of leave with immediate effect,” and he turned back to Fletcher and Moncreif.
“I am now the senior United Nations representative, so there’s no legal difficulty about it. I understand it would be best if we held a short ceremony, in which I proclaim you as the new President, and Moncreif here swears you in. I should mention that I have persuaded him to accept the office of Chief Justice.”
Moncreif bowed to Fletcher with a sardonic smile. The President-designate laughed.
“Perhaps,” Southall went on, “you could arrange the details of the ceremony?”
“Right. No worries. I’ll get the police to organize it. Like land-dispute day—they know the drill.” He strode off to give his orders.
After an hour or so of strenuous plundering, sated with pillage and staggering under the bizarre accumulations of their chosen loot, even the Moroks needed a rest to regain their strength for further pursuits such as arson and general demolition, and it was during this lull that they heard the familiar notes of the bugle from the top of the strip. There was a general drift in that direction, and there they found Fletcher flanked by most of the police, with Lord Southall, Moncreif and Oelrichs, Smith and Madame Negretti and, oddly enough, Tristram Daubeny. In front of them was a ceremonial dais decorated with some pots of lupins hastily borrowed from Madame Negretti.
It was a warm afternoon, with bright sunshine, and the Moroks were happy to sit on the grass, picking over their booty with dirty, inquisitive fingers, waiting to see what would happen next. Fletcher, Southall, and Moncreif mounted the dais and Southall began his speech to a newly independent nation. Unfortunately, he only spoke English, so Daubeny had been hastily recruited to translate into Pidgin, with one of the Morok interpreters to translate from Pidgin into the language of the people. Southall addressed them in the words of a seasoned statesman.
“My dear friends, it warms my heart to be with you here today, a special day we have all been waiting for, and to have the honour of celebrating your new Independence with you. The United Nations administration has always planned to allow you to achieve your freedom from colonial rule as soon as possible, with the government of your choice. So I believe we shall discharge our mandate most fully for you if I propose your trusted leader, Mr. Roger Fletcher, as your new President, to light your path into the future. Please join wholeheartedly with me in acclaiming him.”
The speech, as the Moroks heard it in their own language, went as follows:
“My lustful little things. It inflames my bowels to be with you at this pig-killing, which is very late, and to stuff your mouths with giblets as we all enjoy ourselves. We have been plotting for a long time to let you cast aside all restraint with wild abandon and do whatever you like. So today we shall vomit all over you to celebrate Tikame as your new chief, who will lead you in burning down things for ever and ever. Please bugger me hard and sing songs about him.”
This amazing piece of eloquence was at first greeted by stunned silence, and then by a growing wave of laughter mixed with cheers, which soon gave way to a cheerful Morok anthem about the joys of rapine, arson, and premeditated homicide.
“Do you think I hit the right note?” asked Southall, rather apprehensively. The new President, who was feeling in a generous mood, clapped him on the back with a grin and said:
“Don’t worry, mate. I reckon that’s the best damned speech yer’ll ever make.”
When the festivities were over, President Fletcher set about installing a Ministry of All the Talents, including Garang as Archbishop of Ungabunga, Marbek as Minister of War and General Destruction, Abuk as Minister of Feasts, Smith in charge at the Ministry of Recuperation, Moncreif promoted to Lord Chancellor, and Erny as Entertainment Secretary, and everything slowly got back more or less to normal.
Prout, betrayed by the people he had come to help, and humiliated by the United Nations whom he had served so faithfully, immediately sent in his resignation, which was accepted with relief, but he was soon invited by the European Commission to bring his unique talents to Brussels. What he called “the only truly rational administration in the world” proved to be his natural home, and while he has remained largely unknown to the general public, some of the directives from the Commission over the years have revealed the unmistakable hand of the master.
When last heard of, he was reputed to be working on the Metric Year.
The End
Fiction
Brings the Lightning by Peter Grant
The Missionaries by Owen Stanley
Military Science Fiction
There Will Be War Vol. I ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. II ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. III ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. IV ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. V ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. IX ed. Jerry Pournelle
There Will Be War Vol. X ed. Jerry Pournelle
Riding the Red Horse Vol. 1 ed. Tom Kratman and Vox Day
Science Fiction
Awake in the Night by John C. Wright
Awake in the Night Land by John C. Wright
City Beyond Time: Tales of the Fall of Metachronopolis by John C. Wright
Somewhither by John C. Wright
Back From the Dead by Rolf Nelson
Big Boys Don't Cry by Tom Kratman
Hyperspace Demons by Jonathan Moeller
Mutiny in Space by Rod Walker
Alien Game by Rod Walker
QUANTUM MORTIS A Man Disrupted by Steve Rzasa and Vox Day
QUANTUM MORTIS Gravity Kills by Steve Rzasa and Vox Day
QUANTUM MORTIS A Mind Programmed by Jeff Sutton, Jean Sutton, and Vox Day
Victoria: A Novel of Fourth Generation War by Thomas Hobbes
Fantasy
One Bright Star to Guide Them by John C. Wright
The Book of Feasts & Seasons by John C. Wright
Iron Chamber of Memory by John C. Wright
A Magic Broken by Vox Day
A Throne of Bones by Vox Day
The Wardog's Coin by Vox Day
The Last Witchking by Vox Day
Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy by Vox Day
The Altar of Hate by Vox Day
The War in Heaven by Theodore Beale
The World in Shadow by Theodore Beale
The Wrath of Angels by Theodore Beale
Non-Fiction
4th Generation Warfare Handbook by William S. Lind and LtCol Gregory A. Thiele, USMC
A History of Strategy: From Sun Tzu to William S. Lind by Martin van Creveld
Equality: The Impossible Quest by Martin van Creveld
Four Generations of Modern War by William S. Lind
On War: The Collected Columns of William S. Lind 2003-2009 by William S. Lind
Transhuman and Subhuman: Essays on Science Fiction and Awful Truth by John C. Wright
Astronomy and Astrophysics by Dr. Sarah Salviander
Compost Everything: The Good Guide to Extreme Composting by David the Good
Grow or Die: The Good Guide to Survival Gardening by David the Good
SJWs Always Lie: Taking Down the Thought Police by Vox Day
Cuckservative: How “Conservatives” Betrayed America by John Red Eagle and Vox Day
On the Existence of Gods by Dominic Saltarelli and Vox Day
On the Question of Free Trade by James D. Miller and Vox Day
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Awake in the Night Land
SJWs Always Lie
Castalia House
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