"Tell them anything," his Minister of Propaganda said. "They'll believe you."
He stretched forth his hand and the multitudes roared.
"Faust!
"Faust!
"Faust!" the crowds chanted, thrusting clenched fists upward in salute. They waved a forest of flags and all of them the same: a red field with a white circle, and within that circle a stylized black fist.
"Faust!
"Faust!
"Faust!"
Their shouts rattled the sky.
After his speech, the afternoon scrolled by in hypnotically monotonous spectacle. Personnel carriers passed before him, churning up dust. Then tanks. Missile carriers. Black-uniformed soldiers goose-stepping in endless ranks. Veterans associations, women's auxiliaries, unions of railroad engineers, societies for space travel, youth organizations, all in tight squadrons. As night fell, bonfires were lit behind them. Still they came and came and came, interchangeable, anonymous, disciplined.
Faust's legs began to buckle from standing so long.
They brought him a chair, and wearily he sat. Darkness closed about him. He could smell canvas and sawdust. The sides of the tent rattled and snapped in the gathering wind.
It's almost midnight, Mephistopheles said.
Faust looked down at his withered arms. His hands were pale and spotted. "I feel so old. So weak."
That's only to be expected. The century is just about over. Your life's work nears completion.
"Life's . .. work?"
Behold.
With a boom like thunder, the wind ripped the tent away and cast it up into the sky. What had been hidden was revealed: a world of blood, violence, and universal war. He was still upon the parade grounds, but now grey concrete bunkers and military installations were scattered about the plain. The earth was gashed and churned to mud by countless metal treads.
All was in motion. His armies poured by in torrents, no longer ceremonially but on their way to battle. Vehicles rumbled past. He saw the rocket-launchers, the tanks, the guided missile carriers, the munitions convoys, the flatbeds bearing smart bombs and CBW warheads, the bombers flying overhead, the fighters, the drones, the more-than-human robotic technologies of mass destruction. Rivers of helmeted soldiers marched into the night.
"Is this all?" he asked, disappointed.
Far from it. Extend your imagination.
He strained to see further.
Beyond the horizon, one by one, great self-illuminating clouds arose, as sudden as so many lightbulbs being snapped on. They billowed up into the sky, turning the earth black, each one brighter than the sun, and still more rose up behind them in endless profusion: death and negation made gloriously, radiantly beautiful.
It was an impossible sight. His eyes would burn within his head to see even a fraction of it in reality, the viscous fluids bursting the eyeballs in small gusts of steam, the lids crisping black and flaking away. But in his mind he saw it, and the ashes from every populated continent slowly settling upon what had once been Europe.
"More!" Faust cried. "More light!" He waved his arms as if conducting a symphony, watching the volatilized carbons incandesce with borrowed energies. "More light! Let in more light!" He hopped and capered, mad with elation. "Oh, I'll bring them light. I'll teach them about light, all right. Just watch me."
Then—abruptly—it all went away.
Faust was no longer old. He stood strong and healthy, a man in his prime, by the edge of the Pegnitz. Hornets darted peacefully through the dusty golden light of late afternoon.
The factories hummed. It was autumn, and no man anywhere was yet his follower.
All the world seemed dark and cold.
"Mephistopheles!" he cried. "Your vision—can I trust it? Is it universal? Is it inevitable? Can you promise I will live to see it?"
There was no response. Mephistopheles had dwindled into silence. Faust could feel him humming at the core of his being, a constant knot of discontent, an implicit twinge of ambition, a gnawing hunger for revenge upon all those who had treated him with such wickedness and cruelty. But he could no longer hear the demon's voice.
Nor did he feel its lack. Faust understood now that it was irrelevant whether his powers came from verifiable exterior forces or not. The knowledge was within him; it welled up from whatever hidden sources. It had shown him his destiny. That was enough.
He knew what needed to be done.
He could not do it alone, admittedly. But he would not want for allies and subordinates. His words would bring them. He would give voice to what all wanted said and none dared admit to thinking. He knew exactly what to say.
He was eager to get to it.
Faust clenched and unclenched his fist, thinking of all the future lying helpless before him, legs spread, battered into submission. Waiting for his cleansing wrath.
It would be as simple as setting off a nuclear reaction— once critical mass was achieved, all else followed as a matter of course. He had set foot upon the final road. Not all the demons of Hell could turn him away. Heaven itself would be helpless to stop him.
The thought brought a bubble of wry amusement spiraling up within him. Heaven indeed! For the first time in months, Faust laughed.
"God help them!" he cried. "God help them all."
Yet it is love that damns Jack Faust and, ultimately, humanity as well. For Mephistopheles has revealed to him the beauty and purity of innocence in the person of Margarete Reinhardt, the daughter of a struggling businessman. To win her heart, Faust will give Margarete power and influence in an age when women are powerless— and fame in a time when notoriety can be fatal— and, in the process, blind his beloved, and himself, to the horrors Fausts “progress” has wrought. For brutality and greed will always pervert love and genius in a degenerate world—a world which now, thanks to Jack Faust, is rapidly sliding into chaos...or something far worse.
One of the most lyrical, arresting and provocative novels to come along in many a year, Michael Swanwick’s Jack Faust is a cause for celebration—an extraordinary work that entertains gloriously as it takes a deep and disturbing look into the collective soul of humankind by shining a brilliant beacon on a history that never was.
MICHAEL SWANWICK is the author of a novella, a short story collection, and four critically acclaimed novels, including the Nebula Award-winning Stations of the Tide, and The Iron Dragons Daughter; which was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and was nominated for a World Fantasy Award. He lives with his wife and son in Philadelphia, PA.
Jacket design by Nadine Badalaty Jacket illustration by Greg Spalenka Author photograph courtesy of Standard Photo Group
& Avon Books 1350 Avenue of the Americas New York, N. Y. 10019
Praise for Award-Winning Author
"JACK FAUST IS MADLY AMBITIOUS AND BRILLIANTLY EXECUTED, RECASTING THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF SCIENCE IN A WHOLLY ORIGINAL VERSION OF OUR CULTURE’S CENTRAL MYTH OF KNOWLEDGE, POWER, AND SORROW.”
William Gibson
“POWERFUL.. .MARVELOUS.. .CONSISTENTLY SURPRISING."
The New York Times Book Review
“SWANWICK PLUNGES HIS READERS INTO A CHAOTIC STEW OF NEW CONCEPTS...A HEADY MIX OF WILD IDEAS AND IMAGES, MEAN AND TENDER, EXCITING AND SCARY.”
San Francisco Chronicle
“SWANWICK HAS EMERGED AS ONE OF THE COUNTRY’S MOST RESPECTED AUTHORS.”
Philadelphia Inquirer Magazine
“AN IMPORTANT WRITER WHOSE WORK IS CONTRIBUTING TO THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME.”
Pat Cadigan, author of Dirty Work
“SUPERB...WONDERFUL AND RELENTLESS... PRO VOCATIVE AND EVOCATIVE.”
Washington Post Hook World
“SWANWICKTAKES HUGE RISKS... AND REAPS BIG REWARDS.”
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Jack Faust - Michael Swanwick Page 29